The little robot had grown used to being alone.

The faded, sepia world he lived in was empty—all others like him long gone, each slowly deactivating over time. Their slowly corroding bodies still littered the ground in enormous, seemingly random groups, and though morbid, served as a perfect way for him to replenish his supply of parts.

The streets were clogged still with garbage of various sizes, the once great skyscrapers trumped by the even larger piles of trash, sculpted over time into towers of their own.

Roads, worn down by the broken down, rusted cars, were now empty, barren save for the junk that the humans left behind. The mess they left for robots such as himself to clean. WALL-E had been at it for his entire existence, and he hadn't even made it past an eight of what was left in the city alone. It was an insane task—one that no lone robot could complete, not even with a thousand lifetimes.

But WALL-E, ever dutiful, did as he was supposed to. He followed his directive.

And so, day after day, year after year, he continued. Wake, charge, affix his cooler onto the latch on his back, and order Hal to remain in the truck, before heading further into the city to do his job. Grab a pile of miscellaneous items—none of which garnered his attention—and pull them into his chest compartment to be crushed. A perfect cube would be the end result.

For hours he would toil under the blazing sun, the heat of which he couldn't even feel, either adding to or creating a new tower of garbage. There were already more of them than actual buildings—WALL-E didn't see the harm of creating a new one.

And so this cycle went on.

The little robot had no definite sense of time, but he knew that it had be a long, long while since anything besides himself had traversed through the city. Since he'd seen anything alive.

But even if the loneliness irked him, saddened him really, he had grown used to it as time progressed. He had lost the hope of anyone returning to Earth quite some time ago.

Or, at least until she arrived.