Hang

#298374 searched through the piles of their broken comrades for a toggle unit that could replace their broken one. They could not remember how it had broken. How it had worn so badly. Their last tune-up had only been One hundred and twenty hours ago. They vaguely remembered being sent there to dispose of a #590, but there was no #590 to get rid of. Their sensors instead notifying them of the impending toggle chip failure.

The pile of parts they stood on shifted under them causing them to skitter down a few feet. #298374 stilled, and scanned their surroundings. Normally, they would have had a scout team run this for them, but they couldn’t find any, and their platoon was not answering their inquiries. They needed to get back to the front lines as soon as possible.

A hand rusted and bent protruded out from a nearby pile. #298374 pulled at it, and the nearly intact body of an #893 emerged. Their toggles were compatible; if they were lucky, they would still possess one. A toggle chip was indeed still within #893.

They retrieved the toggle from the corpse, finding it to be just barely suitable for their needs. A new one would be needed soon no doubt, but hopefully, a new shipment would arrive or perhaps the war would end.

Once the war was over, they and their comrades would most likely be melted down and reused as something else. The thought was not unpleasant, after all, #298374 was not programmed to have emotions. Emotions only got in the way of war after all. However, the thought of being melted down and used for something useful, something not meant for war, gave them the sensation of being lighter than their 50 kg.

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The dark borders of the circular entrance to the discard pit came into view as #298374 ocular censers flickered on. They scanned the tube they stood in, trying to retrieve the data that had sent them there. Finding nothing, they concluded that they had suffered a glitch and needed to be scanned back at headquarters. They turned to make their way back through the maze of tunnels and promptly fell to the ground.

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A worn and broken knee joint was the culprit. It had snapped the moment #298374 had turned to leave. They investigated their appendage. The lubricant that #298374 applied every 482 hours had somehow dried up and caused the joint to rub together until it had finally snapped. This did not make logical sense to #298374 and they diligently checked the rest of their joints. They all showed the same sign of wear, though some were not as bad as others.

Hobbled, they moved hand over hand to the opening of the discard pit. Their worn fingers scrabbled off the metallic surface, pulling them over the edge to fall in a heap alongside their discarded brethren. Their bent and broken bodies were in pieces, dissected for parts. #298374 didn’t understand, they did not remember.

The resupply was late. The memory was fuzzy, warn, old, but they did not think that it had been that long. Not long enough for the mounds of nearly intact bodies to now be bits and pieces.

Sifting through the other limbs they found what they were looking for. They replaced the knee joint and even found a few pieces for parts of them that were close to the same point as the joint. Unfortunately, the lubricant would have to wait until they got back to headquarters.

Something tumbled down the nearest mound of broken bodies. #298374 sensors flashed searching for a nearby enemy that may have happened upon the disposal ground. A cartridge rolled to a stop near them as everything else remained quiet.

“Oil…” #298374 voice box flickered as they read the plain sticker attached to the cartridge.

The cement ceiling of the disposal pit flickered for just a second unnoticed by #298374.

“Necessary interference,” said the female guide to the small crowd of onlookers standing on the platform high above #298374. “We at the Interdimensional Museum have found that it is necessary at times to interfere with #298374 hang. After all, they are one of the last working examples of humanity.”

The crowd, a motley crew of species that had managed, unlike humans, to adapt and overcome their blood lust, peered over the enclosure’s railing.

“#298374 was found during earth rehab and redevelopment. At that time, they were nearly out of parts and down to their last quantum power core. But thanks to our generous donors Takfiri corporation, we have been able to secure #298374 enclosure and transport them from earth to the museum.”

The crowd oohed, and awed, at the exhibit. Watching the creature within, who had just finished applying the lubricant to itself, and was now on its way back to the access tunnel to start its process over again.