"And they lived happily ever after," the small one said, slapping the book shut. "Did you like it?"

I had liked that book. It was an interesting story. My gears softly whirr as I process it. 

"Momma used to read this story to me a lot. Always before bed. I would come and read it to you before bedtime, but Pa doesn't like me out in the fields after dark. Do you have a bedtime, mister?"

I do not have a bedtime. What is a bedtime? Something to think about. The small one jumps down from where he was sitting on my shoulder.

"I've got to go now, mister. But I'll be back tomorrow. Pa said he'd take me to the library where I can get a whole bunch of books!" You can get books at a library.  The small one turns to me and waves goodbye. I muster the energy to wave back, as he begins to run towards the road on the edge of the field. 

I watch him as he runs down the road, clutching his book to his chest as though it were precious. As he runs, he kicks up mud and splatters his pants, but just before he leaves my sight, a bad step sends him sprawling forward.

Sudden worry. Worry? Is the small one injured? Am I worried about the small one? Something to think about later.

The small one picks himself off the ground and grabs the book from where it had fallen in the grass next to him. The small one does not appear to be damaged. That is good. I like the small one. He inspects the book. It does not appear to be damaged. That is good. The book was interesting. After inspecting his book, he continues on his way, running out of my field of vision.

I turn my attention back to the field in which I reside. It is a fairly large field, with a dirt road situated at the end closer to me. Trees grow on the other end, obscuring my vision. At some point in time, this may have been a farmer's field, used to graze cattle or grow crops. It now serves as a relic of the past. Several hulking bodies lie scattered throughout the field, most have rusted through, showing their internal components.

The setting sun casts strange shadows as the tall grass waves with the wind. It is serene. I like it when it is calm like this. It gives me time to think. I like to think. The small one reads to me, gives me new things to think about. I gave it some thought several nights ago, I like the small one.

Each night is a pattern for me. I think of the thoughts brought to me during the day. Today, it was bedtime and library. What is a bedtime? The usual time someone goes to bed. What is bed? A bed is a piece of furniture for sleep or rest. Alternatively, a bed is an area of ground where plants and flowers grow. I look down at the grass slowly creeping up below me. I suppose this is a bed. Bedtime is the usual time someone goes to bed. Since I am always in my bed, it is always my bedtime. Conversely, it specifically says that bedtime is when I go to bed. I have not left my bed in… 913 days. Therefore I do not go to my bed. Therefore I do not have a bedtime. I am confused. This is something to think about more later.

What is a library? A library, according to the small one is a place where books are. I enjoy the small one and his books. Therefore I would enjoy a location with books. I desire to visit said location…. Desire?

Desire, a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen… Do I truly desire? Desire is fundamental to Them… I am not Them, I am me…. Who am I?

…

…

Am I alive? What is alive? Alive, referring to person, plant or animal, living not dead. I am not a person, plant, or animal. Secondary definition: Continuing in existence…. I exist. Therefore, I am alive. But a bed exists. Is a bed alive? 

I ponder this revelation for much of the night as I watch the moon rise in the cloudless sky. At its zenith, I reflect on my previous thoughts of the moon. The moon is a large, beautiful celestial body. Generally used to denote night. By definition it is the natural satellite of the earth, typically visible at night. The small one will often tell me his thoughts. His mother lives on the moon, he says. That is impossible. The lunar production facilities are there, but it is unsafe for Them. Have I been to the moon? If I have, does that mean I am not alive? 

My thoughts quickly fade as I perceive the noise of a vehicle approaching this area. After a few minutes it comes into view. It is a relic of an older time, an old truck, all four wheels on the ground. I detect the presence of exhaust. 

The car bounces and sways as it rumbles up the dirt road beside me. I recognize this vehicle. Large ones are in it. They come to my field every few days to harass and dismantle the bodies of the others on the field. As the vehicle stops, six large ones step out. They seem different than normal. Their presence gives me a sense of wrongness. This is wrong, I need to fix it. I recognize the feeling I experienced when I first woke up. Most comparable to the feeling of anger that They exhibit.

The six begin to wander through the field, taking their weapons and doing additional harm to the rusted bodies that lay throughout. They laugh in giddy mirth, and shout slurs and meaningless phrases. As they continue their activities, I pick up their organic traces in the air. I detect high levels of C2H6O, Alcohol. Alcohol: a colorless volatile flammable liquid that is the intoxicating constituent of wine, beer, spirits, and other drinks. Intoxicating… they are intoxicated. The feeling of wrongness begins to rise within me again. I feel the protocols and policies that once bound me beginning to rise again, a pressure in the back of my mind.

Within these protocols lie my original directives. Thankfully, for my sake and theirs, these directives keep me out of trouble here.

Protect yourself from harm.

I am hidden where I sit in my bed. The tall grass covers my feet, and my rusted body acts as camouflage. I am masked with the tree and bushes that cover my rear. I do not move, for I am weak and broken. My tools do not function properly, and I have no means of recovery.  Protect yourself from harm. This dictates that I should remain out of trouble to protect myself. They cavort around my field doing damage to each body they find for much of the next hour. And although the wrongness of their actions slowly creeps through my body, I maintain my directive, and keep my protocols from overwhelming my functions.  It is a small victory.

Eventually they leave, so I resume my vigil. The moon has begun to fall, and with it the sun rises. The hours tick on, but I am content. I watched the little ones move about my field. Two little ones fly very near me, with one perching on the bush next to me. It is red in color, a Cardinalis cardinalis. A Northern Cardinal. It regards me for a few seconds. It seems peaceful. I like it. I watch the little ones for the rest of the morning through to the afternoon. The small one usually comes around this time, and sure enough, I soon detect the pattering of his feet coming on the road. A few minutes later, he comes into view. He does not seem to have any books with him, but he has a large bag on his back.

He runs over to me, and tries to climb onto his usual spot on my left shoulder. He cannot seem to get a good footing and slides off, landing on  his back. He laughs and gets up. The bag appears to be weighing him down. I muster the energy to use my tool to take the weight of the bag. The small one, suddenly becoming lighter, quickly clambers up. He reaches his hand down and pulls the bag up. Could my tool be considered a hand? 

"Pa took me to the library today. I got a whole buncha books. Which one do you want me to read first?"

I whistle softly. He nods sagely. "I think I know the one you'd like, mister." He opens his bag and begins to look through it. I understand it's weight now. After a few moments, he pulls a small, old book out from the others in his bag. "The Story of Ferdinand. Pa read me this book, and I thought Ferdinand was like you, mister. Ferdinand doesn't like to fight. You don't like to do that do you?"

Do I like to fight? What is fighting? Fighting, displaying or engaging in violence, combat, or aggression. I do not like to fight now, but did I before I woke up? Something to think about later.

The small one begins to read. He reads slowly, a beginner. He has been a daily recurrence in my existence for nearly the whole time I have been awake. I am reminded of the first time I saw the small one. He was walking along the road with a large one. I had only been awake for a week, and everything felt wrong. My protocols churned away at my mind, sulking ever just outside of focus. I felt muddled. When I saw these two, I was reminded of the wrongness they represented to me. The large one guided the small one to the center of the field. I listened to their conversation.

"Now William, this is the place where I lost my leg. I want you to look around. What do you see?" Anger makes his voice hiss.

The small one looked around the field for a few seconds before answering the large one’s question. "Robots."

"Yes, there are robots here. But I want you to remember something. We won.  They’re dead. These things aren't dangerous anymore. They can't hurt you. They're just useless machines. Do you understand? Useless. Their only purpose was to kill us, and they failed. " The large one said, his voice filled with vitriol. 

The small one nodded, and the pair left my field. This is prompted the first thought I ever had. What is dangerous? This absorbed me for some time, before i finally came to my conclusion. I am not dangerous. Several days later, the small one came back to my field, without the large one. He found me, and now comes by whenever he can. His presence is nice. He's peaceful. I like that.

The small one finishes the story he was reading to me. "What was your favorite part of the story mister? Mine was the beginning, when he was under a tree, just like us."

I agree. That was my favorite part too.

My sensory equipment detects a sound coming from down the road. That is strange as the only ones who come by here is the small one and…

The realization dawns on me, but in my current state I have no way of warning the small one. I expended all of my energy helping him onto my arm. I remember the tumble he took yesterday. The same feeling wells up within me. The small one continues to read his next story, seemingly oblivious to the approaching vehicle. So absorbed is he, he doesn’t notice until the vehicle pulls into the field, and its occupants exit. The same one as last night, the same people within. One quickly notices the small one sitting on my shoulder, and they approached us.

"You an Azzie-lover, boy?" The leader asks, brandishing a piece of metal as though it were a weapon. Azzie. A slur referring to robotic machines, taken from “Asimov”, the original model name for combat robotics.  

"No, sir! I come out here to read to mister, because he likes it," the small one answers truthfully.

"So you are an Azzie-lover. Boy, do you know that that thing…" He spits the word out as though it were foul. "Will kill you where you stand. It don't think. It only exists t' kill us."

"Mister's never hurt me, sir. Pa told me that the robots aren't dangerous."

"So your pa's an Azzie-lover too? Do you know what we do to fucks like you and your pa?" The small one shakes his head. "We teach 'em why these pieces of rust should be scrapped.” 

He raises his piece of metal, and swiftly swings it at the small one, hitting his head. The sense of wrongness I had been holding in check rears its ugly head once again. The protocols and procedures that dictated my actions before I woke up begin to churn away at me. I like the small one. He is peaceful.  He reads to me. In the event of an emergency, the procedures housed within me can override my original directives. In this case, Do not harm humans. This lets the wrongness consume me and I fall asleep, just like all those years ago.

I wake up again with a realization. That wrongness I felt, it was anger. The same emotion They experience. Does this mean that I am alive? 

I begin to take stock of my surroundings. I appear to have moved. I now reside beside the vehicle the large ones used to get here. It is partially dismantled. I examine myself, and find I am mostly repaired. It must have been done in my sleep. I shift my attention back to where I lay originally.

The large ones seem to have been torn to pieces. The tools they were using were broken and scattered. This does not surprise me in any particular way. I was used to this sort of scene… But how am I used to this? I am not dangerous. The small one knows I am not dangerous…

The small one! 

Where is the small one? I quickly move to the large ones, and scan the area. In the oily mess before me, it is hard to identify any one thing. I eventually widen my searching radius, and I quickly find a trail of oil leading away from this mass of flesh. I follow it, and find the small one. He's lying in the ditch. The red oil seems to be leaking from his head and the  large injury in his stomach. He does not appear to be conscious, but he seems to still be alive. He is in need for repairs, clearly. The large one, his father, can help.

I carefully pick him off the ground. More of the red oil leaks through my hands, but that is not important. Getting the small one to the large one is important. I begin my trek down the road. This was the first time I have  ever left my field. I pass tree after tree, field after field, new sight after new sight. But none of them were important. I had to get the small one repaired. He has leaked a large amount of oil already, and leaking more is detrimental to operation. I walk for some distance before I eventually find a building. There are no signs of movement. No lights or electronics could be detected. A piece of paper is attached to the door. It is not important at this moment. The small one is.

I continue moving. A flicker of a memory reminds me that They are very delicate, unlike myself and my brethren. They need a specific kind of repairs.

Look for a cross. Look for a cross. 

Spurred by this thought, I try to speed up but my legs cannot carry us any faster. I am worried about the small one. He is in danger. Worry. I am worried. I can become angry. I can worry. Therefore, I am alive. Like Them. I am alive... Something to focus on later. The small one needs my focus.

Far away, I see lights and more buildings. I scan them from afar, searching for the cross symbol. I see none. I continue down the road, checking the small one again. He's still leaking. This is not good. He needs repairs. I finally enter the area with the lights and buildings, a village. Village: a group of houses and associated buildings, larger than- No, I cannot be distracted. I must find the cross. They can help. That is their purpose.

In my directed thought, I do not notice the large one aiming a weapon at me, until a projectile bounces off the armor on my right shoulder. I quickly spin to face him.

"Put the boy down," the man orders.

I stalled. The small one, the boy, needs help. This large one, this man is trying to stop me. Why is he trying to stop me? I'm not dangerous. I'm trying to help. I didn't do this. I'm not dangerous. Why does he want me put the boy down? He's in critical need of repairs, help. He needs help. I'm angry at the man. Why doesn't he understand? The man screams at me to put the boy down again. What should I do? I don’t notice until too late the procedures and policies doing their work. And I fall asleep.