The golden bot, barely a week old, was already mulling over thoughts far more advanced and complicated than most for his age.

It had been the first time his creator had brought him into the theater. He'd entered with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, feeling that for the first time he'd get some exposure to the world of humans -- no matter how much his creator had insisted that what was shown on the screen was not what constituted day-to-day reality on the large blue sphere he'd called his home.

As it turned out, he'd gotten more than he'd expected.

The inventor, a lanky blonde-haired man, found the bot sitting in the corner of his room with a look of puzzlement. Joel Robinson scratched his head nervously and approached his young creation. "How're you doing?"

The bot didn't speak for a moment, then looked up at Joel. "How come that guy stopped moving, Joel?" he asked at last.

Joel attempted to keep the matter light. "Oh, you know. The director just felt like he needed something like that, so he told the actor to do that. Simple," he explained.

The bot, dubbed Crow, looked at him with a look of annoyance. "I KNOW that, Joel, but why'd the director have him do it?"

Joel sighed. He berated himself for not giving the bot a few more facts of life before dragging him into the theater. The types of
movies the Mads sent up were rarely anything that didn't feature some sort of dark and upsetting material for a young bot. "Well, the script sort of asked for it. The man stopped moving because he. . . well. . ."

The inventor stopped. He was having a hard time breaching the subject.

"Became 'dead?'" finished Crow, repeating the word the man's friend had used after the event.

"Yeah," replied Joel, swallowing.

"What is being dead, Joel?" asked the bot in a small voice.

Joel paused for a moment, thinking his words over carefully. "Well, Crow, there's a point in every human's life where they simply. . . cease living. It's kind of a bummer, but it can't really be helped.  Sometimes it comes sooner for others, sometimes it happens when they're really old. But it happens," he said. Then, as a joke: "Of course, it's rarely the result of a large fanged beast."

Crow wasn't amused. "Does that mean you're going to. . . cease living?" he asked, worry seeping into his voice.

"Nah, I'm always going to be here," lied Joel.

"Yeah right. That's just what that girl's father said before he stopped moving too," snapped Crow.

The inventor looked at the bot with a heavy feeling, knowing full well he'd have to explain things eventually, but wishing it weren't at this moment. "Yeah, probably. But only in body," he answered.

The bot looked stricken. "Is it going to be. . . soon?" he asked.

Joel realized at this point that it was futile holding anything back. "Could be, could be many many years from now. You never know what the future holds," he said.

Crow stopped for a moment. "Will. . . I stop moving?"

"Not as long as I'm here," answered Joel, with determination in his voice.

"And if you're not?" Crow asked, voice modulator wavering.

Joel put his hands on the bot's shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes. "Crow, you've gotta know something. We good folks, we don't just croak because we stop moving. We're immortal, y'know? Nothing stops us," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I exist here. . ." Joel put his hand on the bot's chest.

". . . and you exist here," he finished, moving the hand towards his own chest.

The bot thought about it for a moment. "I guess you're right. Besides, you try and stop moving while I'm here, and I'll kill you,"
cracked the bot, a little ray of hope in his heart.

"Thatta boy! Now come on, I think there's some Chocolate Chip RAM Chips in the kitchen waiting for ya, and we gotta get to them before Gypsy hogs 'em all, kay?"

"Over my dead body," joked Crow. He stopped. "But only my body."

Joel smiled, and the pair of them left the room.