Rain hammered the asphalt; neon smeared across the puddles, turning the street into a warped mirror.
Down here, cyberpunk was the real deal—
not that glossy, 80s-movie crap that put you to sleep faster than a sedative.
Here ruled poverty, street gangs, illegal implant dealers, prostitutes of every imaginable configuration, and the smell of blood, burnt wiring, and cheap plastic choking every alley.
And whoever you were—human, alien, mutant, android, cyborg—down here you only had one ending. No director’s cut.
No alternate finale.
Just a single one—theatrically murderous.
And trust me, pal…
you wouldn’t want to watch it twice.
Anyway—Zeros heard a voice.
Familiar.
Hated to the point of nausea.
But this time the sound was different.
Not annoying.
Not babbling.
Almost… pleasant.
Moaning.
That’s when he realized who it belonged to.
Something clicked inside his metal body.
A tiny glitch, a microsecond deviation—but the sensation felt disturbingly similar to…
“…Happiness,” he muttered under his breath.
“So that’s what happiness probably feels like.”
He paused for a moment, then snorted softly.
“Though, according to NETFIST™ dramas, happiness never lasts long.”
Zeros turned his head toward the sound.
Blindy was lying right in the street.
They were kicking him—lazily, with open, bored enjoyment.
A few gutter scum in filthy jackets—way too confident in themselves and in the illusion that today, somehow, the universe would spare them.
“Oh c’mon…” Blindy spat blood, letting out a dry groan. “Not again, man…”
Zeros stopped and folded his arms.
“…Tsk. Fucking moron.”
One of the bastards finally noticed him.
“Hey, th’ hell you standin’ there fo’, tin can?” snarled the dirtiest one. “Get lost. Ain’t yo’ business.”
“Yeah,” another chimed in. “Go serve some rich asshole. We don’t need no metal maid ’round ‘ere.”
Zeros tilted his head slightly.
“Relax, friends. I only wanted to ask… do you need help? What exactly is wrong with this piece of human meat you’re tenderizing so enthusiastically?”
He glanced down at Blindy.
“Hey!” snapped the smallest one. “We said beat it, you rusty sardine can!”
“Mind if I join you?” Zeros continued calmly. “I, too, would really like to beat someone up. Preferably a human.”
The tallest one laughed.
“Oooh… so it is you. Nulls, right? The psycho-bot who leaves behind either a wet stain, someone cryin’, or someone pissin’ themselves. Sometimes all three.”
He snorted, trying to hide his fear behind swagger.
“Damn, you’re one ugly piece of hardware…”
He leaned closer.
“You could join us, y’know. Become one of us.
We’re the Yellow Mashers. One of the Nine.”
He straightened up as if that meant something impressive.
“Come on, ironboy… show us what you can do.”
Zeros shrugged.
Blindy was already trying—very slowly—to get up.
And in the next second, the android struck.
CRACK!Clean. Precise.
Right in the groin.
Emotionless.
The guy collapsed back into the mud on his ass.
The fat one screamed, voice cracking:
“Hey! Easy! We need ‘im alive!”
Zeros tilted his head again, analyzing this new information.
“Aah… I see. Interesting.
Is this that feeling humans get when they punch a pathetic-little-sweaty-stinking-piece-of-shit—?”
He closed his eyes briefly, as if checking internal diagnostics.
“Hm. Pleasant.
No…
MAGNIFICENT.”
He lifted his gaze to the rest of them.
“But if you need him alive…”
Zeros took a step—steady, mechanical, like he was selecting a target.
“…then I’ll have to beat YOU instead.”
He smiled just a little.
“You wandered into my grasp.
It’d be a sin not to have some fun.”