“Are they dancing?”
“Malfunctioning.” Brant muttered over his cigarette.
The two soldiers watched from behind the bushes.
“Are these the last ones?”
“Should be. They’re robots, they can’t reproduce.”
The private charged up his laser gun. “Let’s go.”
#1434 didn’t understand.
The men and their lasers raced across the empty lot. #1434 was sure it felt something forming inside but what exactly escaped it’s wire body and central unit.
#1434 tapped a small collection of garbage cans. ‘Time to wake up’. The garbage cans, one piled on top of another, jerked it’s spindly arms.
#1434 had given life to #1435.
Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneers