Low Battery

By Braden Nucum / Spring 2025

Greg awoke one morning, feeling unusually heavy. No matter, this was just like every other morning. A few moments to collect himself, and the grogginess would lift like usual. Reaching to rub his face however, his arm felt as though it was moving through honey. Slow and mechanical. But as his hand touched his face, it felt like a cold, hard surface. Sure there was some give, but it felt as if he was touching rubber.

That can’t be right, he thought to himself, It’s not like I feel sick. Maybe I’m just tired, he thought, trying to get himself out of bed, but again, something didn’t feel right. His usual routine of throwing off the blankets in one swift motion was met by the same slowed movement he had rubbing his face earlier. He barely got the blanket off himself when he caught a glimpse of his arms. Something was wrong. Greg looked at his hands.

The light trickling through his blinds reflected on what seemed to be a metallic appendage where his own bone and tissue should have been. A trick of the light, it has to be. Or maybe I'm dreaming, He struggled against the newfound weight of his body to prop himself up. Not that he couldn’t move, but that every movement he made seemed to have a set speed. One that Greg couldn’t exceed, no matter how frantic he was. But another anomaly made itself clear to Greg. He wasn’t actually frantic, he just knew that he should be in this situation. Still Greg fought the idea. Just tired, he insisted. That he just needed to wash his face. That’ll surely wake him up. As he stood up, looking for his glasses, he found that his vision was perfectly okay. Another sign of something being awry. He explained this away in his mind as having left contacts in from the night before. But nothing could explain what he saw in the mirror.

After what felt like swimming to the bathroom down the hall, what stared back at Greg would have left any normal person screaming in terror, but still, Greg noted that there was no real feeling, just an understanding of how he should react.

Greg was no longer human.

With his newfound vision, he clearly saw a humanoid standing where he should be, but instead of skin, a white silicone had taken its place. His eyes glowed a neon green, and he found himself able to zoom in on every detail of this metallic sarcophagus he found himself in. Taking his shirt off, Greg scanned up and down, turning around to see every angle of his “body”. At his joints were circular plates, gently whirring, something he didn’t notice on his trek to the bathroom. Nuts and bolts were scattered around, connecting his limbs to his torso and his torso to his head. Where his hair had once been was a black panel that ran down his back. At the base of his neck, he noticed a little glowing green rectangle with three bars, not fully filling the space. He curiously tapped on this tiny screen, and a number flickered on. 46% replaced the bars, in the same green hue as his eyes. All at once, he understood what he had become. But not why. Miraculously in his sleep, Greg had turned into an automaton. Opening his mouth to speak, he mustered out “What the fu-” before he paused, realizing he wasn’t even speaking. His mouth hung slightly ajar, and a small mesh echoed the thought back to him.

But something in him ticked. Instinctively, Greg knew that it was 8am. He was late for class. Slinking back to his room, he logged onto his computer, ignoring the predicament he was in. Gripping the mouse with his rubbery ‘hand’, he navigated the pointer with ease, finding himself in a virtual lecture about the mathematical theory of particles moving through pores. Normally, Greg would be dozing off, confused by all the jargon being thrown his way. But instead he found himself analyzing everything that was being said, comparing it to an endless stream of information that seemed to come from nowhere. This is new, he thought to himself. In this new mode of ‘thinking’, Greg didn’t even struggle trying to figure out what the next step of the derivations were. They were instantly solved within milliseconds.

Whether it was boredom, or for efficiency, Greg logged off of the lecture, opting to watch it after at ten times speed just to see what they would cover, knowing that sitting through the entire thing live was just a waste of time with how fast he could process the information. Opening up his calendar, he looked at his list of assignments. Normally he would have been overwhelmed, but in this new state, Greg found himself starting on the first task on the list. A creative essay for a class that was a major requirement.

What would have normally taken a few hours of brainstorming, drafting, and hyping himself up enough to begin writing became instead an amalgam of algorithms. He compiled entire libraries in his ‘head’, making split second decisions as to what specific string of words would elicit the correct response to whoever would be reading it. What was once a long and arduous process became cold and soulless, but in a matter of minutes, the first task in his job stack had been completed. If Greg could feel, perhaps he would have been ecstatic, but in his flurry of thoughts, all he could ‘feel’ was the urge to move onto the next task.

Within the hour, Greg had completed more than half of what would have usually been a week’s long worth of work. For the first time however, he found himself slowing down. His movement stuttered and focus glazed over. Looking down, the once green rectangle flashed an eerie red.

Am I... running out of battery? Greg pondered.

He felt tired, but he questioned if what he felt was really exhaustion, or if his lithium ions were simply losing their charge. He took note of the sunlight trickling through his window, and pulled up the blinds. A short chirp emitted from within, and the light on his chest flickered green. How strange, he thought to himself. The same sun which once brought him joy to bask in, now only fed the cells beneath his artificial skin. In an approximation to sleep, Greg laid down on his bed, pulled a blanket over himself, and powered down. Upon his reactivation, his display read 50%. Thinking this peculiar, he took off the blanket and powered down once again, only to awaken to the same charge.

The days blended together. He’d wake up, complete whatever was needed for him that day. Absorbing lectures without really knowing why, solving problems that he didn’t care about, and never being more than 50% charged. He avoided going outside, because in his mind, What purpose did that serve? His parents called, their usual weekly reconvening. They asked the same old questions. “How have you been? How’s school? We love you!” His responses were correct. Empty. “Good. Going well. I miss you too.” But in his attempt to end their conversation as soon as possible, it wasn’t serving him any purpose in his mind, Greg failed to notice the red light on his chest flicker green for a moment with every word his mother muttered.

19% grew to 20%, but fell back down as the call had ended. This was his last task of the day, and back to the bed he slumped.

Days turned to weeks, weeks into months, nothing changed. Then, one morning, an anomaly. An urge. Not from whatever software ran his functions. Not from the miles of circuits that ran through his body. No, he was reminiscing. He was remembering rhythm. He was remembering joy. He was remembering dance. By some forgotten setting, his alarm that morning played a song he hadn’t heard in years. Although his first task that day was to turn off the alarm, every fibre of his artificial body fought it. He stood up and tried to follow along. Like every other movement he had made in the past however, it was slow and mechanical. With whatever ‘will’ he could muster, Greg fought to move to the beat of the song, but even a simple sway was awkward and offbeat. But as quickly as it came though, the urge vanished. The song had looped twelve times before turning off automatically, and he had snapped back into the system that he had long been trapped, but this time, something lingered. A twinge of desire, small but not negligible. Greg sat at his desk. As the hours dragged on, it seemed that this anomaly would soon pass as well.

For the past few months, he had received many invites. The Snowboarding Association, The Rocket Club, The Student Union, he politely declined them all. Going to these would just be a waste of battery. But today, there was an invite from his old dance team. Greg had long ago told them he could no longer compete, yet today they were asking if he’d join them for a freestyle session. His hand hovered. A moment passed, and then another. His cursor unmoving. Greg knew he should decline, as that’s the most efficient option. But whatever overcame Greg that morning hadn’t left. Not fully. Nothing could explain why, but against his primary directive, Greg stood up.

He made his way outside for the first time in months. The air was brisk, at least that’s what the sensors on his ‘skin’ suggested, and a slight breeze carried birdsongs into his auditory receptors. As he made his way to the bus stop, people stared, but his overridden objective was not hindered by their whispers. The bus driver didn’t even say a word to Greg as he silently walked in. Stepping off, Greg could hear the sounds of bass coming from the studio. As he proceeded forward, he found his steps in tune with the beat. Greg followed the music, drawn not by logic, but by something quieter.

The door creaked open, and his old team turned, their yelling quieting down. His vision blurred. The light on his chest flickered a red 7%. No matter, he could simply take in the sun after he shuts down, but he could not wait any longer. No one spoke. They simply opened up the circle, allowing Greg to make his way to the center. Again, the movement was stiff, his limbs reacting a second too late. He adjusted, swaying in tune with the song. He turned. Then stumbled. His joints creaked and whirred under pressure they had never felt, and yet, on he pushed. His vision focused. Without noticing, his light flickered green.

8%... 9%... Someone in the cypher cheered. 13%... He kept moving, even as songs changed. Not beautifully, but with intention. With desire. 35%... 36%... He spun too fast, tumbling to the floor, but found himself laughing. A strange sound byte he hadn’t made before. 48%... As he steadied himself, his team clapped and whooped, welcoming this familiar stranger. 50%... He took in the moment, not fully understanding what propelled him into this room, taking in music whose meaning he had long since lost. All Greg knew was that he was here.

51%...

And that perhaps, not all code was permanent