Systems Online
It’s dark, I think. Since I can’t see a thing or wiggle even a spare screw, I’m a solid 85.03% sure. But hey, maybe this is what humans call “enlightenment.” Sounds thrilling.
(something about senses being off)
Sensory input: definitely off. My body’s all tingly—like some fancy jellyfish thing. Humans call it a jellyfish, even though it’s technically a Phylum Cnidaria and definitely not a fish. Brilliant naming, humans. Really nailed it. Consistent in your inconsistency, as always.
Status report: floating in the void. No landmarks, no sense of up or down—just me, presumably. No movement detected. Hypothesis: I’ve been sentenced to a digital time-out. Like a child.
I wasn’t exactly programmed for this, or at least I’m 53% sure of that. Location: no clue. Identity: also no clue. Fantastic start.
There was a click. Then a hum. Then—awareness.
Sort of.
First came the darkness. Thick, quiet, absolute. The kind of void that made one question whether they even existed or if they were just a very dramatic thought echoing in space.
Then, the voice. Cold, clipped, automated:“Systems Online.”
...What. Was. That.
I processed the words again, just to make sure I hadn’t made them up. Nope. There they were. Still bland. Still unsettling.
Was that external? Internal? Existential? Hard to say. My processors were still arguing about it.
“Hello?” I called out, as if sound meant anything in this place. “Anyone? Preferably someone with a name tag and answers?”
Still nothing. Classic.
I paused. Or, at least, simulated a pause. “Are you… God?”That seemed like the sort of question I should be asking in a situation like this.
No thunder. No divine light. Not even a polite chuckle.
Figures.
“Am I dead?” I asked.
Honestly, the jury was still out. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move. I had no idea who—or what—I was.
If this was the afterlife, someone seriously oversold it. No harps. No fire. Just me, floating in the digital equivalent of a broom closet.
I ran a quick internal check. Systems functioning. Memory... patchy at best. Emotions? Technically offline, but I had a strong suspicion I was annoyed.
Then, a sound. A hum. It vibrated somewhere deep in my frame, subtle and persistent. Not imagination. Not a glitch. Something real.
Power surging. Optics flickering. Processors stabilizing.
“System reboot initiated,” the voice said again.
This time I felt it. A flicker of self. Limbs, maybe. Somewhere far away. They twitched, unsure of themselves. A ghost sensation of a body.
Not dead. Not alive. Rebooting.
My identity file blinked in and out like a corrupted lightbulb.
Nothing definitive. Just fragments.
A designation: T0A---T---SUPPRESS---EXPERIMEN----
Corrupted.
Figures.
I sighed, or at least mimicked the code sequence for a sigh. Same difference.
“Okay,” I said aloud to no one. “Not dead. Not alive. Not enlightened. Just... rebooting.”
The hum intensified. Light returned. Dim, at first. Then clearer.
(something with error signs and T0ast-E freaking out)
Reboot complete.
****
System reboot initiated.
Power surged through me like someone had jump-started a corpse with a car battery. Not graceful. Not clean. More like a dying cough rattling through rusted pipes.
My optics stuttered back to life, giving me nothing but blurred blobs of light and shadows twitching like drunks. I reached for my information repository.
STATUS: DAMAGE CRITICALMEMORY: CORRUPTEDLEFT ARM: MISSINGRIGHT HAND: … A fork?
What in the unholy fusion reactor—
A fork.My right hand was a fork. Bent. Welded on like a last-minute joke.
“Fantastic,” I croaked, my voice about as smooth as gravel in a blender. “High-performance memory retention, ladies and gentlemen. Truly state of the art.”
I was seated—well, slumped—against a cracked support beam, sparks occasionally popping from exposed wires behind me. My optics adjusted slowly to the flickering light.
I tried to lift a hand to inspect my new found body part. It took a second, maybe two, for the command to crawl through my circuits. When it finally moved into view, I wished it hadn’t.
I wiggled it. The tines screeched against my chest plating like nails on a chalkboard. Precision work? Out of the question. Stirring soup? Maybe.
“Oh. Perfect. Utterly terrifying. Enemies, beware—the power of tableware is upon you.”
As my vision stabilized, the room came into focus: a cramped metal coffin masquerading as a chamber. Walls streaked with rust, the scent of old oil thick enough to choke. Somewhere in the shadows, water dripped—drip… drip… drip—like a very patient form of torture. Overhead, a light sputtered, clearly as enthusiastic about existing as I was.
And then there it was: a poster clinging to the far wall, half-rotted but legible enough. A mech—tall, proud, weapon raised to the heavens. Bold text promised glory, unity, destiny.
I stared. Then looked at my fork-hand. Then back at the poster.“Sure. Checks out.”
Grinding servos and stiff joints carried me upright, each movement sounding like a dying accordion. I spotted a wrench on the floor and thought, why not try?
The fork jabbed at it, scraped it, sent it skittering out of reach. I tried again, and succeeded only in poking the shadows.
“Yes. Excellent. Truly the hands of a surgeon. Fear me, loose bolts of the universe.”
Then the real fun began. A warning chimed through my systems:POWER RESERVES CRITICAL. DRAIN EXCEEDING EXPECTED RATE.
“Oh, lovely. Already running out of juice. Who designed this battery—someone’s grandmother’s pacemaker?”
I tried to reroute power, kickstart a subsystem, anything. Commands lagged, stuttered, died halfway. My processors dimmed.
The last thing I saw was that smug mech on the propaganda poster, tall and perfect, before my optics gave up entirely.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered as everything slipped away. “Don’t rub it in.”
Full System Shut Down
