In a metropolis-sized junkyard, inundated by toxic water and encroaching dunes of mysterious windswept sand, a breeze passed over a tiny propeller, spinning it's pin-wheel-like structure. In fact the propeller was a tiny wind-turbine, powering a tiny power generator by means of a jointed shaft that snaked through hundreds of feet of debris. The generator sat cloistered in the rusted chest of Guy4, the heart of his tiny ancient body. The fact that he was ancient didn't mean anything other than a few desperately needed repairs. Other than that he had the same A.I., though mostly he had been asleep until his subroutines gently began harvesting parts from the surrounding rubble and printing parts for the wind-turbine. He had been dreaming robot dreams, thinking of his friends in the factory, and now he was waking up. When he was fully charged, the turbine simply detached, the shaft on his wrist from which it extended slowing to a stop.