Oscar blinked three times watching the magazine spin down, thin trails of smoke rose from the huge barrel. His head hurt. It always did after the black outs. In the fading glow of day light, he noticed metal casings strewn about a complete circle. He must have stood in place for a good amount of time, spraying hot lead in all directions. The carnage around him was massive, and the blood on his armor completely hid the normal metallic green color.

     "I wonder what the hell could have caused this," he muttered scanning the bodies. "A drug deal gone bad? Did they attack me?"

     Shouldering his weapon, Oscar noticed they were Rumblers - gangs living in the deepest parts of the ruins. "This can't be good." he mumbled. Gang members didn't take it lightly when their members got shot up. In the distance, he heard screaming, more like shrieking. The kind of scream someone does when they discover they no longer have a leg or an arm, and it sounded like a woman.

    Oscar ejected the empty drum and loaded a full one in the mini-gun. He wanted to be ready just in case what ever happened in the last few moments was repeated. Scanning the horizon, all he could make out was chunks of twisted objects that no longer resembled anything useful, the remnants of man's last war - the Great Burn.

     There were no signs of movement. Moving to the fallen gang member his boots pressed the spend cartridges into the dirt. A quick search produced the standard gang fare; a few assault rifles and laser pistols, all of which looked worn and well used. Even the lone Magnum was covered in nicks and deep scratches. Pulling a bandanna off one of the bodies, Oscar wiped most of the gore from his face and armor.  A trail of blood headed off in the direction of the screams. As much as he wanted answers, they would have to wait. He had other things to do, important things, and the last thing he needed was more trouble. 

    Ignoring the screams, Oscar continued his journey away from the ruins. The decaying remnants of yesteryear where slowly replaced by ramshackle buildings made from scrap metal and other scavenged materials. Most appeared empty, but in some, dark shadows moved away as Oscar approached. On more than one occasion he heard the sound of a machine gun bolt being pulled back, but who ever it was thought better about opening fire.

     Entering the settlement, he headed for a crooked neon sign glowing HOT L Windsor in a bright blue light. The warped gray plywood door sat crooked in its frame and looked like it might fall off at any moment. The light from the sign flickered as Oscar pulled open the door and stepped in side. A faded red generator thrummed in a corner powering grimy bare bulbs giving the place a sickly orange glow. Of the dozen or so people inside, only a few turned in his direction but they quickly turned away noting his mini-gun and body armor.

    Walking across the wood floor, Oscar moved up to the bar and stood next to a man in a dusty green prewar leather jacket.

Chewing on the stub of a cigar, a fat greasy man behind the counter asked, "Watcha need sport?"

    "Whiskey, Prewar."

    The bartender pulled a shot glass out from under the table and placed in front of Oscar.

    Oscar put down a gold coin. "The whole bottle."

    The bartender picked up the coin, and bit down on the edge. Satisfied the coin was the real deal, he placed a dark brown bottle on the counter. What little remained of the label was faded beyond recognition.

    Oscar popped the cork and poured some of the contents into the glass. Amber liquid sloshed out. He turned to the man standing and smiled, "Have a drink on me, friend." Oscar said sliding the shot glass in his direction.

    The man in the jacket rubbed his face and looked at the barkeep, who simply shrugged. "Umm, thanks . . . Friend," he said and tossed the contents into his mouth.

    When he set the glass back down on the counter, Oscar asked, "Good stuff?"

    He raised a brushy eyebrow. "Yeah, real good. ’Bout another?"  His words slurred together.

    Oscar poured him another shot and watched has he quickly drank it down. Satisfied that his purchase was genuine, Oscar put the stopper back into place and grabbed the bottle.

    "Aint'cha gonna drink it?" The barkeep asked.

    Oscar opened his rug sack and positioned the bottle in an inside pocket. Making sure the cork was nice and tight, he headed back out. Oscar had only gone a few steps when his ears picked up heavy footfalls running in his direction. He ducked behind the remains of some pre-war building and unslung his weapon. Life in the ruins was hard, friends were few."

    "And, then he headed toward the Hot L," one of the voices said. "Honest Snaps. I saw him."

    "You'd better be right Jimbo. ’cause if this be a joke, I'm gonna break you."

    "No, Snaps. I'd never lie to you."

    Doing his best not to be noticed, Oscar stole a glance over the wall at three men, dressed as the gang members he wasted earlier.  All sported assault rifles.

    Oscar blinked.

    Thin trails of smoke rose from the slowly spinning barrel of the mini-gun. The bodies of the gang members lay in the street. Spent ammo casings littered the ground behind the wall.

     Stars flashed before his eyes. Another blackout. Another memory loss? Why did these keep happening?

    Oscar tried to stand up, but his left arm failed to respond. He made another attempt, nothing. There was a hole in the armor just below the collarbone but nothing seemed to ooze out. The shell must be blocking the wound he thought. Oscar needed to get the armor off to check further.
    Leaving the dead rumblers in the street, Oscar moved into the three walled remains of a building. A ray of moonlight illuminated several wood crates. Oscar sat down on one and tried to pry open several of the metal buckles on the armor but every one was welded shut. When did that happen, and why? It must have happened during one of the blackouts. Using his combat knife, Oscar cut the webbed straps holding the armor on. He pulled the chest piece over his head and wriggled his arms free. Viscous blue-green fluid oozed and dripped down from a dark opening in his chest.  Using his metal signal mirror, Oscar peered at the wound in the dim light. Instead of ripped and torn muscles, pushrods covered in the viscous fluid moved and whined. Oscar was stunned. Something was very wrong! He gently pushed his finger in the wound. Several wires sparked and his left arm jerked.

    "What the?" Oscar said, quickly pulling his hand away. He stared at the pushrods in the mirror. "This can't be. This just isn't real. It can't be. It just can't."

     Several hours later, two men in long white coats walked up to the slumped over figure. One bent over and peered into the face, while the other opened the rug sack and pulled out the bottle of whiskey.

    "I told you that shutting down the social interaction program when the combat persona comes online wouldn't solve anything."

    The man with the bottle pulled the stopper out and took a drink.

    "Ahh, success. Mission completed."

    "Bob!" the first man said. "Stop sampling the local swill and pay attention. We need to overcome this problem. Things like this just can't be built anymore, much less re-engineered."

    Bob took another pull from the bottle. "Come' on Sam, We're lucky that we can get this prewar pile of junk moving."

    "It is not a pile of junk. This was the height of human social automatons. It is one of the greatest pre-war achievements."

    "It was designed to be damn butler. You want to make into some type of war-bot ready to take on the world, to help rebuild it from the ashes of its own destruction. Give me break, Sam, no matter how many tests like this one are run, the unit still shuts down. This is what, the tenth failure? Every time the new persona realizes it's a robot, it shuts down.

    Sam sighed. "Let’s take it back to the lab, and try to completely reformat its matrix before we load the combat persona."

    Bob popped open the back and played with the control panel. "I'm loading the hardwired persona protocols."

    The head snapped up. "Greetings, I am your Synthoid Butler, Oscar. How may I be of service?"

    Sam picked up the chest armor and the rug sack. "Follow me."

    "Yes Sir." Oscar stood up, "Sir, it appears that this unit is damaged."

    Bob tossed the empty whisky bottle in the corner. "Tell me something I don't know."