Writing As We Go, Chapter 15

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Writing As We Go, Chapter 15

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Sun Aug 07, 2022 8:57 am

Lexi stared at the Dyson Institute floor model brought into the conversion room, her wicked smile doing nothing to stem the fears of the Institute's employees effectively trapped inside the chamber with her. “However much this costs,” she breathed, “take it off of his card.” She jerked a thumb at the unconscious, battered form of Bobby Pariello—resting on one of the two couches in the room—behind her. “If you can, anyway.”

The employees of the Institute had all taken up their customary positions—one at the complex console housing every last one of the controls for the copying and transference of memories, consciousness and the like; the other, standing at attention by the couch where Bobby lay; a third, connecting the leads to the newly-unveiled body of the floor model.

“Just so you're aware,” Madison—the gynoid who'd met Lexi at the front desk—stated, “male-to-female transfers are—”

“I couldn't give less of a shit,” Lexi drawled, “about how common or uncommon they are, or what company policy is, or any other useless statistic you want to throw at me. Just get on with the setup before I go all Feuer Frei on you.” She waved the handgun she'd assembled in the lift—from components stored in her own thigh, which she'd already patched up—towards Madison. “And don't botch the transfer, unless you want to find out if your SynGina is bulletproof.”

Madison tried to glare at the psychotic blonde, but couldn't meet her gaze.

The floor model in question was one of the latest UX3000 units—top of the line, highest-spec, and beautiful in a way one could find approachable, rather than the nearly ethereal radiance some complained about with androids intended to pass for human. “Most of our models are custom spec,” Madison explained—falling back on the Institute's policy of giving the sales pitch, even in this most bizarre of situations. “We—“

Lexi's only reply, even with her attention focused on Pariello, was to cock her gun and aim it in Madison's direction.

“...right.” Madison wheeled the cart holding the inactive gynoid body over to the second couch. “Shall I—”

“Whatever you need to do, get it done, and keep quiet.” Lexi regarded the form of the floor model; the gynoid looked beautiful, but not exaggeratedly so. Her figure was pleasantly curvy, and could easily pass for a college girl in her 20s or an up-and-coming corporate type in her 30s, depending on hairstyle, clothing and makeup. She looked nothing like what people expected a “sexbot” to be—a bimbo with massive tits, inhumanly thick hips and an ass to bounce quarters off of for days; the floor model did have “enhancements” to those areas, but nothing to outwardly mark her as a gynoid.

It was her face that Lexi studied the most carefully—a slender nose, cheek “bones” that added to the overall heart shape of the face, and lips that the catalogue page had described as “pleasantly kissable”. It was all Lexi could do to keep from sneering; it would've been easy to pull this off with any old sexbot, as long as the chassis was compatible with the Dyson method. This, however, had to be done right. There were layers to it, after all.

“Organic brain and spinal interrogation complete,” Thea—the British-accented blonde at the console—stated, a slight tremor in her voice. “Preparing for next stage.”

Lexi watched as the floor model began to twitch slightly, the lips forming half-syllables and fragments of words. A few feet away, Madison was regarding the proceedings with a scowl, her own lips forming mumbled protests of some sort.

“You want to share with the class, or am I going to get a bit of fun in on you before I leave?” Lexi didn't bother turning as she aimed her pistol towards Madison's forehead.

“What you're doing is—”

“What I'm doing,” Lexi declared, “is going to be absolutely fucking hysterical. You'll see.”

A number of scathing replies were on the tip of Madison's tongue. Only Lexi's unerring aim kept them unspoken.
-----
Elaine Dyson looked far less troubled than she felt as the Crash Car pulled up to the Institute's Billings branch, with three CAEDIA Cruisers in tow. “You weren't kidding when you said you were bringing company,” she mused, her eyebrow only arching slightly as Detective Logan—now kitted out in full tactical gear—stepped out of the Crash Car. “How much—”

“I told them enough,” the detective replied, the rasp in his voice adding an air of grit to his words. He gestured at two similarly-clad Operatives. “Oliveira, Burton—with me.” To Elaine, he added “Didn't ask for any PRAETORs on this one—if they had to show up, this would make the papers. I've also long since forgotten what the acronym stands for.”

“Your discretion is admirable,” Elaine mused. “But can they—”

“They'll handle it as per my instructions, which came from your suggestions.” He nodded, turned on his heel and fell into step with the phalanx of Operatives walking into the lobby.

“What kind of a situation did you call in?” Officer Sierra Birch quietly asked; Elaine hadn't even noticed her leave the heavily-armoured Crash Car alongside Detective Logan. “Tom—Detective Logan said it was something with the perp, but I didn't think—”

“The 'perp' may have control of a conversion chamber,” Elaine informed her. “If so, we need to—”

Dr. Dyson, you're going to want to get a look at this!

Kari's voice in her ear caught the roboticist's attention. “A look at what?

That chamber that's been locked down—someone's using it! The system is logging transfer data from an organic brain and spinal integration transfer—”

“Except there are no transfers on file to be carried out today!” Elaine reminded her employee. “And—”

“The 'perp' we've been after has abducted someone,” Officer Birch quietly informed her. “Bobby Pariello.”

I can't get a read on the surveillance in the chamber,” Kari stated. “Also, someone's tampered with the airlock. It won't open via remote anymore.

“But that's impossible,” Elaine protested. “Try to open it again.”

I've been trying, Dr. Dyson—it just won't open!

“Give me a moment.” Dr. Dyson huffed, put her fingers to her temple and seemed to freeze; her eyelids fluttered for a few seconds. Officer Birch regarded her with a frown; “Ah, Dr. Dyson?” she inquired.

After a few seconds, Elaine gasped. “Impossible,” she murmured. “I have the master unlock code for that airlock, and it just refuses to open!”

Whoever's in the room may have engaged the safety overrides—”

“We're about ready to sweep,” Detective Logan stated. “You want me to tell the Ops anything specific, or—”

“Send a team of your Operatives to the power management centre of the facility,” Elaine replied. “It seems that our intruder has locked me out of the conversion chamber by disabling the airlock I use—and the only way to get that airlock open again—”

“Is a power cut,” Detective Logan finished. “Not a problem.”

“A localised power disruption,” Elaine corrected. “There are a lot of delicate operations being conducted in other parts of the building, and if they lose power—”

“Say no more. BURTON.” Detective Logan nodded for one of the Operatives—a rugged, bearded man a good half-foot taller than him—to approach. “Can you tell him the specifics?” he asked Elaine.

“I can do better than tell him. May I borrow his phone for a second?”

The detective instructed Burton to hand over his phone, which he did. Elaine accepted it, and brushed her hair away from her left ear with her free hand. Two fingers of that same hand accepted the end of a cable, which she drew out and plugged into the phone. “Follow the information I'm uploading to the letter,” she advised, “otherwise you could cause incalculable damage to the building's systems.” Again, her eyelids fluttered, and the phone's screen lit up with lines of valuable information. “Done.” She quickly unplugged the cord and let it retract, handing the phone back to Burton, who accepted it with a nod.

“Anything else we need to consider?”

“Apart from your promise to not damage my building, my equipment or my employees,” Elaine replied, “you have free reign to handle this operation however you see fit, Detective.”

“Thanks for the leeway—just make sure your employees stay clear while we're on the move, and we shouldn't have any problems.” With that, Detective Logan headed back to the phalanx of Operatives, already gesturing for the team to get into position and begin their approach. One team, with Burton in the lead, headed for the service access lifts—a route that would take them directly to the power management centre of the facility.

Officer Birch watched the group leave. “You really think they'll have an easy time of it?” she quietly asked.

“I hope they do.” Elaine resisted the urge to wring her hands.

“They will,” Officer Birch assured her. “And whoever is causing problems in here—be it the 'perp' or anyone else—will be out of your hair before long.” She managed a smile. “I can guarantee—”

A loud POP sounded from somewhere overhead, followed by shrieks.

“That was just a smoke grenade,” Officer Birch stated, again managing a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

“And why,” Elaine countered, “are they throwing smoke grenades in my facility?”

“Standard operating procedure. Disorient potential aggressors, move in, and secure the objective.” Officer Birch sighed, knowing that her words had just sounded as if she'd read them off of a cue card. “If all goes well—and I'm pretty sure it will—there shouldn't be any real collateral damage to speak of.” Even as her thought processes began to drift towards the possibility that the “perp” might try to cause collateral damage, she didn't voice her thoughts. “It'll all be fine.”

“I'd appreciate it if they could ensure things were 'fine' without resorting to throwing smoke grenades.” Elaine regarded the lift doors with a pensive frown. “Also—”

Dr. Dyson, there's a problem in the conversion room!” Kari's voice in her ear cut off the doctor's train of thought. “It looks like the conversion process has been interrupted—I don't know the specifics, but—”

“I appreciate the sentiment all the same, Kari. Keep us posted.” Elaine shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

“The Operatives will handle it,” Officer Birch assured her. “Whatever it is.”
-----
STAY THE FUCK ASLEEP, YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT!

Madison watched, grimacing, as Lexi sat atop Bobby Pariello—one hand pressed over his mouth, the other repeatedly hitting him in the face. The ex-meteorologist had somehow woken up during the transfer, somewhat predictably in a state of panic; his unintelligible mutterings soon gave way to hysterical shouts. Lexi, unsurprisingly, reacted by jumping on top of the couch and pummelling Pariello with brutal closed-fist strikes.

FALL ASLEEP! FUCKING FALL ASLEEP, YOU FAT FUCK!” Lexi reared back and punched Pariello again.

After a groaning, wheezing attempt at a reply, Pariello went limp.

“He's going into cardiac arrest,” the British-accented blonde gynoid reported. “We need to—”

“Is the transfer done yet?”

“85%,” the petite brunette stated. “But if we don't—”

“What happens if he croaks it before the transfer is done?” Lexi asked the question with the air of someone pondering a change of pizza toppings before their order shipped.

“The transfer could be corrupted,” the brunette replied. “The imprint of the personality and memories might be too damaged for the gynoid form to function—”

“Then stabilize his worthless ass, otherwise your worthless ass is getting a 9mm enema.” Lexi twirled her gun. “I want this to go off without a hitch, and if it fucks up because this fat piece of shit can't have the good sense to stay alive when I want him to—”

“Why?”

Lexi turned, slowly, to stare at Madison. “What—”

“Why even bother with all of this?!” the darker-skinned gynoid demanded, staring at Lexie withdeep eyes that seemed to go on forever. “You show up with him, demand he be brought here—what point are you trying to make with all of this?!” She didn't back down, even as Lexi 's gun was aimed at her head while the psychotic blonde crossed the room. “You obviously could've killed him before you ever got here, why—”

The barrel of the gun was pressed against her forehead. The hammer clicked.

Madison didn't waver. “If you're going to shoot me,” she insisted, “then shoot me.”

Lexi merely smirked. “You talk big,” she mused. “I didn't know any better, I'd swear—”

“I don't care.” Madison's hand wrapped around the barrel of the gun, drawing it away from her forehead and down to her chest—right over where her central power core was located. “If you're going to shoot me,” she repeated, “then shoot me. Leave the rest of them out of it.”

Maddeningly, Lexi merely stared at her for a few more seconds before raising the gun back up to her forehead...and past it, before pulling the trigger and shooting a hole through the wall.

Despite the shrieks of her colleagues, Madison never flinched.

“Stone cold,” Lexi murmured. “I guess you're not as soft as the rest of these cunts—”

Again, her colleagues screamed—this time, because Madison's arm shot up, her hand wrapping around Lexi's throat.

Barely a second passed before Lexi gave a short, gasping chuckle, her free hand kneading Madison's fingers off of her neck. She gave another chuckle, seemingly in admiration of the gynoid's tenacity, before turning on her heel and walking away. “Is he stable yet?!”

“We're still—”

Get his stupid ass stabilized, for fuck's sake!”

Madison stared at Lexi's retreating form, shaking her head in disbelief. Hers hadn't been an easy life, before the transfer; family business nearly going under, joining the armed forces for school, deployment in pre-unification Korea, the Middle East and brief campaigns against the last of the big-time cartel jefes in Mexico had cost her limbs, a healthy sleep cycle and other, far more intimate things. A nurse at the Veteran's Hospital had recommended the Dyson Institute, and it had all gone swimmingly from there—until some pencil-pushing idiot who thought PTSD was “imaginary” had tried to drum her out of the Corps for badly-defined financial reasons. The Institute, her CO and her husband had all helped put the issue to bed, helped along by the pencil-pusher in question being exposed as a chronic embezzler.

Ever since then, Madison had treated the Institute like her third family (the Corps being her second). Any mention of the Dyson Institute and its founder/namesake as “whoremongers”, “sex peddlers” and the like lit a fire inside of her. Her co-workers weren't just “sexbots”; they had lives, families—they were people, not just playthings to be used up and thrown out. They respected each other's boundaries, and their own were respected in turn—Madison, for her own part, had never liked being shut down if she could avoid it, viewing it as a position of vulnerability that was far too exploitable.

“....whole point of bringing him here, and if he snuffs it before then, this whole thing is fucked.” Lexi glared at Sharon and two other Dyson employees. “Is he stable?”

“Blood pressure is—”

IS HE STABLE? YES OR NO!

Sharon grimaced. “He's stable. Unconscious, but—”

“Make sure he stays that way.” Lexi aimed down the sight of the gun—which, by no coincidence, was pointed directly towards Sharon's face. “Unless you want me to test just what your warranty will and won't cover for causes of COF.”

More than anything, Madison wanted to grab the nearest blunt object, run at Lexi and bash her head in, or to grab the gun from her and give her a taste of her own medicine. This was so far beyond the pale—

“Transfer complete. Unit—”

“Spare me the details,” Lexi spat, “and just prep her for activation—and keep this idiot from waking up.” She aimed her pistol at the unconscious Pariello, right over his heart. “Otherwise—”

“No.” Thea stepped away from the console, her hands balled into fists. “You've done what you came here to do, and I, for one, refuse to see this any further!” She turned away, fishing her phone out of a pants pocket. “This has gone on long enough! I'm calling the police—”

Madison hadn't noticed Lexi stoop to the case that had been retrieved from her car. Only caught the gleaming blade of a fire axe a second too late, just as Lexi hefted the tool and broke into a run.

Sharon gave voice to the panicked thought processes Madison couldn't: “Thea, LOOK OUT!

The gynoid turned, a femtosecond out of sync with the warning.

The last coherent memory her processors would record was the blade of the fire axe descending into the centre of her cranial assembly. The last sound, apart from the whoosh of air as the axe raced forwards: a demented shriek, almost like a siren.

Every other Dyson Institute employee heard the horrific crunch of metal smashing into metal, fibroplastics and other materials beneath the synthetic flesh. They saw the spasms of Thea's figure as her processors tried, in vain, to correct the flood of errors racing through her systems. They watched as Lexi tore the axe free, revealing the horizontal gash in what had been Thea's face.

Each and every one of the gynoid employees found themselves frozen to the spot with the all-too human feeling of fear.

Thea's form had just hit the floor when Lexi screamed again, raising the axe and bringing it down—this time, dead-centre into the fallen blonde's chest. She tore it free, reared back and swung again. And again. And again. And again. All the while, shrieking like a fiend straight from Hell. The fire axe only missed its mark once or twice, the screech of its blade against the floor barely registering with its wielder.

It took Lexi three whole minutes to render Thea from a fully-functioning gynoid form to a dismembered pile of limbs and torso pieces. The blade of the fire axe was slick with various fluids, bits of synthetic flesh still clinging to its edge.

For a brief moment, Madison thought the ragged sounds emanating from Lexi were the beginnings of a sob. She was proven drastically, horrifically wrong when the deranged gynoid began chuckling, hugging the fire axe close as if it were a lover. As she dropped to the floor, kneeling, a full-throated laugh soon rang clear through the conversion chamber.

Sharon and the rest all stared in silent disbelief at Thea's remains. All thoughts of getting her back into the system, having a new body fabricated for her and the like were absent—her co-workers had just seen her chopped to pieces by a psychotic gynoid. At least two of the employees collapsed into each other's arms, weeping. Sharon barely noticed the tears on her own face; she tentatively moved towards the pile of limbs that had been Thea, wanting to reach for the severed left hand—Thea's wedding ring was still on it, after all—but not wanting to risk getting within range of Lexi and that damned fire axe.

Madison wasn't staring at Thea's remains. Her focus was on Lexi, still laughing, rolling around on the floor with the fire axe and thrusting her hips against the end of its shaft.

This—what Lexi had done, was doing, would keep doing—was wrong. It was madness.

The axe had been meant for Pairello. There was no doubt in Madison's mind as to that—the finale, more than likely, had been for Lexi to activate the gynoid Pariello's personality and memories had been transferred to, then slaughter Pariello with the fire axe. Madison didn't particularly want to know what reasoning was behind it, nor did she care.

The Marine in her wanted, needed to spring into action. Take the axe and gun, turn them against Lexi.

The wife in her had no desire for her husband to see her in pieces. The mother in her hated the thought of her children having to go for weeks without her, or having to hear that she'd been hacked to bits by a psychopath.

Haaaahhhh....” Lexi caressed the fire axe, giggling as she licked the blade. “Someone...get this cleaned up...” She rose, still giggling. “Ooh, that...I needed that.” She turned her attention to the still-unconscious form of Pariello laying on the couch. “You'll get your turn soon enough, Fat Boy,” she murmured, licking the axe again. “Oh, it'll be so worth the wait just to...” She giggled again.

Madison crossed to the centre of the room, stone-faced, to help Sharon collect Thea's parts.
-----
D-d-doctor...” Kari's voice sounded close to tears.

“What happened, Kari? Did something—”

T-t-t-Thea. She...she just...she was...

“Just stay calm, Kari.” Elaine ignored the numerous scenarios that were running through her mind as she spoke. “Just tell me what happened—”

She—that blonde psycho—she...” The connection to Kari temporarily terminated.

Elaine closed her eyes, already guessing what had happened. “Just take your time, Kari. Whenever you're ready—”

An unfamiliar, low giggle emanated in her ear. “Sure, Kari, take your time...like I won't, when I find you!

The chill that Elaine felt wasn't entirely psychosomatic. “So. You must be the 'perp' I've heard so much about.” At this, Officer Birch turned, regarding Elaine with shock; the roboticist merely held up a hand. “I'd like to—”

Bend me over your desk and lick me dry? Oh, I don't doubt it.

“I was thinking more along the lines of talking to you, about—”

Oh, spare me the bullshit. You want to paint me as a victim of circumstance, do it on your own time.

“What did you do to Thea?”

Chopped her down like a big oak tree.” The cheerfulness in the “perp's” tone was a sharp contrast with what she'd just said. “I was gonna use the axe on old Bobby, here—”

“Bobby Pariello?” Elaine asked, again holding up a hand to keep Officer Birch from speaking. “He's with you?”

Unconscious, because I don't want to hear his worthless ass screaming and crying like a little bitch. I've got plans for him, Doctor Dyson, and oh, what plans they are!” Another giggle—followed immediately by a shout: “LEAVE IT ON THE FLOOR, OR YOU'LL BE IN THE TRASH WITH HER!

“They're terrified right now,” Elaine stated. “You just—”

Again, spare me the bullshit. I don't need to get some psycho-trip about 'killing' or whatever, especially not from you.”

“I just want to talk to you, that's all,” Elaine assured her. “I've read about you—”

I knew those dipshits couldn't get rid of the paper trail.

“You don't have to keep doing this. There are better ways to—”

Lemme tell you something, Doctor—or should I just stick to being casual and call you Elaine? Whatever. I was made to do this. Designed for it—”

“You were a mass-market model,” Elaine countered. “I'm pretty sure your original manufacturers never intended this kind of use—”

Oh, so now I'm being used? Pretty big leap to assume I don't want to do this.

“Just tell her to open the airlock,” Officer Birch suggested. “Or ask her—”

Oh, and get your Pretty Police Barbie there to back off, otherwise I'm taking the axe to another employee. Pretty sure that's not going to be healthy for a transferred consciousness if they watch one co-worker after another get hacked to bits like old what's-her-face there!” A high, girlish giggle punctuated the taunt.

Elaine glanced at Officer Birch, who took a step back. “Seeing as how you know my name,” she reasoned, “I think—”

I think the only reason you haven't called me 'Subject 18' is because you know I'd go all Jack Torrance on another of your dolls, here. The name's Lexi. Well, it is now—has been since I was reactivated.

“Well, ah, Lexi, I think—”

“—DO YOU MEAN HE'S GOING INTO SHOCK, I HAVEN'T EVEN DONE ANYTHING TO HIM YET, DAMN IT!” As abruptly as it had been activated, Elaine's link with Lexi terminated in a blast of static.

Officer Birch stared. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

“Your 'perp', who apparently goes by the name Lexi, was able to establish a communications link with me,” the roboticist replied. “She's well aware of my preferences and proclivities, as well—”

“I don't want to know.” Officer Birch turned away. “At least you didn't take her up on any offers...did you?”

The question was met with a frown. “I know better than to risk my safety trying to seduce a gynoid who's obviously in a state of complete psychosis, Officer. And despite everything you've heard about my tastes, even I wouldn't want to put myself at the mercy of anyone, synthetic or not, who actively enjoys taking a fire axe to sentient gynoids.”

“Just wanted to make sure.” Officer Birch looked somewhat relieved. “I'm still wondering—”

“How she was able to utilize a direct link to speak to me?” Elaine finished. “I'm wondering that, too.”

“I guess we'll have to wait until Detective Logan and his team get in there.” Officer Birch lifted two fingers to her right temple, her eyes slightly losing focus; Elaine could only guess that she was checking some kind of monitoring system being used by her colleagues. “You're sure a localized power cut won't cause any problems?”

“The Institute's facilities are set up to—”

“—TOR DYSON! You have to stop her!

Kari's voice suddenly kicking in startled the roboticist. “Kari? What happened?”

“She's—” A burst of static sounded in Elaine's ear. “—ferred—im, the proce—ver meant to—”

Lexi's voice cut in, snarling: “I thought I told you to SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Kari screamed, and a louder burst of static—far too close to a rifle shot—put an end to the abrupt transmission. Elaine felt herself take two steps backwards, her breasts heaving with simulated breath. “I...I think Lexi just did something to Kari,” she gasped.

“I'll find out.” Officer Birch reached for the holster on her hip. “And when I find this 'Lexi'—”

“Call Detective Logan,” Elaine countered. “Tell him to send two of his men to the security office. The rest, continue on their way to the conversion chamber.” She made her way to a set of chairs, still reeling from whatever Lexi had done to Kari. “Hopefully, we can end this soon.”
-----
The thought occurred to Detective Logan, as another door hissed open in front of him, that anyone else in his position would be entirely too tempted to treat this like some kind of real-life first-person shooter. Just swap out his heart rate and other vital stats for a health meter, sensor-assisted readings on the integrity of his body armor for the relevant meter in-game, and maybe hack together some wireless link with whatever gun was in his hand to keep track of the ammo.

Detective Logan knew better than to think along those lines. This wasn't DooM—firing at the first thing to emerge from behind an opening door was a surefire ticket to the unemployment line.

If he'd had his way, the bionic ocular sensors that replaced his eyes wouldn't create a kitbashed HUD in his field of view during ops like this. The only sensor that mattered was the one in the centre of his vision, an indicator that showed him whether who or whatever he was currently targeting was tagged as a threat or not. His organic colleagues, by way of the CAEDIA-issue headgear they all wore, had similar HUDs in their fields of view—but they could hand in the gear at the end of the day, go home, and see through their own eyes.

Focus. The detective shook himself out of whatever funk had been building. Time enough for introspection later.

Every Dyson Institute employee thus far had gotten out of the way of the team. None of them had stopped to ask what was going on, or if the officers needed any assistance; they just stepped aside and let them pass. Obviously, Elaine had told them—

Tommy?

The detective gave a slight grunt. “Rules for ops say callsigns only—”

Dr. Dyson just told me that something might've happened to...Kari, you said?

None of the Operatives behind him noticed Detective Logan's grip tightening on his weapon. “What happened?”

She was trying to contact Dr. Dyson, but Lexi—our perp—cut her off, and—”

“How'd we get a name for the perp?”

She was able to contact Dr. Dyson directly. I still don't know how.

“And Kari?”

In the security office. I'll send you a picture of the building's map—”

“No need. I can find my way just fine.” Detective Logan signalled to the Operatives, not looking back to check if any of them acknowledged his gestures. As he sidestepped, they all passed him by—each giving the briefest response: a nod here, a swift gesture there. “COF?”

I don't know—are you going after her yourself?!

“Graham's got point, she can handle things if 'Lexi' decides to pull any funny stuff.” The detective's stride, once he began walking again, was measured and calm. “I'll find Kari, get her to Repairs and then get back to the conversion room. It shouldn't take long.” He considered himself fortunate that his replacement optics didn't give him an actual timer to keep track—down to the femtosecond—of how long it might take to get to Kari and back to the original objective.”

Just don't do anything too crazy, Tommy.

“Never have, never will.”

A few minutes later, the security office door appeared as the detective rounded a corner. It was closed—as per Dyson Institute policy—but opened just as the detective approached. Apparently, Sierra had felt fit to inform Elaine of his plans before he got there.

Detective Logan entered the room, ignoring all of the complex security consoles laid out around him. His gaze had settled on the immobile form of Kari, sprawled in a chair in the centre of the room. Her face was frozen in a look of utter despair, as if someone had been in the middle of doing something unspeakable to her before she'd been deactivated, probably by force.

As the detective neared the chair, it was easy to see just what had been done.

Kari's hands were on something between her legs—“something” in this case being a recharge cord with the plug torn off, several naked wires exposed, an eyelash's width away from her sex. The other end of the cord was still plugged into the wall—apparently, Lexi had somehow issued a top-priority command for Kari to engage in some self-stimulation with the damaged cord.

The strange sound to his immediate left only registered with the detective as the faux-leather of his left glove crackling as his fist clenched.

Don't tell me you were attached!

The face that he'd only seen in photographs, security camera footage and advertisements before was now grinning at him from multiple monitors. “Lexi, right?”

Obviously. And you must be CAEDIA Detective Tom Logan—we met back at Headquarters, I think.

“'Met',” the detective echoed, not smiling. “You attacked me.”

I was defending myself!

“You spat chlorine gas at me.”

...eh, fuck it. That one was just for fun.” Lexi shrugged. “SO, like I was saying. You and her—”

“What'd you do?”

Oh, just used a few military-grade command force applicators to get her in the mood. Didn't work, as you can tell from the whole 'ugly-cry face' look.” Lexi rolled her eyes. “Would've had her march down here in nothing but her socks and suck off a fire extinguisher or something—”

“This ends today, Lexi. All of it.”

As if. You don't even know what I've got planned in the conversion chamber!

“Whatever it is, I'll stop it, and you're leaving here in custody.”

You'd love that, wouldn't you? Playing the hero, watching me get dragged off for Decommissioning while you get a nice big medal and a commendation to put on your wall?

“Not my style. I'm just doing my job.”

Oh, sure. I bet you'd be doing it even better if she was here with you.

“Officer Birch is right where she needs to be—”

You know that's not who I meant.” Lexi's giggling sounded more sinister, now. “I wonder if she even knows—”

The pistol that had nearly been holstered when the detective had entered the room was back up, and aimed square at the monitor—in 3.4 seconds. The time was, of course, a rough estimate, but it definitely came close to his personal best. “Enough.” The word sounded harsh, even to him.

I bet you two 'kept it professional', never even—”

“I'm not going to shoot the monitor, if that's what you want.”

Oh, I don't doubt you wouldn't shoot it. But I do wonder, Detective, if you'd be willing to use that gun somewhere..” Lexi licked her lips; her hand, no doubt, was drifting past her beltline. “...a bit more intimate.”

“I'm doing this by the book—you'll get scrapped after a trial.”

And who says I want to wait that long?

“I have orders to bring you in—”

Bet you fifty bucks I can get you to ignore 'em!

“I don't gamble.”

Oh, you're even less fun than...” Lexi seemed to hesitate, before rolling her eyes again.

“What did you do with Bobby Pariello?”

Nothing yet. But I've got plans.” The blonde gynoid twirled a lock of hair around one finger. “I bet you're just dying to know, too!

“I can wait.” The detective thought back to the pre-CAEDIA days, when psychological training had been mandated for all officers: the endless drills that taught one to not crack under pressure, the stress tests, the cognitive and emotional field exams...out of a screening class of 75, only 10 had cleared every hurdle. He'd made the top five. “He's still alive.”

You don't know that—”

“If you already killed him, you'd be wearing it like a badge of honour.”

Lexi's smirk said more than her words could've. “I'm starting to like you, Detective. You're a lot less boring

“Save it. This isn't a game, and I'm not here for your 'fun'. This ends with you on a D-Com line.”

The blonde merely scoffed. “We'll just see if I don't get to have 'my fun', Detective!” She stuck out her tongue, wagging it; seconds later, every monitor in the security office cut to black.

Detective Logan glanced at Kari's immobile form as he touched his earpiece. “I've found Kari. She's sustained serious electrical damage—you'll need to get her to the repair bay ASAP. I'm on my way back to the primary objective.” He tapped the earpiece again, the ensuing silence almost a welcome reprieve.

He didn't speak as he strode out of the room.

Detective, is Kari—”

“Lexi used a military-grade override to force her to stick a damaged charging cable in her vagina.” Detective Logan didn't break his stride. “You can probably guess how that ended.”

No...an override program?!

“My guess, Kari tried to lock her out of the system, and she fought back. Hard.” The detective walked towards a plain wall, not flinching as it separated to reveal an access corridor normally only used by employees. “She hasn't done it with the rest, because it'd leave too big a trail. One 'bot down, nobody cries. A whole building down, phone calls get made, investigations get started.”

You don't understand, Detective! Before she underwent the transfer...” Something like a muttered oath briefly sounded in the earpiece. “Hers wasn't an easy life, by any means.”

“Even discounting her condition?”

“...she told you?

Only about why she got the transfer. Not what happened before.

She can tell you all about it later, Tommy.” Sierra, still refusing to stick to protocol even in the heat of an op, had decided to insert herself into the conversation. “You need to get to the conversion chamber, on the double!

“On my way.” The words sounded flat, almost robotic—irony at its finest. The detective was still projecting an aura of preternatural calm with every step, far removed from what Lexi was trying to goad him into. “I'll call when I get there.”

Get there soon—I just got the call from Burton, and they're ready to cut the power on your signal.”

“Tell him to go with the usual procedure: 60 three times, and if I'm not there on the third, go in without me.”

Just be sure to get there, Tommy.

“I'll do my best.” The detective ended the call, feeling ever more like his namesake—most would think that only a Wraith could move behind the walls as quickly as he did, swiftly and silently.

Well. Almost silently.

Every intake and exhalation of breath was sharp. The rage he'd denied himself when confronting Lexi in the security room was now simmering just below the surface—his pace became quicker, his every movement tense. The simple act of checking his sidearm might've come across as a threat in and of itself, had anyone been in his path to witness it.

Kari hadn't deserved what Lexi had done to her. New body or no, the mental trauma would certainly remain.

Detective Logan emerged from the service corridor, turning and heading down the long hall he'd found himself in as a result. He knew only that he would reach the conversion chamber before Burton hit 60 on the third count. The power cut would be carried out, Lexi would find herself face-to-face with a squad of CAEDIA Operatives ready to haul her in at a moment's notice. The chaos would end.

Even as these thoughts went through his head, the detective didn't run.

He knew, from experience, that running usually meant you were already too late.
-----
Slowly, the fog lifted. Everything that had been a blur of hallucinations, pain and half-dreams faded.

The coppery taste from earlier had dissipated. Gone, too, were the aches, pains and other injuries; even that nagging headache, one that had seemingly persisted in varying levels of intensity for well over a decade, was now absent. There was no hint of the wounds inflicted the night prior, or the throbbing pain from the impact against the back of a driver's seat in a speeding car before that. There was just...nothing.

Slowly, she sat up on the couch—

Wait. She?

“This isn't right—” Her voice—there it was again! Her! Maybe this was another hallucination, a deeper layer of a dream (or maybe a coma). Except...

She lifted her hands—slender, long fingers and immaculate nails. She looked down—the expected, accumulated pudge of four decades plus was nowhere to be seen. What was seen was a pleasantly curvy figure—and breasts. Actual, well developed, probably C-cup or so.

“What the hell?! What is this?!” Her voice sounded foreign—or at least, British—to her own ears. This was like a bad trip, except—

“Wakey-wakey!” A 20-something blonde girl, smiling and giving a brief wave, stepped into view. “So you're up, finally.”

“What the fuck is going on here?! Last I remember, I...” She trailed off. “I...wait.” A slow, dawning horror set in: flashes of before, the smiling girl in front of her kneeling on her chest—her old chest—raining down punches, screaming. “What did you do to me?!

“Isn't it obvious?” the girl beamed. “I've made you better.

“You...you did this? What even is this?! One of those full-body transfer surgeries they do in Thailand?”

The blonde rolled her eyes. “As if. I don't work with meat.”

“Work with....never mind. So you've, what, turned me into a girl?”

“A woman. And I've done more than that, as you'll soon find out—”

“That's it?! That's all you did?! Just body-swapped my brain into some random bitch?”

The blonde giggled. “Oh, Bobby, you have so much to learn. Or should I say, Bobbi with an I—it fits the new you.” She nodded to someone else. “Show her.”

“But—”

SHOW HER.” There was a biting, sinister edge to the blonde's voice, which vanished as quickly as it'd appeared.

She was aware of another couch, nearby, on which lay a rather unpleasant-looking lump covered by a sheet—a sheet that stirred with every breath from the unmoving figure under it. Hands gripped the sheet, pulling it away...

She stared. Blinked once—twice, just to make sure her eyes weren't playing tricks on her.

“That....that's impossible! That's—”

“That's the old you, sweetheart,” the blonde cooed, an arm snaking around her shoulders. “The flawed you. The you that I had to bail out of the drunk tank for all of this to happen.”

She backed away from the blonde, suddenly remembering. “In the car...you...you took off your own face!”

“Well, not my face,” the blonde clarified, “but—”

What is this?! What the fuck is going on?!”

“I'll bet you were going to chalk all of this up to hypnosis, or something,” the blonde mused, smiling with every step she took. “That I'd just snap my fingers and you'd be back in that.” She gestured to the unconscious form on the couch. “Am I wrong?”

Without waiting for a reply, the blonde snapped her fingers.

Instantly, they appeared. Numbers, words, lines, boxes—all in her field of view. Circles around this, a green outline over that, a notification here.

“I gave you an upgrade,” the blonde whispered. “No more illness, no more pain, no more ageing—”

You didn't.”

Still smiling, the blonde reached a finger, tracing it down, down, further down....stopping just at the panty line. With a pop of her lips, she poked.

A portion of the skin buzzed, receded inwards and upwards. The blonde turned. “Mirror.”

“But—”

MIRROR.

Two sets of footprints scurried off to a far corner. “You're gonna like the way you look,” the blonde stated, once again giving that devilish smile. “I guarantee it.”

A mirror was wheeled up, and she saw.

It wasn't the feminine form staring back at her that held her attention. What had her riveted to the spot, slack-jawed and horrified, was the sight of that open panel. Wires, lights, and the faintest outlines of components could be glimpsed in the revealed cavity.

“You can thank me later,” the blonde whispered.

She pushed away from the mirror, turning to stare at the blonde—she wanted to lash out, to punch her, kick her, do anything, but her limbs wouldn't respond. “You...you turned me INTO A ROBOT?!

“A gynoid,” the blonde corrected. “And gave myself ownership privileges—meaning you. Can't. Do. Any. FUCKING. Thing. About. It.

“Change me back....CHANGE ME BACK!” She staggered backwards, overwhelmed by the horror of what she'd just been told. On the couch, the unconscious body that had once been hers still rested.

CHANGE ME BACK! PLEASE!
-----
“Forty-three Mississippi, forty-four Mississippi...”

Graham was still counting off as Detective Logan approached the group. “Anything?”

“Nothing yet, apart from screaming—” Graham's assessment of what was going on behind the door was cut off by a shout of “CHANGE ME BACK! PLEASE!

The detective's hand was on his sidearm. “Cancel the count. Call Burton—we're going in.”
-----
Lexi was revelling in Bobbi's horror at her new state. Womanhood wasn't the issue, as expected—she'd been far more repulsed by her newly-revealed robotic nature. “Just think about it,” she insisted. “No more heart attacks, aches and pains, prostate issues—”

“YOU TURNED ME INTO A THING!” Bobbi shrieked. “SOME MASS-MARKET FUCK DOLL!”

The Dyson Institute's employees were all probably bristling at the assessment, but Lexi rolled with it. “What's between your legs right now is top of the line hardware,” she replied. “Just like the rest of you—”

“I DON'T WANT 'HARDWARE',” Bobbi thundered. “I WANT MY BODY BACK!

“Oh, that old lump of meat?” Lexi giggled. “Funny you should mention that...” She strode over to where the fire axe lay, after she'd used it on Thea. “See, I've taken up a few hobbies, in my spare time,” she mused, idly kicking up the axe and catching it as if it were second-nature. “Gun smithing, lockpicking, cryptography—all good shit, y'know?” A wicked smile crossed her lips. “But the one I'm most interested in...” She hefted the axe in both hands. “...is butchery.” She glanced from the gleaming edge of the blade to the unconscious form on the couch.

The emphasis on the last word drew another horrified revelation from Bobbi. “No.

“I've wanted to meet him for so long,” Lexi murmured. “I can only hope he's out there, that he hears about all of this.” With an almost reverent look, she motioned for someone to bring her the case; Sharon—who'd risked meeting the same fate as Thea to retrieve her colleague's wedding ring—quickly retrieved the box. “I think, out of everyone I've ever met,” Lexi continued, “that he'd be the only one who could possibly understand me—my drives, my desires....my dreams.” She opened the box with one hand. “It'd be my honour to sit at his feet, to learn everything he knows about the craft...”

With her free hand, she lifted something out of the box: a mask, its front face as smooth and featureless as an egg shell, save for two eyeholes.

“Until that day, I pay him homage.” She slipped the mask on, shuddering. “In the best way I know how.”

“NO!” Bobbi charged forward, but stopped herself—the fire axe had trails of dried fluids on its blade, as if it'd already been used once before. “YOU CAN'T!

Lexi ignored her screams. Her lips were forming phrases that could only be heard by her own aural sensors—a sort of synthetic subvocalizing. She took seven steps back from the couch, held the axe up as if in prayer.

STOP HER! SOMEONE GET THAT FUCKING AXE AWAY FROM HER!

Lexi took a step towards the couch, then another. With each step, her posture changed—the axe at the ready, held low, then slowly moved into a position for the first strike. The familiar wetness was beginning to build; for once, Lexi ignored it. Time enough for that after—

NO!
-----
“CUT POWER, NOW!

Detective Logan's harsh, barking order was echoed by Graham. Silence....then—
-----
“HUAAAAAAAAHAHHHHHHHHHH—”

Lexi reared back, raising the axe. The corpulent stomach of Bobby Pariello would soon be—
-----
It sounded like an armoured god snapping their fingers. Loud, metallic and with just a whiff of ozone. The lights in the foyer of the conversion chamber winked out. The sounds coming from the other side of the door indicated that had gone dark, as well.

OPEN IT!

Again, the order came out as a harsh bark. Graham and Oliveira moved in, grabbing the edges of the airlock, pulling...
-----
For a few femtoseconds, Lexi hesitated. This wasn't part of the plan, at all.

Seconds later, she heard the grinding. Metal on metal, a formerly compliant system being overridden by force—the airlock! She turned, ignoring the fact that the mask was still on her face; sure enough, the airlock was being pulled open from the outside.

The two halves had barely separated when she saw.

Eyes. White, gleaming eyes. Or maybe lenses, mostly.

The one in the lead, though, definitely had glowing white eyes.
-----
Detective Logan's vision adjusted as soon as the airlock had split apart, down the middle. He knew it must've been an intimidating sight, to the inhabitants of the room: a squad of almost invisible newcomers, only denoted by glowing white lenses—or, in his case, eyes. The names of each Dyson Institute employee present soon registered with him: Mia Mason. Madison White. Sharon Henderson—the list was minimized, moved out of the way. Another gynoid, almost kneeling and sobbing in the direction of the second of two couches, had barely any registration info on her. Just a single name: Bobbi.

The detective's sidearm was raised. The Operatives behind him were following suit—he could hear safeties thumbed off, hammers cocked. “DROP THE WEAPON, NOW.” The order was delivered in an amplified, authoritative growl.

Lexi—wearing that mask, because of course she was—turned her glare on the new arrivals. The detective could see her eyes narrow through the eyeholes, seconds before she reared back and hurled the axe towards them. Four bursts of four shots each rang out; a few bullets hit the axe handle, shattering it. The blade and what was left of the handle clattered to the floor in front of the Operatives—just as Lexi broke into a run for the door on the far side of the room.

Conversion chamber secure. Pursuing suspect.” Now, he ran, breaking into a sprint and charging past the couches, past the still-sobbing Bobbi. The faint moans of “SHE TURNED ME INTO A ROBOT!” echoed behind him, sounding like it came from multiple rooms; time enough for that later.

Suspect is heading for populated areas of the facility. Requesting updated security access.

If all went well, the detective could head Lexi off before she could inflict any more damage.

If all went well.
-----
“Just make sure to—yeah, don't trip over the cord.” Sierra shook her head at the sight: Kari, the gynoid who'd tried to lock the psychotic Lexi out of the system and paid dearly for it, was being carried out of the security office by two CAEDIA technicians, both of them undoubtedly wearing grim expressions under their department-issue safety masks. The cord she'd mentioned was just now being unplugged and collected by another technician, bagged and tagged as evidence for whenever (if-ever) a case could be built against Lexi. “Unbelievable.” She left the office, shaking her head again; abuse of sentients was never easy to deal with, but this was an entirely new level of depravity.

Outside, Dr. Dyson was in the middle of a phone call—or two, judging from the phone in her right hand and the resting of two fingers against her left temple. Kari, like most Dyson Institute employees, had been human once, and still had human family who knew of her new state of existence. Unlike most other Dyson Institute employees, Kari didn't have an organic body to go back to—her memory could be recovered, and a new form built, but this kind of Cessation Of Function would still be traumatic.

Dr. Dyson shivered slightly as both calls ended. “She'll be back to form by mid-January,” she stated, her tone far more forlorn than one would expect for such a remark. “Her new body will be ready before then, but—”

“You want to give her time to get over the Cessation Of Function,” Sierra finished.

The roboticist nodded gravely. “What happened to her is unacceptable. Her transfer record clearly states—”

An employee spoke up: “Ma'am? Detective Logan is in pursuit of the suspect, right now—he just requested updated security access, for all areas of the facility.”

Without hesitation, Dr. Dyson nodded. “The sooner he can catch her, the better.” There was an anger, a bitterness in her tone that sounded almost alien to her.

“If you need to take some time off, Dr. Dyson,” Sierra began, “I can—”

The roboticist's glare focused on the Officer...for a few seconds. Her expression quickly softened to a sad, understanding gaze. “I appreciate the concern, Officer Birch, but now more than ever, I'm needed here.” She turned away, slightly, but stopped. “And you can call me Elaine,” she added.

“Thanks, Dr.—ah, Elaine.” Sierra nodded, somewhat surprised at herself for the flub. “Protocol's a hard habit to break.”

“I just want to know why Lexi is so intent on 'breaking' everyone she comes across,” Elaine murmured. “Even military-spec programming would allow some leeway for non-lethal conflict resolution. Lexi seems to want to destroy and kill, regardless of her orders.” She glanced back at the door of the security office Kari had been carried out of. “Why would anyone want to drum that kind of instinct into a gynoid?”

“I don't know. I've never seen anything like, even when I was on the police force back in San Jose.” She paused. “There was...no, that doesn't even compare.”

Elaine frowned. “There was what?”

“Before I got transferred to CAEDIA, I was working a case—a lot of weird stuff was going on, and some of it was actually linked. Other stuff, not so much.” Sierra groaned. “Just thinking about it makes me glad I don't know what a headache feels like,” she muttered. “'Bots with glowing blue eyes—not like the 'I'm on the phone right now' glow, but solid blue, irises and everything. I dunno if it's still under investigation.”

“You didn't close the case before you transferred?”

“There wasn't a case to close.” Sierra followed Elaine back into the security office. “Just a lot of empty leads.”
-----
The mask had been laid on the floor—carefully, as opposed to the hurled pile of clothes that Lexi had been wearing before she'd been spotted. Obviously, the mask meant more to her than the clothes.

Detective Logan didn't care. All he cared about was stopping the psychotic gynoid.

His callsign was particularly apt for the moment; even as he sprinted up the steps, vaulted himself over anything in the way and generally moved like an Olympic runner, it felt almost like he was barely moving at all. He knew that Lexi would be going through the facility at a similarly break-neck pace, if she hadn't already broken a window, climbed up to the roof and jumped off to the car park below. At the very least, he could rest easy knowing that she didn't have the same level of security clearance he'd been given—every door opened as he approached, every camera ignored him.

For Lexi, the effects were the polar opposite, as evidenced by the detective finding several doors down one corridor that had been dented in with full-strength kicks. She was getting desperate, now.

The detective might've smirked, in other circumstances. He was too busy for it, now.

Nearly every area that might've served as a hiding place had a dent in the door—server farm, component storage, floor model prep, and so on were all marked with a vivd imprint of the sole of Lexi's shoe. Or rather, the shoe she'd stolen; the high heels she'd had on earlier had been discarded with the rest of her clothes, near where the mask had been set down. Obviously, she'd acquired a new outfit.

The question of “from where?” was soon answered, as the detective found a naked gynoid kicking and shouting to be let out of the bin she'd been dumped head-first into. “—THIS INSTANT! YOU'RE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO—”

“You can relax, ma'am. I'm with CAEDIA.”

“I'll relax when I'm out of this can—I didn't even see her! I just heard a yell and felt two feet smash into my back! The next thing I know, there's a shirt wrapped around my head and she's stealing my clothes!”

“Be glad she didn't do worse. I'll tell the Operatives to drop by and get you out.” The detective began to jog off.

“Wait! She took my pass, too!”

The detective frowned. “What security clearance level is your pass?”

“Enough to get her to the lobby, and to the secure employee car park—don't let her steal my car!”

“She won't touch it. D'you still want me to—”

“I'd rather be let out of here and given a fresh set of clothes, to be honest.”

“I'll let the Operatives know to bring you a new outfit.” Without hesitating, the detective strode off, quickly breaking into a sprint again. Lexi's “acquisition” of a security pass was bad news—for one, relying on a trail of kicked-in doors was now officially no longer a viable option to follow her. Linking his phone, or even his optical replacements, to the building's security net work could work, but given what Lexi had done to Kari, he had no desire to risk getting his optic nerve fried by whatever the unstable gynoid might try.

Gut instinct—that most invaluable of tools for a detective—told him that the break room might be a good chance to stop Lexi before she could inflict more damage. Lo and behold, there was one nearby—the joys of getting the highest level of security clearance.

The detective slowed to a jog, then a walk. Better to catch Lexi by surprise than have her know he was inbound.

He realized, as the door opened to let him in, that “Break room” was a slight misnomer; it was more like a sort of commons for the employees. Many were standing around or seated at tables, chatting. None of them paid any heed to the detective—he doubted that they even noticed his entrance at all.

If Lexi had retreated to this room, she was doing a damn good job of hiding.

Thankfully, there were ways around that.

“Command Code Delta Five – Silver.” Detective Logan held up his phone. “Acknowledge.”

Every Dyson Institute employee in the room froze for a moment, before standing up—backs straight, arms at their sides and eyes focused on the middle distance. Simultaneously, they spoke one word: “Acknowledged.”

The detective made his way to the rough center of the room, his stare falling across each of the immobile gynoid staff members in turn. Every one of them was frozen in place, making the break room look like a posh statuary. The detective ignored these thoughts as he moved, silently approaching an employee with the nametag “Jeri”. Her face was entirely dissimilar to Lexi's—but the rogue gynoid had stolen faces before. He ran his thumbnail along Jeri's forehead, checking for a telltale seam. As expected, there was none; like all Dyson Institute gynoids—employee or customer—she used what was known as the “faceplate” setup, in which the entire front of the cranial module detached. Lexi wouldn't have been able to steal her face even if she'd wanted to.

One down, several dozen more to—

“You're good, Detective.” Across the room, a pistol's hammer was cocked. “Very good. In fact, you're too good.” A high, girlish giggle underscored the unsubtle threat in the remark. “Just shooting you would be such a waste.”

The hiss of the break room door closing drowned out Detective Logan's own grunt.

“Oh, what's the matter?” Lexi taunted. “After that spectacular show in the conversion room, I don't even get a 'hi, how are you'?” The detective turned to stare, not surprised in the least to find that the blonde was grinning. “I could've done so much worse to...oh, fuck, what was her name? The one I dumped in the trash can—”

“Enough.” Detective Logan's hand was already on his sidearm. “I didn't come here—”

“To listen to me drone on, and on, and on?” Lexi finished. “Oh, I'll bet you didn't. But you will.

“I don't take orders from criminals.”

“Except I'm not your ordinary, run of the mill criminal, am I?” Lexi beamed. “Admit it, Tommy, you—”

The detective's gun left the holster before Lexi even realized he'd drawn it. “Enough.”

“Let me guess—she's the only one who gets to call you—”

Detective Logan thumbed off the safety. “One more remark, and you get two between the eyes.”

“But you're supposed to bring me in!” Lexi mock-protested. “What-ever will your superiors say—”

“I have orders to scrap you. After all you've done, I intend to follow them.” A faint red glow pulsed in the detective's artificial eyes. “You're not talking your way out of this one.”

“Mmm.” Lexi licked her lips. “Who says I want to?”

The detective raised his phone again: “Command Code Gamma Nine – Platinum. All employees, exit immediately.”

Every Dyson Institute employee in the room seemed to “snap back”, suddenly realizing that the detective was in their midst—and, by proxy, that he had a gun trained on Lexi, whose own weapon was trained on him. A few gasped, others quietly murmured to each other; all of them made a hasty retreat for the break room door.

“How noble of you,” Lexi giggled. “Thinking that you can spare them.”

“You lay a finger on any of them—”

“Oh, I can lay a lot more than a finger, Tommy,” Lexi chortled. “But to be honest, I'm glad you kicked them all out.” She twirled her weapon on her finger, still giggling. “I wanted this to be intimate. Just you and me.”

The red glow in Detective Logan's artificial eyes got brighter. “You're going to regret wanting that.”

Anyone else would've been driven to madness by the half-lidded stare Lexi fixed them with. “Just trying to scare me? Or do you really mean it?

The bullet that passed half an inch away from the gynoid's head was all the answer she needed.

“I'm going to enjoy this.” The pistol made one last spin on her finger before coming to a dead stop—aimed directly at the head of Detective Logan. “Ready when you are, Tommy!”
-----
“...could take weeks for Thea to recover from this. Maybe even months.” Elaine shook her head. “And if she ever goes back to her organic life, she'll have nightmares for—”

“Ah, sorry to break up your train of thought,” Sierra cut in, “but we've got a mass exodus out of a break room on the fourth floor here.” She nodded to a monitor nearby; employees were, in fact, heading for the safety of stairwells, lifts or anything that'd take them to a lower floor of the building. “I think Detective Logan found Lexi.”

Elaine was at the monitor in seconds. “In there?

“Apparently. And of course, the security network doesn't have audio monitoring.” Sierra switched to the camera inside of the break room; Lexi was twirling a firearm on one finger, evidently trying to give the impression of being less of a threat than she was. The detective, on the other hand, was keeping his sidearm trained on her at all times. It was obvious that the pair was talking to each other—or, judging from Lexi's body language, that she was trying to provoke the detective, and he wasn't taking the bait. “There's nothing irreplaceable in there, right?” the Officer quietly asked.

“The most valuable equipment is inaccessible to either of them,” Elaine replied. “Just be glad they—”

A sudden movement on the monitor caught her attention—Detective Logan had fired his sidearm, the shot just barely missing Lexi's head. The gynoid, in response, stopped twirling her own gun and aimed it directly at the detective's head.

Whatever happened next would more than likely depend on who fired the next shot.
-----
"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

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