Some Of Us Are Actually Robots.

Review: Watching The Watchmen.

Sat, 07 Mar 2009 08:16:35 GMT

The film itself was a big disappointment for me. I saw the first 20 minutes at WonderCon last week, and my apprehension washed away with every minute they showed. Snyder had convinced me he really cared about preserving everything about the book, and would go to great lengths to achieve his goal.

Then I saw the film. Spoilers follow, so only read ahead if you've seen it or don't care.

So, as the film went on, I started to realize that Snyder was imbuing a great amount of personality on the work. The nuances in visuals, the extraneous fight scenes and wholesale violence--these things didn't bother me greatly at first, but as they became more common, I began to doubt the film's ability to concisely adapt Moore's ideas to the screen, in spite of Snyder's fervor for doing just that. But I stuck with it; I wanted to reserve judgment until they had actually done something irreparable to the story that would change the way the meaning is seen by movie goers. This is the important part--you can replicate every panel in the book to perfect accuracy, but if you impress too much upon the words, the visuals, or the tone of the film, you corrupt it's core message, the part that's most important. You can, in fact, unapologeticly change and remove things from the story so long as you retain it's primary goal.

So, we get to the sex scene. This is the part that convinced me that Snyder had decided that this was "his movie" and that he was going to do it his way, maybe with regard to Moore's intentions, but certainly not without a large signature on the film. What was one panel in the book became three minutes of outright fucking. Different positions, steamy closeups...it was basically the sex scene from 300 in Archimedes, the Owl Ship.

It trudges along, mixing faithfulness with Snyder's personality at whims. The jail break scene was good, and done in the "just right" way of the opening, but then we get this stilted scene of Rorschach and Nite Owl reconfirming their friendship...before, somehow, figuring out that Veidt was behind it and traveling, without any kind of direction or prior knowledge, to the high tech superfortress in the arctic. At this point, it has devolved into a purely action movie structure. A stereotypical one, at that. Pretty pictures, nothing else. No intelligence, no subtlety, all pointless exposition and hero bad ass-ery.

So they get to the fortress, and the inexplicably German Ozymandias is hanging out, having set off his doomsday. This is followed by about a dozen or so mini-fight scenes, all of which are stilted and non sequitur. More fighting for the sake of fighting, that's all.

But this is the greatest failing of the film. The scene in the book, Ozymandias' great speech, his master plan, his savior of humanity mentality is flattened into "I blew up teh world" PUNCH KICK PUNCH. The monologue to end comic book monologues is completely removed and replaced with punch up after punch up, to a point where we get tired of seeing superheroes punch things. This is the kind of monologue people would write papers about--classic literary monologue, amazingly grandios exposition while still remaining pertinant and unobtrusive to the story (much of the added dialogue was counter to this).

So we get a movie that keeps near-pointless dialogue completely intact, but removes one of the lynch pins of the story for sake of a few extra fights at the end.

But, when it comes down to it, is the ending in tact? Is the point of the book retained in spite of the schizophrenic nature of the faithfulness of the movie? In short, not really. You see, instead of a transdimensional squid monster, Ozymandias pins it all on Dr. Manhattan.

But...wait, the whole point is that there is a universally external threat that is not from within us, but from some other, alien place that can only be feared. This brings the world together to create peace in the face of a universally common enemy.

Now, I get that Dr. Manhattan's character arc is one of moving away from humanity at no small rate, but he's still an American Citizen, and not only that--but a highly publicized public figure in the United States. He is quintessentially American, and being such, if he attacks every country in the world, whose fault is it? America's, GODDAMNIT!

"You didn't reign in your ubermensch and now millions are dead!"

So, essentially, Ozymandias fosters the worldwide hate of America, and for what purpose? He's staved off Armageddon to have America become a world villain, or at best a ne'er do well of a nation, thereby reshaping the political landscape not for the better, but for the homeostatic nature of politics. Same story, different names. He doesn't save anyone.

More importantly, he is not portrayed even slightly objectively. You are told he is the villain, and there's no two ways about it. The objectivity of the end is completely removed. You only have the "Big Powers" of the group agreeing that mass death is better than Armageddon, and your non-hero Rorschach is martyred for it. He is not killed because of his staunch Objectivism and sociopathic nature, he is killed for trying to do the right thing. It's even punctuated with a classic "NNNNNOOOOOOOOOO!!", an old action movie trope that is more of a joke than anything.

We don't even get the most important punctuation: "Nothing ever ends." It is intensely important that Ozymandias end up with ambiguity in his heart for what he did, because even though he knew it was wrong, the lesson is that nothing you do will ever end the cycles, you can only do what is possible to prolong their duration. Nothing ever ends.

Don't get me wrong, there were things I liked. Rorschach was badass, if misrepresented slightly. I loved the way Snyder handled the opening sequence, condensing fifty years of superhero history into one, poignant, informative sequence. It worked perfectly. But that's about all that worked perfectly. The scene changes were jumpy and jarring, and the acting was poor at best.

Let's see...Laurie knowing that The Comedian is her dad is retarded and only serves to yell it at the audience in fear they won't get it on their own. Silk Spectre and Nite Owl remaining heroes at the end is bewildering...the age of heroes is supposed to be done after this event. More is wrong, but it's not important.

Um...I guess I went off here. Sorry, but it had to be said, or I was going to go insane. I'm more disappointed than anything, really. Snyder had, for so long, said that it was going to be 100% faithful, and he was so self centered that he forced himself into the movie, shooting himself all inside it, to drip out the end and onto our collective, offended faces.

*cough*.

The Skeleton, The Monk and Jesus: From The Future, Follow-Up 2

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 01:11:42 GMT

I just realized the name changed, and I actually like that succession better than before. Still kind of an awful name, huh? Oh well. I am now bursting with ideas for a story arc here. Here's The Monk:

Page 1
Scene 1
Panel 1
Close up to closed eyes—vaguely Asian features, happy looking. Fly buzzing past.
CAPTION: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM

Panel 2
Same shot; fly buzzes past the other way.
CAPTION: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM

Panel 3
Same shot again; fly has once again made his way around.
CAPTION: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM

Page 2
Panel 1
Pull out; head and shoulders shot of Tibetan monk, fly still buzzing around his head. Background of tall buildings from even perspective.
CAPTION: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM

Panel 2
Pull out; we see that he’s sitting on the roof of a Chinese-style temple, or Tibetan style monetary, with a background of tall city buildings all around him. Fly is still buzzing around him.
CAPTION: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM

Panel 3
Pull out; we see that the temple is on top of a very tall building. The Monk is sitting on the very top of this temple, which is very, very high up (many dozen stories). Fly is still buzzing.
CAPTION: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM

The Skeleton, The Monk and Jesus: From The Future, Follow-Up

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 01:07:34 GMT

So writing that actually gave me somewhat of a direction for what I want to do with this thing. I'm going to be working through this in my head for a while, but here's the next installment.

Page 1
Scene 1
Panel 1
A thin figure in a pinstriped suit and matching fedora sits at a table in a pub. A cane leans against the chair he sits in. He reads King Conan Magazine, featuring Conan fighting a giant snake on the cover. He has it held in front of his face. He’s singing along to the music on the jukebox.
OVERHEAD/DIALOG: Who was born in a house full of pain? Who was trained not to spit in the fan?

Panel 2
He moves the magazine down, and we can see the eye holes of a skull. He seems to be looking at something in particular.
OVERHEAD/DIALOG: Who was told what to do by The Man? Who was broken by traaained personnel?

Panel 3
Outside the pub, through the glass window (from thin figure’s perspective), we see three young men harassing a young woman.
OVERHEAD/DIALOG: Who was fitted with collar and chain? Who was given a pat on the back?

Page 2
Panel 1
The Skeleton closes the magazine and puts it on the table.
OVERHEAD/DIALOG: Who was breaking away from the pack? Who was only a stranger at home?

Panel 2
He takes off his hat and sets it next to the magazine, while picking up the cane leaning on the chair.
OVERHEAD/DIALOG: Who was grooound down in the end?! Who was fooooound dead on the phone?!

Panel 3
[Half page splash] Skeleton is jumping through the window, sending glass in all directions and simultaneously smacking the young men in the head with his cane.
OVERHEAD/DIALOG: Who was DRAAAAGED DOWN by the STONE?!

Page 3
Panel 1
Over the shoulder from skeleton, looking as the last runs away.
DIALOGUE: Hm?

Panel 2
Throwing the cane (similar to, say, Daredevil’s billy club) at the young man

Panel 3
Cane connecting with young man’s neck, knocking him down.

Page 3
SPLASH of Skeleton standing there, woman from before standing behind him
OVERHEAD/DIALOG: Who was dragged down...by the stone?

The Monk, The Skeleton & Jesus: From the Future

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 17:38:30 GMT

For some time I've had an idea floating around my head for a social commentary story entitled The Monk, The Skeleton & Jesus From the Future. The basic idea is the Monk is Eastern Religion, representing peace and harmony with the world, while simultaneously having a poetic understanding thereof; the Skeleton is the Atheist: sarcastic, and strong-headed in his resolve. When he died, he didn't move onto an afterlife, because why would he? He doesn't believe in one. And lastly, Jesus From the Future is an ultra-violent militaristic depiction of the savior of Christianity. That's the basic cast, anyway.

This is the script for the first two pages. It will probably never get made.

Page 1
Scene 1
Panel 1
We open a three-panel page into the perspective of a generic character wearing green-tinted tactical goggles. Display and tactical information are on the panel, as well as part of the barrel of the gun. Looks like Doom or Half-Life display. Looking down a dark hallway with the traces of something in the background.
CAPTION: "I was sent into the future as a savior."
CAPTION2: "But I didn't expect this."

Panel 2
Gun fires down hallway, illuminating a charging monster/demon thing.
EXCLAMATION: Holy shit!!
CAPTION: "My father sent me here to teach them."
CAPTION2: "But it seems all I can do is protect them."

Panel 3
Jaws attacking frame, gun still firing
EXCLAMATION: Oh, God, NO!
CAPTION: "This is not the future my father sent me to."
CAPTION2: "My name is Jesus Christ..."

Page 2
Panel 1
SPLASH of futuristic special forces guy getting ripped straight in twain by horrible monster, still firing gun and yelling:
EXCLAMATION: JESUS FUCKING CHRIIIIIST!!
Caption: ...and I'm from the future.

As Though Anyone Cares (Announcement)

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 01:30:56 GMT

Found alternative.

~~Muxtape Project put on hold as long as the RIAA has their death grip on service (that's more an advertisement for music than anything else, the bastards.~~

Fuck the RIAA.

Work

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 18:57:49 GMT

As I write this, I sit behind the Lab Assistant's desk at the SRJC Petaluma Campus. I've just started my new job here, formally met Marshall (the tech guy) and have worked a bit with Jerry (the coordinator). Both are very nice guys, and I look forward to working with them both.

The lab is interesting. In my short time here, just over an hour, I've installed USB extension cables in the iMacs, zip tied their cables together, and helped an old instructor of mine put away cameras. While Jerry was showing me the printer, he accidentally pushed through an old job that was someone's tax information. That included name, address, social security number AND bank account number, complete with security number. Everything you need to completely fuck up someone's entire life.

Good thing I got there first.

So here I sit. Looking around at the lab, at the sign in front of me. "I am a Lab Assistant", it reads. I feel as though I should take a pen and write "And I am in a state of constant loneliness" underneath.

Werewolves

Fri, 15 Aug 2008 18:55:37 GMT

Written for a friend...

Where Wolf?

    Billy walked down the stairs. He was seventeen just a week ago, and was coming to realize that he only had two more meaningful birthdays left before they just meant he was getting older. He was still coming his face, it getting longer now that he was on the tail end of puberty. Soon he would have a mighty face of hair like his father's. At school, he had seen other kids that had shaved symbols and shapes into their fur, and had been intrigued, but never tried it. What interested him more than the shapes and symbols were the girls sporting the fashion.
    For all intents and purposes, he was a normal kid. Angsty? check. Excited? also check. He lived in a normal two-story suburban house with his father, Harold, his mother, Lois and his older brother, Justin. His older brother was 21 and didn't spend much time at home. He spent more time out with his mysterious friends, none of which he ever brought home. He would leave, sometimes for days at a time, and when he came back, he would act...funny. Billy never understood why, completely. He had gotten drunk for the first time on his birthday, but it made him sick and his coat was still rough from it.
    Tonight was nice because Justin was actually spending the evening home, which was rare at this point. But Billy was excited to have his big brother around, and he ran to help his mother set the table, and bring out the food. Raw pork and cauliflower. Mom was feeling tired, or had one too many valium that day. Billy's dad came in from the back yard, and Justin came downstairs. He was dizzy, redeyed. He sat down and stared at the pork for a moment. He hadn't washed his fur, he was dredding it out. He looked at Billy.
    "What up, little brother?" he mumbled
    "Not much, bro! Just finished my homework!" Billy replied, excitedly.
    "Heh...bro..." said Justin, trailing off.
    The meal commenced. The usual dinner conversation, Dad asking Billy about sports and girls, not really interested in anything he said, just wishing he could live vicariously through at least one of his sons. Mom didn't say much anymore. She doped herself up enough to fight off the crippling depression that was creeping up on her, as her role as 'mom' became more and more invalid. She was never much of a mother, but now that Billy had a drivers license, she felt more useless than ever.
    Dad was another story. He represented the pinnacle of the jock stereotype in high school. Unfortunately, his team was one of the worst in the league and couldn't get a scholarship after high school. The nerd fairytale came true: the jock asshole is a grocer in debt up to his eyes, barely making it along, and he can't even relate to his own sons. This made him angry. Not physically abusive, not overacting and dramatic; he was angry at the world. He was angry at his place, he was angry at his parents, he was angry at the nerds, at the school--just about the only thing he wasn't angry at was himself. How could I have fucked up? It must be X's fault he thought.
    So here was the family. Four people sitting at a table like so many have before. None of them with an especially strong connection to the other, but there they sat. All this quiet resentment was missed by Billy, of course, who was never particularly bright. Of course, he wasn't particularly dull either; he was just a baseline intelligence. Not smart enough to do something great, not dumb enough to get himself in any kind of trouble. His family was a loosely tied knot of dependance and resentment, and he didn't even see it.
    "And what about you?" mumbled Harold.
    "...are you talking to me, Harold?" groaned Justin.
    "What the hell do you think, ya bum." replied Harold.
    "Why the sudden interest? You haven't said so much as 'hi' to me in two years, why would you be interested in what I'm doing now?"
    "How dare you talk to me that way! I put a roof over your head and raw pork in your belly, and you tell me what I'm doing wrong? While you go out and do God knows what with those low class losers? You apologize or you leave this table!"
    "Honey, calm down," Mom interjects, through a cloudy haze of chemicals and pork.
    "Shut up. This is your fault. I shouldn't have married a damned Welshy! Look at his coat--all dull and dirty. He looks like a damned hobo!" You could see him start to foam at the mouth.
    "They're called dreds, old man. And they're part of my religion." said Justin, nonchalantly.
    "Oh, yeah, right that hippie bullshit you're all into now. Great, now I have a fucking hobo living in my house, instead of just a deadbeat son."
    "Yeah, pass it off, right HAROLD! You wouldn't know a revolution if the cops bust down the door and took you to the camps! You complacent pig!"
    "At least I'm not a damned freeloader! I groom myself, and I have a fucking job! I run this household, and you will not speak to me that way!"
    "Eat your pork and choke on it, you fucking facist!" Justin picked up his pork and threw it at his father, hitting the adjacent wall.
    "That's it! Come here!" Dad got up and ran across the room toward Justin.
    "Get away from me, you oppressive asshole!" Dad caught him quickly and slammed him against the wall.
    "What makes you think you can speak that way to me, you little prick?! You think you're king of the castle or something?"
    "I'm fucking GAY, Dad!"
    Silence. Dad put his son down, and walked up stairs. The rest of the family sat at the dinner table, trying not to look at anything. Billy tried to tell his brother it was okay, but it was useless. He didn't know what to say.
    About an hour later, Dad came downstairs. He had a full suitcase, and he handed it to Justin.
    "You're out." He said, and walked back upstairs.
    "I--" Justin picked up the suitcase, grabbed his phone and guitar, and left. Billy tried to talk to his mother, but she had popped three more Mother's Helpers, and passed out on the couch. Billy went upstairs and cried himself to sleep.
    The next day he shaved all the fur off his face.

Semester schedule, Etc.

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 23:02:16 GMT

So In less than a week, I start both the new semester at the JC and my new job...also at the JC. If all goes to plan, I should be going to school for 10:30-7 (with long breaks between classes) on Mondays and Wednesdays, and working from 9-12 and 4-9 on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays are half days, 8:45-12 is History of Motherfucking Satan. Stoked about that class--probably more so than anything else this semester.

This should be an odd experience for me. Since I lost my job in early July, I haven't done anything. It'll have been more than a month since I had anything to do for more than a couple days at a time, and the first time in years that I've had a five-day schedule, albeit a fairly laxed one. I don't think it'll be that hard to adjust, but I may die from a math overdose. I'm taking my first math course since High School this semester. I graduated in '04. That should be interesting/fucked up.

I wonder how much my social life is going to change because of this schedule. So far, I've not had too much trouble keeping up with both my internet life and my real life friends, but now that I'm taking another Phil class, an English class and a Math class, on top of whatever History of Satan is going to be, I don't know how much time I'll have. Then again, my new job is basically "Do your homework and make sure no one pees in the corner of the lab", it may not be as hard as I thought. Hell, maybe I can even start writing my thoughts down somewhere...like some kind of log. On the web. A web-log.

A man can dream.

TCR

Mixtape #1 - Training In Vain

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 04:37:10 GMT

This is the first of a continuing ~~Muxtape~~ 8tracks Mixtape project I've had brewing in my head for a while. The idea is basically a mix tape essay, with music and poetry to accompany my words and ideas. I'm shooting for at least monthly if not bi weekly on this project. The track listing will not be listed anywhere but the comments section of each accompanying post to keep the listener pure to the mix until they've listened to it.

EDIT: Muxtape is down for the forseeable future, solution found at 8Tracks. I like their interface better anyway.

Mix Tape Project Volume 1:
Training In Vain

Oddly, for my first foray into this music essay, I've chosen an immensely personal subject that has stuck with me for quite some time now: my first major romantic relationship. In it's basics, the mix is a chronological record of our relationship. But the way it's set up, each of the songs is to represent a particular part of the relationship. The first song is very much my mind set before stumbling upon the thing that I thought I wanted more than anything else. I was a mess, I was neurotic (not that I wasn't afterward, either), and I was depressed. I was not helping myself get better, I was fixating on being in a relationship, I was turning on the screw.

I had a friend who I had known for a few years at that point, and she was basically telling me that she was interested in me at some point. Problem was, she had a boyfriend, and couldn't just tell me how she felt. One night, while on the phone, I basically told her everything I felt about the situation. By coincidence, her boyfriend broke up with her the next day. Of course, when we started dating less than a month later, he called her out as a cheat and a whore, but he was long gone.

The first few weeks of our relationship was spent almost exclusively with each other. Rarely did we see even mutual friends, only each other. She became all important in a very short period of time. I sequestered myself away from my friends, lost many of them, because of the relationship.

During the middle part of the relationship, we very nearly broke up every three months or so. She would come to me and say "You don't understand this about me", or "You do this that pisses me off". Eventually, I would always keep her from ending the relationship, often because she was unjustified in her argument or simply wrong, so for months it went on like that. Her trying to struggle away, but being too attached to get away.

So it came down to us being together, but neither of us happy about it. For a long time. I wanted her around, but I didn't know why. I wanted her to care about me, but again, I didn't want to care about her anymore. I just did anyway. So that leads to us being in twined, but at the same time, wanting an irrational love to continue.

Okay, so the middle song on this mix seems like kind of a cop out. One of the most famous love songs of the '90s right in the middle of the whole thing? Lame. But it had significance to us, more than we even realized. The song is about staying in a certain place with someone forever, and we allowed that to happen even though it was hurting the both of us. More than that, it was "our song" (as sappy as that sounds). We even saw the band that performs it, and kissed while they were playing it. It was a great show, too.

This is the down slide of the relationship. She was incredibly selfish. She took what she needed of people, mostly her family, and resented giving anything back. If she could have broken that cycle, she would have saved the people she cared about from herself. As far as I know, she could still be acting that way. When it came down to the end, I looked at everything I had, and I realized that it was everything but the thing I wanted to begin with: companionship. She resented me for wanting things from her, and she never gave me anything. By the time she broke up with me, I had nothing of what I imagined I would gain from the relationship. When I called her, there was no one home.

So when it came to the end, she broke every promise she ever made to me. She took any of the self esteem I gained from having someone in my life like that, and she left me alone and broken. I felt bad for a long, long time. I remembered her touch, her closeness so well, but it slowly faded. I have not shared my bed since then. I felt betrayed and lied to. It was a year and a half of training in vain.

So, after all was said and done, I was better not having her in my life. I felt terrible for so long that I was with her, that licking the wounds of defeat were almost better than having her continue to suck away my will to live. I felt worse being with her than I did not having her in my life.

Loneliness is nothing in comparison to being drained of any reason to do anything but accommodate one person.

I promise to make these more interesting in the future. The next one will be about social justice or something relevant, I swear.

TCR

Hieronymus Prime

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 07:00:08 GMT

I don't write fiction. I'm not very good at it, though I've never really tried. I wrote this in response to a friend, who once wrote a story about a robot kicking rocks into a building. Their story was very different from mine.

    The tiny car drove furiously down the road, avoiding debris and abandoned cars. He blared David Bowie’s The Man Who Sold The World into echoes against empty buildings. It had not seen anything close to living in many years, and would likely not recognize it if he did.
    He spent most of his time these days finding roads that he did not recognize—a nearly impossible task, as there are only so many types of roads and scenery, and spending years finding each and every one made the feeling of a new road fade each time he found one. He recognized everything, now: every building, every road sign and warning. The bio-hazard sign stamped on the doors of every house. None of them were new, and this isolated him more even more than simply being alone. At least before he had something to look forward to.
    He was a small car, about two feet long. He looked like a dune buggy from the future: less awkward and imbalanced, more smooth and aerodynamic. He was designed to race for people’s entertainment, when not performing menial tasks. Even now he understood that there were very few of him left, the few that were left after the end broke down, and the likelihood of him finding another was low. There’s only so far a tiny car can go on those little wheels.
    The city around him was dry and abandoned. After the end, all the people that were left simply went away. They went in whatever vehicles would take them away from their mistake and didn’t think twice about who they were leaving behind. The animals that couldn’t fit on the ships, the plants that couldn’t survive in the arid wasteland they had made from their home. None of these were a higher concern than survival. The ones that did stay quickly died of dehydration. Now their flesh had seared away, and their bones turned to dust.
    So in this wasted world, he searched for the new. He searched for things he had not filed away, for information he had yet to acquire. Maybe it was this objective that ensured his survival—maybe his purpose set him aside from the others that had shut down for good. He crossed rickety bridges and down once-shaded forest roads, petrified logs blocking his way from time to time. He dreamed of learning more about the way the world was before, that one day he would find some repository of knowledge that would give him insight into why it all went wrong. He wanted to know more about the end.
    As he sped down the road, there was a sudden barrier. Possibly put up by long dead authority to keep people from crossing a line that they had arbitrarily drawn in the sand, and reinforced with concrete and steel and weapons and hate. Considering this possibility, he stopped to look more closely at the dust filled helmets and vests that laid around the barrier. They were filled with holes and the glass on the helmet looked as though it had been smashed with a blunt object. Something big happened on this spot, and he knew it. There were still spent shell casings on the ground, degraded over time.
    He stood up proper to get a better look. His sensors changed position and his arms popped out from his doors. His axel broke to create feet. He was, after all, partly a flight of fancy by an engineer with a nostalgic streak. He picked up a shell casing. He wondered if this was the reason he was all alone. What was it for? The question echoed in his mind. He dropped it on the ground, and kicked it into a pile of other shells near by. He watched it roll and rest at the base of the pile.
    He began to look around at the buildings. The streets were littered with fallen chunks and tiny pebbles that had broken off from wear of the years. He imagined how it all used to fit together and became frustrated. He kicked a stone, and it flew into a building breaking one of the few windows left. In frustration, he kicked another, and another. Occasionally he would break a window; occasionally he would hit the side. Sometimes it would fly through an open window, and he could hear the echo of the stone hitting whatever was inside. He sat on the ground. Being a robot, he never needed physical rest, but his mind was slowly eroding into sludge of depression and isolation. He wanted a way out.
    Behind him, he heard a rumbling. A crack in the side of one of the buildings had grown. He stared at it for a moment, but it did nothing more. Frustrated in his boredom, he kicked a large rock, hitting right where the crack was. It rumbled more, and the crack grew. Angry now, he kicked a second rock, and hit the crack again. Once again, the crack rumbled and grew. He turned his back.
    While he was looking away, the rumbling continued. He turned to find he had broken free a piece of the building. It landed in front of him, and fell forward, crushing his body. Partially under the large stone, and partially exposed, he considered how he came to this point. He never discovered why he was alone, and had always known that he would die in that state. All he could do was hope there would be someone on the other side.
    He was wrong.