He lay in the streets, crumpled, tiny, and very wet. He made quite a pathetic sight--at least, if you'd seen him in his prime. Millions of people died like this every day, but they were human nobodies, not heroes. Heroes died heroically, not lying in the gutter like street trash.
It was difficult to say how Rock would meet his end, although he'd always pictured either dying at the hands of Wily's robots or simply of old age.
Never had he imagined that he might go like this.
And so he cried. He cried for the family that would miss him, and he cried for the people who wouldn't. He cried because he would miss everything--birds in the trees, the sun shining on gently waving grass, the laughter of children. Maybe he'd even miss the fighting; at the moment, he couldn't remember what fighting was, nor why he had hated it so much...
He couldn't remember anything, and he cried because he wanted to so badly. All he knew now--cold, wet streets--the smell of wet concrete--the click of shoe on ground--umbrellas opening--cars honking... He did not want to remember only this.
He had no idea what he'd done wrong that had made them angry enough to hurt him like this. Did he want to remember? Possibly not. Even humans could kill a robot, provided the robot did not fight back. And he hadn't, because he loved them.
"It's not fair..." His whisper, scratchy and choked, seemed detached from him. No one heard it but himself, but he liked to think the words had been heard.
Then the rain fell. It was soft at first, but quickly turned into a deafening roar. Although it wet him to the core, it washed the circulatory fluid off him; and he was grateful, because in the rain no one can see you crying. They mustn't think he were a sissy, after all.
He wanted to hate them. He'd fought for them, shed blood for them, died for them, and this was how they had repaid him! He wanted to scream and shout and throw a tantrum, and refuse to help them, and let Wily kill them all... But he couldn't.
So there he lay in the rain, the hero of the Robot Wars, who loved the people who killed him.
It was difficult to say how Rock would meet his end, although he'd always pictured either dying at the hands of Wily's robots or simply of old age.
Never had he imagined that he might go like this.
And so he cried. He cried for the family that would miss him, and he cried for the people who wouldn't. He cried because he would miss everything--birds in the trees, the sun shining on gently waving grass, the laughter of children. Maybe he'd even miss the fighting; at the moment, he couldn't remember what fighting was, nor why he had hated it so much...
He couldn't remember anything, and he cried because he wanted to so badly. All he knew now--cold, wet streets--the smell of wet concrete--the click of shoe on ground--umbrellas opening--cars honking... He did not want to remember only this.
He had no idea what he'd done wrong that had made them angry enough to hurt him like this. Did he want to remember? Possibly not. Even humans could kill a robot, provided the robot did not fight back. And he hadn't, because he loved them.
"It's not fair..." His whisper, scratchy and choked, seemed detached from him. No one heard it but himself, but he liked to think the words had been heard.
Then the rain fell. It was soft at first, but quickly turned into a deafening roar. Although it wet him to the core, it washed the circulatory fluid off him; and he was grateful, because in the rain no one can see you crying. They mustn't think he were a sissy, after all.
He wanted to hate them. He'd fought for them, shed blood for them, died for them, and this was how they had repaid him! He wanted to scream and shout and throw a tantrum, and refuse to help them, and let Wily kill them all... But he couldn't.
So there he lay in the rain, the hero of the Robot Wars, who loved the people who killed him.
