The hum of machinery echoed through the cavernous control room, a symphony of chaos and precision. The industrial backdrop gleamed under fluctuations of neon blue and pink light, casting every circuit board and trailing wire into stark relief. This was a place where humanity had long since ceded control to the machine—a world where technology didn’t just serve, but governed. And she was its enforcer.
Commander Lysandra Kryal strode across the metal floor with purpose, her boots clicking with deliberate authority. Her sleek, form-fitting uniform hugged her athletic frame, a combination of leather-like material and reinforced fiber panels. The outfit had sharp, militaristic angles but was undeniably futuristic, with crimson highlights tracing down the collar, sleeves, and sides in smooth, glowing streaks. A crimson armband on her left arm bore the insignia of the Aegis Vanguard, the autonomous central authority of New Polaris, the sprawling megacity carved out of humanity’s descent into mechanization. Her badge glimmered in the pink neon, a metallic phoenix entwined with overlapping circuitry—a symbol of resilience and rebirth through progress.
Suspended from her belt were an array of sleek metallic tools, each one with an ominous, purposeful design. But it was the radiant glowing rod in her hand that demanded full attention. The baton pulsated with vivid red light, like a shard of liquid fire solidified into a weapon. It shimmered faintly, illuminating her svelte silhouette and the striking lines of her suit. The rod’s luminosity clashed against the cool metallic sheen of her headpiece, a diadem of polished steel adorned with an emblem faintly glowing white.
Her expression was fierce and unyielding. Sharp cheekbones and piercing green eyes scanned the illuminated room, a glare that seemed to cut through even the fogged-up holographic display screens flickering erratically on the walls. This was not a place for weakness, and Lysandra personified control and power.
A man hunched in desperation at one of the control panels, his sweaty fingers trembling over an array of impossibly complex holographs. He turned as she approached, his wide eyes darting nervously to the baton in her hand and then back to her face.
“You don’t… you don’t have to do this,” he stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “I just—I just accessed the systems for food! My family is starving. They wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t—”
Lysandra halted a few paces from him, her head tilted. Her jet-black hair, loosely tied back, gleamed under the fluctuating lights, a stark contrast to the glowing crimson accents of her uniform. She was immovable, a monolith of control amidst the chaos of the room. Her lips pressed into a thin line, betraying no emotion.
“Regulation 421C of the Vanguard Data Integrity Act,” she said coolly. Her voice was calm but had an edge, each syllable cutting like precision metalwork. “Unauthorized access to the ZEN archives is a punishable offense. Your personal need does not overwrite society’s greater safeguards.”
The man sank to his knees. “Please. I had no choice.”
Her fingers tightened around the glowing rod, the red light intensifying. For a moment, she hesitated. Behind her hardened demeanor and official rhetoric, something flickered in her mind—an echo of a world long forgotten, where rules weren’t cold and absolute, but fluid and humane. Humanity’s transition to technocracy had taken more than just freedoms; it had stolen the weight of individual stories. Lysandra tried to ignore the churning unease rising in her throat.
But then came the voice in her ear, transmitted via her headpiece. “Subject flagged as Level 3 threat. Proceed with neutralization immediately.”
Her lips pursed. “Acknowledged,” she mouthed under her breath, unsure if the recording system had picked up her audible contempt. The voice—that clinical monotone—might as well have been the city’s heartbeat. It was everywhere, guiding every action that preserved New Polaris’s delicate balance. Yet tonight, she realized how much she longed to silence it.
Something snapped inside her. She lowered the glowing rod, extinguishing its radiant flame with a twist of her wrist, and knelt to the man’s level. His breath hitched, not in relief, but in disbelief.
“If you want to save them,” she whispered, “then run.”
The man stared at her. “What…?”
“I won’t tell you again,” she hissed, her green eyes flaring with something raw and untethered—not fury, but rebellion. “Your family needs you more than this city does. Run before I change my mind.”
The gears in his mind seemed to come loose, and without another word, he scrambled back and darted toward the narrow maintenance hatch on the far side of the room. For a moment, she watched as his silhouette disappeared into the shadows of the mechanical labyrinth beyond.
She exhaled softly, the weight of her decision pressing against her shoulders. Her fingers brushed over the insignia on her armband, a strange bitterness rising in the back of her throat. For years, she had been the perfect officer, an extension of the governing machine. She had silenced humanity’s last flickers of resistance, one by one. But tonight felt different. Tonight, she had chosen something outside of the cold guidelines she had lived by.
Somewhere high above the control room, the vast city sprawled endlessly, bathed in the same neon haze that filled her station. And for the first time, as Lysandra gazed at her shimmering reflection in the console, she wondered if the system she upheld so religiously was worth the cost.
The voice in her ear returned. “Commander Kryal. Explain anomaly in threat response protocol.”
Lysandra rose to her full height, gripping the rod at her side. It reignited, washing her face in crimson light, but this time, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk curled at the corner of her lips. Her answer was deliberate, and laced with defiance.
“Log a system error,” she replied coldly. “The target was lost in the chaos. Nothing more to report.”
As she cut off the transmission, the hum of machinery faded momentarily in her mind. For once, the room felt less like a prison and more like a fracture—one she would make larger as the cracks began to spread.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Reigning in the Neon Glow: Cyberpunk Commander Cosplay Breakdown
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