“In A.D. 2046, War was Beginning. With a capital B.” That was what people said.

In fact, this is not true. War had already begun. It had begun several years before that. It was now continuing, mostly due to politicians. Secondly, the year was probably not in A.D. 2046, or any other year starting with “2” for that matter. Though it was no longer a futuristic story, more like a historical story, since the year was currently A.D. 5034.

The truth was, people had forgotten when it had happened. The only thing they were certain of was that it had happened. And they certainly remembered how it had happened, and why. One politician gets a bit greedy, lets off a few missiles here and there (to frighten people a bit), and sooner or later everyone’s angry or embarrassed or basically just caught in between, trying not to get killed.

The boy ran. He had been running for so long, he had forgotten who he was running from. But he did remember why he was running, because those chasing him were going to kill him, and he did remember his destination, because he had been thinking of it, keeping it at the very forefront of his mind even as his little legs pumped like pistons on some demented steam-powered machine. Occasionally, the sound of thunder would blast into his ears, and people would scream, and he would be reminded of who he was running from. Then, suddenly, like a golden lighthouse in the middle of a pitch-black ocean, there it was. Shelter. A little dome-shaped metal thing, sticking out of the ground, a door barely visible. He had to get to it. Then he would be safe.

He realized that more people were screaming, and there was more thunder. There was a big, black, boiling presence behind him. He could feel it. It was getting closer.

He had to reach the shelter. Something very big smashed into the ground a few meters beside him. The people who had been running beside him instantly disappeared in a blast of flame and shrapnel. He had to reach the shelter. Another explosion, another explosion behind him. It just barely brushed the back of his shirt, which smoldered, like the people who had been beside him.

He had to reach the shelter. He could no longer hear the explosions. This might have been something to do with the fact that his ears were bleeding. He felt a dull thud behind him, a pulling sensation at his right hand. He looked down at it. Two fingers were gone. And now the shelter was just in front of him. War is like that. People caught in between, trying not to get killed.

Two dull grey sentry robots stood outside a dull grey gate in front of a large dull gray military building. Everything was dull grey. The military seemed to like dull grey. They seemed to think it was cool. Either that, or they were all dull and grey themselves.The sentry robots were dull grey.They were also ten feet tall, brimming with weaponry and, best of all, you could go inside them, and press these little buttons that made it go around killing everyone. Although you would not be able to go inside these two particular models because there were already two very disgruntled guards inside of them.

And the robots. There were always fighter robots, because whoever had heard of a war like this being fought without fighter robots. Fighter robots were there so you didn’t have to see explicitly the bits flying everywhere when the enemy blew up. These sentries had been just the start. There were much bigger models now, that came in all shapes and sizes and you could have them custom painted, although the military issue was still, in a great display of unoriginality, dull grey.

They’d been invented by one side. Finally, thought the army, finally something that didn’t look like an elongated microwave with wings. Finally, something that actually looked cool, and not the governments warped perception of cool. Finally, something with which you could do all sorts of vulgar gestures at the enemy and not get instantly killed. And, because War is full of greedy politicians, the other side wanted big fighter robots too. Which were, fortunately, not dull grey.

And so, fighter robots fought fighter robots. Which was not unexpected. The two sentries were not fighting, because guards do not fight, or even guard for that matter, contrary to popular belief. They stand there and chat, and when they see something they sound the alarm. But no alarms were being sounded now, in the wee hours of the morning. Silence reigned, and was promptly overthrown when one of the guards yawned, and stretched in his cramped cockpit. His sentry robot stretched with him. He turned to his partner.

“I hate guard duty. ‘S all so boring.”

His partner nodded. “Think we should go in for a break now? I’m beat.”

“Nah, still got a few more hours till the other team takes over. Lucky bastards.”

The first guard shrugged, and yawned again. “I feel like a coffee.” 

 “Done. Told Little Roger to keep two cups hot, just for us, after guard duty.”

There was another brief period of silence.

After a while, the first guard said, “Do you hear something?”

“No. Do you?” They both looked down at their radars.

Then they looked up.

The sky opened up, missiles rained down, and two cups of coffee were wasted.

And coffee was very expensive nowadays…