ZB-713 Turned around the corner to pick up a battle unit marked for recycling, just to find out that it was his one time superior MT-29. Suddenly it was no longer a routine task. He was designated to escort him to the recycle station and take back his ID tags and release papers. He was on such a mission few times before, when obsolete units were put out of service for good, but this was something else. He found this one quite difficult. This was somebody he knew for so long, it was his friend. Knowing MT-29 only too well; there was no doubt that the old soldier would fulfill his last task with the same sense of duty and honor as he always did.

Now ZB-713 was sturdily built killing Machine, and sure as hell, they never bothered to enhance his artificial brain with emotions but he did feel somewhat strange in this situation. He knew as well as MT-29 knew that this is a road without return. One way street for the marked one.

But MT-29 was not obsolete, or was he? He could give them years of faithful service yet. This must be some kind of mistake. He checked his instruction again but there was no mistake at least not one that he could notice. Browsing through his orders again, he found the exact serial number of his friend. How come they put me on this task? Why should I be the one to escort him to eternity? His friend looked as if he could read his mind.

“It’s time. Let’s go. I don’t want to keep you longer than it is needed.”

“Yes, sir!”

ZB-713 was ashamed by his friend strength at that moment. What does it really make him feel like? It must be hard for him just as it is for me, maybe even harder. Yet he retained his military composure. They walked in a silence, side by side as if they were ordered to take a trash can and dump it over the edge. Then they took a ride to the recycling plant. Automatic doors opened and closed behind them.

When they were in the long hallway leading to the check-in point; MT-29 turned and looked at the coke Vending Machine.

“Next time you and I meet, I’ll be a fridge or one of these.”

That was the last thing he said to ZB-713.

ZB-713 stood by, watching as the giant mechanical hand dismantled and ripped apart his friend. They punctured his hydraulic cylinders, draining liquids, before throwing metal on the assembly line, to take it away. They took batteries out of his body and put them on the rack for further testing. Robotic hands were ripping smaller parts and sorting them out, while the large parts traveled along the line to the giant press that finally squashed his friend body into a small metal cubicle. When it was all over the man at the counter filled in the papers and gave him back his friend ID tags.

He turned away uncertain how it all made him feel. It was his duty, and he had no choice. What would his friend tell him if he was here?

“Carry on soldier!”

That’s what he would tell him. He moved on squeezing ID tag in his hand, but at the moment he was passing by the vending machine, he made a quick stop. Who knows, maybe that one was a soldier too, once upon a time? And now he sits here, lonely and forgotten. ZB-713 turns toward the machine and says:

“Hello, buddy! How are you doing? It’s nice to meet you.”