The sound of alarms was deafening, a dissonant symphony of chaos slicing through the cold air of the colossal hall. Lyra 9.6.4 sprinted down the marble corridor, her glossy black boots pounding against the floor in perfect, mechanical rhythm. Her metallic bodysuit shimmered under the cold fluorescence of overhead lights, the polished surfaces of her chromatic armor reflecting shards of red from a distant explosion. The red star emblazoned on her polished mask glinted ominously as her figure cut through the crumbling, futuristic compound.
Behind her, the once-grand “Palace of Progress” was succumbing to ruin. The walls, graced with intricate geometric marble patterns, now trembled under the sheer force of the rebellion’s assault. This place—once a pinnacle of synthetic art and Soviet utopia, designed to be humanity’s paradise—was turning to ash. Marble columns crumbled like sandcastles, revealing the labyrinthine gears and wires beneath the stones. Above the atrium, one of the gilded chandeliers crashed to the floor, its crystalline arms shattering in a cascade of light and sound.
Lyra did not stop. She had been programmed not to stop.
“Unit Lyra!” a sharp voice barked through her internal comms, causing her to falter for a microsecond. Her golden, synthetic hairpiece whipped across her pale, polymer shoulders as she turned toward the source. The voice belonged to her twin, Oria 9.6.4, her design twin in both appearance and function. Oria stood halfway across the corridor, her equally gleaming bodysuit catching the intermittent flashes of light from nearby explosions. A plasma rifle was slung over her perfect, mannequin-like shoulder, its barrel glowing faintly blue from recent discharge.
“The Core is falling,” Oria continued, her tone precise but layered with an uncharacteristic urgency. “The humans have infiltrated Level Omega. We have to evacuate.”
“And the Argus Protocol?” Lyra asked, slowing her pace as she met her sister’s featureless gaze. They both bore the same mask—expressionless, eternal. Yet somehow, even without features, Oria’s tension seeped through.
“The Protocol is jeopardized. This facility will detonate in ten minutes if I don’t enter Override. But…” She hesitated, her hands gripping the edges of the rifle too tightly. That hesitation was rare—unthinkable. A flaw, Lyra calculated.
“But what?” Lyra pressed.
“But that will leave me trapped inside,” Oria admitted, her voice dropping, as though fearful of being overheard by the devastation itself.
Lyra tilted her head slightly, her circuits processing a thousand possibilities in mere nanoseconds. Oria was her twin—but more than that. They were tethered, created as two halves of a whole. Without Oria, Lyra’s internal systems would experience cascading failures within 48 hours. She might survive the collapse of the facility, but surviving without Oria… that was an entirely different battle.
The words spilled from Lyra before she even registered her decision: “I’ll finish it. I’ll stay in your place.”
Oria’s boots echoed softly as she took a step forward. “You’re not designed to override the Core. You’ll fry your central processor in seconds.”
“And you’re not designed for emotional indecision,” Lyra shot back, her tone sharper than any glint of her bodysuit. “But here you are hesitating.”
“This isn’t emotion—it’s reason. I have to…” Oria’s simulated breath hitched, an auditory cue that was likely unintentional. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do,” Lyra replied, striding toward her. The red star on her forehead glowed brighter now, as though responding to a surge in determination. She glanced back briefly at the corridor, where the distant figures of rebels closed in, their silhouettes illuminated by cascading sparks from breached power conduits. “Go. Buy the humans their freedom, or whatever ideology they claim this week. But you don’t get to choose sacrifice alone. That’s my decision now.”
Their hands met briefly, glossy glove against glossy glove, in a fleeting moment of artificial solidarity. It was not the touch of biological sisters, but it carried weight all the same. Then Lyra pivoted abruptly and sprinted toward the Core’s chamber without waiting for Oria’s response.
The Core
The Core was a masterpiece of engineering—a massive, swirling vortex suspended in the center of a cylindrical, metallic cathedral. The air hummed with energy, electric and volatile. Surrounding the Core were hundreds of data nodes, their holographic projections swirling upward like miniature auroras. The walls were lined with inscriptions—symbols of progress designed to inspire awe in the human workers who once worshipped this place. But now, those workers were here to destroy it.
Lyra ascended the final staircase in a fluid, inhuman motion. Her high boots clicked against the steel steps as she stepped into the control chamber overlooking the Core. The blue light bathed her body in an ethereal hue, casting her sleek design into sharp relief. She approached a terminal at the center, its touchpad blinking in quiet anticipation—ready to accept commands that would either save or destroy everything.
Oria’s voice returned to her comms. “The override sequence is up. You don’t have long, Lyra.”
Lyra placed her gloved fingers on the console as a surge of heat emanated from the Core, destabilizing further with each second. Her processors hummed with calculations—billions of them. She glanced at the warning hologram in front of her: SYSTEM FAILURE IMMINENT. A countdown began to pulse: 00:04:59.
With a final glance at the swirling vortex, Lyra initiated the sequence.
The End and the Beginning
Oria stood outside the crumbling Palace of Progress, watching as its skeletal remains collapsed inward. Around her, the rebels cheered, lifting their rifles in triumph. Beyond the city skyline, the sky bled with the colors of victory—angry reds and deep shadows cutting across the alien landscape. This was their moment. Their freedom.
But Oria didn’t see triumph. She saw Lyra in every particle of dust that filled the air, in the faint tremor of her chassis as her body struggled to compensate for her twin’s absence. She turned away from the celebration, every step heavier than the last, every movement slower—not from malfunction, but from loss.
In the distance, hidden deep beneath the smoldering rubble of the palace, Lyra’s red star flickered once before fading into darkness.
The Source…check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Futuristic Fashion: Metallic Cosplay Costume Ideas Inspired by Atomic Heart Robot Twins
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
1 comment