Imagine you're a scientific facility. Out of nowhere, an unidentified spaceship rips through your atmosphere without permission, bombs you, and then just says sorry as if that makes everything fine. The thought alone had me gnawing at my nails in stress.
Landing the ship was a comedy act of its own. At first, I was careful, steady, smooth. Then, suddenly, turbulence hit, I delayed opening the landing gear, and bam—we slammed right into the ground. One wing flew off like a frisbee, one leg crumpled like paper, and we ended up squatting on the runway like a broken stool. The detached wing landed just a few steps away from our cockpit window, its dangling wires catching fire and starting a nice little blaze. So yeah—bombing the place wasn't enough; we also trashed their runway.
Hulk stood over the unconscious Jose, slapping the guy's helmet.
"Hey Jose… if you wake up right now, I'll let you shoot me in the head. Jose… don't you want to blow my brains out?" He looked back at me: "Still nothing, boss. He'd never pass up the chance to kill me."
"Boss? Since when am I the boss?"
"Since…" Hulk pointed at the knocked-out Jose. "…we bombed a facility that spans half the damn planet, and our strongest weapon is currently napping on the floor. You're the boss now. My ass is yours, your ass is mine, until we get out of this alive."
"You think it's really that bad?"
"From the bombing? I just hope the missile hit their toilets and the only thing we destroyed was their shit."
"Could we have launched it into the void?"
"That's also possible… you're incompetent enough to miss a facility the size of a continent."
Through the cockpit glass, I saw people stretching tape around the perimeter of our ship—like a crime scene. Except the tape had writing on it in a language I couldn't read. The people themselves didn't look like police or soldiers. Men and women, all in white lab coats, but underneath their outfits were… questionable choices.
One woman, green-eyed with curly blonde hair, wore a tiny crop top and leggings so tight they might as well have been painted on. Another, with short blue hair and skeletal frame, looked dressed for a funeral—everything black and elegant. A bald, ripped guy strutted around in just shorts under his lab coat. There was a glasses-wearing engineer, an old man dressed like a teacher, a young dude in full metalhead gear, and even a woman in a bright red singer's dress. The only thing uniting this circus was their white coats.
"Think the atmosphere out there is breathable?" I asked Hulk.
"For us? Without masks? No chance."
"Then how the hell are these people strolling around like it's summer vacation?"
"People? Where?"
"Come on! The ones putting up tape! Look, that guy just jumped two meters onto our wing like it was nothing—"
"They're not people. They're human-looking robots. And not even good ones—you can tell by their movements with the naked eye."
But I couldn't see a single robotic glitch. To me, they just looked like half-naked lunatics casually wandering in a dark, freezing alien atmosphere.
"I've seen old uncles at bus stops move more robotically than that. And these things are smarter than me?"
"Most things are smarter than you, boss."
"Do they have human brains in them?"
"Are you insane? Forcing an evolved, organic brain—built for flesh—into a mechanical body is torture. Neurological plasticity or not, it breaks everything."
That made my hair stand on end. Hulk pointed out the window again:
"A human brain can be digitized and reconstructed, but it stops being a human brain. What you're looking at are robots created from scanned fragments of human cognition. Not full brains—just echoes."
"Thanks for the lecture, Professor Hulk!"
"Quit mocking me! Your ignorance is dangerous—you'll get us all killed. Or at least yourself."
We waited five, maybe ten minutes. Felt like hours with Hulk. I had Jose in my arms like a drunk baby, his puke bag stuffed into a locker because I couldn't keep looking at it without gagging. Hulk forced us into spacesuits "just in case."
Mine fit perfectly—sleek, heavy, and ridiculously cool. It was like wearing a sweaty, armored biker suit. Stiff everywhere except the joints, which were surprisingly flexible. I slung a massive oxygen tank onto my back with ease—the suit was boosting my strength.
The helmet was wild: no visor, no glass, just a smooth metal sphere. But once it locked on, a digital HUD popped up. My vitals glowed in the corner, and when I looked at Hulk, text appeared: "Unidentified Biological Entity." Hulk flipped me off.
"This thing is amazing!" I said.
"That's a Starborn Set. Last-gen military issue from 400 years ago. No idea how Bioethics Oversight let you keep it."
"Luxury, huh?"
"Beyond luxury. You'll see why."
A voice outside the hatch crackled:
"Please prepare yourselves. In thirty seconds we will enter. Lie face down with your hands on your head. If you do not have hands or a head, simply lie down."
Hulk face-planted immediately, hands on his head. I was about to do the same when my oxygen cable popped loose. Gas hissed everywhere. I jumped up, wrestling the tube.
Sparks flew at the hatch—they were cutting it open. I didn't care. I was too busy fumbling like an idiot. Then the door blasted open. Four figures in lab coats stormed in—two gorgeous women, two giant men. My visor tagged them instantly as robots, flashing their serials across my display:
I1324224223, I1324224123, I1324224225, I3222445.
Completely useless numbers scrolling past like spam.
"Lie down immediately or force will be applied!" one of them barked.
"Yeah, yeah—I'll get down. Just let me fix this oxygen thing first…"
I gripped the tube harder, trying to shove it back. Hulk groaned from the floor:
"Boss, just get down already! The suit has backup oxygen for two minutes. You're embarrassing us."
"One second, I almost got it!"
"Not the time, boss!"
One robot slung its gun onto its back and rushed me. It grabbed my arm, forcing me down to my knees. Something inside me snapped. Maybe it was the idea of a robot making me kneel.
"Don't resist—you'll only hurt yourself!" it said.
And that did it. I roared and punched its leg. At first, it felt soft, like human flesh. But then—bang—my fist slammed into solid metal beneath. The impact ricocheted back, pain exploding through every bone in my hand. I crumpled to the floor, clutching my arm.
The robot loomed over me.
"Aggressive activity detected."
The last thing I remembered was its boot smashing into my helmet.