He was grown to perform menial tasks. To scrub tile and stone, to polish metalwork, to serve meals, to mow lawns. His brain had been custom designed to allow for little free thought and no introspection, consumed entirely with his duties that he had been Born Whole knowing.

He was slender, with brown skin, bald, hairless below the eyebrows. His features were designed to be pleasing to view without being attractive, to allow him to blend into his surroundings but be easily visible for anyone looking for him.

He also had a short 'shelf-life' of only two decades.

After all, a menial could be easily replaced.

He worked at the estate of one of the uber-rich. The family he served wanted for nothing, even in these days of fear and concern. The Extinction Agenda Attack had left more than three quarters of Earth's land masses uninhabitable, although the Americans and Russians were making inroads on destroying the crazed vegetation and maddened wildlife through sheer stubborness and the application of firepower.

Not that he knew this. He was dull-witted, uninterested in such things as what was shown in the Tri-Vee, what the news organizations had to say, or even rumors and discussions. His short term memory was limited and for something to enter his long term memory required a custom device that would use flashing lights from the end of a pen to move the command to long term memory instead of just vanishing into the haze of his short term memory.

He was in the sub-level of the massive opulent mansion when it happened. He was cleaning, as was his purpose, changing the filters on the water tanks to scrape away the acidic algae, when it happened.

The ground heaved, the walls shook, the lights flickered, and the electronics squealed. The rumbles when on and on, but he paid it no more attention than he needed to in order to keep his balance and keep working on the filters.

When he was done he attempted to use the servant's elevator so that he could mow the lawns, only to find that the power was still out. He didn't frown, he wasn't capable of frustration or expressions like that, he was only capable of performing his duties.

After a few moments he went and tried the service stairs.

He found them blocked by rubble.

He stood there for a long moment, unsure what to do. He reached up and pressed the button on his servant's insignia to alert his supervisor that he was in need of instruction.

There was no answer.

He waited a period of time, his sense of time passing was one that was developed in order to allow him to undertake tasks at certain times and for certain lengths of time.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

He began feeling discontent, unable to complete his tasks, when each attempt to contact an overseer went unanswered.

Still, he knew what he could do.

He could clear the stairwell.

Without anything beyond a vague sense of purpose, he began clearing the stairwell, stacking the rocks by size and type and pausing to sweep the floor to keep it tidy. Several times he slept, on the ground, for four to five hours, and went back to work. There was a nutri-paste dispenser on the level and he ate at the allotted time, for his allotted amount, and drank when he needed to.

He didn't know how long it took him to clear the stairs, but felt a sense of satisfaction of a job well done when he finally managed to open a space large enough for him to leave the stairwell. He had been moving rubble beyond the stairs, taking time to fashion the smaller rubble into stairs.

After all, a job worth doing was worth doing well.

When he exited the rubble he looked around and felt as close to anxiety as he could.

The bushes were burnt away. The manicured lawns were nothing but blasted ash. The manor he had cared for all of his life was smashed rubble. It was raining gritty ashy snow that coated everything. He looked up and saw nothing but heavy clouds, but he did not know that what he was seeing was different.

It took him some time to find the worker's shed. He was lucky enough to find a few tools, and he set to work.

After a time he had the fertilizer mixed into the barren ashy soil and cuttings of expensive and beautiful plant beginning to bud.

For rest he would return to the basement. He would drink, eat, sleep, eliminate waste, and return to his duties.

The manor had a few spots that were still intact. Part of a staircase, which he spent time cleaning and restoring. Two walls on a corner that he scrubbed, a segment of a wall here and there, even managing to remove the shadows that looked slightly like people from one wall. He cleaned and polished linoleum, even with the pitting in the vinyl that the fallout created. He cleaned the vehicle repeatedly after removing the rubble from it, even scrubbing on the rust that slowly appeared.

One day things changed.

He awoke and left the basement to check on the gardens he had slowly grown and tended to find a man made entirely of streaming and swirling lights and runes standing with a large man who's body was grafted with mechanical parts.

They were strangers.

"I am sorry. This is private property. Show your invitation or leave, otherwise I will be forced to summon security," he told them.

"Look at this poor sad bastard, My Lord," the half-mechanical man said. "It's been three years and he's still doing the menial labor he was grown for," the half-mechanical man reached down and pulled a gun from a compartment in his leg. "I'll put him out of his misery."

He just stared at the gun was leveled at his face. He felt no fear, his brain unable to process the emotion.

"Stay thy hand, Phillip," the swirling mass of light said, reaching out one hand. The hand of light pushed the pistol down. "He is the most least of all of us, made in humanity's image without humanity's grace. Pity this poor creature, Phillip, and stay thy hand."

The figure's eyes blazed for a moment, lighting crackled around the pistol and up and down the arm, but then faded. The half-mechanical man sighed and put the pistol away, the compartment closing and making his leg look seemless.

"As you wish, My Lord," the figure said.

"Come here, my child," the figure of light said.

He moved up slowly, feeling a stirring of uncomfortableness.

"Kneel down, child," the being of light said.

He knelt down, and the hand of light touched his brow.

"Arise, Vat-Grown Luke, and join me in the healing of our people," The Digital Omnimessiah commanded.