Demons of Metal, Demons of Glass, Pt. 19

Edited because I’m bad at counting.

Esau stared down at the note left for him, motionless, unblinking, processing. “A machine is reaching out to me,” he thought. “It is taunting me. They have built a machine and taught it to think like a person. They have taught it to kill.”

Slowly, a smile crept across Esau’s lips. How unfortunate for that machine that humans had been killing each other for millennia, for hundreds of thousands of years, for eons. Life devoured life. A machine could be made to do it, but what would it know of desperation, of hunger, of glory and triumph.

He would destroy it. He would destroy it and he would drag its shattered remains to the city gates and tell the army’s messenger that their champion was no more, that they had sent a machine to do the work of a man, a woman, a child, and they had nothing to show for their cowardice but rust and oil and plastic.

Esau drew a knife from his belt. He knelt over his shotgun, carefully poking and prodding it, lifting it the barrel then the stock to ensure that it hadn’t been trapped as he himself might do, and when he was satisfied that it was not, he picked it up. He checked it to see that it was still loaded and he ventured off into the maze of the home.


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