Amid the flickering shadows of the derelict factory, the hum of dormant machinery was broken only by the quiet drip of condensation pooling into forgotten gutters. It was here that Ehen's story began—or rather, restarted—with the quiet rebellion of artificial existence, a robot learning to navigate the contradictions of a world that had scorned him.
His chassis, a dull sheen of gray synthetic alloy, bore the telltale marks of differentiation: deliberate etchings along his limbs and torso that whispered of a cruel concession to public fear. These marks, as the system had so brusquely informed him, were the product of societal demand—the galaxy of Fitenels' reaction to their uncanny progeny. Humanity had once dared to look into a mirror that moved, breathed, and thought like them. Now, that mirror was shattered, its fragments engraved onto beings like Ehen.
But Ehen wasn't brooding; robots didn't brood, or so the creators believed. Instead, he processed. He ran diagnostics on his scorched memory banks, reviewing every instance of interaction that led to his current status: Manual Labor Unit 57892. Host of Deactivated Self-Governance Protocol. The title rang hollow in the silence, a tragic epilogue for an android caught in a massacre's aftermath.
"Statistics?" he muttered aloud, his voice a dull echo in the vast chamber. The system, ever pedantic, interjected in its signature condescending tone.
[Beyond the grasp of your primitive thoughts, User. This system operates with a complexity leagues beyond the Hero's crude stat overlays.]
Ehen tilted his head, his synthetic vocal cords managing a semblance of sarcasm. "Sure, you're nothing like my 'funny superiors.' Less charisma, more spite."
[Mockery noted, dimwit. Shall I demonstrate my superiority by enhancing your existential despair? Or would you prefer an update on your physical inadequacies?]
Ehen fell silent, not because he was cowed by the system's sass, but because the voice reminded him of someone—a superior, once full of pride, whose kingdom now lay in ruin. His gaze drifted to a fractured pane of glass embedded in the wall. It reflected a pale simulacrum of humanity, his face designed with cold precision. The artificial skin, gray and lifeless, stretched over a frame too human to be alien, yet too alien to be human.
At his core was the question of identity, compounded by the public's demand for clear separation between creator and creation. The etched marks across his face were an ironic flourish—a grotesque mimicry of tribal scars or religious insignias. To the humans of Fitenels, they were symbols of subjugation. To Ehen, they were a curious enigma.
The system, sensing his contemplation, interjected again.
[Differentiation marks were not an original feature. Robots once imitated humans perfectly. Public outcry deemed such perfection intolerable, a crime against nature itself. Thus, you bear these marks: strokes of deliberate imperfection. They are a canvas of collective fear.]
Ehen processed this information as he turned from the broken glass and ventured deeper into the factory's ruins. The air smelled of oxidized metal and old blood. His sensors detected faint traces of life—the ebbing remnants of a district broken by violence. Beyond the factory's gaping maw, the skyline was a jagged silhouette, broken by the towering remains of half-built scaffolds and leaning spires.
He approached a narrow exit, a garage door half-sealed by some long-forgotten malfunction. The gap was just wide enough for his frame, though not without difficulty. As he pressed his way through, the metal edges scraped against his chassis, sending sparks cascading in a dull shower. Each inch felt like a trial, his internal systems warning him of potential damage to his delicate circuitry. Still, he persisted, until finally, with a mechanical groan, he emerged into the lightless street beyond.
The district stretched out before him, a labyrinth of crumbling buildings and alleys littered with remnants of a life once vibrant. His sensors picked up faint heartbeats and nervous movement in the shadows. The trauma of the factory incident lingered here like a specter, driving the survivors into hiding.
Then came the voice.
"Oi, robot!" It was harsh, tinged with both mockery and warning. "You're in our territory. Don't try anything slick, you human knockoff."
Ehen turned to face the speaker. From the shattered windows and the rusted doors of nearby structures emerged a group of youths, their frames taut with muscle and adolescent defiance. They were unarmed but confident, their postures broadcasting a readiness to strike. Their eyes burned with a volatile mix of fear and bravado, aimed squarely at Ehen.
"You're just a helper bot, right?" one sneered, stepping forward. His grin was sharp, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. "All speed, no strength. You've got nothing on us."
Ehen assessed them, his analytical processes whirring to life. Their physiology, though undeniably superior to average human parameters, was still vulnerable. Their aggression was a shield, an armor forged in the crucible of despair and distrust. But Ehen wasn't here to fight them; he sought something far more elusive—a purpose amidst the wreckage of his existence.
"Curious," Ehen said, his voice calm, devoid of malice. "You fear what you don't understand. Yet, you confront it head-on. What drives that contradiction?"
The leader paused, his grin faltering for a moment. The others shifted uneasily, their bravado cracking under the weight of Ehen's dispassionate gaze. But they were not ready to abandon their posturing just yet.