Berghardt's communities consist of many tight-knit subgroups - often convoys or colonies which stayed together after moving in, drones of similar ethnicities, who share a common language or origin, or clubs and groups dedicated to a craft or hobby of some kind, like blacksmithing, welding, oil extraction, leathercraft, etc. Of course, our few colonies also sport diversity within their sizeable ranks, though none come even close to Berghardt's diversity.
One such odd community is perhaps the most despised, distrusted and unwelcome amongst all: the handful of pacifist machine-hunters, called disassembly drones or simply murder drones by some, which make a peaceful living within our blessed city. I know most all of them personally, as confirming a hunter's reluctancy to kill - and by extent, their conscience - is a delicate matter. I, being a drone of greater experience with handling their volatility was often sent out to come to an agreement, flanked by our trusted venatores, to hopefully subsequently escort them back. Here, they are assessed, brought to repent for their crimes agains the hollow sun's gospel, then provided a sizable monthly oil ration to satiate their overheating issues. With the help of our valued hunters, no singular trifold disassembly drone attack may ever again pose a significant threat to Berghardt's people.
They occupy only a tiny fraction of the city's footprint, hidden away near the south-western terrace as a handful of large bunkhouses. A small courtyard in between their homes provides a place to gather and converse - worker drones are, of course, allowed inside and, in fact, truly welcomed by the hunters, though few ever do so. The general air of distrust towards them is understandable, as their unusual statures and yellow light-arrays make for quite the unnerving sight for the uninitiated. However, get to know one, and you might just make a friend for life.
They are like us! Their mind differs nought from that of your average worker. Hunters have hobbies and interests, make deep conversation and hilarious jokes, become frustrated and experience joy. To state one's physical differences as reasons for discrimination is nothing but non-sensical. If only our population were more generally welcoming - a utopian state I hope to see come true some day - then we will see that integration is not a question of smoothing-over our blessed differences, but accepting those that do not conform as our own.
I often visit there to drink oil-tea with those I have known for as long as they have known themselves, each eternally grateful - though also not without their own grievances - for Berghardt's open gates. Many would have died by now, were they still out hunting to survive, as populations within the broader wastes has starkly declined in these last two decades of hunter presence. One might think of the relation between machine-hunters and worker drones as equivalent to that of hunter and prey within the extinct animal kingdom, but such parallels are diffficult to draw. While it is true that hunters, like those of old, survive on the death of their unfortunate prey, that is about the only similarity to be found. The prey nowadays have the choice and natural tendency to move to greater, better-secured communities. Thus, hunters in the frostlands have short, bitter lifespans tainted by hunger and desperation.
We hope that, one day, the ineffective landings may stop all together, and that the wider world may yet return to the scarcely remembered safety of the long-past fifteen years after the cataclysm.
Awe, tenebre sol!