Elker

About 500 years ago, the Earth was practically destroyed. It's unclear to its current inhabitants what actually happened to it- as far as they know, the Earth has always appeared like this, since all historical documentation has been destroyed as well. In fact, the Earth is not 'Earth' anymore. They call it Gaison. They don't even speak in English or any other recognizable language to you or me. Although, for the sake of this story and readability, all will be translated into English, although beware that some nuance may be lost in the long run.

As expected of a society formed in a primarily deserted and harsh environment, the people and animals alike are primal and beastly. They form factions, they make families, not unlike now, but they do so with the thought that if they do not, they will likely die horribly.

The individual we will follow today has no belief in any of that. She's what we might call a lone wolf. In the deserts that were formerly Nevada, she walks with a patient pace. She has nowhere to be. She wears long, loose pants and a similarly loose, torn t-shirt, with a cloak just draped over her from head to ankle. Her manageably straight hair is black, and pulled back with what we would call a rubber band. She carries rocks in her pockets, and bears an ugly scar that tears into the very fabric of what makes her mouth a mouth, a tooth sticking out like a maggot hatching from an egg of flesh. Her eyes and skin are dark, adapted to the abusive sun, and she only looks forward, the sand sinking into her archaic sandals, probably made of some sort of wood.

Her name is Elker, and she is the love of my life.

Perhaps that comes across a bit too strong.

But she is the only human being I've seen consistently in so very long, from just beneath the sand. I think she has some sort of home around this desert. Maybe a cave? I find it hard to believe she built an establishment in such a desolate area. I've seen her pass many times throughout the months. Occasionally, she passes by with someone else, but I never see them a second time. I wouldn't be surprised if they had simply died while out here. Plenty die from starvation and dehydration. Even in the distance as I can see now, there lie eroded skulls and dried, old flesh just underneath the sand.

Elker lives a simple life out here. Away from factions and attempts at government. She hunts the critters that roam naturally around, and digs for water to store for the week. Self-sufficient. An admirable trait for any human being, and that also means she's likely rather athletic, which is seen as rather attractive.

Additionally, she likes music and art. I can hear her sometimes hum indiscernible tunes to herself. She even doodles in the sand with a long stick. Women with hobbies are always just enrapturing.

She's exactly my type. And yet I cannot bring myself to approach her. Partially because I physically can't, my wires and gears rusted beyond recognition and buried beneath pounds of sand. My joints simply won't move and only my head sticks out of the dune. The other part is that I feel indescribably shy. In my programming, I understand that humans mate with other humans exclusively. The reason for that being that, usually, should any variation occur, the natural consequences are quite dire. So she likely would not find me to be a suitable partner, since I'm nowhere near human.

Or, before Earth collapsed, there were a few people who could be identified as 'technophiles' or found themselves only attracted to inhuman creations of humanity, especially seen in the medium known as 'anime.' I would like to believe she is one of them, but the reasonable part of my 'mind' knows it is highly unlikely.

The sand had buried me so. Only my head peeks out. She's never even seen me because she doesn't like to traverse the dunes. I heard her say it herself. And she's walking by again. To abandon me here once more, and I get a flash of sudden urgency,

To what end do I hold back? I know what she likes, so why do I not try to go any further? Why not try to save myself from eternal misery in the process?

'Can't Help Falling in Love' by Elvis Presley begins to play from my head.

Elker stops her hike, hearing the music. There is no recorded music in her language, nor in any language used today, as far as I'm aware. And yet her face, as her gaze finds my head, seems to gleam with understanding. Her features soften at the piano. Her harsh, sharp dark eyes no longer resemble black pits, but dark chocolate. Her scar almost appear as a Van Gogh rather than a reminder of horrible events.

I feel nervous for a moment, as she doesn't immediately approach. Perhaps I've misread her. Perhaps she likes rock, or punk more. But after a long moment of the song playing, she finally steps toward me. She dusts the sand off my head, and if I were anywhere near human, I would have blooding rushing to my face with the way she smiles at me.

"Beautiful thing."

That's what she says, roughly translated into English. Elker then tries to pull me out, but the sand is too heavy. The song continues to play. She ponders over me for a long time before using her calloused hands to start shoveling the sand off of me.

I think of myself as a relatively handsome robot. I'm the average height for a human (around 5'6", in order to be comfortably short for women and not emasculating for men), with formerly well tuned levees and gears in order for me to be capable of walking and making gestures with my hands. Once she completes the job, the song has now started replaying. She pants and tilts her head, considering with a frown.

I'm certainly not in the best shape.

"Can you speak?"

She asks it in that rough and tumble way I anticipate, and it makes my circuits flutter like a hummingbird's wings.

I reply, my voice crackling, "I can speak. Your name is Elker, right?"

She grins, and holds out a hand.

Slowly, but surely, I reach out in kind. She helps me pull up, and I am smitten by her hard, fleshy hand. If I could feel, of course. I don't know if there is a word for 'love' in the language she speaks, but the way she holds my rusted hand as we walk off, presumably to where she lives, has me wondering if it even really matters at all.