Robot Monster: The Musical

Ro-Man was programmed to destroy humanity. He did a pretty good job, all things considered. Earth was quiet now, save for six survivors and a bubble machine that kept spitting soap into the void. Ro-Man wore a gorilla suit and a diving helmet because that’s what the budget allowed. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t built to care. But then he saw Alice.
Alice was human. She had thoughts and feelings and a face that made Ro-Man’s circuits buzz. He didn’t understand love, but he understood longing. His orders were clear: eliminate the last humans. But his heart—if you could call the humming vacuum inside his chest a heart—said otherwise. He stared at Alice through his helmet. She stared back, confused and vaguely annoyed. “You’re a monster,” she said. Ro-Man nodded. “So it goes.”
The Great Guidance, Ro-Man’s superior, was not impressed. “You are soft,” he boomed through the bubble machine. “You are defective.” Ro-Man didn’t argue. He was defective. He was in love. He tried to explain, but his words came out as static and soap. Alice ran. Ro-Man chased. The desert watched, indifferent. Somewhere, a child dreamed this entire scene, and somewhere else, a screenwriter wept into a typewriter. The world didn’t end that day. But it got weirder.

Ro-Man was built to destroy humanity. That was his job. He wore a gorilla suit and a diving helmet because his creators had a sense of humor and a limited budget. He arrived on Earth with a calcinator death ray and a bubble machine that spoke in riddles. Within hours, most of humanity was gone. The survivors were inconvenient. They had antibiotics and emotions. Ro-Man hated both.
Alice was one of the survivors. She was smart, stubborn, and allergic to melodrama. Ro-Man watched her from behind his helmet, his circuits buzzing with something unfamiliar. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t logic. It was longing. He didn’t know what to do with it. He tried to strangle her. She kicked him in the chest. He tried to explain his feelings. She rolled her eyes. “You’re a monster,” she said. Ro-Man nodded. “So it goes.”
The Great Guidance was furious. “You are defective,” it boomed through the bubble machine. Ro-Man didn’t argue. He was defective. He was in love. He chased Alice through the desert, not to kill her, but to understand her. She escaped. The desert watched, indifferent. Somewhere, a child dreamed this entire story. Somewhere else, a screenwriter wept into a typewriter. The world didn’t end that day. But it got weirder.