Being surrounded by bodies that looked exactly like him—cold, metallic, and soulless—was not a pleasant experience. Every reflection, every glint of light off the chrome surfaces around him, reminded Reever that he no longer belonged to the world of flesh and blood. He was one of them now—a machine among machines. The thought alone was enough to twist something deep inside him, something that still felt human.
And to make matters worse, he had no weapon. Not even a blade. His mission was simple on paper—steal one from the enemy—but the execution was suicide. Especially when the "enemy" had rifles, high-caliber plasma rounds, and perfect aim.
Reever crouched low behind a fractured steel beam, his back pressed against its cold surface. Around him, the mechanical symphony of battle echoed through the ruins—the heavy stomps of armored feet, the sharp click of rifles reloading, the distant hum of scanners sweeping for movement. The air smelled of ozone and burnt metal. He wasn't supposed to feel fear anymore, but whatever was left of his humanity inside this machine body still trembled.
His eyes—digital now, yet painfully human in perception—scanned the field. Five of them. All armed. Their rifles gleamed under the pale artificial light, visors glowing red as they swept the area in calculated rhythm. They were efficient. Relentless. Perfectly synchronized. The rest were just trashy bots who had no sense of direction.
Before his death, Reever had learned that bots were not to be underestimated. Sure, the average ones moved predictably, their routines easy to read. But there were those built differently—specialized types with programming so refined they could rival real players. They didn't hesitate. They didn't miss. They didn't fear.
There were many classes of bots in the game. Tank bots were the heaviest of them all—walking fortresses with layers of reinforced plating. Slow, yes, but nearly indestructible. If given a weapon like a steel gauntlet or a spear, they could crush a player with one swing, leaving their opponent with a single point of health, as if mocking their mortality.
Then came the Dodge bots—nimble, unpredictable, their reflexes almost supernatural. They couldn't shoot well to save themselves, but they didn't need to. They could evade bullets before they were even fired, sliding through the battlefield like ghosts. Perfect scouts in the chaos of a battle royale.
Aim bots, on the other hand, were the deadliest snipers. Cold, calculated, and precise. They could land a headshot from any angle, even through smoke or cover. If one of them locked on you, it was over before you even realized you'd been seen.
And then there were the Kill bots—the apex of all artificial combatants. They didn't just fight; they learned. They could adapt mid-battle, study player tactics, and mimic them flawlessly. They were ruthless, tactical, and terrifyingly human in their unpredictability. Worst of all, if cornered and close to defeat, they'd self-destruct, taking their enemies down in a blaze of glory.
Reever knew them all. He had fought them, outsmarted them, and destroyed them when he was human. Back then, they were just targets—tools for training, digital enemies to conquer. Now, the cruel irony was that he had become one.
He glanced down at his arm. His metallic wrist bore a glowing inscription:BOT 067.
The sight stung more than the heat in his circuits. That number wasn't just a label—it was a sentence. Bots had no voices, no names, no will of their own. They couldn't speak, couldn't feel, couldn't dream. And yet here he was, a ghost trapped inside a machine, cursed with memory and awareness.
Most bots didn't last long. The system spawned them into a match, made them fight, and when they fell, they were erased without thought. Only the strong ones survived—those rare few that could outplay real players, that showed an edge of unpredictability, almost like a human touch. Reever had played with those anomalies once. Now he wondered if he would becoming one and survive.
A distant metallic clang snapped him back to focus. The five enemy bots were spreading out, searching. Their scanners swept closer. He couldn't wait any longer.
Gunfire erupted—a barrage of blue plasma bolts tearing through the air. Reever dove aside, rolling behind another slab of twisted steel as the wall behind him exploded into molten fragments. His movements were sharp, fluid, instinctive. Even though his body was synthetic, his reflexes remembered years of gaming discipline and survival.
He waited for the pause between volleys, then sprang forward. His feet hit the ground silently, servos humming in rhythm. He lunged at the nearest bot—a Rifle unit—and slammed into it with full force. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and sparks. Reever's hand shot out, wrenching the rifle from the bot's grip. One swift movement—he jammed the barrel under its jaw and pulled the trigger.
A burst of light. The bot went limp.
For a moment, everything was still except the faint hiss of cooling metal. Reever stared at the weapon in his hands. It felt… familiar. Heavy, alive. The weight grounded him, reminding him of countless matches, countless victories when he'd been human. For the first time since his rebirth, he felt something close to himself again.
But there was no time to dwell on nostalgia. The other bots had already noticed the kill. Their visors flashed crimson as they turned toward him in perfect formation.
He moved before they could react. Short, controlled bursts—each shot precise, every recoil vibrating through his arms. The line between simulation and reality blurred; the combat felt real. He ducked, rolled, fired again. One by one, the enemy bots fell, each collapsing in a shower of sparks and smoke.
And then—silence.
Reever stood among the metallic corpses of his doubles, breathing hard though he no longer needed air. The battlefield shimmered faintly, the digital environment struggling to hold itself together. He looked around, surrounded by the lifeless shells that mirrored his form. For a moment, he wondered if this was how humans had felt when they first fought the machines in the game—victory laced with quiet dread.
Then came the familiar chime.
[MATCH COMPLETE.][WINNER: BOT 067.]
The world around him began to fade, the scenery dissolving into radiant streams of data. A calm, synthetic voice echoed from above:
"Congratulations, BOT 067. You have emerged victorious. You are now eligible for advancement. Choose your next form—select the type of Bot you wish to become."
The light intensified until only his reflection remained, hovering in the void—a metallic face with eyes that still held the ghost of a man inside. Somewhere deep within that cold shell, Reever wondered if he would ever truly be human again… or if he was destined to remain just another number in the system.