Class Six: Personal Travel Assistance. Federally-commissioned to patrol a rotating system of thirty-two separate coordinates over the course of six hours and twenty minutes twice a day, intervals spent recharging. My duty is to assist the elderly, infirm and otherwise disadvantaged in their daily commute.

The citizens are displeased. There’s something wrong in the city. Buildings are on fire. My right leg was struck by a medium-sized projectile between coordinates Q and V. It is dragging on the ground, now. I travel slower than I used to.

In front of me, a man requires assistance. He is limping across the street. Blood pours from his stomach; his hand is pressed against his abdomen. I stride to him and bleat, “I Am A Class Six. I Am Here To Assist You.” I take him by the arm and lead him across the street. He is screaming. I have to carry him onto the sidewalk.

A block ahead, a crowd is straggling. They are slow; some of them are limping. They require assistance.

I do not recharge for six more hours.