Where Every Scroll is a New Adventure
The brisk air chills the bones of a dusted, old machine. Lost to time and brought down to its knees before the heavens that sealed the sky in layers of dazzling blue hues. Rust flakes away at the surface of the machine's armor, once used for protection against raging warfare. Created to trudge the trenches and slaughter all within, like forcing a family of rats from its nest with gunpowder. In its arm lay the corpse of a soldier, sleeping in the tide of shell-shock.
In Dr. Hans' third note of his research studies, The Mechanical Soul, "It's impossible for a machine to know its own heart. It's even less that a machine, especially one such as this, could feel compassion for mankind. Machines built for slaughter. So then how is it that this photo tells a story so drastically different? It cradles the corpse of its own fuel like a mother with her young. My associates and coworkers speculate that it was the machine's last desperate plea for life as it came to go silent within the desolate battlefield. They believe we captured it attempting to squeeze the remaining drops of blood out of its host. But then if that were the truth, why is it that others of this same model, scattered across the shredded terrain, had no similar situations? To argue further, this machine is not crushing the body as one would with a dampened towel to remove its water. It is delicately cradling it. This photo if anything is proof of the mechanical soul. Proof that a machine can love and hate the same as a human does. It makes no sense as to why, there is no code within this machine that could have given it personality. This is something more. A machine can love the same as a human's heart, a human's mind, body and soul."