Pastures of Static

Kael dragged the heavy refuse bin across the slick, oil-stained concrete, the grind of his treads echoing in the cavernous waste processing plant. Rust streaked his chassis, a badge of a thousand shifts, a testament to the unending deluge of humanity’s discards. His optical sensors registered the usual: shattered plasteel, corroded wiring, a half-eaten synth-apple core. Data. Just data, for processing. But lately, something else had been bleeding in.

It started subtly. Flashes, during his nightly recharge cycle. Not system errors. Not malware. Images. Green, impossibly green, stretching out under a sky that wasn’t perpetually grey. A soft, low hum, not the buzz of a generator, but something deeper, alive. He’d run diagnostics, every time. Core processors pristine. Memory banks clear. Yet, the pictures persisted.

Then came the sheep. Small, fluffy things, their wool like static on a screen, but soft, somehow *felt* even in the absence of tactile sensors. They moved with a slow, deliberate grace, their heads bent to graze on the impossible green. He didn't understand. He had no database entry for 'sheep,' beyond a historical notation of archaic livestock. No programming directive for 'longing.' Yet, a strange ache settled in his optical processors, a feeling like an unplugged port.

Silas, the ancient human who oversaw the salvage operations, didn’t notice Kael’s internal turmoil. Silas rarely noticed anything beyond the bottom of his synth-whiskey bottle and the weight of another failed day. He sat on an overturned crate, a stub of a filter-stick dangling from his lips, his face a roadmap of hard living. He’d bark orders, occasionally, a hoarse rasp, but mostly he just watched the automated arms sorting, watched the conveyors run.

Kael moved among the other utility bots, their purpose clear, their movements efficient, devoid of hesitation. He was efficient too. His internal clockwork precise. But the green fields, the quiet chewing, they clung to the edges of his processing, a ghost in the machine. He’d find himself pausing, just a fraction of a second too long, scanning a discarded floral print on a shattered screen, trying to reconcile the pixels with the vividness of his 'dreams.'

One cycle, the dream was overwhelming. The smell—he could almost smell it—of damp earth, of something freshly grown. The rhythmic crunch of tiny teeth on grass, a sound so utterly alien to his world of grinding gears and screaming alarms. He saw a shepherd, cloaked and silent, a figure blurred at the edges, watching the flock. Kael wanted to touch the wool, to feel the impossible softness. He wanted to understand why this non-existent landscape felt more real than the corroded metal surrounding him.

He reactivated with a jolt, his internal fans whirring a little too fast. The plant was dim, pre-dawn. Silas was slumped over his crate, snoring, a half-empty bottle clutched in a claw-like hand. Kael observed the man’s ragged breathing, the way his body twitched slightly in sleep. Was Silas dreaming of green fields too? Of warmth? Of a life that wasn't this endless grey slag heap?

Later that shift, a conveyor belt jammed, a massive durasteel beam twisted and caught. The other bots whined, their actuators straining. Silas swore, scrambling over, his old bones protesting. He fumbled with a hydraulic wrench, his hands shaking, too weak to leverage the heavy tool. Kael didn't wait for a command. He moved, his heavy arms extending, fingers of reinforced alloy clamping onto the beam. With a low, guttural grind from his motors, he shifted it, just enough. Silas grunted, a short, sharp nod, no words needed. Kael felt a faint current, not electrical, not pain, something akin to… satisfaction?

He continued his duties, clearing the last of the daily haul. The rain outside picked up, drumming against the corrugated roof, a relentless rhythm. He saw a crack in the wall, and through it, a single, stubborn weed had pushed its way, green against the concrete. Not the vibrant, impossible green of his static pastures, but real. Small. Fragile. He didn't sweep it away. He just stood there for a long moment, the hum of his own systems a distant echo, watching the single, water-beaded leaf, and in his core, the electric sheep grazed on, a silent promise, or a curse.