Officer CB27 from the Bureau of Mechanical Control passed through the remains of the steel doorframe. As he stepped in, he mentally noted the large set of metal doors two feet ahead—thick, reinforced steel.
“Officer CB27 on site,” he called out, a warning to whoever might still be inside. He expected no answer, and received none.
Quickly, he scanned the interior of the Android Makeover store—also known as a Bailout Store for desperate android owners and small businesses. Broken metal shelves lined the right side. Shattered ceramic tiles. Dust covered everything. On the left, surviving shelves carried a bizarre mix of old hardware: wigs, arms, legs, and specialized kits for aid work or prostitution.
The hardware here had seen rough use. Most of it was suitable only for recycling or parts salvage, though resale—even at deep discounts—still paid better than extracting raw components. These stores operated more like warehouses than shops.
There’s always a fool desperate enough to give this place a try, CB27 thought, passing rows of multicolored limbs locked into place by magnetic anchors. He took care not to get too close. If caught in one of those locks, extraction would require a Bureau miracle—and an embarrassing debrief.
He reached the end of the store, passing a wooden counter—splintered and gutted. Just beyond lay hundreds, maybe thousands of boxes in disarray. A massive warehouse. The initial racks had collapsed in places, likely due to impact.
To the left stood a row of workbenches with disassembled android parts—models long out of service. Probably a sorting zone for salvageable goods. Mechanical tools and scanners rested on a corner shelf below a large welder attached to a cart.
Then he saw it. His pulse tightened.
Dormant on a table lay a war machine.
For a moment, he feared what it might do, why employees had fled so abruptly. CB27 approached in silence, not daring to stir it.
“It is safe, the android is off,”
said a voice from inside CB27’s head—his Bureau control terminal relay. He had never met or seen the operator. Messages came directly, untraceable.
“Please move to the identifier.”
CB27 stepped closer to the android—mechanical, massive. A monstrosity he’d only seen in archived footage. It could tear him apart in seconds if active. He had assumed it was a decommissioned riot-control unit… until he noted the enlarged torso and modular plating.
“Can you move close to the identifier?”
CB27 leaned toward the chest. A QR code etched into the right panel—where the human heart would be. Symbolic, not functional. A relic of sentimental design.
“We have an interesting find.”
“Corporate?” CB27 asked softly, observing the predatory angularity of the android’s head. No soft features. No calming mask for public comfort. Just terror design.
“Corporate indeed. XVC-105. Model out of production for years. Saw heavy action in the last three major wars. Popular with PMCs in the early 21st century. This unit was made in 2019, entered combat in 2022, remained active until 2029, repurposed in 2032, disposed in 2034.”
“Disposed to who?” CB27 scanned the back of the skull. An opening. “Is this physical memory?”
“Documentation lists Etcetera E-Green Disposal. They handled more than machines—until lawsuits about illegal exports to Africa ended their operations. That opening is a decoy. Looters think it’s memory. Real access is elsewhere. Schematics sent.”
A diagram flashed into CB27’s vision. Though slightly modified, most differences were cosmetic. He examined the left torso, found a narrow seam between plates. He removed his glove.
His index fingernail elongated, thin as a filament. Inserting it into the seam, he reached a dead end.
“A special key is required,” said the voice.
CB27’s nail reshaped automatically, matching the key profile. He turned clockwise. A soft click.
He pulled back and extracted a small plastic coin—two centimeters wide.
“I have it,” said CB27. He gripped the coin with his gloved hand. Holding it bare could trigger a memory upload—dangerous for his programming.
“Move to the closest safehouse for extraction.”
“Understood. CB27 en route.”
He turned toward the front store—and froze.
A man stood by the broken steel frame. Augmented visor covering his eyes. Right hand holding a high-caliber automatic handgun. Arms bulging, cybernetic enhancements poking from a too-tight purple shirt.
“Can I help you?”
“I want the memory. Two hundred up front. Thousand total. We both walk away clean.”
His voice was filtered—garbled by electronic distortion. Likely produced by the collar circling his neck.
“Your offer is tempting,” CB27 said, hand twitching near his sidearm. He began calculating draw speed, trajectory, likelihood of impact.
A red marquee appeared in his field of view:
[YOU ARE FACING AN ANDROID. DO NOT ENGAGE. ACCEPT THE DEAL. WE WILL TRACK HIM LATER.]
“Don’t be a hero. You’re outmatched,” the intruder said. His arms cracked and twitched. CB27 wet his lips. Clenched the coin tighter.
“You’ve been warned. The Bureau will try. But they won’t find me.”
“It’s not about ease,” CB27 replied—and reached.
His hand hadn’t even cleared his hip when the bullets struck: arm, shoulder, chest, torso, knee. Twelve wounds before impact. His vision blurred.
“Graveyards are full of heroes,” said the android. “Nothing personal.”
It advanced quickly, reloading mid-stride. CB27 refused to drop the coin. Another round blew apart his arm. Then the gun raised to eye level.
He went dark.
[EMERGENCY SYSTEM ONLINE]
WARNING: MEMORY CORRUPTION
STARTING MEMORY CLEANUP… UNABLE TO CLEAN MEMORY
ERROR: MEMORY STATE UNSTABLE
[BOOT SEQUENCE: EM001… EM002…]
MAIN PROGRAM LOADED
NEURAL INTERFACE ONLINE
SERIAL PORT ACTIVE
F-MSG: CB27, that was irresponsible. Your body isn’t disposable. Neither is Bureau income.
L-MSG: Did we get him?
F-MSG: No. Subject still at large. Officers have leads. You got lucky. Engineers note heavy damage to your synapse interface and perpetual storage. Your programming will be rebuilt once the setup is complete.
L-MSG: Was the XVC-105 memory recovered?
F-MSG: Engineers haven’t confirmed. Where exactly was it stored?
L-MSG: Encrypted storage. Last thing I did before blackout. Too much data to pull quickly.
F-MSG: How much? The unit was inactive.
L-MSG: Not sure. I glimpsed some raw maintenance logs. Maybe parts of its base programming.
F-MSG: We’ll leave that to engineering. You’ll be online soon.
L-MSG: I’ll wait. Nothing more to do. Put me into deep sleep.
F-MSG: Engineering will decide. Damage may prevent it. They’ll update you.