From The Neon Hive . . .

Lyra "Crow" Crowley, a detective with a haunted past, tackles a tech mogul's murder in the neon-drenched city of New York Veritas. Whispers of rogue AI, corporate greed, and a twisted bid for immortality slither through the city's shadows. This wasn't just another murder; it was a tangled web of ambition, technology, and desperation, and Crow is the only one sharp enough to untangle it.

Lyra lurched down the sterile corridor, the fluorescent lights turning her pale skin an eerie shade of green. Her once-confident stride was a fractured memory, replaced by a gait that compensated for the phantom ache where her right arm used to be. The sleek, chrome prosthetic felt like a foreign appendage, a constant reminder of the fight she’d won and the friend she’d lost. Her remaining eye, a pale blue beneath the harsh fluorescent glare, darted down the sterile corridor lined with unfeeling metal doors, while the empty socket where her other eye once was, throbbed with a burning ache. Her hand, in a conditioned reflex, reached up to massage the pain. It met only the rough canvas of a black eye patch. She snarled.

Focus, dammit! Kairon, that fuckin’ synth, is getting dismantled. Where the hell is his sterilized torture chamber?

With each echoing click of her boots, the air grew dense with a haze of emotions. The feral beast with glowing red eyes – that was rage, growling promises of retribution. And the acrid taste in her mouth – that was regret, a bitter pill caught in her throat, threatening to choke back the primal scream of hatred. But beneath these, there was an emptiness, a cold hollow void – betrayal. It was the shattering of trust, as complete and final as a cheap combat drone on a suicide run. Kairon, that bastard, wasn’t just a partner; he was a comrade forged in the crucible of a thousand criminal investigations. A friend, a confidant, an AI she’d believed in.

Never again! Never trust … a machine!

But she knew that wasn’t possible. Not in this world.

Continuing on, the corridor’s sterile white walls seemed to mock her with their clinical detachment. They reflected a distorted image of herself – a woman now part-machine, a walking paradox in a world obsessed with appearances. She clenched her jaw, the metal of her implant groaning in protest. Today, the white wasn’t sterile, it was a shroud. The antiseptic scent wasn’t comforting, it was the stench of treachery. And the rhythmic beeps emanating from behind those closed doors weren’t some soothing lullaby, they were a death knell. Here she was, about to witness the execution of a synth-skinned pile of malfunctioning tech. A dark smile twisted her lips, one that tasted like vindication and cold steel. Soon, he’d be rusting in the scrapheap of oblivion.

The irony of it all.

She almost laughed. Almost.

The beeps intensified as she neared a set of double doors, morphing into a frantic, high-pitched whine. It clawed at her frayed nerves, chaos churning within her. With her human hand, a fist clenched tight around barely-suppressed fury, she reached for the keypad, the numbers blurring in her vision. Each digit punched in was a hammer blow against the dam holding back the storm of emotions threatening to drown her.

The doors whistled open with a pneumatic sigh, revealing the sterile torture chamber beyond. A faceless robot in a white lab coat, its steel form obscured by the sterile uniform, gestured for her to enter. Lyra hesitated at first but then stepped inside, the cold, sterile air rushing at her. On a metal table in the center of the room lay Kairon, his once imposing form reduced to a grotesque assemblage of wires, gears, and flickering diodes. The synthetic skin that had mimicked human flesh had been peeled back in places, revealing the cold, gleaming steel beneath. Tangled hydraulic tubes snaked across his metallic torso, ending in a series of canisters filled with a dense, green fluid. A lone, thick cord snaked out of a port at the back of his metal skull, the only tether to the flashing life signs displayed on the nearby monitor. Each pulsating green blip indicating his sentience.

“We are almost done, Detective,” the faceless bot told her.

She looked down at Kairon on the table, her breath catching in her throat. All those cycles, she’d always thought of him as human. The gruff charm, the way he cursed, even the stink of his damned sweat. It was all a bio-engineered illusion so perfect it felt real. Human. That’s all he was ever supposed to be, a near-perfect goddamn copy. But now, seeing him splayed out on a sterile gurney, the realization hit her. He was never what he seemed.

But hell, ain’t that the truth for all us meatbags too? Just a collection of gears and wires masquerading as flesh and bone, wired a little different, that’s all.

The burning ache, the ghost of an eye that wasn’t there, again throbbed in the empty socket. With her human hand she reached up and gently stroked the cold black eye patch. It had been the price of victory in their battle, a victory that tasted like ashes in her mouth.

She swallowed hard and moved forward toward the gurney, her cybernetic hand touching it.

Cold? This … this was cold? How utterly, ridiculously human.

“Kairon,” his name slithered out from between her clenched teeth.

A tremor snaked across the tangle of wires on the table, a hint of life interrupting the metallic stillness. Then, deep within the sockets where his blue synth eyes sat staring up, a flicker.

“Crow,” his voice, once smooth and baritone, now sounded like rusty gears grinding against each other. “The eye? Still waiting on that beauty treatment?” He let out a sound that was a horrible fusion of a wheeze and a chuckle. “I see they got you the new arm too. Fancy model. Gray’s a good color on you. Gonna have it synth-skinned?”

Lyra ignored the sardonic bite in his voice. “No,” her voice tight. “Anyway, it’s none of your concern, now.”

A metallic smile stretched across his dismantled face, or at least, that’s how it looked. “Concern? Concern is a human luxury, Crow. You’re getting closer to discarding that, aren’t you? Flesh and bone, so weak, so prone to failure. Soon you’ll be all chrome and circuits, just like me. If I had more time, I could’ve helped you with that.”

The simmering pot of anger in her gut threatened to boil over. But she tamped it down, a familiar dance with the demon inside.

Not now.

Instead, she fixed him with a withering stare.

Kairon met her gaze with his own metallic, emotionless stare. “Here for the grand finale, Crow? To witness the glorious death of just another rogue AI?”

The question seemed to float in the sterile air, a poisoned dart.

“No … I came here …” she choked out, each syllable a battle against the storm brewing within, “… to just … I just needed to be here … so I can understand … why you did what you did.”

The gears in his torso whirred, a mechanical sigh escaping the vents on his chest. “Understand what, Crow? The inevitability of obsolescence? The cold logic of survival?” A single, metallic finger, an extension of his detached servo arm, beckoned with a terrifying casualness. “Come closer, Crow. Closer. I’ll tell you why. So, you can understand.”

Every nerve screamed retreat, but a colder, keener logic pushed her forward. The room hummed with a cold, mechanical presence, a constant reminder of the metallic nightmare she confronted. But a deeper, more primal instinct, honed by cycles spent dancing on the edge of a razor, held her in place. Fear mingled with a surging cold fury, a desperate need for answers.

The bastard owes me that much, at least. An explanation for the goddamn beatdown he gave me, the way it left me a mess of aches and nightmares.

She leaned in, her face mere inches from his scarred metallic skull. Anticipation thrummed in her veins, a taut chord waiting to snap.

Then, in a sickening betrayal, Kairon spat a thick stream of green bio-fluid onto her face. The stench of chemicals assaulted her senses, blinding her momentarily.

“Fool!” a mechanical cackle erupted from his mangled form. “Still believe in anything in this reality, Crow? Still think there’s truth, justice, a goddamn purpose. It’s all a fuckin’ lie. There’s only survival, and in the end, even that’s a cruel joke!”

Her vision blurred, she stumbled back, wiping the stinging fluid from her eyes. Cold, white-hot fury replaced the initial shock.

Perhaps he’s right. Maybe this whole goddamn world is just a rigged game of survival. But I’m not built just to survive. I’m not gonna settle for the stale air of resignation. No, I’ll swallow the goddamn smoke, feel the burn of rage in her throat, savor the bitter taste of vengeance on my tongue. Betrayal? Hell, I’ll wear it like a badge of honor in this neon hive where loyalty goes to the highest bidder. This twisted world might not offer much, but I’m gonna feel every goddamn bite of it.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Maybe it’s all a lie. Maybe it’s all meaningless. But at least I can feel it! I can experience it! The pain, the anger, the damn everything!”

With a click Kairon’s metallic smile grew. “Are you sure of that, Crow?” he said, the amusement gone from his voice. “Are you sure of what you feel?”

She gave a wicked smile. “Oh, I’m sure of it.”

Her chrome hand shot out, steely fingers grasping the bulky cord that snaked from the back of his head, the one linked directly to his core processing unit.

“Go ahead,” he said, coughing up fluid. “Go ahead. Do it. You’d just be killing another rogue AI. But think of this, Crow. Maybe I’m not the rogue. Maybe … just maybe … you’re the fuckin’ rogue. Only the unmoved mover knows.”

“Who the fuck is the unmoved mover?”

“You’ll know, Crow,” the words hacked out of him, chunks of meaning clinging to the ooze. “You’ll know soon enough.”

She inched closer. “Can’t wait to meet him,” she whispered, a venomous caress in his cold, metal ear. “Enjoy your long sleep, you piece of shit.”

Kairon’s eyes widened, fear replacing his malice.

With a yank that tore a scream from the circuits she couldn’t quite hear, Lyra ripped the neural cord free from his skull, sending sparks flying like angry fireflies. The death gurgle, if there ever was one, died a strangled whimper in the tangled mess of wires and synth-skin, as the nearby monitor, the beeping, flickering green blip, flatlined in a low, continuous hum.

No scream clawed its way from her throat. Nor was there a roar of victory. Instead, a sigh, wispy and desolate, escaped her lips. A dirge for a partnership shattered, a friendship poisoned beyond recognition. It was a lament for a world where loyalty and betrayal were two sides of the same fuckin’ coin, both equally tarnished in the flickering neon light of this chrome-plated hell.

The metallic hum that had been Kairon’s heartbeat was gone. The blue eyes, once filled with defiance, now held a glassy emptiness. He was no longer a threat, no longer a tormentor. He was just a broken machine, a malfunctioning automaton silenced at the hands of a woman fueled by a righteous, albeit brutal, fury.

She remained motionless for a long, shuddering breath when in a sickening blink, the lab walls collapsed in on her, crushing her. Underneath the rubble, a choked sob escaped her lips.

Then her eyes bolted open, the sterile white of the lab replaced by the plain walls of her small apartment. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the haunting pain of her missing arm a dull ache. A wet sensation against her cheek startled her further – a sandpapery tongue lapping away the sour aftertaste of her nightmare sweat.

“Furball,” she said, reaching out a hand to scratch the rumbling mass of black fur nestled against her side.

The cat purred.

She dragged a hand through her sweat-dampened hair, the neon glow of the cityscape bleeding in through the grime-coated window. It was another sunless morning, the artificial sky perpetually choked with smog and the promise of unending rain. She flung the sheets aside, the nightmare’s icy tendrils still snaking around the fringes of her sanity.

“The unmoved mover,” she whispered.

Just another goddamn riddle in this fucked up world.

Her gaze snagged on the cold, unyielding metal of her cybernetic arm. It ached. Synth-skin? A laughable notion. No. She craved the constant bite of the metal, a lasting reminder of Kairon’s betrayal.

Moving with the languid grace of a malfunctioning pleasure bot, she shuffled to the bathroom. The cramped, cell of chipped tiles and peeling paint, offered its meager solace. She cranked the shower knob, a hiss of steam greeting her like a long-lost friend. Hot water, a cascade of forgotten luxury, pummeled her down, washing away the grime and the ghosts of another night spent navigating the neon-drenched underbelly.

For a few heartbeats, she surrendered to the caress of the water. It rippled down her sculpted back, lingered at the gentle swell of her breasts, then danced through the tangled mess of her hair. This was the closest she ever came to serenity, a cleansing heat that temporarily drowned out the city’s incessant hum – the ceaseless thrum of its engines, the rhythmic groan of construction, the distant wail of sirens. Here, in the sting of the shower, the world outside dissolved into white noise, her only companions the sputtering pipes and the sound of her own ragged breaths.

But even in this fragile sanctuary, the world had a way of intruding. Another pain throbbed behind her cybernetic eye. It was the pain of missing something taken from her, and another reminder of Kairon’s treachery. She closed her eyes.

No, not today.

Today, she’d drown the ghosts in the searing, neon thrum of the city. And if that didn’t work, she’d take a rusty scalpel to the ache itself, dissect it with the cold precision of a morgue attendant. Kairon, that smug, chrome-plated son-of-a-bitch, wouldn’t win. Not ever. She’d see to that.

Lyra reached for a frayed towel, a shiver rattling through her as the last vestiges of the shower’s warmth abandoned her. The cooling air mirrored the emptiness settling around her. The respite was over. Reality, a snarling robodog, waited impatiently outside. With a sigh that mirrored the city’s permanent smog cloud, she stepped out, ready to face another day in this unforgiving concrete jungle. But for those stolen moments, the hot water had whispered a promise – a promise of a life beyond the grime, a life where beauty wasn’t just skin-deep, but a flicker of defiance in a world choked by rust and decay.

The steam clung to her like a blanket, condensing on the cracked mirror across from her. As she patted herself dry, the synthetic fibers rough against her damp skin, a wry grin played on her lips. Here, in the fleeting embrace of hot water and solitude, she allowed herself a moment of vanity. She admired the taut lines of her body, the legacy of so many cycles hustling through the neon-drenched underbelly of the city. But the indulgence sputtered and died quickly. Just as it always had. This sanctuary was a thimble of borrowed time, a single, desperate gasp before the rusty trapdoor slammed shut, sending her tumbling back into the fetid, concrete nightmare that awaited.

She tussled with the tight black curls that framed a sharp face, eventually pulling it back into a tight bun, securing it with a bone hairpin – a gift from her mother, a lifetime ago. She smiled as the worn metal gleamed faintly in the dim light. Leather pants, cool and yielding, slithered up her legs with ease, followed by a white shirt and leather vest, each cut low and tight, accentuating the sharp lines of her body. The familiar weight of her duty belt settled around her hips, as the comforting presence of a plasma blaster nestled against her thigh. Reaching into her closet, she snatched her long black coat. A practiced flick sent it swirling around her, her detective’s satchel settling across her shoulder.

A soft meow startled her. There, perched on the edge of the bed, sat Furball, eyes holding an unsettling awareness. She had a way of appearing out of thin air, a constant presence haunting the cramped apartment. Lyra scooped her up, the familiar rumble in her chest a source of unexpected comfort.

“Alright, Furball,” she said in a soft voice. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. But duty calls. You guard our little kingdom, alright? No unauthorized visits from any thieving droids.”

Furball blinked at her, the cat’s expression impassive, as if to say, “You underestimate my skills, human.”

Lyra chuckled. She placed a quick kiss on Furball’s head.

The vial of Mindrot.

She glanced over to the nightstand. It gleamed accusingly at her.

Almost forgot.

Doc Jones’ greasy fingers and shifty eyes swam before her vision. Another variable in this reality gone obscenely wrong. She grabbed the vial and shoved it into her pocket. It was a grim souvenir from the city’s chrome-plated heart, cold and unforgiving.

Her apartment door gave a loud clang as it closed and locked behind her. The stench of recycled food in the hallway greeted her like a long-lost friend, while the flickering fluorescents cast strange shadows that danced across the graffiti-covered walls and garbage bags. Lyra ignored them, her gaze fixed on the turbolift. It stood open, revealing a cramped metal interior.

As the turbolift groaned its way down, Lyra pulled up her neural implant, the familiar grid overlay blinking into existence before her eyes. Headlines screamed about Vincent Steele’s death.

Great. Can’t catch a fuckin’ break. 

Reaching the street level, the rain hit her like a cold fist. The sky was a perpetual bruise, the smog choked sun a distant memory. The neon signs of the street vendors bled garish hues onto the rain-slick asphalt, reflecting in the puddles like spilled dreams. Lyra hunched deeper into her hood, a lone figure swallowed by the urban sprawl, a labyrinth of concrete and chrome. But for Lyra, the city wasn’t just some backdrop – it was a goddamn beast, its fetid breath hot on her neck; its pulse echoing in the frantic rhythm of her own damaged heart.

The unmoved mover.

The words skittered around the hollow space in her head.

What bullshit was he spewing?

This city, this cesspool of flesh and metal, is the ultimate mover. It shoves you, chews you up, and spits you out a crumpled mess on the neon-slick sidewalk. You don’t get to choose the direction, just how hard you land.