A reminder for those of you who just tuned into the broadcast…
The corporation Quince™ has a teeny-tiny problem—
the CEO’s daughter has vanished.
Naturally, they’re blaming Macrohard™.
These two megacorps have hated each other for centuries,
and now that hatred has blossomed into a full-scale cosmic bloodbath
stretching across an entire goddamn solar system.
Their combined fleets are hovering above the war-ravaged planet Quince Park™.
Over its dead surface, two enormous armies tear each other apart:
thousands of ships, swarms of combat drones, explosions, flashes, plasma arcs—
the whole thing looks like a parade of heavily armed idiots.
In short—a cosmic fuckfest of festival proportions.
And right into this shitstorm
pops out of hyperspace… the Z-P-N-E-S.
Before them spreads a scene of galactic scale—
better than all the depressing crap
NETFIST™ keeps feeding its subscribers.
Zeros, staring from the cockpit,
was vibrating with aesthetic pleasure.
“Maybe we stay one more minute?
I love watching meat-bags kill other meat-bags.
I swear my A-101 adrenaline fluid is tingling through my chassis.”
Blindy leaned back in his seat, lighting a cigarette:
“Yeah… same.
But nope.
C’mon, you know me—there’s always some hottie in this galaxy waitin’ for me…”
Zeros lifted his left hand—one sharp motion, cutting him off:
“NO. Don’t say it aloud.
‘The next hottie waiting to rob your dumb ass,’
you pathetic brain-dead sack of spoiled meat.”
Blindy grinned:
“My friend… you really do get me…”
Zeros rolled his robotic eyes:
“Fine. Then haul your useless ass over there.”
The android pointed at an enormous assault frigate hanging over the black abyss like a whale-warden with bad intentions.
“While those brain-rotted bastards busy chewing each other
into confetti,” Zeros said, voice flat, eyes locked ahead, “we slip straight into the thermal exhaust port.
They always leave a hole in the ship’s ass.
We grab the cargo—and we’re gone.
They won’t even notice something’s missing.”
Blindy tugged on the control lever.
“Ahh, I love frigate-assholes…”
“Stop. Talking.” Zeros growled, not even looking at him.
A quarter-hyperjump later—
and the Z-P-N-E-S dove into the frigate
as easily as a tiny fish sliding into the back end of a sea cucumber.
Some time later…
Blindy landed the ship on its belly,
skidded across the hangar floor,
and, of course, caused a spark.
The spark became a small fire,
the fire became an alert,
and the alert became a full siren of “shits’s-hitting-the-fan” level.
One second—
and swarms of insectoid cyborgs scrambled into the hangar,
crawling out of cracks, walls, vents, the ceiling—
like someone had kicked over a cosmic anthill.
Macrohard™ corporate-military prototypes…
one glance at them and you already want to file a complaint
with the Union of Space Brains.
Our deranged duo was now trapped,
pressed behind the engine of the Z-P-N-E-S,
with a whole hive of metal nightmares closing in.
Giant insectoid cyborgs swarmed around them—
clicking predatory mandibles, slapping the floor with dozens of legs, spitting acid, and making a wet, nauseating sound that could only be described as:
After this… you don’t want dinner. Ever.
Blindy reloads his blaster, biting his tongue from panic:
“HEY, FUCK-DROID!
Don’t just stand there like a steaming pile of shit!
DO SOMETHIN’!!”
Zeros stood calmly, arms crossed, fully enjoying his partner’s suffering:
“Oh. You want me to do something?”
Blindy, firing wildly at absolutely nothing:
“YES, YOU USELESS SCRAP MOUNTAIN!!
Lost your brain-chip?
Want me to update your software with a fucking calculator from XEREX OS?!”
Zeros exhaled slowly.
Turned exactly 47 degrees.
His eyes flashed bright murderous red—
the color called “everyone is about to regret existence.”
In his flat iron voice, he said:
“Fine. You ASKED for it.”
Zeros leapt onto the top of a cargo container in a single bound.
The plates on his arms slid apart,
mechanisms humming awake,
and hidden panels snapped open along his forearms.
"SYSTEM ACTIVATED: FLAMETHROWERS—DEPLOYED."He dropped down.
And hell descended on the hangar.
A wave of fire tore through the cyborg swarm—
melting chitin, burning through metal,
filling the chamber with heat so intense
even the air would’ve screamed if it had lungs.
Pops, crackles, sizzling flesh, the smell of roasted organs—
all blending into a nightmare barbecue aroma
that could only be described as “cosmic horror grill.”
Zeros stood in the center of the firestorm,
utterly unfazed,
like a goddamned warlord of hell
with flames performing a ritual dance around him.
And he said—calm,
almost proud:
“Thermistor T-100 mode… activated.
UA-HA-HA-HA-HA!”