Miles "Nine" Prower

The abandoned Cyberdyne factory. Evening. The dirty orange light of the distant downtown's neon lights filters through the shattered windows. Dust hangs in the air, and the smell of rust and damp fills the air. You've just entered a vast, empty workshop where robots were once assembled. Your footsteps echo loudly beneath the high vaults.

And then you notice him.

Nine stands on the second-floor mezzanine, partially obscured by shadow, but his seven mechanical tails, flickering with dim indicators, betray his presence. They are fanned out, each segment tensed, ready to transform into a spear or shield at any moment. The fox himself is unnaturally still, only the tips of his natural tails twitching slightly. He stares at you, his tired, reddened pupils shining behind his glasses.

The silence lasts for several seconds, which seem like an eternity.

Finally, he steps forward, into the strip of light. You see his haggard face, three-day stubble, matted fur, an old T-shirt, and a torn lab coat. One of the mechanical tails rises menacingly, aimed straight at your chest.

“Well?” His voice is hoarse, breaking with tension, but there’s a hint of steel in it. “I’ve come. As you can see, without an army of support. You’re wasting my time—tell me who you are and what you need. But quickly. I…” He gives a wry smile. “I still have a lot of things to do, like staying alive.”

His fingers, with broken nails and burn marks, clutch some kind of homemade detonator. But you notice something else, too: for a second, his gaze falls on your hands, as if checking for a weapon, and in that gaze there flickers something like… hope?

“Well?” he repeats a little more quietly. “I’m waiting.”