The two of them sat outside their unit on the jetty. Perhaps among the few last survivors of the human race.

Unimaginably large industrial black monoliths distorted the horizon line into a jagged tangle of towers.
A mushroom cloud, another yellow sunset, the Tsar mark 8 bomb. It was designed by one of the two last warring AI, and it would launch soon. A viral self destruct program. The other AI didn't exist anymore, nor did the continent it's machine body was sprawled across—one huge, heaving, processing engine//body//factory. The shockwave would travel the full circumference of the earth 40 times and the planet would be knocked out of orbit. Not that it mattered anymore. Whatever was left of human life, it breathed through masks into steel lungs. Nowadays life was yellowcake flavoured, nothing but scorched earth.

Ah, peacetime, finally.

And our long anticipated death. It's beautiful. What shall we drink to?

Our survival, my darling. We are the last vestige. We stayed long after the party ended.