Class Act
Another evening on the streets.
Doing something so absurd.
The operative hated their work suit. It was heavy, stifling and hot inside the rubbery garb. It did not matter what the exterior temperature was like, or even where the wearer happened to be; the exterminator’s suit was just an uncomfortable burden on the body.
There was a chance that much of this discomfort was derived from distaste for the labor, though. Resentfully, the student found that he was alone in harboring these thoughts. Resentfully, they had to accept that the others were content participants in this damage control campaign. They were fine with racking up the numbers, so that the numbers in their accounts would keep going up.
The operative wished they could do the same. This was exciting in the beginning, was it not? There was a certain grit to being the starving intellectual – a romance to being a free thinker in the confines of this cage of society. The cage of steel, concrete, and glass. What motivation it was to attend university and wrest the means to break these shackles from the jailer! What zeal that spurred the operative to be as Prometheus!
People spent their whole lives toiling fruitlessly, and the yearning student wished to free them by the merit of their thoughts and ideas. But they were far from that righteous light, in the back of the rumbling van. Like Prometheus, the operative was bound to a cause which ate at their being like that accursed eagle. Unlike Prometheus, they had nothing to show for the chains that bound them.
The only flame in their hands was that which ruined defenseless beings deemed unworthy to live in the world by those that made them so. Cruel. Injustice. The operator’s hands were balled into tight fists in their lap and their gaze refused to meet the static stare of the four-eyed automaton. The great insult to this loathsome undertaking. Why wasn’t it tucked away inside its box? The others did not appear to care.
“Say, does anyone have any more intel on our robo-pal?” the operator spoke openly to the rest of the squad with the sense that they were wasting their breath. Nevertheless, anything that could just as much hint as to the ulterior motives behind the fielding of the units would have been welcome to hear. It did not matter that these people were bizarre and maladjusted. Well, it did. But mad ravings and conspiracy theories were preferable to sitting and waiting for the next disconcerting dispatching of the deprived.
The other exterminator-ops were lounging in their seats and zoned out for the ride, however. The driver included. The van driver only had one hand on the wheel while they were bobbing their head in time to the music on the radio. The rhythm of electronic drums and droning riffs spilling forth from the van’s speaker system had the squad in a trance. The reluctant exterminator thought their words had fallen on deaf ears. They were about to concede to being ignored by the others, when one of them said,
“Nothing more than what they’ve already given us, kid,” The one speaking had a way of talking that dragged on the words. Not a drawl, or an accent. They were on an addled high. This person must have found the time to take a hit of something without anyone else noticing.
The regretful student figured it was an inhalant passed through the filters of the suit’s mask filters. To test the hunch, they queried, “Who deals you Nirv-gas?”
“You trying to snag some?” came the half-joking response from someone else in the posse of fluffy-killers. “Might chill you out long enough for you to stop asking so many questions, little P.I!”
The recruit did not reply to the jab. Nor did they explain that inexplicable drug use in this sordid dealing was an indicator of their mysterious employers grooming their dependence for further compliance. Financial incentive shifting over to physical need. Use of androids, which should have rendered human intervention in the extermination process obsolete.
The person inside the rubbery inhuman visage never thought that they would forsake job security like this, but any other profession that was rendered redundant through automation was swift in sending notifications of termination to the staff. Any other job would not open the channels to drugging the employees.
Hypothetically, of course. Just a hunch for now.
For now. The recruit left the others to their own devices and continued trying to ignore the silent overseer leering at them from across the way. Under the watchful eyes of a machine, the impersonal truth of the situation came through in full:
There they were, a flickering light in university that was trying to make their name known, confined to a uniform that rendered them faceless, in the company of others whose faces they had never seen, whose names they did not know. All of them under the unending watch of those who had photos and documents on file, keystrokes away.
Sign the paper.
Accept the ID card.
Lift the weapon.
Point the weapon.
Pull the trigger.
On the surface, the everyday life of a college student in an Ubermetro was a gulf away from being a plutocracy’s slave. This did not happen all at once, though. In the beginning, there was the grandeur and the sense that life was unfolding its arms in an embrace that the vast majority of people of this world would never comprehend. But then came the crunch when the money just evaporated one day. Then the business with the banks, and the loans.
In this maelstrom, the offer to join the vague cleanup initiative appeared as a lighthouse amidst the ruinous waves. In all actuality, it was just a prison erected on jagged rocks. To escape it entailed braving the breakout, the cutting stones, and the starving ocean, all in sequence. Freedom from all of this meant bondage in poverty, or death from neglect…
In the time that it took for this dense reality to crush the recruit’s heart with its gravity, the squad arrived at the site of its next job. The other exterminators rose from their seats and embarked, with one of them being notably sluggish. Regardless, the reluctant operative was second-to-last to leave the vehicle.
The machine was only a step behind, though.
The exterminators set out their supplied baits in the seemingly empty alleyway: trinkets that looked like they belonged in a baby’s crib. They were colorful pretend-tools, brushes and other such disarming products. The reluctant one could only swallow the shame as they took part in the crime. With the baits in place, the operatives dispersed into their hiding places deeper in the sidestreet. If they could not find a nook to duck behind for concealment, some exterminators simply sat down in the shadows and relied upon the muted colors of their uniforms for stealth.
The automaton was the most conspicuous member of the team, but except for the one exception, none of them thought to question it about its methods. They were not invested enough past their promised investment – so what if the expensive robot wasn’t an effective fluffy-killer? They still got paid.
The machine was more than what its odd exterior betrayed, however. This was demonstrated when the robot squared itself in the middle of the trinkets laid out for the fluffy-synths and began to run a presentation on its display screen. An upbeat jingle emanated from hidden speakers integrated with the android, and it quickly became clear that the images on the screen was not a mere display, but some piece of syndication that never made it onto television airwaves.
An overly upbeat voice rose above the introduction sequence:
“Wewcome to da wondewfuw wowd of Ecclestwia! It’s our job to keep it wondewful! Come, wet’s scwub da badness away, and make fwendships awong da way!”
One of the exterminators laughed, “Jesus Christ; so you’re telling me they were supposed to sound retarded off the rip?”
Another remarked, “Everyone at that HQ must be on Nirv-gas!”
Even the unwilling exterminator could not help but cringe inwardly. The narrator spoke like a fluffy, only with some modicum of grammatical correctness! The operative wondered if this was some way of compensating for the fluffies’ shortcomings with speech. No one would ever make them that way on purpose, right?
Right!?
The sounds echoing through the alley were components of a spell, almost. From a discreet slit in the pavement for drainage runoff, came tens of fluffies. They must have been disparate groups of escapees that found each other and combined into one large herd.
The robot stared as the fluffy masses with its red eyes. The report was being compiled with every passing moment. The behaviors observed in the next minutes would be studied, with data that could count towards sociology and psychology notated for further review.
If fluffies were not going to be the next innovation that made the wealthy fork over their riches at a premium, then the scientific-for-profit market was going to be how Hasbro stymied its losses. The papers written about programmed altruism, sociability and cooperation, coupled with the classified Hasbio documents, were sure to rock the academic community to its foundations.
The AMU observed with a documentarian’s diligence. It was but a city fixture, as unmoving as a statue. The micro-movements of its boxy head went unnoticed as the number of fluffies chattered joyfully with each other.
“Toysies! Wub toysies! Pway toysies wif fwuffy?”
“Wub! Yus! Pway toysies wif gud fwend-fwuffy!”
“Yay! Fwuffy am so happies fo’ gud fwuffy-fwends!”
The cynical observers would not stomach this for much longer. “The hell is it waiting for?” became the question uttered from their lips. The reluctant one cursed the rest for their simple thoughts. The only time they questioned their roles was when they were not rampant dogs of war!
After collecting ten minutes of unbridled fluffy innocence for review, the robot ceased its recording. It then held out its grasping hand to the nearest fluffy. The naïve synthetic creature chortled and held out its forelegs in turn. It had never seen such a thing before, but the machine brought tidings of the hallowed Ecclestria to the herd.
Surely, this thing was good.
The robot’s hands clasped tightly around the fluffy’s head. It’s laughter stopped.
“Wha’ fwend am–”
The robot’s wrist swiveled around by its joint. Before the fluffy could so much as yelp at the sensation, it’s neck snapped and its flesh stretched and tore. Its entire head was wrung around several times, wringing the fluffy’s skin into a taut, rag-like wad. The mostly-silent kill went unnoticed by the other fluffies.
With care, the robot let the slain fluffy down. Aside from its clearly twisted neck, it had the appearance of something in a peaceful sleep. And that was as far as subtlety went.
With the first fatality of the evening scored, the exterminators made themselves known to the herd one by one. The last being that unwilling soul, of course. One by one, the casters of laser-light were drawn and aimed. Even the one held by the reluctant operator.
One by one, the fluffies were smote by flashes of pink light. Wailing, they came undone in smoke and entrails. The unwilling operative wept behind the inexpressive visor as they succumbed to the evils of their circumstance. They could not break out of the prison, brave those rocks, and tread the water. They would be as helpless as the fluffies if they even tried.
The robot strode through the massacre as a lion on the plains. The fluffies scurrying from laser fire crossed its path and stumbled over themselves in unholy fright. They bumped into each other and tumbled clumsily to the asphalt.
“Pwease stahp! Pwease! Did nuffin wong! Wha’ boud fwends!? FWENDS!” one shouted in a desperate plea at the mercy of the machine looming over it. Its answer was the metal pursuer stepping onto its forelegs with its taloned feet.
The weight of the machine mangled the synthetic bones and skin of the fluffy. It screamed in terror and anguish that was all too real.
The reluctant recruit witnessed the robot turn its torso so that it could reach between its legs with its grasping limb. The exterminator watched the deliberate motion, the digits locking around the fluffy’s tail, before the robot arced its back forwards while yanking on the tail, as though it were pulling a rip-cord. The result was disgustingly brutal.
Firstly, the fluffy’s front legs tore straight off with an eruption of crimson fluid. Strands of connective tissue frayed and lingered between the dismembered limbs beneath the machines’ feet, until they ultimately snapped and recoiled. Secondly, the fluffy’s tail separated from flesh, with segments of the spinal cord visible through the broken pelt. Thirdly, and lastly, the AMU twirled the fluffy about by its extremity like a bola, and then hurled it into the ground.
This elicited a wet thump every time the fluffy bounced along. Eventually it came to a stop at one of the operatives’ boots. It attempted to rasp some words, but its injuries were already far too great for it to muster the required strength.
“Huu… huuu…” the fluffy choked out.
So, the exterminator stomped its head flat.
There was too much blood on everyone’s hands for regret to factor in, the unwilling recruit decided then. It would not do to appeal to morality that did not apply.
They now had a guide in the form of the unfeeling monster with metal skin as to how awful they could be. As cats, ripping apart mice for fun.
What a horrible fate.