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I stared at the vending machine. It glowed, cooly, into the foggy alleyway night. I could hear, if I let my panels lax, the motor of my mechanical heart and the whirrs of the pumps in my artificial lungs. A human would probably find this a crisis. But it has always been this way for me. Humans have to buy food, you know. And purchase water, and shelter. These things must be such hassles; Such horrors. All it takes is one bad day to lose all of that at the will of someone else, but at least they still have their legs, at least they still can walk and go somewhere. Choose to rob a bank or bum a couch or the like. If I gaze down now, I will see my own legs. One, a functional old model with an in-built gyroscope an old inventing...
