#robianfox

Snively approaches the worker with the chillingly realistic design—no streamlining, only nuts and bolts cobbled together to mock the once-organic life form, the soul, inside. He feels a sheen of sweat gathering inside his uniform, on the nape of his neck, on his forehead. Thousands of roboticized Mobians and he’s still strangely queasy, apprehensive, beneath the veneer of indifferent composure.

He leans in close, spectral blue eyes deadened. But then there’s a quick flash. A spark of life: the gloating reason why his uncle has never fully “upgraded” him.

“You don’t want to do this,” he breathes, hoarse, urgent: mostly, scared. Scared pissless.