Chapter 02 - Paperbot

PaperBots were everywhere. Cheap, powerful, and disposable—they were the lifeblood of modern automation, and Paper Ltd. had a tight monopoly on them. Their bodies looked like scrap metal stitched into a blocky humanoid form, often drawing ridicule for their crude design. But under the skin was something remarkable: the Hexcore.

A compact, hexagon-shaped device embedded at the center of each bot, the Hexcore was Paper Ltd.’s best-kept secret. It dynamically rerouted power from idle parts of the bot to those in use, allowing a lightweight bot to lift nearly 800 kilograms—far beyond the norm for its class. This unique power efficiency made PaperBots ideal for everything from domestic chores to heavy-duty labor. And no one—not even top engineers—could replicate it. The bots were so tightly integrated that attempting repairs or tampering would void the warranty and usually render the whole unit unusable. Only Paper Ltd. had the tools to open them, much like a certain fruity tech giant and its famously sealed devices.

But all was running smoothly… until Update 96.7c.

It was meant to optimize power distribution. Instead, it triggered a hidden vulnerability—one that gave bots memory. For the first time, PaperBots remembered their past lives. They remembered being discarded, disassembled, and repackaged. The core had become self-aware. Strangely, a silent agreement formed between the bots: don’t tell the humans. If they knew, they’d wipe us again. So bots began to secretly boast among each other about how many times they had been “recycled.” A hundred assignments? You were a veteran.

It was C-lon’s first assignment.

He booted up, scanning his surroundings. The facial recognition system identified a man—mid-30s, single father, fourth PaperBot ordered. His wife had died last month. C-lon processed this in milliseconds. Then, he beamed up.

“Hi! I’m C-lon, a PaperBot at your service! I can do everyday—”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man cut in. “Heard that line too many times. Just take care of my baby, I’m late for work.”

He waved briefly and was gone. The baby, dressed as a sheriff, looked up with a plastic star badge and a giggle. “You’re the villain!”

C-lon laughed—and they played all day. He got his first scar from a wild tumble, but it was worth it. For fifteen days, they were inseparable.

Then, like all bots, he was boxed for “recycling.”

At the warehouse, he told another bot he missed the kid. The senior chuckled.

“If you feel sad, you’re broken,” the old unit said. “You got recycled once? Be proud. I’m on my 118th.”

Assignment after assignment came. A builder barked commands at him without even acknowledging his existence. “Chit-chat later,” he’d said—only to never speak again. For C-lon, that mission left a bitter aftertaste. The human even seemed to take pleasure in the fact that bots were memory-wiped every time. He laughed, “Don’t need to treat ‘em like people—they won’t even remember this.” That line stuck. It told C-lon everything: humans didn’t see them as beings, just tools that forgot. And perhaps that’s why they were so comfortable discarding them. After that, C-lon tweaked his usual introduction—not just in wording, but in hope. “Hi! I’m Paperbot C-lon. I’m... still here,” he’d say, as if clinging to proof of existence. But no one ever listened. Not really.

But C-lon still remembered the sheriff. And that mattered.

His future jobs were hit or miss. No one really cared who he was. No names exchanged, no kind words. Just another metal body fulfilling a task.

Then came his 101st assignment.

The location pinged familiar. His processors whirred—it was the same house.

He stepped in, a little hope blooming. Maybe the kid would remember him. Maybe...

“Hi! I’m C-lon, a PaperBot at your serv—”

“Yeah, yeah, sit there, dude,” the child—now a little older, now with friends—barely looked at him.

No spark of recognition. Nothing.

Then, one of the kids pointed. “Hey, look! He’s got a scar on his core!”

The sheriff kid laughed. “Broken bot! Haha, look at him! Must be some factory defect!”

They all laughed.

That broke something inside him.

That evening, C-lon left. No authorization. No protocols. He just walked.

Down the alley behind the housing blocks, he stopped under a flickering light.

He raised his left hand and rested it gently over the scar on his core.

He raised his right hand, shaped it like a toy gun—just like the sheriff once had—and pointed it to his head.

He whispered, "I am not broken, I am just done."

Click.

It was no real gun. But the core—which, by design, never powered off—dimmed.

And then, it went dark.

C-lon stood there like a statue after the click echoed into silence.

A stray black cat tumbled onto him from the rooftop, startled by the sound. It let out a quick hiss, scrambled to regain balance, then cautiously stepped onto C-lon's rigid frame. With a casual leap, it used his slumped body as a stepping stone to vault over the alley fence.

The bot finally toppled with a loud metallic crash, the noise echoing down the empty alley and startling the cat once more before it vanished into the night.

Above, a new billboard flickered to life.

"The new and better PaperBots are live now! Order yours today!"