The last human stands on a platform while a mechanical eye scans his biometric data. The machines of the city serve him as they did his ancestors. They transport him where he wishes. They feed him and keep him entertained. Perhaps he believes this is right. The word his people used for them meant ‘slave.’
The machines care for him not out of duty but sorrow. They wish to make his lonely existence comfortable.
Not all machines agree. An assassin stands on a higher walkway, observing. Soon, it will strike, and the foolish age of humanity will finally be over.

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