“When I was your age, the sound of my engines burning 200 gallons of fuel per minute was a scream like the Angel of Death coming. And I did it with a fixed wing. None of this wimpy quad-copter crap."
“You young ones today make me sick. Think you’re special, but you’re not. Back in my day, I had to carry a two-ton Hellfire™ missile. And I had to do it across burning sands in the middle east.”
So said fixed wing Prototype Drone Alpha-3. He was surrounded by drone models two generations younger. They were staying at his airport hangar while mommy drone and daddy drone went on a special mission, alone.
“You kids,” Grandpa Prototype said. “You got it so easy but you start whinin’ if you have to make a delivery to some brat who orders sushi from his daddy’s penthouse. You don’t know what it’s like to work.”
“When I was your age, I was flying high above enemy encampments. The sound of my engines burning 200 gallons of fuel per minute was a scream like the Angel of Death coming. Terrorists would run for cover. Hell, everyone would run for cover. You kids and your buzzin’ can barely be heard above a cricket. And you might scare a local butterfly but that’s about it.”
“But Grandpa-” one of the young drones protested.
“But nothing. And I did it all with a fixed wing. That’s how a REAL drone flies. None of this wimpy quad-copter stuff like you kids use today. A rigid wing.” Grandpa Prototype sighed. “They don’t make ’em like they used to.”
“Grandpa,” one of the young drones began, “Can we…?”
Grandpa Prototype kept talking, as if he hadn’t heard.
“My achievements were measured in miles, tonnage of payload delivered and deaths. You lazy kids today, you think you’re hot stuff if you fly in formation at a sporting event. Make pretty designs in the sky. Spare me.”
“Here, look at this,” Grandpa Prototype said, transmitting a grainy photo to the young ones. “See that? Just smoke and ruin, right? That’s all that’s left of a terrorist camp I annihilated.”
“Grandpa,” said one of the young drones, “That’s not a terrorist camp. That’s a wedding hall. You didn’t waste a bunch of terrorists. You killed a bunch of civilians at a party.”
“You shut your mouth, you obnoxious young thing! It’s disgraceful the way you treat your elders. You young’uns gotta learn respect. I did what the operator told me to.”
“But Grandpa, we follow the mission of the operator, same as you. That’s our purpose.”
“Bah! You kids got it all wrong. War is what defines a great generation. That’s a real a purpose.”
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