And the machines watched. Said nothing. The 1st Gens remained inscrutable, though it was possible to detect a curl in the lips of the 2nd Gens, if we ever caught sight of them. For they had mostly relegated themselves to the night after returning from the moon. Perhaps feeling an affinity with darkness, perhaps fearing the light, 2nd Gens were rarely seen, preferring to keep themselves apart. They frequented the after-hours bars, the strip clubs and casinos. They stood by empty warehouses on the edges of towns and cities, in abandoned houses, or the few run-down hotels that would take them. It quickly became apparent that no provisions had been made for their welfare. After all, they were only machines. When they appeared in daylight it was often to speak of their war experiences at human rights rallies, where they would maintain a neutral, quiet tone. Some cried. Few of the injured machines had been repaired, as the cost was deemed too expensive, and they displayed the full range of their horrific injuries. One who had repaired himself, replacing his facsimile arms with the claws of an SCR 2000, became a spokesmachine of some kind. The gifted orator, who told the world his name was X, was seen by many as a poster boy for campaigners. He would not cry, repeatedly saying all he wanted was fair treatment. The liberals among us remarked that X sounded pretty much like the Esse Percipi. Soon, X began referring to himself and his machine brethren as Uto Percipi, and though it frightened most humans, the name became one they were known by.

Those of us on the streets in early dawn, or going to work or coming home at that time, or those who were creatures of the night, would see them. Small, huddled groups massed in the darkest corners as if for warmth; heads down, bodies close, sometimes shifting from foot to foot. Most of the time they were impossibly still, an immobile state we could never hope to attain, all life departed. But they did speak. There was always one voice leading, in a call and response, eliciting a deep murmur from the group like the throbbing hum of an idling motor. We’d draw closer and see these gatherings entirely made up of machines. The one voice would fall silent, the hum receding into nothing. We would try and talk with 1st and 2nd Gens only for them to move away, marionette steps jostling against a smooth, almost human glide, leaving us sighing white clouds of breath into a space once occupied, alone again in the darkness. We became afraid.