It wasn't necessarily a big garden, but it was an expression of himself.

The garden was a single oak tree, standing tall, surrounded by scores of

wildflowers. It was the reminder of how long he'd been here, alone with his

thoughts, and his myriad of desperate hobbies. His computers calendar was

more accurate, perhaps, but they were just numbers, and never really held

much weight.

But whenever he looked at the oak tree he was reminded, reminded

that he'd spent no less than a century on this almost-world, stranded so far

away from those he loved. So far, yet it felt as if he were separated by a thin

veil. Thin, but impenetrable.

He pushed the thoughts away. "And here I thought you'd accepted all

of this, you old fool," he muttered, adopting a Scottish accent. He found it

very useful for berating.

"Accepted, yes," he remarked. "But it shan't hurt any less."

He watered his tree a little more, then returned to his bed. It occurred

to him that he didn't have a shirt on. It also occurred to him that he'd been

in his pyjamas all day. One of the problems with isolation: no-one to remind

you to not tend the garden with pyjamas on. Or tend the garden with.

He sighed, and donned a faded shirt, and an even more faded cargo-

pants. This would require a trip to the city, he knew. The nanobots weren't

designed for dirt, only food and bacteria. He was just fortunate that the city

still operated in some manner.

He'd only discovered this the third or fourth year he'd been on the

planet. There weren't very many robots, and generally they kept out of sight,

but they were there. They kept the city running. They kept the water going,
the electricity flowing, the food being produced. And thankfully, the

laundries open.

He wasn't looking forward to it. The empty city was somehow worse

than bustling, noisy cities. Oh, he loathed those, and back home he'd avoid

them, if he could. But this place was worse. It was too quiet, too empty, for a

city. Too clean, also; there were no vines or ivy, no scurrying rats or mice.

He supposed that the robots cleaned up any time it got too dirty. Every time

he went there, his hairs stood on end, his gut tightened, and he shivered. It

always felt like he was going to be attacked, even though he knew it was a

ridiculous notion, and even though he had been to the damn place over a

thousand times before.

Checking the time, he saw it was about one, and decided to make

lunch. But upon opening the fridge, found that he had nothing to eat.

"Fine," he groaned, banging his head against the wall.

He stuffed all his clothes in a bag and got in a hovercar he'd found in

the city some seventy years ago and set the location. First the pizza, and

then the laundry. He laid back in the seat, as it hummed to life, and sped

off.

“Ten minutes,” reported the robot, turning and hovering off to make

his pizza. With that knowledge, the wary man went two buildings down, and

across the street. Habit made him look both ways, and idle curiosity didn’t

stop him. As soon as he started the washing machine he returned to the

pizza shop, settling down at one of the tables by the wall.

It was identical to those back home. The plastic beginning to peel at

the edge of the table, the stiff, leathery couches. The floor was the same
white and black tiles as they often were back home. The table was one-

legged, the windows were large, there was a fridge with a dozen different

drinks, and you could see the robot making the pizza in the kitchen. The

only two differences were the robot and the fact that, despite being as fizzy,

sweet, and tasty as back home, the drinks were somehow healthy.

It nothing more than a reminder of home. A reminder that he was

utterly alone. A reminder that, after a century, he was still stuck. A

reminder that, if humanity still remembered him, then they had either given

up, or couldn’t get to him.

And then, as he had a thousand times before, he realised what he was

doing wrong. He closed his eyes, leaned back, and ignored the reminders.

Ignored the memories; he put them to sleep in his mind. He smiled, the

scent of pizza wafting over. A hundred years later, it was still mouth-

watering to him.

He put the box in the bin, sauntering back to the laundry; his clothes

should be finished by now. The laundry was remarkably quick.

The bell rang, signalling his entrance, and he went over to his washing

machine.

And frowned.

It was empty! He checked the others, and they were empty as well. He

went outside, to check if this was the right place, and it was. So how could it

be empty? It didn’t make sense!

Crash!
 He whipped his head around. The sound came from further back,

behind a curtain. Steeling his nerves, he crept towards the source of the

sound. Tentatively, he pulled aside the curtain—

Crack!

He was flung back, hitting the window and crumpling to the floor.

Groaning, he looked up, the tears in his eyes blurring his vision. Blinking

them away, he could make out a... a person?

He hadn’t even considered that a person was here, since it shouldn’t

be possible. They were long-haired, fiery-eyed, and holding a very big gun.

They were slowly approaching him, keeping the very big gun pointed to him.

Unsure what he was meant to do or say, he simply said, "Hello."

The person stared at him, before asking, "Who... are you?"

He made to answer their question, but stopped. Who was he? He

hadn't thought about that in decades! What was his name?

"I... I don't know," he answered. "Harmless, though. Who are you?"

They – she? He wasn't sure – pursed their lips. "I'm—"

Crash!

The window shattered, and he was sent flying again! A metallic voice

rang out: "Enemy detected!"

END