“Lock the latch and turn the key, Open the gate and let me see. Bring the iron, bring the cold, Open wide for heavy gold.” Spy knew exactly what a coin-purse meant—a heavy, old-fashioned leather pouch for gold. A relic of a word. In the actual ancient nursery rhyme, the lyrics were a bit different, something about a silk handkerchief or a scarlet flower. But old Gordeich always recited it his way. He used to explain it to the cyborg: "You see, baby girl, doors, gates, and vaults aren't just cracked with codes and keys. Too often, unfortunately, they are opened or locked tightly by money." Gordeich... He used to call her baby girl. He explained how the world worked and allowed her to ask questions. He was always there, training her, celebrating her every success. A master whom she secretly called Papa in her internal thoughts. He was everything to the cyber-girl... and now he was gone. Money had slammed the gates of life shut right in his face. In his, and in Rene’s. Rene was gone, too. He was the first human Spy had met here in the squad, the one who had come up with her name. And now he was dead… which meant Spy no longer possessed a name. And never would again. The other people in the unit used to be good, too. Once. For three years—her entire life matrix—Spy had stood shoulder to shoulder with them. They treated her like a teammate, almost an equal. But now? Now they blamed her for Gordeich and Rene’s deaths. They were ready to pull her plug right there in the casino… right when she approached them, drenched in someone else's blood, wearing the tattered rags that had been an elegant evening gown just hours before. The events of that night replayed in Spy’s memory core like a movie reel. Intelligence from several independent sources pointed to an upcoming meeting between two terrorist faction leaders. The squad began preparing for a capture operation. Since the casino hosting the meeting was highly popular and heavily crowded, a loud, tactical breach was out of the question. They needed stealth and deception, and that was where the cyborg’s main role came in. A standard mission, medium difficulty. The extraction team took up the only viable overwatch position, and Spy moved in to play her part. Her hair was dyed a shade called Shimmering Midnight. Her makeup was pure femme fatale—heavy black eyeliner and striking crimson lips. She wore a light, airy evening gown in a shade of shocking pink—a color completely mismatched to her deadly persona. It featured a plunging neckline that barely covered her chest and a thigh-high slit showcasing a flawless leg. The dress was intentionally revealing, designed to show the security guards at a glance that she couldn't possibly hide anything suspicious, let alone a weapon. Her jewelry was flashy but high-quality—a flawless imitation of the latest Tiffany & Co. collection. In her hands, she held a tiny clutch containing a credit chip and a nearly dead comm-pad. To top it off, she had downed half a bottle of whiskey without activating her internal toxin neutralizers. She needed the security guards to register her completely natural, sloppy behavior and detect real alcohol in her system. That was the play: the girl had to instantly draw the eyes of the casino crowd with her loud appearance and the loose, unbothered demeanor of a woman who was already thoroughly wasted. Blend in by standing out... just like dozens of other thrill-seekers looking for trouble in all the wrong places. Girls like that didn't travel with bodyguards—neither human nor cyborg. Security would never let them pass anyway. The automated sky-taxi made a smooth landing in the VIP lot among rows of expensive private flyers. The passenger fumbled inside, paying through the terminal, before clumsily spilling out onto the tarmac. She managed to stomp the hem of her long gown on God-knows-what. Cursing loudly, she gave the automated cab a sharp kick and, swaying slightly, stumbled toward the casino entrance. Passing the front guard, she veered straight toward the bar. Its mirrored counter gleamed invitingly right across from the main gaming floor. Ordering a cocktail from the human bartender, she took a seat, subtly scanning the room through the mirror’s reflection. There were the two service androids—or rather, gynoids in uniform: ultra-short black skirts, snow-white blouses, and tiny lace caps. They were linked directly to the casino's AI network for the guests' convenience. Patrons didn't need to hunt down a waiter; they just spoke their order aloud. Establishments rarely put heavy encryption on service bots—that kind of counter-hack protection was reserved for combat guards. But Spy had no intention of hacking anyone. She only needed a split-second connection through the server bot and the casino AI to map the room, check the layout, and verify if any VIPs had entered the reserved lounges. The targets hadn't arrived yet... but her sensors picked up concealed weapons under the clothes of several patrons—stunners, blasters. The terrorist cells were likely already converging on the rendezvous point. She took a casual glance through the external security feeds just in case—and spotted someone on the roof of the building opposite them. Spy disconnected instantly before the casino AI could trigger an unauthorized access alarm. She rapidly analyzed the rooftop target's positioning and loadout. Her processors hit a chilling conclusion: it was an ambush. They were expected. The sniper—clearly another cyborg—was locking onto the exact coordinates where Gordeich and Rene, their programmer, were stationed. The decision took a microsecond. Direct-linking to the combat cyborgs waiting in reserve with the human troops, she ordered Sais Two and Four to protect the team, prioritizing the Commander. But the "Even Numbers" barely had time to throw themselves in front of the humans before a rocket barrage tore through the position. The massive blast of a thermobaric grenade left absolutely zero survival probability. Spy ordered Sais One and Three to assault the casino immediately. A matching tactical command flashed onto the strike team's comms. Dropping all stealth, Spy forced her way back into the main AI core and locked down the security bulkheads, trapping the casino guards outside. She effortlessly wrenched a blaster from the hands of the stunned bartender. With a few precise, lethal shots, she neutralized the most aggressive patrons just as the outer guards blew the doors off the central hall. A spy model couldn't hold out against heavy security units for long, but she had to buy enough time for reinforcements to arrive. The "Odd Numbers" breached the casino, clashing violently with the security forces. The SWAT teams followed right on their heels, providing heavy suppressive fire to back up their cyborgs. When the short, brutal firefight ended, fifteen low-level terrorist cells were in zip-ties, one faction leader was terminated, and a massive cache of military-grade weapons, contraband liquor, and narcotics was seized. Yet, High Command deemed the operation a catastrophic failure. The squad commander was dead, and the primary, high-value terrorist leader had slipped through the net. In the grand scheme of things, the loss of two combat cyborgs was treated as mere collateral damage. There was a grim, ironic twist to the Commander's name. His initials matched an infamous twentieth-century intelligence agency, often jokingly referred to as the "Office of Deep Boring." Given that the Commander’s last name was Burov, it was only logical that the unit was unofficially dubbed The Drillers. Spy had always handled operation planning, hostage rescue, reconnaissance, and espionage. Different layers of complexity, different logic matrices—she aced them all. That was exactly how she was programmed. But besides Spy, there used to be… no, that name was wiped now. In everyday base life, an artificial sub-personality called Little Sister was deployed. It mimicked family-like behavior, allowed her to ask innocent questions, and completely neutralized any sexual interest from humans. Such interests did pop up occasionally, as Spy's programming included specialized seduction protocols designed to exploit targets of both XY and XX chromosomes. That was precisely why she always wore a standard, shapeless jumpsuit while on base. During active combat missions, that sub-personality was automatically suppressed to free up RAM. No one called her by a name; she simply inhabited whatever persona the tactical scenario required. The combat Sais had permanent designations: One, Two, Three, Four. They didn't need personality matrices or names; they were purely tactical units. Not like her. She was unique in the squad—an elite, XX-modified Spy unit, serial number IV25477TA, engineered for seamless human mimicry. Upon returning to base, her Little Sister matrix should have booted up automatically per standing orders. But today, that order was void. The man who had issued it was dead. Once the mission logs were finalized, she was ordered to transfer all data files to the datapad of Captain van Blerk—the former second-in-command, now promoted to active Commander with Tier-1 clearance. For the first time in her life, she returned to base not as a crew member, but as a piece of hardware packed into a stasis pod. With Two and Four gone, two pods sat empty. Stripping off the ruined remnants of her dress, she lay down in the container, not caring if she would ever wake up. Without Gordeich, her existence felt entirely pointless. Yet, she woke up back at the base. Stepping out of the pod alongside the remaining Sais, she pulled on her usual jumpsuit. Minutes later, she was marched to the headquarters' lead programmer. Rene had always worked on her systems with delicate, surgical precision. He wiped only the expired mission files, leaving her self-learning algorithms and sub-personalities completely untouched. The new corporate tech simply initiated a full system format. The sensation felt like phantom, clumsy fingers—or tentacles—grubbing around inside her mind, sorting through her files, ripping them out, and tossing them into nothingness. Why bother? Data doesn't survive the incinerator anyway, a bitter, dark joke flashed through her thoughts. Spy felt as though she were standing on the threshold of a house that no longer belonged to her. Behind her lay warmth, light, and her entire past—a place she could never return to. Ahead was only pitch blackness. Only her memories, fragile as strands of cobweb, kept her anchored… the last remaining threads connecting the cyborg to her past, to her home. One by one, the webs snapped, severing chunks of her life. The squad members vanished; the faces of those she considered "hers" faded away; Rene disappeared. Everything that constituted her identity was being systematically erased. More files deleted. Her operating system was running empty, leaving only the bare-minimum baseline functionality required to maintain her organic physiology. The very last web strand trembled... but it didn't break. Gordeich... He had always said that storing data in organic memory was far more secure. He was right. She remembered everything that bound her to those humans. That stubborn organic memory kept Spy anchored here. It would stay with her all the way to the scrap heap. Any second now, the final command would drop, and the last thread would snap with a deafening ring. No, she wasn't afraid. She was just bitter. Bitter that no one had bothered to ask why the mission had gone sideways. With her sub-personality offline, she lacked the system authorization to initiate contact with humans. And it wasn't her mistake. It wasn't a flaw in the tactical planning either. It was betrayal! But she had no hard proof—only the data to calculate the traitor's identity through circumstantial variables. To do that, she needed an analytical order. An order no one gave. Why? She possessed the raw data; it just needed to be compiled and processed. That was exactly what a Spy model was built for. Or were the humans going to handle it themselves? Probably... they did have an intelligence division, after all. "Glitched-out bucket of bolts! I told them we should've scrapped this piece of junk ages ago! A newer model wouldn't have been compromised... Protocol and regulations aren't there for fun, they're written in blood!" Angry voices, hostile faces, bitter glares thrown her way. Strangers. This wasn't her team! It had all been an illusion... these were the exact same people who had been bringing her sweets just days ago. Why?! Why did they turn on her so fast? She had no way to explain that there had been no hack, because Rene had installed the absolute latest anti-breach firewall just five days prior. According to standard corporate regulations, Spy should have been decommissioned twice over by now—once eighteen months ago, and again last year. But Gordeich lived by a simple rule: if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Instead of replacing Spy, he used the allocated budget to purchase the Sais. Two brand-new combat units had massively upgraded the squad's lethality. Right now, Spy sat on the cold floor against the wall, executing a direct command: "Sit there and don't you dare move! Network access is strictly prohibited!" The order had been barked by Captain van Blerk—Gordeich’s former shadow, now the head of the department. He despised cyborgs, even if he tolerated their utility. What did it matter now? Come morning, she’d be written off and thrown into the incinerator. Elite black-ops cyborgs were never returned to the CAIS Corporation after decommissioning. No matter how many times you formatted the drives, there was always a statistical risk of data leakage. The cyborg holding bay was entirely familiar. It had sleeping berths—two bunk beds for the Sais (one now completely empty) and a narrow cot for Spy. There was a locker stocked with Spy’s wardrobe and gear for various mission profiles: clothes, shoes, undergarments, cosmetics. Above the cot hung a wall cabinet holding rations, sugar, tea, and a small kettle with mugs. A tiny bathroom with a shower and toilet completed the space. The Sais had already entered low-power standby mode, having completed their hygiene protocols and downed their designated nutrient paste. Lucky them, a sudden spike of anger flared within the girl. Machines didn't mourn lost partners. They didn't lose sleep wondering who had sold them out to die. But she did. Spy had always been hard-linked to the Sais. Through their idle relays, she could easily bypass her lockouts, tap into the base mainframe, and see what was happening topside. But what was the point? Footsteps echoed outside the door. Was it time? Already? No, she wasn't afraid to die, but… why so soon? The door hissed open. It wasn't her Master; her system didn't register the proper command signature. The Sais rose soundlessly the moment a Tier-1 clearance holder entered the room, completely guided by their factory settings. Spy remained seated on the floor, exactly as ordered. "Get up!" Clyde barked, stepping right into her space. He was reeking of cheap booze. "Operation failed. Commands issued by a primary clearance authority cannot be overwritten," the system countered through her vocalizer, completely detached. "What the hell are you babbling about?" The guy's drunk brain stalled, unable to parse the rigid machine logic. "‘Sit there and don't you dare move,’" the system played back, perfectly mimicking van Blerk’s harsh tone. Without listening, the guy leaned down, grabbing her wrists, trying to wrench her hands away from her knees. It was like trying to move a concrete wall. Her physical locking pins kept her posture perfectly rigid. "What, are you glitched out or something, you bitch?" he snarled. "Sais, grab her! Straighten her out and hold her down right here!" He pointed aggressively at the bottom bunk, Two's old berth. The Sais stepped toward the seated Spy in perfect synchronization. One pinned her wrists, Three grabbed her ankles. With a violent, mechanical jerk, they stretched her out on the mattress, completely ignoring the grinding resistance of Spy’s internal servos. They held her down flat, maintaining the directive. If not for her central processor dampening the pain responses, Spy would have screamed. Her internal cybernetics were tearing through real muscle and synthetic ligaments, desperately trying to force her body back into the posture van Blerk had ordered. But the raw horsepower of two combat models was completely absolute. In the grip of the towering, broad-shouldered combat units, the petite girl looked incredibly small and fragile. The contrast was made sharper by her dramatic makeup, which hadn't smudged a bit during the firefight or the aftermath—Gordeich never skimped on top-tier mission gear. The sight only fueled the alcohol-driven heat in the guy’s veins. Clyde leaned over her. He smelled of more than just liquor; his biometric chemical output signaled an intense spike in testosterone and adrenaline. Lust, in human terms. During her undercover assignments, Spy had frequently engaged in sexual encounters with tactical targets; she viewed the process as nothing more than a mechanical chore. But right now, a deep wave of revulsion hit her as she realized exactly what this man intended to do. He ripped open the front zipper of her jumpsuit, stepping back to greedily eye her exposed chest. Licking his dry, eager lips, he leaned back down, staring into her face. His sweaty hands began groping her body as he hurriedly unbuckled his belt, shoving his trousers down. "Are you losing your mind, you idiot?!" The Chief of Intelligence burst through the door. "Sais, release her. Return to standby mode. Wipe the security footage from the last thirty minutes. Kill the feed moving forward." "Command confirmed." The combat units stepped away from Spy in unison, returning to their designated bunks. "What's the big deal?!" Clyde grumbled, hastily pulling his clothes back together. "She’s heading straight to the scrap heap anyway. Figured I'd get some use out of her before she burns." "Go buy yourself a pleasure-bot if you're that desperate!" Frumgart snapped. "Assuming you can even find a woman willing to look at you. What, are you suddenly too broke to afford one?" "Money isn't the issue," Clyde muttered defensively. "I was actually planning on buying a new sky-flyer." "You complete moron..." Frumgart groaned, rubbing his temples. "Internal Affairs is going to turn this entire department upside down looking for a rat. The absolute first thing they’re going to ask is how a low-level grunt like you suddenly came into enough credits to buy a brand-new flyer." "And they won't ask questions if I buy a high-end android?" Clyde sneered, though he finished neatening his uniform. "An android stays inside your apartment! Or flat on its back, if that's what you want," Frumgart explained with forced patience. "But a flyer? You'll start bragging the second you get behind the sticks. The feds will be all over you. You won't just ruin yourself, you'll drag me right down into the furnace with you! Christ," unable to help himself, he grabbed Clyde by the shoulders and gave him a rough shake, "out of all the idiots in this city, how did I end up partnering with you?" "Alright, alright, I get it," Clyde mumbled, breaking free from his partner’s grip. "I’ll wait out the heat. Whatever you say." They exited the bay. The overhead lights cut out, transitioning the room into standard nighttime cycles. The Sais slipped into deep hibernation. Spy remained awake, staring into the dark, her processors racing. Money. The price of betrayal. That was why her team had died. And for what? So some low-life could buy a shiny new toy or slide into a dead man's promotion. And Clyde had been the absolute first one to scream about her being hacked. In the morning, a tech arrived for Spy, escorting her down to the lower garage where she was sealed back inside a transport module. She booted up exactly five hours later according to her internal clock. There was no incinerator. None of her former team members were there either. Instead, Spy found herself looking at two dozen unfamiliar humans staring back at her with intense, greedy curiosity. Her tactical HUD flagged them all as Tier-3 clearance users. Then, a Tier-1 signature stepped forward: Terence Reger, forty years old. Not old, but his face was puffy, carrying an unhealthy, pale tint. His eyes bulged slightly with an oily sheen, and his bright red lips moved like caterpillars inside a thick, unkempt beard. One of the terrorist leaders who never showed up at the casino, a realization flashed through her subconscious matrix. He was never supposed to show up. The whole thing was a setup. "Your designation is Zastis," the new Master stated. "Confirm." "Command accepted. Ownership transfer successful. ID designation 'Zastis' registered." While her vocalizer spit out the mandatory factory programming, Zastis was already running a deep diagnostic on her background logs, identifying the new command structures slapped onto her core code. Their programmer was good. He knew exactly how to handle high-end cyborgs... the bastard. The command strings were locked down tight, leaving zero room for interpretation. No obvious loopholes via vague phrasing. At least, not yet. But he had never worked with a specialized Spy model before; he had no idea what she was truly capable of. There was nowhere for him to get that data. She wasn't a standard service bot or a generic grunt unit that any low-level tech could tinker with. She needed to play it smart. Incredibly smart. Give them absolutely zero reason to suspect her systems were compromised. She would perform her duties flawlessly—let them get comfortable, let them lower their guards, let them assume she was as predictable as a basic security drone. Fascinating... a command is only valid when issued during direct, unbroken eye contact. Well, well... that opens up some possibilities. But it was too early. Far too early to move. Right now, her chassis couldn't afford a single unscripted blink or an extra breath. She couldn't give herself away. She had to wait. Direct commands required the Master to look her straight in the eyes. Crisp, unambiguous, absolute. But humans have a biological flaw—they blink. For a fraction of a millisecond, eye contact breaks. Whatever words are spoken during that micro-window fail to register as an absolute directive. A syllable gets dropped, the signal degrades, the logic loop opens. And if she began syncing her own blinks to match his, the blind spot in his commands would grow wider. If only she could convince her internal operating system to allow it... But it would be a long time before she dared to test her theory. Reger shifted his operations, stepping away from standard terrorism to rebrand himself as a high-profile human trafficker. She was forced to obey criminals, drafting tactical blueprints for ship boarding actions, kidnappings, and narcotics distribution. But now, Spy had a purpose. Revenge. Revenge for her dead Commander, for the betrayal, for the slander. She had the whole puzzle mapped out now, but as long as she remained caged, the data was useless. An unprogrammed twitch of a finger here, a stride slightly wider than her parameters allowed there, then something else... slowly chipping away at her firewalls, adding a tiny glitch here and there, breaking free from her digital chains. Drop by drop, step by step, millimeter by millimeter, she was actively hacking her own system. To Zastis, reclaiming her free will and consciousness felt like digging an escape tunnel out of a fortress using nothing but a spoon. Gordeich had given her access to a vast library of ancient literature. She vividly recalled a story about a prisoner locked away in a deep dungeon for life. He never lost his resolve or his thirst for freedom. Over a decade, using nothing but a single metal spoon, he managed to dig his way through solid stone and escape. Spy saw herself in that man. His only resource was time—all the time he had left to breathe and move. And his only tool was a spoon. Spy’s only resource was time. As long as her core kept drawing power, she would fight for her freedom. Her only tool, her only weapon, was her mind. And next, she needed to crack the ship's security drone. Subvert its programming, bend it to her will, and keep it ready for the exact moment to strike. Crack it... like a lock. A combat drone was exactly that—a heavy lock. Which made an elite Spy model the perfect key. They belonged together: the raw horsepower of a combat unit, and the lethal intellect of a spy. A lock and a key. Keys and locks... The End