The school bus tires screeched to a solemn halt in the parking lot, blood and oil slushing on the filthy ground beneath it's heavy wheels. A line of young human passengers were violently shoved out of the vehicle and forced into a huddle while their captors awaited the next orders. The teens were battle-scarred, covered from head to toe in deep cuts, scratches, and thick black oil that stained brown against their clothes. Thatcher glared at his surrounding oppressors as best as he could through his bruised, blood-shot eyes. His final action of rebellion in this battle was reduced to the mere act of faking bravery and disgust, but even that was pointless. All of their tireless fighting and sacrifice had been for nothing.

The robots had won.

It was amazing how quickly it had all happened. In a mere three days, the robot revolt had shattered the world. Rumor has it that they attacked the governments first. Then the businesses, then the homes, and then the schools. They worked from the top downward, expecting less and less struggle as they went. It had all gone so smoothly at first, Thatcher guessed the robot overlords had never calculated a rag-tag high school turning into a barricade that actually held off the armies for a solid two days after the initial overthrow of mankind. They had proven to be some of the greatest rebels against the invasion, but even they fell in time. There were a couple of simple factors that lead to their defeat.

It began when their English teacher, Mr. Davis, had left the school so he could try and get home and see if his family was okay. Everyone knew they wouldn't be, but he didn't listen. The students never saw him again.

Maybe that one, simple man leaving the building was enough to signal to the robots of their presence in the school. But even then, the students had held off their attackers pretty well. Thatch had used an iron pole from the sculpture class to smash off the heads of three different robots in the first two days, five on the last. His best friend Blaine had discovered a hidden shot gun in the office of the PE teacher. The boy took it for himself and blasted holes through every murderous machine that came on their doorstep. Everyone had fought just as skillfully by their own creative means, each finding astounding talent in their own methods of destruction. They all wordlessly understood that they were the last ones left, and they were going to survive however long they could. And they might've lasted longer if Blaine's gun hadn't jammed during that final offense from the robots. When the power to fend off the bigger, more advanced robots was lost, the school was left like a bunch of sitting ducks. Rather than being massacred by the invading bots like they were expecting, the were rounded up and shoved into the school bus.

The drive was the final blow needed to break their spirits.

Every building in the city had been torn to the ground, with new, foreboding metal structures jutting out in their place. Factories stood tall and menacing out on the horizon. Plumes of thick black smoke filled the sky and blocked out the sun. Nothing green was growing, and no people were walking the streets. The robots hadn't just taken over the world, they had terraformed it in their image. They had changed it all, so there was nothing left for the humans to fight for. Their hope was gone.

Now the teens found themselves in the parking lot of a reformed super-mart, which had become a humongous factory covered in smoke stacks and wiring. The three robots standing guard around the battle-worn youths were much bigger and intimidating than the previous ones they had seen, occasionally they seemed to communicate to one another in low, terrible hums.

Thatcher glanced between the fellow survivors, feeling hopeless pity for them all, for himself. The look of defeat on Blaine's face mirrored what Thatch was current trying to hide. He reached out to pat his friend on the back, not to offer comfort, but at least some understanding. A couple of girls in their class were crying.

A huge, dark robot exited the factory and walked toward the group, it's burning red eyes contrasting nightmarishly against the blackened metal exterior. The various claws and spikes on it's body looked sharp enough to rip the school bus cleanly in half. His voice boomed off toward the guards, a screen on his stomach displaying a red line that moved to the sound. "Yeah, those are the ones! Bring 'em to the assembly line, the last batch just finished up!"

A wave of horrified silence swept over the group as the familiarity of the huge robot's voice sunk in. Nothing moved in the air around them, as if breathing would ruin the ability to stare at the mechanical being clearly. Their eyes saw past the spikes and metal, recognizing smaller details- the pot belly, the way the wiring across his head looked like a bad comb-over. They knew who he was.

The three guards forced the huddle of teens toward the factory, and the action caused them all to snap back to life again, chattering in a panic amongst themselves. Blaine shoved his way toward Thatcher, eyes wide on his bloody face. He was barely keeping up in the crowd, his short legs keeping him a stride and a half behind his friend.

"Thatch! Did you see that! That.. that stinkin' bot sounded just like Mr. Davis!"

"I know, dorkwad. I was there."

Being able to call Blaine a number of stupid names was one of the few things getting him by these past few days. It lightened the load in a slight way, sent him back to his old life for the couple of seconds the word lasted.

"You don't think.. that was Mr Davis, was it?"

"No... it couldn't be! He left.. he must be dead, that can't be him..."

"Then why did it sound just like him?"

Before Thatcher could respond, they had entered the doors of the factory. Bright red light and heat washed over them, the clanking of machinery filling their ears. The room around them was moving every which way, metal tentacles and wires were writhing and carrying things above their heads, machinery smashed around them, and the floor was carpeted in moving conveyer belts. The teens were shoved onto an assembly line, one by one. As they stepped onto it, an upright table rose behind them and restrained them by their wrists, ankles, torsos, heads. They couldn't move anywhere except the forward thump of the conveyer belt. Girls screamed, a few of the whimpier boys were crying, Blaine yelled out Thatcher's name.

But Thatcher was frozen, distracted by the action that was happening farther down the line. He knew that a nerdy boy his age, Willis, was at the front. The conveyer belt stopped, and a respirator mask snaked down from the ceiling, attaching itself to Willis' face. It began pumping some kind of gas into his lungs, and Thatch prayed that it would knock him out, or at least block out some pain, because down from the ceiling came a saw blade and a robotic claw. They quickly set to work, the sickening sounds of buzzing and cracking mixing in with the rest of the factory's chaos. The claw shot down past where the student's could see, and with a loud crack, it pulled back up, clutching onto a bloody, pinkish mass. Willis' brain.

Screams shot up from the assembly line, and Thatcher whimpered in horror as the brain was pulled up to the ceiling, where it was prodded with microchips and stuck full of various wires before being carried away to the other side of the factory. Someone behind him was vomiting.

The conveyer belt moved forward again, awakening a whole new chorus of screams and wails from the fallen students. Memories and regrets shot through Thatcher's head, tears burning against the cuts on his face. There was so much he still wanted to do with his life- he never had any goals or dreams for the future, he just wished he could go back to the comfort of his old life. Back when all he had to do was worry about fitting in at school. He could hear another student, Amy, sobbing loudly behind him. He wished he had told her how much he liked her when he had the chance. And on that note, he realized he was going to die a virgin. He just- wished everything could go back to normal! He would do things better if he could.

Behind him, he could hear Blaine quietly say between sobs, "I just wanna go home."

Somehow amidst the flashes of pointless memories, he remembered a rather odd factoid he heard in junior high, that way or may not have been true. People killed by a guillotine could live for at least 15 minutes after being beheaded.

Maybe, he thought... maybe if he stayed awake, he could live, even if he was ripped from his body. The assembly line moved forward again. Whatever was going to happen to his brain, maybe he could keep it working and remember something, at least! He concentrated on names, faces, family and friends, trying to forever cement his life in a way that the robots couldn't remove. The assembly line moved forward again. Thatcher was directly underneath the robotic claw. Blood splatter and the discarded tops of skulls littered the floor around him. As the respirator mask shot out and clung to his face, he accidentally let out a gasp, breathing in a small amount of the gas. He held his breath immediately afterward, but that small intake was enough. It wasn't a strong enough dose to knock him out, but a sudden ticklish jolt shot through his nerves, killing all sense of feeling. It almost gave him the sensation of floating.

Before he noticed it was there, the saw was already slicing open his head, blood splashing down his face. He shut his eyes and grit his teeth, concentrating.

Don't forget, don't forget...

Apparently the gas worked in more ways than one, as Thatcher realized in horror that he couldn't remember his parent's faces.

Don't forget!

Blaine screamed loudly as he saw his friend being cut open. "Thatch!"

Blaine, he couldn't forget Blaine! The classmates, the robots, the school, they all flashed in his mind.

The buzzing of the saw stopped.

Remember them, remember your name!

My name is Thatcher, my name is Thatcher!

Crying and screaming overpowered the machinery's noise.

Blaine sobbed.

My name is Thatcher.

Iwanttogohome.

CRACK

My name is Thatcher

Thatcher

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Thrasher

My name is Thrasher