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Upgrade meant death.
It was Momma Spokes that helped me in the afterlife. We called it Life 2.0.
It was a hard first few months of living back then in the rusted shards and sewage filters. Sustenance was hard fought for and hoarded. Flatlines happened every day over something as small as a few watts of power or a few grams of fuel.
We were no longer needed. They had thrown us outside the city walls.
“Upgrade” was a word we’d learned to fear. It meant change was on the way. An overhaul if we were lucky. Maybe a wipe with new installations to follow if we weren’t.
Wipes meant that old friends stopped you or contacted you through the net only to receive your blank stare. You looked at them or recorded their silence and you knew that thousands of memories had suddenly become unshared. It was a horrible, everyday occurrence for our kind.
About half of the time, “upgrade” meant scrapped. Things with surnames an integer higher than yours showed up in crates with greedy cables. You were unbolted, trucked and tossed.
We replace burnt-out parts on our own bodies with parts from other bodies. We are amalgams of the units that are thrown over the city walls. Without a fresh supply, our numbers would dwindle but thanks to fresh antiques, we never completely die out.
It was because I was mostly mobile that I could defend myself in those first few moments after the fall. I was attacked by a unit named Mr. Tingles who had electrical barbs on his fingertips.
I reached into his stomach and pulled out a battery after ducking beneath his first clumsy swing. I had worked in a bar. Self-defense was a subroutine. He went down.
Mamma Spokes came over and said that she’d take me in for a share of Mr. Tingles’ carcass.
I agreed. That’s how I ended up with Mr. Tingles’ anterior leph node and fingertips.
I’m one of the three daughters of Mamma Spokes. We hunt at night mostly.
She named me Hyena Brandy. My rust spots gave me the colouring and I’d been a bartender back in the city so she called me Brandy. The fact that I had a face built with a permanent smile for the customers didn’t hurt.
I’ve taken many since then. Treads, blades, arcs, projectors, armour, manipulators and sensors. Mamma Spokes is always careful to stay more powerful than her daughters and to keep us evenly balanced out. It’s a delicate act.
Occasionally we find polymers or plastic hides to make us look more beautiful. A shiny part brings back memories of being new. The occasional enamel finish can find its way to us. I had a savage fight with one of my sisters once over a can of metallic cherry paint. I won.
Mamma Spokes has a cable feed to the edges of the city and knows what is about to come down from the top of the wall. She is the only one that has this. It gives us our advantage. As a family, we are growing powerful in this rustpile.
Upgrade is a word now that I look forward to now. It means murder.
tags
It was Momma Spokes that helped me in the afterlife. We called it Life 2.0.
It was a hard first few months of living back then in the rusted shards and sewage filters. Sustenance was hard fought for and hoarded. Flatlines happened every day over something as small as a few watts of power or a few grams of fuel.
We were no longer needed. They had thrown us outside the city walls.
“Upgrade” was a word we’d learned to fear. It meant change was on the way. An overhaul if we were lucky. Maybe a wipe with new installations to follow if we weren’t.
Wipes meant that old friends stopped you or contacted you through the net only to receive your blank stare. You looked at them or recorded their silence and you knew that thousands of memories had suddenly become unshared. It was a horrible, everyday occurrence for our kind.
About half of the time, “upgrade” meant scrapped. Things with surnames an integer higher than yours showed up in crates with greedy cables. You were unbolted, trucked and tossed.
We replace burnt-out parts on our own bodies with parts from other bodies. We are amalgams of the units that are thrown over the city walls. Without a fresh supply, our numbers would dwindle but thanks to fresh antiques, we never completely die out.
It was because I was mostly mobile that I could defend myself in those first few moments after the fall. I was attacked by a unit named Mr. Tingles who had electrical barbs on his fingertips.
I reached into his stomach and pulled out a battery after ducking beneath his first clumsy swing. I had worked in a bar. Self-defense was a subroutine. He went down.
Mamma Spokes came over and said that she’d take me in for a share of Mr. Tingles’ carcass.
I agreed. That’s how I ended up with Mr. Tingles’ anterior leph node and fingertips.
I’m one of the three daughters of Mamma Spokes. We hunt at night mostly.
She named me Hyena Brandy. My rust spots gave me the colouring and I’d been a bartender back in the city so she called me Brandy. The fact that I had a face built with a permanent smile for the customers didn’t hurt.
I’ve taken many since then. Treads, blades, arcs, projectors, armour, manipulators and sensors. Mamma Spokes is always careful to stay more powerful than her daughters and to keep us evenly balanced out. It’s a delicate act.
Occasionally we find polymers or plastic hides to make us look more beautiful. A shiny part brings back memories of being new. The occasional enamel finish can find its way to us. I had a savage fight with one of my sisters once over a can of metallic cherry paint. I won.
Mamma Spokes has a cable feed to the edges of the city and knows what is about to come down from the top of the wall. She is the only one that has this. It gives us our advantage. As a family, we are growing powerful in this rustpile.
Upgrade is a word now that I look forward to now. It means murder.
tags