automaton

Mod was laying in the trash heaps.

He hadn’t always been a street sleeper. In fact, one week ago – roughly, he’d lost track of the days – he slept in the comfort and safety of his own bed, in his own apartment.

Then the White Knights knocked down his door.

“You’ve failed to pay your rent for the third month and are in violation of the leasing agreement. You are hereby required to vacate the premises immediately.”

“Give me another chance.” Mod's last memory of his life was pleading with the officers while scrambling to get his clothes on. “I'll pay off the debt, I swear."

“You have reached your final warning. You have surrendered your property to the State. Failure to comply will result in your immediate extermination."

"Just let me keep her," he had begged, thrashing like mad as they dragged him towards the door. "Let me bring my Angel!"

“No exceptions.” Their beady eyes showed no pity as they tossed him into the street.

A few months prior, the State had refused to pick up burnable trash in an attempt to encourage recycling. It wasn't long before every street in the city was lined with bags of trash piled several feet high.

The rats and street sleepers alike found scraps and shelter in the trash heaps, forming an ecosystem of their own where they were able to eke out a meager existence.

And here Mod had been ever since.

Even among the rotten, leaking garbage, the scurrying of rats, and the rumbling of his stomach, he could only think of his Angel.

He couldn't remember what color her hair was, or what her voice sounded like, but he did remember how she made him feel. It was a memory that faded more with each passing day and the lack of her gnawed at his soul like a missing limb.

He’d attempted to watch porn several times using his Pupil – at least he still had that – but it wasn’t the same. He scrolled through the Feed, liking and sharing a few posts in a half-hearted attempt to earn Credits.

Nothing soothed him.

In fact, he was dangerously close to having to confront his own thoughts. It was a problem that society had long since moved past, progress absolving Mod and the rest of his generation of their forebearers’ greatest burden. And yet if he tried hard enough, he could almost remember a time that was different, a time when people had something more. Thinking hurt too much. Remembering hurt.

He returned to his current situation. He was laying on a discarded mattress, a bundle of unidentified fabric as his pillow. Motionless, he attempted to boot up another adult video on his Pupil.

Then came the sound of raised voices from across the street. “Can you quiet down?” he said lazily over the sounds of moaning in his ears.

But they didn’t quiet down. They only got louder.

“This one is mine!”

“No, I found her first!”

The video disappeared and he sat up, looking over at the source of the disturbance. Three people – two men and a lifeless woman- no, an Angel - were involved in a scuffle. They were tugging her back and forth as if in a playground battle over a treasured toy.

Perhaps out of some primordial defensive instinct long buried in the recesses of Mod’s mind, he found himself holding a large shard of glass.

The conflict escalated, and one of the men grabbed a large piece of sheet metal from the trash pile. He smashed his opponent's face, and the man went down.

But the other man didn’t let up on his assault. He continued to bring the panel down again and again. Blood flew everywhere. Finally, the other man’s body stopped moving and the street became quiet.

“Serves you right,” he gloated, spittle flying from his lips. “I told you she was mine. And what a nice one she is too.”

He had a weak frame and a hunched back; thin, scraggly hairs sprouted up from his head. Above all else, the man's eyes were sunken and hollow, reminiscent of the Officers that looked on without pity as they carried out the will of the State. Mod felt like he would vomit if he looked at the repulsive creature any longer. He turned his attention to the Angel the man had claimed as his prize.

She was his antithesis. Her proportions were even and her curves generous. Despite her stay in the trash heap, her pink, plush lips remained unblemished. She was a paragon of the female form.

He had just witnessed a man kill another man over a sexbot. And the only thought he had was how he wanted her for himself.

A low laugh escaped from Mod’s throat in a voice unrecognizable to himself. It bubbled up from someplace dark, a poisonous and ancient place that was best left hidden.

"What, you want a go now?" The street sleeper started to advance.

Mod didn’t care. It was all too ridiculous, what else could he do but laugh?

He lifted the shard of glass to arm's length. The same empty, beady eyes stared back at him; the same untrimmed beard, the same male pattern baldness, the same warped, broken figure.

He could almost remember a time when things hadn’t been this bad.

The laughter turned to a bestial scream, the street echoing with anguish, agony, and malice that froze the assailant in his tracks as Mod plunged the shard of glass directly into his own left eye.