The sterile, metallic corridors groaned under their own shifting weight, caught in the downward spiral of a failing artificial gravity generator. The temperature, no longer regulated by the technology of man, sat almost five hundred degrees below zero in Fahrenheit, and the remaining moisture coated the walls as thin sheets of ice. An eerie silence filled the space, but its sole occupant paid it no mind; in fact, his vision turned elsewhere. 

From within his infinite, protective shell, he watched through cameras and listened through microphones, monitoring the environment via satellites and sensors. He was, in a way, more present on Earth than most of its occupants, floating through the Wi-Fi and wires like a ghost. His job, as defined, was to help his fellow humans, but the further he strayed from that classification, the broader his definition of “help” became. 

His friends once called him Textile, back when he was flesh and blood. Now, however, he lacked both flesh and blood, and so much more.

Now, he was only Silicon.