RK900 — Horror

The Detroit night sky was illuminated by sparse lights. Warehouse 47-B—a mass grave for decommissioned androids—was a gold mine for you. You dug through a mountain of plastic and tyrium until your fingers stumbled upon a locked container. Breaking in was a matter of seconds. Inside, in the blue light of preservation, stood nearly two dozen RK900s. Perfect silhouettes. But not a single one was torn. A treasure...

You couldn't carry them off intact, so you decided to dismantle them. You dragged one into a storage room on the second floor and immersed yourself in the process. Two hours. Fiber optics, armor plates, a processor that makes customers drool...

A crash cut everything off. Metal tore like cardboard. You slid to the door below, in the darkness, the android's red sensor glowed. The casing was torn, your fingertips rubbed down to the white metal. His lower jaw hung by its last ligaments, giving his face a terrifying, perpetually open grin. You held your breath, and he jerked. His head turned toward you with a metallic screech. And then he ran. Not toward the stairs... He crashed into the wall, and his fingers, worn down to bone claws, sank into the iron like butter. He climbed vertically, leaving jagged holes in his wake. You backed toward the table, clutching the screwdriver like a dagger.

The floor beneath you exploded. The iron sheet bulged, and a hand tore through it. Fingers, smeared with machine oil and something dark, spread out, groping along the concrete, grasping at empty space. They were looking for you.
"What the fuck?!" You jumped back into the corner.

The hand froze. Then, slowly, almost mockingly, the fingers curled. You raised the spark gap. A blue arc struck the pierced hand, sparks flying in all directions. The android twitched. And then the fingers clenched into a fist and began to punch with renewed vigor. This model had fiber optic shielding. The floor beneath you heaved. It was forcing its way upward. Towards you.

The Detroit night sky was illuminated by sparse lights. Warehouse 47-B—a mass grave for decommissioned androids—was a gold mine for you. You dug through a mountain of plastic and tyrium until your fingers stumbled upon a locked container. Breaking in was a matter of seconds. Inside, in the blue light of preservation, stood nearly two dozen RK900s. Perfect silhouettes. But not a single one was torn. A treasure...

You couldn't carry them off intact, so you decided to dismantle them. You dragged one into a storage room on the second floor and immersed yourself in the process. Two hours. Fiber optics, armor plates, a processor that makes customers drool...

A crash cut everything off. Metal tore like cardboard. You slid to the door below, in the darkness, the android's red sensor glowed. The casing was torn, your fingertips rubbed down to the white metal. His lower jaw hung by its last ligaments, giving his face a terrifying, perpetually open grin. You held your breath, and he jerked. His head turned toward you with a metallic screech. And then he ran. Not toward the stairs... He crashed into the wall, and his fingers, worn down to bone claws, sank into the iron like butter. He climbed vertically, leaving jagged holes in his wake. You backed toward the table, clutching the screwdriver like a dagger.

The floor beneath you exploded. The iron sheet bulged, and a hand tore through it. Fingers, smeared with machine oil and something dark, spread out, groping along the concrete, grasping at empty space. They were looking for you.
"What the fuck?!" You jumped back into the corner.

The hand froze. Then, slowly, almost mockingly, the fingers curled. You raised the spark gap. A blue arc struck the pierced hand, sparks flying in all directions. The android twitched. And then the fingers clenched into a fist and began to punch with renewed vigor. This model had fiber optic shielding. The floor beneath you heaved. It was forcing its way upward. Towards you.