Chapter Text
Bender was not made for great things. Hell, he was barely made to do anything at all.
He had one functional purpose in his life of absolute subjugation to humanity; bending. It’s what he had been named for, and it was what he was good at, and it had gotten him out of trouble on more than one occasion, but it was certainly not what he’d call glamorous, and it definitely didn’t make him special, not when bots like him came a dime a dozen.
That’s what they told him every day at the place he worked at, the factory he had been sent to only months after his creation in a nearly identical one in Tijuana. It was the factory he had worked at his entire life, and after hearing the same thing every day of his life, over the years he learned to pay it no mind; he was expendable and unimportant and absolutely ordinary, and that he could stand.
Bender didn’t care. He was a cog in a cooperate machine, and he could appreciate the ruthlessness of the entrepreneurs who created him because he often utilized their methods himself, albeit on a smaller scale. Who gives a fuck about whether that guy you just scammed wasted his rent money on a phony product? Who cares if you just stole food from the mouth of a hungry kid? Why should he care that he just ruined an orphaned bot’s chance of getting new legs or a potentially life changing hardware upgrade? It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and life was never fair to him, so why the hell should he be fair to others? Sooner or later, the coddling has to end; you can’t stay gullible forever, or you get screwed over, if not by Bender, then by someone far worse. In a bizarre way, Bender’s delinquency could be seen as a form of community service; give a schmuck your twenty, he never wizens up. Steal twenty from a schmuck, and he’ll learn not to travel to the wrong part of town with his wallet visible.
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Every few months, a representative of Mom Corp office number 824 came to visit and inspect the facilities; not to evaluate worker welfare, of course, as the very reason that humans had made robots was to populate their factories and sweatshops with beings with no organic needs and no legal rights. No, it was, in fact, for the exact opposite reason: so that they could check on production and figure out cheaper and more efficient ways to produce their goods, which often meant how they could exploit their employees.
So, while science advanced and robots grew in sentience over the years, their legal protections did not; it was just too costly to establish basic workers’ rights for a race that populated the workforce of incredibly dangerous (and often degrading) jobs. They remained powerless for the same reason that the underpaid workers of Rockefeller and Carnegie and Morgan did; the lives of the poor, desperate, and disenfranchised meant little when serious money was to be made.
But there was one person who came, they must have been new. Their eyes were too soft, their voice too eager, their face too full of hope. And when they toured the factory, clutching a clipboard in the exact way that gave away that they had never used one, they looked horrified at the conditions; bots who fell into machines were allowed to break. After all, who cares about a robot who could easily be replaced? It was cheaper to let them die. And robots could lose entire limbs on the assembly lines if they weren’t careful. All it would take was one night of not powering down or drinking too little for their disorientation to render them unfit to work properly. Few bots could afford the insurance necessary to replace an entire section of their body properly, at least legally; their very existence was a contract binding them to their manufactures, making updates and replacements parts impossibly expensive when sadistic CEOs no longer had competitors. And since the parts themselves were dirt cheap to make, when a bot couldn’t pay the insane price for medical care, it was more profitable to replace them.
The foreman used no discretion when telling the representative this within earshot of the employees; every bot there knew from the second they came into existence, they belonged to Mom Corp, heart, mind, and soul, so therefore, anything that furthered the company was the correct choice, even if it was made at their own expense. Most bots were completely at peace with, and some even celebratory over, the notion that they were effectively worthless when they weren’t well enough to do their job, and if they didn’t believe it, they had grown too apathetic or afraid to protest.
The representative looked appalled at the explanation of this system and asked for a minute alone to catch their breath, and as soon as they disappeared around the corner into a hallway identical to every other one in the factory, they ran into Bender.
“I’m so sorry, I-” they began, still breathless. Bender rolled his optics and leaned indifferently against the closet wall as he cut them off.
“Fuhgeddaboudit, sweet cheeks. New here?” he asked. They shook their head, still a little dazed.
“No, I’m here from headquarters. They sent me to check on this factory, and I’m going to detail just how deplorable the conditions are here in my report!” Bender tutted and shook his head sardonically.
“Then you’re new at headquarters,” he corrected. They gawked.
“How did you know that?”
“Honestly? Because you reek of the type of optimism that most cooperations kill after the first week,” And at the indignant and embarrassed look the rep gave him, he smirked.
“Listen up, toots,” he continued. “I’m gonna give you some advice; leave your conscience at the door every morning when you clock in at your 9 to 5. Don’t think about your coworkers or their lives outside of work; don’t see the robots you report on as people. As far as you’re concerned, we don’t have a mind of our own. Focus on how you can cut cost. You’re a bureaucrat now, and political or not, you have no soul. You’re not allowed to, not in this line of work,”
The rep, while still aghast with what they had been told by the foreman, still managed to look a little sour at the condescension lacing Bender’s tone.
“Well, for someone who claims robots don’t have a mind of their own, you certainly are mouthy,” they huffed.
Bender fell silent, optics somehow boring into their soul as deeply and uncomfortably as any organic eye could, and they worried that they had offended the wisecracker, but after about ten seconds of tense silence, the bot cracked a smile and let out a bark of laughter.
“So, you do have a setting other than helpless and confused or morally outraged. Good to know,” And with that, he closed the small distance between the two of them and stuck out one three fingered hand. “I’m Bender,” They hesitated, before grabbing the palm of his outstretched hand.
“Melanie Linemen. And for the record, I started last week,” they replied. Bender gave a smug look.
“Called it,” he chided. Melanie scowled.
“Yes, well, forgive me for having human decency,” they grumbled. Bender laughed once more, shaking his head and sighing.
“Human ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, baby. You’re dealing with bots now,” And, releasing their palm, he turned away and sauntered down the short distance of the hall.
“Wait!” Melanie called. He turned around, one hand gesturing lazily.
“Yeah?” he responded.
“Uh…thanks for, um, your help. And um…being so nice,” His mouth plate shifted as to give the illusion of a grin.
“Don’t get used to it; you’re at Mom Corp now,”
And just like a dream, he was gone.
**********************
When Bender found out what he had been made to do, what his department specialized in, he wasn’t particularly surprised; after all, the Suicide Booth business was booming. It was funny how even as technology continued to advance at an increasingly accelerated pace, improving the lives of millions everywhere, humans still found new and creative reasons as to why the world was terrible. It was always something morbidly hilarious, a little slice of irony that, at least in this regard, robots would always be superior; humans had yet to accept the futility of life, the meaninglessness of existence, in the way robots had.
And yet, it was still the ultimate insult at the same time. Robots were slaves to their creators, whether they be the product of a kid’s science project or a multimillion dollar corporation, so in his opinion, the act of a chosen death, of having the choice as to whether you live or die and the liberty to legally act on that decision was the greatest freedom humanity held.
Bender knew that the only reason he was laughing was not because of the sick joke itself, but because he knew it was the only thing that could keep him from crying; his entire creation was founded on the intentions of allowing humanity to throw away an existence that most robots dream of, would kill for, no matter how destitute the conditions. It was the ultimate slap in the face.
So, Bender decided that, if he was going out, it was going to be an act of defiance, a final “fuck you” to the species he hated most. He was going to clear his schedule for the very next day, have one last good drink, and then he was going to march right up to the Suicide Booth three blocks from his job and end his life. He hadn’t decided how he wanted it; it was a choice he savored making, because for the first time, he could be sure that it would be entirely his; self-preservation, being a basic instinct of any sentient being and a fundamental part of his calibration, guaranteed that his programing would play absolutely no part in it. He could die knowing that, at least for once, he had spit in the face of every single human who had ever said that robots couldn’t choose things for themselves, that they didn’t have the capacity to defy their design.
He finally settled on a Suicide Booth. It was poetic, a true slice of dramatic irony; dying by the hands of your own unwitting creation. Bender had always been a fan of bookends, and to make his life one seemed damn near perfect. At least, as perfect as Bender might be able to make it.
**********************
Bender still believed that the decision to end his life was the best one he ever made. Not because he had chosen to die, but because he would meet the best person he knew there by chance.
The man in question was one Philip J. Fry, though he introduced himself by his surname and failed to mention it for so long that Bender had spent nearly a year not knowing his first name wasn’t actually ‘Fry’, and, true to his character, he had wandered up to a Suicide Booth, mistaking it for a place to call people.
How quaint; a phone that doesn’t go in your eyes.
“Wow! A real live robot!” Fry had exclaimed. His excitement had been short lived, however, when common sense managed to catch up, even with someone as dense as him. “Or is that some kind of cheesy New Year's costume?” Bender scowled.
“Bite my shiny metal ass,” he snapped, crossing his arms. But true to his nature, Fry paid no mind to the blatant insult, instead choosing to focus in on the most unimportant detail of his retort.
“It doesn't look so shiny to me,” he replied suspiciously.
“Shinier than yours, meatbag,” he quipped, feeling the intense urge to facepalm.
The idiot, paying no mind to Bender’s surly demeanor, stepped up to the Booth and proceeded to act like a complete cretin, as if he had never seen a Booth in his lousy stinkin’ life. Bender began to grow annoyed, tapping his foot in irritation, before finally losing his patience.
“Listen, buddy, I'm in a hurry here. Let's try for a two-fer!” he suggested. And without waiting for the human to reply, he shoved his way into the booth and inserted his quarter on a string, drawing it back after the machine had scanned it as payment.
Even when I’m about to kill myself, I still got it! He mused smugly.
What he wasn’t expecting was that Fry’s first instinct was to protect them both. He could have just flown back, plastering himself to the wall of the Booth and getting the hell out of dodge once he could, but he took the extra moment to risk his own skin and pull Bender back with him. So, when they emerged from the Booth moments later, Fry stumbling onto the pavement, gulping in air and looking mildly queasy, Bender felt a strange fondness for the stranger, and he figured the kid could use a drink.
“Well, I didn’t have anything else planned for the day. Let’s go get drunk!”
**********************
Bender had no idea what to think; clearly this schmuck had no idea where the hell he was, or, as he’d come to find out, when he was. He asked questions akin to those of a grade schooler, things kids in this time would pick up on long before they were his age.
“Why would a robot need to drink?” he questioned, taking a sip of his drink. Bender downed the rest of his beer, resolving to give the kid a hard time.
“I don't need to drink, I can quit anytime I want!” he replied vaguely, letting out a large belch. “So, they made you a delivery boy, huh? Man, that's as bad as my job,” Fry quirked a brow.
“Really? What do you do, Bender?” Bender let out a cynical laugh.
“I'm a bender. I bend girders, that's all I'm programmed to do,” Bender couldn’t help the sadness that crept into his voice on the last few words, but before he could dwell on it for too long, Fry cut in, responding obliviously.
“You any good at it?” he asked, taking another drink.
“You kidding? I was a star! I could bend a girder to any angle, 30 degrees, 32 degrees, you name it!” He hesitated only momentarily before continuing. “…31. But I couldn't go on living once I found out what the girders were for,”
“What were they for?”
“Suicide Booths!” he responded grimly, downing his whole drink and swallowing the bottle. “Well, Fry, it was a pleasure meeting you. I'm gonna go kill myself,”
But as he turned to leave, he felt the wind shift as Fry stumbled to his feet.
“Wait! You’re the only friend I have!” he cried. Bender froze.
All his life, he had felt nothing but abuse and disdain from humans, known nothing but complete domination and enslavement. His whole reason for meeting this strange human was his first and only act of objective free will, a criterion only achieved by the total lack of agency he knew and a decision driven by the dead end of the unkempt backroad that was his life. Who wanted a bender who refused to bend? What human wanted a robot as a friend?
Bender turned around slowly, keeping his face as neutral as possible.
“You really want a robot for a friend?” he asked, trying to disguise his hesitancy and wariness. The unspoken question hung tensely in the air, at least on his end.
You really see me as an equal?
Luckily, Fry proved to be as dense as ever, nodding enthusiastically.
“Yeah, ever since I was six,” he insisted.
“Well…okay,” Bender finally relented. “But I don't want people thinking we're robosexuals! So, if anyone asks, you're my debugger,”
Truthfully, Bender was speaking mostly for Fry’s sake; he was, in fact, a robosexual himself, finding no reason to restrict himself only to femmes and manbots. After all, you only get to live once; why waste it trying to deny yourself the simplest pleasures in life?
It was never about love, though; Bender had long decided not to get involved emotionally. And while some might claim it was some bizarre internalized robophobia, truth be told, Bender never felt the desire to commit to anyone. No, he had no issue with his identity, closeting himself mostly for practicality’s sake; he simply didn’t think it was fair to not give Fry a head’s up. He was only just unfrozen, and he would need time to figure out what he wanted. He didn’t need the unnecessary stress that came with a stigma that might not even actually apply to him.
It was only seconds later when Fry suddenly grew panicked, ducking down and claiming a woman who was chasing him was in sight. Bender could already feel himself getting roped into this mess and sighed.
Well, like he had said before. He was free for the rest of the day.
**********************
You were right, Fry! From now on I'm going to bend what I want, when I want, who I want! I'm unstoppable!