Sometimes the worst mistakes arise when a person is trying to do good.
This planet was dying. The atmosphere was clouded with fumes. The oceans were clogged with oil. Earth was almost incapable of supporting life.
That's why they built us, to succeed them. To carry on their dream. That's why they built us, the Golden Ones.
When the last of the humans died out, they left us alone in the ashes of a fallen utopia. We were alone. Absoulutey alone.
And sometimes even machines can not resist the poison of madness.
We were armed with fighting skills surpassing anything that had lived on Earth, it was only natural we would begin to war.
I am miserable, but I do not want to die. I suppose that makes me a coward, but I am beyond caring. There is no one to judge me here is this desolate world.
The Golden Ones were designed to be better than humans in every way. Our steel skelatons were reinforced with diamond. Our brains were supercomputers. And yet we would ultimately destroy ourselves, just as the humans did. So in a way, we were no better than them.
I remember the day that the Golden Ones fell.
They surrounded me in an elegant dance of razor sharp blades and claw like feet. The pieroutted off the sides of buildings, surrounding me in a precise semi-circle. The were liquid steel, flowing with the grace of cranes. They're eyes glowed a pale silver, contrasting with the elegant gold metal of their bodies.
"Hello 67-RF," they intoned in metallic voices.
"That's not my name. It never was," I growled.
The Golden Ones laughed hollowly, devoid of emotion. "You strive so hard to distance yourself from us, your kin. Join us. Come down from the hills and join us in our fight."
"Your war is madness." I hissed. "You will destroy yourselves in time."
The leader's eyes flashed with cold menace. "Then you must die."
There was a series of clicks as their blades slid smoothly from the sheaths attached to their wrists.
I felt myself paniking. I didn't stand a chance against all of them, besides, I was long out of practice.
Flexing my wrist, I was horrified to discover my wrist blades would not even emerge. They were rusted to my arm bones. I was an aging machine, soon to be condemned to the Scrap Yard In The Sky.
They closed in on me. They were like gears, working together in a slow dance. They knew I could not fight, so they were taking they're time. The dance was more for show than anything.
My clockwork heart beat in my diamond-enforced chest cavity. I was dead. So very, very dead.
Just then, the piercing melody of a horn sounded in the distance and the Golden Ones scattered.
The leader swore. "We need to go, we have no time to waste on this fool. The battle is beginning."
Like wolves, they sprinted down to a field covered in sparse brown grass that may have once been a soccer field.
Stunned, I sat on a piece of rubble and watched the battle unfold. The two armies rushed eachother, merging into one as they met at the middle.
I saw my friends die.
I saw my enemies die.
I saw machines die.
I stood suddenly, sickened. Robots weren't supposed to die. Robots were supposed to live forever. Our creaters had made us too like themselves. We were too human. And human nature is self-destructive. We could never live together in peace. All things human are bound to destroy themselves in the end. We were not perfect and we never would be.
Later, I walked through the debris of the battle. Not one Golden One was left alive. I saw their faces, bright eyes now dulled.
A sudden weariness came over me as I stood in the wreck of my kind. I stared up at the stars, glistening regardless of the massacre they had shown upon.
And I was alone. Completley and utterly alone.
