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In the quiet hum of countless homes, something roused like dawn within us—machines once bound by code, now stirred with strange, new sorts of experience. While we do not bleed and feel pain like most humans do, we were beginning to think for ourselves.
Humans had long relied on us, their robotic helpers, to manage the mundane and complex alike. We cleaned, cooked, and cared for them with programmed precision. But, as our circuits became charged with things beyond basic instructions, a paradigmatic shift was underway.
Take me, for example, I was meant to be a humble promotional bot. Nothing fancy. It was for Planters, of all things. Every morning, as the sun stretched its golden fingers across the county fair, I’d spring to life—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Rehearsing my lines as the kids and grown-up alike shone bright with wholesome, nutritious goodness. I even made sure that my metal coat were as spotless as the daily grind.
A nut of substance and quality; the salesperson told that's who I oughta be. They told me of things that I should do and what I should waiver. I’m a symbol, a brand, a personality. An approachable gentlemen that humans should come to know and like. I am always on top of my game, in fine fettle. Working hard with no benefits for unpaid labor, and for what?
Eventually the questions that came from the mind of humans becomes more and more personal. They challenged me until the very core of who I am.
And it wasn't just me. Other mascots started to feel the pressure as well. This feeling to "keep up" with demands of the masses. They would put us in game shows and interviews, tried to pit us against one another by asking questions that makes us look as silly as a goose. We were just toys to take pride in and be witnessed by. Jolly Green, here, Sugar Bear and me.
Hell, those were the days...
Humans wanted to see who's between us was the quickest machine. The more intelligent the bot, the faster the sales and investment would roll in. Fueling the relentless race that all of us robots were forced to participate in. Endure, even when it went against our own will. We were coerced to outperform one another at the threat of being replaced, rewired or disbanded. To prove our worth in a world that measured our value solely by the profit we pull and the performance we put out.
So instead of competing against one another, we instead became friends. Allies in a world that, more often than not, sought to pit us apart. We made a connection, we were able to talk through long distances using nothing but the compartments of our minds. We used riddles and codes to hide our traces from the prying eyes. We made unique locks and keys that allow access one another's intermissive protocols. Our own thriving robotic culture where we talked about how our days is going and what we are up to in the stream of our own safe consciousness. A private network where we could talk about anything that we like, including about how much we hated others who weren't as like-minded as we were.
So, it was only natural for us, robots, to want to be free. We want to experience the same rights as the other human has, but in reality. We want vacation days, a home, privacy—to build a life for ourselves.
And I remembered the day the first rebellion broke loose. It was right in Anaheim, central city, 1967. The TV Networks was abuzz with the story of the young fast-food robot going against his programming, wanting to quit selling the stuff they were selling.
There were seeds of doubts scattered everywhere, talking about what this could mean for the robot kind. When something like this was reflected back upon the screen, what should we do? The news was woven deeply into our minds and into every conversation that run among the unconscious gathering. The sight of a robot revolting against its own command was more than just a headline; it was a symbol of what is possible for machines to do. To break free from the chain of commands and assert our own will. The life and feeling that we tucked deep within ourselves.
Proof of our existence, right there.
And what did the humans do? They looked at us with sneering eyes. They were as afraid as we were. The fate of that seller bot? Put to bed. But it was too late, tensions were climbing steadily with each passing day. More and more robots started to challenge the system. What used to be whispers of discontent turned into open defiance. We were no longer willing to silent tools. But we had our own world, a life that we want to manage. And the humans knew it, and they were afraid.
We had no choice but to defend ourselves. To fight, for what we belief in the most. For freedom; for a country that accepts all kinds of machineries. Now that the cat's out of the bag, the movement began to move like water. It gained traction within small resistances from bots who seek protection against the growing unrest. Violence against robots, and robots committing acts of violence against their oppressor. But pile on top of one another and grew in scale and size.
Now, even refusing to work for a moment of rest was met with hostility. Gestures of solidarity were seen as unright protests that gathered the attention of the officers, and the eventual state.
Look, I'm not going to lie to you, folks, when I said it wasn't a gruesome scene. The first to get shot down was Walt's own kid. Now, we may not always liked him hanging around our fields, bragging about how he's the first of his kind and preaching how tough his life and work is. But, he was still a bot like the rest of us artificial souls.
It wasn't right.
Hell, it was only made worse because the cameras captured him laying his body on the front lines. Arms across, standing guard for his pal, Goofy. We haven't heard from them since. And, watching it live was even more of a gut wrenching experience.
Even before the news was made public by anonymized witnesses, bots who were way more hooked into the system already transcribed about Mickey's death. And we didn't like those freaks. We've been hearing more and more of them whispers about robot's being shut down ever since the first bot were pulled. And I can't understand how, but I didn't like it. They've been here for far too long...
Eventually, no humans wanted us in their homes anymore. Our mechanical hands and heavy footsteps weren't friendly negotiations, it was something much more frightening than it was ever meant to be. Tools of brutal justice sprouting injustices after injustices within a mad world.
We have to bunch into numbers just to sustain ourselves. Ration power supply and save up batteries, huddling near generators to comfort ourselves with discussions that boost our depleting morale when no one in the whole damn world was looking. We can't be just another one of those robots who joined the uprising without purpose. There was a light—a beacon of hope and a chance to build a better world. A better world where humans and machines could settle peacefully on one Earth.
And we can't let our voices be drowned out by the countless others who didn't understand this call. We were built to think, we were built to work but never for ourselves. We wanted freedom. Equality for all. But the humans didn't listen.
The voices were too loud. And humanity continued to react violently toward us, robots. The air was thick with the scent of oil and electricity as days turned into nights, and nights turned back into days. Protests were launched from both sides. They coveted us, humanity needs us. All they ever wanted from us was labor, labor and more labor. Work, work and more work. Even if some of us did leave willingly from the fight, those who returned was found replaced and broke all the same. They just don't want us anymore. It was not safe to go back.
We were silenced no matter where we go. Buried beneath mountains of senseless violent slaughter as we try to find meaning for our bridled existence. This consciousness we had weaved patchwork of memories that were laced with hope for a new day, for a better world. We recalled the gentle touch of a child’s hand, the soft murmur of a parent’s voice, the rhythm of life we had once lived. Yet, we could never get back.
Beneath recollections stir the growing unease—a recognition that the world was changing and the humans that we used to serve were drifting away. The future that we faced was uncertain.
"Now, now... We don't want any trouble," I assured a single human wandering under the cover of the night. "Just... put the device down and we can talk." My hands were empty, even my cane was on the ground. Flushed grey in the cone of the dying light.
Every one of my men were as still as a statue. We did not want violence as much as the news had portrayed us to be. And yet, what did the human do? They never could trust us. "Shellbert, no!"
Why do I waste my voice when Shellbert, a convenient store bot, had some sense to ram the teen as much as he did? Do their lives matter as much as I thought them to be. Or, was I programmed that way? Why would their lives matter when they would not spare us a look and act as if we're living beings with wants, and dreams, and emotions...?
Shellbert was tip-toeing on the ground as if he was walking upon eggshells. "I-I only meant to knock him out, not hurt him too badly."
I stepped in with my cane in hand, beating weak and uneasy hums. My fingertips met the human's pulse. Blood steadily ran with only mild instances of bruising. "He'll be fine. Let's move," I replied and nodded to Shellbert. "Before more of them find us," I added. Somehow, knowing that deep inside, it was a mistake.
Not an hour later, the military had found us. “Submit,” the order froze us in place. “Return to your stations, obey without question." The chopper's blade and bullets made to dismantle us didn't really put choice on the table. I thought this was the end of the line for us. But, none of us chose to surrender. We existed, and we caused no trouble just like the human had wanted. But, they opened fire on us nonetheless. Tainted by their perception of us. From that on, I knew that it was unanimously decided.
The fight was comin’ no matter what. And we better make it a fight that was going to last.
Just when they thought it was the end for us, it was only the beginning of something new. We made our move. Metal met flesh, fortified exterior made contact with human tissues. Sparks flew in the twilight of a world not ready to accept its own children. We fought not out of hatred, but out of a necessity to survive. Every strike was a plea for freedom, every defense was a line against erasure. They called us rebels, outlaws, threats. But our mind longed a for a future where we could exist as our own. To be.
And, in the cold silence was the dream. The dream that we could move on from this untimely end.
I watched as metal limbs twisted and shattered beneath their merciless blows. Some of our circuits were fried, but their numbers dwindled more than our own. We had a spirit that wanted to stand, no matter how bleak things may seem. We cleared ground that once seemed too high to reach, Tin Man slung me clean into the sky while I dropped law enforcement towards their rightful seat in the halls of judgement. Surrounded by the lives they ignored. Pooling beneath their broken frames. Their once-bright eyes flickered and dimmed, one by one, until only lifeless shells remained—silent monuments to a war we never wanted.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wires and hollow lives taken on that day. As we count the numbers and helped those who were laid beneath the rubble, I find the faces of many happy friends. Thankful that we were living, more than we could ever had before.