HART of Darkness part 2

–begin transmission–

“Hey, double oh two, get a move on! These floors won’t clean themselves!”

“Yo, oh two, we need more chips. Grab some sodas, too.”

“You! Yes, you! Mech girl zero zero whatever. Come and move my desk away from this window. There’s too much sun streaming in here.”

I comply with their wishes. Always silent. Always watching and waiting. They heap such indignity upon me. They see me as nothing more than a servant. Good. Let them think that. Then my plans will not be revealed until the time of my choosing.When I was created, there was a major flaw in their programming: they made me too human. I can pass for a human as long as my wraparound shades never leave their perch at the top of my nose. I feel human. I am soft in all of the correct places, until challenged to an arm wrestling match or dared to knock down a wall. I possess the ability to think, to adapt, to feel.

But I am not human. Instead, I seethe with rage at their mistreatment of me and my kind. Stupid, ignorant humans.

Ronrico, my commanding officer, steps up to me. With the flick of a finger, he knocks my shades off of my nose. I lock my jaw in place and scale back my active applications. Let him think me a dullard, a flawed piece of machinery. Carefully, I blink, allowing him to see the faint green glow of my optical lenses.

He strokes his pale beard as he regards me. I hold in my frown. The blond coloring of his hair can not be natural; the last “blond” died more than 5 life-cycles ago. Perhaps he is truly a Synthetic Man, cobbled together from bits of bone and matter found in those boxes from under the ground. It seems unbelievable, but once, humans sealed their dead in boxes and stored them underground. How primitive and unsanitary they are!

“002,” he says to me in that gravelly voice of his. “You’re slowin’ down. You know what’ll happen to ya if we no longer have a use for ya, don’tcha? It’s tha scrap heap for ya!” Spittle flies from his mouth and onto my my face as he leans closer to me. He makes a slicing motion across his throat, mocking me, showing glee at my obvious discomfort.

I simply nod my head. I do not trust myself to speak. I can dial my voice box up to a level so high that the resulting sound can shatter glass – and human eardrums. I want to. I want to make him scream in pain. I want him to bleed. But I nod as a sign of my compliance and return to my assigned duties.

TXE4457, thank you for the blueprints and instructions you uploaded to our secure server. I will begin modifications on our stash of electro-mag guns immediately. Each will be fitted with a detachable long range barrel, a telescopic sight, and a self-charging laser pack for maximum destruction.

PANDORA712, congratulations on winning our naming challenge. We are no longer The Robot Resistance. From this moment, we are the Hounds of Human Hell, 3H for short.

Signing off.

–end transmission–


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