Replicant Rivalries

Roger Darley puffed away at his pipe as he stared at a curious pattern of early-evening sunlight scattered on the wall above his wife's head. The sporadic wavy lines and circles had puzzled him for twenty minutes, and he had refrained from asking for aid in solving the mystery. Outside, a series of clinks and scrapes of metal-on-metal could be heard, accompanied by melodic screams at high pitch. Not distracted, Roger continued to ponder the wall before deducing that the pattern's origin was a series of brown streaks and stains on the glass coffee table by his legs.

"Pass me that remote control," Cynthia Darley said from her armchair through a mouth full of potatoes. She was finishing the remains of a corned beef hash, plate on knee, and the remote control sat six feet away at the far end of the table. 

"Of course, love," Roger replied. "But what are these funny brown marks? They are reflected on the wall. Makes it look like the wallpaper is covered in cogs and wires." The metallic sounds from the street grew louder.

"Ah, ya fool, it's just dried tea from the mugs. Just fan out that pile of magazines and cover them up if it's buggin' ya so much." 

He spread the magazines across the surface. They eclipsed the distracting pattern on the wall, and he was satisfied.

"Roger, remote control…" Cynthia repeated.

"Yes, darling," Roger replied. The remote control was out of reach, so he stood up from the settee, picked it up, and tossed it over. It landed and burrowed itself between her waist and the chair arm. The metallic sounds in the street grew louder still.

As Roger watched his wife, he winced as she contorted at the waist to retrieve the remote between the cushions. With it finally in her hands, she again plunged her fork into the meal, and as she did, they both heard a mechanical crunch from the street outside, followed by the cry:

"Burn and crumble, Techmood nuisance!!!" The tone of voice was high-pitched and scratchy.

"Ugh, they're back, for heaven's sake. How many of them is it?" Cynthia moaned, unable to see through the window from her low seat. "Do they know what street they're on? Look, Roger, the Hyundai is on the road".

Her irritation calmed, and she began to flick through the TV channels. Roger sighed and again lifted himself from the settee, pipe in mouth. He walked to the front bay windows and looked out onto the terraced street. 

"Aye, you're right, we're not alone. It be replicants. There are six of 'em out there. Looks like three Techmoods and three Sabresonics". 

"I know we're not bloody alone. We've been saying that for twenty years," Cynthia snapped.

Roger puffed his pipe at a faster rate. "There be two facin' off out front and another four eyeing each over by Blue Dolphin chippy over't road. Colin is whacking a spatula on his window."

"Well, bang on our bloody window Roger … Alfie will be getting home from school in ten. I don't want him weaving through a sea of flying metal and wires, and you know how they start cursin' when they're scrappin'."

"Aye, I do. It's like watching a Tarantino film at times."

Before he could bang, a drill-like buzzing sound filled the street, loud enough to be heard a quarter mile away. A gargling screech followed by a bubbling malfunction as purple oil spurted over the road and the shelling of a similar hue disintegrated and clouded the surrounding air. The screech faded to silence several seconds later, and a Sabresonic lay mutilated and quiet. The purple shimmered in the setting sun.

"I suppose that be two Sabersonics now," Roger said, shrugging. He then tapped the window with two fingers and stared at the replicants. Hearing the light tap, the nearest Techmood, standing no less than eight feet tall and colored with a silver/metallic orange, stared back. It gave Roger an apologetic nod before prodding the twitching Sabresonic head with its bulbous titanium toe. The fallen machine also measured eight feet in length but was now partially torn apart. Looking back up, the Techmood held up his hand, gesticulating a more passionate apology. Roger nodded, accepting the apology, before noticing his son approaching further up the street.

"Ah, here's Alfie now," he said to Cynthia.

Alfie Darley walked up the street toward the house, still on the far side. He was wearing a baseball cap backward and playing with his phone, eyes fixated on the screen. As he began to cross, another cry could be heard:

 "The Sabresonic cells of fuel will all be crushed by my vengeful fist."

Alfie looked up from his phone. As he did, a Techmood charged a Sabresonic at blurring speed. At three yards from the target, thrusting forward with power-spring-fitted heels, it grabbed its enemy by the neck and pulled it to the floor. Alfie stood there and waited as the Techmood pierced the chest of the Sabresonic with protruding spikes from its fingers. Roaring a maniacal scream, it tore open the torso and began pulling out bundles of wires and bolts, itself becoming drenched in purple. "Your innards are obliterated, Sabresonic pest," the Techmood bellowed downwards as it violently hollowed out the stationary machine.

Alfie began typing on his phone. He waded into the road, swerving around the carnage to his right. The Techmood was muttering to its fallen enemy under its breath. As Alfie approached the house's front gate, he kicked to the side an oil-soaked bolt that had rolled in his path. Opening the gate, he headed up the pathway and entered the house.

"You alright, Alfie?" Cynthia called. "Your dad left your dinner in the microwave. Make us a tea while you're in there."

Alfie heated his corned beef hash, came into the room, and sat by his father. He placed both cups of tea on the table, pushing the magazines aside, revealing the cog-like silhouette on the wall. "What are these stains on the table?"

"Don't worry about that, Alfie," said Cynthia, "we'll deal with that later." 

"Err, yeah, it's ok, lad," Roger added. "How was school?"

"Yeah, all good, Dad. Aren't they supposed to be fencing off these streets?". He continued playing on his phone.

"I'm not sure…" Roger replied.

"…Will they ever?" Cynthia interrupted.

Roger continued, "But I do hope that whoever is left can clean up the rubble afterward. It wasn't using bad language, was it?"

Alfie looked up from his phone: "Nah, Dad, just the usual banter: Death to Sabresonics, May the universe witness the dominance of the Techmood, Bring forth Sabresonic extermination, that kind of stuff. They weren't swearing, though."

"Ah, that's something at least, lad. Now put your phone down and eat your dinner."

A rupturing sound then startled Alfie, causing him to knock the table, and a drop of tea spilled from his father's cup. Roger looked to the window to see an orange Techmood head tossed vertically with a dripping bundle of wiring hanging from the neck. As the orange liquid showered the street, small quantities sprinkled the headlight of the family Hyundai sitting immediately outside the house.

"Ah, the car," Roger said. "Clean that up, Alfie. It wasn't your fault".

"I'm not going out there, Dad. I'm eating", Alfie exclaimed.

"No, I mean the tea," his father clarified.

"Forget about the tea, Alfie," Cynthia exclaimed. "Roger, are you going to say something?!"

Roger considered going into the street. "I wish they wouldn't scrap so close to those cars. I heard an Audi had its nose caved in, four Fridays back, by some dippy Sabresonic walking into the road near the school".

"Actually, Dad, I know whose car that was," explained Alfie. "It was Jimmy Ryan's dad driving outside the gates. But I was talking to Leon Carpenter, and he said he walked in front of the car, and the Sabresonic jumped in between them. Saved Leon and all that."

"Oh right … well, couldn't he have pulled Leon out of the way?" Roger asked.

As Alfie shrugged and continued to eat, Roger looked again out of the window. As he did, the Sabresonic sheepishly scuttled over to the car and wiped the orange grime from the headlight with a microfibre cloth pulled from an abdominal compartment.

"Tell that silly machine we want it spotless," Cynthia said.

"Of course, darling," Roger replied, again tapping the window with his fingers. He then vented to the room: "Look at these clumsy chunks of metal. Replicants, they say! I mean ... What were they replicating exactly? Shaquille O’ Neill in a robot costume?” Alfie laughed, but Cynthia didn't laugh as she chomped on a piece of potato from Alfie's plate. 

"They might look like that, but they don't scare me. Soft as shite they are," she said after swallowing her food.

Roger sat back down with a shake of the head while Cynthia surfed the TV channels with her feet on the table beside her empty plate.

"Yeah, that dream of life-like mechanoids seems a joke now," Cynthia added. "Those Danzis were alright, though, before they got recalled for short battery life. Our Irene got very cozy with one of those, the horny tart. I said to her, 'It'll break you in half, Irene'. 5 foot 3 she is. That thing got decommissioned with the rest of them. Dodos, they call 'em now Alfie. Ya remember that, Roger?" 

Her feet slipped from the table as she scoffed, but she immediately returned them to the same spot.

"Aye, I do, darling … Irene will be fine," Roger said. "She's picked up worse in Green Dragon on Friday night, and, yeah, Danzi did do a good job with the whole 'replicant' concept. Good-looking chaps they were. Not like these iron giants."

"Iron giants, maybe," Cynthia added, "but they're soft as shite," she reiterated.

Alfie finished his meal and stood up with his plate. He then picked up his mother's and took them into the kitchen. Cynthia moved her feet to a more central location on the table.

"Aww, thanks, lad," said Roger. 

Cynthia interrupted: "We could still do with replicants for some things around here, though. Shame they passed that house ban. The place is falling apart."

Alfie walked back into the room.

"Actually, Alfie," Roger began. "It was a Danzi dodo who put in that kitchen twenty years back. Eight minutes it took to put that up. On its own! Can't say a bad word about the job it did, unlike some of the antics in these factories. I was reading about some malarky at the steel mill the other day. A load of metal stolen or something. I mean, what are they building with that?"

"Henry Gallagher's dad supervises at that mill," Alife replied. "Apparently, the replicants on the night shift were taking waste metal out of the landfill next door and building stuff around the factory. He arrived in the morning, and there were brand-new four-story storage units erected around the site, metal staircases and doors and that. Literally made from a load of junk metal. Mr. Gallagher said management went ballistic because the replicants hadn't asked permission, but after four days, they started using the new units for all sorts. Storage, tea rooms, and that."

"Ah… well, orders are orders, lad," Roger said. "Can you imagine that behavior in the military, Alfie? It's why we don't use them."

"I thought that was because aligning the replicants with any particular country was impossible, Dad. Because of all the different brands."

"Well, maybe. But they still need to behave," Roger said.

The light began to darken outside, and various clangs, scrapes, and buzzes could be heard, accompanied by barely audible battle cries of the remaining replicants. 

Cynthia stood up from the armchair for the first time and walked over to pick up the tv guide lying on the carpet. She flicked through the pages as she returned to her seat. "Yeah, those things really do wonders when they follow their orders. Those manufacturers must get on top of what they dish into the market. You won't remember the first ones, Alfie. They would do the dishes, do the laundry, all sorts. They lacked a bit of finesse when cooking food, but it was edible. All without a drop of oil being spilled. Then brand rivalry kicks in, and the machines start calling for mass global annihilation of each other. It's just a bloody nuisance."

She picked up a pen from the table and scribbled the beginnings of a crossword. "It's wild that they would recall the Danzis for a battery issue but not these when they're ripping each other to shreds."

"Ah, it's all money, I believe, darling," Roger replied. "That and market dominance."

"Hmmm," said Cynthia. "Right, two across. A large organic creature with two tusks and a trunk. Eight lett…"

She was interrupted by pounding footsteps of titanium on concrete. "One powered replicant embodies the wrath of the collective fallen," was called out by the last Sabresonic standing. A deafening clang followed the cry as it collided with the two remaining Techmoods. The two and one grabbed and tugged at each other, but the combined strength of the pair quickly enabled them to pin their opponent to the ground. As the Sabresonic squirmed, mechanical parts began to crack, and its squirming stuttered. With a ruthless maneuver, one Techmood gripped the skull of the Sabresonic with glowing orange fingertips and crushed it. An eruption covered its hand in a blend of purple oil and shattered microchips, all splattering the faces and chests of the two Techmoods.

After inflicting the killer blow, the Techmood rose, purple oil dripping from its body, and it turned to its left, locking eyes with Roger, Cynthia, and Alfie, who were now standing at the window. It began to scream at a more fantastic pitch than before, "The Techmood will soak the soil with the oil of all rival replicants," and Techmood then illuminated its chest in bright orange. The sky flickered as countless replicants unseen across the city turned the twilit evening orange with flashing signals. As many as fifty Techmoods appeared from all corners to honor the battleground, and as they lowered their heads to the slain, a surviving soldier turned to walk to the Darley's front door.

"Looks like he has something to say," said Roger, unmoving.

"Well, go on then," Cynthia said. 

He put down his pipe and headed to the front door. The towering replicant was visible through the floral frosted door window. As Roger unlocked the door, he could see the flickering of "Techmood, Techmood, Techmood" from the chest of the waiting figure through the cloudy glass. 

Roger opened the door, his hand shaking slightly. Behind the replicant, he saw that the collective in the street had microfiber cloths and chemicals and were kneeling and scrubbing the road in unison. His eye line reached only the Techmood's lower chest region, so he arched his neck to make eye contact with the towering machine. It was yet to wipe the oils of battle from its face and chest.

"Err, yes?" Roger asked.

The Techmood paused and looked over Roger's shoulder. A drop of purple oil fell from the chin to the chest, rolling over its flashing logo.

"Can I help?" asked Roger again. He could hear the internal mechanics at this distance. The ticking and grinding, like a busy factory, but muffled.

The Techmood stepped closer until Roger could feel the heat from the chest on his face. The head hung directly over him. The eyes emitted an orange glow, and the lack of life was discomforting. He gulped, and the machine spoke:

"Sorry for all that trouble out there, Mr Customer." 

Roger exhaled. The machine continued: "You know how the other can sometimes be." 

As Roger began to relax, Alfie approached behind. "Is everything ok, Dad?"

"Yes, Alfie, the replicant was just apologizing."

Alfie stared in awe at the machine nearly twice his height. The Techmood continued: "Yes, child of the house and customer of the future, we apologize for the events of the previous hour, but the Techmood collective and I will not be satisfied until …"

"…yes, yes," Cynthia interrupted, now standing behind Roger and Alfie, "you and the Techmood collective will not be satisfied until all Sabresonics are rendered incapacitated and scraped from the pastures of Humanity's glorious Earth, I know … We have all heard your mantras enough times … Just be more considerate in future. There are plenty of fields to carry out your little skirmishes."

"Of course, Mrs customer…" the Techmood said. The orange glow in its eyes dimmed as it waited to be dismissed. 

Roger glanced at his son, who, after witnessing the berating by his mother, was thankful for the visitor's placid demeanor. After several seconds, Roger gave it thanks and bid it farewell, but as the replicant began to return the gesture, Cynthia reached over and slammed the door in its face. 

"Err, Cynthia, my love," Roger said. "I thought that was very civil. You must remember we are not alone anymore."

"Oh, pipe down, Roger. This is my street, and I'll treat 'em how I like." She headed back into the living room, and Roger kneeled by Alfie, putting a comforting grip on his shoulder. He was lost for words.

"You show them too much respect you do," Cynthia shouted, now back in her chair. "Now come and pass me this remote control, one of you." 

Roger grimaced and left to assist his wife. Once in the living room, he tossed over the remote control, and as she continued to pontificate, he pushed the magazines to the side and began to clean the tea stains from the table.