Chapter Text
Outpost-3, Copper-9, about 2 months after the Absolute Solver's defeat...
Uzi and N sit huddled on the worn couch in her quarters, their frames pressed together in comfortable silence. The ancient Earth movie flickers across the salvaged screen, casting dancing shadows that stretch and warp across the walls of Outpost-3. Uzi's head rests against N's shoulder, her yellow-and-purple eyes half-lidded with contentment rather than her usual alterness. N's arm drapes around her, his yellow eyes reflecting the screen's glow with childlike wonder.
Neither speaks, afraid to shatter this rare, tender moment they manage to scrounge up. In these rare quiet moments, it's almost possible to forget the horrors that brought them together—the hunting, the fear, the loss. Almost.
The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. V stands framed in the threshold, her silver bob-cut catching the light from the hallway behind her. For a heartbeat, she hesitates, watching the pair with an expression that flickers between longing and resolution.
"Starting without me?" V asks, her voice lacking its usual edge. She enters without waiting for an invitation, settling into the empty space beside N. The couch creaks under the additional weight.
"Wouldn't dream of it," N replies, his smile bright and warm as he shifts to make room. "We're just getting to the good part!"
Uzi's eyes meet V's over N's shoulder, followed by a slight nod. Though they would never openly show it, both would die before letting harm come to the other. It's more than either would have thought possible mere months ago.
They watch in silence as humans on the screen dance and sing, their concerns so trivial compared to survival. The movie's bright colors and cheerful music stand in stark contrast to the dim lighting of Uzi's quarters, adorned with salvaged blueprints, half-finished engineering projects, and posters for animated shows that stopped airing lifetimes ago.
As the credits begin to roll, Uzi straightens, her brow furrowed in thought. The comfortable silence shifts, becomes charged with purpose.
"Hey, V," she begins, voice casual though her eyes are sharp with calculation. "Have you noticed anything... different about the surface scavenging parties lately?"
V tilts her head, silver hair catching the light. "Now that you mention it, yes." Her yellow eyes narrow slightly. "The casualty rates have dropped significantly over the past month. Why do you ask?"
"I've been analyzing the reports." Uzi leans forward, the engineer in her coming alive with the thrill of a puzzle. "We haven't lost a single drone in over four weeks. It's unprecedented."
N's smile falters, confusion crossing his features. "That's great news, isn't it?" He glances between them, sensing the tension building. "Why do you sound worried, Uzi?"
Uzi hesitates, choosing her words carefully. In the dim light, the yellow half of her eyes seem to glow more intensely. "It's just... odd. The surface hasn't become any less dangerous. The only thing that's changed is..." She trails off, her gaze meeting V's.
V finishes the thought, her voice barely above a whisper. "J. She's gone."
The name hangs in the air between them, heavy with complicated history. J—their former commander, their enemy, their former family. The room falls silent as the implications sink in.
N's expression shifts from confusion to dawning realization. "You think J was responsible for the losses we've been experiencing?"
V nods grimly. "It makes sense. A disassembly drone needs oil to function, and J was out there alone for a long time."
Uzi turns to V, her eyes narrowing with suspicion born of hard-earned survival instincts. "You know something, don't you? About what happened to J?"
V sighs, her posture slumping slightly. For a moment, she looks past them both, seeing something only she can perceive—a ghost, perhaps, or a memory. The weight of knowledge settles on her shoulders like a physical burden.
"About a month ago," V begins reluctantly, "I was escorting a scavenging party near the old landing zone." Her fingers tap nervously against her knee—a gesture so unlike her usual confident demeanor that N and Uzi exchange worried glances. "We heard this sound... like thunder, but underground. The whole place started shaking."
N leans closer, concern etching itself across his features. "Was anyone hurt?"
V shakes her head. "No. I told the others to stay put while I investigated." Her voice grows distant, lost in recollection. "The sound was coming from the direction of our old landing pod—the one we arrived in when..." When they were still puppets of the Absolute Solver. Before everything changed, and they were freed. The unspoken words hang between them.
"By the time I got there," V continues, "the pod was already lifting off. The engines were firing at full capacity, kicking up dust everywhere."
"J repaired it?" Uzi asks, disbelief coloring her voice. "That thing was practically scrap metal."
"Apparently not," V replies with a humorless smile. "J always was resourceful. Determined. When she wanted something, she gets it."
Hesitating for a moment, V continues her tale. "The strange thing was, the pod didn't head for orbit. It should have gone straight up, breached the atmosphere." Her eyes narrow at the memory. "Instead, it veered off course, flying horizontally across the surface. Headed for the horizon."
"Did you try to follow it?" N asks, leaning forward, his yellow eyes wide with worry for his former commander.
V nods, regret flickering across her face. "I tried to fly after it, but it was too fast. Our wings can propel us at nearly one hundred and fifty miles per hour, but that’s nothing compared to the velocity of a runaway rocket." She shakes her head in reluctant admiration. "I could only watch as it disappeared from sight."
N stands abruptly, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by urgent concern. "Disappeared? To where? Is she okay?"
The sudden movement disturbs the delicate balance of the couch, forcing Uzi to steady herself. She watches N with a mixture of affection and exasperation. Despite everything J had done to him—the abuse, the manipulation—he still cares. It's what makes him N.
V shakes her head, silver bob swaying with the movement. "I don't know. The pod veered off course almost immediately. She could be anywhere on Copper-9 by now."
The room falls into a tense silence, each drone lost in their own thoughts. In the stillness, the distant hum of Outpost-3's generators provides a mechanical heartbeat.
Uzi is the first to break the silence in the quarters, her voice firm with the pragmatism that has kept her alive through countless dangers. "Well, at least we have one less problem to worry about now. The colony is safer without her around."
N looks conflicted, torn between relief for the colony's safety and concern for his former teammate. His yellow eyes dim slightly as he sinks back onto the couch. "I hope she's alright out there. Alone."
"She's survived worse," V says, but her expression remains troubled despite nodding in agreement with Uzi. Something unspoken lingers in her eyes—knowledge, perhaps, or fear of what J might become without anyone to ground her.
The television screen has gone dark, reflecting their three faces like specters trapped in glass. Outside, Copper-9's harsh landscape continues its eternal, silent watch.
A thousand miles away, as the three drones contemplate the implications of J's disappearance, a frigid wind howls across a desolate plain of ice and metal. Snowflakes dance in the bitter air, collecting on the twisted wreckage that rises from the white landscape like the skeleton of some prehistoric beast.
The landing pod—once a sleek transport vessel, now a makeshift shelter—sits precariously atop a jagged hill. Its hull is dented and scorched, bearing the scars of its unplanned horizontal flight. Crude repairs patch the worst of the damage, strips of salvaged metal held in place by industrial adhesive and what appears to be large rubber bands.
Inside this ramshackle haven, J stands before a cracked mirror, water dripping from her once-pristine face. She blinks at her reflection, momentarily confused by the stranger staring back at her. Is that really her? The thought bubbles up through the static that has become her constant mental companion.
“My control of our situation has remained absolute.” She whispered to her reflection, taking in the sight of herself.
J's chassis, once gleaming and immaculate, now bears a constellation of scratches and dents. A particularly nasty gash runs from her left shoulder to her elbow joint, hastily sealed with a mixture of super glue and duct tape. Her black suit jacket is off, having been torn at the seams and frayed at the edges, it is now tied haphazardly around her waist like an afterthought.
The yellow dress shirt beneath—her pride and joy, once pressed to perfection—is now a patchwork of stains. Oil blossoms across the front like dark flowers, while streaks of grease form abstract patterns along the sleeves. Her company tie dangles loosely around her neck, knotted with apparent disinterest.
With mechanical precision at odds with her disheveled appearance, J wrings out a filthy rag into a dented basin. The water turns black instantly, contaminated by a month's worth of grime. She doesn't notice, or perhaps doesn't care.
"Maintenance complete," she announces to the empty room, her voice carrying the same crisp authority it always has, though it occasionally skips like a scratched record. "Appearance is... adequate. The Company would..." She pauses, head tilting at an unnatural angle. "The Company would..."
The thought dissolves, forgotten before it can fully form. She shakes her head, deeming whatever she wanted to say unnecessary.
J ties her hair into her signature twin pigtails, though they emerge lopsided and uneven. Strands escape in all directions, giving her the appearance of having been electrocuted. She doesn't try to fix them. Instead, she smiles at her reflection—a thin, stretched thing that doesn't reach her eyes. Those eyes, once sharp and analytical, now hold a distant, unfocused quality, as if she's perpetually looking at something just beyond the horizon.
"Time for the morning briefing!" she chirps, spinning on her heel with sudden energy. She marches through the cramped interior of the pod, navigating around piles of scavenged materials and half-completed projects with practiced ease.
The "dining area" is nothing more than a cleared space around a small portable heater. Two long dead worker drone heads sit propped on makeshift stands facing a third chair—J's chair. She's decorated them with loving attention to detail. The one on the left sports a old, beaten cap taken from god knows where, with strips of paper carefully arranged to mimic N's signature hairstyle. A wide, friendly smile has been drawn on its lifeless face with what appears to be yellow paint.
The second head wears a crude wig made from frayed mop strings, dyed white with some unknown chemical. Eyeglass frames put together with twigs and glue perch precariously on its nasal ridge, and a perpetual scowl has been etched into its face with a sharp object.
"Good morning, team!" J greets them cheerfully, taking her seat with a flourish. "I trust you all recharged adequately? No? Well, we can't all be perfect, can we, V?" She winks at the scowling head, then turns to address both of her "companions."
"Today marks day thirty-one of our special reconnaissance mission!" J announces, producing a clipboard from seemingly nowhere. "Let's begin with our situation report."
She clears her throat unnecessarily. "Weather conditions remain consistent—that is to say, absolutely dreadful. Current temperature is approximately negative forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, with wind speeds reaching thirty knots. Visibility is poor due to ongoing snowfall. Not that it matters, since we're not going anywhere just yet!" She laughs, a sound once utterly foreign even to her own audio processors.
"Now, for system diagnostics." J flips a page on her clipboard. "Weapons systems operating at seventy-two percent efficiency—not ideal, but serviceable. The left hand plasma cutter is still jammed with that peculiar blue crystal. Quite pretty, actually! Perhaps I'll make it into a necklace when time permits."
She makes a check mark with a cracked JCJenson pen. "Mobility functions at sixty-eight percent. The right knee joint continues to lock in cold temperatures. Nothing a good kick won't fix, though it does make sneaking rather difficult!" Another laugh, higher and more strained than the first.
"Oil reserves..." J's smile falters momentarily. "Fifty-three percent and declining. Approximately three to four days remaining at current usage rates. Not to worry! I've identified several promising extraction sites within walking distance. Just need to finish the drilling apparatus. Should be ready in less than six months!"
The smile returns, wider and more manic. "Sensory systems functioning at variable levels. Visual processing at seventy-nine percent—the left optical sensor experiences occasional glitching in low light conditions. Audio reception at sixty-five percent due to that unfortunate incident with the rogue sentinel. Still, could be worse! Could be deaf as well as mad!"
J slaps her knee at her own joke, then continues without pause. "Tactile sensors operating at sixty-three percent efficiency. Some peripheral nerve circuits have been rerouted to conserve energy. Can still feel pain, though, which is just delightful!" Her eye twitches almost imperceptibly.
"Taste and smell functions have been downgraded to fifty percent. Hardly a priority in this environment, though it does make oil quality assessment somewhat challenging."
J leans forward conspiratorially toward the N-head, whispering while stealing glances at the V-head. "Between you and me, I think I may have consumed some contaminated fluid last week. Experienced the most fascinating hallucinations! Saw Tessa dancing on the table. Wearing that ridiculous party hat from her birthday celebration. Remember that, N? How she insisted we all wear those silly things?"
She waits, as if expecting a response. When none comes, she sighs and sits back in her chair.
"Core processor functioning at seventy-five percent. Some memory fragmentation occurring, but nothing critical. Higher cognitive functions remain largely intact, despite occasional..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Episodes."
J sets down her clipboard, swiveling in her chair, turning toward a small shelf fashioned from scavenged metal plates and wooden planks. There, sitting in a place of honor atop a folded square of clean fabric, is a small doll.
"And what do you think of our situation, Boss?" J asks, her voice softening as she reaches for the figure with reverent hands.
Unlike the crude effigies of N and V, this doll is exquisitely crafted. Small enough to fit comfortably in J's palm, it bears Tessa's likeness with painstaking attention to detail. The black dress is perfectly tailored, each tiny stitch placed with surgical precision. Atop the doll's head sits Tessa's iconic black bow, positioned just so, while two meticulously formed twin tails of black yarn cascade down its front. Green button eyes catch the dim light of the pod, seeming almost alive beneath carefully painted eyebrows. A sweet smile curves across the porcelain face, capturing an expression J has replayed in her memory banks countless times.
"You're right, Tessa," J nods, as if the doll has spoken. "Time is of the essence. We've delayed long enough."
She rises with sudden purpose, gently tucking the Tessa doll into her breast pocket as she moves to the rear of the pod. There, a battered backpack leans against a pile of salvaged technology. J begins filling it methodically—a set of makeshift wrenches fashioned from scrap metal, a compact welding tool, a jar of nanite paste for emergency repairs. She then adds bare essentials: a compass with a cracked face, a half-functional portable heater, a tattered map with routes marked in fading ink.
Random trinkets follow—a fist-sized chunk of rock with a gold nugget within she found near the crash site, a pink music box that plays three notes before breaking, a human child's toy recovered from an ancient bunker. Each item placed with care, as if following a checklist only she can see.
"Preparations at ninety-two percent completion," J mutters, closing the main compartment and testing the weight.
Next comes a bandolier, once designed to hold grenades for combat operations. J has modified it, replacing each grenade holder with a plastic bottle filled with oil. She counts them as she straps the bandolier across her chest.
"One, two, three... seven bottles. Approximately 2.3 days of supplementary sustenance per container. Adequate for initial journey phase."
A utility belt follows, cinched tightly around her waist. On one side hangs a dented metal canteen, sloshing with the sound of precious oil. On the opposite side, J secures the heads of N and V, strapping them firmly in place with frayed wire.
With methodical movements, J lifts the backpack and slides her arms through the straps, adjusting it until it sits comfortably against her damaged chassis. From her pocket, she retrieves the Tessa doll, studying it for a moment with an expression of profound tenderness. Then, with delicate care, she clips the doll to one of the backpack's upper straps, positioning it so the tiny face looks forward.
"There," J says with satisfaction. "Now you can see everything, Tessa."
She turns to the N-head attached to her belt, her voice shifting to a higher, more cheerful pitch. "Why so glum, N? This is an adventure! Where's that insufferable optimism of yours? The statistical probability of our success may be negligible, but that's never stopped you from smiling before!" J sighs dreamily as she ruffle’s N-head’s “hair” beneath its cap.
J swivels to address the V-head nestled comfortably next to N-head, her voice dropping to a sullen drawl. "She's finally lost it. Completely deranged. We're going to die out here, you realize that? A thousand miles of hostile terrain with minimal resources? Suicide mission. Absolute madness."
Returning to her normal voice, J chuckles. "Oh, V, always the pessimist. Tessa, what do you think of V's assessment?"
J tilts her head, as if listening to the doll's silent response. Her expression brightens. "Precisely my thoughts! We've faced worse odds before, haven't we? Remember that time in the eastern quadrant with the rogue disassembly drone team? I calculated a ninety-five percent chance of catastrophic failure, yet here we are!"
Without warning, J unclips the V-head from her belt and hurls it through the pod's open door. It sails through the air, landing with a dull thud in the snow outside.
"V, scout ahead!" J calls after it, then doubles over with uproarious laughter. "Get it, N? Scout a-HEAD! Oh, that's rich. Come on, laugh N, it's hilarious!"
J's laughter echoes in the empty pod, rising to a manic pitch before abruptly cutting off. She straightens, adjusting her tie with one hand while the other strokes the Tessa doll's tiny head.
"Apologies for the unprofessional outburst," she says, voice returning to its business-like tone. "Now, let's summarize our situation one final time before departure."
She paces the small confines of the pod, gesturing as if giving a corporate presentation. "We are currently in an isolated region of Copper-9's northern hemisphere, approximately one thousand fifty-seven miles from Outpost-3. Our oil reserves, even taking into consideration the supplementary containers, will last about three and a half weeks at maximum efficiency—which, given environmental factors and my current operational status, is highly unlikely."
J glances at the N-head. "We will almost certainly not encounter any worker drones in this region, meaning replenishment through traditional methods is not an option." She taps her temple. "Furthermore, my internal communication systems have suffered irreparable damage. No distress signals can be transmitted, even if such action were deemed appropriate for our mission parameters."
She stops pacing, turning to face the Tessa doll clipped to her backpack strap. "A lesser disassembly drone would accept failure as inevitable under these circumstances." J's voice drops to a whisper. "But I am not lesser, am I, Tessa? You always saw that in me, even when I couldn't see it myself."
J reaches into an inner pocket of her tattered jacket, producing a small object. It sits in her palm, a golf-ball sized orb of perfect black, so dark it seems to absorb the light around it. Etched into its surface in stark yellow lettering is a single word: "NULL." A small portion of the Absolute Solver.
"Our salvation," J murmurs, turning the orb to catch what little light filters through the pod's windows. "Our ticket home."
She tucks the orb carefully into a specialized compartment in her backpack, padded with scraps of fabric to prevent damage. With a final glance around the pod that has been her shelter for the past month, J marches toward the exit, posture straightening with each step despite her damaged frame.
Outside, the bitter wind howls across the frozen wasteland. J pauses at the threshold, surveying the bleak landscape that stretches endlessly before her. In the distance, barely visible through the swirling snow, the jagged silhouette of mountains cuts against the horizon.
"I'll be back in time for lunch break," J declares confidently, addressing the Tessa doll and N-head. "Those toasters won't know what hit them!"
She steps out into the snow, the cold immediately seeping into her joints, causing warning messages to flash across her vision. J ignores them, striding purposefully toward where the V-head lies half-buried in the accumulating snowdrift.
Bending down, she retrieves the head, brushing ice crystals from its features with surprising gentleness. "Come now, V. Don't lose your head over a little joke!" J says, then erupts into another fit of wild laughter that echoes across the empty plains.
The sound dies away, swallowed by the vastness of Copper-9's frozen wastes. J secures the V-head back onto her belt, then turns to face the distant mountains. With the Tessa doll watching from her shoulder and the small Solver core nestled in her pack, J begins her long journey home, her uneven footsteps leaving a zigzagging trail in the fresh snow.
Behind her, the abandoned camp grows smaller with each step, until it's nothing more than a dark speck against the white landscape. Ahead lies a thousand miles of the most unforgiving terrain Copper-9 has to offer—enormous geysers, electromagnetic dead zones, abandoned mining facilities crawling with forgotten security systems.
"Ninety-five percent chance of catastrophic failure," J murmurs to herself, repeating her earlier calculation. Her damaged face splits into a wide, unsettling grin. "I've always enjoyed a challenge."
As she crests the first ridge, J begins to hum—a discordant, static-laced melody that might once have been a folk song. The wind carries the tune away, scattering the notes across the wasteland like seeds that will never grow.
The journey has begun.