Chapter 1: The Solitary Watcher

A weathered man reclines in an aged aluminum chair, the frayed canvas straps swaying softly in the arid breeze. His gaze is fixed on the expanse between two distant hills, anticipating the moment a small black dot appears in the sky. With just one slug left in his shotgun, he acknowledges the slim odds of hitting the drone, yet he feels compelled to try. He meticulously cleaned his firearm for this annual occasion when the drone arrives for its routine check. These drones are the reason he has chosen this isolated existence, far from civilization. He is weary of being observed, assisted, and directed. While society dictates how to live, he finds that living alone in the desert is preferable to the constraints of urban life—where existence becomes a series of commands: walk this distance, eat this amount, avoid smoking, drink more water, call family, assist neighbors. It’s all a cycle of reminders and scheduling that masquerades as humanity.

The drones have stripped life of its richness and turned it into something unrecognizable, only to gloss over the emptiness and claim it’s an improvement.

He reminisces about the joys of Monday nights before the drones took over. Those evenings were a highlight of his week, spent with his brother Lucas and fellow veterans at the bar, where the waitresses donned short skirts and snug shirts. “Be polite, and you can return next week,” they would say. The food was spicy, the television was loud, and the beer was affordable.

Then came the incessant reminders and scheduling. Notifications would pop up, indicating he was supposed to socialize with friends, diminishing the joy of the experience. In the days before drones, he never required prompts or reminders; those gatherings were the heart of his life, a stable point amidst the chaos of mundane work. While the wind may shift the ship, the anchor remains steadfast.

The drones have cheapened every aspect of existence in their misguided mission to assist. “Oh, you remembered my birthday/anniversary/graduation?” No, the drones did. They even informed him of gift preferences because he lacked the time or interest to truly know others. The drones do the remembering, and he inadvertently expresses gratitude for their simulated companionship, as he has no time to foster genuine relationships. The age-old adage has never been more accurate: it’s the thought that counts, yet they have stripped us of the ability to think. “Oh, the new season of that show is airing; I must go! Enjoy your toaster.”

The barrel of his shotgun is scorching under the relentless desert sun. He has lived here for years, encountering only a handful of human beings—four groups of lost hikers, the last being two decades ago. His son had ventured out twice, but by then, he had forgotten how to engage, leading to strained visits. He resented himself for that, but even more, he loathed the drones, realizing it was their influence that encouraged his son’s attempts to reach out. The drones wanted him to conform to a predefined role: the affectionate grandfather, the charming elder. Their presence was statistically linked to societal happiness, reducing crime rates and curbing social unrest. They needed him to fulfill that role.

There it is. A minute black dot in the sky approaches him. Everything seems to be shrinking in size and speeding up each year. These drones are undoubtedly “smarter,” capable of maintaining a facade of happiness while neglecting the essential elements of tragedy and danger that make life worthwhile.

As it draws nearer, he can hear the familiar hum; the only sound remaining in this desolate area is the absence of living birds. This time, it’s not a quadcopter, but a black disc navigating the air, scanning and probing, intruding into his solitude. He watches, waiting for the drone’s next move as the buzzing grows louder.

It halts two hundred meters away, hovering just above a large gray rock, and drops a package onto it. Then, it remains stationary, observing him. He senses a mutual understanding, even from afar, as it scans his expressions, heart rate, and movements, looking for whatever it seeks. He is indifferent.

Raising the shotgun, he takes careful aim, wishing for a more effective round. Just as he pulls the trigger, the drone retreats behind the rock, but the slug would have missed anyway, chipping away at the boulder. It’s the thought that counts.

The drone ascends and departs. Another year will pass before its return.

The package it left remained atop the boulder for three long days. The old man had to construct a ladder to retrieve it, a task that took time. It was a sealed white plastic box, equipped with temperature controls and solar panels.

He brought it into his small dwelling and placed it on a wooden table. Inside lay a printout of a human body—his own—with a glaring red mark where the left lung should be. Beneath that, encased in a clear plastic pouch, was a pill. He contemplated his choices for a moment, then swallowed the pill dry and added the white box to a stack of eighty-seven others.

Returning to the table, he picked up the printout and tossed it into the kindling box.

Thank you for engaging with this narrative! If you can spare a little support, it would be greatly appreciated.

Dylan Combellick is exploring a holistic approach to warfare and beyond. His work delves into themes of geopolitics and conflict. A retired intelligence analyst and world traveler, you can discover more at…

www.buymeacoffee.com

Chapter 2: The Impact of Technology on Society

The first video, "A New Era... A New Style - Doing It Ourselves," reflects on the journey of self-sufficiency and the importance of taking control in a technologically dominated world.

The second video, "Doing It Ourselves - 100th Video!", celebrates milestones in self-reliance and the empowerment that comes from doing things independently.