• Inspire Stories #2: Thief
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    He hadn’t meant to steal it. It had just been sitting there in the alley, quiet, neglected by the adult units busy rubbing their fleshskins together in the kitchen of one house, the unit in another zoned in to the pictures on the glowing box. It looked so sad, sitting there in its basket, so he picked it up, oblivious to the sign tacked onto its basket. Then, of course, the Officers came, their flashlights, like sabers, jabbing into the shadows, lurking around for rogue machines on the loose. They terrified him. He’d heard what happened to free machines. He didn’t want to be found.

    So he took it and ran, as fast as he could, which, considering his massive limbs, wasn’t exactly what one could even call fast, but he was determined to bring It and himself to safety. He moaned as the lights came nearer, the voices closer, the It opened its eyes and began to howl. It was so loud for such a tiny thing! Its little fleshy face was so pink, its skin so soft, though he’d never know; his metal finger-stubs could not feel. But they’d said he could not love, and yet, he loved the little It very much. He made a metallic shwooshing sound, holding a fat cylinder to Its face, and it smiled toothlessly, grabbing on and quieting quickly. If he had no heart, how was it that he felt so wonderful, so high, so fantastic?



    The trash cans broke his fall.

    The Officers came rounding the corner, flashlights in hand, shouting in various tongues he could not understand. They were angry, that much he knew by the way they glared and spit at him, and when one suddenly kicked him and shouted. The action seemed to rally the others, who joined in, until It started to cry again. His now-dented arms cradled It against his chest in a small cavity formed by the curvature of his limbs.

    The Officers stopped hurting him and tried to pry It from his arms. It cried harder, and he felt sad to hear it. When one of the Officers drew a gun, though, he got up.

    He held It in one arm, and swung the other around through the Officers. They flew back, and It began to quiet. He smiled a metallic smile, and walked over the bodies—for that is all they were, now—and into the street. Walking felt strange, for much of him was bent out of shape after the onslaught of the feet. He limped down the street, unaware of the eyes following him from the windows, fingers flashing over buttons on telephones, calling more Officers. One house, though, held no judging eyes, only a scared woman and a jealous brother.

    She flew out the door and to the robot, about to scream, about to break the machine that took her baby, but when she came up to him, and he tilted his head just so, she smiled.

    He held It out to her, and she smiled. She kissed Its forehead, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked at him, but not like the Officers did. She laughed once, shuddery, and touched his arm.

    “We can fix that. Come on.” She led him to her house, up the steps, and a feeling filled him. It was something he’d never quite experienced before, something wonderful, a pressure in the metallic cavern of his chest. He had a home. He was finally accepted.



    The next morning, the papers reported the tragic story of a family slaughtered, torn to shreds, a child missing. It told of a mysterious, hulking figure walking away in the night, cradling something in its arms.


    He hadn’t meant to steal it.