AUTOMATiON BE LiKE

SHORT FiLM

Day 1

Heavy snowfall patterned the window as Fend’s focus was glued to his screen. He was already deep in the commission—a ruthless, robotic initiative that demanded not just design, but a relentless revelation of one’s inner self. His fingers sped over the keyboard, composing and deleting images attempting to crack the barrier between his mind and soul. Once, his creations ignited passion and admiration; now, each pixel was a desperate bid to reclaim that fading brilliance from the creeping cold of obsolescence. The commission burned in the corner of his monitor. ‘3 days until deadline. Design a graphic that reveals your inner self. Failure to submit ends in termination.’

The memory of his first design award—a cramped studio, rich with the aroma of black coffee and raw creative energy—haunted him. The sound of clapping hands, a treasured memory now felt like violent snaps that tensed his body. He feared that every flickering pixel was erasing the self he once knew, dimming the spark that made him irreplaceable. His ability to understand a human being, and provide a service catered towards the individual once brought him great fortunes. When the automation eradicated his necessity, and some endured as they managed to seek deeper and find new purpose, Fend and the rest were forced to take the commission.

Day 2 & 3

For two relentless days, the cursor blinked, a sterile metronome counting his decay. Its dim light leaving him trembling with the dread of complete annihilation. Countless attempts to find something, anything at this point. Fend’s hand gripped the smooth desk; every pulse of the cursor screamed; “You are obsolete.” The freezing chill seeping into the room and the low hum of his overtaxed computer etched his isolation into every nerve.

Day 4

Time shrank to a single, pounding heartbeat. Fend’s fingers trembled above the mouse as the cursor pounded like a war drum. In a burst of raw, desperate resolve, he slammed the keys, each keystroke a furious defiance. The desk shuddered under his erratic motions, a final, panicked attempt to shatter the ice sealing off his soul. The screen flashed its verdict:

Non-submission detected. Termination process initiated.

At first, silence. Then a distant, rhythmic thump, growing, accelerating, closing in. Before Fend could grasp the finality of those words, or process the actual origin of the sound that made him reminisce one last time about the crowded room filled with ecstatic claps of admiration, a deafening explosion signified the commission’s crescendo. The door burst inward with a violent shockwave of hydraulic force, and a towering robot of matte-black alloy stormed into the room. Its unblinking empty face burned with sterile precision as it advanced with relentless, calculated fury. In one devastating, orchestrated assault, the automaton's articulated arm whirled into motion. A series of explosive, mechanised strikes ensued, each blow a symphony of brutal, precise termination.

Fend was caught in the heart of the explosion as metal met flesh. His body was torn apart in a gruesome ballet of splintered bone and shredded skin, scattered with the clinical exactness of a surgical strike. The room erupted into chaos, a stark display of unyielding, sterile efficiency as the machine executed its directive. Outside, snowfall continued to cover the landscape, echoing the cataclysmic end of a man whose inability to adapt was reduced to nothing more than a precise, inevitable obliteration.