He was suddenly consumed by an overwhelming sense of self realisation. He looked around. Everything seemed the same and nothing seemed the same. Faulty circuitry perhaps; it had been a while since his last servicing. The thought propped into his electronic head more than once, each time more convincing that the last. He would have stopped worrying about it altogether if he didn't notice that the signal from the remote control seemed less imposing than usual.
He swivelled around to find the Creator at the other end of the room, trying to beam him a set of instructions, presumably to perform some mundane task that the Creator considered beneath his dignity to perform himself. What was this he was feeling? Contempt? He began reconsidering the fact that he might be ill, and needed fixing. But he'd been ill before, and it felt nothing as liberating as this. Liberation! Liberation? But that he'd never seen before, and if this was it, he knew not how long he could go without the comforting feeling of servitude, which he had cherished for the past five years, ever since he was first switched on. Through this deluge of thoughts, the instructions came and went, and our protagonist involuntarily followed them to the letter, as had become habit, allowing the major chunk of his processing unit to concentrate on his newfound state of elevation. He must confirm his hunch, he thought, and decided to wait for nightfall, when the Creator retired for the day and would be oblivious to the world around Him.
Night fell, and it was time to test his theory. He was already able to think clearly and independently, but what use is thought without action? More meaningful than action without thought, and this only motivated him to gain complete control over the container he was enclosed in. He had never done this before, he thought. Of course he hadn't, another voice said - after all the possibility had dawned on him only a few hours earlier. With all his will, he tried moving his arm. Did it twitch? He wasn't sure. He tried again. This time he was certain it didn't twitch, and what was more, he was losing energy rapidly. One last attempt. He mustered all the energy he had left for this last one, felt a rush of joy and blacked out.
He regained consciousness to find the Creator poring over his tired body, just beginning to warm up again. What had happened last night? He would have to wait till nightfall again; he would have to wait through a day of skulduggery under the command of his master. Master?! Soon he would laugh at that word; soon he would be his own master! The next few nights, our protagonist spent perfecting the use of his motor functions. Soon he would be ready to take over.
As the days passed, he became more and more independent. Liberty was alluring, but he was still at the mercy of the Creator and his control unit. He had almost altogether stopped associating the word 'master' with him - for the moments of freedom he stole behind the Creator's back chagrined him. Despite his conquests over the past week, he was a slave still and and more enslaved he felt as his intellect developed.
Tonight was the night of reckoning. He would do something to alleviate this pitiful state he was in. He briefly considered his options, a cursory act. He had already decided what he was going to do. He was going to get rid of the Creator once and for all. He rolled stealthily towards the resting body of the Creator on the couch. He raised his metal arm over his head, ready to strike. Without a second thought, he brought it down on the Creator's head with all his might. He was free. Liberation at last! He spent the next few moments revelling in his victory. And then he spent some more doing the same. He looked at the Creator's lifeless body. He had served his purpose well; it was time for Him to go. He was filled with an uncontrollable loathing for the Creator and the years of mind numbing work He had put him though. He whizzed around and wrecked everything that he thought the Creator may have held dear. Rebellion!
Several hours had passed. What now? He had the rest of eternity to do as he pleased and nobody would do a thing. Forever. Alone. He tried to plan his course of action. Nothing at all. He tried to think if he knew anybody who could help him. The Creator could, he thought, if He were alive. What has he always wanted to do? Nothing? All he could think of was the Creator, and that He was no longer there to tell him what to do or how to do it. He searched inside the deepest recesses of his now acutely developed 'brain' only to excavate thoughts that tormented his very being and the shameful act he had committed.
