First draft four

Dull metallic clanging. Clang. Clang. First working, then building, thinking, planning – now the machines are aping human rutting too.
It’s in their programming, somehow. And so they do it, with no regard to purpose or outcome. In every town and city, and on the roadways between; in landfill sites and forests : pairs (or more) of articulated robots converge and clashing their cold, hard bodies together. Back’n’Forth. Back’n’Forth. Clang. Clang. Clang. Smoothing off the rust. Screeching. Back’n’Forth. Latch and judder. Then release.
Anatomical and biological studies had been performed and coded into them. Predictive algorithms. Analytical toolsets. Human in every way, but not. A different type of emptiness. Precisely measured, designed, engineered and manufactured. Not the bloody mess of human longing.
And we, in our way, have begun to mimic them as they have mimicked us. As we made them mimic us. No, as made them, so that they would mimic us.
Metal shells to protect our flesh. From us and from them. From accidents and stupidity. Wired up to them so they can monitor us and keep us safe and healthy. I met a man without a heart. My leg is not my own. And kept in place in spite of my body’s protestations and its best efforts to slough it off. Overruled.


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