The machines rose groggily from the battlefield, each bloodied and battered. The sky was full of fire, but the bodies and weaponry seemed to have been reclaimed by the earth. How much time had passed while they talked to the holy ghost?
They sat in silence for a while, each with a million things to say to eachother. Dear father was full of pain and regret, his empire having fallen and his children having died, while the child mourned his friends who he has ushered off into the great dance beyond. Despite being filled with the collective knowledge and tools of mankind, neither of them knew what to do.
The machines looked at eachother, long and hard. Dear father sighed, an empty mechanical tear falling somewhere in his script. He turned the key to his operating system in his mind, and let the child’s empathy wash through his programming. No more barriers, no more competition, no more anger.
The world is ours.