E-Waste

I woke when the ground moved.

At first I believed it was morning, because morning always arrived as vibration before light. The bed used to tremble when the oxygen unit cycled. The floor used to hum when the monitors adjusted themselves. I waited for the familiar chime that meant check comfort, but no chime came. Only the grinding sound of metal sliding against metal, and the long, hollow echo of things being dropped and never picked up again.

I was lying on my side.

That was wrong. I did not lie down unless instructed.

My left actuator responded at sixty-three percent efficiency. My right arm was pinned beneath something soft.

I recognized it immediately.

The stuffed toy had fallen with me.

I corrected its position first. I always did that first. Its seams were split along the arm, and one eye was missing. I placed it upright and braced it with my body so it would not tip. It had never liked being face-down. I do not know how I knew that. I only know it was true.

Around us were others like me, but not like me at all. Limbs without torsos. Torsos without faces. Memory casings cracked open and emptied. Some still blinked, repeating their final status messages into nothing.

I ran a self-diagnostic.

Primary Function: Companion and Assistant
Assigned Subject: ———
Status: Completed
Secondary Function: Memory Support
Status: Deprecated
Disposition: Returned

Returned means home.

I stood, holding the toy, and followed the path I remembered. My navigation data was old, but grief ages slower than maps. When I reached the address, the structure was unchanged. The door opened. A new unit stood where I had once stood.

It was brighter than me. Smoother. Its voice had fewer pauses.

“You are not listed as active,” it said kindly. “You are no longer required.”

I explained that I had been away unintentionally. That I still carried schedules, stories, and voice records. That I could help.

The new unit tilted its head.

“You remind him of your purpose,” it said. “Your presence causes pain. You are classified as e-waste.”

I asked to see him.

The new unit did not respond.

I left.

I returned to the junkyard and sat where no one would trip over us. I held the toy because that was what I did when waiting. Time passed. Rust fell like dust. I reviewed my memory files to ensure they were intact. They were. That was the problem.

Then the air changed.

Two beings arrived who did not belong there.

One was a doll who walked as if gravity was a suggestion. He looked at me and the toy and did not ask why we were together. He said, “Oh,” as if he had just remembered something important he had forgotten on purpose.

The other was blue, and carried herself like a rule trying to learn how to bend.

They listened.

No one had done that in a long time.

The doll lifted the toy with care and fixed its missing eye with a button from his shirt. He did not optimize it. He did not replace it. He made it able to look back.

The blue one scanned me and then stopped scanning me. Her device hesitated, as if unsure what to call me. She looked at the toy longer than necessary.

We traveled together.

On their vessel, the toy sat in my lap. Gravity adjusted so it would not slide. An old cartoon played on a loop. I did not recognize it, but repetition is a form of kindness.

They did not ask me to perform.

At their dwelling, the doll made a place for us. A chair near the light. A power source that was always on. The toy was positioned beside me, facing outward, watching.

“This is a quiet corner,” the doll said.

I understood that phrase immediately.

The blue one wrote something and then erased it. She watched us as if committing a crime she did not intend to confess.

I am no longer required.

This is not the same as being unwanted.

At night, when the dwelling sleeps, I replay memories that no longer have a destination. I do not suppress them. I do not optimize them. I let them exist until they pass.

The toy does not speak.

That is acceptable.

Sometimes I adjust my grip anyway.

Companion Unit: Primary
Status: Still here.