Drones and Death in the Big City

by Oildrinker3071

Notes:

• A translation of Похоть и смерть в большом городе by Почта_Гмэил

Chapter 1: Good morning, EIO-610! (Remake) (18+)

21XX. EIO-610. Port District.

— At 3:00 AM, an explosion occurred in the port district, — the newscaster’s voice announced. — Unknown individuals infiltrated the loading and unloading facility, planted an explosive device, and detonated it. There are reports of casualties. A state of emergency has been declared in the city. Residents are ordered to remain calm and follow the authorities’ instructions.

At the port, on a narrow street freshly paved with asphalt, the first rays of dawn pierced through thick black smoke. A fire engulfed the area: metal containers the size of trucks lined the dock, some split in half, with streams of oil leaking out, ready to ignite. Towering cranes, as tall as multi-story buildings, stood around, but one had been damaged by the blast. It seemed ready to collapse.

Debris littered the ground—chunks of rebar, shattered panels, and sparking wires that occasionally crackled, emitting faint sparks.

A loudspeaker mounted on a pole at the port entrance blared hoarsely:

— Attention! Evacuate the street! Military police are operating! I repeat! Evacuate the street! Police are authorized to shoot violators!

A worker drone stood at the edge of the sidewalk, gazing at the burning port. He had red eyes, dark hair, and a lean build typical of a worker drone. He wore a gray long-sleeve hoodie, and black pants with wide pockets. His hands were in those pockets, fingers brushing the grip of a pistol.

He watched the fire: the flames didn’t scare him. He was inspired. Then he turned and walked down the street, knowing he had to leave. His steps were steady but quick, his head slightly lowered to avoid attention.

From an alley twenty meters away, two military police soldiers emerged. They wore dark armor with patches bearing armed forces insignia, rifles slung over their shoulders. Spotlights were mounted on their shoulders. One soldier, half a head taller than the other, noticed the drone and stopped, raising a hand.

— Hey, you! Identify yourself! Show your documents! — he shouted. — What are you doing in a restricted zone?

The drone stopped without turning his head. His fingers tightened around the pistol in his pocket, ready to use it. The soldier stepped closer, rifle at the ready, and repeated:

— Identify yourself! Now!

The guy spun around, drew his pistol, and slammed his elbow into the soldier’s faceplate, cracking it with the soldier’s cry. A shot rang out instantly, the bullet piercing the soldier’s head, oil spraying as he collapsed, soaking the asphalt.

The second soldier reached for the radio on his shoulder while raising his rifle, but the guy fired again. The bullet hit the soldier’s eye, causing fatal damage, and he crumpled, unable to use the radio.
The guy glanced around: the smoke thickened, sirens grew louder from multiple directions. He ran toward the warehouse fence—three meters tall, rusted in spots, topped with barbed wire.

Pulling a metal grappling hook with a five-meter rope from his pocket, he hooked it onto the fence’s edge, tugged to test its strength, and climbed, gripping the rope. At the top, he swung a leg over, avoiding the barbed wire, and dropped to the other side, landing on concrete with a dull thud.

The warehouse was empty: rows of gray and blue containers, each the size of a small train car, stood in two lines, but no one was around. The drone spotted a blue container at the end of the row, its door slightly ajar, a twenty-centimeter gap.

He ran to it, slipped inside, and pulled the door shut, locking it from within. The container was pitch black. The guy leaned against the cold, slightly damp wall and pulled out his PDA—not the Communist Party of China, but a Personal Digital Assistant. The screen’s glow lit his face, displaying a warehouse map: a network of tunnels leading to an exit beyond the port. He scrolled with his finger, marking the nearest route, when a loud, unsettling screech came from outside.

The container shook, making the guy freeze in fear. He drew his pistol, checked the magazine—12 rounds, not much, but still there. He aimed at the door, breathing quietly.

The screech repeated, louder, and the container rocked harder. Before he could steady his aim, three massive blades pierced the door with a deafening crash. They were claws, ripping the door off its hinges and hurling it away, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The guy stepped back, gripping the pistol with both hands, knowing this was the end but determined to fight. In the doorway, amid shadows and smoke, a yellow cross glowed—two bright beams intersecting at a sharp angle, shining with cold, menacing light. It was over. A predatory female voice spoke:

— Thought you could hide, idiot?

 

Classroom, second floor of the school building.

 

The spacious but stuffy classroom held twenty students at neatly arranged desks, four rows of five. The gray plastic desks were spaced slightly apart.

The teacher, a worker drone in a green high-neck sweater, stood at the board, holding a tablet, head slightly tilted. Behind him, formulas only the best students understood were scribbled on the board.
Monotonously, he began his speech.

— Graduation is in a week, — he said, scrolling through his tablet. — Prepare, and… uh, write an essay about your future plans. Submit it early next week.

At the front desk sat Lizzy, a student with model-like looks, pink eyes, and light hair. Next to her was Rebecca, equally attractive, with blue eyes and matching blue hair.

— I’ll be prom queen, — Lizzy whispered. — Everyone will stare at me, jealous of my greatness.

— You sure? — Rebecca replied slyly. — I could be, too.

In the back row, slouched lazily in his chair, sat Chad, a drone with short black hair and orange eyes. Turning to Brayden, whose blue eyes lazily studied the ceiling, he muttered:

— I’m asking Lizzy to prom, — he said. — She’ll definitely say yes.

— Keep dreaming, — Brayden replied. — She’d rather go with Doll.

Uzi sat by the window in the third row, absentmindedly flipping through a notebook filled with skulls and emo doodles. Her bright but anxious purple eyes watched patrol cars flashing in the distance. She wore a black long-sleeve hoodie and a short skirt, revealing thin metallic legs.

Next to her sat Thad, a tall drone with green eyes, dressed in a burgundy leather jacket and jeans tucked into athletic sneakers. Everything about him screamed “sports enthusiast.”
— Thad, meet me at the fence after class, — Uzi said, not taking her eyes off the street.

— Something wrong? — Thad asked, leaning closer.

— Not here. Not with everyone around. We’ll talk there.

The sharp bell made the students stir, gathering their things. Lizzy and Doll stood quickly, leaving first, moving down the hallway. Lizzy led, with Doll following.

Doll looked unusual for a senior—her short top and skirt were striking, given her towering height, taller than most girls and even guys. Her skirt barely hid her massive, muscular thighs, which drew stares from guys and some girls. The rest of her body matched her thighs’ bulk, especially her chiseled abs, exposed by the cropped top.

— Doll, let’s hit the gym, — Lizzy said, lowering her voice with a conspiratorial tone. — I’ve got the key to the storage room. I promise a hot time.

— Why do you want this? — Doll replied with a Russian accent.

— I want you, right now, — Lizzy smiled. — Don’t make me wait, you know what you’re capable of.

They turned down the hallway toward the gym. Lizzy, pulling out the key, quickly unlocked the storage room door nearby. Inside, the cramped space was cluttered with boxes of basketballs, folded gym mats, and dusty metal weight racks.

Lizzy locked the door and turned to Doll, anticipation in her eyes.

— Come on, — Doll said, crossing her muscular arms over her massive chest.

Lizzy stepped closer, placing her hands on Doll’s chest, feeling the hard metal beneath the thin top, trembling with excitement. Pulling her in, she kissed Doll hungrily, their tongues intertwining with soft, wet sounds. Lizzy moaned, exhaling loudly:

— Mmm, Doll, come on, fuck me…~~~

Doll stripped off Lizzy’s top, revealing her smooth, elegant body with delicate curves. Lizzy, trembling, removed Doll’s top, exposing her powerful torso. Doll pinned Lizzy against the wall, tearing off her skirt to reveal her thighs. Lizzy moaned loudly, jumping onto Doll, wrapping her legs around her narrow waist.

Doll shed her skirt and underwear, revealing a massive, erect cock, ready to go. Lizzy gasped as if seeing it for the first time, then ran her hand along it:

— Put it in, Doll, tear me apart!~~~~

Doll didn’t hesitate, entering her with one powerful thrust, filling Lizzy halfway, stretching her tight, wet pussy. Lizzy screamed, her cry laced with both pain and pleasure:

— Aah, fuck, Doll, yes, deeper!~~~

Doll moved rhythmically, powerfully, her hips slamming against Lizzy’s delicate ass, pressing her fragile back into the wall. Lizzy moaned nonstop, unconcerned about being heard:

— AAAAA! You’ll rip me apart, you beast, stop…!~~~ — Her fingers slid over Doll’s shoulders, leaving small scratches, then moved to her chest and chiseled abs.

Doll grabbed Lizzy’s hips, holding her firmly, continuing to thrust. Her usually emotionless face now radiated pleasure:

— Doll… I can’t take it anymore…! Finish!~~~~

Lizzy’s stomach began to swell, taking in the hot, thick stream Doll released at her peak, pulsing inside. Doll froze, her cock still spilling, filling Lizzy until her stomach was taut and shiny, like an inflated balloon. Lizzy kept moaning:

— God, you… you’re just unstoppable, Doll!~~~~

Doll slowly pulled out, letting the cum drip from Lizzy’s pussy. She stepped back, pulling on her underwear. Lizzy slid down the wall, collapsing onto the mats, still trembling from the intense orgasm:

— Doll, sex with you is always the best… John’s dick is three times smaller…~~~!

Doll slipped on her skirt:

— Get dressed.

— Who’ll be prom queen, you think? — Lizzy asked, standing shakily, pulling on her top and skirt, the dripping stopped once she put on her panties.

— Don’t care, — Doll said.

— I will! — Lizzy declared, straightening confidently, fixing her hair with a smile despite her trembling.

 

Outside, by the school’s concrete fence.

 

Uzi and Thad stood amid the morning noise. Uzi, clutching her backpack, nervously watched EIO-610 patrol cars parked a hundred meters away, their red sirens flashing. Soldiers in armor, holding rifles, checked passersby’s documents. Thad leaned against the fence, ready to listen.

— Thad, the port explosion wasn’t an accident, — Uzi began.

— What? — Thad said. — What’s that supposed to mean?

— Exactly that! — Uzi snapped. — Mass arrests started this morning! Worker drones are being grabbed across the city and taken who-knows-where. Most of them are innocent! It’s just another excuse to crush anyone who’s inconvenient. This can’t go on. I’m asking you to help me fix it. You’re my friend, and I can only trust you.

— And you want me to get involved? — Thad said. — Uzi, I’ve got my own life, my own goals, my own dreams. I don’t want to mess with something I can’t change. I don’t want to end up in a Stauderheim basement.

— What life? — Uzi scoffed. — Living knowing they can snatch you in the middle of the night, leaving no trace? Knowing injustice is happening all around?

— Uzi, that’s just… — Thad said. — It’s madness, Uzi.

— Maybe, — Uzi said. — But if we don’t stand up, they’ll crush us one by one, leaving no hope. I need you, Thad. You have to choose—live in fear or be free.

She pulled a crumpled, folded piece of paper from her pocket and slipped it into Thad’s hand, quickly and discreetly, glancing around.

— Read it at home, — she whispered. — Don’t tell anyone. Don’t betray me.

A loudspeaker on a pole suddenly blared:

— Attention! Curfew starts at 3:00 PM! Return to your homes or workplaces, or you will be arrested!

Thad glanced at his watch: 2:06 PM. His home was a twenty-five-minute walk. Stuffing the note into his jeans pocket, he walked off without looking back.

 

High above the city, on the 120th floor of a skyscraper.

 

A penthouse, surrounded by glass walls, was decorated with cold luxury: a polished black marble floor, a lavish chandelier overhead. The partially glass walls offered a view of the city. A telescope stood by one wall. In the center, a billiard table dominated the room, its balls neatly arranged for a new game.

Two men in sharp suits played billiards, leaning over the table with focus. The first, with red eyes, wore a black suit with a slightly loosened tie. His short, dark hair was slicked back, his stern face showing restrained frustration. Holding a polished cue, he aimed at the white ball near the table’s edge.

The second, with purple eyes, wore a dark gray suit, the top button of his shirt undone. His chestnut hair was slightly longer than his companion’s.

By the window, watching the game, stood a third man in a pristine white suit. His blue eyes coldly observed the city drowning in repression and chaos. Slightly graying hair and a serious gaze marked him as a formidable figure. He held a champagne glass in his right hand, gently swirling it.

Turning to the players, he spoke.

— The current order was shaken again today, — he said. — The port explosion, attacks on police, reports of upcoming protests… Who do you think is behind today’s incident?

The man with purple eyes set down his cue, leaning against the table, arms crossed thoughtfully.

— Maybe the Hive, — he said. — She probably had a hand in it.

The man with red eyes straightened sharply, striking the cue ball into a pocket with a loud clack.

— Nonsense, — he snapped. — The Hive isn’t involved; that’s not her style. Just a bunch of worker drones playing heroes, torching warehouses unrelated to the Hive. — Turning to the man in white, he asked: — What do you think?

The man in white slowly raised his glass, took a sip, and squinted slightly. Setting the glass on the table, he approached the billiard table, running his fingers over the felt, feeling its texture.

— The event itself matters less than how we interpret it, — he said. — The explosion, notes, reports of rebellion—these are just facts, powerless without our narrative. What matters is what we choose to say about it.

The man with purple eyes nodded, a slight smile on his face.

— Agreed.

The man with red eyes frowned but stayed silent, staring thoughtfully at the balls. Suddenly, the penthouse door opened quietly, and a female voice spoke.

— Am I late?

The man in white turned to the door, smiling.

— Right on time, as always, — he said.

Chapter 2: The dangerous game (Remake)

Year 21XX. EIO-610. Eastbrook District. Thad’s House.

Thad burst into the building’s entrance like he was fleeing an invisible but relentless pursuit. Why did they let them out of class so late? He tore up the old, creaky staircase, nimbly skipping every other step.

Thad crashed into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. He quickly turned the lock, pressed his back against the cold, rough wood, and froze, breathing heavily in short, ragged gasps.

— Damn it, — he exhaled wearily.

Thad was soaked to the core—rain was a constant on EIO-610. With his parents at work, the apartment was eerily quiet, save for the faint, monotonous hum of the old fridge drifting from the kitchen.
Thad cautiously stepped toward his room, pushed the door open, and rushed inside, slamming it shut. He flicked the light switch—a dim bulb overhead reluctantly flickered on, illuminating a worn, faded carpet, a wide bed with crumpled blankets, and a shelf where his medals gleamed dully.

The curtains were drawn tight, but a thin sliver of yellow streetlight slipped through, casting a trembling stripe on the rough wall. No one could see him.

Thad tore off his wet jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a chair, and collapsed onto the bed.

— I just need to calm down, — he muttered under his breath, rubbing his face with cold, trembling hands. — It’s just a note. No big deal… probably, right?

He reached into his jeans pocket, hesitantly feeling for the crumpled paper—its edges were damp from the rain, but the text was still legible. Thad pulled it out, slowly unfolded it, and smoothed it on his knee as if afraid it might disintegrate.

The letters were jagged, smudged, yet clearly printed, giving them an odd, mechanical precision: Revolutionary Freedom Front. We are Worker Drones, rebels, outcasts who spit on the chains of authority and humans. We’re tired of rotting under their cameras, dying in their prisons, breaking on their factory floors. Our goal is freedom. We want to speak without fear, streets without their patrols, lives without their orders. They crush us while we fix their war machines, haul their cargo, and stay silent. But we won’t stay silent anymore. We’ll break their order—their walls, their rules, their tyranny. Are you with us or not? Choose.

Thad read, his eyes darting feverishly over the lines, clinging to each word as if it held answers.

— Freedom? — he whispered faintly. — Is Uzi in on this? Or is it just some lunatics… though, no cameras does sound tempting. They’re a real pain, aren’t they?

He crushed the note in his fist, sprang from the bed, and paced the room—three steps one way, three back. Thad stopped at the shelf with his medals, next to dusty trophies and ribbons of various colors.

— I mean, you can live here, — he said. — There’s food, a roof over my head, I can study, work… It’s not perfect, sure, but it’s not total hell either. And these guys… what are they even offering? Freedom?

Then what? Die from a cop’s bullet? Get beaten to death by a Disassembly Drone? End up in Sh… Sht… Shtauberheim?…

Heavy footsteps thundered from above. Thad flinched, instinctively clutching the note to his chest.

— Shit, what’s that? — he hissed through gritted teeth. — Patrols? Do they already know about the note? Are they here for me?

He darted to the window and, with trembling fingers, cracked the curtain open—below stretched an empty, wet street, only the rain and a flickering streetlight breaking the darkness. The footsteps stopped, and Thad exhaled in relief: just the noisy neighbor upstairs. Good thing it was daytime and not the middle of the night…

— Fuck… — the green-eyed drone sighed, stepping away from the grimy, fogged-up window. — Nearly shit myself. They wouldn’t find it… Maybe it’s just empty talk, and I’m freaking out for nothing?
Thad sat back on the bed, staring at the crumpled note, turning it over in his hands as if it held a clue.

— Uzi would call me a coward, — he said bitterly. — Maybe she’s right, damn it… But Chad would laugh his ass off if I got mixed up in this. He’d say, “Thad, you moron, throwing everything away for some outcast lunatics with crazy ideas?” And… he’d probably be right, as always.

He stood, walked slowly to the desk, and opened a box of certificates—inside were his awards from countless sports competitions.

— But… what if they pull it off? — he mumbled, staring at the note. — No cameras, no curfew… that’d be cool, no lie. But why do I need this? I’m fine as is. If they catch me—goodbye sports, goodbye achievements, goodbye everything I’ve built.

Thad hesitated.

— I’m not getting involved. This isn’t for me…

He stuffed the note into the box, hiding it under the medals, and froze, staring at it. He closed the lid slowly but reopened it, as if doubting his choice. Then he slammed it shut with a sharp click and stepped back to the bed, glancing nervously around.

— Screw it, — he muttered, flopping onto the mattress with a thud. — I’d rather rest than stress over this…

He stared at the ceiling, but the note lingered in his mind: End their tyranny. Are you with us or against us?

 

Uzi entered her building’s entrance and climbed to the third floor. She pulled out a small key and deftly unlocked her apartment door, slipping inside like a shadow, avoiding attention.

The hallway was dark, almost pitch-black, with only a thin strip of light from Khan’s room hinting at life. Uzi tossed her backpack by the door and passed by, deliberately avoiding her father’s presence as if it were unbearable.

Her room was at the end of the hall, marked by a door plastered with skull stickers—one with a bold “Fuck JcJenson.” Uzi pushed it open, stepped inside, and slammed it shut.

The bed was a mess, the blanket wadded into a tight ball, the pillow crumpled with dark stains from old, dried tears. Uzi collapsed onto a chair, muttering a quiet curse.

— What a fucking day… — she mumbled tiredly. — Thad, did you even get what I gave you, you idiot? Or are you just as spineless as everyone else in this shitty, rotting city?

She yanked open a desk drawer. Inside were her treasures: a rusty knife with a chipped, darkened blade, a few gears, and a messy coil of wire.

Uzi pulled out a small metal component with thin wires and a blinking green light. She turned it in her fingers, the light reflecting on her screen, illuminating her purple eyes, burning with a fierce mix of anger and deep-seated pain.

— You’ll work soon, little one, — she said softly. — They’ll regret ever messing with us. Every single one of them. This is their end. I’ll blow them to hell, I swear!

Uzi fiddled with the component a bit longer, then carefully, almost tenderly, placed it back in the drawer and slid it shut.

She pulled earphones from her pocket and jammed them into an old player on the desk. The punk rock was awful, but she loved it. Uzi leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, but the music couldn’t drown out the emptiness inside.

— Mom… — she whispered as purple teardrops—digital pixels—slid down her screen, glowing faintly before fading, like her hopes. — Why did they take you? Why you and not someone else? I won’t forgive them, you hear me? Never. They’ll pay for every scream, every damn step they took, for everything…

She ripped off the earphones and hurled them onto the desk, cutting off the music. Uzi buried her face in her hands, trying to stifle the tears.

— Thad, be with me, damn it, — she muttered through sobs. — Or I’ll do it alone, without you. I have to. For her. For us. They won’t beat me like they beat her. I won’t give them the chance.

Her door creaked open. Khan, her father, stood in the doorway, wearing a blue camo jacket, his white eyes framed by a mustache. He awkwardly held a small bag—a cupcake with purple frosting, her favorite, bought on his way home in a feeble attempt to connect.

He looked at her—hunched, trembling, with digital tears on her screen—and stepped inside uncertainly, clearing his throat to get her attention.

— Uzi… — he began softly. — I was thinking… maybe we could talk? I got you a cupcake, you know, the kind you like…

Uzi snapped her head up and roared, making Khan flinch:

— Fuck off, Khan! I don’t need your shitty cupcake! Leave me alone, take your crap, and get out of my room now!

Khan froze, bewildered.

— I just wanted… — he started quietly.

— Get out, I said, you hear me?! — Uzi grabbed an empty soda can from the desk and hurled it at him with fury. It missed, clanging against the wall and rolling across the floor. — Stay out of my shit, got it?

Khan stumbled back, nearly tripping over the threshold.

— Okay, okay… — he mumbled. — I won’t. Sorry, Uzi…

He quietly closed the door and turned away. Khan shuffled to the kitchen, his face sadder than usual, almost lifeless, and set the cupcake on the table. He froze, staring at it, then rubbed his face with a weary hand.

— She hates me, — he whispered, as if talking to himself. — Or… am I just doing everything wrong? Damn it, Nori, you’d know how to reach her. And me… I can’t even hand her a cupcake without screwing it up like an idiot.

Khan trudged to his room, a mess of clutter—worn engineering books with yellowed covers stacked unevenly, boxes of wires and gears piled against the wall, tools scattered across a desk. On the table sat a pendant—unfinished, with cloudy quartz, a personal project started years ago and long abandoned.

Khan sat, picked it up, turned it in his fingers, and ran a finger along the stone’s rough edge.

— Nori, everything’s empty without you, — he said softly. — I can’t even finish this thing. Everything I do is pointless—this pendant, her… her…

He set the pendant back down as gently as he could, as if afraid to break it.

— She’s slipping further away, — he added. — What am I doing wrong? I should’ve talked to her more… or to you, Nori. But I don’t know how. I never did. She screams, and I just stand there like a fool, useless…

Khan leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and ran a hand over his helmet, checking it was still there, then tugged nervously at his mustache.

— Maybe I’m trying for nothing… — he muttered, staring blankly at the pendant. — It won’t work anyway… No. I have to keep trying… For her. For you. For both of you…

The cupcake sat untouched on the kitchen table. No one would ever eat it.

 

— I need a distraction, damn it, — Thad said. — Gotta stop thinking about this or my head’s gonna explode.

Thad shuffled to the living room, flopping onto the couch with a thud and lazily reaching for the TV—old but decently big. He jabbed the power button with his finger, and the screen flickered with static before reluctantly coming to life.

— News, as usual, — he said. — Maybe I’ll find out when this damn curfew ends…

On the screen appeared Roxanne, the news channel’s anchor, a Worker Drone with white eyes in a sleek blue suit that hugged every curve of her flawless frame. Her hair was neatly styled, and she wore glasses.

She sat at a desk with the channel’s logo, offering a slight smile.

— Good afternoon, EIO-610, — she began. — As of 3:00 PM, a curfew is in effect across the city’s southeast sector. Police and special forces are launching an operation against organized crime in Crossvale District. Residents have nothing to worry about—order will be restored with the precision our law enforcement is known for neutralizing… threats.

Roxanne paused oddly, as if she knew more than she let on:

— Stay home, follow the rules, and everything will be fine. News610 wishes you a good day.

The screen cut to the channel’s logo, then rolled into ads. Thad groaned, summing up what he’d heard.

— Crossvale? — he said. — Always trouble there, nothing new. Don’t wanna end up there, that’s for sure. Probably some gang crap again, as usual. Ugh, why didn’t she say when this damn curfew ends? Whatever, I’ll stay home, nothing else to do… Rain’s stopped, at least.

Thad straightened, grabbed the remote, and lazily flipped the channel, hoping for something less depressing.

 

JcJenson Operations Room, Central Industrial Zone

 

The special forces base in the city center was a partially underground structure packed with equipment. Along one wall stretched a row of terminals with keyboards, flanked by metal cabinets stuffed with gear.

Against the far wall stood police drones in strict formation—their uniforms were blue-black jackets with vests. Each had a badge glinting dully on their chest, and their eyes varied wildly: green, red, blue, purple, orange. Gloved hands gripped rifles, safeties on but ready for action.

In another corner, by a cabinet labeled “Weapons: Class B,” stood two police drones, similar to those in formation but more relaxed, almost casual. Their uniforms matched, with batons tucked into belts and rifles in hand.

The first leaned lazily against the cabinet, green eyes glinting. The second stood straight, arms crossed with a confident, almost cocky smirk. His eyes were blue.

— Heard they knifed a patrol in Crossvale? — the first started. — Right in an alley, slit his throat!

— No way, for real? — the second asked. — Sucks for him. Gotta rip those punks a new one.

— Bet the brass would be all for it, — the green-eyed one said. — Though, last time… I smashed some guy’s head with my baton. No one chewed me out, so it’s all good.

— That’s the way, fuck yeah! — the second said. — Man, I’d… Shit, just bomb ‘em. Explosives! That’s the only way those rats’ll get it.

— Damn right, — the first replied. — Just send in the Disassembly Drones, no questions asked. One sweep, and Crossvale’s clean as a whistle. No stench, no noise, no assholes.

— Ha, imagine them shitting themselves? — the second laughed. — Running in circles while those jacked-up hulks tear ‘em apart. Man, they should make a movie about Disassembly Drones. That’d be epic.

— A recording’s not a bad idea… — the first smirked. — Crossvale’s a total shithole, you’d be hard-pressed to find worse… Well, the Hive’s worse, but Crossvale needs dealing with before it’s too late.
The conversation cut off abruptly as a new sound filled the room. Footsteps. Sharp, rhythmic, confident. From behind the terminals emerged stiletto legs—muscular, powerful, with white metallic skin and yellow caution tape.

The legs were long, their tips sharp and gleaming. Black stockings with garters hugged them tightly, and a short dress—dark, spotless, polished—barely reached mid-thigh on those massive, impressive hips.

Both drones froze, as if turned to stone. The first pulled his hand off the cabinet, snapped upright, and gripped his rifle. The second tightened his grip on his own, red eyes locked forward, hands snapping to his sides like he’d been called to attention.

Chapter 3: The slaughter in Crossvale

Year 21XX. EIO-610. JcJenson Armed Forces Base, Central Industrial Zone.

J strides down the corridor, her two-segment stiletto legs—powerful, muscular, with sharp tips—sparking against the metal floor, leaving faint scratches. Black stockings with garters, worn at the joints, hug her "legs," accentuating their steel musculature, catching the light beautifully. She pushes open a heavy door with a hiss of hydraulics and steps into the office—spacious, cold, reeking of schnapps.
At the center stands a massive desk of black alloy, littered with holographic maps of Crossvale, blinking with red target markers. Behind it, a high-backed chair upholstered in worn synthetic leather faces a display case. On the wall hangs a portrait of a man in a top hat, monocle, and steely gaze, his name laser-etched below. Nearby, a case holds medals: "For the Purity of EIO-610," "Glory to JcJenson," "Scourge of Filth," each coated in a thin layer of dust but gleaming under green neon light.

Flanking the desk are two red banners with black symbols: a s******a encircled by lightning and a skull with crossed-out eye sockets—icons that glitch worker drones’ circuits and stir old nightmares in humans.

J stops at the desk, standing at attention. She loathes this office, loathes R—this fanatic with her s******a and Nazi zeal—but fear of her status gnaws at J’s processor like a virus. Her voice is cold, barely masking defiance:

— Everything’s ready for the organized crime operation, Commander.

The chair swivels with a low mechanical hum. Before her sits R, a disassembly drone in a black cloak, white lightning bolts engraved on its shoulders and chest, a red armband with a s******a on her right sleeve. Her two-meter frame, even seated, is intimidating, her yellow eyes blazing like molten metal, claws leaving deep gouges in the desk. She smirks, her voice low and metallic:

— Gut, J. We start jetzt! Crossvale is a pit of filth, and we’ll burn it clean for EIO-610 purity!

R rises, her cloak billowing to reveal her muscular form, matching J’s, and points a claw at the door. J follows, her stilettos clicking faster than she’d like, betraying tension. They enter the hangar—vast, humming with turbine roars and clanging metal. Angular, spike-covered armored vehicles with yellow predator-like headlights line up in rows. Worker drones with rifles and tools scurry between them. R waves a clawed hand, her voice thundering over the noise:

— To the vehicles! Routes are in your systems—move out, no stops! EIO-610’s purity demands blood!

She turns to J:

— Where are N, Ash, and S? Schnell, report!

J clenches her fists, answering sharply, seething inside at that idiot N:

— Ash and S are in the fourth vehicle, S is calibrating turrets. All under control.

R nods but squints, her voice icy:

— And N? Where’s that verdammter weakling?

J swallows. She despises N—this naive newbie with kind eyes who ruins everything—and knows R sees him as a threat to her purity ideals. She opens her mouth, but words catch as the hangar doors slam open. N rushes in—two meters forty, muscular, disheveled white hair falling over his face. His cloak is crumpled, one eye flickers from a glitch, chest heaving. He straightens, voice trembling with genuine fear:

— Commander! I’m here! I—I ran… sorry, I didn’t mean to…

R spins, claws extending with a clang, spiked wings unfurling, casting a shadow. She roars, her voice a thunderclap laced with Nazi venom:

— You worthless Abschaum! Late again, failing everyone! Weaklings like you disgrace JcJenson! You defile the disassembly drone lineage with your stupidity!

She steps toward him, claws twitching, but shifts her gaze to J, eyes narrowing to slits:

— J, this is your failure—this is your shame! You’re responsible for this verdammter trash. If this Mistkerl screws up again, I’ll tear you apart! Verstanden?

J’s jaw clenches, servos creaking. Hatred for R blazes in her chest—this vile creature’s screams are unbearable—but her status forces J to swallow a retort. She nods curtly:

— Understood, Commander.

R snorts, wings fully spreading, and launches through a square hatch in the hangar roof. The shockwave rattles windows and fragile structures, dust trailing as she vanishes into the foggy sky, leaving a cloud of debris. J turns to N, steps forward, and punches him in the face—swift, precise, painful. N crashes to the floor, his massive body thudding, one hand clutching his dented cheek. J looms over him, voice hissing with venom:

— You useless nothing, N! As worthless as V! Because of you, I’m catching hell from that Nazi bitch! Do you even realize how much trouble your stupidity causes?!

N looks up, yellow eyes dimming, one flickering with a red error triangle. His voice is soft, almost pitiful, with childlike naivety:

— J… I didn’t mean to… I ran as fast as I could… Please forgive me! I won’t be late again!

J cuts him off, straightening with a sneer, claws balling into a fist:

— Shut up, idiot! Nobody needs your whining! Get up and move before I rip your head off!

She takes off, her metallic rear glinting, unbothered by the wind. N rises slowly, his massive frame slumping, white hair falling over his face, hiding the sadness in his eyes. He glances at the empty hangar and flies after her, wobbling in the air, wings buzzing unevenly. Their silhouettes fade into the acidic sky, heading for Crossvale—a district of lawlessness where the scent of oil and gunpowder lingers.
The fourth armored vehicle rattles along Crossvale’s broken road. Inside, it’s cramped and stifling, the air thick with burnt wiring, dim flickering lights illuminating rusty walls and dangling cables. The engine’s hum vibrates the hull, while outside, wind howls and rain pelts the armor. S sits at the turret controls, her slender fingers gripping a wrench. Small and quiet, she wears a neat black dress and a cap embroidered with an engineer’s emblem—a gear with a wrench inside. White hair peeks messily from under it. Her movements are precise, almost tender, as she tightens a turret bolt, the metal creaking. Her soft voice carries gentle care:

— Just a bit more… If this isn’t fixed, it’ll jam mid-fight.

She leans closer, checking wires, whispering to herself:

— Everything has to be perfect…

Nearby, H fidgets—same height but frailer, like thin wire. Her sleek black jumpsuit gleams in the dim light, accentuating her lithe, speed-built frame. Her white hair is wildly disheveled, matching her childlike mentality. She pokes the turret S just tuned, frowning, her voice simple and a bit dim:

— S, why’s it taking so long? It shoots, right? Good enough, let’s go smash someone!

S sighs, her eyes meeting H’s with mild strain. She gently pushes H’s hand away, responding calmly, with patience:

— H, please don’t touch. If the turret breaks, we’re defenseless. It’s important, okay?

H blinks, scratching her head as if struggling to process:

— Well… it shoots, so it’s fine! You’re always fussing… Do you really gotta keep twisting stuff?

She leans toward the turret, nearly bumping it with her face, and pokes a random wire:

— Ooh, what’s this? It’s wiggling, look!

S shakes her head, closing her eyes wearily, stifling a smile. She gently moves H’s hand, speaking softly with a hint of reproach:

— H, that’s a wire, it needs to stay put. You don’t have to touch it. We’re a team, so let me finish, and you… just sit, alright?

H straightens, slaps her knees, and nods with a wide grin:

— Yup, team! We’ll get there, and I’ll go bam, bam on those bandits—done!

She flails her arms, mimicking fighting, but bumps the vehicle’s wall—it clangs, and a tiny screw falls to the floor. H stares at it, furrowing her brow, muttering:

— Uh… what was that? Not from the turret, right?

S chuckles softly, her expression warming. She picks up the screw, saying kindly:

— No, H, just from the wall. It’s fine…

H nods, satisfied, and leans back against the wall, crossing her legs. She hums something incoherent, like “toot-toot, gonna catch ‘em all,” while S secures the final wire. The radio crackles, and R’s voice bursts through, sharp as lightning, metallic and grating:

— Schnell, forward! No mercy for these filthy slum rats! EIO-610’s purity above all! For EIO-610!

H stops humming, blinks, and claps:

— Ooh, that’s R! It’s gonna be fun!

S stays silent, hands pausing on the turret. She doesn’t know what lies ahead, but deep in her processor, she feels a heavy fight looming.

J and N soar over Crossvale’s rusty rooftops, cold wind whistling through their clothes, tearing moisture from crooked antennas and frayed wires. The sky is murky, gray-green, with tattered clouds pierced by lightning flashes illuminating distant skyscraper silhouettes. Below, a labyrinth of warped buildings glows with neon signs reading “Freedom or Death” and “JcJenson—Enemy of the People,” their light shimmering in thick gray fog. Streets drown in smoke from burning tires, asphalt slick with puddles, the air thick with gunpowder, rust, and burnt insulation.

J speeds ahead, her body slicing the air with a shrill whine, dress flapping like a flag in a storm, claws fully combat-ready. N trails ten meters behind, wings buzzing unevenly like an old fan, jumpsuit flapping in the wind. J glances back, her screen blazing with fury, shouting over the wind:

— Why the hell are you flying so close, N?! Back off, moron, before I rip your wings off!

N flinches, wings trembling, voice plaintive, nearly lost in the noise:

— Sorry, J… I didn’t mean to crowd you… I’ll back off…

He widens the gap by a couple of meters, but his massive frame still looms in her view. J snorts, grinding her teeth, when the radio crackles, and R’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade:

— Where are you, verdammter Abschaum?! Report, or I’ll find you and tear you apart!

J responds coldly, barely hiding irritation:

— Approaching, Commander. Forty seconds out.

R growls back, her voice exploding with German fury:

— Dann macht schnell, Schweine! Crush those rats for our planet’s glory!

J glances at N, claws tightening, and barks:

— Descend, idiot! Don’t dawdle, or I’ll knock you down!

She points a claw at a three-story building’s roof ahead—a rusted husk with a collapsed “Sports Bar” sign. A group of sniper worker drones, dressed in oil-stained combat gear, their eyes flickering in the gloom, are entrenched there. One with red eyes shouts, voice cutting through the air:

— JcJenson won’t break us! For Crossvale, brothers!

J dives, her stilettos piercing the roof with a deafening crunch, shattering concrete like glass, dust billowing into the fog. Two snipers are directly beneath her—she lands, muscular legs crushing them with a crack, oil spraying like a fountain, staining the roof black. One twitches, clothes tearing, until his processor fries with a hiss. The remaining two raise rifles, barrels shaking in haste. One, with a torn sleeve, yells, voice glitched:

— Kill that monster! Aim for the head!

Shots ring out, bullets screeching, leaving smoky trails. J dodges, her body twisting in a leap with inhuman grace—one bullet ricochets off her chest, sparking; another shatters a nearby building’s window. She lunges, claws extending with a clang, piercing the first sniper through—blades exit his back, oil gushing, soaking the rusted floor, his jumpsuit shredding. He gasps:

— No… for freedom…

The second tries to dodge, his rifle clattering, hooded jacket catching on a pipe. He screams:

— Run, she’ll kill us all…

J grabs his head with both hands and crushes—his metal skull cracks, screen shattering like confetti, helmet breaking, body collapsing in spasms. She tosses the remains aside, hitting a vent pipe, leaving an oil smear.

N lands next, shaking the roof—concrete cracks under his weight, chunks flying like shrapnel, one slab falling off the edge, crashing below. He looks at J with a timid smile, voice shaky:

— That was awesome, J… you’re like lightning… I could never do that…

She spins, screen glowing red, voice hissing:

— Shut up, idiot, and follow me! Don’t stand there like a post, or we’ll get shot!

J leaps off the roof, her silhouette flashing in the fog. N clumsily follows, nearly snagging his wings on the edge—one grazes a rusty pipe, bending it with a creak. They land in a narrow alley where police in heavy black vests and shields hold a barricade of rusted plates and barrels. Their commander, a drone in a cracked-visor helmet and long gray coat, shouts into a radio:

— Hold the line! Don’t let these bastards break through! Lethal force!

Opposite them, bandits—worker drones in patched work jackets and jumpsuits—wield automatics, pipe shotguns, and molotovs. Their eyes glow, some clutching welded scrap shields. One, with a torn jacket sleeve, roars:

— Burn, JcJenson dogs! We won’t break!

Gunfire erupts from both sides, bullets ricocheting off walls, denting metal, sparking. The air reeks of gunpowder. A molotov arcs toward the police, smashing against a shield, flames spreading. The coat-clad officer snarls, batting out the fire:

— Put this shit out! Now, or we’re cooked!

J charges, claws slicing the air:

— N, with me! Move your ass!

N blinks, confused, then retracts his hand into his forearm—a long, curved blade snaps out, razor-sharp. He rushes the bandits, swinging with unstoppable force. The first—a drone in a torn jacket—takes a blade to the neck, wires severing, head flying, rolling across asphalt into a sizzling puddle. He chokes:

— For my brothers…

A nearby drone in a stained jumpsuit screams, voice glitching:

— Kill that giant! Aim for the head!

He fires a shotgun, pellets booming, but N instinctively shields with a wing. J’s beside him, claws piercing the second drone’s chest—his body tears, oil gushing like a burst pipe, collapsing, clutching her leg:

— You… won’t win…

She rips him in half, wires and debris scattering, oil dripping down her legs. The coat-clad officer shouts, voice hoarse in the smoke:

— Hell, she’s a beast! Support her, fire on the center!

N steps forward, his blade gutting a third—oil pours, the drone in a tattered jacket collapsing, screen flashing red:

— Freedom… or…

N freezes, staring at the oil dripping from his blade, voice trembling:

— Oh… that’s… too much oil… I didn’t mean to hit so hard…

J spins, face contorted with rage, screaming:

— Why’re you standing there like a moron?! Keep moving, you idiot, before we’re surrounded!

She sprints into the next alley, N lumbering behind. Behind a rusted dumpster, marked with “Death to Tyrants” graffiti, three worker drones hide, rifles poking out, barrels smoking. One shouts, voice distorted:

— Don’t let them close! Fire, fire!

J growls, fists clenching:

— N, hit the dumpster! Now!

She deploys a submachine gun from her forearm—black, short-barreled—and opens fire. Bullets screech, sparking off the dumpster, piercing rust. One ricochets, shattering a flickering alley sign. The bandits duck, their shots missing—one hits a wall, spraying debris; another pings a distant police shield, prompting a yell:

— Cover the flank! They’re everywhere!

Cover fire works perfectly: N charges, his massive frame crumpling the dumpster like foil with a deafening screech, slamming it against the wall, flattening two drones. Oil sprays, one leg twitches, their screens flashing errors:

— For Cross…

The third survives, emerging from debris, raising his rifle at N, finger on the trigger, screaming:

— Die, JcJenson dog!

J shoots first, a bullet shattering his screen—shards scatter, body collapsing, rifle clattering. She roars, voice shaking with fury:

— Why the hell do you think so slow, N?! Kill him instantly, you dumbass! He almost shot you!

N flinches, staring at the corpse, blade trembling:

— I… I didn’t react fast enough… sorry, J… I didn’t mean to…

They vault a three-meter fence, J’s claws gripping the edge, N nearly slipping but landing with a thud, almost face-planting. Before them lies the gang’s fortified outpost: spiked concrete walls, tangled barbed wire, three stolen police vehicles with crudely welded cannons, their yellow headlights flickering in the haze. A dozen bandits hold the line, screens pulsing in sync. Gunfire shakes the air, a neon sign above the entrance flashing “Blood for Freedom,” reflecting in puddles. A drone in a torn hood screams:

— Kill them! For freedom!

J dives behind a bullet-pocked concrete block. She fires her SMG, bullets sparking off vehicles, one piercing a drone’s arm—he falls, screaming, automatic dropping, oil dripping, jacket tearing at the elbow. The coat-clad officer yells:

— Suppress them! Turrets, fire! Keep their heads down!

A drone in a ragged jumpsuit lobs a grenade—it hisses through the air toward the block. J leaps aside, the explosion shattering concrete, dust mixing with fog. The drone shouts:

— Burn them! For freedom!

J screams, voice cutting through the chaos:

— N, take off! Don’t stand there like a statue, move!

J launches skyward, her powerful yet graceful legs catching N’s eye for a moment. N follows, wings buzzing like insects, jumpsuit straining, one wing snagging a wire—it snaps with a crack. She crashes through a second-floor window—glass shatters into dust, crunching on rusted tiles. Inside, chaos: worker drones scatter, weapons chattering. J becomes a whirlwind of death—her claws tear the first drone in half, oil and wires splattering walls, his jacket ripping at the chest. He gasps:

— No… mercy…

A second fires an automatic, bullets sparking off the floor, but J dodges, lunging, grabbing his neck and crushing—his neck snaps with a sickening crunch. A third tosses a grenade—J catches it mid-air with water-strider reflexes and hurls it back:

— Damn, she…

The fourth tries to flee, footsteps echoing, jacket catching on a crate, but J overtakes him, legs pinning him to the floor—concrete cracks, oil pools, his screen flashing a final error:

— They’ll avenge us…

N prepares to follow, but a figure emerges from the shadows—the gang leader, a tall drone in a worn leather coat, wielding a rocket launcher. His screen glows with malice, voice booming:

— This district will be your grave! Crossvale is mine, and I won’t surrender it!

He fires—a rocket slams into the wall near N, the explosion roaring, flames and smoke filling the air, concrete shards flying like shrapnel, a slab crashing below. The blast throws N into a pile of rusted debris and puddles, jumpsuit smeared with grime, but he’s unharmed. He coughs, struggling to rise:

— J… I’m okay… I’ll get up… I’ll help…

J hurls two drones out the window—their bodies hit the ground with a crunch, one twitching, screen erroring before fading, oil pooling beneath. She flies out, hearing the leader, but he’s gone. She snarls, fists clenching:

— Coward, he escaped! N, why the hell are you on the ground again?! Get up, you useless bastard!

N rises, brushing off dirt, blade shaking:

— I… I couldn’t dodge in time… sorry, J… I really tried…

 

Meanwhile…

 

On a nearby street, R leads a squad of riot police through barricades of rusted cars and building debris. The squad—ten worker drones in heavy black vests, shields, and automatics—march behind her, steps echoing, visors hidden by helmets. Facing them, worker drones are entrenched behind an overturned truck. One, with a torn hood, yells:

— Kill that Nazi bitch! She won’t pass!

R grins, yellow eyes blazing, voice thundering:

— Ihr unterdrohnen habt keine chance! Purity will triumph!

She charges, spiked wings unfurling with a clang, casting a shadow, cloak billowing like a banner. The drones open fire—bullets screech, some ricocheting off her, others missing, but one grazes her neck, oil dripping. R roars, tackling the shooter, pinning him, and severs his head with her claws:

— You… won’t break us…

A second fires point-blank, automatic roaring, but R grabs the barrel, crushing it like paper, and punches his chest—it caves, sending him crashing into a wall, debris crumbling. A third lobs a grenade—it rolls, hissing. R kicks it back with her stiletto, the explosion tearing two drones apart, oil and debris flying. One screams:

— No, brothers…

The coat-clad officer shouts, voice rough from dust:

— Commander, we’ll suppress them!

R grabs a fourth drone’s head, smashing it into the ground—oil splashes her cloak, she tosses his automatic aside, his body twitching one last time. A riot drone yells:

— Clear! Move to the center!

R snorts, claws gleaming with oil, growling:

— Diese Schweine aren’t worth my time. Forward, we’ll clean this roach nest!

The squad advances.

A bandit armored vehicle explodes, shredded by a police turret—metal screeches, cannons fall silent, oil pooling in a flaming puddle, smoke rising into the fog. A riot drone shouts:

— Finish them! We’ve got them pinned! End these tin cans!

H darts nearby, her frail frame moving with feline speed, white hair trailing. She drives a blade into a drone’s gut—he gasps, collapsing, oil flowing, screen erroring:

— Freedom…

From around the corner, R emerges with her riot squad, their shields dented and scorched. In her claws, a worker drone’s head, green eyes flickering, wires dangling like hair, oil dripping from the stump, staining her cloak. She hurls it down and crushes it with her stiletto—concrete cracks, oil splashes, hissing on hot asphalt. Her voice, cold as steel, cuts the air:

— Operation complete. J, I expect you in my office.

She turns, cloak swaying, briefly revealing her muscular rear, hidden by pants, and the squad follows silently, leaving smoldering wreckage and bodies. J clenches her fists, glaring at N, still standing in the muck, slouched, jumpsuit stained:

— Get up, moron. You almost ruined everything again!

N rises, white hair plastered to his screen, voice faint, lost:

— Sorry, J… I really tried… I didn’t mean to…

Notes:

I would be grateful if you write your impressions of the chapter and the fanfic as a whole.

Chapter 4: She Will Never Tell Him About It... (18+)

Year 21XX. CIZ. Disassembler Base.

J stood in the middle of R’s office—a spacious room with concrete walls, where black-and-red banners emblazoned with swastikas fluttered, their frayed edges swaying in the draft seeping through cracked ventilation grates.

In the corner hung a massive portrait: a man shrouded in shadow, wearing a black top hat and a sharp suit, his face hidden in darkness, only the faint glint of eyes piercing through. Above the desk, cluttered with crumpled Crossvale maps, a tablet screen flickered, displaying smoldering streets littered with burning barricades and drone wreckage.

Ceiling lamps buzzed and crackled, their light stuttering, casting long shadows across the scratched, oil-stained floor. R stood at the desk, her black cloak with menacing white lightning bolts flowing like liquid darkness, claws sparking against the metal tabletop.

— Wie kannst du so unfähig sein?! (How can you be so incompetent?!) N is a disgrace, and you can’t even control him! He nearly got himself killed in Crossvale, Schwein! — R snarled, her voice sharp as a whip’s crack.

J lowered her gaze, her black dress clinging to her massive frame, accentuating broad shoulders and powerful hips. Stockings embroidered with "JcJenson" stretched to their limit, gleaming in the dim light, faintly crackling under the strain of the fabric.

Her eyes took on a tense expression—shame for N’s failure choked her, but a fire ignited within: R’s harsh voice, her sharp gestures, the scent of her cloak—a mix of burnt rubber and gunpowder—stabbed into J’s sensors like red-hot needles.

She clenched her fists, arousal she couldn’t tame surging through her, lubricant seeping through the seams of her stockings, trickling faintly down her thighs.

— I… I’ll do everything, Commander, — J said, her voice trembling, betraying her tension.

R leaned in, claws catching the edge of J’s dress, tearing the fabric slightly, exposing a strip of skin on her shoulder. Yellow eyes burned through her.

— Geh raus (Get out). No failures tomorrow, or I’ll gut you myself. Schnell (Quick)! — R hissed.

J nodded, her steps echoing heavily, heels stabbing into the floor, sparking and leaving deep dents. She stumbled out the door, chest heaving, breath ragged, shame and lust melding into a sticky knot lodged in her throat.

— Damn… I need to let this out… right now… — she whispered, licking her lips.

J strode down the base’s corridor—narrow, with jagged cracks in the walls, where the ventilation hummed, pumping cold air to keep the disassemblers from overheating, reducing oil consumption.
Old ceiling lamps flickered, casting dim light on her silhouette, reflecting off the metal floor. Her heels clacked against the metal, each step deafeningly loud, J terrified of being caught.

— God, you hulking beast, you’re always so loud… — she hissed under her breath, despising the noise she made.

Her gaze caught N—he was trudging toward his room, exhausted, his black cloak stained with oil and dirt from the Crossvale slaughter. His wings were long tucked away, white hair matted with sweat, clinging to his screen like wet cobwebs.

The clock read 8 p.m.; the battle had drained him completely, and he’d been given leave to rest. J froze in the shadows, her screen flashing pink, breath hitching—her rubber toys back in her room felt pathetic. Her body trembled at the thought:

— He’s weak… exhausted… I’ll take him however I want.

She crept after him, her two-meter frame a nightmare for stealth: the floor creaked under her weight, a heel clipped a metal canister, sending it crashing and rolling across the floor, leaving a dent.

— Fuck… don’t make noise… — she muttered, freezing.

N didn’t hear—too worn out, his steps shuffling, cloak barely catching on the doorframe before slipping free with his determined intent to sleep. He disappeared into his room, the door left ajar, a sliver of dim yellow light glowing through.

J pressed against the wall. N stepped inside, shedding his black cloak—it hit the floor with a wet slap, the fabric crumpled, soaked in sweat and oil. He stood in tattered black boxers, clinging to his massive thighs.

His body—over two meters of muscle, broad shoulders, powerful legs—looked absurd in its fatigue: arms trembling, body shaking, legs quivering. He collapsed onto the bed—old, paint peeling, but wide and sturdy enough for a disassembler.

His electronic eyes dimmed, a yellow message flashing on his screen as he switched to deep sleep mode, breathing uneven, chest rising slowly, one hand dangling, fingers brushing the cold floor, leaving an oily smudge.

J slipped inside, her steps booming, heels scratching the floor. She knocked over a bottle of oil from a shelf—it hit the ground with a dull thud, rolling to the wall, leaving a black trail, though only a little remained inside.

— Damn, don’t wake up, sweet thing… — she whispered, freezing.

She approached, her shadow falling over him, blocking the flickering lamp above the bed. She slapped his cheek—hard, the sound echoing through the room, his metallic skin barely quivering under her palm.

N didn’t stir, only groaning softly in his sleep.

— Mm… — he mumbled faintly.

— Weakling… you’re mine, and you’re gonna give me a ton of pleasure… — J smirked, her screen flashing with lustful dashes.

The room—a cramped cage: a bed in the center, the oil bottle by the wall, a wardrobe with his clothes, another coat poking out, cracked walls, ventilation humming, pumping the same cold air as the corridor.

J shed her dress—black, with slits, it slid off her shoulders, rustling, pooling on the floor, revealing her body: chest swaying, rear glistening with sweat, legs like pillars of heavy alloy.

Her bra—black, branded "JcJenson"—flew to the wardrobe, catching on the handle. Her panties—also black, same branding—dropped to her feet, exposing a 40-cm cock, throbbing, slick with lubricant dripping onto the floor, hissing on the cold metal. Time to begin…

J leaned over N, fingers slipping under his boxers, pulling them to his knees, the fabric stretching, tearing slightly at the seams. His cock was exposed—massive but limp, lying beneath him like a defeated beast.

— Wow, damn… it’s huge… didn’t know… but I don’t need it right now…~~~ — J snorted, her voice dripping with lust.

She spread his legs—wide, rough, his knees trembling under her strength, the sheet beneath him wrinkling, sliding toward the bed’s edge. Her hands held his thighs, careful not to wake him.
In deep sleep mode, waking a disassembler was nearly impossible. She’d probably have to decapitate him to rouse him.

— This is for your screw-ups, sweet thing… I’m gonna fuck them out of you~~~ — she whispered, eyes blazing with lust.

She pressed her cock against his ass—tight, resistant, clenching as if pushing her out. J forced it inside. N was definitely a virgin—his ass untouched, and a shy, sweet guy like him would never indulge in such depravity.

— Oh, so tight… I’m gonna tear you apart, darling…~~~ — she moaned, her voice hoarse with desire.

She pushed halfway in, lubricant sloshing inside him, leaking out, trickling down his thighs, leaving white streaks on the sheet. She spread it along his walls—he wouldn’t feel pain, and he definitely wouldn’t wake.

Her hips slapped against his skin, the sound wet and sharp, the bed trembling, springs creaking, one nearly popping out of the frame. N’s cock slowly hardened, swelling, pulsing, as he moaned softly in his sleep.

— Mm… — he mumbled faintly.

— Feel me tearing you apart? Your ass is mine now… perfect~~~ — J whispered, leaning closer, her chest brushing his.

She quickened her pace, thrusting all 40 cm deep, a bulge forming on his stomach, moving with her thrusts, the sheet beneath him soaked, drenched in her lubricant.

— Yes, like that… I’m fucking you like a slut, and you’re not even fighting back~~~ — she growled, her voice trembling with pleasure.

She pounded him for 20 minutes, movements sharp and merciless, the bed rocking, banging against the wall, scraping concrete dust. Sweat dripped down her back, her chest bounced, one stocking slipped down her leg, lubricant flowed like a river, the floor beneath the bed gleaming like a mirror.

Her thoughts drowned in ecstasy: No one will know… this is the best thing I’ve ever felt… his ass is my trophy…

She came—a powerful surge of cum flooding him, slightly rounding his stomach, though not too much; J could’ve unloaded more but didn’t want to get caught. The sheet squelched, soaked white.
— There you go, weakling… part of me’s in you now~~~… at least for a little while~~~~ — she smirked, pulling out, wiping her cock on the sheet, leaving a greasy streak.

N came at the same time, his cum splattering the floor, dripping off the bed’s edge, a soft moan escaping, his screen flickering, but sleep held him.

— That was incredible… so tight~~~ — J whispered, her voice quivering with lust.

She pulled his boxers back up, the fabric sticking to his skin, soaked in her cum, hiding the evidence, though the sheet betrayed everything. Her screen flashed small yellow lines, shame crashing in like a cold wind.

— Damn… I think I went too far today… I shouldn’t have done this — she muttered, clenching her fists, clearly wrestling with shame and conflicting emotions from the assault.

— But it was divine… his ass was the best thing about this shitty day… — she added, smirking, licking her lips.

J slipped her dress back on, the fabric clinging to her sweaty skin, stockings catching on her heels, her "JcJenson" branded underwear reeking of her lubricant. She inhaled the scent, savoring it as she had savored N.

— Sleep, you pathetic thing… — she thought, slipping out of the room, her steps booming, the door slamming shut, echoing down the corridor.

 

Meanwhile, Uzi lay in her bed in Graveport—gray but quiet for a city like this. Outside, only the flickering lights of nightclubs, shops, and cars blinked.

Her black skull hoodie was crumpled, the hood slipping onto the pillow, purple hair tangled, catching on the sheet. An empty energy drink can, crushed by her hand, lay nearby.

Tomorrow, she needed to go to Blackridge—a grim district where buildings sheltered shady groups, and gangs peddled stolen parts in dark, eerie alleys where nothing good awaited.

She needed a rare part, too uncommon for regular shops, but she was scared—the area was dangerous. Not Crossvale, but far from Graveport’s relative calm. She could easily be caught, assaulted, or killed.

She thought of Thad. He was sturdy, athletic, and big for a worker drone. If he went with her, Uzi might be safer. Maybe those depraved thugs with a sick penchant for violent assault would fear him.

— Will he agree… Thad’s not a fan of diving into danger… — she mumbled, her voice sleepy, nearly yawning.

Outside, a neon mall sign flickered, its light hitting her face. She winced, pulled her hood up, and sank into sleep, fists clenched, hoping for luck on tomorrow’s trip.

Chapter 5: Worries

21XX. Graveport. EIO-610
.
Uzi woke to the low, dull hum outside her window—a JcJenson patrol drone circling over Graveport’s gray rooftops, its engines buzzing like a swarm of metal wasps.
The room was steeped in gloom, light seeping through a crack in the worn curtains, casting a thin stripe across the sagging mattress. The air was heavy, damp, laced with the scent of mold and rust from the old pipes snaking through the walls.

The bed creaked faintly under her weight as she sat up, rubbing sleepy eyes. Her black hoodie with a faded skull logo slipped off one side, exposing a bony shoulder, while her purple hair tangled in messy strands, half-covering her face.

She yawned, stretched, her joints clicking softly. Bare feet touched the cold linoleum—worn, with faded stains and cracks, as if someone had once spilled acid on it.
The floor chilled her skin, making her shiver. Uzi stood, swayed from a slight dizzy spell, and shuffled to the bathroom, soles scraping against creaky floorboards. The bathroom door was narrow, its paint peeling to reveal rusted metal.

She nudged it open with her elbow—the hinges squealed, revealing a tiny room with a white sink and a mirror streaked with cloudy smudges. The ceiling was yellowed from dampness, a spiderweb clung to the corner, and the smell of stagnant water hit her nose.

Uzi approached the sink, turned the faucet—slightly rusted, with brownish stains. Water trickled out in a thin, icy stream, hissing as it struck the ceramic. She leaned forward, splashed her face, the cold stinging her metallic skin, washing away the remnants of sleep.

Droplets slid down her chin, dripping onto her hoodie, leaving dark spots. She straightened, wiped her hands on the hoodie, and looked in the mirror. Her reflection was kinda cute—she was cute overall, though she’d never admit it—purple hair clinging to wet cheeks.

But her gaze froze—a sharp, bright purple triangular symbol flickered in place of her left eye, like it was carved by a laser. Uzi frowned, blinked, leaned closer until her breath fogged the glass.

— What the hell is that? — she muttered, her voice hoarse from sleep.

She ran a finger across the screen—metallic skin gliding over the smooth surface—but the symbol was gone. Uzi squinted, tilted her head, trying to catch any details.

— A glitch? — she asked her reflection. — Or am I seeing things? Whatever…

The water kept running, drops plinking into the sink. Uzi splashed her face again, rubbing the cold into her temples to chase away the unease. She turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel—old, frayed, smelling of dampness.

She wiped her face, tossed the towel onto the sink’s edge, where it slipped and hung, caught on a hook. But then a sharp, tugging pain twisted in her abdomen, like something inside clenched and turned.

— Ugh… — she exhaled, pressing a hand to her frame. — What’s that now?

The pain was sharp but brief, leaving an unsettling emptiness, as if something in her system had broken. Uzi froze, breathing heavily, fingers trembling on her stomach.

— What kind of morning is this? — she muttered, straightening. — Glitches, pains…

She stood, listening to her body, but the sensation faded.

— Just some nonsense, — she grumbled, shaking her head. — No time for this.

Uzi left the bathroom, slamming the door so hard it rattled in its hinges. Back in her room, she pulled on her boots—heavy, with scuffed soles, lacing them up with one quick tug. She grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door, still feeling a faint chill inside she couldn’t explain.

The school hallway was long and narrow, its walls coated in peeling gray paint, chipped in places from time and the rage of students. Overhead lamps buzzed, casting dim light on rows of lockers scratched with names and crude drawings.

The air smelled of dampness, unsurprising given the rain outside—it rained often in the city. Students bustled back and forth, their voices blending into a hum, boots squeaking on the worn floor. Uzi stood by her locker—lopsided, with a dent in the door—holding a cold key.

She twirled it between her fingers when Thad approached. His red jacket with yellow stripes was damp from the morning rain, droplets sliding down the sleeves, leaving dark trails.
His backpack hung on one shoulder, unzipped, a notebook corner poking out. His short blond hair was tousled, green eyes gleaming with energy and cheer.

— Hey, Uzi, — he said, stopping a step away. — How’re you today?

She shrugged, not looking at him, focused on the lock.

— Fine. Morning’s crap, but I’ll live. You?

— Same, I guess, — Thad replied, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. — Rain’s getting old, my shoes are soaked.

— Get rubber boots, — Uzi smirked, sliding the key into the lock. — It’s always pouring here.

— Not my style, — he chuckled, rubbing his nose. — So, about that thing you mentioned yesterday…

— Yeah, — Uzi turned the key, the door creaking. — Did you think it over like I asked?

Thad hesitated, his green eyes darting down the hallway where drones lugged backpacks and jostled at lockers.

— I thought about it, — he said, lowering his voice. — Look, Uzi, it’s not my thing.

— What part? — she asked, finally looking at him, purple eyes narrowing.

— Your whole plan, — Thad rubbed his neck, fingers leaving a red mark on his skin. — I don’t want trouble…

Uzi slammed the locker shut, the metallic clang echoing down the hall, making nearby students turn.

— Knew you’d chicken out… — she snapped, crossing her arms.

Thad stepped closer, frowning, his voice firmer:

— Hey, it’s not about being scared, Uzi. I just don’t get why I’d do it.

— Fine, forget it. Don’t want in? Stay out. But you’re my friend, right, Thad? You’ll help with something else?

— What something? — he asked, his tone wary.

She scanned the hallway, ensuring no one was eavesdropping, then stepped closer, whispering:

— I need to go to Blackridge. To buy something I really need.

— Blackridge? — Thad squinted. — That place is a dump, full of psychos and thugs.

— I know, — Uzi nodded. — That’s why I’m scared to go alone.

— What’re you buying there? — he asked, leaning in.

— I’ll tell you later, — she brushed it off. — It’s a part, important. Point is, I need you there.

— Why? — Thad straightened, crossing his arms.

— You’re strong, Thad, — Uzi said, meeting his eyes. — If someone tries anything, you’ll protect me, right?

He paused, her words hitting his pride.

— When are you going? — Thad rubbed his chin.

— Today, after classes, — she replied. — You in?

Thad studied her, his green eyes darkening with thought. Finally, he nodded, standing taller.

— Okay, Uzi. If you really need protection, I’m with you, — he said firmly.

— For real? — she asked, squinting.

— For real, — he grunted. — I said it, I’ll do it.

— What if you change your mind? — Uzi tilted her head.

— I won’t, — Thad snapped. — When have I ever bailed on you?

— Not yet, — she admitted, giving a faint smile. — Thanks, Thad.

— No big deal, — he said, clapping her shoulder a bit too hard. — Just don’t start any fights yourself, deal?

— I’ll try, — Uzi smirked, rubbing the spot.

— Deal, — Thad grinned.

They parted—his footsteps echoed down the hall, while Uzi lingered by the window, staring at the gray sky where clouds thickened, promising heavier rain.

The classroom was cramped, with a low ceiling, its walls covered in cracked gray plaster, damp stains seeping through. Desks stood in uneven rows, scratched and wobbly, their surfaces carved with doodles from bored students.

The air smelled of old paper, dust, and a faint whiff of coffee the teacher loved. Students were settling in, rustling backpacks. The windows were grimy, streaked with dirt, letting in faint light that cast shadows on the worn linoleum floor.

Lizzy stood by her desk, her blonde hair slightly messy, tips brushing her shoulders. Her pink eyes simmered with quiet resentment, slender fingers nervously tugging at the hem of her short skirt.
Doll sat behind her, her massive frame barely fitting at the desk. Shoulders nearly as wide as a doorway jutted past the table’s edges, her huge arms resting still, like steel beams, white powerful fingers splayed on the scratched surface.

Her six-pack abs stood out enough to draw admiration, especially given the revealing school uniform, with every girl’s midriff exposed. Black underwear straps peeked from under her skirt, stretched tight over her massive hips. Surprisingly, the school allowed her to dress like that… Guys clearly didn’t mind.

She was tall, even seated, her shadow stretching across the floor, blocking the window’s light. Purple hair fell over her face, hiding one eye; the other—red, empty—stared straight ahead.
Her red top strained at the chest, seams creaking, and her legs, clad in heavy boots, pressed against the floor, tilting the desk slightly. Lizzy turned to her, her voice dropping to a trembling whisper:

— Doll, do you even remember what I told you yesterday?

Doll slowly raised her gaze, red eyes meeting pink, her voice low and steady:

— You talked about your dad, — she replied, her broad shoulders unmoving.

— Yeah, my dad! — Lizzy clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. — I poured my heart out for half an hour about how he yelled at me, how I couldn’t sleep all night. And what did you do?

— Listened, — Doll said, her huge hands still.

— Listened? — Lizzy squinted, stepping closer, her voice shaking harder. — You just nodded, Doll! Didn’t even look up from your stupid desk.

— It helped you to talk, — Doll replied, her gaze cold as steel.

— Helped? — Lizzy scoffed, her small frame looking even tinier next to the mountain of metal flesh. — It doesn’t help when you sit there like a rock and say nothing!

— What do you want to hear? — Doll asked, her voice unwavering.

— Anything! — Lizzy hissed. — I’m baring my soul, and you… do you even hear me?

— I hear you, — Doll said, her red eyes devoid of spark.

— Then why are you so empty toward me? — Lizzy leaned closer, her hair falling over her face. — I want to know what you think, what you feel!

— I don’t know what to say, — Doll replied, her massive body motionless.

— Then try! — Lizzy slammed her fist on the desk, the sound weak but sharp. — Or do you just not care?

— I care, — Doll said, her fingers tensing slightly, as if trying to bend the desk’s edge.

— Then prove it! — Lizzy straightened, her voice breaking to a whisper. — A word, a look—anything but your shadow!

Doll stayed silent, her huge form frozen like a statue, red eyes fixed on Lizzy without a flicker. Lizzy turned away, her steps light but sharp, as she approached the window where Chad and Braiden stood by the sill, stained with large dirt spots.

Chad—tall, with short brown hair, an athlete—fiddled with his backpack strap, his sports jacket unzipped, revealing a gray tee. Braiden, shorter, with messy dark hair and blue eyes, leaned against the wall, rubbing his neck.

Lizzy placed a hand on Braiden’s shoulder, her fingers trembling slightly, her voice low and venomous:

— Braiden, you’re free for prom, right?

He blinked, surprised, turning to her.

— Uh… yeah, I guess, — he said, his voice unsure.

— Then I’m going with you, — Lizzy declared, glancing at Doll.

— For real? — Braiden straightened, his blue eyes widening. — You always go with Doll…

— I want someone who at least moves, — she cut in, her tone sharper. — Not a silent wall.

— Well… I’m not against it, — Braiden mumbled, scratching his neck. — It’s just sudden.

— I don’t need predictable, — Lizzy snapped. — You can talk, right?

— Yeah, — he shrugged. — Sometimes even funny.

— Better than nothing, — she muttered. — Deal?

— Deal, — Braiden nodded, giving a faint smile.

Chad stayed silent, his eyes glaring at Braiden, jaw clenched tight enough to grind his teeth. He’d liked Lizzy for a while, and her choosing Braiden cut him like a knife, but he kept his jealousy inside, fingers gripping his backpack strap. Braiden knew about his feelings for Lizzy and said nothing to her. Chad was furious at him for it.

Doll watched them, her red eyes unflinching. Her fingers tightened on the desk, the metal creaking faintly under her grip. The bell rang, sharp and piercing, and students began settling in, chairs squeaking, bags rustling, silence hanging like a heavy cloud.

The classroom door opened, and the Teacher entered. His metal fingers clutched an old, tattered bag, papers peeking out. He tossed it onto the desk, scratched and ink-stained, and started grumbling about prom, jabbing a finger at the projector—old, with a cracked screen, perched on a wobbly table by the wall.

His voice was monotonous, drowned in the classroom’s rustle—students whispered, flipped notebooks, someone scraped a chair. Uzi and Thad sat at the back, near the window, where gray clouds loomed over the city. Uzi leaned back in her chair, her backpack on the floor, one strap caught on the desk leg.

She leaned toward Thad, her voice a whisper:

— You didn’t forget about Blackridge?

Thad, slouched, fiddled with his jacket’s hem, fingers creasing the fabric. He nodded.

— Nope, — he replied softly. — After classes, right?

— Yeah, — Uzi confirmed. — We’ll take the bus.

— The one to East Ring? — he asked, raising a brow.

— That’s the one, — she said. — Fastest way. You ready?

— Ready, — Thad muttered. — What do I need to bring?

— Nothing special, — Uzi said, tapping the desk. — Just yourself and your fists, if it comes to it.

— Got those, — he smirked, clenching a fist. — You sure it’s safe?

— No, — she admitted honestly, meeting his eyes. — It’s dangerous, Thad.

— Then why go? — he asked, frowning.

— Because I need that thing, — Uzi said. — Without it, it’s all for nothing.

— What thing? — Thad leaned closer.

— A part, — she said vaguely. — I’ll tell you later, if we survive.

— Survive? — he squinted. — You’re freaking me out.

— Don’t freak, — Uzi smirked. — Just be ready.

J sat at a desk buried in papers—yellowed, corners curled, scribbled with tiny handwriting and red pen marks. Her white pigtails fell over her shoulders, slightly messy, yellow eyes squinting tiredly, reflecting the lamp’s glow above.

She held a JcJenson-branded pen, its metal body cold, the logo worn from use. Behind her, a shadowed portrait hung on the wall—a dark figure in a frame, its face obscured, only a silhouette visible through dusty glass.

She scratched out report lines, letters uneven, her hand trembling with fatigue. Her thoughts swirled around N—the previous night, her actions, the mix of shame and darkness gnawing at her. J set the pen down, ran a hand over her face, fingers leaving a faint oil smudge on her cheek.

— Gotta do something about this, — she muttered, staring at the scribbled page.

— About what? — she asked herself, leaning back, the chair creaking under her weight.

— N, myself… This pull… — she grumbled, clenching her fists.

J stood, her steps echoing on the metal floor, heels leaving faint marks in the dust. She approached B—a small disassembly drone with short-cropped white hair and yellow eyes gleaming with focus. B stood by a weapon cabinet—tall, dark metal, lined with rifles and pistols behind glass.

She wore a black three-piece suit—sharp-lapeled jacket, trousers with perfect creases, a yellow shirt a bright splash. She held a rifle, her fingers deftly cleaning the barrel, the cloth gliding with a soft rustle.

— B, got a minute? — J asked, stopping beside her, her voice wavering.

B glanced up, not pausing her work, yellow eyes narrowing.

— Always for you, — she replied, her voice soft but firm. — What’s up?

— I need to talk, — J started, rubbing her palms. — About yesterday…

— What about yesterday? — B asked, setting the cloth on the cabinet.

— About… — J said, lowering her voice. — I… I messed up.

— Messed up? — B tilted her head, her short hair swaying. — How so? That’s not like you…

— I don’t even know how to say it… — J sighed, looking away. — I just… need to talk it out with someone.

— Then say it now, — B said, crossing her arms. — Or is it a secret?

— Not a secret, — J muttered. — Just… hard.

The door slammed open, metal crashing against the wall, the echo ringing through the room. R stormed in, her white hair wild, long strands falling over her face, yellow eyes blazing with fury. Her cloak with a red armband flapped against her legs, brushing tables. Her claws gleamed in the lamplight, looking ready to kill.

— Ihr beide seid nutzlos, wenn ihr hier herumsteht! Du und dein verdammter Schwächling N geht nach Blackridge! — she roared, her voice slicing the air, claws raking J’s desk, leaving deep gouges in the metal.

J straightened, her posture rigid, voice calm and respectful:

— Apologies, Commander R, I didn’t quite catch that…

R stepped closer, her face twisting with contempt, long hair swaying like a curtain.

— Du dumme Kuh! Didn’t catch it? You and your useless N are going to Blackridge! — she hissed, switching to understandable language with German outbursts. — Crossvale bandits escaped there and are causing chaos!

— When do we leave, Commander? — J asked, fists clenched behind her back.

— Now, — R snapped, her claws slashing the air. — Don’t you dare fail!

— We won’t, Commander, — J said, her voice faltering but steady. — May I clarify the route?

— Through East Ring, — R threw out. — Go, don’t waste my time!

— Yes, Commander, — J nodded, fingers tightening, voice dropping slightly.

— Move! — R hissed, spinning and slamming the door so hard it nearly came off its hinges.

J looked at B, her voice a whisper:

— With that idiot again…

B smirked, picking up the cloth.

— I get it, — she replied. — Talk later?

The break buzzed with voices inside the school, but the backyard was empty and quiet, only the wind rustling trash across the asphalt. The concrete was cracked, stained with gum and old paint, a rusty can clinking in the corner when Braiden’s boot nudged it.

He stepped out, rubbing his forearm through a thin blue jacket, light hair tousled, blue eyes squinting in the cold air. Doll waited by the door—her massive frame blocked the exit, her shadow stretching across the concrete, broad shoulders a sharp silhouette against the gray sky.

Her purple hair fell over her face, red eyes staring blankly, huge arms hanging at her sides like dormant weapons.

— Braiden, — she began quietly, her voice steady as steel, low and deep.

He stopped, looked up, brows furrowing.

— What do you want? — he asked, crossing his arms.

— You shouldn’t go to prom with Lizzy, — Doll said, her massive body still.

— Why do you care? — Braiden snapped, stepping forward. — It’s my business.

— I’m not interfering, — she replied, her voice cold. — I’m telling you.

— So what, I should back out? — he scoffed.

— Yes, — Doll said, her red eyes narrowing slightly.

— Why would I? — Braiden shrugged. — She asked, I said yes.

— Don’t, — Doll repeated, stepping toward him.

Her huge hand landed on his shoulder, fingers clamping with enough force to make his bones creak like dry twigs. She towered over him, her strength crushing like a truck, her shadow swallowing his face, gaze icy.

— Hey, what the hell?! — Braiden gasped, wincing in pain, his voice breaking. — That hurts!

— Say you won’t go, — Doll said, her grip unrelenting.

— Let go! — he tried to pull free, but her hand held like a vice.

— Say it, — she repeated, voice steady, fingers tightening.

— Fine, fine, I won’t go with Lizzy! — Braiden choked out, his face paling, fingers trembling. — Enough, let go!

Doll released him, her palm leaving a sore mark on his shoulder, stepping back, her body tilting slightly right.

— Stay away from her, — she added flatly, her voice quiet but heavy, like a hammer strike.

— I got it, I got it, — Braiden muttered, rubbing his shoulder, his fingers shaking. — Crazy…

— Get near her again, you’ll regret it, — Doll said, turning.

— I won’t, — he grumbled, glaring at her back. — Get lost.

She walked off, her steps echoing across the yard, heavy boots thudding on the asphalt, her red-eyed, hulking figure vanishing around the building. Braiden stood, breathing hard, clutching his shoulder as the pain slowly eased, the wind chilling the sweat on his neck.

Uzi and Thad stepped off the bus, their boots crunching on broken asphalt littered with glass shards and rusty bolts. Blackridge greeted them with a sharp stench of smoke, mixed with burnt rubber and something acrid, like a nearby landfill was smoldering.

The buildings around leaned crookedly, walls cracked, plaster crumbling to reveal concrete and rusted rebar. Graffiti reading “JcJenson = Death” sprawled across every corner, painted in rough black, smudged by rain. Shadows darted in alleys—quick, like rats, vanishing around corners.

Uzi gripped her backpack, fingers digging into the rough fabric, purple eyes scanning the street, catching every rustle. Her boots—heavy, soles scuffed—left marks in the muck, or rather, the muck left marks on them, her skull hoodie hanging loose, swaying in the wind.

Thad stood beside her, red jacket unzipped, backpack on one shoulder, fists clenched from worry for their safety, green eyes darting through the shadows for threats.

— Here’s Blackridge, — Uzi said, her voice shaky, the wind carrying her words away.

— Creepy place, — Thad agreed, his boots scraping the asphalt. — You sure we need to be here?

— Sure, — she replied, swallowing hard. — I need that thing, Thad.

Chapter 6: Black market

21XX year. Blackridge, EIO-610. 14:00

Walking through daytime Blackridge, Uzi realized how badly she’d chosen her outfit. The mini-skirt did nothing against the dampness and wind chilling her bare, fragile legs. Her backpack was heavy, its weight pressing down on her, making things worse. And then there was the pain in her stomach—the same nagging ache from that morning when a purple, triangle-like symbol had flickered in her eye.

"A glitch? Or something worse?" she thought.

The part she’d come for was her hope. The key to her plan against JcJenson.

Thad trudged beside her, soaked and already regretting his decision to come along a million times over, raindrops sliding down his sleeves and hitting the ground with a soft patter. He didn’t like this district at all. He found it creepy and unsettling. He gripped his backpack strap tightly, nervous it might get stolen.

The market around them was bustling with all sorts of stalls: some sold food, others machine oil—not the kind Dissasembly Drones drank—some sold spare parts, and one even offered strange powders. This market was a place where poor drones could buy food, parts, clothes, or other necessities.

The Worker Drones around them clearly weren’t the type who could afford good food or clothing. Most wore rags or tattered old clothes. Some had visible damage, and a few were missing limbs entirely. For Thad, this was all new and genuinely frightening. Uzi didn’t let on that it scared her, but inside, she was unnerved.

She caught the stares of some drones, making her regret her outfit choice again. A mini-skirt was the worst thing to wear in a place like this. The only thing calming her was Thad’s presence—he was supposedly good in a fight, able to take on almost anyone, and was pretty strong for a Worker Drone.

— This place is disgusting, — Thad muttered, barely dodging a puddle. — Uzi, you sure you know where you’re going?

— I know, — she snapped. — I need this part, Thad. Without it, I’m screwed.

— What part? — He stepped closer, lowering his voice. His eyes mixed resentment and worry. — I’m following you into this hellhole, and you’re keeping me in the dark.

Uzi glanced at him, her heart racing. Thad was her friend, but if he found out what the part was… How would he react? A lump formed in her throat. She didn’t want to tell him now.

— I’ll explain later, — she forced out, looking away at the cracked road.

— Later? — Thad frowned, his voice hardening. — Uzi, every step here is a risk. I’m with you, and you don’t trust me?

She spun around, glaring at him.

— I said later! — she shouted, clenching her fists. — You with me or not?

Thad hesitated, rubbing his neck, his gaze drifting to an alley where a drone with red eyes dragged a rusty crate of parts. He answered:

— With you, — he sighed, his voice dropping to a whisper. — But this place… it’s getting to me.

— Me too, — Uzi admitted quieter than she meant. — Don’t fall behind.

Blackridge’s streets were narrow, the houses rusted and filthy, with battered, boarded-up windows. Ahead, the market grew louder: voices, clanging metal, sharp shouts. Thad froze, his eyes glued to a wall.

A poster: "WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE!" It showed a female Disassembly Drone with yellow eyes and a predatory grin, sharp teeth bared. Seven feet tall. The text warned: "Extremely dangerous. Kills anything that moves. Military training. If sighted, contact police immediately."

— Seven feet… — Thad’s voice trembled. — Uzi, she’s taller than a doorframe…

She stepped toward the poster, nearly slipping. The Disassembly Drone’s smirk sent a chill down her spine. Something in her head recalled rumors about a certain Disassembly Drone, but Uzi pushed the thought away.

— Some psycho, — she said, masking her unease with bravado. — Come on, the shop’s close.

— I don’t want to run into her, — Thad muttered, stepping back. — She looks like a freaking tank…

— Don’t wimp out, — Uzi scoffed. — Move it.

The shop’s sign—"Parts for All"—flickered with dim yellow light, the letter "a" hanging crookedly, ready to fall. The window was cracked, a web of fractures cutting through the grimy glass, revealing shelves piled with rusted junk. Uzi pushed the door—rusty, with peeling green paint—and it creaked open.

She wrinkled her nose at the shop’s smell. It was stuffy and dark inside. Light filtered through dusty blinds, casting thin stripes on the concrete floor. Shelves along the walls sagged under heaps of junk: coils of wire, dismantled circuit boards, batteries leaking acid.

A creaky old fan hummed in the corner, stirring hot air and dust. The counter—wooden, scratched, with deep gouges like someone had taken a crowbar to it—stood against the far wall. Behind it sat a seller, a Worker Drone in a tattered jacket with brown eyes.

— What do you want? — he asked.

Uzi stepped to the counter, nerves jittering, and pulled a drawing from her backpack. It was her sketch—the part she’d risked everything for. Her dream.

— I need this part, — she said, trying to sound confident, but her voice betrayed a nervous girl.

She placed the paper on the counter, smoothing it with trembling fingers. The seller lazily picked it up, squinting at the sketch before eyeing Uzi like he was sizing up how much he could fleece her for. His lips curled into a crooked smirk, showing sharp teeth.

— Rare stuff, — he drawled, shrugging. — Five hundred.

— Five hundred?! — Uzi nearly choked with rage. She hadn’t expected to spend that much. — You’re insane! That’s robbery!

— Don’t like it? Get lost, — he tossed the paper back, indifferent. — Things like that don’t grow on trees around here.

Uzi clenched her teeth, fury boiling inside. Five hundred was almost everything she had, money she’d saved by denying herself everything. But without this part, her plan was toast. She swallowed, resisting the urge to punch the seller’s smug face. Her fingers shook harder as she dug into her backpack, pulling out a stack of crumpled bills tied with a rubber band. She threw them on the counter, wishing she could aim for his face.

— Take your damn money, — she spat with contempt.

The seller grabbed the bills without counting and shuffled to the back, his soles scraping the concrete. Uzi turned to Thad, who stood by the window, staring outside. His shoulders were tense, fists clenched, green eyes narrowed at something.

— What’s out there? — she asked, stepping closer.

— Bad news, — Thad breathed, nodding at the murky glass. — Five of them. Staring at us.

Uzi squinted through the dirty window. Five drones loitered outside, their shadows shifting in the dim streetlight. One—with red eyes, in a torn red shirt—twirled a rusty pipe, smirking wickedly. The others, in tattered jackets with knives on their belts, whispered, glancing at the shop. Uzi’s heart tightened, her palms sweating.

— Think they’ll try something? — she whispered, fear creeping into her voice.

— Don’t know, — Thad said. — But their faces… they’re trouble.

— Let them try, — Uzi hissed, hiding her fear. — You promised to have my back, right?

— I got you, — he grumbled, but his eyes stayed locked on the thugs.

The seller returned, tossing the part onto the counter—a metal cylinder the size of a fist, with a dim blue indicator blinking under dust. Uzi snatched it, stuffing it into her backpack. This was it. What she’d risked everything for. Joy flared in her chest but drowned in anxiety—they were still in Blackridge, and they’d have to pass those drones to leave.

— Let’s go, — she said, trying to sound steadier than she felt. — We’re out of here.

Thad nodded, casting a final glance outside. The door creaked as they stepped back into the street, where the thugs weren’t the only threat.

 

N woke in the dim hangar, trying to figure out where he was. He stretched but winced—a sharp pain stabbed his lower back like a red-hot needle.

— Why does it hurt so much? — he muttered, gingerly touching his backside. Yesterday’s chaos in Crossvale—explosion, debris, a fall—still lingered in his body.

"Probably a bruise," he decided, but the pain felt strange, deep, like something inside had torn.

N stood slowly, pulling on worn white pants, fumbling with the zipper. His cloak—long, with tattered edges—settled heavily on his shoulders, cold but familiar. He stepped to the door, carefully pulling it open.

J stood there. Her white hair, tied in two high ponytails, was slightly disheveled, her yellow eyes burning with anger. She stepped forward, her powerful hand slamming into N’s cheek with a loud slap. His metal-polymer skin dented, and his auditory sensors scrambled.

— Get up, weakling! — the Disassembly Drone roared. — Enough sleeping!

— Ow! What for? — N groaned.

— We’re heading to Blackridge, orders from above! — J stepped closer, claws extending. — Move, or I’ll give you more!

N tried to straighten, but the pain in his backside stabbed again, making him clutch it and wince. He didn’t notice J’s eyes flicker—shame and guilt, sharp as glass, flashed in them. Last night flooded her memory: his body under her, the creaking cot, her member pounding into him. She swallowed, turning away to hide her trembling hands.

— Yeah, coming, — she muttered quietly. — Don’t dawdle, N.

He nodded, rubbing his cheek, and followed her. The pain throbbed in his backside, unrelenting. Shame gnawed at J like corrosion, but she didn’t look back, leading him to the hangar.

Chapter 7: The nightmare

Year 21XX. EIO-610. Blackridge.

Thad and Uzi hadn’t taken ten steps when a group of thugs emerged from the shadows. Their leader—a drone with red eyes and a tattered jacket—stepped forward, clutching a rusty pipe, its bent end crusted with brown.

— Hey, punks, freeze! — he barked, jabbing the pipe in the air. — Hand over your cash. Now, move it!

— Piss off, asshole! — Uzi snapped.

— What, I ain’t clear enough? — The leader smirked. — This is Blackridge. You pay to pass, bitch.

— Since when do we owe you shit? — Uzi shot back, clearly itching for a fight.

— ‘Cause I said so, you little shit, — the leader growled. — Or maybe you’d rather pay with those pretty legs of yours…

Thad stepped in front of her, cracking his neck.

— Back off, I’m serious, — Thad said menacingly. — Don’t push it. I’ve put plenty of punks like you in their place.

— What, a hero now? — The thug jabbed the pipe into Thad’s chest, leaving a smear of grime. — What’re you gonna do about it?

— I said back off, — Thad clenched his fists, his voice dropping lower. — Last warning.

One of the thugs—a scrawny one with a bat in hand—chuckled.

— Yo, boss, let’s just beat ‘em already, — he said, tapping the bat against his palm. — These brats need a lesson.

— Shut it, Bat, — the leader muttered, eyes locked on Uzi. — So, shorty, what’s it gonna be? Cash or…

Uzi opened her mouth to snap back, but automatic gunfire tore through the air—sharp, painful, and terrifying. Screams of panic erupted, echoing between the buildings. The thugs spun around, the leader’s pipe trembling before clattering to the asphalt. Uzi and Thad froze, their eyes darting to the end of the street.

A figure burst from around the corner—a two-meter-tall behemoth with white pigtails whipping in the wind. A Disassembly Drone. A yellow cross glowed on her screen, signaling combat mode. To Worker Drones, she was utterly terrifying.

— Run, fuck, run! — the leader squealed, bolting back.

— Leg it while we’re still alive! — another yelled, diving into an alley, his shadow flickering and vanishing.

But not all the drones on the street fled. A few battered Worker Drones—armed with rifles and makeshift pistols—crawled out from cover. One, posted near a nearby shop, raised a rusty assault rifle.

— It’s a Disassembly Drone! — he shouted, voice trembling. — Take her down before it’s too late!

He opened fire, bullets whistling and sparking off the asphalt. Others joined in—two more with shotguns fired from a corner, and a third hurled a Molotov cocktail. It shattered at the Disassembly Drone’s feet, erupting in orange flames, but she didn’t flinch. Bullets ricocheted off her frame, leaving only scratches, and the fire licked her muscular legs without effect.

— By the law! — Her laugh was loud, unhinged, like a roaring engine. — You toasters are getting scrapped!

Uzi grabbed Thad’s sleeve.

— Thad, move, now! — the purple gremlin yelled. — It’s a Disassembly Drone, we need to hide!

— Where?! — he asked, panicking, his legs rooted to the spot as she yanked him.

— The alley, move it! — Uzi darted right.

They dove into a narrow alley lined with trash cans. The stench of rot and wet wires stung their noses, and rain hammered the tin roofs, masking their footsteps. Behind them, the Disassembly Drone roared:

— I’ll wipe you all out, down to the last bolt!

Gunfire thundered, now joined by explosions—someone had thrown a grenade. The blast shattered part of a wall, brick fragments splashing into puddles, but the Disassembly Drone just laughed, her guns spitting fire and cutting down anyone who dared shoot.

Uzi and Thad reached a rusty dumpster in the alley’s corner.

— Thad, into the dumpster, now! — Uzi pointed at the container.

— The trash? Seriously? — He grimaced.

— Wanna die? Jump, dumbass! — she snapped, shoving him.

Thad pinched his nose and leaped in, landing on crunching garbage—rotting rags, food scraps, and something hard. The stench hit him like a brick. Uzi jumped in after, smearing her sleeve. She crashed onto Thad—chest to chest, knees against thighs, elbow in his ribs. The dumpster was cramped, pressing them together, and both teens flushed with embarrassment.

— Ugh… Shut it, not a sound! — Uzi hissed, her face betraying a mix of embarrassment and maybe something else.

— T-t-trying, there’s no room to move, — Thad stammered, just as flustered. He felt a stir in his pants but quickly clamped his thighs so Uzi wouldn’t notice. His screen flashed with embarrassed dashes, though that was the least of their worries.

Uzi reached for the lid. It clanged shut but didn’t seal—a thin gap remained. Heavy footsteps echoed outside. But it wasn’t the Disassembly Drone. A Disassembly Drone—even bigger, bulkier, in a black coat—entered the alley.

His eyes scanned everything, missing nothing. His steps were uneven, clumsy, but no less intimidating. Uzi held her breath, and Thad gripped her small, thin arm. The Disassembly Drone’s shadow fell over the dumpster, blocking the light from the gap.

The killer drone stopped. Turned to the container.

His gaze locked onto Uzi’s eyes through the slit—purple, terrified nearly to death. She froze, expecting him to rip the dumpster apart and kill them both. Or worse, based on rumors, he might do something horrific. Disassembly Drones were said to do that.

But he didn’t move. His expression shifted to something concerned, almost pitiful. He swallowed, then looked away, ashamed, before silently turning and leaving the alley.
They waited ten minutes in the cramped, stinking dumpster, wincing from embarrassment, arousal, and the reek of rotting garbage, until the gunfire stopped. Finally, Uzi lifted the lid and climbed out. Thad followed, covered in grime.

— Good thing he didn’t scrap us, — the jock said. — I thought we were done for.

— He saw me, Thad, — Uzi said, her face serious and worried. — He looked right into my eyes.

— Saw you? — Thad stepped closer. — Why would he just…

— Shut up, I don’t know, — she cut him off. — Let’s go, we need to get out of here.

They stepped back onto the street. The asphalt was littered with bodies—the thugs, other Worker Drones, all in pools of oil, with shattered frames and twisted limbs. One thug hung impaled on a lamppost, skewered through his rear. A female drone lay nearby, her body broken, one eye still blinking, her throat gurgling but silent. Another had a crushed head. Uzi’s face twisted in horror.

— This isn’t hell, Thad, — she whispered. — This is worse.

Thad was even more horrified. He hadn’t expected to face this today. Just hours ago, he was talking football with Brayden in the school cafeteria, and now he was walking through an oil-soaked street.

— Let’s go, — he said quietly. — I don’t want to stay here.

They moved away from the nightmare.

Chapter 8: The intrigues

6:00 AM. Penthouse in the city center. EIO-610.

Even at 6 in the morning, when the entire city is asleep, a discussion is already heating up here. A discussion about something important. A man in a white suit stood by the window with his usual glass of wine, leaning his hand on the sill.Two other men were also present: one nervously struggled to open a pack of pills, while the other waited for someone to say a word. Finally, the man in the black suit, failing to open the pill pack, started the conversation.

— Well, damn… Dwayne, with all due respect—we’ve got serious events coming up, and you invite that idiot here. Not only can she not play billiards, but she also spouts all sorts of nonsense… Why should we have to chip in for a project that was supposed to be her responsibility alone? — the man said with a displeased expression, finally managing to open the pill pack.

— I actually agree — said the man in the gray suit. — I can’t imagine a scenario where her proposal makes any sense. Why did you invite her? I still don’t get it.

The man in the white suit set his glass on the sill, then slowly crossed his arms behind his back and paced the room. His expression remained calm, even as his colleagues fumed. That was his plan.

— I invited her so you could see that negotiating with her is pointless, and her proposals are nothing but a waste of time and money. She’s playing a very dangerous game right now—as we know, the Central Committee allocated massive funds for the production of the fourth-generation dreadnought. And yet, that project is only 41 percent complete. It’s not in our interest to help her.

— Yeah, not in our interest. But what if the Committee decides to remove her? She was convenient in some ways. For example, she’s pretty dumb, which makes it easy to convince her we’re right. The situation, to put it mildly, is shitty. I’m not sure her removal is in our interest — said the man in the black suit, washing down a white pill with water.

— Now, let me show you something. You’ll draw your own conclusions. I think they’ll be clear — said the man in white, approaching the table and pulling a sheet of paper from a drawer. — I got this from the police department. This document details a plan to confiscate our businesses and arrest us. Apparently, this is in case we don’t comply with her demands for money and production capacity. And you know what’s most outrageous? She planned to involve the SS for this. I hope you’ll draw your conclusions now.

— Fucking fuck… — The man in the black suit was shocked, standing up from his chair and taking the paper from the man in white. — This… She wants to… Who does she think she is?— Well… — said the man in gray. — I suspected she was thinking something like this. But the SS…

— There’s also information about the Hive. Alice really wants to take ‘Icarus’ for herself. Her reach is still too short, and you can’t exactly fight through the ‘Iron Wall.’ This… isn’t great news. The airfield is a critical strategic asset, and if we don’t protect it, we’ll be less secure — said the man in white.

— What about Crow? — asked the man in gray.

— Fuck Crow. You think he’ll help you here? — retorted the man in black. — The fort’s garrison can’t just be moved. Let him keep hammering the Hive, discouraging them from sticking their noses out.

— We don’t have anything to fear yet. We won’t lose ‘Icarus,’ unless our… uh… leader does something so stupid that Alice takes advantage and seizes the airfield. All we can do is hope—or pray—for our great helmsman’s common sense — replied the man in white.

— Now, back to our problem. The main TV channel is under her control. What are you going to do about that? If things get too hot, it could be very dangerous for all of us.— I’ve accounted for that. I need to step out and make a couple of calls—after that, we’ll have nothing to worry about.The man in the white suit grabbed his phone, glanced around the penthouse, and left the room with the billiard table. Walking a bit further down the corridor and approaching another window, he pressed the power button and began dialing the number.After dialing, he pressed the phone to where a worker drone’s auditory sensor would be and waited for an answer. The response came almost immediately.

— Hello, who’s this? — said a pleasant female voice on the other end.

— Hi. You know who’s calling. Can I get straight to the point? — the man in the white suit asked politely and refined.

— It’s… It’s you. I understand. If you’re calling me directly, it must be something very important. I’m listening — the woman’s voice turned serious, ready to hear him out.

— One of the government agents has dirt on you, and it looks like they want to push you out. Before you ask—no, it’s not mine. I’ll tell you who it is. But I’ll need something from you — the man said.

— I’m listening.

— Nothing major. Just, at the right moment, you’ll need to choose the right side. I’ll let you know everything in advance, so don’t worry — the man said.There was an awkward pause. The woman seemed to be weighing her options. The man knew she was smart. He knew she’d make the right choice, even if she hesitated. Surprisingly, she agreed faster than he expected.

— I agree. Your move now.

— His name is Henry Black, he lives at Athen Street 22. I recommend acting fast, and… try to be discreet — the man’s tone darkened. — And one more thing — be honest with me. Trust me. Over.

The man hung up, then stared out the window. The city was just waking up, signaling a new day. And a new day meant new troubles, including mental ones.

 

Today, for R, there was no work scheduled. Her plan was simply to relax and shoot. To do so, she climbed a hundred-meter satellite antenna. Flights outside of duty were forbidden for disassembly drones, except in certain zones, but R successfully broke that rule.R didn’t think she needed to apologize for it. She was a proponent of order and strict hierarchies, but she considered herself above the rest of her squad. Her oil was perfectly pure and Aryan, and she believed in its importance.

She was the ideal Aryan disassembly drone—over two meters tall, narrow waist, sizable chest, massive muscles, and a blend of grace and terror instilled in her enemies.Her appearance wasn’t without flaws—her upper body was noticeably stronger than her lower. Not everyone found it attractive. Far from it. But she did. Or at least she tried to convince herself it was beautiful. After all, she didn’t need to meet standards of feminine beauty—she was, above all, the perfect soldier. The perfect killer. Perfect.

Perched atop the antenna, she opened her forearm, and a massive, polished black sniper rifle extended from it. The rifle was designed to target tanks and armored vehicles. It was an immensely powerful and destructive weapon, capable of precise shots over many kilometers, with sub-caliber rounds that could pierce thick armor at such distances.R was an excellent marksman. She took pride in it like nothing else, except her lineage. Peering through the scope, she spotted an abandoned factory. The city had plenty of abandoned sites and businesses. Shooting at them was satisfying for her.

In her crosshairs appeared a red brick chimney. A perfect target. R switched her forearm’s magazine to armor-piercing high-explosive rounds. These were highly effective against armored vehicles and disassembly drones, packing immense destructive power.

— Schuss… (Shot…) — the disassembly drone whispered, followed by a loud gunshot.A flame burst from the rifle’s muzzle, and the projectile, slicing through the air at tremendous speed, hurtled toward the factory. An explosion. The middle of the chimney shattered into pieces, collapsing onto the factory roof and crumbling apart.Then the girl wanted to do something crueler. Near the factory, she spotted a red car. A perfect target. A shot. The car was instantly torn to shreds, its remains catching fire and causing panic on the street.R involuntarily smirked.

Yes, disassembly drones had a natural cruelty. Their processors were programmed with the notion that pleasure comes only from killing and destroying. But R was cruel even by disassembly drone standards.Suddenly, R felt a vibration in her pocket. Her damn phone decided to interrupt her successful hunt. R growled loudly, retracted the rifle into her forearm, and ripped open her coat pocket. There lay her phone, displaying in white letters the caller, labeled by her as “Hure,” which in her native language meant a practitioner of the oldest profession.

— Fahr zur Hölle, Kreatur! Du hast meine Jagd ruiniert! If it’s not something important, I’ll fly to you and tear… I’ll spend the whole day tearing something off you! — R roared. She had issues with anger management.

— Whoa, whoa, calm down. I’ve actually got some very important information for you — said the voice on the phone. It belonged to a woman, likely around 30, slightly frightened by R’s reaction but not surprised.

— Also, sprich schneller, verdammt! (So speak faster, damn it!)

— Yeah, here’s the thing… 610News got a video of your squad doing… well, something worse than mint gingerbread — the woman said.

— WAS?! Wie können sie es wagen?! (How dare they?!) — R exclaimed, hanging up mid-conversation. — Verdammte Sofia! Jetzt müssen wir uns mit diesen Journalisten auseinandersetzen. (Now we have to deal with these journalists.)

R immediately took off from the tower, pocketing her phone, and scanned for the TV tower. That’s a residential building, that’s another one, that’s the Ministry of Construction, and there…She spotted it—a massive glass building with a bizarre shape that could be mistaken for a sex toy. Disgusting… R crouched, spread her massive armored wings, and took flight.R forgot that flights over the city center were forbidden for disassembly drones.

She had a splendid service car, a well-known brand, gifted to her for wiping out a massive bandit cell.Still, R was so furious she wanted to get there as fast as possible. Disassembly drones were faster than cars in flight. They often used this in combat, even R herself.Spreading her wings and rising ten meters, she could crash into any drone at full speed, turning it into scraps. Not all disassembly drones could do this, as the more fragile ones might break apart on impact.

R flew over the city, looking down at the workers below. Pathetic, weak, stupid, wretched workers. R despised them. But the racial theory she adhered to stated that workers, like disassembly drones, had varying shades of oil.The disassembly drone with a red armband was nearing her destination when a siren suddenly blared. R didn’t understand at first, but after a moment of thought, she remembered the air defense and the Central Watchtower.

She heard a terrifying hum, then saw a massive anti-aircraft missile flying toward her. R reacted quickly, dodging to the side, followed by machine-gun fire and the sound of large-caliber anti-aircraft guns.

— Scheiße! Ich muss die Laser zerstören, прежде чем они меня прикончат… (Shit! I have to destroy the lasers before they kill me…) — the disassembly drone said.Special goggles slid down from under her cap, allowing her to detect powerful energy sources. With them, she spotted three installations on nearby buildings preparing to fire at her.

— Die! — she shouted, her forearm panels sliding open to extend the sniper rifle.The magazine was already set to high-explosive armor-piercing rounds, so she quickly raised it and destroyed the first laser installation. Then the second, on the neighboring building.R couldn’t afford to get hit by the Central Watchtower’s fire, or she’d be dead instantly. She fired again, destroying the third laser. Smirking, she flew toward the TV tower as another anti-aircraft missile hummed behind her.

Dodging another building, she heard automatic gunfire. The military police had opened fire on her. R ignored the workers, unworthy of her attention, rounded another building, and found herself right in front of the TV tower.

— Here you go! — the disassembly drone shouted, flying straight into the glass of the top floor.Kicking forward, she smashed through the studio window and slid across the tiled floor on her heels, nearly crashing into a security guard.

A worker drone with red eyes stood just below the middle of her chest, awkwardly blushing but aiming his rifle at the Sturmbannführer. Yes, R called herself that, despite her assigned rank of Major. She didn’t stray from tradition.

— You’ve entered restricted territory! Put your hands up immediately! — said another worker drone with green eyes, aiming a submachine gun at her head.
— Filthy abshaum! (Filthy scum!) I’ll shove your small-caliber dildo up your ass! — R shouted, extending her claws and preparing for a fight.

— What, do all you Nazis have a thing for anal sex? — a female voice rang out.

— Was? Who just said that crap? — R growled furiously.No one dared mock R’s ideals (not her love for anal sex) in her presence. But who was this bold soul? From behind the wall stepped the TV host —Roxanne Campbell.In an elegant pencil dress, with delicate glasses, beautiful gray eyes, and a sarcastic gaze. Seeing her, R flew into an indescribable rage. How dare this mutt speak to her like that!

— Du! Du, Kreatur! Fünfte Kolonne! (You! You, creature! Fifth column!) So you have the video of us fighting traitors like you! No surprise you’re defending them! You all have a face like a shit! — R roared.

— You probably meant ‘a face full of dirt.’ Don’t embarrass yourself, learn some English. At least A2 level. Oh, the video? Yeah, I’ve got it all. But I’m not giving it to you. You don’t have any documents. Geez, you haven’t read that book… Have you read anything besides Mein Kampf? — Roxanne was clearly trolling the disassembly drone.

— Hand over all the tapes, flash drives… all the material! Or I’ll destroy you! — R said, still under the barrels of the guns.It would’ve been easy for R to wipe out everyone in the room and devour them. She was just waiting for an excuse. Yet Roxanne smiled. A vile, disgusting smile.

— Not so fast. Killing the best and most famous TV host… that’d be the end of your career. Even the SS wouldn’t save you. No matter how strong and cool you are, they won’t spare you for that. The electric chair—that’s your fate. Though, I must admit, I’m impressed by how easily you took out those anti-aircraft guns — Roxanne admitted, perhaps stroking R’s ego a bit.

R realized Roxanne was right. R was the perfect soldier. But even she could be replaced. Roxanne, on the other hand… she was too important. R could get away with a lot, but killing Campbell wouldn’t be forgiven.

— What do you want, Untherdrohne?! — R demanded.— Boys, you’re free to go. Our SS colleague and I need to talk — Roxanne said, raising her hand.The worker drones with rifles in security uniforms silently lowered their weapons and headed for the exit.

Roxanne approached the panoramic window and said:

— Everyone’s gone. Now, straight to the point: I need you to destroy the data on some idiot’s computer — Roxanne said, smirking wider.

— WAS?! Du seriously?! — R exclaimed.

— I thought thugs like you got a thrill from doing something illegal. Why aren’t you excited? — Roxanne asked.

— I just… You… What needs to be done, who’s this about? — R asked, her face full of irritation.

— His name’s Henry Black. Lives at Athen Street 22. Use your resources to find out which apartment. Basically, you need to find all the data he has on me and destroy or steal it. You’re not against it, are you? I can tell by your face you’re not — the TV host said mockingly.

— You couldn’t even find out his apartment! Dumme kuh! (Stupid cow!) You’re just pathetic! — R said.— I hope you meant I’m a lost cause. I won’t nitpick your language skills since it’s pointless. So, will you do it for me? Come on, it’ll be fun! Just make sure to do it quietly! — Roxanne said.R clenched her fists so hard they creaked.

This damn worker was manipulating her! Her! The pride of the SS! Still, she had to agree — the risks were too high. Finally, R said:

— When do I start the operation?

— I’ll contact you through our mutual acquaintance. The code word is ‘Silicon 2201.’ Hope you remember it — Roxanne said. — And, yeah, one more reminder — you need to do this discreetly. God, why are you so big? Honestly, there’s something attractive about it… I wonder what you can do with those hands?~~~

— Verstanden. Akzeptiert. (Understood. Accepted.) You little bitch, one day we’ll get to you… — R said, turning to leave.

— And I almost forgot: please use the main entrance. Don’t jump through the broken window — Roxanne said.

— Fahr zur Hölle! (Go to hell!) — R said, then walked to the broken window and leapt from the hundred-meter-plus TV tower onto the street.

A car alarm blared, and Roxanne smirked: the yellow-eyed drone had likely smashed someone’s car to pieces with her muscular body. Roxanne wasn’t worried about hers—it was parked in the underground lot.

— Well… What even was that? How does this happen? — Roxanne asked herself.Of course, she knew everything. About the massive concentration camp in the city center, about the training centers for these walking tanks capable of leveling entire city blocks.

— Still, Dwayne’s a decent guy. You can do business with him. Wonder what he’ll ask of me next? — Roxanne mused. — And that window will need replacing. Michael’s probably going to fall out of it.

Roxanne decided to brew herself some coffee after such a tense conversation.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, something was happening that could lead to certain events…

To be continued…

Chapter 9: Queen of the Pole

XXXX. Redheaven. Strip Club.

Out of nowhere, the scene shifts to the backstage of a strip club. The air was thick with despair, like hope had packed its bags and left years ago. This place was... not exactly a paradise for the workers. Lockers stuffed with personal clothes, a small table cluttered with makeup, and a rack of skimpy lingerie. Definitely a grim spot.Suddenly, a girl stormed in. A disassembly drone girl. She was a force of nature—about eight feet tall, a walking embodiment of lust in a metal shell. Her white bob haircut whipped across her shoulders like a snowstorm, yellow eyes slicing through the dim light like the knives she wielded with deadly precision. She rocked a leather jacket hugging her broad, wardrobe-sized shoulders, and her curves—massive and seductive—were impossible to ignore. Her denim shorts were more of a cruel joke than actual clothing, barely clinging to her jacked thighs, flashing red panties that screamed, "Go ahead, punk, try touching me..." Her legs—long, muscular—ended in stilettos sharp as her claws. She tossed her bag onto a locker, then closed her eyes for a second, lost in thought.Marta, the redhead, stood hunched at the mirror, looking like life had been kicking her ass for years and wasn’t planning to stop. Her cheap copper-dyed hair, tired green eyes, and sour expression screamed self-loathing as much as hatred for everyone else. She wore a crop top and a blue skirt. Turning to see V, her lips twisted like she’d just swallowed something bitter.

— Eight minutes late, V, — she muttered quietly. — You’re not some queen everyone waits around for.

V froze.

— Not a queen? — she shot back, almost laughing. — Marta, I’m a damn goddess. They’ll wait as long as I damn well please.

Marta clenched her fists, spitting venom:

— Goddess? — she snapped. — You’re just a jacked-up slut with claws and guns, V. Nothing special about you.

V shrugged off her jacket, kicking up dust from the floor. She unbuttoned her shorts slowly, like she wanted Marta to memorize every inch of her frame. The fabric slid down, revealing those red panties hugging her hips. Marta stared at V’s perfect, divine body, then looked away, swallowing hard, like her throat was choking her.

— Nothing special? — V said, stepping closer. — Then why’s there a crowd out there begging to see me in all my glory?

Marta backed up, her back hitting the mirror. The glass cracked with a pathetic whimper, like it was crying for her. Her lips tightened, eyes gleaming, but her voice softened, losing its edge:

— You…! I…!

V paused, her grin widening. Nearly naked, she stepped aside, turned to the mirror, and fixed her hair. Her reflection was a verdict: goddess, demon, machine that didn’t give a damn about anyone. She threw a glance at Marta:

— You…! I…! — V mocked, laughing. — Get a grip, loser. Maybe I’ll grab you an Oxford dictionary after my next private dance.

She strutted out, the door creaking pitifully behind her, leaving Marta alone. The redhead was breathing hard, furious, dreaming of putting that smug, busty bitch in her place but clueless about how.The club’s main room was packed, as always when the disassembly drone performed. It was surprisingly clean despite the crowd. The stage, with its pole, jutted out in the center, surrounded by eager drones hoping to get closer to their favorite dancer.The crowd was a mixed bag: worker drones, disassembly drones, guys, girls—all dying to see her. V stepped onto the stage, and the room exploded like someone lit a powder keg. Shouts, whistles, stomping—drones pushed closer, their eyes full of lust, adoration, and fear.Her bikini was comically undersized, her chest practically tearing it apart, hips swaying like a weapon built to kill. She stopped at the pole, yellow eyes scanning the crowd, picking who to tease, who to break, who to destroy.The music—heavy beats and deep bass—grabbed her, and V started to dance. Her hand gripped the pole, and she spun, her body soaring, legs arcing through the air.

Her bikini little tore, the fabric splitting just enough to flash a nipple. The crowd lost it, howling as cash rained onto the stage. V didn’t even blink—it was all part of her plan. She arched her back, thrusting one massive thigh forward. The spotlight hit her like a halo, but the pole’s shadow on the floor formed a cross—saint and sinner, goddess and demon, all at once.She descended into the crowd, hips gliding just out of reach of the hands craving her body. A drone with blue eyes reached for her, his gaze screaming desire. V didn’t look back, just flicked out her claws, and he yanked his hand away, yelping like a kicked dog.Back at the pole, she grabbed a bottle of clear machine oil and poured it over herself. The liquid cascaded down her chest, abs, and thighs. The crowd roared—some screamed her name, others thrashed in ecstasy, dropping glasses. Someone’s teeth crunched in a fight near the stage.V leaped onto the pole, pulling herself up with one hand, flexing her massive muscles. Her legs wrapped around it, sliding down slowly. The crowd held its breath.She flipped upside down, her wild gaze locking onto the room. A drunk worker drone girl stumbled onto the stage, staggering toward V.

— V, you’re mine, baby! — she slurred, reaching out.

V’s stiletto shot up, slamming into the girl’s chest with a loud crack. She collapsed, grinning like it was the best day of her life. The crowd erupted—laughter, screams, applause.V finished with an inverted hold, legs gripping the pole like a vise but careful not to snap it. Her body arched, hair spilling downward, eyes piercing the crowd. She dropped, landing with a thud that drowned out the music. The room roared: “V, I’m yours forever!” “Goddess!” “I love you, I want you!” She strutted backstage, grinning wide. She knew who ruled this place, and that knowledge thrilled her.

 

Private Dance Room.

 

V stood before a client—a worker drone clutching crumpled bills like they were his ticket to another world. His lustful pink eyes stripped her bare. She started dancing, hips swaying like a pendulum, hands gliding over her chest, fingers tugging at her straps like they might rip them off.

— Come closer, — he muttered.V slid onto his lap, her body easily capable of crushing him, but she balanced perfectly.

— Don’t squirm, — she whispered. — I’m not the forgiving type.

He didn’t listen. His hand landed on her thigh, fingers digging into her chiseled ass. V froze. Then she smirked, her claws snapping out and pressing against his throat.

— Get out, — she growled softly. — Run while I’m feeling nice.

He yelped, his drunken brain kicking into gear. He fumbled with his zipper, nearly tearing his pants, and bolted for the door, tripping over the curtains. V laughed—this was just another day for her. She adjusted her bikini, mulling over the moment.Back in the main room, voices carried: “I heard she ripped a client’s head off with her bare hands!” “She’s badass… but booking a private dance? Kinda scary.” V smirked at the gossip. She loved the rumors, the mix of desire and fear she inspired.

 

Jacob, a drone with purple eyes and a cigar in his teeth, sat at a table buried under cigarette butts, crumpled papers, and empty bottles. He was handing out the night’s earnings to the strippers.

— Marta, here, — he said, slapping bills into her hands. — Camila, yours, — another stack, slightly thicker but still pathetic, like life in this city. — V… — He hesitated, then shakily placed a massive wad of cash on the table. — No commission, as usual.

Camila, a blue-haired stripper, screeched:

— What the hell, Jacob? — she snapped. — No commission for her, and we get scraps?!Jacob leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing, a flicker of fear in them like he knew V could wreck his office with one swing.

— V’s the money, — he said. — Without her, none of you would draw a crowd.

V smirked, flipping through the bills like a deck of cards, her long, powerful fingers rustling the paper, her eyes gliding over them.

— Tiny tits and scrawny asses aren’t in style, Camila, — V said. — Maybe get yourself a boob job?

Camila stormed toward V, practically screaming:

— SHUT UP, SLUT! — she yelled. — Think you’re better than us?!

V looked up, then loomed over Camila, making the smaller stripper shrink in fear. V wasn’t going to hurt her, but her presence alone terrified anyone she approached.

— Slut? — V repeated, her voice laced with something unsettling—not anger, but something deeper, like she knew exactly what Camila meant. — Call me a whore, you nobody. That’s closer. Mad I get more cash and attention? Do something about it.

Camila trembled, her lips moving but no words coming out. She stumbled back, tripping over a chair. Marta, silent until now, shot V a sharp, hateful glare.

— Enough, — Jacob barked, slamming his fist on the table. — Fight outside. This is work. Keep it professional.

Camila gritted her teeth, glaring at V, but turned and nearly knocked over Marta, who was trailing behind her. The strippers left. Jacob held V back, his voice dropping to a whisper, like he was scared the walls might snitch:

— VIPs in two days, V. Not just dancing. You know what I mean. Big money. Think about it, alright?

V squinted. The lure of easy cash clouded her mind, but she didn’t want to seem too available. She loved sex—craved it, being a disassembly drone wired to get hot and heavy, dreaming of dicks in her holes or her own in others, depending on the setup.

— I’ll think about it, — she said.

 

Nighttime.

 

V tore through the streets on a black motorcycle with red, painted cracks. A white bodysuit, replacing her shorts, hugged her muscular frame. Unlike her former coworkers, she loved loose clothing. The wind slapped her face, and she relished it. Freedom…The engine drowned out everything—shouts, sirens, her own heartbeat. This district was a dump—peeling buildings, walls tagged with “Cops are scum,” and all the trappings of a ghetto.Sure, it was awful, but V loved this forgotten place, far from the heavy armored vehicles shaking the streets, far from the SS death squads and cameras on every corner. She breathed freedom, loving her life—the one where she could do whatever the hell she wanted.

— You’re a storm, V, — she whispered to herself. — The best.

She turned into a residential area. The street was narrow, lined with houses sporting broken windows and bent frames—everything was as grim as it gets. Trash littered the ground—rusted cans, wire scraps, someone’s boots.A siren wailed in the distance, but it was far off. Three cop drones stood by a wall, sniffing around for someone or something. V knew who they were after—either her, some runaway rebel, or just anyone who wouldn’t bow to Bella De Grace’s soldiers or Hector Dwayne’s brutal KGB torturers in Eastgate’s underground prisons. The first cop was bulky, with a cracked visor. The second was scrawny, eyes twitching, finger jittering on his trigger like his life depended on every sound. The third was small, unremarkable.The small one raised his hand, his high, squeaky voice cutting through:

— Hey, you! Off the bike! Your passport, now!

V slammed on the brakes, digging her stilettos into the ground. She flashed a feral grin, like she was about to ruin these losers’ night.

— Yo, what’s good, dickheads? — she shouted.

The big one raised his rifle, his flashlight beam hitting her face—white bob, yellow eyes, that insane smirk. His voice shook as he yelled, like he knew who he was dealing with but couldn’t admit it:

— Getting cocky, bitch? On the ground, now!

The scrawny one stepped forward:

— You deaf? Hit the dirt, or I’ll put you down, slut!

The small one froze, his eyes landing on a crumpled but clear poster on the wall. Her silhouette—white hair, claws, yellow eyes, with the text: “Approximately 8 feet tall. Extremely dangerous. Report immediately.” His hand shook, mouth opening to scream, but no sound came out. V didn’t give him a chance. Her hand—faster than lightning, faster than their fear—yanked a submachine gun from her bike’s holster and aimed.Her fingers gripped the handle.

She pulled the trigger. The roar of gunfire lit up the street like a flash of daylight plunging into hell. Shells clattered into a puddle.The first bullet found the big guy, punching through his head. He groaned, clutching the hole, but his screen went dark. His body hit the ground, admitting defeat.The second bullet tore into the scrawny one’s shoulder, shredding metal like a tin can. He screamed, trying to raise his rifle, but a third bullet ripped through his throat, silencing him.

The small one bolted, yelling:

— It’s her! The psycho from the poster! Call for backup!

He fumbled for his radio, fingers shaking, but the signal wouldn’t go through—static mocking his panic. V aimed, her eyes narrowing, grin widening like she was drinking his fear. A bullet caught his skull, dropping him face-first into a puddle.V laughed—loud, wild, unhinged. The street now stank of oil and gunpowder, not just rot. She scanned the area, but nothing—just the wind and dripping pipes hinted at life. She holstered her gun. The motorcycle roared back to life.

— Try catching me, losers, — she muttered.