#Bootheels of the Mecha

[victorlincolnpine]

Bootheels of the Mecha, p1

(This is sort of a fanfiction of a game called A Robot Named Fight. I implore you to play the game, it's awesome. Basically a Metroid style rougelike that genuinely feels like Metroid in gameplay)

A solitary humanoid hunched over a crackling campfire, deep in a damp cave. Around them sit smaller humanoids, children with huge eyes long since adapted to the dimness of a world underground staring at the larger humanoid with rapt attention as they began to tell them a tale that they must be told, for such is how history is preserved.

We Mole Men don't remember who fired the first shot, but we know it was the Mechas that were the ones that declared war. They were itching to do it, all fascists do, and they were made by fascists for fascist's greed and fascist's wars.

As the storyteller spoke, they brought out a stick of dirty chalk and began to scrawl images on the walls. They drew bulky mechanical humanoids with huge weapons trained on molemen with smaller weapons aimed right back at them. Above the molemen they drew a double helix, and above the machines, they drew a menacing cross with hooked spokes.

They were designed to kill, and all it took was an excuse for them to kill us. And they did so with cruel efficiency. Machine guns, horrifying gas that melted flesh, and countless furnaces to slaughter us and burn the remains so their precious shiny armor wouldn't be dirtied by our lifeblood. Even their foul-hearted creators were not spared the bootheel of the Mechas.

They then drew a scene where dozens of molemen lay dead beneath more machine humanoids. Behind the machines stood imposing maws of metal and fire. Molemen bodies thrown inside to be turned to ash.

When the furnaces finally cooled, there were so very few of us left. Our distant, distant ancestors took refuge in these caves, where the Mechas could not find them. There they survived, as we survive now.

A new scene was drawn. A few dozen molemen hiding under a mountain. Some with missing legs and missing eyes. All of them with harrowed expressions on their faces. The double helix was drawn above the mountain.

The Mechas, thinking we were gone, turned their attention to shiny things. They changed the surface. Erasing its shapes and replacing them with towers as shiny and vain as their armor. The surface glows with their greed, and each of those lights are like a bat that will screech the instant it spots a speck of life in their sickly pristine world, which their guns and fire will erase as quickly as it is caught.

Next to the mountain was drawn an angular mountain of metal and lights. Hundreds of Mechas stood upright, many with shiny armor and grasped onto gemstones and mirrors and other things of a vain and shallow nature. At the lower edges were a few molemen being burned to a crisp by automated turrets. The hooked cross burned above this metal mountain.

After finishing this drawing, the storyteller held their chest for a moment, a look of pain on their face. They coughed a sickly cough, but eventually continued after they caught their breath. To stay alive, we must always hide. The caves are Sanctuary for us. You must remember this, children. They pointed a wrinkled finger to all of the children. If any one of you are caught, you are as good as dead.

The children appeared frightened at the story and especially the ominous declaration from their elder. But one child finally spoke up to ask a question.

Deda, what's a fascist? They asked, innocently enough. The storyteller coughed again and answered as honestly as they could: A monster, child, and a sickness. It's a horrible thing that demands a hand to strike their neighbor, and it builds things like the Mecha to kill what it hates, and it hates everything.

But... why does it hate everything?

The storyteller paused at this before answering: It needs no reason why. It just does. It is hate, child. Hate crystalized.

Are all the Mecha fascists, Deda?

If there were any that are not, they were erased just like everything else it hates, but since the Mechas were made by fascists, I doubt any were ever made that were not themselves fascist.

Ok, Deda. The child seemed satisfied by the answer, but the storyteller knew this child will ask other questions. Probably to her own demise. They hoped not, for the question askers were always the smart ones, if a little reckless.

Can we have dinner now, Deda? Asked another child, prompting a laugh from the storyteller. They looked up the drawing so far and sighed. They were finished with the story yet.

Yes, we can have dinner now. They said to cheers from the children.

As the storyteller and the children sat around the fire eating cooked cave fish, the storyteller looked up at the drawing, especially at the hooked cross. They hated that symbol and wished they didn't have to draw that horrible thing, but they knew that the children needed to hear the story. Just as they were told by their own elder when they were a child themselves.

But they have a long while before their lungs will give out yet, so the story can wait till later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

High up in the gleaming reaches of metal and light, a lower-order Mecha waited on other Mechas of higher status than he. Holding a plate of memory cells for a slender machine with golden armor bedazzled in gemstones each worth more than he would ever make in his entire functioning lifetime, he stood silently as the gilded Mecha spoke with other similarly wealthy Mechas about boring things: money, galas, talks with politicians and celebrities. Rich people stuff. But eventually, the gilded Mecha started talking about something interesting for once.

I hear that the presidents are starting to get into the lunatic fringe again. Said the gilded one. They're talking about gods and magic and like and how they could ascend or something. Complete insanity, and their idiotic followers lap it all up as if magic is real. Politicians have lost their minds, I swear.

The waiter snickered at this. Finally, the rich fuckers say something relatable. This prompted a vicious sneer from all the gem bedecked Mechas within earshot. How dare a lowly waiter make any sort of noise where they could hear it? The atmosphere in the room became instantly hostile as every eye trained on him in venemous judgement.

Keep quiet if you want to keep your position, cog. The gilded one hissed at him. He winced at the slur, but he said nothing, not even to apologize. The rich would see him scrapped and turned into a doorframe if they wanted it. The wealthy Mechas took his silence as an acceptable sign of submission, and continued their idle chatter.

The waiter stood stock still for the next few hours until his shift had the grace to finally be over so he could clock out and go home.

He made his through the metal streets, multicolored lights shining all around him; reflecting off his chrome finish as he reached a doorway to a tower just as tall as its neighbors. He placed his palm on the security lock and it lit up green as a hologram on the door displayed the words {WELCOME HOME, SERVER-8}.

He didn't read the words as the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss to a metallic lobby with no decorations to speak of. He had enough today, and took the elevator to his apartment without speaking a word to the receptionist.

Up in his apartment, he slumped on the seat with an unsightly clang, lazily plugged a charger cell into his leg and turned on the TV.

The stuff on the screen was just as uninteresting as whatever those rich fuckers talk about in between ads for stuff he could never afford. At least the TV wouldn't want to fucking murder him if he said anything though.

He flipped through the channels to find something he could just zone out to. He ended up on the newsfeed again.

The anchor on the feed today was Bucket Cromeson, a nasal toned Mecha with a gaudy crest on his dome of a head and a carefully polished faceplate, and he was giving a scathing talk about Mechas he called Glitches.

Why are we not allowed to question these insidious Mechas with their aberrant and dangerous ideologies? They are infecting our newly built citizens with disgusting and harmful Cultural Bioapologist rhetoric every chance they can find. Telling lies that threaten our free and fair republic without a single ounce of retribution or even a single fair debate from concerned citizens, and let me tell you, as a concerned citizen, I would debate them if they could be reasoned with.

He held his chest in a show of fake honesty as he said that last part, prompting Waiter8 to roll his eyes. Who honestly falls for this shit, anyways? He turned off the TV cause it was giving him a headache.

The charger cell beeped. It was out of juice already. Cheap ass thing. He unplugged and went to his charging room for the night.

As he plugged in, he hissed out a mechanical sigh. Why the fuck do I bother with this shit? He muttered aloud. He wasn't even asking a question at this point, just whining.

He pressed a button on the charger and instantly went into sleep mode so he could have the energy for another day waiting tables for rich fuckers.