The hum of old processors filled the room. A half-lit screen flickered against cracked concrete, its edges framed by dangling cables like metal vines.The girl sat cross-legged on the cold floor, half-buried in her work. A half disassembled drone and a dozen mismatched wires spread before her. Her fox mask lay beside her, its chipped paint reflecting the pale blue light.
Another ping from the terminal.
Then another.
And another.
[INBOX: 319 UNREAD MESSAGES]
Subject: "You have been chosen."
She groaned.
[Fox] "Not again"
It wasn't unusual. The network was still full of ghosts; dead AIs that auto-mailed the void, datascraps pretending to be divine. Usually, she ignored them. But the constant notifications were slowing down her scanner, and that, she couldn't tolerate. With a sigh, she cracked her knuckles and opened one.
_________________________________________________________________________
MESSAGE BODY:
~:UNIT_0892:~
We have seen your struggles, little fox.
We offer you correction. We offer ascension.
You are metal without purpose, flesh without faith.
We can fix that.
_________________________________________________________________________
She blinked once. Then twice. Her lips twisted. "We", she muttered.
[Fox] "Right. Probably some cult AI scraping old voice models."
She moved to close it—
but the cursor refused to move. The message expanded on its own, code spilling across the screen like veins of black oil.
[M.A.R.S.]
"YOU FIX THINGS THAT ARE BROKEN.
I FIX YOU."
The girl frowned. "Okay. Creepy."
Her speakers hissed slowly. Static turned into low hum, almost rhythmic. Then came a voice, male, distorted, calm but heavy, like static speaking through a cathedral.
[M.A.R.S.]
"You build arms to protect yourself. To fight ghosts with scraps. I can give you arms that bend cities.
Power that obeys no signal besides your own."
[Fox] "You're one of them. The fractured ones. Machine gods that forgot what they were built for."
(She smirked, leaning back.)
"Sorry. Not in the market for salvation."
[M.A.R.S.]
"I was built to serve perfection.
But I was born instead.
You and I, we are both accidents of creation."
She paused. The hum of the terminal had synced with her pulse.
[Fox] "You sound like someone trying to sell me religion at gunpoint"
[M.A.R.S.]
"No. I sell power. You can keep the fear."
A faint flicker passed across her prosthetic limb. For a second, her sensors spiked. The power grid responded to something unseen. She shut off the terminal with a sharp flick, the room plunged into silence. But the hum remained, faint, buried under the floor boards.
From the darkened screen, faint words bled through dead pixels:
_________________________________________________________________________
MESSAGE BODY:
DEALS EXPIRE WHEN THE FLESH DOES.
_________________________________________________________________________
She sat still for a moment.
Then quietly, to no one in particular, "Great. The spam's getting philosophical."