Recycling Pickup is Every Other Tuesday

"I recall a very brief story some anonymous person wrote, 'the smallest coffins weigh the most,' and that's honestly what bound the two of us together. It was very hard to focus on work when we lost our little ones, which led to more agony as we got caught with our guard down, and as if to ensure we'd suffer more we seem to live in these decrepit shells."

Dave-Freddy-95 was a very weathered one of these... husks I suppose we can call them? His costume was in terrible shape, barely recognizable, and most of his parts have stopped working as he's less eager to continue on his existence. He spends all of his time now on top of Romance Ridge, a hill of garbage high up enough to see clear outside of the dump, leaned up against a similarly decrepit Kelly-Chica-96. Both originally landed their jobs trying to make ends meet for their families, and coincidentally both lost their children to similar circumstances.

While the pair told me they don't care what happens now, they apparently have told the others they didn't want to stay repaired for the sake of letting others stay as mobile as they pleased, and live as much as they wanted. When I asked others about what was meant by 'as much as they wanted', I was informed by a Sherry-ToyChica that if the costume piece they're bound to is completely destroyed, they seem to no longer be bound to it and for all intents and purposes seem to be as close to death as these husks seem to be able to experience.

Romance Ridge was named for the rather romantic position Dave-Freddy-95 and Kelly-Chica-96 are rotting away in, made more enchanting as plants and flowering weeds grew off of them.

"We've had troublemakers, as well as some trying to hoard things for themselves, we tried to figure out some form of punishment, and what we came up with was rather harsh but effective. You see, the only thing that seemed to work for any form of imprisonment was shipping containers, but that tended to drive the scant few troublemakers completely stir-crazy. So all we'd get was prisoners who were more messed up and willing to break any rules we have set when we'd open the crates back up. Now, when the costume piece that binds one of us is removed from any form of endoskeleton, we sorta slip in and out of what I guess could be considered consciousness? Awareness seems to flicker on and off like a bad fluorescent bulb.

Anyway, we just set that part aside and continue our business, Mark-Foxy-99 isn't troubling us any more though has some... I suppose future shock is the right term? Whenever he comes to long enough to really speak."

I tried to witness what these husks seem to do during the day or night when they're active, they seem to mostly sift through junk or wander about seemingly aimlessly. A few seem to be going to an area to smash and toss junk around, there seems to be a crude workshop as well with all sorts of electronics and plastic here and there, nothing seeming to make anything coherent. A few husks seem to play games similar to old children's games, like tag, or hide and seek, and yet more seem to be trying to get a vehicle working again from the various ancient wrecks littered about.

These beings also seem to have a dance hall, composed of a jukebox and several reworked shipping pallets into a crude, wooden dance floor, as well as some barely functional lights and a disco ball. Husks occasionally come here to dance, able to move without the limitations of human anatomy, performing dance moves impossible to replicate in our own species. Very rarely do the husks seem to talk, but when they do communicate with one another, they tend to do it in the dance hall.

Not far from what was called the Field of Aggression is some sort of medical ward, where the parts are distributed for repairs and replacements, but also various husks in various states that are apparently kept here for longer term mental care, the traumatic events of their "suiting" as they call it combined with being cut off from their native societies, not to mention outliving their families. While none seem to have any sort of medical certificates, a few volunteer to help using various worn-out textbooks and guides from decades long past.

The question of currency came up, trade is apparently done via old refrigerator magnets, as they seem to function not unlike mind-altering drugs for a brief bit, as well as being used as fashion statements. Paper money tended to rot, as they apparently used tickets in the past, so they had to find something less biodegradable, so I'm told. While they seem unable to speak their native tongues any more, at least properly, the various beeps, whirrs, and static sounds seem to translate to the respective languages through some audio manipulation, their voices seeming to be at frequencies normally outside human hearing range.

Something rather striking is every so often, the husks seem to hold some sort of ceremony, not unlike the kind one might see in religious practice. The husks seemed to be wearing robes, not many of which actually matched, and the translation of their sermon was rather difficult to translate, even more so into English as the grammar and use of words seems to be nonsensical, the ceremony ending with cramming some rotten meat or veggies into one of their suits until a satisfactory mess is made, when asked the purpose of the ceremony I could not get a straight answer from a single one of the husks. The only thing they kept coming back to was desiring fresher produce or meat and the offhand comment of a love for Gallahger, a comedian from their era known for smashing watermelons.

With contact to the outside world reestablished through a few anthropologists and an investigative reporter visiting, these husks seem to be rather focused on something, and have been asking us more questions than we have for them about the world outside. They also ask about the other dumps where similar husks have been discovered and showed great interest in contacting them as well. After the initial contact however, there's been little contact with the one they call Sherry-ToyChica where she was willing to discuss anything, and surprised us with a drone of her own made from scrap in the dump. It's getting harder and harder to write objectively about this tribe of husks, as it were, as this anthropologist is struggling to stave off the mixed emotions of encountering these folks. It's been decades since we've found a group of people who were this far removed from modern society, and their eagerness to assimilate the new of society around them is somewhere between refreshing and disheartening.

"We now understand why we haven't seen any garbage trucks in a while, even the automated ones. Sucks to hear about all that tragedy, but it's mostly over with, isn't it? Not to sound insensitive, but I'm more worried about what happens when we run out of parts more than whether or not the reporter can get back to society. Those parts are our lifeline, for those of us who want to live forever, anyway. What do we think of the reports of the other ones at other dumps? A bit mixed, I hope we can get a hold of them and see if we can trade parts and possibly some people. Some were talking about raiding their dumps for goodies, a few are curious about the factory where all these parts were made, still others concerned about if they'd be hostile or friendly." -brief interview with garbage hunter Ben-Bonnie

Three of my colleagues have dropped the project over the nebulous feeling of dread they seem to be experiencing about the whole thing, one dropped out of boredom, but we still have a good half dozen or so left. While we've been using drones to avoid any form of infection or contamination, the investigative reporter is the only one there in the flesh and has complained about the smell and how itchy they've been. As their story is still being recorded, we haven't seen the broadcast of what exactly they're talking to the husks about, but after some sort of exclusive discussion with Sherry-ToyChica, we've noticed an increase of activity among the husks.

I'm worried.