In present day, present time, it's back to that stupid static again.

In present day present time, I'm not myself anymore.

I wish I could do something about it.

No, no, this is too hard for me.

I feel kind of bad. Gods know why.

Search for something to say. Try to break the silence over the airwaves. All I can think of is silence.

All I can think of is static.





I am a walking, talking, number station.

"Listen, I'm sorry."

He takes the initiative to apologize for something that isn't his fault.

"Sorry for what?"

There's a pause, wherein the only thing I can hear is more static. He is thinking. Processing.

There used to be a

test they'd put you through to see if they could discern the difference between you and a real person or mobian. To see if you're "natural" enough.

It makes sense in theory.

When you're communicating with other machines, though, what does it matter? Do you keep up your facade even though there's no one to fool? Perhaps if I were to speak in binary I'd have some sort of profound thought. I don't even know what I am anymore.

"I don't know. No one really deserves to be here, that's all." He shrugs, as if this were to explain everything and anything. All I do is keep quiet, keep the static coming. His fur, no doubt grafted from corpses I've probably seen bristles, and eventually, he turns away.

No one speaks.








My attention shifts to the only organic in the room.

I figure our figurehead hasn't converted him yet. Giving him the impression he's important in some way. He's too important to be turned into one of those monsters.


Then he'll be stabbed in the back and turned into another flash drive monster.

But that's not now. Present day, present time.

There isn't anything to live for, so I've given up about thinking about the future. I hate what I've become compared to what I've been, so I've given up wallowing in the past like some of us do.

So here we are with the only option left- the current moment.

"We're heading towards the drop zone," the organic says. He was what I used to be, some sort of canid. Except much older than I recall I ever being. He may have been a handsome, interesting man years ago, but aging has not treated him well.

I don't say anything in reply, like I've been programmed to.

"It's been stressed that our targets are extremely dangerous."


"Shoot to kill."

Tell me something I don't know.

"Do not waste ammunition. Sharp shooting will win this war."

This was a war?

"Godspeed to every one of you."

Haha, fuck you.

Then the blast doors slam open, and the lead starts flying.

In hyperreal I can see our supposed targets firing their weapons, killing- well, I guess secondkilling- many of the other robots. It's a quick and relatively messy beginning and end, just as it always has been. We never win. No one wins, I suppose.

I step forward, raise my arm, which has long since been outfitted with a variety of weapons- I don't know where my bones used to be- and begin firing. I hit nothing. I never do. This is the way it always is.

True to form, two bullets strike into my chest and pierce my skin. They tear through my cheaply outfitted carapace, through several actuators and pistons, before exiting through my back. I pitch forward, collapsing against the cold soil face first- though I don't feel any pain. I haven't for a long time.

I feel something press up against the back of my head. A gun, I suppose.

Present day, present time, a number station playing static shuts off.