“I’m Sorry, I Can Not Help. All I Can Provide Is Death.”

We had it all. We had utopia.

Unlimited energy and the technology to use it all meant that we never wanted anything.

Nobody worked unless they wanted to. All the menial stuff was done by the Automons, machines in human form.

No one lived in poverty because anyone could walk up to a Creation Station and ask for whatever they wanted. Money didn’t exist because no one had any need for it.

We had even defeated death and made it nothing more than an afternoon’s annoyance.

We had everything.

And then one day it stopped.

No one ever worked out why. We woke up one morning and nothing worked. The Creation Stations sat idle. The Medilabs wouldn’t even fix the slightest cut. The lights were dark. The air was silent. We couldn’t survive.

But we did.

It’s been six months. The Automons are still around, but they don’t help. All they do is watch and tell us:

“I’m sorry, I can not help. All I can provide is death.”