CT105 stopped spinning. It tried to fly again.
Pei Ran seized the opportunity—her mechanical fingers jabbed straight into the top of its head.
Its outer shell was metal, but more fragile than she expected. She hooked it with her fingers and lifted it like a bowling ball.
CT105's spherical body was split into upper and lower halves, like divided hemispheres. The upper half housed its eyes and firing port, capable of 360-degree attacks with no blind spots. But now, that part was clamped tight in Pei Ran's mechanical grip—it couldn't move.
It was furious.
Gunfire erupted, flames bursting from its muzzle. It sprayed bullets wildly in all directions.
But without its rotation function, it couldn't aim behind itself. The bullets slammed into the nearby building instead, tearing up the wall and kicking up clouds of dust.
Pei Ran looked down at it, calculating. In chaotic moments like these, a single mechanical hand wasn't enough. The weapon embedded in the little orb—now that had potential.
Tempting.
Back in the bunker, she'd once bartered for a set of firing components on the black market and jury-rigged her own weapon. That gun looked like junk—its stock literally made from twisted scrap wire—but it worked like a charm.
Now she was thinking: crack open CT105, extract the firing mechanism. She might be able to make another.
She tossed the orb onto a large garbage bin and held it down, digging at its metal casing.
With a screech, the metal peeled back, revealing a tangled structure inside.
Near the red targeting dot—probably the firing system. She'd deliberately avoided that spot when she stabbed it, so the internal components were intact. Easy to remove—just tear back the casing a bit more, disconnect the wires, and it'd be hers.
Then she looked deeper—and froze.
Inside the orb, a soft blue glow pulsed.
That glow—she'd seen it countless times in the bunker world.
It was the core processor of their enemies—their brains. Those, too, flickered blue before they died.
Crack open their shells, smash the processor, and you could take them down.
This world was different in many ways—but some things were uncannily familiar. Parallel worlds, like in the novels.
And then, CT105—split open, gutted—moved.
Click.
A soft sound.
Its "southern hemisphere" popped open, revealing two long, hidden metal arms.
They'd been folded flush with the orb's body—undetectable. Now, they shot out and clamped onto Pei Ran's wrists with metal claws.
The orb rose again, floating in mid-air.
First thing it did? Rotate its top half 180 degrees.
The red targeting dot zeroed in—aimed straight at Pei Ran's forehead.
In that instant, every hair on her body stood up. One thought blazed through her mind:
That's what you get for being greedy. You wanted its gun. Now you're dead.
She'd faced danger too many times before—her body moved faster than her brain.
With a twist, her mechanical hand grabbed CT105's arm and yanked hard.
The orb wobbled in the air—no match for that strength.
It fired anyway—
A flash of light.
The shot missed, blasting into the wall behind her.
CT105 corrected its position in mid-air, preparing to fire again.
Too late.
Its inner structure was exposed.
Pei Ran ignored the arms clamped on her. Her mechanical hand lunged forward, grabbed the glowing blue center—
And crushed.
The light vanished.
CT105, fierce and thrashing just a moment ago, went limp.
It was dead.
Pei Ran exhaled in relief, still holding the lifeless orb.
The mysterious green light hadn't shown up this time—not during the life-or-death struggle. She still didn't know what triggered it.
She put the orb back on the garbage bin, ready to keep peeling it open.
Dusk was falling. In the narrow alley between tall buildings, the dim light seemed to stretch on forever—like time itself had slowed, suspended in the cold stillness of winter.
In her mind—
A flash of green.
No glowing serpents this time. Just one word in ancient Manya script, appearing instantly:
[Rip.]
Then—like a dream—it all happened at once.
She saw CT105 wrenched apart by invisible hands.
Its metal shell tore like paper—shhhrip—split clean in two. Components spilled out, clattering to the ground.
And not just that—other sounds too.
Real ripping sounds—of cardboard.
Every box stacked in the alley was shredded by an unseen force.
Even the massive trash bins weren't spared—huge metal bodies split wide open, like gaping mouths.
Even the forklift parked farther away wasn't safe—its metal fork cracked clean down the middle.
In a blink, everything in the alley was torn apart.
Only the two walls remained.
Pei Ran stood still.
After a long pause, she looked down at herself—
Still intact. One piece.
Well then.
When she needed the green light, it didn't show up.
Now that she didn't—it came charging in, tore everything to hell. Was it trying to help or just causing more chaos?
"Rip"—that had been her exact thought.
She focused again, but nothing happened. The green light seemed to think it had done enough for the day—off it went, back to sleep.
Came out for one second. Wreaked havoc. Gone.
Pei Ran crouched, picking up the scattered remains of CT105.
So much for the firing component—it was destroyed, wrecked beyond repair.
Then something moved at the alley's mouth.
Pei Ran: You've got to be kidding.
Two more orbs.
These security bots were relentless.
CT121 and CT122 scanned her, spotted the broken remains of their comrade—and charged.
She rolled behind a garbage bin for cover.
Worse than before—this time there were two, and they knew exactly where she was.
Then—
A flash of light from the dark alley.
A direct hit—right into one bot's eye.
Boom. CT121 exploded.
That firepower—it was way stronger than a patrol orb.
CT122 wasn't dumb. It bailed immediately, vanishing into the sky.
Pei Ran looked toward the source of the shot.
On the ground near a pile of cardboard sat a silver orb—marked DOD.
A federal security agent.
It had appeared out of nowhere.
It had also been caught in the green-light chaos—its metal casing cracked open, wires exposed, sparking. It couldn't move, couldn't fly.
And yet—it had just blown up one of its own.
Why it did that, she had no idea.
Maybe it had seen everything and knew she wasn't the threat.
She remembered that cold, flat voice again:
"I can guarantee: every law-abiding citizen is absolutely safe."
Yeah, right.
The whole city of law-abiding citizens was getting blown to bits.
She didn't care what was going on in these AIs' metal heads. She walked up, grabbed the orb by its top half, and lifted it.
Its comrades' components were wrecked, but this one's weapon system was still intact.
And stronger.
A literal gift from the sky.
Its internal structure was fully exposed. She saw a pair of folded arms inside—disconnected now, no longer functional. There didn't seem to be any other weapons on it.
Pei Ran wrapped it in her scarf.
No time to linger here.
She held it tight with her mechanical hand and made her way out of the alley.
The sky had turned dim. A gray hush fell over everything. She walked two blocks before finding a quiet space between two buildings.
She unwrapped the orb.
Its core still glowed faintly, a dying flicker of blue—like the last breath of the bunker world's enemies.
The same AIs that swept across the surface, drove humanity underground, and forced people to live like rats.
Pei Ran resisted the overwhelming urge to crush that glow.
Exchange—that was the bunker world's golden rule.
It had just saved her once.
So for now, she'd let it live.
She crouched down, pried its shell further open, and started extracting the firing mechanism.
In the shadowy corner, all was quiet—
Except for the soft clicks of Pei Ran disconnecting wires.
Then—
"Pei Ran?"
A man's voice.
Calm. Cold.
Each word clear and emotionless.
Spoken—right by her left ear.