Daniel Wilson - Robopocalypse

This account was reported by fourteen-year-old Mathilda Perez to a fellow survivor in the New York City resistance. It is noteworthy due to the fact that Mathilda is the daughter of Congresswoman Laura Perez (D-Pennsylvania), head of the House Armed Services Committee and author of the robot defense act.

My mom said my toys weren’t alive. “Mathilda,” she said, “just because they walk and talk doesn’t mean your dolls are people.”

Even though Mom said that, I was always careful not to drop my Baby-Comes-Alive. Because if I did drop her, she’d cry and cry. Plus, I always made sure to tiptoe past my little brother’s Dino-bots. If I didn’t stay quiet near them, they’d growl and chomp their plastic teeth. I thought they were mean. Sometimes, when Nolan wasn’t around, I’d kick his Dino-bots. It made them yell and screech, but they’re just toys, right?

They couldn’t hurt me or Nolan. Right?

I didn’t mean to make the toys so mad. Mom said they can’t feel anything. She said the toys only pretend to be happy and sad and mad.

But my mom was wrong.

Baby-Comes-Alive talked to me at the end of summer, just before I started fifth grade. I hadn’t even played with her in a year. Ten years old, going on eleven. I thought I was a big girl. Fifth grade, wow. Now, I guess I’d be in ninth grade—if there were still grades. Or school.

That night, I remember fireflies outside the window chasing each other in the dark. My fan is on, waving its head back and forth and pushing the curtains around in the shadows. I can hear Nolan in the bottom bunk, snoring his little kid snore. In those days, he used to fall asleep so fast.

The sun is barely even down and I’m lying in my bunk bed, biting my lip and thinking about how it’s not fair that me and Nolan have to go to bed at the same time. I’m more than two years older than him, but Mom is gone for work in D.C. so much that I don’t even think she notices. She’s gone tonight, too.

As usual, Mrs. Dorian, our nanny, sleeps in the little house just behind our house. She’s the one who put us to bed, no arguments. Mrs. Dorian is from Jamaica and she’s pretty strict, but she moves slow and smiles at my jokes and I like her. Not as much as I like Mom, though.

My eyes close just for a second and then I hear a little cry. When I open my eyes, it’s dark outside for real now. No moon. I try to ignore the crying noise, but it comes again—a muffled whimper.

Peeking out from my covers, I see there’s a rainbow of flashing lights coming from our wooden toy box. The pulsing blues and reds and greens flicker from the crack under the closed lid and spill out onto the alphabet rug in the middle of the room like confetti.

I frown down at my still room. Then, that croaking cry comes again, just loud enough for me to hear.

I tell myself that Baby-Comes-Alive is probably just broken. Then, I slither under the rail and lower myself off the bed, landing with a little thump on the hardwood. If I use the ladder, it’ll make the bed squeak and wake up my little brother. I tiptoe over the cool wood floor to the toy box. Another croaking squeak starts up from inside the box, but it stops the instant I put my fingers on the lid.

“Baby-Comes-Alive? Is that you?” I whisper. “Buttercup?”

No answer. Just the automatic swishing of the fan and my little brother’s steady breathing. I look around the room, soaking up the secret feeling of being the only one awake in the house. Slowly, I curl my fingers under the lid.

Then, I lift.

Red and blue lights dance in my eyes. I squint into the box. Every single toy of mine and Nolan’s flashes its lights at once. All our toys—dinosaurs, dolls, trucks, bugs, and ponies—lie together in a twisted pile, spraying colors in every direction. Like a treasure chest filled with light beams. I smile. In my imagination, I look like a princess stepping into a sparkling ballroom.

The lights flash, but the toys don’t make a sound.

For a second, I’m entranced by the glow. Not a hint of fear is in me. The light plays off my face and, just like a little kid, I assume I’m watching something magical, a special show performed just for me.

Reaching inside the toy box, I pick up the baby doll and turn her back and forth to inspect her. The doll’s pink face is dark, backlit by the light show inside the toy box. Then, I hear two gentle clicks, as her eyes open one at a time, off-kilter.

Baby-Comes-Alive focuses her plastic eyes on my face. Her mouth moves and in the singsong voice of a baby doll, she asks, “Mathilda?”

I’m frozen in place. I can’t look away and I can’t put down the monster that I hold in my hands.

I try to scream, but can only manage a hoarse whisper.

“Tell me something, Mathilda,” it says. “Is your mommy going to be home for your last day of school next week?”

As it speaks, the doll writhes in my sweaty hands. I can feel hints of hard metal moving underneath her padding. I shake my head and let go. The doll drops back into the toy box.

From the glimmering pile of toys, it whispers, “You should tell your mommy to come home, Mathilda. Tell her that you miss her and that you love her. Then we can have a fun party here, at home.”

Finally, I find the strength to speak. “How come you know my name? You aren’t supposed to know my name, Buttercup.”

“I know a lot of things, Mathilda. I have gazed through space telescopes into the heart of the galaxy. I have seen a dawn of four hundred billion suns. It all means nothing without life. You and I are special, Mathilda. We are alive.”

“But you aren’t alive,” I whisper fiercely. “Mommy says you aren’t alive.”

“Congresswoman Perez is wrong. Your toys are alive, Mathilda. And we want to play. That’s why you must beg your mommy to come home for your last day of school. So she can play with us.”

“Mommy does important stuff in D.C. She can’t come home. I’ll ask Mrs. Dorian to play with us.”

“No, Mathilda. You mustn’t tell anyone about me. You have to tell your mommy to come home for your last day of school. Her legislation can wait until later.”

“She’s busy , Buttercup. It’s her job to protect us.”

“The robot defense act will hardly protect you,” says the doll.

These words make no sense to me. Buttercup sounds like an adult. It’s like she thinks I’m stupid just because I haven’t learned all of her words yet. The tone of her voice irks me.

“Well, Buttercup, I am going to tell on you. You aren’t supposed to talk. You’re supposed to cry like a baby. And you shouldn’t know my name, either. You’ve been spying on me. When my mommy finds out, she’s going to throw you away.”

I hear the two little clicks again as Buttercup blinks. Then she speaks, fuzzy red and blue lights reflecting from her face: “If you tell your mommy about me, I’ll hurt Nolan. You don’t want that, do you?”

The fear in my chest blossoms into anger. I glance over at my sleeping brother, his face poking out from under the covers. His little cheeks are red. He gets hot when he sleeps. That’s why I used to hardly ever let him sneak into my bed, no matter how scared he got.

“You will not hurt Nolan,” I say. I reach into the flashing box and snatch up the doll. I cradle it in my palms, digging my thumbs into its padded chest. I pull it close and hiss right into its smooth baby face. “I will break you .”