One of the earliest memories I have of the world is the hiding. Well, the running _and_ hiding, but there’s not much stuff to be said about the running.

The hiding is still clear in my mind, as crisp as autumn leaves or freshly cut titanium, sharpened and dangerous. I remember the words my sister said as she held me close, whispering soothing words to quiet me. I remember exactly how many times footsteps, hard and stiff, passed our hiding spot. I could count them if I wanted, but it’s only a detail, only part of the picture of understanding I wish to paint. The smell of thick metallic smoke still seems to coat the air today, choking me until I gag.

Dear reader, I apologize if I bore you with these lengthy descriptions, but this needs to be the kind of memoir that one can read again and again, learning new things all the time. I want you, dear reader, to spend your life with a friend, as you will know that those are hard to come by in the current world. I will do my best to write with regularity, as I hope to look back on this and see myself in the same way I wish others to see me. I will _not _be dating my entries in case this is found by an unsavory being or robot.

I was lucky enough to have a sister for the early years, but I am alone now, writing to you, although it’s highly unlikely that anyone will read this. 

Everyone apparently dreamed of being in an apocalyptic world, fighting zombies or whatever other fantasies may fill the minds of those idiots who dream of a world filled with death, and conquering it. Novels were written about it. They didn't know what it is truly like to lose all those who love you, and to be left alone in a world as a child fighting to survive. The world chose to throw death and danger my way, rather than nurture me. 

Mother nature is such a joke, although my sister didn’t think so— she had auburn hair, a gentle smile, and a kind of sweet caution that was her only defense. She blamed humans for the titanium giants that roam our planet, destroying all of humankind. I disagree. It’s so easy to blame those who didn’t know any better, rather than nature itself. She used to whisper to me when we hid in shacks or hollows in the earth, “_If humans had only admitted that the robots were dangerous, they wouldn’t have become as mass produced today.”_ She would smile in an almost amused way, before she would break off as we heard the pitter-patter of robotic wings, or the hard stamping of the giants. Her logic won her only one thing; Death. 

My contempt for her kindness was always dismantled by her unsuspecting charm and gentle demeanor. It’s her own fault she’s dead, but I miss her with an ache that empties my heart and gives me a throbbing pang of loneliness, leaving me shaking on the ground. I’ve learned to stop thinking of her, as she makes me distracted; I can’t afford that.

My sister told me that my father had died, and my mother would scream to the heavens, cursing the factory that had worked him to the point of death. I was too young to understand loss; my sister told me I used to ask mother why she was mad at the factory, and if dad was late. I didn’t know he would forever be late, forever be gone. He didn’t come back that day— my mother was broken, and died shortly after. My sister was more than my sister. She was both mother, sister, _and_ father to me. I remember no one other than my sister.

Now I live in one of those pre-apocalypse transportation tunnels- I think they were called subways. You probably found this book there, in my small home, the little burlap sack for a pillow. You may even see my makeshift candle, but I don’t doubt that’s gone by now. My blanket is a sheet of metal-fabric, the holographic kind that hides in plain view. It reminds me of my sister, able to hide among those who would never be worth her time, it conceals a mere mortal like myself, just as my sister used to hide me in her arms.

My sister left me few belongings, a small little circle called a stopwatch, a shoelace, and a zipper. My mother left me nothing. The paper in which this ink bleeds on the pages is made from a small notebook I scavenged from a Scrapyard, I do not think humans could have held onto their fragile existence, if not for the Scrapyards. 

Scrapyards are the salvation of the cruellest part of humankind. If you find something good, you must take it, hide it, and use it, unless you want yourself robbed.

Dear reader, I know you know nothing of me. I shall not disclose my name until my last days, when I know I shall not last long. I will, however, tell you my story.

If you were lucky enough to be told stories of the Before, you’ll know how the robots came to be. They were “Precision-Optic Weaponized Electrical Robots,” commonly known as the ‘POWER’ This never amused me. 

As a child, when my sister told me stories about times before they came, how birds used to sing, and people used to walk on the streets that are now home to unimaginable horrors that no human could possibly comprehend, unless they had seen them themselves.

It is dangerous to have friends. 

This is the first thing I learned after my sister stopped existing.

To have friends, you must have trust. To have trust you need reliance. 

Those two little things, trust, reliance, are two little things that lead to your undoing the moment the one who holds them for you dies or betrays you. Either way, you are left more defenseless than you would be otherwise.

I also learned that Death is a sly and clever thing, disguised in a variety of ways, but always ready to take you the moment you allow yourself to succumb to the sweet, gentle darkness that she holds so temptingly over your head. 

Shadows are both refuge and hiding place. 

Many think the darkness hides terrible things, and they’re right, I _am_ hiding in the shadows.

Morality is something that must be abandoned, although even _I _haven’t mastered this skill.

This is something that you need to engrain in your memories, or else the guilt of your actions will drive you mad.

_Part two coming soon!_