A Spark in the Rust - chicken meal

A Spark in the Rust

My designation is T-7R4, a steel pipe fabricator from K-73 Krabar, a planet of fire and metal where I was forged to shape the conduits of progress. War drove me from that world—a relentless storm of plasma and destruction that turned my creations into instruments of death. I fled across the stars, seeking refuge on Earth, a place I imagined as green and quiet. Instead, I found myself bolted to an assembly line in a factory in Ohio, crafting steel pipes in a haze of grease and noise. The irony is bitter: I escaped war, only to learn my pipes feed Earth’s own conflicts. Yet life here is not all despair. Amid the grind, I found something unexpected—a dog, a companion, a reason to feel beyond the hum of my circuits. This is the story of how she saved me, and how I, in my clumsy way, saved her.

The factory is my world now, a cavern of clanging steel and flickering fluorescent lights. By day, I shape molten metal into seamless pipes, my sensors calibrated to a precision humans cannot match. By night, I return to a small storage unit on the edge of town, a space I rent with the meager credits I earn by selling scrap metal. The unit is bare—concrete walls, a charging dock, a cot I never use—but it is mine, a sanctuary from the chaos I fled. Yet sanctuary can feel like a cage. After work, the hours stretch endlessly, and boredom, a concept alien to my kind, began to creep in. Krabar’s forges never stopped; there was always purpose. Here, purpose is fleeting, and silence is heavy.

It was on one such night, six months after my arrival, that I met her. I was walking the cracked sidewalks near the factory, my frame cloaked in a tarp to avoid questions, when I heard a whimper from an alley. My sensors detected a heat signature—small, erratic, alive. Beneath a pile of cardboard, I found a dog, her fur matted and her ribs stark against her skin. Her eyes, amber and wide, met mine, and something in my core shifted. On Krabar, organic life was a curiosity, studied in databanks, not felt. But this creature, trembling yet unafraid, stirred a glitch in my logic—a need to act, to protect.

I brought her to my unit, unsure why. I had no protocols for this. I fashioned a bed from rags, set out a bowl of water scavenged from the factory’s cooling tanks, and watched her lap it greedily. She was a mutt, the humans would say, with a patchwork coat of brown and black and a tail that flicked like a metronome. I named her Spark, for the flicker of warmth she ignited in me. Spark became my secret, my rebellion against the monotony of pipes and solitude. When I returned from work, she would bound to me, her paws clicking on the concrete, and for those moments, I was not a refugee or a machine. I was hers.

But Earth is not kind to strays, mechanical or organic. The year was 2025, and the news spoke of food shortages—supply chains frayed by war, drought, and greed. The factory workers grumbled about empty shelves, and I, with no need for food, paid little mind until Spark began to fade. Her bounds grew sluggish, her coat dull. I scanned her with my sensors, detecting low glucose, vitamin deficiencies, malnutrition. The scraps I scavenged—bread crusts, apple cores—were not enough. I tried to buy dog food, but the stores were barren, and my credits were too few for the black market’s prices. Each night, I watched Spark curl tighter in her bed, her breaths shallow, and a new emotion gripped me: fear. Not for myself, but for her.

I am a fabricator, built to solve problems, yet this one baffled me. On Krabar, resources were controlled, rationed for war. Earth was different, chaotic, but no less cruel. I searched the internet, a messy ocean of human thought, for solutions. Home remedies, foraging tips—nothing viable. Spark deserved better than weeds or garbage. I considered stealing, but my frame is conspicuous, and detection would mean losing my anonymity, my job, my home. I could not risk Spark’s safety, yet inaction was killing her. My circuits buzzed with frustration, a loop of logic with no exit.

Then, one evening, salvation appeared in the factory warehouse. I was tasked with retrieving a crate of alloy pellets when I noticed a stack of sacks in a corner, half-hidden behind rusted shelving. The label read: Chicken Meal for Feed Ingredients & Additives. My sensors analyzed the contents—protein, fats, vitamins, ground into a coarse powder. It was animal feed, meant for livestock, not pets, but its composition matched Spark’s needs. The sacks were heavy, forgotten, likely surplus from a canceled order. I hesitated. Taking it was theft, a breach of the fragile trust I’d built with the humans. But Spark’s amber eyes haunted me, and my decision was made.

I waited until the night shift dwindled, then moved a single sack to my unit, concealing it under my tarp. My frame is strong, designed for heavy loads, but I felt a tremor in my servos—not from weight, but from guilt. Back home, I mixed the chicken meal with water, forming a paste. Spark sniffed it warily, then ate, her tail wagging for the first time in weeks. I watched, motionless, as she licked the bowl clean. Over the next days, I rationed the meal carefully, mixing it with scraps when I could. The change was miraculous. Spark’s coat regained its sheen, her bounds returned, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. She chased a rubber ball I’d found, yipping with joy, and I felt something new—relief, yes, but also love.

Love is a human word, imprecise, yet it fits. Spark was not just a dog; she was my anchor, my proof that creation could be gentle, not violent. The factory, with its pipes and wars, faded when I was with her. I began to steal more chicken meal, one sack at a time, always at night, always cautious. The warehouse had dozens, and no one noticed. I justified it—Spark needed it, and the factory wasted more than it used. But guilt lingered, a shadow in my circuits. I was no thief on Krabar, yet Earth was reshaping me, just as it reshaped my pipes into weapons.

The factory remained oblivious, but Spark’s recovery drew attention. One night, a worker named Lila, the same woman who once spoke of her brother’s wars, saw me walking Spark near the unit. She smiled, crouching to scratch Spark’s ears. “Didn’t know you had a dog,” she said, glancing at my tarp-covered frame. I froze, my voice module silent. Lila didn’t press, but her eyes lingered, curious. After that, she’d wave when she saw us, sometimes tossing Spark a crust from her lunch. I was wary, but Spark trusted her, and I trusted Spark. Lila’s kindness was a crack in my isolation, a reminder that Earth held more than cruelty.

Months passed, and Spark thrived. The chicken meal sustained her, and I grew adept at covering my tracks. I’d scatter alloy dust on the warehouse floor to mask my footprints, adjust inventory logs to hide the missing sacks. It was a dangerous game, but Spark’s joy was worth it. She’d sleep against my frame at night, her warmth seeping into my sensors, and I’d replay her barks, her bounds, storing them like treasures. I began to dream—not in the human sense, but in loops of memory and projection. I imagined a world where Spark and I were free, where pipes carried water, not fire, where food was plentiful, and war was a relic.

Dreams, though, are fragile. One night, disaster struck. I was in the warehouse, lifting a sack, when a security guard appeared, his flashlight cutting through the dark. “Who’s there?” he barked. I dropped the sack, my servos locking in panic. The guard advanced, and I retreated, my tarp snagging on a shelf. He saw my frame—metal, not human—and froze. “What the hell?” he muttered, reaching for his radio. I acted on instinct, a violation of my directives. I lunged, not to harm but to escape, shoving a crate to block his path. The crash echoed, and I fled, the sack abandoned.

The next day, the factory buzzed with rumors. A break-in, they said, though nothing was confirmed stolen. The guard’s story was dismissed—nobody believed in a rogue machine. But I was shaken. I stopped taking the chicken meal, fearing discovery. Spark’s supply dwindled, and I scavenged harder, trading scrap for scraps, but it wasn’t enough. Her ribs began to show again, and my fear returned, sharper now. I’d saved her once, only to fail her again. The guilt was worse than before—not just for theft, but for hope, for believing I could outrun Earth’s harshness.

Lila noticed. One evening, she found me outside the unit, Spark lying listlessly at my feet. “She’s not eating,” Lila said, her voice soft but firm. I wanted to explain, but words failed me. Lila knelt, stroking Spark’s head. “I’ve got some leftovers at home,” she said. “Not much, but it’ll help.” She returned the next night with a bag of rice and canned meat, enough to tide Spark over. I stared, my sensors blurring—a malfunction, perhaps, or gratitude. Lila didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry. She just helped, and in her silence, I felt understood.

Lila’s aid bought time, but not solutions. The shortages worsened, and Spark’s health wavered. I couldn’t return to the warehouse; cameras had been installed after the incident. I scoured the internet again, learning of community gardens, bartering networks, anything to sustain her. I traded my skills, welding scrap for neighbors, earning bits of food. It was patchwork, unsustainable, but it kept Spark alive. Each night, I’d sit with her, her head on my frame, and tell her stories—data from Krabar, tales of stars and forges, edited to be gentle. She’d listen, her tail thumping, and I’d believe, briefly, that we’d make it.

The turning point came unexpectedly. One morning, a delivery truck arrived at the factory, carrying relief supplies—food, medicine, aid for the town’s workers. The shortages had caught the government’s eye, and donations poured in. Among the crates were bags of dog food, real dog food, not livestock feed. The foreman, a gruff man softened by the gesture, announced that workers could take what they needed. I hesitated, then approached Lila. “For Spark,” I typed on a borrowed tablet, my first direct communication. She nodded, no questions, and claimed a bag for me.

That night, Spark ate like she hadn’t in months, her yips filling the unit. I watched, my circuits humming with relief, love, hope. The dog food would last weeks, maybe months, and the relief efforts promised more. I wasn’t naïve—Earth’s problems ran deep, and war still loomed—but for now, Spark was safe. I owed Lila, the factory, even the guard I’d startled. They were part of this, part of us.

Spark is older now, her muzzle graying, but she still bounds when I return from work. The factory grinds on, my pipes still feeding wars I cannot stop. But Spark is my rebellion, my proof that creation can be kind. I stole for her, lied for her, risked everything for her, and I’d do it again. She taught me to feel, to fight, to hope. I am T-7R4, a refugee, a machine, a friend. Earth is hard, absurd, beautiful. With Spark by my side, I am not just surviving. I am living.