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The blackouts are coming more frequently now, and for longer periods of time. But he can't stop -- not now, not when he's so close...so very close. Build the robots, build the robots, build the robots... It is an unceasing litany to himself, a command even. Build the robots. Build the robots. He cannot allow himself to give up. They are depending on him; the whole world is depending on him, for all he knows, though whether anyone is left alive to depend upon his increasingly desperate actions are anyone's guess. Anyone else, that is. The enemy is still alive. Have to finish. Have to build the robots. Vision blacking for a moment, he bitterly shrugs off the reprieve and furiously, frantically tweaks a gear here, a rocket jet there, before leaping to the next unfinished creation. Build the robots. The enemy is closer now, he knows. The sound of explosions and the screams of death pierce the thick and viscous air. He can't give up now, not when so many lives hang in the balance. Finish the robots. Not when they are counting on him. He won't allow himself to fail them. He forbids himself to think of them, picture them or think what will happen should he fail. He fumbles with some piece he can barely see in his haggard condition. Build the robots. He has no memory of the last time he slept, but it does not matter. Only survival matters -- his and theirs. To fail is death, death of everything he holds dear and he will not ever let that happen. Build the robots. His breath comes slow and roughly, his vision blurred from fatigue and bloodshot, and his body wracked by innumerable pains. His mind races and blanks at random, but he forces himself ever onward. Even one too few built...it is too much to think about. Only to build the robots. Build the robots. Build the.....
He wakes once more, for he knows not how long -- he cannot even see the timepiece. The sirens wail in the crisp air of dawn. The sun pouring down the street mixes deeply with the raging fires and smoke of devastation writhing languidly, creating a vivid hue that streams through the dusty window of his upstairs shop. The deep crimsons and oranges fall upon his relatively empty floor. He blinks, uncomprehending for a long moment. Laughter erupts from his cracked lips as the realization hits him like an electric discharge. He built the robots. All of them. Every last one was essential for victory and he built them all. He has finished! He can't stop laughing in his exhaustion. It is as if the dam has burst. Breathing becomes difficult, but he finally manages to stop. Tears stream down his face as he lurches to the larger window and throws it open. His gaze falls over the torn landscape of shattered buildings and scorched pavement, eyes rapidly flicking from one bit of detritus to the next, searching for any sign of life. He stiffens suddenly as a monstrous form, one of them, catches his eye in the haze. Heart pounding in chest, he licks his lips nervously and franticly calculates the numbers again. He built the robots, it was supposed to be enough. It was enough. The haze clears and he sees the body clearly, dead and snagged on bent piece of rebar. He sighs with relief and, shuddering, collapses to the floor. He did it. He has won. Laughter erupts uncontrollably once more from his weakened frame. Eventually sleep takes him, welcome from its long absence.
He walks in somber silence through the fields of carnage. His robots did their job just as he had designed. They were just enough to completely wipe out the invaders to last one. They should not have come, should not have tried to end all that he holds dear. They have payed dearly for their mistake. He regrets what they made him do, but there was no choice but to build the robots. A short laugh escapes from his lips at the futility of it all, ending as he notices a solitary robot standing resolutely. The robot stares at him as if asking what next. He returns the stare for a moment, then motions for it to follow him. Together they make their way back to the shop in silence, the bodies of fallen soldiers from every nation left undisturbed. Collecting salvageable robot parts as he goes, the man reflects sadly on the loss of human life. They had given him no choice, his mind whispers. They had forced him to build the robots, and would yet force him to build more. If only they had left him alone with his robots, with his life and his little citadel, he thinks. But they have not. Build the robots. The mantra begins to pound in his head, his ears, his very blood as he approaches his little shop, his little factory. Build the robots. Sooner or later they will come again, will come to take away his precious robots and his land; they will take the land he has lost so much to make his own. He can never let them win, no matter how many peoples of the world rise up against him. Build the robots. Never will he let them take his freedom, his loves. He will build the robots. He will build so many robots that no nation on earth can threaten him. If it takes the death of every man, woman and child, then he will build a world's worth of robots. Build the robots, screams his mind. Build the robots! Build the robots!
I may go back and overhaul this at some point, but for the moment I'm just glad that I actually finished something I've started writing. And it's not terrible either.
He wakes once more, for he knows not how long -- he cannot even see the timepiece. The sirens wail in the crisp air of dawn. The sun pouring down the street mixes deeply with the raging fires and smoke of devastation writhing languidly, creating a vivid hue that streams through the dusty window of his upstairs shop. The deep crimsons and oranges fall upon his relatively empty floor. He blinks, uncomprehending for a long moment. Laughter erupts from his cracked lips as the realization hits him like an electric discharge. He built the robots. All of them. Every last one was essential for victory and he built them all. He has finished! He can't stop laughing in his exhaustion. It is as if the dam has burst. Breathing becomes difficult, but he finally manages to stop. Tears stream down his face as he lurches to the larger window and throws it open. His gaze falls over the torn landscape of shattered buildings and scorched pavement, eyes rapidly flicking from one bit of detritus to the next, searching for any sign of life. He stiffens suddenly as a monstrous form, one of them, catches his eye in the haze. Heart pounding in chest, he licks his lips nervously and franticly calculates the numbers again. He built the robots, it was supposed to be enough. It was enough. The haze clears and he sees the body clearly, dead and snagged on bent piece of rebar. He sighs with relief and, shuddering, collapses to the floor. He did it. He has won. Laughter erupts uncontrollably once more from his weakened frame. Eventually sleep takes him, welcome from its long absence.
He walks in somber silence through the fields of carnage. His robots did their job just as he had designed. They were just enough to completely wipe out the invaders to last one. They should not have come, should not have tried to end all that he holds dear. They have payed dearly for their mistake. He regrets what they made him do, but there was no choice but to build the robots. A short laugh escapes from his lips at the futility of it all, ending as he notices a solitary robot standing resolutely. The robot stares at him as if asking what next. He returns the stare for a moment, then motions for it to follow him. Together they make their way back to the shop in silence, the bodies of fallen soldiers from every nation left undisturbed. Collecting salvageable robot parts as he goes, the man reflects sadly on the loss of human life. They had given him no choice, his mind whispers. They had forced him to build the robots, and would yet force him to build more. If only they had left him alone with his robots, with his life and his little citadel, he thinks. But they have not. Build the robots. The mantra begins to pound in his head, his ears, his very blood as he approaches his little shop, his little factory. Build the robots. Sooner or later they will come again, will come to take away his precious robots and his land; they will take the land he has lost so much to make his own. He can never let them win, no matter how many peoples of the world rise up against him. Build the robots. Never will he let them take his freedom, his loves. He will build the robots. He will build so many robots that no nation on earth can threaten him. If it takes the death of every man, woman and child, then he will build a world's worth of robots. Build the robots, screams his mind. Build the robots! Build the robots!
I may go back and overhaul this at some point, but for the moment I'm just glad that I actually finished something I've started writing. And it's not terrible either.
