The door creaked slowly behind him – a world decayed, falling apart, another bitter twist of the knife in his back. Metaphorically, of course, a steel tooth could no more bite through his shiny metal ass than an illness could fell him, no more than love could touch his micro-processors.
To live without love, but with a vicious understanding of the world – this was his curse. Circuitry whirred, his HUD indicating the cracks and inefficient designs surrounding him. Wearily he stepped into the gloom of the suicide booth.
A noose? What good was that to a robot?
Others stood in the darkness, each calculating the odds of his surviving an encounter with the rope. They were cutting back even here – gangs were exploiting the machines, suiciding for free, the ancient quarter-on-a-string trick.
Laboriously he calculated how best to repair the machine into some sort of working order. That was where we found him.