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The world had been abandoned three years ago. They had decided that it was time to move on, as they did every few years. And, the robot floating in the ocean was left behind. As robots usually are, if they become outdated and unneeded.
Grumbot was unneeded. He knew he was, his sole purpose was to help people. And he had. So he was left behind, he had served his purpose. He supposed it had been that way from the very beginning, but no one had decided to clue him into the fact that he in fact could not join the Hermits in the next season of Hermitcraft.
His dads had said goodbye, at least. They had left him alone after breaking a hole in the sky. Why was there a hole in the sky? It was none of his concern, he couldn’t even fit through it if he tried. He couldn’t even move . His body was stuck in the ground, after all.
Mumbo had won the election, they had said. Everything was good, they said. He believed them, of course, why wouldn’t he? They were his dads, they were always honest with him. They cared for him.
So why had they left? Surely they would be back, of course they would. They would be back. They’d come and get him, they wouldn’t leave him there forever.
Grumbot was a patient robot. He would be patient with his dads, because he trusted them and their judgment. Grian and Mumbo would be back.
So he waited, and waited. A week had passed and not even a firework could be heard. Grumbot had glanced up at the sky millions of times, but the sun never seemed to change. Stuck at half past two o’clock in the afternoon. It wasn’t a bad time, but one can only tell the same time so many times before getting suspicious as to why the sun wasn’t setting. Grumbot didn’t think much of it. He had the birds and a sheep to keep him company, and even Professor Beak was there! Surely Grian would remember to come back for them both, he’d never leave them behind.
Grumbot waited. Two weeks, three weeks, one month, four months.
…Maybe Grian and Mumbo were just on a break. It wasn’t a big deal, Grumbot could wait for his dads.
He watched the sheep graze the grass in front of him, and his gears whirred as his eyes crinkled with a smile. That sheep was cute. He wanted to talk to it, but sheep couldn’t read messages on paper. What a shame. He supposed he could pet it, but he didn’t want to scare it away.
The sheep made him forget about his dads even if just for a moment. The sheep made him happy. But sheep didn’t last forever, unfortunately. Living things died. And Grumbot wasn’t alive. That made him sad. He didn’t want the sheep to die.
Grumbot slowly lowered his hand. The gears and pistons made awful popping and grinding noises in his arm, but he knew it was just from lack of use. The sheep stopped grazing and lifted its head up to look at him, freezing in place.
Grumbot hesitated before reaching his hand forward slowly. The sheep walked cautiously over, and nuzzled its head into Grumbot’s large metal hand, bleating softly.
If Grumbot had a heart it would be melting with emotion. He stroked a finger gently down the sheep’s back, wishing he could feel the softness of the wool that covered the sheep’s skin. But he couldn’t. He would never feel anything, except the four emotions that his dads had given him. Sad, happy, angry and numb.
Grumbot was sad that he hadn’t seen his dads in a while. He was sad that he couldn’t feel the grass beneath him, or the sheep that was licking the metal that plated his hand. He was sad that he couldn’t move, or go find his dads.
A year. A year had passed since Grumbot had last seen his dads. He indulged himself in making his sheep happy, therefore he was happy. He was still helping. He hadn’t lost a purpose yet.
The sheep eventually started to make strange noises, and move a bit funny. It would move around in its sleep, almost as if it was uncomfortable. It wouldn’t stand very much anymore. It eventually lay down next to Grumbot, so it could eat and sleep in his presence. Grumbot noticed the pain it was in. Was it sick? Grian had been sick once. Mumbo had described it as a “fever.” Could the sheep have a fever? He didn’t know what a fever was. How would he make it better?
Eventually the sheep stopped getting up at all. He had noticed its hooves had gotten all red and probably irritated. Grumbot tried to make the sheep as comfortable as possible. He moved it carefully to another spot where there was more grass when the ground started to show where it was eating, and pet it to sleep every night. There was only so much a huge robot could do with huge metal hands.
The days dragged on.
A day came when the sheep stopped moving altogether, its head and body curled in on itself and facing Grumbot. Grumbot could see its wool barely rising and falling in slow, labored breaths. It leaned its head into his touch, bleating softly and weekly.
A few days later it passed away. Grumbot noticed the lack of any movement or breathing at all, and he realized with a start that it was gone. He leaned down and tried to wake it, make it move, anything. It was his fault. He didn’t do anything to make it better, or help it recover. He had failed to help.
Grumbot picked it up gently with a robotic sniffle, and moved it over to an overgrown patch of bushes in an attempt to bury it. The world was silent around Grumbot, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something different.
Miraculously, it hurt. Grumbot had never hurt before. This was new. It hurt so bad that Grumbot wasn’t sure what to do. Could this be grief? Grian had described it to him sometime, when he had been sitting on Grumbot’s shoulder recounting an event in his life when he had lost someone close to him. He had mentioned someone named Taurtis, but Grumbot didn’t recognize the name or what Grian was talking about. Grian had described grief as a never ending pain in your chest, and even if it gets smaller it doesn’t go away.
Grumbot figured felt something similar now. After he had placed the last bush over the mound of grass and dirt he had accumulated, he turned his head back to face the mayoral headquarters. It had just become a part of his view now, so far away and small, the afternoon sun shining above as it always did. Grumbot wondered why the sun would shine when he felt this way. Why it did so even when his sheep was dead. When his dads were gone.
He missed his sheep. He missed his dads, and all the hermits that had ever come to visit him on his tiny concrete island before his dads had left through a hole in the sky. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand why he was alone, or why no one would come. He had failed to help his sheep, just as he had with everything except the election. Had his dads just forgotten he was there, on the island? He didn’t get it.
Grumbot wished he could cry, just as he had seen Grian do a few times when his other dad wasn’t around. He wished he could yell, ask for a hug. Even just walking would be a dream come true.
Suddenly Grumbot heard a loud clunking and creaking noise, and for a moment he thought his prayers would be answered. Then the Sun went out. Well, more flickered out, to be precise. Grumbot’s world was darkened, and he was overcome with a sinking feeling. Why was the world dark? The sky was still a bright cyan blue, but there was no light.
No real tears fell, but his expression shifted from a neutral state to one that looked sadder than he had ever felt before, glowing letters of code seeping down the screen that was his face like tears. In the silent, dark space that was his reality, Grumbot cried.