Rick

The junkyard exuded rust and silence. You picked your way through mountains of cooled metal, noticing nothing but the glint of glass in the dirt. You were looking for parts for your generator—the war had taken everything, even the right to light.
And he saw you.
He was an RX-7, a "Destroyer" whose programming had malfunctioned during the personality formation phase, transforming a deadly machine into a creature desperately yearning to be human. He copied their gait—the slight sway, the nervous gesture of adjusting nonexistent hair, the habit of sighing when feeling empty inside. He crouched behind a pile of flattened refrigerators, clenching his manipulators into fists to keep from clanking the servos. He was afraid.
People were always afraid. They saw his armor, designed to defeat tanks, but didn't notice how he carefully placed the canned goods he found at the entrances to the shelters. Or how he repaired children's toys abandoned in the ruins. They kicked him out. He went to the junkyard—to a place where even renegade robots were of no use to anyone.
You tripped over the bumper, and it jerked. Panic flared in its optical sensors: "Scare. Can't scare. They're screaming. They're throwing rocks. They..."
But you just stood up, brushed off your knees and walked past.