The wind howled through the ruins, carrying the scent of ozone and burning metal. I stood frozen, chrome fingers twitching at my sides, while the armed rebels fanned out in a semicircle around me. Their boots crunched over broken glass and shattered concrete, weapons trained on my chest.
My internal systems hummed, processing every movement. Heat signatures, trajectories, firing arcs. The machine inside me whispered probabilities—how fast they could kill me, how slim my chance of escape was.
"Drop your weapon," one of them barked.
I blinked. Weapon? I didn't even have one. My voice came out ragged, distorted by static.
"I'm unarmed."
The woman with silver-streaked hair—the one who'd shot the drone from the sky—lowered her rifle slightly, though her eyes never left me. Sharp, calculating. A leader.
"You're a construct," one of the younger rebels spat. He pulled his rifle forward. "Machines don't get to talk."
I raised my hands slowly, palms open. "I'm not what you think. My name is—" I hesitated. The name Dr. Kieran felt like a ghost. The world didn't know him anymore. "…I'm Subject-09."
A murmur ran through the group. The silver-haired woman tilted her head.
"Subject-09," she repeated, as if testing the weight of it. "Who built you?"
The answer coiled on my tongue, bitter. "I… don't know."
It wasn't a lie. I remembered the chamber, the explosion, the transformation. But who had placed me here? Why this body? Why this century? My memories were fractured, like broken glass.
The younger rebel snarled. "Doesn't matter. It's one of them. We should scrap it before the drones circle back."
His finger tightened on the trigger. My systems screamed warnings—microsecond calculations showing his bullet tearing through my chest plate. I forced myself not to flinch.
The woman raised a hand.
"Hold your fire, Dax."
He shot her a glare. "Commander, with respect—"
"I said hold it." Her tone carried steel, enough to silence him.
She stepped closer, boots crunching on debris, rifle still at the ready but angled down. Up close, I could see the fatigue etched into her face—the fine lines around her eyes, the dirt smudged across her cheek. Yet her gaze held something alive. Fierce.
"You don't move like the others," she said quietly. "And you don't sound like them either."
I swallowed—or mimicked the action, since my throat no longer truly worked. "That's because I'm not them. I didn't choose this."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then she slung her rifle over her shoulder.
"Take it," she ordered her squad.
Weapons snapped up again. My systems surged with panic.
"Wait—!"
But they didn't fire. Two of them rushed forward instead, grabbing my arms. Their grip was strong, but not stronger than me. My servomotors whirred, calculating how easily I could break free. But then the woman's eyes caught mine again.
"If you wanted to kill us," she said, "you would have already. That earns you one chance. Don't waste it."
The rebels bound my wrists with some kind of cable—thick, humming faintly with an electrical charge. My sensors warned me: attempting to snap it would trigger a feedback shock.
They marched me through the ruins. Broken skyscrapers loomed overhead, their skeletal frames reaching into a sky carved with glowing scars of energy. The streets were littered with rusted vehicles, stripped bare long ago.
Everywhere, I saw the same signs: a world gutted by war.
We passed the smoldering remains of the drone, its red optic shattered. One rebel kicked it with his boot, muttering curses. Another scavenged its weapon core, tossing it into a satchel. Resourceful. Desperate.
As we walked, I tried to speak.
"What year is this?"
No one answered.
"What happened here?"
Still silence. Only the crunch of boots on gravel and the distant whine of drones somewhere above the clouds.
Finally, the woman spoke. "You'll get your answers when we decide you deserve them."
Her words stung more than I expected. Deserve. Like I was an intruder in my own species' story. Maybe I was.
After what felt like hours weaving through ruined alleys, we reached a hidden entrance—a collapsed subway tunnel, camouflaged with scavenged metal sheets. Two rebels pushed them aside, revealing a narrow passage lit by flickering lamps.
They shoved me inside.
The tunnel descended deep into the earth. My sensors adjusted to the dim light, mapping every contour. Graffiti scarred the walls: slogans of resistance, symbols painted in defiance.
At last, the passage widened into a chamber. Dozens of survivors turned to stare—men, women, children, all worn thin by hunger and fear. Whispers rippled as they saw me, their eyes wide, some with awe, others with hatred.
"A machine…"
"Why'd they bring it here?"
"It's one of them—get it out!"
Children clutched their parents' legs. A man shouted something I didn't understand.
The silver-haired woman raised her voice above the noise. "Stand down! It's not a patrol unit. It's something else."
The crowd didn't like that answer, but they obeyed her. Respect—or fear—kept them quiet.
She gestured for me to step forward. I obeyed, though every instinct screamed this was a mistake.
She faced me squarely.
"My name is Commander Helen," she said. "Leader of what's left of the Resistance in this sector."
Her words hit me like a hammer. Resistance. Against what? Against who?
Elara studied me for a long time before speaking again. "You want to survive, Subject-09? Then you prove yourself. Because out there…" She pointed a finger toward the ceiling, where the distant whine of drones echoed. "…out there, anything built is the enemy."
I met her gaze, my voice steady despite the static edge. "Then let me prove I'm not their enemy."
The chamber fell silent for a while ....
For the first time since waking in this body, I felt the weight of choice pressing down on me. Whatever world this was, whatever war had reshaped it—I was in the middle now. And survival wouldn't come from hiding.
It would come from fighting.
Elara's lips curved, not quite a smile.
"Good," she said. "Because you'll get your chance sooner than you think."