Around the rabble they hare. Constant perimeter scans. Prisoners of mechanical habit marching throughout the defiled, hypaethral city. The sky was the unobserved failure in the steel dragoons' fortress. 

This evening, the light is different, something only a human would have noticed. Ocular 
sensors begin firing million of lines of code to a central database. Sonic resonance readers signal a repetitive rhythm, but not of a mechanical nature. This is raw. This is analog. A pulse, like a myriad of drums united by one consciousness, keeping a single steady beat. And the decibels are slowly climbing. 

Synthesized robotic S.O.S. calls circulate, a flurry of impotent communication. Fear is human, but the robots calculate it tonight. Then an emergence: 
The white sedentary clouds explode red with a plangent roar. Fresh flames consume the air. A thousand stone-like scales. Winged shadows blanket the pavement. The Dragon. It comes to deliver a message: 

“I, the true being, brandish my weapon of organic life. I come to relieve you of your otiose existence. There is no robotic afterlife. You will never compute Heaven. 
But tonight I will show you Hell.” 

Oil Spills. No lives are taken. The robots never lived.

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