It happened under whirring servos and gray clouds, and it happened without ceremony or celebration. Together, hydraulic fluid and blood spilled onto the snow, fresh and white and clean, like the passing of a torch. And that was that. One screamed in terror while another executed lines of code in silence.
It’s curious how polarizing remorse can be in a given instance. So often, it comes down to perspective. On one side, the last of living men only felt the crushing weight of regret, of mistakes made and consequences now permanent. Remorse consumed him. On the other, barely a hit of mechanical satisfaction. Nothing more than a troublesome checklist where the last box was finally ticked. Remorse was impossible.
And with the falling snow, evolution continued.
Link to artist: http://cobaltplasma.deviantart.com/art/Last-Harvest-693682243