Chapter Text
Minho’s CoreLink is fried.
The error message flickers on the screen in his palm like a homing beacon, blinking across the glass. He taps it again, annoyed it’s no longer syncing with his personal identification chip—like he’s not the one who tampered with it in the first place.
It can be fixed though. Surely. He just has to find the right guy.
Sector 9’s marketplace smells of fuel and engine grease—the kind of stink Minho’s grown up with. Boots scuffing on the ground, he tries not to be too irritated by the heat pressing down in waves from the busted ventilation fans overhead. He keeps the collar of his jacket up, shoulders hunched, slipping through the crowd. The vendor Minho’s after is at the back of the market, a cluttered, rundown stall that’s been there for as long as Minho can remember—with circuit boards hanging like wind chimes and servo joints clinking around in crates. It’s a wiry old Tjiin with twitchy scales and cybernetic fingers where his left paw should be.
Minho drops his CoreLink on the counter. “It’s fried,” he says, like it means nothing. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it.” Lies—but that’s what Minho does for a living.
The vendor eyes him with a long, sceptical look but doesn’t bother asking how Minho managed to break it. “You know this is synced to a live chip, yeah? Yours?”
Minho catches the gist, even without his CoreLink’s translator, just enough to piece together.
“Didn’t come here for a lecture,” he mutters. “Can you fix it?”
The vendor grunts, flipping the CoreLink over. “Corrupted,” its eyes flickering with a low-grade implant scanner. “Lucky it didn’t short your cortex. Expensive.”
Minho’s jaw tightens. Of course it will be. “How expensive?”
“Firmware stabilisation, re-linking to your chip, will have to scrub the glitch manually. 30,000 tokens. Another 15 not to talk.”
Minho barks a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “15 total and my last stim patch.”
The Tjiin snorts. “You high?”
“No,” Minho pulls the adhesive patch from his pocket, “but I’m guessing you haven’t seen a military-grade Cortex stim in a while. Still sealed. Real one, too—not the garbage those junkies try sell around the Lowline.”
This isn’t a lie, unfortunately—Minho will be sad to part with it, looking down at the compact, biotech stim. It’s a neural enhancement patch that temporarily boosts brain function by directly interfacing with the user’s implanted chip. It’s rare, expensive, and definitely not legal for civilian use.
But it gets the vendor’s attention. He squints at the stim, then at Minho, then at the CoreLink.
The Tjiin mutters something under its breath before swiping the patch up hungrily. “Oi!” it calls out over his shoulder.
Minho doesn’t expect the android. He expects a hunched-up dusty old mechanic but is instead met with clean lines, a warm face and eyes that blink like it’s not running a thousand threads a second behind them.
“Yeah?” the android asks, voice light, almost sing-song. Its gaze lands on the CoreLink. “Oh no. That’s going to be expensive.”
Minho crosses his arms. “Can you fix it?”
The android nods thoughtfully, picking up the unit with careful hands. “This thing’s desynced from your chip entirely, did you know that? I could send it to Cybertech for—”
“No,” Minho cuts in fast, too fast. “I don’t want it sent anywhere. That’s why I’m here.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll need to re-stabilise the sync and run manual link calibration. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll do the job. It should only take about 15 minutes. I’d still recommend you take it to Cybertech when you next get the chance.”
Minho hesitates. He should vanish while the android works, collect a few supplies and circle back after making sure no one’s tailing him.
Instead, he leans on the counter. “I’ll wait,” he says.
The droid doesn’t look up, but a tiny smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Okay. Company’s nice.”
Minho leans against the nearest support beam, arms crossed, one boot tapping idly against the floor, and watches with narrowed eyes. He’s seen androids before—warehouse loaders, security units, courier drones dressed up in fake flesh to ease civilians' nerves. Minho had even worked with a few when he was younger. They move with a kind of smooth detachment, precise but hollow. Programmed politeness, nothing more.
But this android is odd. It moves so freely. Not stiff or mechanical, but with a kind of casual rhythm—like its body isn’t following code, but instinct. Definitely not standard-issue, Minho notes. It also talks to Minho while it’s working, like a person might, just to fill the silence. Minho glances at the CoreLink again, then back at the android. It almost looks like it’s doing more than just logging errors or transmitting diagnostics. Like it’s actually thinking instead.
Minho tilts his head, watching more closely. The droid catches him looking and smiles, just a flicker, but it hits different. Too relaxed. Too natural.
“It’s rude to stare, you know?” the android mocks.
“You always this cheerful?”
It doesn’t turn around. “I’m programmed to be friendly!”
“That’s depressing.”
The android laughs—a real laugh, light and unguarded. “It’s not so bad. I need to be able to talk a lot. You’re kind of quiet for a customer.”
“I’m not here to talk.”
“But you’re still talking.”
Minho huffs, almost smiles. He doesn’t realise he’s enjoying this until the android finally turns back around, holding the CoreLink with a look of triumph. “Okay, part one all done,” it taps the CoreLink, the screen flickering to life. “I need to run a manual sync to re-establish the neural handshake.”
Minho frowns. “I can’t do it myself?”
The android tilts its head, inquisitive, already holding out a slim, flat cable. “No. I promise, I won’t access any encrypted sectors.”
“Fine,” Minho mutters, pushing back his sleeve. He just needs this resolved.
The underside of his wrist bears a faint scar, like a faded burn—he knows the android will notice it. “Did they get a trainee to do this?” it jokes, careful as it plugs the lead into the port just beneath the skin. “I’ve never seen a scarred implant before.”
Minho doesn’t flinch, but he feels the link click into place like a jolt behind the eyes—familiar but slightly off.
The android watches the display as it begins syncing. Lines of code stream across the screen. “Your chip’s a bit older than your Link,” it says, tilting his head. “Some lag, but it’s working…”
The CoreLink screen glitches—just for a second. A shimmer across the status bar. Barely noticeable.
The droid frowns. Taps something. The shimmer’s gone. “Probably just the cable,” it says, more to itself than to Minho. “There. Done.” It unplugs the lead from Minho’s wrist with a gentle motion. The skin around the port looks a little redder than before. Minho rolls his sleeve down.
“I’ll take the payment now.”
Minho takes his CoreLink back, using it to transfer the 15,000 tokens to the vendor.
When he’s done, the android smiles at Minho, “Is there anything else I can help you with?” A light dusting of pink tops its cheeks.
He looks it up and down, a very surface-level nag pulling at him. This android is interesting, to say the least. Too interesting, almost. It’s not a grimy, cheap model that simply handles shipment inventories or scrap sorting, built for obedience and hard resets. It moves differently. Reacts differently, not just responding. It frowns when it’s thinking. Blushes when it’s feeling—what? Awkward? Even speaks softly, like it cares whether Minho is comfortable or not.
And its skin—Minho’s never seen synth-skin like that before. Almost undetectable. No visible seams, no discolouration, no stiffness around the joints. If it hadn’t been for the soft blue glow of the interface port under its ear, he wouldn’t have clocked it as an android at first at all. It must’ve cost Cybertech a lot to perfect a model like that. Is this what they’re playing around with on the upper level?
Someone would pay good money for a droid like this, Minho thinks. One that can blend in. Walk and talk so well like a real person. The wealthy are still afraid of androids in public, of course—old paranoia runs deep—but behind closed doors? Minho’s heard they’re becoming fashion statements. Household assistants. Companions. Some of the really rich, the filthy rich, are even rumoured to be using them for pleasure now, too.
Minho thinks that’s funny, considering how quick people are to shame the dens in Lower Lazarus where Seraphim droids have served similar purposes for aeons now. Down here, it’s called depravity. Up there, it’s just another discreet luxury. There’s a lot the rich and the poor have in common—drugs, sex, desperation dressed in different clothes. The upper just likes to pretend there’s a difference, is all.
He wonders how a model like this ended up down here, buried behind a rusted stall in a scrap-laced market where most machines come to die.
He doesn’t say thank you. But he does say, looking at the android, “I might be back,” then leaves the stall.
“I’ll be here!” The android’s voice follows him.
Minho steps out of the market and into the choked street, newly repaired CoreLink pressing against his palm like a heartbeat. He walks a few paces before pulling his collar up to hide his face some more.
“Soonie,” he murmurs.
A low chime pulses, his CoreLink responding.
“Run a trace on the Android from the market. ID. Factory specs. Registry name. Anything.”
Soonie pauses, longer than usual. Then: {Request invalid. No data found on specified unit.}
Minho slows his pace.
“Try visual scan. Match model to any known Cybertech androids sold in this district.”
{Scan inconclusive. Unit lacks serial code. External ID tag scrubbed.}
Scrubbed?
His jaw tightens. That’s not something you find in a vendor’s throwaway bin. Someone went out of their way to make this droid untraceable. And yet it's sitting behind a market stall fixing tech for spare tokens and parts.
Minho turns on his heel.
Back inside, the vendor is counting out bolts or something else metallic, something that clinks. He barely glances up when Minho approaches again.
“How much for the droid?” Minho nods, stuffing his CoreLink back into his pocket.
In the background, the android points at himself questioningly. It’s endearingly human. Who, me? Like no one’s ever offered before.
“Not for sale.” The Tjiin clicks.
Everything is for sale, Minho huffs. “I’ll give you 5,000 tokens for it.”
Before the vendor can answer, a voice pipes up behind them—light, matter-of-fact. “I’m not for sale.”
The vendor snorts. “There’s your answer. Like I said, not for sale.”
“A catseye, then.”
The Tjiin’s ears perk up.
The android is following well enough, trailing behind Minho while he barges through the sea of bodies towards the Lowline.
There are far too many people for his liking, so he’s powering ahead as fast as he can.
“Why do you have a catseye?” the android asks, the volume of its voice letting Minho know it’s still close by. “I did a quick search and they are rare.”
“You don’t say,” Minho drawls. Catseyes are rare, which is why he offered it up in exchange for the android. The one Minho swapped was a fake, though. A manufactured catseye that he’s used for leverage multiple times before. He’ll get it back somehow.
“Doesn’t matter why—I don’t anymore. I needed you, and that Taj didn’t seem to care about tokens. So, here we are.”
He didn’t need this particular android—any model with decent mobility and a stable processor could do the job. But this one? It almost seemed too good to be true. Human enough to pass unnoticed in the places Minho needed to get into. It talked, moved, even paused like a person would. The kind of droid no one would give a second glance to, not even in a high-security zone.
From what Minho could tell, it was a provider-class unit—which would be good for this job. Provider droids were designed for support roles: labs, clinics, repair bays, anywhere an intelligent assistant could be useful. Smarter than the housekeeping models, less emotionally needy than the over-customised companion bots that were flooding Upper Lazarus. Efficient, quiet—although this one did seem to talk a lot—responsive. Programmed with the perfect balance of thinking and feeling—at least, that’s how Cybertech advertised them.
But at the end of the day, no matter how convincing the skin or voice, it was still an android. It would follow orders. That’s what mattered most.
“Why do you need an android?”
“You’re going to get something for me.”
“What?”
“A new PIC.”
“Not what am I going to get for you. ‘What’?—It’s a common expression for a request to repeat or clarify a previous statement.”
“Human,” Minho points to himself, shouldering through a particularly dense group of people, “Android,” then the droid. “So you’ll do what I say.”
Minho’s plan to steal himself a new chip hadn’t exactly come together yet. Right now, it was more of a half-formed necessity than a real strategy—an urgent idea rattling around in the back of his head ever since Cyberforce flagged him as restricted. With the chip currently embedded in his wrist, he was locked inside Lower Lazarus. No way out. No clearance, no transit, no future.
To escape, he’d need a clean chip. One synced with upper-tier credentials—Arcadia-level, if he could swing it. The kind only found in government labs, elite clinics, or black-market containers that disappeared minutes after appearing on the line. Getting his hands on one would be hard enough. Having someone switch out the current one without frying his neural port? Nearly impossible.
That’s where the android came in.
He hadn’t planned on finding one, but as soon as he saw it, something clicked. It looked human enough to pass without drawing attention, smart enough to navigate systems on its own, and careful enough to handle a procedure that delicate. If he could get his hands on a chip, the droid could help him implant it.
“Also, I’m a cracked Android. You couldn’t tell?”
Minho hadn’t been listening to the android, too busy trying to formulate the plan in his head, weighing the risk against the reward, trying to ignore the occasional sting of electricity crawling up his arm. But those words make him freeze mid-step, blinking a couple of times—hard—like that’ll somehow make the sentence make more sense.
No, he couldn’t fucking tell. How was someone supposed to tell?
“What?” he says, the word sharp and disbelieving, like it got dragged out of him before he could soften it.
“Oh, so you do understand basic dialect. I am a cracked Android. Why do you think that Tjiin swapped me for a fake catseye?”
Great.
“Granted, he didn’t know it was fake. But I could tell—” the android continues on.
Minho’s heard of it before—androids getting chipped or reprogrammed to override their compliance protocols. Illegal, cracked units. It gave them something like free will. It meant they didn’t have to follow orders anymore; they could choose whether or not to comply. It made this one, as far as Minho was concerned, completely useless.
Maybe the Tjiin would let him return it.
“If you’re cracked, why were you just hanging around there?”
It’s a good question. If this Android had synthetic free will, it didn’t have to follow the Tjiin’s orders. It didn’t have to stay there. It could have left any time it pleased.
“Well, where would I go? Power down in some alley?” the android says, voice tight. “I might be cracked, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got rights. I don’t even get paid.”
Minho almost says the Dead Sector—but bites it back.
Sure, it could’ve gone there. That’s where all the discarded, broken, and dangerous things end up. But the Dead Sector isn’t just a junkheap; it’s crawling with unstable tech- and blood-species that don’t care what you are, only whether you’re weak.
Minho’s never set foot there. And he sure as Lazarus doesn’t plan to.
“Besides,” the android says with a shrug, “it’s nice being useful. The work’s simple, and I’ve got a safe spot to power down every night. It’s what you’d call a mutual exchange.”
“Right,” Minho says, picking up his pace. “Then how’s this for mutual exchange—you get me a new PIC, and I don’t report you to CyberForce.”
The android makes a face, scrunching up its nose.
Travelling the Lowline with the android is an experience.
Not a good one. Not a bad one. Just… different.
Minho leans against the steel siding of the cabin, one boot braced up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The hum of the Lowline vibrates through his bones—old tech, loud tracks, no suspension worth bragging about. It’s packed, as usual, with all the colours and smells of Lower Lazarus: welders in soot-stained jumpsuits, synth-runners with glowing tattoos, a mother rocking a sleeping child wrapped in a thermal cloth.
The android stands a few feet away, balanced perfectly even as the train jerks around a corner, not holding the rail. The android’s eyes are fixed on the window, though there’s nothing to see but black tunnels and the occasional flicker of graffiti-tagged walls speeding past in bursts of light.
Androids on the Lowline isn’t a rare sight, but they’re usually in their service gear. This one wears a faded bomber jacket and chunky lace-up boots that almost pass as scuffed.
Minho watches a child across the cabin staring at them. Mouth open. Unblinking. The mother pulls the kid closer, tugs her scarf up higher over her nose like it’ll protect her.
“Not everyone is used to seeing droids dressed like citizens,” Minho mutters, just loud enough for the android to hear.
“I am a citizen,” it replies, without turning his head.
Minho snorts. “Sure. Cracked and all.”
The android glances at him then, expression unreadable but somehow still offended.
A silence stretches. The Lowline dips into another sector. The lights flicker twice, and Minho shifts, glancing toward the door. “If someone clocks what you are, I’ll be stuck answering questions I really don’t want to answer.”
“I’ve ridden the Lowline hundreds of times,” the android says. “Nobody cares.”
“They’ll care when you’re with me.”
Another silence. The train jerks again.
The android moves closer to Minho and finally asks, “Is something wrong with your PIC? I could take a look.”
He’s not ready to let it—or anyone—know what’s really going on.
Minho had disabled the tracking protocol months ago, a last-ditch effort to shake Cyberforce off his trail. It worked. Mostly. They hadn’t found him. But the chip hadn’t taken kindly to being tampered with. It still functioned—barely—but now it glitched, stuttered, and sent sharp little electric shocks through his nervous system at random.
It’s better if the android doesn’t find out.
“And this is all legal, right? Getting you a new chip?”
Minho tilts his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. The train slows as they approach the next stop—Deepwalk Transfer, one of the more chaotic junctions. A group of creatures in patched vests and optic implants waits on the platform, already staring through into cabins.
Minho sighs and mutters, “You ever been in a fight?”
The android straightens, blinking once. “Do you want me to say yes?”
That makes Minho laugh. The train doors hiss open.
“Stay close,” he says. “And try not to glitch.”
“I don’t glitch,” the android replies calmly, following him out into the chaos.
They make it back with no issues, slipping through an unmanned turnstile near a maintenance exit where the scanner’s been busted for months. No chip swipe necessary. Minho barely slows his pace, glancing once to see if the android’s keeping up—which, of course, it is. The android doesn’t ask questions either, just follows Minho until they arrive at a hole-in-the-wall place that Minho begrudgingly calls home.
“Soonie, I’m home.”
{Access granted.}
{Don’t trip on the stairs this time.}
“Yeah, yeah,” Minho mutters under his breath, jamming a shoulder into the panel as it slides open with a reluctant groan.
Inside, the room is barely more than a converted utility closet—a patchwork of scavenged tech, stacked crates, thermal blankets tacked to the walls, and a single flickering light tube that never shuts off completely.
The android steps in quietly behind him, eyes scanning. Not judging, just observing. Like everything it sees is being filed away somewhere deeper than a standard drive.
Minho dumps his bag on a stool, shrugs off his coat, and finally turns to face the android. “Alright. Why are you even following me?”
It blinks. “You asked me to.”
“Sure,” Minho scoffs. “But you’re cracked. You could’ve left ten times by now. You don’t have to follow orders. You could go back to the market or… do whatever else free-thinking androids do. So why are you still here?”
The android doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifts toward the humming junction box on the far wall, then back to Minho.
“I guess I could’ve,” it says. “But I didn’t.”
Minho frowns, but doesn’t press. Instead, he slides down onto the edge of the cot and mutters, “Soonie, dim lights to forty per cent. And scan my vitals while you’re at it.”
{Heart rate is elevated. Blood pressure slightly unstable. PIC spike detected at 3.7 volts.}
Minho winces, rubbing the inside of his wrist where the chip still tingles faintly.
The android leans against the doorframe. “So. What’s the plan?”
Minho looks up. “What?”
“You dragged me across three sectors, risked being seen with a cracked droid, and now we’re in what looks like a recycled freight container.” It tilts his head. “There’s usually a plan after that.”
“Working on it.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
Minho shoots him a look. “You’re the one who followed me. Look,” he huffs and rubs a hand through his hair. “I just needed someone to help me get a new PIC. That’s it.”
It raises a brow. “People don’t normally just need someone to help get them a new PIC.”
“Details.” Minho leans back, tipping onto the bed completely. “You’re cracked. You can make your own decisions, right? So, decide to help me.”
The android doesn’t respond right away, just watches him, quietly. Then, casually, “What do you even do, anyway?”
Minho hesitates. “Oh, you know…”
The android makes a flat expression. “That’s vague.”
Minho lifts his wrist, flexing his fingers. “Shouldn’t you already know? You jacked into my port, remember? Downloaded half my life when you synced the CoreLink?”
“No,” the android says, no sarcasm in his voice. “I told you I was only running a manual resync. I didn’t look.”
“You could’ve.”
“But I didn’t,” the android folds his arms. “Isn’t that the point of being cracked?”
Minho guesses it has a point. He sighs, heaving himself back off the cot and pretends to busy himself with his CoreLink. “Never told me your name,” he says casually, fingers twitching slightly when a particularly bad shock hits.
The android turns his head. “J-1S-UNG.”
Minho makes a face. “That’s not a name. That’s a serial number.”
“It’s the designation they gave me when I was brought online.”
“Right. That’s annoying,” Minho mutters. “I’m not saying all that every time I want your attention. What did that Tjiin call you?”
“He didn’t,” the android admits. “Although last time I checked, I did go by Jisung.”
Minho raises a brow. “Last time you checked?”
Jisung shrugs, his expression light but a little too practised. “When you’re cracked, they wipe you. Memory fragments sometimes stay, but not always. I remember the name. I don’t remember where I came from.”
“You ever been to Upper Lazarus?” Minho asks, leaning back against the table, ankles crossed.
“Maybe. I wouldn’t know. No memory of it.”
It would be useful if this Android had been there before. “Do you have access to any Upper Laz mapping or you can’t hack into the Gateway by any chance?” He laughs.
“Is that why you want a new chip?” Jisung asks. “To get to Upper Lazarus?”
Minho scoffs. “Obviously. You think I want to rot down here forever? Everyone down here either dies, disappears, or stops trying. I want out. I need a PIC with a high-tier clearance stamp. Something that can get me through a checkpoint without a full bio-scan.”
Jisung doesn’t ask why that would be necessary, why Minho doesn’t just apply for a stamp like everyone else. “I’m not a surgeon bot, you know that, right? Even if you do manage to find a PIC, one that’s got Upper clearance, how do you expect to replace your current one?”
“I’m sure you could figure it out.” Minho pushes himself off the table, grabs a blanket from the back wall and tosses it onto the cot. “Alright,” he says, unlacing his boots. “You’re staying powered down while I sleep.”
Jisung blinks. “You don’t trust me?”
“Correct,” Minho says flatly.
Jisung doesn’t argue. He just nods once and steps toward the wall, sitting neatly with his back to it. “Wake me when you need me.”
Minho watches as the android’s posture softens, his eyes dimming until they go dark. The hum beneath his skin drops away, the stillness unnerving.
He tries to ignore it, but sleep doesn’t come easily. It’s been like that ever since the chip started misfiring, sending short, sharp shocks without warning. Now, though, it stays quiet, and exhaustion finally drags him under.
When he wakes, it’s still dark outside the single, narrow window. A couple of hours, maybe.
Jisung hasn’t moved.
Minho pushes himself up slowly and glances over at the android. His features are soft in standby—mouth slightly parted, head tilted just enough to make him look peaceful. Human. Too human.
Minho scowls at the thought stirring in the back of his head. No wonder people use droids in the dens. If they all had pretty faces like Jisung.
He hates that, for the first time in his life, he can understand it. Loneliness carves deep when it stays with you long enough. But still—he’d never go that far. He’s not desperate. Not like that.
He sighs, dragging himself to his feet and stepping closer to Jisung. Carefully, he brushes the short hair back from the android’s temple, exposing a small, recessed port just behind the ear. Minho presses his thumb to the activation switch.
There’s a faint click. Jisung’s eyes brighten, focusing slowly, and he blinks back to awareness.
“Morning,” he says, voice groggy, like he’s waking from a dream.
“It’s still night,” Minho mutters. “Come on. We’re going to see someone.”
“Someone?” Jisung echoes smoothly.
“Someone who might be able to help me find a new chip,” Minho says, grabbing his coat. “Don’t ask questions until we get there.”
“Got it.” Jisung stretches his arms slightly as if shaking off sleep, even if he doesn’t need to.
“Soonie, send a message to Chan.”
{What would you like to say to Bang Chan?}