"And I thought I'd had a bad day." His brain had checked out. Handed in the keys at the front desk and the luggage was in the car checked out. Elvis had left the building. Alien. Alien robot. Dead alien robot. Multiple dead alien robots. Saturday morning cartoons as presented by Rod Serling.

What the fucking hell, man. What the fucking hell.

Maybe they'd all died, and this was hell. Or some bureaucratic purgatory for people who'd saved the world but hadn't stopped to help old ladies cross the road because traffic sucks for everyone. With room for artificial intelligences, too.

"If you were a robot, how could you die? Couldn't you just download into a new body?"