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Herm grunted, prepared to be momentarily blinded by the sun as his visor rose. It never came. Instead, it was dark, like he’d been left in the shade. His sensors sharpened. Keats had draped his body over Herm’s and— oh, that idiot thought he died, didn’t he?
He never listens.
“Get off , you big baby,” Herman nudged his cheek. “I’m up and running.”
Keats ignored him, arms around his four-foot model’s neck, foreheads pressed together.
“Oh, it’s gonna be like that, then?” He asked to no response. He sighed. “You’re such a dick . I’m sorry for scaring you, babycakes, now please get up.”
He didn’t even twitch.
Did he fucking fall asleep? Was the battle over? Did they make it back to the EX? How long was Herm in low-power mode?
He remembered— he remembered Keats begging him not to go, he remembered Keats calling Herm his best friend, he remembered Keats confessing his love — romantic love — and the sounds of the battle ringing out around them.
Love on the battlefield. His circuits thrummed.
Pushing Keats’ face with both of his arms, he wiggled himself out from the enclave of his 4ft model’s face.
Bodies, all robotic, littered the battlefield, but what really caught his attention was that there were no Scentre drones left standing.
He grinned, “hah! We won, baby! She did it!” He zapped Keats — a little on accident, a little on purpose.
He did not move.
His smile dropped. “Keats.” He scanned his human for injuries, not finding anything obvious. “Keats, this isn’t funny, man. Wake up, you dick.”
Oh shit, oh fuck.
“Help!” He shouted, cursing his small voice.
The others up and about couldn’t hear him, even with his speakers at full blast. They were too far away, picking through the dead.
“Shit, shit, no, ” Herm grabbed ahold of his chin the best he could and shook him. “Keats, Keats, wake up, you fucking asshole. Don’t you go all fucking Romeo on me.”
His head lolled to the side.
Herm froze and his eyes widened.
With Keats face tilted away from him, the back of his head was fully visible and it was.. it was..
Herm doubled over, pressing a hand to his bigger model for stability. Herm’s never been ill, a perk of being a robot and not having a stomach. Nausea hit him like a bullet train regardless.
Keats hair had melted to the crown of his scalp, singed and still smoldering. Blood trickled through his hair, from invisible lacerations and peeling skin.
“Keats,” he choked. Violent tremors wracked his body. “Who fucking—?” He reluctantly tore his gaze away, scanning the battlefield. Not far away, maybe ten feet at the furthest, laid a powered down drone, gun still in hand. His thermal sensors showed that it was still warm.
He missed them by a hair's breadth.
He could’ve saved him.
His body lagged, an overload of information flooding his senses. “Oh God .”
He couldn’t say how long he stood there, staring at the visible sliver of Keats pale face.
Reaching forward, Herm gently tilted his head so he could not see the injury. He looked soft like this, too quiet, too peaceful.
Keats isn’t quiet.
Keats isn’t peaceful.
Keats is an obnoxious asshole who managed to infuriate Herm just by being in the room.
But, Keats is also — was also — his best friend. He was always there, and no matter how many times Keats needed Herm to save him, Keats was the one who saved him in the end.
His misty blue eyes stared blankly at the sky.
Herm shuffled forward. Clambering up his shirt, careful not to rip the fabric — it was a limited edition band t-shirt, Keats had boasted four months ago, shortly after he’d found it — he tucked himself in the hollow of Keats’ throat. If he were a weaker bot, he’d have been crushed by the deadweight of Keats head pressing down on him, but he was not, so he curled up and waited.
From his position under Keats' vest collar, he could just barely see Michelle and P.C. emerge from the Scentre building, no Chris to be seen. He turned away, pushing his face into Keats’ rapidly cooling skin.
“Has anyone seen Keats?” Michelle shouted across the battlefield. “Herm?”
He could hear the moment she found them, Keats curled protectively around Herm’s 4ft model.
Herm shimmied beneath his collar.
“Oh my God, Keats ,” she gasped, hands shooting to her mouth. Her eyes shifted. “Herm!” She fell to her knees and crawled closer, chin wobbling, “no, no, you can’t be dead. Please ."
Herman didn’t answer.
I’m here , he wanted to scream. I’m here, you’re not alone .
But he didn’t say that. Instead, he drew back further beneath Keats’ collar. It was going to be easier on them like this, with him gone. There wouldn’t be anything for him at Blue Sky anyways. There might have been, if Keats were alive, but he’s not and the thought of helping Michelle rebuild Blue Sky Acres made him sick.
What was the point of constructing something if Keats wasn’t there to complain over the colours or to argue with him over whether the floor plan should be open concept or not?
What was the point of doing anything without Keats?
He knew he was co-dependent. They both were. But how could he not be? From the moment Herman found Keats crying and injured on that battlefield, he knew this little human man would be the death of him. He knew from that first moment they locked eyes that Keats was everything .
In the end, Herman didn’t blame them for not taking Keats’ body with them. They needed to run before the authorities got there and detained them all, even if just for trespassing and destruction of property, after the exposing of Ethan Skate.
Herm soon found himself the only living thing on that battlefield. Although “living” might’ve been a bit of a stretch.
Herm didn’t move, not when their friends had packed up and left, not when the sky darkened, not when the sky opened up and began to rain, not when the authorities came and the clean up crew disposed of the various body parts the next day.
He did not move when pairs of hands maneuvered Keats — and Herm’s 4-footer, unable to separate the man’s post mortem grip — onto a gurney.
Personally, Herm didn’t know a lot about the morgue and humans after death, but he didn’t think the clean up crew were supposed to toss Keats’ body into the scrap metal pile like he was another common object.
He wanted to shout, to scream at them that this was a human being, this person was alive , that he deserved respect.
He didn’t say any of that.
Yellow flashed in the corner of his vision.
He ignored it.
—
It’s rained four separate times since being dumped in the junk piles days ago.
Nothing has moved since they'd been left there. No one came back, zero people, zero bots. Even the birds must have sensed something off about the junkyard because nothing flew overhead.
Something clattered behind him. He raised his head with a stalling screech. Chris, as the Kid Cosmo bot, stumbled through the piles with a dog lapping at his heels.
Herman thought he might have been angry — how could Chris live but not Keats? — but there was nothing there, no spark to fuel that thought. It was a simple observation.
Chris didn’t notice him, didn’t notice Keats, nor Herm's several sized models laying about.
Herm’s hands creaked and groaned as he closed them around Keats lapel, beginning to rust at the joints after days spent immobile.
Disorientated, Chris made his way through the heaping metal and ducked behind a pile, out of sight.
He was glad he survived. Now Michelle wouldn’t be completely without family.
As the sun set behind the clouds, a low battery symbol flashed in the lower quadrant of his darkened screen. He had only minutes left.
And in these final moments, something small and white flaked in front of his eyes, drifting softly past his vision.
Herman swivelled his head, glancing at the sky. Grey clouds covered the sky, just as they had since Keats died.
Snow flurries sprinkled the air, falling around them, covering everything in a light dusting.
“I don't have much time left,” he whispered softly through the hoarseness of his disused vocal box, pressing his forehead against Keats’ bloated throat. “My battery is low, Keats, and it’s getting dark.”
His low-battery symbol greyed itself out.
He thought about religion, and about souls, and about the transference of energy and how energy cannot be destroyed.
He offered one last smile, “I’ll see you on the other side, big guy.”
His vision flickered, and went out.