(8 years later)
(Sector Theta)
The sun barely broke through the dense smog that hung over Sector Theta, casting a dim, sickly light across the crumbling streets of Driftwood Row, a small, decrepit settlement nestled within the endless sprawl of the sector. The air smelled of burnt metal and rotting refuse, the mixture of industrial waste and human desperation. The buildings here were mostly skeletal remains of old structures, worn down by years of neglect, scavengers, and the relentless grip of the World Chaos Alliance (WCA).
Three children, Rook, Tanner, and Mim, crouched in the rubble of a destroyed WCA building, their hands dirty as they dug through the debris. The building had been some kind of WCA tech depot once, but now it was just a heap of broken walls and shattered glass, its purpose long forgotten. The kids weren't looking for anything in particular—just something to pass the time, something to distract them from the gnawing hunger in their bellies.
Rook, the oldest of the three at twelve, pulled out a chunk of twisted metal, some kind of broken robotic arm, the wires frayed and useless. He grinned, wiping the dirt from his cheek, leaving behind a streak of grime. His dark hair brown and blonde hair was matted, and his clothes—an old, torn jacket and pants several sizes too big—hung from his skinny frame. His light blue eyes scanned the area.
"Look at this, Mim!" he called out, waving the robotic arm in her direction.
Mim, a gangly girl of ten with wild, orange curly hair, green eyes, and a face smudged with dirt, looked up from the pile she was digging through. "What is it?"
"It's a Klems arm!" Rook declared, standing up and holding it high above his head like a trophy. "I'm the last Klems, and I'm gonna crush the whole city under my feet! Hey..How much do you think we can sell it for to the people in Sector Alpha?! Probably a bazillion dollars!"
Tanner, the youngest, short dirty white hair and light brown eyes and a smudged dirt face, barely eight years old and smaller than the others, looked up from where he was sitting, poking at a shard of glass with a stick. His nose wrinkled as he spoke. "You can't be a Klems, Rook. Klems ain't got no legs! They hover 'n shoot!"
"He's right, Rook," Mim teased, her eyes narrowing as she picked up a broken circuit board and held it like a shield. "You're just a dumb automaton then, workin' for Lyra!"
Rook scowled, but it quickly turned into a mischievous grin. "Fine! Then you're the automaton, Mim! And I'm gonna crush you! Wait, Klems do have legs! All sorts of legs!"
Tanner and Mim laughed, teasing Rook.
Rook playfully lunged at her, pretending the robotic arm was a weapon. Mim squealed and laughed, ducking away as Rook chased her around the rubble. Tanner watched them with wide eyes, then grabbed a chunk of debris and shouted, "I'm Lyra's patrol! Stop or I'll blast ya both!"
The kids burst into laughter, their voices echoing off the broken walls around them. The sound was one of the few signs of life in Driftwood Row, where most people kept their heads down and their mouths shut.
As they played, a WCA patrol car hummed overhead. The sleek black vehicle hovered just above the ground, its chrome-plated exterior reflecting the dull light of the sector's polluted sky. Inside, a pair of patrol officers sat, their faces cold and unreadable behind mirrored visors. Their uniforms were black with silver accents, the WCA insignia emblazoned in red on their chests. The car slowed as one of the officers casually tossed a body out onto the street—a man, his face bloodied and broken, his crime likely something as simple as not paying his tribute to the WCA.
The kids noticed. Such sights were common in Sector Theta. But they didn't look towards the body. Their skin began to get hot, the thud of a body dropping hit their eardrums line a torpedo.
High up on a rundown apartment building, two men in their mid-thirties, sat on a rusted balcony, sipping cheap beer from cracked ceramic mugs. They watched the kids below, their movements slow and deliberate, as if they had all the time in the world.
"Look at 'em," One said, nodding toward the children. "Playin' in the ruins, like it's some kinda game."
"Kids always find a way, don't they? Even in this shithole."
"That building they're playin' in... you hear the rumors?"
"About Lyra?" He asked, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "Yeah, I heard. Supposedly she blew it up herself when the tech inside went haywire. Some kind of experiment gone wrong."
"That's what they say," The other man muttered, leaning back in his chair, the metal creaking beneath him. "But I dunno. There's always some story floatin' around about her."
The other man chuckled, though there wasn't much humor in it. "You mean the one where she's part machine now? Or that she's got a whole army of Klems just waitin' to wipe us all out?"
"Yeah, that one, But it ain't just her. The whole damn world's gone to hell. You see the news lately?"
"Who watches the news anymore, man? It's all the same. Some anchor with a fake smile tellin' us how great it is to live under the WCA. Meanwhile, we're out here scrappin' for leftovers."
"Media used to be different, you know? Used to be somethin' you could trust. Now it's just propaganda. 'Join us or die,' that's basically it. Even the famous people who were famous don't even wanna be famous anymore. Haha, can you believe it?"
"Crazy shit. To progress, eh? We're all just gears in Lyra's big ol' machine now."
"Yeah, and those kids are the next batch of cogs."
They sat in silence for a moment, watching as the children continued to play, oblivious to the weight of the world around them.
After a while, the kids grew tired of playing with the broken tech. Rook tossed the robotic arm aside, and Mim dropped the circuit board she'd been carrying. The three of them wandered down the cracked, uneven street, their stomachs rumbling.
"I'm hungry," Tanner muttered, kicking a small rock down the road.
"Yeah, well, we ain't got no food," Mim snapped, though her tone was more tired than angry. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her too-big jacket, her eyes scanning the streets for anything edible.
Rook walked ahead of them, his hands stuffed in his pockets as well. "Maybe we can find somethin' at the old market. Sometimes there's scraps. If we don't have enough, we can try and sell that Klem arm."
Tanner, always the one with wild ideas, piped up, "Nobody in Sector Alpha will buy thaf junk..and I heard about the Red Knights. They're real, ya know. Super cool cyber-assassins! They fight the WCA. But no one's ever seen a real one! Maybe if we help them on the outside, they can pay us!"
Mim rolled her eyes. "You're always talkin' about the Red Knights, Tanner. They ain't real. Just made-up stories to make kids like you stop cryin' at night."
"They *are* real!" Tanner insisted, his voice rising. "I heard from old man Kreg down by the scrapyard. He said they got red eyes and swords that can cut through anything!"
"Shut up, Tanner," Rook said, his voice low. "You keep talkin' like that, and the patrol's gonna hear."
The three of them stopped walking as a patrol unit rounded the corner ahead. There were five of them, all dressed in the standard WCA patrol uniforms—black and silver with the red WCA emblem on their chests. Their faces, once human, were now smooth, chrome surfaces, their eyes replaced with cold, blue lenses that flickered with faint light. Their mouths were thin lines, permanently etched into unsettling, wide smiles. The skin around their necks and arms was reinforced with **echometal plating**, a flexible yet impenetrable material that allowed them to move with inhuman speed and strength.
They walked in unison, their boots clacking against the pavement in perfect rhythm. The patrol officers stopped, their heads swiveling toward the children, their chrome faces reflecting the dull light of Driftwood Row.
One of them, the lead officer, stepped forward, his voice a distorted monotone. "What did you say?"
The three children froze, their hearts pounding in their chests. Rook instinctively stepped in front of Tanner, his throat tight with fear.
The officers stood perfectly still, their wide, artificial smiles never faltering.
"What. Did. You. Say?" they repeated in unison, their voices cold and mechanical.
The street around them seemed to hold its breath.
The three children stood frozen, their hearts pounding in their chests as the patrol officers loomed over them. Mim, her voice barely a whisper, leaned toward Tanner, trying to keep her voice steady despite the fear that gripped her.
"I told you," she hissed, her eyes wide and darting between the officers.
Tanner swallowed hard, his mouth opening to respond, but before he could say a word, one of the patrol officers moved with terrifying speed. His chrome-plated hand shot out, wrapping around Tanner's throat and lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. Tanner's small legs kicked helplessly in the air, his hands clawing at the officer's cold, unyielding grip.
The officer's wide, artificial smile twisted into something even more grotesque—a hungry, predatory grin. His voice, still distorted and unnervingly cheerful, came out in a sing-song tone.
"Oh, little one," the officer cooed, tightening his grip just enough to make Tanner's face flush red, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You think you can talk about *them*? The *Red Knights*? Do you know what happens to little boys like you who spread *lies*?"
Tanner's eyes bulged, his small hands frantically grabbing at the officer's wrist, trying to pry the fingers loose. His struggles were weak, his face turning a deeper shade of purple as the other two children stood frozen, panic etched into their features. Mim let out a small, desperate whimper, and Rook, though shaking, took a step forward, unsure of what he could possibly do.
The officer chuckled, a cold, mechanical sound. "I could squeeze, just a little bit harder, and—"
Before the officer could finish his sentence, something strange happened. One moment, the street was empty except for the children and the patrol, and the next, there she was.
An old woman, standing in the middle of the street, as if she had simply blinked into existence. Her hair, long and silver, was intricately braided and pulled back into a ponytail that reached down her back. Her skin was wrinkled, her face a map of time, but her eyes—bright, molten gold—glimmered with a sharpness that belied her age. She was short, barely reaching the patrol officer's chest, and she wore a simple, dark gray cloak that hung loosely around her frail-looking frame.
The officers, who had been focused entirely on their victim, immediately turned their attention to her. Their eye implants—advanced retinal scanners that could identify anyone within seconds—whirred to life, glowing faintly as they scanned her face, her body, her eyes. The data streamed into their augmented minds, and within moments, they knew exactly who she was.
The old woman said, "Let them go, you still are bent on focusing on children when im in need?"
The chrome-faced officer holding Tanner instantly released his grip, letting the boy fall to the ground with a thud. Tanner gasped for air, clutching his throat as he scrambled back toward Mim and Rook. The officers, now standing in formation, bowed their heads slightly, their voices unified in a panicked, stuttering chorus.
"We… we apologize, ma'am. We didn't know—"
The old woman's golden eyes flickered toward them, and she waved a bony hand dismissively. "Enough of that. I need an escort to Hajinnu Tower. I haven't seen my son in a long time."
The officers straightened up, their wide smiles never faltering, though there was a flicker of unease in their mechanical eyes. "Of course, Mrs. Ryker," they said in unison.
As they left, Tanner said, "W-Who is she?"
Rook replied, "She saved us.."
Mim responded, "Orrr she's as crooked as them, and she wants to eat us for herself."
Room and Tanner looked at Mim, "That's weird.."
Without another word, the old woman turned and began walking down the street, her steps slow but steady. The patrol officers followed her like obedient dogs, their once-menacing presence now reduced to mere servants. They offered to drive her in their sleek black vehicle, but she waved them off.
"I prefer to walk," she said simply, her voice calm and unwavering.
As they walked through the winding streets of Sector Theta, the world around them buzzed with the chaos of a crumbling society. Buildings leaned precariously, some reduced to little more than rubble. A beggar sat in the gutter, his body half-augmented with outdated cybernetics, his eyes lifeless as he stared at the ground. A group of children—much like Mim, Rook, and Tanner—picked through a pile of trash, searching for anything they could sell or eat. Above them, propaganda drones flew by, projecting holographic images of the WCA's latest announcements, urging citizens to "embrace the future" and "become one with the system." The old woman paid no mind to any of it. Her gaze remained fixed ahead, her pace unhurried, as if the squalor and desolation around her were nothing more than background noise.
The patrol officers, however, were on edge. Their glowing eyes constantly scanned the streets, their enhanced hearing picking up every distant scream, every shout of protest, every gunshot. But they said nothing. Their only concern was the old woman walking ahead of them.
After a few minutes, Hajinnu Tower came into view, its sleek, obsidian structure towering over the decaying landscape. The tower was one of the few pristine buildings left in Sector Theta, a monolith of power and control, where Marcus Ryker, one of the most important figures in the WCA, orchestrated the day-to-day operations of the organization. A former military strategist, Ryker was responsible for coordinating the covert deployment of Chaos Subjects across the city, ensuring that the WCA's iron grip remained unchallenged. His mind, sharp and ruthless, was integral to the efficiency of the corporate machine, and his methods were feared by all who knew him.
As they reached the entrance of the tower, the patrol officers bowed their heads once more. "Thank you," the old woman said quietly, giving them a curt nod before walking through the large, automated doors.
The patrol officers turned to leave, but before they could take another step, their bodies were suddenly and violently torn apart. There was no warning, no sound—just a blur of motion. Their torsos split open in a spray of blood and metal, their chrome faces frozen in those eerie, wide smiles as their bodies crumpled to the ground. The street was painted with gore, their limbs twitching for a brief moment before everything went still.
—
Marcus Ryker, in the Hajinnu Tower belonging to the WCA, the epitome of muscular dominance with his undercut brown hair and electrifying golden augmented eyes, found himself in a sleek, futuristic office, the walls lined with sleek black mirrors and the floor a glossy, reflective surface. A huge bed dominated the center of the room, almost like a throne for the nocturnal activities about to transpire. The air hummed with sexual tension as eight gorgeous females, each unique in their own right, surrounded the formidable man.
The women were a kaleidoscope of contrasting personas and alluring attributes. Some had ravishing long hair, flowing like liquid silk, while others sported practical, short haircuts that accentuated their rugged features. Their bodies ranged from curvaceous hourglass figures to lithe, agile forms that begged to be touched. Marcus's eyes scanned the array of female allure before him, and a smirk played on his lips. He knew this night would be one for the ages.
The onslaught of sensory pleasure began with the women groping and kissing him simultaneously, their hands exploring his muscular frame and pulling him closer. Their lips briowed his, a chorus of eager moans escaping their throats. Marcus gripped their asses, pulling them even tighter, as the women used their enhanced fingers to tease and pluck at his flesh. The room crackled with sexual energy, the mirrors reflecting the explicit scenes of desire.
The women took turns sucking his augmented neck, their lips leaving wet, glossy marks in their wake. Marcus's hands wandered up their thighs, grasping their hips and pulling them closer for deeper access. The musky scent of desire filled the air, an intoxicating perfume that stirred their passions even further. One of the women trailed her cybernetic fingers along Marcus's chest, the static shocks causing him to buck and growl with pleasure. Another utilized her eye implants to project holographic images of erotic scenarios, pushing Marcus's limits and heightening the atmosphere.
The mirrors witnessed Marcus grasping two women simultaneously, one in each hand, as he slammed them together in a kiss that left them breathless. Their tongues wrestled, and their augmented breasts grazed his arms, leaving behind trails of erotic shivers. One of the women bit down on Marcus's shoulder, her sharp teeth penetrating his flesh and drawing forth a trickle of blood. The muscled man roared with pleasure, the pain only heightening the experience.
The bed creaked beneath the weight of desire as Marcus pushed the women onto it, never breaking contact with their sultry lips. He loomed over them like a dominant force of nature, his muscular frame a beacon of male prowess. The women splayed across the bed, their legs opening to welcome him, and Marcus switched between them, satisfying each with expert skill. His augmented member stood erect, bobbing with each powerful thrust, as the women moaned and writhed in ecstasy.
Marcus's enhanced senses were overwhelmed with input, the smells, tastes, and sensations merging into a harmonious symphony of pleasure. The women utilized their cybernetic enhancements to the utmost, their fingers dancing across Marcus's body in a blur of movements, while their augmented mouths left wet, sloppy kisses across his chest and neck. The mirrors reflected a glut of erotic images, each position more alluring than the last, as the women rocked and gyrated in unison, their moans filling the room like a chorus of siren's songs.
The peak of their collective ecstasy approached, the ambiance hummed with sexual tension. Marcus's robust frame glistened with sweat, his every thrust met with matching fervor from the women. The bed creaked in protest, the mirrors distorting the wild scenes of debauchery, as Marcus brought the women to orgasm one by one, each crying out in blissful release.
The office echoed with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, the wet squelching of erotic zones being stimulated, and the erotic rustling of bodies in motion. Marcus's dominance knew no bounds, and the women surrendered themselves to his every desire, their screams of pleasure reverberating off the walls.
Inside the tower, the old woman moved with purpose, making her way to the top floor. The elevator ride was silent, the soft hum of machinery the only sound as the floors ticked by. When the doors slid open, she stepped out into a long, dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hall was Ryker's office—an imposing black door with intricate silver engravings.
She moved toward it, her footsteps quiet as she glided across the polished floor. Her hand, wrinkled and weathered, reached out to touch the door, and the moment her fingers brushed the surface, the door exploded outward with a deafening *boom*.
The force blasted her backward, sending her tumbling across the floor. She rolled smoothly, catching herself with a practiced grace despite her aged appearance. She crouched there, smoke billowing around her, obscuring her form as she slowly rose to her feet.
Through the haze, Ryker stood in the center of the room, his large figure framed by the shattered remains of the door. His golden robe shimmered in the low light, the fabric catching every flicker of the city's neon glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His face was calm, his chiseled features showing no surprise. In one hand, he held an enhanced revolver, its barrel glowing faintly with a soft blue light—an experimental weapon, capable of firing rounds that could pierce any armor or shield. In his other hand, he gripped a large hammer, its head crackling with energy, designed to send shockwaves powerful enough to tear through reinforced steel.
Behind him, his eight wives stood in formation, their naked bodies augmented with sleek cybernetic enhancements. Their skin was a mix of pale flesh and polished chrome, their arms lined with hidden weaponry. Some had cybernetic legs, others had glowing implants running down their spines. Their eyes, cold and unblinking, were locked on the old woman. Each of them held a gun, their fingers twitching on the triggers, ready to fire.
Ryker smirked, his voice dripping with amusement. "Crazy that you made it up here with that costume! Of my own mother?! Haha, I gotta give it to ya. I'm not supersized though. Are you with those cyber-assassins everyone's sucking up?"
The smoke around the old woman began to dissipate, revealing the truth. She wasn't old at all. Her form shimmered, the illusion falling away to reveal a young woman, no more than eighteen. Her hair was jet black, shoulder-length and sleek, framing a face that was both striking and unnervingly beautiful. One of her eyes gleamed a vibrant red, the other concealed beneath a black patch. Her skin-tight black outfit clung to her athletic frame, the material made from a reactive polymer that shifted and hardened based on her movements, offering both protection and flexibility. Along her arms, faint red lines pulsed with energy, indicators of the hidden technology embedded within her. On the back of her neck, tattooed in thin, sharp letters, was a single word: Ness.
She said nothing as she stepped forward, her gaze fixed on Ryker and his wives.
Ryker's smile widened, and with a flick of his wrist, he signaled his wives. In an instant, they moved—darting toward Ness with inhuman speed, their bodies blurring as they fired their guns mid-stride. Ryker himself leaped into the air with a spinning twist, his hammer raised high.
"Come on! Show me something Cyber-Assassin! Show me something, Red Knight!"
But Ness was faster. Her arm shifted, the seams of her skin-tight suit parting as a long, mechanical handle extended from her forearm. In a flash, a glowing red blade ignited—her scythe. The weapon, forged from a hybrid of plasma and echometal, hummed with deadly energy, capable of slicing through even the most advanced armor.
Ness spun on her heel, the scythe slicing through the air with a high-pitched *whine*. The red blade cut through the wives effortlessly, slicing them in half before they even had time to react. Blood and oil sprayed across the room as their bodies fell to the floor in pieces, their chrome limbs twitching in their final moments.
The slash was so powerful that it didn't stop there. The energy from the blade continued its arc, ripping through the walls of the office and into the building's structure itself. The entire upper half of Hajinnu Tower groaned, metal screeching as the top of the building began to shear away. With a deafening roar, the upper floors collapsed, tearing away from the rest of the tower and crashing down into the city below.
In the midst of the chaos, Ryker twisted in mid-air, narrowly avoiding the deadly arc of the scythe. He landed with cat-like grace, his revolver raised, and his eyes locked on Ness.
"That's not enough to beat me."
Ness, her scythe still glowing with lethal red energy, didn't flinch. She dashed toward him, and Ryker charged at her, both of them moving with lightning speed, their weapons raised, ready for the final clash.