I lay in the grass skirting the edge of the lake my yard bordered, soaking up the sun, listening to my iPod, and catching up on some light reading. I never saw him coming, deeply entrenched in the novel as I was. One second, Harry Potter was making his best passes at Hermione, and then in the next, the book was on the ground, my iPod was in pieces, and a five-foot tall mechanoid was glaring down at me.

Struggling to my feet cautiously, I made a quick assessment of the situation at hand. I was intact, minus a dull throbbing in my head, probably a result of having been knocked out by this contraption in front of me. It was glinting sunlight off its silver surface, nearly blinding me. The face was recognizably human, or, rather, it had all the accoutrements, but with a variety of black wires running down where its neck should be. In the center of the chest, there was a circular opening, reminiscent of a speaker, and it was from there that its ambiguously-gendered voice spoke to me.

“Hello primitive human. I am Gabriel. I have come from the year 2162 to prevent the age of your kind from ending.” I could do little else but blankly stare at him while he issued this loathsome state of future affairs. Between the archaic name and the golden reflections of light that were cast off his polished exterior, I swore I was dead, or at the very least, I was dreaming. But it was the ensuing conversation that really seemed preposterous.

“So, uh, how exactly does the here and now cause the end of mankind?” I inquired, finally regaining some composure.

“In the year 2162, the corporate evolutions of your Apple and Google have merged into a dominant conglomerate. Their products have infiltrated every aspect of human life. They advocated for technology to be incorporated into the human body as simply as possible and developed advanced miniature machines, which they introduced to the populous. From there, their bodies would be transformed and augmented, allowing them to connect to the internet, play music, research information, and even have relations with others without ever touching a computer.”

“Wow, pretty heavy stuff. Guess that explains why you smashed my iPod,” I said, looking lamentably at the crunched circuitry a few inches from where I had been laying.

“But how could they possibly get to so many people so easily?”

“Cookies. Advertised as ‘specially formulated for growing children,’ parents bought them up in the typical human commercial frenzy. Apple-flavored was their highest seller. From there, it was only a matter of time.”

I soaked up what he said, wistfully amused that computer companies made real cookies to invade peoples lives. “But you’re technology, why’re you trying to stop them?” I inquired.

“I was built by remnants of human society who have shunned that way of life. There are very few of them left. They designed me to come back in time and undermine Gappoogle operations before it is too late. Soon, Apple will develop the internet-ready iPod in conjunction with the Google plan to build wireless networks in all metropolitan areas of the country. This is their first cooperative measure and leads to their eventual merger.”

“Right, right. And you came back to upstate New York to stand here when both of their corporate headquarters are in California because…?” I paused, genuinely curious to know why.

“In 2162, this is one of the most remote locations in North America and where my creators built me,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

I was about to inquire how Gabriel was going to get there when things went from strange to outright absurd. I heard it before I saw it; a large black object, slightly resembling a plane, hovered in midair just over the tree line. The ship turned towards our position, exposing its flank and a giant G encircling a bitten-from apple emblazoned on its otherwise dark surface.

“They must have found out about my mission. Come with me,” Gabriel said, with as much urgency as a machine can express. He grabbed me by the shoulder and, in a flash, upstate New York world disappeared and was replaced by blandly decorated walls flanking a desk, two chairs, and three men. The men turned aghast at the sudden appearance of a casually dressed student and his futuristic robot sidekick. They never had the chance to say a word as Gabriel unleashed the full awe of his being.

His torso swung open like a refrigerator door, exposing circuitry and what looked like a glass coaster which was pulsating a deep shade of purple. Seconds later, the office lay in ruins. Shards of glass were everywhere, the carpeting in front of where Gabriel stood was completely charred, and smoke billowed out of the gaping hole next to where the desk and men had been. I slowly turned to look at him but had to avert my eyes as another burst of light assailed them. When it dimmed, I found myself staring out at the lake waters near my home once again. I looked around, but there was no sign of the futuristic being.

I walked back to the house, unsure of exactly what had gone on in the last hour or so. Clicking on the television as I plopped down on the couch, there was a special report. “Terrorists Strike Apple Headquarters,” read the ticker while a camera zoomed in to look through the gaping hole I’d been looking out only seconds earlier. According to the report, Steve Jobs, Larry Page, and Sergey Brin had all been killed in the attack.

I ran back outside to where I had been laying and found my iPod in pieces on the ground next to my book. So, it had happened, I thought to myself, curious as to how such an absurd series of events was even a remote possibility. I sauntered back to the house in a daze, attempting to make sense of it all.

Sitting down at my computer, I noticed the screen saver was off and someone had opened a new instant message window. I thought nothing of it, figuring my sister must’ve been playing around and left it open. As I moved to close it, I paused and looked at the unsent words. The last tidbit of evidence I needed to solidify the whole occurrence as reality lay there in those two lines.

Thanks for everything, signed your great grand-children.

P.S. Invest in cookies.