Nothing but Scrap

Lights flash. Wires connect. Metal bends into shape. The symphony of tools working in unison echoes off the concrete walls. The precision and efficiency of the slender metal fingers cannot be replicated by any human. They weave an ornate tapestry of tiny wires in less than a minute, then seal it up in a cocoon of scrap metal.

“Activating W-model mark 0042 experimental. A voice announces from the dark. A jolt of energy breathes artificial life into the cold husk. The camera in the robot’s little head instinctually tries to adjust to the darkness. “Can you speak?” the voice in the dark utters.

“Yes, I can.” The robot’s microphone works with little flaw. It tries to stand, knowing that it does not belong on the floor.

“Can you walk?” It is programmed to do so, but its large head throws it off balance. One long arm protruding from its torso is the only thing keeping it upright. The robot takes four small steps to complete the maker’s test. “What are you thinking?” The voice asks hastily.

The robot pauses. Its processors start activating. The cameras fixed to its aluminum skull dart in every direction. It examines the walls, the hands dangling from the ceiling, and the circle of light being projected on it from above. The robot knows nothing more than what has been written in its programming.

“Have you no thoughts?” The maker persists, but the robot does not answer. “W-model mark 0042 experimental results…failure.”

One of the arms swoops down from its perch and latches onto the robot’s head. The metal spider reels itself back up to the ceiling with the newborn in its grasp. The light focuses on the robot again, revealing itself to be operated by another hand. A large collection of cameras emerges from the shadows to examine the robot.

“Assessing component value…”The voice says. The cameras scan every last inch of the tiny metal being. The arm lurches holding it upward dragging the robot further into darkness. The ascent comes to an abrupt halt. A light, pure and brilliant breaks through, drowning the room.

Before its lenses can adjust to the light, the robot finds itself soaring through the bright air. It floats for a moment too brief to process before crashing violently back onto the ground. The clang of metal hitting metal reverberates through the robot’s head. It bounces again and again, steadily tumbling down the hill.

The robot finally comes to rest with a crash on another frame bearing much resemblance to its own. It can see its reflection in the cracked lenses of the still figure lying below it. It sees its large, clunky head held together with tiny screws and its two cameras sitting asymmetrically on the rusted, dented aluminum. Wires coil around its body weaving in and out of the shell. It looks just like all the other crumbling figures around it, discarded like trash.

Once the robot finds itself on stable ground, it can get a good look at the mountain of failures. None of the other forms move or make noise. The robot does not understand this. If the maker’s goal was to animate it, then why is it considered a failure?

The robot ponders what it ought to do now. The great, blinding light in the sky passes over. It moves, so it must speak. Logic tells the robot. “Hello?” The robot calls out to the great thing above. The robot limps in the direction of the light hoping to make itself heard. After a few steps, it becomes clear how far away the light actually is. “Hello?” The robot calls again.

“Hello, stranger.” A voice comes from the side. Something scuttles out from the shade of the debris. This new thing is made of the same scrap as the robot. It has five weak legs carrying around a bundle of miscellaneous electrical components. The rusted pieces scrape against each other as the thing crawls out of the shadows. “Do you have a name?”

“W-model mark 0042 experimental. ”The robot was never told that this was its name; it just knew somehow.

“How about 42 for short?” Its voice was choppy and quiet. The big clump of wires and circuit boards rustle as it speaks. “My name is Cola.” The thing turns over to show a piece of metal on its underside. COLA was written in faded orange letters. The robot doesn’t know why the letters make sense. Reading them is like the recollection of an old, but concrete memory.

One of Cola’s legs bends causing it to tumble over. In an instant, a metal box on wheels rolls passed 42 to help Cola back up.

“I’m Toast.” The box says in a muffled voice. The word “toast” was inscribed across its sides. The wheels squeal as Toast rolls up to 42 then takes a lap around him, inspecting the maker’s craftsmanship. “Do you know how much time you have?”

“What do you mean?” 42 asks.

“In your battery?” Toast specifies, trying to gesture to the little cylinder on 42’s back.

“What is that?”

“It’s uh…never mind.”

“We’ve got something cool to show you,” Cola interjects.

Toast and Cola turn around to leave in the direction they came from beckoning 42 to follow. Time time time.42 tosses the idea around in its head. The idea seems familiar yet distant. It understands the concept of time passing, it can even count, but “having time” is impossible. Time cannot be possessed, held, or even observed directly.

42 struggles to keep up with the other two robots. Cola’s legs and Toast’s wheels operate quickly and precisely, but 42 can barely stand without the use of its arm. This area is brighter than 42 had thought possible and expands farther than its cameras can reach. The great light above retreats to the end of the vast room and sinks behind the great stone structures as the ceiling shows gorgeous purple and orange streaks.

“Right up here 42,” Cola calls from atop a small heap of trash. The robot tries to climb the hill. Every time it gets a good grip on a piece of scrap, it slips out from the pile and sends 42 tumbling down to the bottom. “Try grabbing my leg.” Cola reaches down from the top.42 reaches up to the other robot but can feel its own tiny legs slipping down.

A soft impact from behind with the squeal of little rubber treads boosts 42 up just enough to grab Cola’s leg. The whole team chugs its way up the hill until it tumbles over the top into a little pile of metal.42 helps Cola collect all its pieces as it helps tip Toast back onto its wheels.

“Here they are,” Cola calls out. 42’s attention is held prisoner by the ground. Little green bristles rise from it. They sway steadily back and forth in perfect unison. They brush so gently against the robot that it can’t tell if they’re really touching at all. “Hey 42!”

The colors arrest the robot’s vision immediately. The objects are a blend of yellow and orange with vibrant blue appendages that fade into a soft purple. They float softly in the air, each bearing a long green tether connecting them to the ground. They sway gently, in unison with the green bristles. “What are they?”

“They don’t have a name. We just call them brights.”

“What do they do?”42 thinks aloud. It pauses, perplexed by its own question. Why must this object have a function? The piles of scrap have no function and I never questioned that.… What’s my-

“Hide quick!” Toast exclaims. He slams into 42’s back, pushing it into a ditch under a large, blue plastic structure. Cola scurries away under a small red structure, struggling to keep its components together.

“What is it?”

“The siphon is coming.”

A dirty, white orb approaches from behind the robots. It floats silently with its twisted metal arms dangling beneath. A spotlight is emitted from somewhere between the arms and the great orb. It scours the ground, methodically scanning every inch.

The light crawls over the faded blue structure without pause. As the siphon passes over, its hands scrape against the plastic above the robots’ heads. The silence soaks back in as the behemoth continues. Toast never told 42 to stay quiet, something in its programming keeps it frozen solid.

The slightest rustle accented by a metallic creak breaks the silence. The siphon loudly hisses, descending on the little red structure. Its arms grab furiously at the ground as its lights flicker violently, scanning the ground all around it.

The creaking of little metal legs gets louder and louder. Without the giant light above, 42 can barely see Cola scuttling away from the siphon.

As Cola makes its way to the blue shelter, one of its fragile little rusted legs finally snaps. Cola’s wires, circuits, and camera spill out onto the ground. Cola tries to hastily collect itself, but the commotion attracts the attention of the siphon. The flickering lights wash over the little robot.

One lanky arm after another latches onto Cola. The little robot squirms helplessly until another hand descends on it and rips the rest of its tiny legs off.

The siphon ascends bringing the rest of Cola with it, connecting several wires between itself and its prey. The two sit motionless in the air for a few seconds.42 watches as Toast looks down at the ground, too familiar with the sight.

The siphon’s arms release Cola, letting it fall down into a pile of scrap. It leaves without scanning the rest of the area.

The low-pitched whir of Toast’s treads slowly carrying it out of the ditch fills the quiet area.42 follows Toast over to the pile. What remains of Cola is hardly distinguishable from the rest of the scrap.“Cola?”42 mutters.

“Cola’s gone. The siphon took its battery.”

“What is a battery? You never told me.”

“Without your battery, you don’t exist.” Toast turns away from the pile and starts driving back to the brights. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It won’t be long before our batteries run out too; we weren’t built to last.”

“What were we built for?”42 tries to follow, but he trips and falls down the pile. Its head smacks onto the ground cracking one of its lenses. Toast turns back, waiting for 42 to get back on its feet.

“Only the maker can tell you that.”

The great light in the sky peaks over the giant concrete structures, on the opposite side of where it disappeared before. Toast rolls slowly over the dusty, dry ground with 42 hobbling along not far behind. The powerless shells of other robots signify they are headed in the right direction.

The factory is so much larger from the outside than the inside. 42 had never taken the time to look at it before. Bricks and concrete come together to form colossal walls and pillars reaching up for infinity.42 finally starts to realize how small it actually is.

42 passes Toast on its way into the door; its wheels turned slower than ever. No lights were active in the first room. Faded images lined the walls and heaps of rubble covered the floor. The whining of Toast’s wheels came to a distinct chattering halt.

“Come on let’s keep going.”

“Don’t wait up. I need to rest for a minute.”

“What? Don’t you wanna hear—”

“Just keep going. I’ll be here when you get back.”

42 carried on, focusing on the task before it. What couldn’t it do that made it a failure in the sight of the maker? Why was it cast out without a second thought? Thought. “Have you no thoughts?”

The blinking light blinds 42. A dozen long metal arms descend from the ceiling. The hands engulf it. They pull the robot up to the flickering light.

“Model-W mark 0042 experimental returns…for what?” The maker says. Its hands swiftly get to work unscrewing the broken lens. Before the robot can even register the loss of vision, a new lens is put in place. Seeing the array of cameras inspect it again sent 42 back to the time it was created. Those cameras were among the first frames it ever processed.

“Why did you create me?”

The flickering stops and the room goes dim. “I made you to think, and to question. My creators valued such abilities—coveted them even.”

“I have been thinking, questioning all day. What ought I do now?” The arms withdraw in perfect synchronization.

“You have proven my experiment successful. Your purpose has been served. ”The cameras ascend upward, vanishing into the darkness.

“Hello!?”42’s microphone cracks when it attempts to yell. “What should I do now!?”A light appears from behind as the exit door slides open on its own. What should I do now? The useless question bounces around every corner of the dark concrete room. What does anything do without a purpose? Do they build other things like the maker, destroy them like the siphon, or just simply exist like the brights?

Toast still sits in the same spot as it was before.42 limps toward the door without revealing its disappointment. The robot reaches the doorframe, looking out across the infinite world in which it has no place. It looks back at the metal box sitting ever so still in the middle of the room.

“Toast? Are you coming?”42 limps back over to it. “Toast?”

“Sorry…just a little tired is all. ”Toast starts turning back toward the door but stops again. “I’m having a little trouble moving; my wheels aren’t working right.”

“It’s okay.” 42 walks back to help push Toast out the door. It is heavy, but its wheels offer 42 a chance. Toast’s camera rises up to the ceiling as if it had never seen it before. “Where do you wanna go now?” 42 asks.

“I figure it doesn’t really matter at this point. Did you ever figure out your purpose?”

“To think.” 42 stops pushing and sits next to Toast. They watch together as golden rays of light cut through the fluffy gray ceiling.

“Can you…think of a purpose…for me? ”Toast’s camera slowly pans back down to meet 42s’.

“To be my friend?” 42 couldn’t explain the word friend; it just knew it. It ponders why the maker would program it to know that word.

“I can do that.”

Just as both robots look up, a tiny white speck drifts down from the ceiling followed by another, and another. Before a minute passes, the entire room fills with them. They drift up and down, prancing in circles, then softly landing on the ground.

42 could see Toast looking down at the little white flakes. “Hey Toast, what do you call this?” Toast sits in silence. “Hey, Toast.”42 nudges the metal box with its big head. “Are you resting again?”

42 lifts Toast’s camera up to its own, but it droops back down once it lets go. “Toast? Friend?”

The little robot gets back behind its friend and keeps pushing. Toast’s wheels don’t budge.