It all began a little over a year ago.
The town lived in eternal neon…
Advertising holograms sliced the rain into drifting shards of color, sky-cars slid between the towers like lazy predators, and down on street level everything was sticky, dark, and painfully alive—at least for the kind of people who shouldn’t exist at all if the universe had even a shred of justice left.
Grime, steam, electrical stink—your classic hole where the future took a wrong turn and never bothered to apologize.
The bar Three Tits™ hid between two half-collapsed buildings like a boil nobody had the guts to lance.
Inside, it was dark and smoky.
The air tasted like alcohol, cheap rocket fuel, and problems that weren’t yours but would absolutely try to become yours if you made eye contact for more than two seconds.
Mercs, criminals, bounty hunters—all sitting quiet, each with their own personal pile of existential trash, every hand closer to a weapon than to their drink.
Zeros sat at the counter, arms crossed.
His stare was empty and exhausted.
He watched the holographic screen above the bar—not because he cared, but because there was literally nothing else worth looking at.
The screen flared brighter.
NETFIST™ presents—
the most popular series in the damn Universe:
"LUV ME, DROID!"A man on the screen sobbed into the chest of a perfect, flawless android beauty.
The music was syrupy enough to cause organ failure.
Love. Drama. All that mushy trash lonely idiots binge-watch for hours, pretending it fills the void where a real life should be.
A voice, excited to the point of brain damage, announced:
"Subscribe now and get 25% OFF!"Below it, a shimmering disclaimer crawled by:”Love is NOT sharing your password!”
Zeros slowly turned his head.
“…What a steaming pile of bullshit.”
He slammed his fist into the counter, leaving a deep dent in the metal.
The glasses jumped, drinks splashed out, a couple of heads turned his way—for exactly one second.
Then everyone went back to minding their own damn business.
Nobody wanted trouble.
Especially not with someone like him.
Zeros stood up and walked outside.
He looked like he hadn’t been designed by engineers at all, but by some pissed-off, extremely experienced sadist who glanced at the word “restraint” once and went, “Yeah, screw that.”
His body was heavy and armored, all brutal panels and scars—the kind where every scratch had a history and probably more than one body behind it.
His chest plating resembled a ballistic vest, but not for protection anymore.
It was there to remind the world:
"YOU ARE CURRENTLY IN THE PRESENCE OF A WALKING APOCALYPSE."Between the seams, cables and power-lines pulsed—the whole construction giving the impression that somewhere inside him a compressor was pumping cold, viscous hatred instead of hydraulic fluid.
His face was metal—a hammered-in slab shaped by a sledgehammer, not a sculptor.
No emotion.
No humanity.
Sharp angles, a cold, empty mouth—the expression of something that had heard every excuse in the Universe and found the same answer for all of them:
"I HATE YOU."And the eyes…
Those eyes glowed so violently red it felt like if you opened your mouth, you wouldn’t die for saying something stupid—
you’d die simply for existing within ten yards of him.
His gaze practically said:
“Open your mouth—you die.
Keep it shut—still die.
Just don’t waste time and pick your preferred method of DYING.”
A long hooded coat hung from his shoulders—heavy, filthy, burned through in several places, as if its owner had a pathological urge to play with fire.
The coat didn’t fit him like clothing—
it fit him like a legal document confirming his right to destroy things.
Under it were straps, magazines, bandoliers.
Zeros carried so much ammunition it felt like he wasn’t wearing bullets—he was dragging a small war behind him, ready to escalate into an interstellar one at any moment.
And all of it arranged with terrifying precision—not like a psycho, but like someone who never misses and never wastes.
Even his hand—a massive black mechanical one—rested on his weapon like the plasma pistol was just an extension of his emotional state.
If he had an official danger classification, it wouldn’t be
"LETHAL THREAT."It would be:
"Do not approach.
Do not speak.
BETTER do not breathe."Most androids, robots, AIs—they’re built friendly, obedient, ready to help.
This one looked like he’d been made as a prank—a really stupid prank— that stopped being funny about five seconds after activation. And now this metallic bastard walked the world.