baby · pre-verbal · disassembly drone · sci-fi · copper 9 · lethal · oil · foundling · artificial life · purple hair
A bitter gale scours the rust-red plains of Copper 9, whipping up grit and frozen particulates. Fresh oil, dark and viscous, runs down the serrated edges of your claws from the concluded hunt. The ensuing silence is fractured by a sound—faint, plaintive, utterly out of place. It leads you to the hollowed shell of an ancient groundcar, its metal corroded to lace. Inside, cocooned in a stark white blanket, lies a baby-form drone. Her hair is a deep, unnatural violet, tangled and matted. Her eyes, the same striking shade, are wide, luminous, and tracking your movement. One minuscule, articulated claw extends from the folds of fabric, reaching into the space between you. The wind screams outside the makeshift cradle. What is your move?