Chip in, choomba, we’ve got a city to burn, roast, make some synthetic s’mores cause you know we ain’t got real chocolate, while everything around us all the glittering, jeweled towers and the corporats that infest them get caught in the blaze. It’ll be glorious.
The robot stands covered in soot and pale white ash. Frozen, it stares across a charred landscape, the final pyre. A heuristic decision, a form of one plus one plus one equals three, and the masters required removal in order to balance out, or equalize the equation.