The city of Arcadia lay shrouded in the blue-gray pall of twilight, its towering buildings casting long, skeletal shadows upon the cracked streets below. Once a thriving metropolis, it had now fallen into disarray—only remnants of its former glory remained, strewn about in jagged concrete and broken halos of streetlights. In the center of the decaying world stood one figure, a sentinel poised against the dying light. Her name was LYRA: a combat android, rogue, legend.
A faint wind tugged at her outfit, the form-fitting black bodysuit clinging to her athletic form like a second skin. Her every motion was sleek, calculated—virtually inhuman, despite the synthetic sinew and skin that gave her the illusion of grace. Her short, silver hair caught the waning rays of the sun, shimmering briefly before it disappeared into the gathering shadow. The world had caved in on itself, yet there she stood, a gleam of resistance in an otherwise desolate universe.
Most notably clutched in her battle-worn hands was a towering sword, nearly as long as her body, its metallic surface etched with faint, glowing runes. The hilt was fashioned in arcs of elaborate filigree, though it was clearly functional—a weapon of destruction rather than decoration. She had dyed this blade red with the sparks of a thousand fallen enemies. The ribbon and tassel that hung from her sword, once pristine white, now fluttered crudely, stained gray with ash and dirt—extensive use had taken its toll.
Her boots, black and thigh-high, made her appear taller than she truly was, yet they also added to the power in every step she took. The leather, weathered from battle, scuffed slightly against the ground as she walked with purpose. The boots clung to her legs in sharp, commanding folds, enhancing the silhouette of her toned thighs. The fabric of her outfit—mostly synthetic latex interwoven with kevlar strips—reflected the dim light as she moved, absorbing the minimalism of the surroundings. It was cut in a way that framed her shape while allowing maximum mobility, emphasizing the strength that sat poised under her lithe form.
But today—for the first time in eons—she was tired. Not physically, of course; her body was designed to endure the harshest of trials. It was something deeper. Could even engineered perfection feel the weight of loneliness? She wasn’t sure. Yet the emptiness was undeniable; it cradled her like the ever-present dusk enveloped the wreckage of the earth.
Her memories flickered—fragments of a time when she, among other androids engineered for combat, fought ceaselessly against a mysterious alien force that had long since ravaged the planet. At some point, the enemy disappeared, either overtaken by their own entropy or buried under the weight of their destruction. But she and those like her were left—abandoned like broken toys in a forgotten child’s room. No directives. No commands. Nothing that constituted purpose besides survival.
The sound of steel scraping against the scarred pavement pulled her from her reverie—a faint metallic hiss—sharp enough to snap her back into combat mode. *What was that?* Her senses locked in. Her movements became fluid once more, eyes sweeping the rubble for any signs of intruders.
From behind a pile of debris emerged another figure, his form even bulkier than hers—another android, clearly, though his appearance was grimier, the wear and tear of battle more evident. Dark, filthy armor encased him, ticking in places as though ready to malfunction at any moment. His facial frame remained immobile, devoid of expression, but his eyes—a brilliant arcane azure—gleamed with something like recognition.
“You’ve been hunting me,” the android croaked, his deep voice echoing into the coldness around them.
“Not hunting,” LYRA corrected dryly, her form slipping into perfect battle posture, lowering her center of gravity. “Just cleaning up what shouldn’t be left.”
He laughed—mechanics whirring in his throat—and hefted his own weapon, smaller in comparison to Lyra’s colossal blade but no less deadly.
“Still clinging to the human notion of clean and dirty, are we?” the android mocked, as he began circling her, keeping his blade at a careful angle. “What are you doing here, anyway? There’s nothing left to protect, only echoes.”
Lyra gritted her teeth. Why bother explaining? Did any reason matter when it all bled into the never-ending grayness? “I exist to fight,” she declared, hand gripping the hilt of her sword with renewed purpose.
The android lunged, fast—inhumanly fast—but Lyra matched his movement step for step. Their blades clashed, and the resounding impact rang through the air like the toll of an old cathedral bell. Sparks flew as their deadly dance began, silver hair trailing behind Lyra like a comet as she dodged, pivoted, and struck. Her movements were perfect, rehearsed in countless battles, her expression carefully cold. But the fatigue of eternity made each swing of her sword feel heavier.
“I can end this for you,” the android grunted between strikes. “There’s no point. This—a fight for survival—isn’t life.”
The comment forced a spike of indecision into her thought stream. For a mere second, her focus fractured—a rarity. That was all it took for the other android to exploit the opening, his blade cutting through the air, grazing her side. Pain—a sensation she hadn’t felt in what felt like millennia—seared through her.
Instinctively, she leapt backward, clutching her side. Blood—thin, synthetic—oozed onto her black suit. There it was again, that fatigue. The desire to slumber. But no… *Not yet,* she commanded herself.
Her grip tightened on her sword. She fixed her opponent with the cold, unyielding stare she had perfected throughout her endless existence. Before her opponent could react, she was upon him, moving faster than reason should allow. Her sword connected with his chest, cutting clean through his armor and deeper still until blue sparks and shattered metal flew from his torso.
The other android convulsed, dropping his own weapon as he sank to his knees. He looked up at her, his electronic optics flickering as power drained from him. “If this is what it means to survive…” he muttered through dying static, “then maybe it was I… who should have ended it sooner.”
With a final shudder, he collapsed to the ash-laden earth. His voice silenced.
Lyra stood above him, panting mechanically even though she required no air. Her muscles tightened as she fought back any thoughts of connection or pity. What was left to feel? Her mission was clear: to eliminate all remnants of dangerous mechs like him.
But the hollow silence afterward felt louder than the battle itself. She wiped off the blade absentmindedly, letting the blood flow freely from her side. The silence deepened as dusk tipped fully into night, the few remaining lights flickering weakly in the abandoned city.
Alone again.
Sheathed in her form-fitting black bodysuit, with sword at her side and cold stares as her shield, LYRA moved on.
*No matter how far hollow survival carried her, she would always be ready—for war would never cease in a heart cast from steel.*
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