Shelves, Cassettes, and other Nonsense.

An organic mass swept the metal landscape, as fast as it could. Out of place, tarnishing with its presence. Gasping for sustainability, in an ecosystem that has long forgotten such a blob of bile and meat. Desperate, to an audience without notions or feelings.

888

In a world with little life, yet still dominated by movement, a robot ventures out; onto the highest pier, overlooking its home. If a robot, such as this one, cared to look out, it would see buildings, built by and for machines. High into the sky, and low into the ground. If a robot could see colours, it would see the most euphoric of palettes. If it felt an ounce of… well, anything, it would see the landscape of its planet, seeming as if God placed down a metal sheet over the planes and crevices.

This robot is called 3*15*14*18*5*•000019-7. An ordinary name for a robot, using their language of numbers. It’s appearance: two big round cylinders for eyes, a rectangular prism for a head, a box for it’s upper torso and a long tube for its lower torso, flexible poles for arms that can stretch and move any which way with finger like claws sticking out at the end, and a trapezium at the bottom hovering just above the ground.

It travels down into an open elevator, heading down into the depths of the urban metal city below the buildings. As a mobile repair and construction unit, the robot goes around, fixing and building things in its designated area. And just what is it fixing today? Nothing special, just a shelf.

888

The organic mass searches for rest from view. Slowly losing its hold on the mind, it grasps at its body; it hopes for any good to come to its pierced flesh. Alone in every sense, it sobs.

888

The lift reaches as far as it goes, surface level. The robot moves out and heads across a metal, unrailed bridge(as all are).

As it wanders across, above him, something happens. A robot, similar to 3*15*14*18*5*•000019-7, though not exactly the same, falls from a bridge above. It tumbles, and shatters against the harsh, uncaring metal. It does not convey anything, as it loses power.

It landed right next to 3*15*14*18*5*•000019-7. It moves along, unreactive, as everyone does. Except for a few that will come to take its vessel, and have it thrown into an abyss.

888

The organic mass tries to use something at his disposal, such as a communication device. No help. None of his kind. It finds itself completely hopeless against the cosmic-like horror it’s engulfed in.

888

The robot moves down into the dank depths underneath the metal ground, through a doorway. It moves onto a deescalating ramp.

There is no natural light, naturally. In fact, there is no light at all, as none need it. All there is a suffocating metal and concrete cage of an underground network.

It heads off the ramp and down a certain tunnel. Just as it almost heads out, it notices a small rectangular box; one that is not instantly recognisable. As per programming, it must identify if the object is dangerous. It scans the object.

It slowly works out all of the details of the object, without picking it up. It identifies it as a cassette tape. What exactly is on it, something other than a robot might ask?

It moves out of the tunnel, leaving it, and positions itself in front of a robot built into the wall. They speak, though of course in numbers.

“I am here to repair a shelf.” states 3*15*14*18*5*•000019-7.

“What are you and what is the job?” states the immobile robot.

“3*15*14*18*5*•000019-7, 19/8/5/12/6#00002-1464.”

“Proceed.”

And so it goes down, into what should be an oppressive, disheartening, and apathetic hole, of an already oppressive, disheartening, and apathetic world. Though for a robot, it’s just another room.

888

The organic mass grabs at something it possesses. Not something useful. Only of note to itself. Just a piece of paper.

It holds onto it. Gets up and starts running. With sadness that an end is near, it gasps as it feels like life is being unfairly ripped away.

888

The robot heads up, out of the underground, onto the next job. Not taking time to rest, nor rushing, for they are programmed to arrive at the right time and to do the right thing at the right time. And if they fail, someone else won’t.

On a sidewalk, by a building, it notices something in its peripheral vision. Something coming towards it. Something falling towards it. An organic mass.

It crashes its entirety on the robot. The organic mass’s face crunches into the robot’s and a glass screen shatters. A glass screen covering the organic mass’s face. Its face squashes around the robot’s, glass and metal penetrate and press. Red ink starts pouring down off his face. The mass seizes to the floor, and the robot tumbles backwards.

The mass is battered and bruised. It writhes on the floor.

A few robots start gathering around the scene, while most just move around. A few help 3*15*14*18*5*•000019-7, as few are programmed to do. The robot gets up. Everyone else moves on with their routines.

The robot hovers over to the wretched mass. It squirms in pain and struggles.

The robot analyses the mass. It struggles to figure it out. Mulling it over, failing for a solution, for an answer.

Finally at a resolution, it discovers its nature. A human. A living organism. An endangered species. Scattered around. Like most organisms, extremely high maintenance. A complex creature. One of the most, and in many circumstances the most dangerous. Scattered around the planet, infrequently they become harder and harder to find with each cycle.

The mass claws its neck and chest. Spasming on the ground. Distorting its face. Banging its head back against the ground monotonously. Until… it doesn’t.

Mobile cleaning robots come to dispose of the human. Quickly leave, once it’s apparent that it is not a simple job. They do not come back.

Down, next to the hand of the human is an unidentifiable object. It scans the object to see if it is dangerous. It is a piece of paper. What exactly is on the piece of paper, something other than a true robot might ask?

The robot picks up, and keeps the paper.