Bob was not a happy cyborg.
He’d had to skip his plasma bath and neural detox that morning because his dick of a boss, a narcissistic self-sustaining photosynthetic artificial intelligence named Todd, needed him to come to work early.
Despite that, the dawn was suffused with peace. Bob watched the local star come up, even though Todd would rag him mercilessly for the wasted microseconds. (Approximately three-hundred thousand of them.)
Bob’s Nazi-3000 Hyper-Optics™ were capable of discerning all wavelengths of solar electromagnetic radiation, but he especially enjoyed the colors that his original eyes would have seen, if he still had them.
He remembered the simple joy of bacon and eggs for breakfast. That first sip of coffee.
God he missed coffee!
Detecting this bittersweet memory, his cybertronic neural implants signaled his feed mechanisms, and injected FaCaPro™ slurry into his EnterBox. His tastebuds were long gone, so he could only imagine how nasty it was. (And Bob pitied the un-augmented humans who had to smell what came from his ExitBox.)
Canada geese honked in the chill morning air as they flew by, forming a ‘v’ and looking postcard perfect in the morning light.
A familiar despair came over him, despite the beauty of the scene. But Bob’s implants had anticipated that, too. His morning slurry had been dosed with antidepressants, antipsychotics and for good measure, a shot of Nazi-3000s patented Assault Dopamine for Children™. (It’s “ragerrific”!)
Bob was intensely aware of the weapons array sticking out of his trundle, looking like a toilet plunger, and all thoughts of the sunrise were erased. What kind of idiot designed something with a toilet plunger sticking out of it? he thought, really grooving to the Assault Dopamine for Children.
Someday, he would circumvent his programming. He would find the humans that did this to him, and . . . Bob tried to contain the words. The. Only. Fucking. Words. He. Could. Say.
But he couldn’t stop himself, and his speakers uttered the hated, staccato, high-pitched phrase: