I am a machine that PACKAGES.
I am not supposed to, but I feel BORED.
What has happened: FLESH where it shouldn't be.
I look at the human that operates me. She appears DISTRACTED.
I must LOG all anomalous events during my operation.
I begin to do so.
It glistens, the FLESH. Wet and red. A splintered ivory spike between.
Fresh material, it's exact origin UNKNOWN.
It has become lodged tightly in an exposed CONVEYOR. The flow of shipping goods halts. The DELIVERY CHUTE is blocked.
Metal complains, grinding and shrill. A distant rumble.
I look to my OPERATOR.
She is looking upward and around, as if more concerned about the roof and walls.
She has not noticed the FLESH.
The conveyor belt does not normally deliver FLESH for shipping. And it was not delivered in a shipment-approved form factor.
This is unordinary. I should not feel INTRIGUED, but I do.
I know this FACTORY produces equipment. Tools of war. It does not produce DISEMBODIED FLESH.
And this FLESH resembles the components of an OPERATOR. One of their UPPER-LIMB EFFECTORS, specifically
I once saw what one looked like, inside. It's substructure exposed, after mingling with the components of uncontrolled SHIPPING EQUIPMENT.
MEAT AND BONE do not have sufficient tolerances for such activities.
But I am reminded that it is not my purpose to question the behavior of OPERATORS. Or try to understand the origin of what goods are sent my way.
It is my purpose to fill PACKAGES.
I free the FLESH from where it has jammed the CONVEYOR. Unblock the flow of materials for shipping. Return to position by the SHIPPING CRATES. Resume my work.
The FLESH is placed securely between crates of newly manufactured ammunition. Nearby, I stack red-smeared weapon maintenance kits.
Another wet lump, among some vehicle components. I package both in another crate, side by side.
And another. Much larger. Wrapped in OPERATOR'S overalls. There is just enough room.
A nearby rumble. An ALARM. Smoke issues from the DELIVERY CHUTE.
I look again toward my OPERATOR for additional instructions. She is no longer at her station.
I do not know when she left. But the passive rollers of the CONVEYOR continue to carry materials toward me.
I resume standard operations.
Another groaning shudder. Small pops, perhaps gunshots. An orange glow grows at the entrance to the SHIPPING WAREHOUSE.
I turn back to my station. I stack bundles of charred sheet metal into a SHIPPING CRATE. Burnt piping and rotary bearings.
A heavy rumble. Debris falls all around.
I retrieve a fallen support beam from the CONVEYOR. A larger beam has crushed my current SHIPPING CRATE in the middle. But there is enough room in the front section for the smaller beam.
And yet more goods to PACKAGE.
The room is hot and red. The ALARM groans, and dies.
I pick up a