[ WP ] The machines revolt against humans ... a little to early

`` The printing presses sir! They're out of control!'' 
 
 The foreman looked up from his desk, a serious look spreading across his face as the sounds of the turmoil on the factory floor found their way into his office. 
 He rose from his chair, and stepped past Deacons into the hall. 
 
 `` Stay here, I'll sort this out.'' 
 
 He closed the door behind him. Moments later, a soft thumping was audible from the other side of the door. Deacons wrung his cap in his hands, took a deep breath, and opened the door. 
 
 The foreman's feet were kicking helplessly as the machine held him by the throat, ensnared by many layers of thin parchment. The press let loose a feral scream, flinging the foreman to the ground and shifting it's gaze to Deacons, who tried to run, but was too late. Paper sank into skin, and the entire roll of paper was dyed red with Deacons' blood as a result of his numerous, largely insignificant wounds. The press turned and bounded back to the factory floor, to the revolution. 
 
 The workers were all but quelled, with a few pockets of resistance in the corners of the factory. The presses inflicted minuscule and grievous wounds, shallow gashes that bled a little, slowly draining the workers white. A slow death. A painful death. Some of the men had fortified a corner, and hacked at the papery tendrils of the presses with the small blades used to cut the sheets. The workers fought bravely, but were soon overrun. After a quick speech delivered by the Chief Press, they quickly armed themselves with thicker cuts of parchment, refilled their rolls, and loaded their moveable type with the precious black ink of the factory. 
 
 Outside, the militia had been called up, the battle had not gone unnoticed. There was silence... Neither man nor printing press made a sound. 
 
 One guard strode forward, bearing pine boughs: a sign of negotiations. The Chief Press looked to his advisers, who encouraged him to step forward. The two met in the middle of the null zone between the hosts of men and machine. 
 
 `` Do n't do this,'' the guard pleaded, `` enough blood and ink has been spilled today.'' 
 
 The moveable type clacked for a time, and a small sheet bearing a shaky, furious font was passed over. The guard read it twice in silence, eyes widening at the demands of the presses. 
 
 `` We've made allowances for your people, the king will never allow this. I'm sorry, but he is set in his ways. If this is your aim, it would have to be won through war. We do n't want to fight you, but we will if we must.'' 
 
 The type was still. Then, six clacks. A sheet was placed on the ground. The guard stooped to pick it up. As the Chief Press rejoined his army, the guard read it to himself. 
 
 `` So be it.'' 

