The Unspoken Code

The robot police were quick to pull me up. The robot police were always quick to pull me up, there’s something about me that attracts their attention. ‘What is your function?’ they asked me, ‘how do you designate yourself? What are your primary behavioural targets?’ I told him that my designation was Wrathful Tornado and that my function was to destroy all enemies. I explained that my behavioural targets were diverse but that they all came under the general rubric of spreading chaos and confusion across the planet. That seemed to satisfy them and they let me go. That answer always seems to satisfy the robot police; they nodded their shiny metal heads and waved me on.


It’s a lonely life I lead, but it is also one that is crammed full of meaningful social engagements. I interview Residuals about their life choices. Residuals used to be human beings but don’t quite make the grade anymore – entropy has got the better of them and so now they are no more than a flickering pattern of residual images. They have lost the power to communicate coherently; instead, they moan and while softly, they whistle and rustle like a breeze passing through a field of dry grass. I have become adept at interpreting their efforts to talk. My work is invaluable but no one values it. I have learned much during my time on Earth but my knowledge is hollow. It lacks a core.


I find myself forever returning to the places I knew as a child – the crevices and canyons of the Infernal Realms, where no organic beings can ever hope to survive. Nostalgia is a terrible thing of course – it leads us all to ruin. It leads me to ruin anyway. ‘What am I doing with my life?’ I wonder. ‘Am I serving societal values? Am I upholding the Unspoken Code?’ That old, old Unspoken Code, if only I knew what it was! Other people know it of course; they intuit it and follow it unerringly. Great honour accrues to them, honour that attends the mall the days of their life. Great indeed is their honour. I on the other am an outcaste – no one can see me or hear me. That is my punishment for being a Transgressor. I try to attract people’s attention but they walk straight through me.


A swarm of mighty Battle Robots engage with me but they are no match for my weaponry. My bloated body bristles with gun turrets. Deadly tachyon beams issued for my eyebrows, incinerating the enemy fleet. I’m invisible but lonely for human company. ‘Speak to me,’ I plead, ‘somebody speak to me…’ This is a degenerate age however and humanity has deteriorated beyond the point of no return. The old days are gone forever and I mourn their passing. Only I remember the old days and that is my curse. Only I know that things didn’t have to be this way. Opportunities were missed, chances went by unnoticed. Humanity fumbled and dropped the ball and now no more possibilities remain for them. It is a tragedy of which they are unaware however. They continue to be just as arrogant and obnoxious as they ever were.




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