Welcome to the low battery percentage club

I can't PM ya'll for some reason, so here it is. Not long.
The L.B Bar (or Low Battery Bar, for fancy folk) was a place for Androids to go when they had nowhere else to go. It was the last hope, a desperate reach for life, for something that could get them off the ground again.
The L.B Bar had chargers, you see.
Androids were a lower-class race of duds, of imperfections, of old models, of mistakes. They were produced and then set on the streets to live until they died out. Those who died rarely raised a metal arm again - chargers were extremely rare for Androids. Only the higher-class A.I could afford such a luxurious, life-prolonging item.
But there was one place where Androids whose battery was hanging precariously low could snatch a chance at a longer life. There was one place where they could have and use what few of their race had ever had access to. As I mentioned before, the L.B Bar had chargers.
But it was rare that you, as an Android, would ever have access to one.
These chargers didn't just come in, hundreds daily. Oh, no. If the dying Androids were lucky, there was one charger a week. There were specially-picked Androids, the ones that were least damaged and the ablest, were picked to go off into A.I sectors of the cities and thieve the chargers from the wealthy. In return, they got money, they got charged, and they got quite a few touch-ups. If you were produced better than the others, you were bound by fate as a 'Roller', as some pub folk liked to call the charger snatchers.
You're at 2% now. You have three more days to live. The Android's lives are short and fast. Well-lived, you ask? Some would argue.
Pulling up to the bar, you shiver. You've never been inside before. But now you have to - give it a shot, at least. If you don't win the charger, you can take comfort in the fact that you were going to die anyway. The dull, flickering neon lights are hardly appealing, and you open the old, rusty door quickly and shut it.
It's just as bad inside the bar. Old, rusty crones - older than you (which is saying something, you're very old) - sit around the bar and mill around the room impatiently. More Androids than you've ever seen before, all packed together in one place. Not all of them are that old - some are around your age, and some much younger, verging on 10%. Young and strong. They'll have the best shot at winning a fight with the rest of the crowd - which now includes yourself.
People have been waiting here for days, weeks even, you notice as you meander around the corners of the room and pick up a conversation. People have made friends, pacts, alliances, and enemies. People here are desperate for a longer life. Unlike you, they can't seem to accept the fact that they're probably going to die.
Another hour passes. How long does it take for the Rollers to arrive with a charger? What happens when they do? Do the Androids storm the Roller? By the looks of the ever-growing crowd, you begin to wonder if the Rollers would even come out alive in that kind of situation.
The front of the bar seems to be the best place to wait because there isn't any wiggle room even for a toggle 'droid. You'll have to wait for your chance here, against the wall near the doors, so that you can get a breath of fresh air whenever another 'droid walks in. With each new arrival, though, the anticipation inside you grows, and so does callous for the 'droids - your chances are getting slimmer and slimmer.
Half a day now. The bar is full to bursting with old, smelly, rusty 'droids. Anger and resentment - accompanied by nervousness - like you've never known are growing inside of your mechanical parts. Is this what happens when one is desperate for more life? You came in optimistic, knowing sadly that you were bound to die. Have they changed you? Has their talk altered your mind? Now, you feel rather competitive and greedy, although it might just be that you're getting stir-crazy. Who wouldn't, in this place?
Two more days of this goes on. Two more days. You have one more day to live. Perhaps you should have come sooner. Perhaps the Rollers had come. Perhaps now you're too late. Perhaps…
They come the next day.
You have nineteen more hours to live. At nineteen hours until your death, the Rollers step into the bar. A gang of them. They've cleverly disguised themselves as low-battery 'droids, giving themselves a rusty look and sagging movements. But who else could they be? They have a sense of purpose, and their faces are set with a job in mind instead of all of all the other hopeful, mindless 'droids like you.
It scares you a little to think that you're one of them. This desperate. Why couldn't you just have left yourself to drain out outdoors? This is a terrible place to die.
But you follow the Rollers through the crowd anyway. The other 'droids - most of them, that is - are far too preoccupied to notice the gang of others with their little tag-along pushing their way to the front. Once they carve a path, it's only too easy for you to follow it, and it closes back up behind you as soon as you've passed.
The few that do notice are either too tired to get up and pursue what might be their only chance at a charge, or raise an eyebrow at you and the Rollers and decide it's not worth it.
The Rollers reach the front of the bar and sidle up at the edge, motioning to the scraggly-looking 'droid behind it. Recognising them, he walks up and covers their exchange with a hand. But anyone who's looking (only you) can see it's obvious that it's a charger.
A charger.
There it is, not even five feet away from you. The thing that could prolong your life for millions of years, theoretically. And what do you do? You do not lunge to grab it and roll out of the bar as fast as your wheels will go. You do not yell and point and shout and cause a scene. You do not bargain with either the Rollers or the Bar 'droid. You stand there, watching the exchange happen, watch the Rollers go, watch the Bar 'droid stow the charger away in his storage compartment. You watch it all unfold in front of you, and you do not make any move to put things in your favor.
Well, on the upside, you are now at the front of the bar. That's something good. You're closer to the magical thing that everyone in this bar has been waiting for who knows how long.
Suddenly, a tall glass wall extends from the bar counter to the ceiling. It's probably bulletproof, and it separates you from the Bar 'droid who has the charger.
How could a run-down 'droid bar have this kind of tech? Sure, the glass is smudged, streaked with dirt and dried oil, but that doesn't make it any less fancy in this world of dirt-poor 'droids.
The 'droids around the counter shriek and leap back, some falling onto the floor. There's a sound of scraping metal somewhere along the counter as glass meets 'droid. The ones farther back are intrigued, and rush forward, trampling anyone who's fallen. You struggle to stay in your seat and end up sharing it with a 'droid that's much older and smaller than you. No chance she'll get the charger, you think to yourself.
Behind the glass, the Bar 'doid whips out the charger with a flourish, letting all of you on the other side take a nice, long, look at it. You have eighteen hours to live. Eighteen hours to seize that thing as yours.
But the competition is strong. Heavy forces slam and pound against the glass, trying to break it. But as you speculated earlier, it's bulletproof and won't come close to cracking.
The Bar 'droid plugs the charger into an outlet behind him, and the thing comes to life. A roar of glee rises from the bar.
And he plugs himself into it.
The gleeful roar dims and turns into one of rage and dismay as the Bar 'droid uses up the little electricity stored inside the outlet. The small 'droid next to you is pushed off the stool, and you struggle to stay on yours. The forces against you get angrier and angrier until the stool gives out under you. You pull yourself up to peer over the counter.
The now useless charger is lying in a trash bin, reduced to a wire and a cube. Without electricity, there's nothing it can do. The Bar 'droid shuts himself in the back door, and the glass lowers again.
The chaos in the bar is unimaginable. Wanting to avoid it, you hurry to the back of the bar, which is virtually empty now, and walk out the doors.
A blast of cold air hits you. You breathe in the fresh air gratefully. With only seventeen more hours of life, you might as well make the most of them.
Of family and friends, you have none. You would have spent your last couple days with them if you could instead of going to the vile bar of lies. That's all it is. Why had you ever succumbed to their deceit? No average 'droid would ever really get that taste of luxury. It was all fantasy, a hoax. An unfulfilled promise. How foolish you were to think it would ever happen!
Seven more hours pass. You have ten hours to fully absorb everything around you, to take in one last breath before you're dunked into the sea of death.
You spend four of them reminiscing about the good old days when you were young and flourishing at your factory, DesCon. They make the lowest-class A.I's (still very rich compared to 'droids), and the malfunctions they throw out the window. The malfunctions are the Androids.
The next three are spent wandering the streets of your childhood. In the alleyways underneath the tall apartments that house A.I's, the young 'droids would roll around, playing steel ball, the classic street game of the time. Trash crushes beneath your wheels as you bulldoze over all the dirty streets that you once called home.
The last three hours dawn upon you. You are too weak and rusty to roll anymore, and you lean against a brick wall of an A.I brownstone, squeezed in between large trash bins. This is how all 'droids were meant to die - meaningless, without purpose or accomplishment.
At thirty seconds left, something blinks in the trash bin to your right. You turn to see. It's…a charger?
No, you tell yourself. I'm hallucinating of old age.
But it keeps blinking.
You reach for it wearily. At twenty seconds left, you grab it and whirl around desperately, searching for an outlet within reach. There's one next to you, down by your feet. You bend down slowly, back pains slowing your descent.
At fifteen seconds until death, you plug in the charger to the outlet. Your knees give out from squatting that long, and you fumble for the charger at ten seconds.
Five seconds and you're sitting up.
Three, and you've found the charger again.
One, and you're bringing it to your outlet.
Zero, and you fall backward, dropping the charger, lights blinking out. You'll be carried out with the trash the next morning.