He was just a little boy, named Timmy, in fact. Awfully generic name for a story like this, however, it’s not just the spectacle of Timmy himself, it was more about the mysterious man sitting across from him.

The bus shook as it’s wheels tumbled across the wet dirt. The wide windows of the vehicle allowing a clear display of the scrolling view outside, dead trees passing by as light flickered from the cold morning sun. Pale, cyan light filled the dead hills around the lone vehicle. It’s lowly occupants sat on the worn, graffiti-ridden seats, huddled in the cold. Some covered their faces to hide from the polluted air outside, others who were more tolerant sat still. One thing was unchanged, though; most of the occupants were sullen, allowing the man to remain hidden from outside drone patrols, blending in.

Timmy turned his attention from the sports gear that sat in his lap, allowing himself to look up. The man didn’t fit in; with camouflage pants and an obviously strong build, he was definitely military. He didn’t think he’d notice the man if it weren’t for the fact that he was bleeding profusely from the side of his right knee, his fatigues dark red and masked with dirt.

He muttered to the man as the bus carriage shook. “M-Mister…? Are you alright…?”

The man responded by concealing the wound with his own jacket, looking the child in the eyes. He answered briefly. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

It was 8 years before the bus ride. He was told his designation. Actually, telling him wasn’t any use; it was yet another value in the plethora of coded algorithms. He was built in order to withstand extreme weathering. On the outside rested a powered exoskeleton. If he wanted to, he could sling two trucks in both his arms, however, he decided that mobility was more effective for his role than artillery. On the inside, was a partially human body, at least the essentials. His brain, facial structure, and skeleton primarily contributed to his human-like properties and problem solving. At this point, he could be considered an “it”; his mind made decisions, but not on it’s own accord. His name? UNIT-501.

Yes, the product of the Department of Defense, a completely autonomous, emotionless killing machine. How was he produced? Another punk pulled off the streets, one who spent a little too much time with a bottle in one hand and self-pity in the other. Nobody would be missing him.

Carol Collins, the project’s head, was in charge of supervising the project’s many other drones. Like the previous UNIT series, these humanoids were meant to be deployed into risky missions that would normally be suicide for a person with normal instincts of self-preservation. The human components where considered immoral by some, but what good was it in a world where playing by the rules got you nowhere? In the secret facility in New Glacient, she watched the drone production line from a small observation room, hanging over a looming production line. In one line, mechanics worked. In the other, doctors did.

She heard the footsteps behind her in the observation room. She turned around and spoke with boldness, an accusation leaving her mouth with finesse, if that was even possible.

“No, Mister Clark, I don’t care what the lower levels have to say about this.”

Mister Clark, the man in the suit, was taken aback. “No...No! Carol, that’s not what I was-”

“I know exactly what you were going to say,” she cut in. “And, may I add, if this isn’t the product of an information leak, I don’t know what it is. Moral garbage is not going to put a halt to this.”

Clark was about to say something, but his concerns obviously had no voice. He turned around and walked away.

The UNIT looked down, and in the top corner of his eye, he noticed the child did too. How did he get the wound? What was the blood doing? Was he even designed with a femoral artery? He was befuddled; he had been so effective in combat that he almost never got into serious injuries. What mistake had he made? He thought back to the few days before.

…

The sun was bright above the white, chalky mounds of rubble, systematically lined buildings filling the void of empty desert. Gleaming towers once centers for shopping and entertainment were reduced to insignificant mineral composites.

The view of the blue haze would drop the jaw of any normal human viewer, the distant mountains being painted gracefully with contrast.

To a drone, haze was a tactical disadvantage.

“501, can you hear me?”

The biomass frame that was once a human head, now surrounded by matte tactical armor, jolted.

“Yes,” the humanoid device responded.

“Thank you, 501. You have a new contract today from Elias Miller. I am sending you coordinates now, I’m afraid you will have to enter the badlands for this mission.”

Badlands, goodlands, to 501, it was all the same. Just endless rows of walls, windows, and streets.

“Copy…” the device exclaimed through the communication channels. Control was the designation given for a superior. Drones commonly had none, but in this case, 501 did, considering it was a special unit operating alone. Control dialed in once again with details.

“His...erm, corporate competitor, is taking a trip there actually. He wants you to take an HVT to a point of interest, and leave him. All other resistance is to be dealt with on your discretion.” The final dry order meant nothing, as the Drone was programmed to resort to non lethal applications, before proceeding to more...elite measures of offense.

The drone collected it’s duffel bag. At the moment, it resided on the sunny roof of the Placebo Tower labs, named appropriately for it’s research-based occupation. Soon, however, 501 would not be on the same roof.

...As it was readying a multi-lined grappling hook launcher. The drone had received the location of the meeting point and was already enroute. Control was obviously late for the order; from previous military-based GPS, the vehicle was already on it’s way, at least told by the drone’s PDA.

It levelled the dynamic hook launcher to the nearest building, firing multiple lines propelled by electro-pneumatic fusion. The lines would dynamically change shape to form spirals around different building ruins, and the drone would promptly hook onto the line, beginning to hop to each building side by side without losing a spring in it’s step.

“Damn, boss. You sure this isn’t-” The thug’s voice was cut off by distant gunfire.

The olden boss stepped out of the luxury vehicle, which, at the time, was awkwardly juxtaposed by the post-apocalyptic wasteland around them. His soothing voice calmed the new guy. “Harold, you have nothing to worry about. They are defense drones, they belong to local PMC, Private Military Company. Technically count as decommissioned, and won’t fire on other combatants.”

Harold looked into the smoky distance with uncertainty, watching humanoid figures leap from building to building using powered exoskeletal jumpsuits. “Why’re they shootin’ each other?”

“They see untagged drones as combatants. These folks’ll keep on fighting’ till there’s no more left.”

Harold thought deeply for a moment. These were machines, destined to repeat their same destruction over and over again until they either ran out of power or shut down. It was disturbing to see the desert so close. In ancient history, these wastelands were said to be empty and open. “Aight’, boss. I’ll wait for the rest.”

A second vehicle pulled in front of the luxury car. The deal in particular was to take place in between abandoned warehouses, and the ones nearby had missing portions, providing just enough visibility to identify would-be attackers. Men dressed in similar black coats stepped forward to greet the mob boss, some circling to the back of the truck instead.

Just like that, they proceeded to uncover plastic cases from the back of the vehicle. It was no telling what was inside, although concerning 501, it did not matter.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

UNIT-501 watched. Little did the dealers below realize, they were about to be eliminated by a bounty hunter, one way or another. It searched it’s duffel bag, retrieving an XM25 Airburst Grenade Launcher. These things were cutting edge back in the day, but they were replaced nowadays with scatter railguns and particle annihilators. Without much thought, it adjusted it’s wind speed, elevation, and ammunition type. Using the thermal optical device, it leveled the weapon out of the destroyed wall into the rocky abyss of the streets, placing a finger over the trigger with little hesitation. This was to be a nonlethal concussive blast, perhaps followed by a second electromagnetic pulse to disable the gang’s getaway options.

They could pinpoint when they were about to fall. All it took was a simple whistle of a projectile to know. Harold was on the ground, ears muffled with tinnitus as dust flew around him, shrouding him from the view of the rest of his comrades.

501 dropped the launcher on a sling, quickly grabbing it’s line launcher and firing a cable towards the ground. The UNIT hooked up and zipped to the rocky surface within moments as it began to shift around debris cover and destroyed cars. The UNIT analyzed movements and positions of each combatant, running through thousands of probabilities in seconds.

...

There isn’t much you can do when you’re up against a completely robotic drone with an exoskeleton. Daniel, one of the mob foot patrols, poked out of cover and aimed his handgun. Dust was everywhere, and some of his comrades were on the ground, others screaming and holding their heads in confusion.

His handgun was bent and disarmed in seconds by an enemy he didn’t even see. He felt a sharp thud to his head, falling to the ground unconscious as the drone moved on to it’s next, confused, and screaming victim.

One by one, the drone’s impeccable hand-to-hand combat ability incapacitated threat after threat. The olden mob boss retreated to his car, getting in and hitting the ignition as he muttered curses. The drone was just about finished dealing with the last threat, curling a leg around the neck of a henchman. This allowed time for the boss to drive away.

The drone had no time. It turned to face the vehicle. Just in time, Control had patched in with 501. “UNIT, he’s your target! And he’s getting away!” the nondescript voice exclaimed. The drone nodded before casually walking forward, opening one of the dropped plastic cases in the dirt on front of him. The polymer lid rose to reveal a shiny black modular weapon. This was clearly a prototype, and an expensive one. After viewing the rifle closely, it was clear that it was built on 3 different receivers and chambered for different ammunition from multiple barrels. It was obviously a multi-purpose weapon system.

But besides the abnormality of a mob carrying government equipment, the UNIT was on a slim clock. His primary objective was the old man. He looked over to the highway entrance behind the meeting site, the black car zooming away and shrinking. The UNIT unslung his grappling hook launcher, levelling it to the next building.

Harold had just enough time to make it into his boss’s car. “What the hell happened? he screamed, glaring through the passenger seat’s rear view mirror.

“Dunno, must be the feds,” the old man remarked. His eyes were focused on the twists and turns of the road, while Harold was focused on each dark corner of the abandoned buildings zooming past them.

…

“They’re getting away, 501!” Control managed to yell through his radio.

“Relax. I’m on it.”

Control stopped.

The UNIT zipped building to building.

Control just stared.

“I’m closing it at their twelve, over.”

Control had no response.

The thing about the UNIT project was that in order to achieve normalcy to a level that of a human, components of a human were meant to be used. However, they were completely brainwashed, being limited to basic or tactical commands. Reassurance was not part of their program, and that only meant one thing; 501 was compromised. Control sighed, closing his eyes, and then opening once again. The bright blue of his many monitors and radios bleached his retinas.

…

“STOP!” Harold shouted. The old man put the brake pedal to the metal as the now dusty car groaned to a stop. Standing in front of the vehicle was a bulky humanoid figure, completely clad in tactical armor, a large weapon trained in the direction of the two helpless viewers. The old man reached for his gun, but 501 reached for his trigger first, firing a bright blue and buzzing round straight into the windshield. Harold heard the sound of shattering glass, and then nothingness.

…

UNIT-501 slowly approached the vehicle, which was gradually filling with smoke. The EMP grenade worked wonders, allowing the car to be deactivated. The killing machine dropped it’s launcher, drawing a handgun and racking the slide. Training it towards the two delirious occupants, it approached the driver’s seat. With the force of the exoskeleton, it was able to rip the car door clean off, tossing the hatch about 20 meters away from the site.

Control thought to himself. The Series 2 drones were each expected to last about 10 years. After that, memories started to return. This was exhibited in most lasting subjects, those who weren’t already gunned down in battle. The drone would become self aware next. After that, rebellion would send in. After that, lose memories would. The only hope he had was to contact the local PMC. The iOn corporation was a good place to start.

…

It was long after the dropoff point was reached. The criminal was apprehended, and the other was left behind in the car, probably for dead after the EMP and gas. 501 noticed the fact that the sun was setting, noting it on it’s HUD and activating it’s low-light systems. After zipping from building to building, it found a safe place to wait for the next bounty. This area in particular was a top portion of warehouse offices, blinking blue holograms shimmering around from ancient computers. UNIT-501 sat next to a window, peering out at the loose birds and the dark clouds filling the sky as the view slowly grew red. Time passed as catalogued mission logs surfed through the husk mind of the UNIT; mid-air jet takedowns, underwater hand-to-hand combat, risky assassinations involving everyday objects; only some of the few that went through it’s head.

Right then, 501 noticed movement. However, it was too late to react. A loud, wet slap filled the air as the drone saw it’s own leg spring to the right. The drone was caught inside a kill zone, but escape wasn’t far, because lucky enough for him, he propelled himself out of the building through the plate glass window.

Wounded. The first, foreign thought ran through his mind; he was wounded. He heard several more shots from behind him as dust exploded around in the streets. He began running, as quickly as he could, emotion suddenly filling his mind, something never exhibited before by a drone like himself. He had no time to process cover, but he could definitely hear the mechanical movers behind him.

He dropped into a ditch; probably a collapsed sewer in the middle of an intersection, from what he briefly saw in the darkness. He poked his head out, looking through the streets.

Sure enough, the famous Series 1 drones rumored to lurk were there. He then looked down, noting the foreign nature of his leg. There was a gunshot injury, sure enough, but one that his exoskeleton could support.

He thought back, thinking he maybe could have seen his attacker, and...reviewing helmet camera footage, it was a drone, armed with a silenced pistol from what he could make out from the video feeds. These drones were tipped off by someone. He then finally put the pieces together; he was abandoned by Control. He was tagged as a combatant. He had to escape.

Timmy gulped at the man’s emotionless response. UNIT-501 scraped his lips and teeth around, getting used to the fact that he was indeed fully functioning, save for the endoskeletal prosthesis in his legs. His mind was a flurry of memory, of youth and strangeness. He was out of his shell.

“Well, kid...What about you?”

Timmy looked down at his feet, through the window, anywhere that meant avoiding the man’s glare. “I’m cool…” The boy laughed nervously. “Just back from sports practice, you know.” He shook the gear in which he carried.

The bus stopped. “I’m getting off here,” said the UNIT. “Oh. See you.” replied Timmy with a dry throat.

The UNIT stepped out into the cold air and the bright sun, clutching his duffel bag as he walked down the wet road. The bus disappeared down the hill as further walking led 501 to a checkpoint. In the foreground, rested a barricade, with robotic police drones patrolling aimlessly. In the background, stood a city. The UNIT was just about to lead a new life, free of the prison he was encased in. The only thing stopping him was two petty guards. Simple enough…

Carol was driving home after a long night of work, her car zooming down the neon highways, rain pinging off her windshield. Suddenly, her bluetooth device rang. She activated it, nonchalantly swiping her ear while keeping a hand on the steering wheel. “Collins”, she muttered.

“Collins, this is Control. There’s another drone that’s having problems. iOn is taking care of it.” Carol sighed. “You better make it quick, I’m just about done for the night. Hell, if you can not bother me again, that would be great.”

Control spoke, but Carol didn’t hear it. That’s probably because Carol’s entire vehicle was flipped after colliding with another. Sitting in her seat, glass covering her, she could barely act with resistance. The only thing she could do was look up, catching the eyes of a man in a militaristic posture, inching towards her vehicle, concealing something behind his back...