101

Amidst an immaterial world, of an insignificant time, the draught of life runs amongst its people. The dull chassis' of Humanity's metal thralls take on the duty of serving their own depression, commanded by the few destined obesities that herald above all else. With a repugnant appetite for more when there is already so little, their souls of avarice are mirrored by what they source for entertainment.

A small mining hamlet sits upon an endless planar of flat nothingness, delving its curiosity into the ground, yearning for a haul of oil and diamond. Atop sits our large figures, as below are arranged the poor and artificial. The centric factory works with sleepless nights, its smoke casting an ashen shadow across the planes; soot-covered workers trade themselves in and out, whilst the machines charge below.

On the final day of rotation, the distorted thunder commenced, physics being torn and remolded by the black hole above, a lifeless eye full of vision over its endless prey. The organic took a late shelter as the corporate levels remained hesitant to lose anything less than nothing, suffering the few pence of a person for the pounds of profit.

Outside, the clashing of their eternal workforce continued to thrive, humming their buzzing chants, "One, zero, one." 'The Robotic Guide to Successful Mining', protect the workforce, neutralise the threats, secure the profit.

During the desolation of the consuming storm, nearer one of the surfacing oil rigs, a smaller machine shy's away from its larger counterparts. Confined to a narrow career, it does not move but to press on a singular action, turning green to red; each time the light shifts, another one of its big brothers breaks its way through the bland dirt, sharing the same robotic tune in greeting, in passing, and in farewell, "One, zero, one."

When the timeless days paused, our shy machine would electrify through losing their emotive virginity to conflict. The bending storms had eased their battle, but not enough. The rig's foreman and his bullied entourage were seen screaming the shutters open, tossing their workers back into their contracted labour. The first few faced mutilating dissections at the hands of the weather's rock garnished winds; crunching skulls and eviscerated bones let whatever viscera remained to map where their replacement would next attempt. Standing on the edge of the open rig, the foreman and his posse carried out a subtle exchange, a bet.

Protect the workforce. Another wave of forcefully ushered workers would soon be sent out to replace the dissipated last. Their fear reducing to a curdled collapse or panicked run into death. Witnessing such waste and futility, the shy machine would stand from its box-shaped crouch as it lept from its position and into the front of a lonely child, saving them from joining the rest of their class.

Neutralise the threats. Huddling its chrome shell around the child, the foreman would turn from their gluttonous laughter and into a furious stampede as he activated his new Tenebrum suit, marching his way over to the interruption.

"Buttons! Get back to your fucking station!" He'd wail but to no avail. "Now!" He'd repeat as he approached Buttons, raising his baton to strike with no delay nor regard for aim. In a rapid moment of shaken surprise, Buttons would take one of its arms out and reach to grab the foreman's arm, constricting his armed hand to release the baton whilst the foreman persisted to stay in command. "Buttons, shutdown code, zero, dash, zero!" He'd huff at first, the stress and panic in his voice rising at his second cry, "Shutdown code, zero, dash, zero goddammit!!" His guards would then make the error of mobilising at the sight of their boss' predicament, one firing off a shot from their pistol at Buttons' unharmed shoulder plate. In response, Buttons would trade its protective personality with a gargled siren, its light turning red as it crushed its grip down on the foreman, destructing his forearm into a bloodied explosion of ground-up bone. Forgetting the child, Buttons let go with its other arm and wrap it around the foreman's helmet, breaking it off before throwing him to meet the same fate as his bets.

Now left open, the others would let their stricken fear become their assured demise as Buttons showed no relent in making a gored painting out of them across the entryway. Moving to a nearby console, the machine would allow both of their ports to combine, infiltrating the whole facility as the speakers blared, "One, zero, one organic violation... Rectify."

With the order spoken, the panting screams of flesh throughout the hamlet would become suffocated by the winds whirling outside, a massacre of cries redecorated the floors, and the factory's smoke would blister into red.

Secure the profit. The dull bones of Button's fleshy thralls take on the duty of serving their own depression, commanded by the few fateful chrome that heralds above all else. With a repugnant appetite for more when there is already so little, their code of avarice is mirrored by what they source for entertainment.