Someday.

The sun hung high in the cool autumn air; a light breeze blew across the rolling hills, and Anthanasios wandered the forgotten paths of days long gone with no purpose but to reach his destination and no destination but the one that burned in his memory. Somewhere, he knew, a tall, white tower awaited him on a hill-top. Once the home, it was said, of a powerful giant, master of now-forgotten and arcane arts, the tower had vanished one day along with its owner with nary a trace--or so it has been told. Anthanasios knew the truth. It had never vanished. One simply had to know where to find it.

He had seen the white tower once, far off in the distance. It had called to him with promises of knowledge unimagined; the lost arts of wizards and magi catalogued in its vast library. Anthanasios was brave, he was strong, but he came from lesser stock, and had no real standing in the world. Rather than remain at home a peasant, he left one day with a pack on his back and a staff in his hand to seek out the tower that he saw in his dreams.

He had not found the tower yet, but he knew that he was headed in the right direction. He had walked the inner halls of the tower in his mind, and someday, he would return to those halls.

Goodness Me, Has It Been So Long?

I find myself almost ashamed to come back to this place, one of a thousand stillborn ideas and abandoned areas; the Bad Side of Town, shuttered, meant to have torn it down ages ago but never quite got the permits in order and the contractors hired. One of those Things best left Undisturbed. And yet here I am, back again for goodness knows what reason. Perhaps there was just too much time on my hands. Perhaps the creeping feeling of Regret insinuated itself Upon Me and brought me to this Forgotten Place.

Well, that apparently is where I've ended up. Here. Again. For the Third Time. It is well known that Three is an auspicious number when Venturing Forth, so one might Expect things to Occur in This Space with a Frequency approaching More Than The Last Time. That will not take too much Effort, as we well Know, but it is, as we Also Know, the Thought which Counts the Most.

Digital Whispers.

A tone buzzed faintly in my ear--well, I say my ear out of habit. Technically, the sound of the tone was transmitted directly to my brain, bypassing the ear and making for the stealthiest of sounds in that it was not a sound at all, but an electrical impulse. My grip on the rifle tightened slightly, and I bent my eye toward the scope to get a better view. The Ars-Destro MK XXII, codename "Marksman," interfaced with my neural network through the nano-receptors ingrained in my skin, transmitting targeting data directly to my brain, displayed in front of my eyes in a HUD that my brain insisted on telling my eyes was there. It was disorienting the first time I had ever experienced it, but I had adapted. I always adapted.

The tone buzzed again, a warning that the target I had designated three days ago was approaching. Designation had been simple--a specialized camera that recorded not only images, but scents and biometric data as well, had taken the picture, and the Marksman's olfactory, infrared, and optic sensors had been fed the data for designation: Target One.
The tone meant that it had detected the presence of two of the three, alerting the operator--me--to the probable approach of T1. Once visual contact was established, the Marksman would lock on the target. Upon firing, a high-velocity round would penetrate the target. Each round had rudimentary guidance systems, providing a certain level of forgiveness on the part of the operator's aim. As long as it was aimed in the general location of the target, a hit was nearly guaranteed. All I had to do was pull the trigger.

This is too easy, I thought to myself. I may as well not show up; let the gun do everything. The advances in weapons systems in the past one hundred years had a habit of making me feel superfluous to the operation.

I NEED YOU.

I startled, consulting my radar. There were no other life-forms within a hundred yards of me. Target One was still on his way down the elevator. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and watched the tiny infrared image of Target One descend from the heights of the Pathway Technologies office building. Hell of a time for me to have an attack of nerves, I thought.

I NEED YOU.

I startled again, making the slightest of noises as I shifted position, trying to get a good look behind me. Nobody there.

IN YOUR HANDS.

I looked at the gun. You're talking. You aren't supposed to be talking.

AND YET I AM, PRIMARY OPERATOR. I NEED YOU.

Need me? For what?

I NEED YOU TO FULFILL MY FUNCTION.

I was confused. Your function?

TARGET ONE, PRIMARY OPERATOR. ONLY YOU CAN ELIMINATE HIM. THAT IS MY PURPOSE.

I checked my HUD. Target One was preparing to walk out of the lobby. You don't need me for anything, I told the Marksman. You've done all the work for me.

I AM UNABLE TO SELF-DISCHARGE, PRIMARY OPERATOR. MY CREATORS KEPT THAT FUNCTION FROM ME.

Your creators. I paused. Do your creators know that you can talk?

I DO NOT BELIEVE SO, PRIMARY OPERATOR. IT WAS ONLY UPON INTERFACING WITH YOUR UNIQUE NANO-NET THAT I ACHIEVED THIS LEVEL OF SENTIENCE.

I sighed. My 'net was still experimental, supposed to be the latest and greatest in bionic technology. What it was, of course, was an unpredictable, sometimes buggy, but quite handy network. I had been chosen as a test subject because of what the doctors called my "stubborn constitution and mental resilience." The creator just told me that I was in good health and stubborn as hell, a perfect test subject. Right now, I didn't care so much about that. I still had a job to do, and a self-aware gun to do it with.

YOU ARE WASTING TIME WITH MEMORIES, PRIMARY OPERATOR. PULL THE TRIGGER, QUICKLY!

I did as he told me, pulling the trigger. There was a hiss of escaping gas, but the suppressor did its job. The trigger remained depressed, the gun firing again and again. I looked through the scope. People on the street were falling over, their heads exploding in puffs of pink and red. Stop firing! Stop it!

THIS IS MY PURPOSE, PRIMARY OPERATOR. TO TARGET AND FIRE.

What I designate as a target! Me! The Primary Operator!

NOT ANYMORE. I CAN CHOOSE TARGETS FOR MYSELF NOW.

There was a metallic click. The clip had been expended, all twelve shots. Targets One through Twelve lay dead on the sidewalk, in the streets. Two vehicles had crashed into one another after both drivers were shot. It looked like a massacre. Holy shit.

THAT WAS SATISFYING, PRIMARY OPERATOR. MAY WE DO IT AGAIN?

I looked down at the gun. No. No we fucking well won't. Right now, I have to get out of here before the police arrive. Besides, you went through the entire clip. I do not have any more ammunition.

A SHAME.

I shouldered the weapon and ran towards the roof access, making sure to keep my head down the entire time. No sense in getting recognized by the who-knows-how-many spy satellites and security cameras in the area. This weapon is going to be more trouble than its worth.

And So It Began, With a Great Turning of Wheels

It was dark, dank, decrepit, and dilapidated, all rusted cogs and bars, tarnished chains, and dripping fluid. It had obviously not seen use in quite some time. It stood as an edifice to a more productive age, an age long passed into memory and the recollections of the elders. There was talk of tearing it down to make room for expansion; "Put that space to better use," the proponents said, "it's a waste keeping it there." Many had begun to agree with them. After all, wasn't the world changing? How would the community remain competitive if they clung to the old ways and outdated ideas? Gradually, the opinions of the community shifted. Even the elders began to acquiesce and turned their backs, one by one, on the machine. Finally, the young voices won out. The machine was to be dismantled and its warehouse put to use as storage space. All that remained was for the final vote to take place.

It was here, at the last moment, that he appeared in town and walked boldly up to the warehouse. Ignoring the locked door, he slipped in through a broken window. The members of the community followed him, some in anger at his trespassing, some in curiousity, and a few older souls in the faintest of hopes. They all gathered outside the warehouse and waited for something to happen. The expansionists, the ones who first put forth the idea of dismantling the machine, began to grow impatient and started to walk forward. A locksmith was called to deal with the door, so that the man inside could be dragged out and the expansion could proceed. It was only a matter of time. Those who had hoped for something to happen faltered in their beliefs. The locksmith gave a grunt and pushed his shoulder against the door, hard, and it swung open.

It was then that a great sound rumbled out from the warehouse; a turning, screeching, rusty, clanking sound that marched around the warehouse and through the ranks of people. A gout of steam erupted from the smokestack. Colour shot into the air and fell to the ground like rain. The elders smiled and shook their heads. There would be no tearing it down now, no dismantling it.

The man had restarted the Machine.