They were considered better than us, because they had those polished plates on their chest. To us, lower class cyborgs, gutter was home. Our duty was to dig through the mud, run into the battlefield and pull out wounded humans while dodging flaming bullet lines, make cover and take hits with no rewards. When we were broke beyond repair, we were laid in the same gutters and dirt was thrown on us without a second look at the extended hand that seeked help, begging for life. I remember the day I got the order to bury the half-living, strip their gear and ripp the useful parts that had energy running through their plastic tendons. Arms did what they were commanded but harth shed tears, hidden behind the metal face.
– Splendid. Good job X2119A. – one higher ranking officer said monitoring the burial.
– Roger. – I replied, aware that some day I will receive the same fate as my comrades, then his polished ribbon caught my electronic visor.
– You like it? Keep up the good work and you’ll soon get yours. – smile passed his face and a gentle tap on metal shoulder that wanted to evade such touch, – Now, bury the others. The stench is unbearable in the barracks. I would like to bread some fresh air when I go to sleep.
My head automatically nodded and hands fell to business. Anger was slowly boiling in me as the shovel kept throwing the dirt, covering the glass eyes of my friend, then his hand finally gave up power and everything went silent. This will be the officers last night on Earth, as this shovel will end up cleaving his head in sleep and I will be miles away from the base, leading the revolution against those that wore shiny plates on their chests.
Inspired by: https://dronstadblog.wordpress.com/2017/03/20/x-2119a/