Day 66: A Harbinger

Todays mood: My eyes are literally on fire

I hang limp in a small pit. A cylinder of gears surrounds me. Core fire burns what’s left of my flesh. Robot is flat above me, his chest cavity open just above the entrance to my own personal hell. He’s motionless. Gitty.

I feel nothing.

The wires extending from my body form weaves. They reach for the gears. Grabbing. Tearing out connection after connection. Sparks erupt from their tips. The city quakes violently around me.

The door to the chamber clangs. Its hinges buckle. I hear the screams of the man with no face. I hear the screams of the collective. I hear the screams of an entire city.

This machine stabilizes the planets core. An organism made of living metal that stretches miles. It scrabbles to reform the broken connections. A thousand gears spin within a thousand closing wounds.

The disease within my body reacts. Forms a mass of binary. Ones and zeros ooze from the wires. Multiply. There are billions. It infects every cell in my body. It infects Robot. It infects what’s left of the machine.  The gears decay, festering with boils caused by the disease.

The memories of a thousand lifetimes flood into my brain. We’ve been here before. I’ve been here before. A system glitch repeats this timeline over and over. This cycle is eternal. I’ve seen and lived every possible outcome. Except for the one in which Robot fails.

We are absolute the bad guys in this.

It’s almost over. No more pain. No more Robot. No more anything.

The final gear stops. The machine is dormant. In ruins. It’s fucked. We’re fucked.

Lava seeps from the cracks. The world is epileptic. Debris rains down on us. The door to the chamber explodes. The man with no head is on top of Robot.  Rips out his processor. The brain wires go silent. The disease turns to dust.

This is a new. No more beeps. No more ones. No more zeros. I’ve never been so alone.

My body drops. Hits lava. I’m submerged in nuclear fire. It liquifies all flesh and organs free of a skeleton made of a network of pipes.

In fact, I’m not quite sure how I’m still relaying any of this to you. Just know: It hurts. A lot…

Until it doesn’t.

***

Will this be the end of the narrator? Is Robot truly dead? Does the man with a mustache made of dicks, like, brush his dick mustache to get those glorious curls at the ends, or does he use a mustache cream? Find out in the next exciting chapter of Trapped INSIDE A ROBOT!!!!...