Rusty eyelids slowly opened themselves, viewing the
crude ceiling above the slowly waking being. Metal arms woke up and
pushed the now awake body to its feet. This creature had the name of
War, as did all of his now burned kin.
War was the only one to survive the War of the Future, a gruesome war of
the humans, who, being cowards, created machines to do their dirty work.
Both sides' machines ignored each other and wiped out the humans who had
not created them. They proceeded to make themselves extinct, except for
a few that had a small malfunction that developed human feelings. Though
these robots still killed, they tried less gruesome ways and hid from
the now blood-thirsty robots in the Robot Revolution. Most were found
and ripped of their wires, except for one.
War switched his metal feet for wheels, and deposited the feet into a
corner of his metal shack. He rolled backward, out of his house and into
the ruined world. Not taking a second glance at the bloodied layers of
ash and dust along old tire tracks, War rolled along his usual path. He
stopped occasionally, grabbing old, red-with-blood robot pieces and
putting them in his mouth, where they would be safe until he wanted to
do something with them.
The land around the small robot was scarred from the wars, as was all of
Earth. The sky was no longer blue, but a brown of kicked up dust and
gasoline. No part of the world smelled like chocolate or nature but of
chemicals used in the weapons of war.
Sometimes War stopped his work and closed his eyes, trying to remember
his life before the twin wars. He couldnít though, as he had been
created in the heart of the Future War, one of the last batches made
before the scientists were all gone, victims of the metal people.
War was thankful for the few things that he had, that most of his
brothers and sisters never could have: feelings and imagination. He
wondered if he was a human, trapped inside a metal shell or a robot
designed especially for something that no one else knew about so they
made him a battlebot. These thoughts were what kept him from ending his
loneliness himself, as he knew the world would probably be like this for
Once War had collected a fair amount of his deceased race, he rolled
back up to his home, where he gently set down all of the parts. He
leaned forward enough that his body tipped over and left him on his
stomach. He began digging into the stained ash and dust. Once the
long-forgotten dirt had been recovered from the hole, War slowly placed
all of the robot parts into the hard ground, before covering the hole
back up and placing a small stone in the patted down spot. The robot
stood up and looked around at his cemetery.
The stones lay in lines, stone after stone after stone. War hadnít known
much of his race, but just because you donít know someone doesnít mean
death doesnít mean anything to you. As War looked over all of those
poor, poor robots who didnít have the luck of human feelings, he felt
more alone than ever. So, he slowly took off his two wheels, throwing
them into the piles of discarded ash, never to be used again. Now close
to the ground, War surveyed his people. Finally, after years of holding
it back, War let his human feelings loose. He cried tears of oil onto
the hard, dry land, for what was left? No more graves to dig, no one to
serve, it was just him.
And as he cried those tears of oil, he felt better with each tear. One
tear took away a moment of what he had been through. So he cried. He
cried until there was nothing left to cry, and he was gone. Nobody can
survive without food and drink, and that oil was both to War. But War
wasnít there anymore.
If one saw the scene now, they would only see a hunk of metal surrounded
by stones, placed in the ruined earth.