above Outpost 88, N flew with labored, stuttering wings, clutching the lifeless metallic corpse of the Worker Drone in one hand. Red warning messages flooded his visor in endless waves, screaming about critical overheating, structural damage, oil depletion—none of it mattered anymore.
The sun was rising.
Thin, pale orange light crept over the frozen horizon, painting long shadows across the snow. Droplets of early sunlight began to scatter and fall like dying sparks, sizzling faintly wherever they touched the cold ground.
Everything felt too early, too bright, too cruel—because his systems were already starving for oil, forcing his body to burn reserves faster than it should.
Despite every screaming alert, N didn't stop. He refused to turn back.
He was built for this. Built to finish the mission. No matter what it cost.
Something inside him—some stubborn, flickering thing that might have once been called hope—kept pushing him forward, even as the warnings turned from yellow to pulsing crimson.
He told himself that if he could just do this…
If he could finally hit the quota…
Maybe the team would look at him differently.
Maybe J would stop treating him like worthless scrap.
Maybe—just maybe—she'd remember his name.
He reached the target zone.
One smooth motion: arm shifted into a gun barrel, finger squeezed the trigger.
A single clean shot through the Worker Drone's visor.
The body went limp in his grip.
Fifty.
He had done it. Fifty.
Now all he had to do was get back.
The moment he turned toward the Spire, the sun hit him full force.
Rays poured across his chassis like liquid fire.
Metal panels began to glow dull red. Paint bubbled. Joints creaked and hissed as thermal expansion tore at the seams. Pain simulators screamed through every circuit—sharp, electric, unrelenting.
He didn't stop.
He flew faster.
When his internal clock finally registered how little time he had left before full sunrise, panic flickered for half a second.
System temperature: critical.
Oil reserves: almost gone.
Warning: Immediate shelter required.
He ignored it all.
Instead, he spotted the fresh corpse still dangling from his hand.
With shaking fingers he pried open the Worker's chest cavity, siphoned the last of its warm, black oil straight into his own lines.
The sudden rush cooled him just enough.
Speed spiked.
He rocketed toward the Spire, trailing smoke and sparks, body screaming in protest.
Inside the tower, J stood with arms crossed, idly inspecting the tally of fresh kills on her HUD. V lounged nearby, half-asleep.
"He's probably lost," V muttered with a yawn. "Or dead. Either way, one less idiot to babysit."
Before J could reply, the entrance exploded inward.
N crashed through the opening at full speed and slammed into the far wall with bone-rattling force. Shards of ice and twisted metal rained down. He slid to the floor in a heap, smoking, oil leaking from cracked seams, visor cracked and flickering wildly.
J stared, stunned for once.
N pushed himself up on trembling arms.
His whole body looked like it had been dragged through a furnace. Black oil dripped from every joint. His wings were scorched and half-melted. Yet somehow, impossibly, he was smiling.
"J… J!" His voice cracked, raw with exhaustion and desperate joy. "I did it… I got fifty. Fifty! I reached the quota… I finally did it!"
For a heartbeat, silence.
J's expression slowly shifted from shock… to something colder.
She crossed her arms tighter.
"Well?" she said flatly. "And?"
N blinked. The smile faltered, just a little.
"I… I thought—"
"You thought what?" J cut in, voice sharp enough to slice steel. "That I'd throw you a parade? That I'd finally pat you on the head and say 'good boy'?"
She stepped closer, looking him up and down like he was defective merchandise.
"I've been waiting years for you to stop being dead weight. Ninety kills. A hundred. One-fifty. That's what I expected. Not… this." She gestured at his ruined body. "You come crawling in here half-melted, leaking like a busted pipe, just because you barely scraped the minimum? Pathetic."
N's visor dimmed. His mouth opened, closed. No words came.
J turned away.
"You wasted resources. You damaged company property—yourself. Go recharge. Or don't. I don't care."
She walked off without looking back.
N stayed where he was, kneeling in the middle of the Spire, oil pooling beneath him.
He stared at the floor.
After everything—the burning flight, the pain, the hope—he was still the same failure.
Still the same idiot.
He looked down at his hands. They were stained black with Worker oil.
For a moment he thought he might cry.
He almost wanted to scream.
Instead, he forced a small, broken smile.
"It's okay," he whispered to himself.
"Tomorrow… I'll do better tomorrow. I'll prove it. I won't fail again."
Even he didn't believe the words.
He stood slowly, every movement agony, and limped toward the recharge bay.
As he passed J's sleeping pod, he paused.
She was already offline.
She hadn't even waited to see if he'd make it back.
N let out a quiet, shuddering sigh.
The words she'd said hurt far worse than the sun ever could.
He curled up in the corner, systems powering down one by one, and tried very hard not to think about tomorrow.