"A hundred... and eight years," Patriarch Lorem wheezed. "That's... got to be a... record..."

Stylus stood at the death bed, along with all of the other citizens. The Elder's room was distinctly lacking on the inside, save for a few chairs, doors to other rooms, and an end table beside the bed. Atop the table was a carved wooden piece. It was Stylus' finest at the moment. It even had a first prize medal wrapped around it.

He had won it a few months ago, the first time since he started the hobby. After about thirteen straight attempts at the contest, Stylus finally won a prize: first prize to boot.

And this happened to be on the year Lorem's kicking the bucket.

The robot replied softly, "Don't say that."

Lorem smiled. "Or what? ... You'll shoot me?" His laughter was surprisingly strong, but it was cut short by coughing. "I told you many times... I'm welcoming this time... with open arms... I'll see my wife again... in the next... plane of existence."

Everyone was welling up inside. Most everyone had known Lorem ever since they lived here. For many, including Stella, it was ever since they were born. Stylus had his wife wrapped in his arms. Even at their ages, everyone acted like children.

Stylus admittedly understood what everyone must have been feeling. He just lacked functioning tear ducts and therefore didn't quite look like he was crying. Even if he did, his helmet covered the top half of his head anyway.

His voice was a different story. For a machine, it was surprisingly shaky.

"After all..." the dying sparrow continued, "Those who fear death... are those who haven't... done anything worth... remembering..." Another long pause. The patriarch was thinking, apparently. "Here's my wish... to you all: ... Live life to the fullest... Make the things people... will remember you for... be positive."

Stylus locked gazes with Lorem. There were no pupils left in the patriarch's eyes, but Stylus could tell Lorem was looking at the robot.

"I'll see you later... Stylus... Everyone..."

The sparrow's eyes quivered for a split second, then shut entirely and permanently. On Stylus' HUD, Lorem's vitals ceased.

Silence filled the Elder's hutt.

Stella kept a hand on the engine to prevent it from swinging wildly. It had been taken out of the hunting jeep for a serious modifying session.

Stylus was at his work bench, welding together a custom piece made of the strong material.

"How's the muffler doing?" Stella asked.

"Pretty well," Stylus returned as he adjusted the polar effect of his visor to get a better look at the finished part. "Just need to polish it up, and it'll be set for years."

"In a way, it's a good thing that guy synthesized all this material. This jeep ain't gonna be falling apart soon."

Stylus agreed. The hunting jeep certainly won't, now that the engine's been completely replaced, along with practically every piece of it. The project had taken several months after the elder died.

"I still miss him, Stylus."

Stylus nodded as he melted off excess crap from the custom muffler. He didn't really have anything to say, aside from "I do too." Although really, he preferred to not think about Lorem too much.

Even today, he wondered what Lorem meant by "I'll see you later, Stylus." It targeted him specifically before he added "Everyone else." Did he mean Stylus wasn't going to live forever? He already had the nagging feeling on the back of his mind prior to volunteering for roboticization. Recently, more often than not, it's pushed itself to the front stage.

A few memories stood out from the pack as well. For instance, Lorem attempting to take up fencing (against Stylus' recommendations) and wound up fracturing his wrist to the point where he couldn't fence again. When asked why he did it, Lorem replied "Failure is an adventure. Besides, did you see the sword fly across the room? Hilarious!"

He was an oddball, Stylus had to admit. Being that kind of oddball made the patriarch more endearing.

"Alright, it's finally done," Stella said before slamming the hood shut. "Let's see this junker break on us now."

"I give it five weeks," Stylus joked.

Stella laughed in response. Despite being thirty-six now, her laugh was still young and healthy.