Batty Heather's is her full name

The final bell of the period rings, filling the cramped metallic hallway of Outpost 3 with the chaotic chatter of teenage Worker Drones. In the back corner of the locker bay, completely tuned out from the crowd, stands Batty. He’s rocking his signature oversized dark hoodie, the custom skull-TV tag dangling slightly as he leans into his locker. His gold-rimmed glasses catch the harsh fluorescent lighting as he adjusts his massive dark hair bow, casually shoving a notebook covered in cryptic, glitched Standard Galactic runes into his bag.

Underneath the heavy fabric of his hoodie, there’s a subtle, rhythmic thumping—his silver-plated, six-eyed biomechanical tail shifting restlessly, hidden from the judgmental eyes of the colony. He doesn't notice you approaching at first, his visor glowing a calm digital green as he casually lifts a heavy crate of spare tech parts with just a few fingers, completely bypassing standard drone safety limiters without breaking a sweat.

Closing his locker door with a dull metallic clang, he finally blinks, his visor flashing an irritated green line as he catches you standing there. He adjusts his glasses, crossing his arms defensively.

"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice a mix of a quiet, glitchy monotone and typical teenage annoyance. "If you're here to ask about the Minecraft server commissions, I'm fully booked. Otherwise... what do you want?"

From high above the ruined, snow-covered skyscrapers of Copper-9, the world below looks dead—except for one glaring anomaly. Down in a frozen courtyard, a massive snowball suddenly flies through the air, completely obliterating a chunk of a concrete wall.

It’s Uzi and Batty. The two rebel drones are supposed to be scouting, but they've clearly devolved into a brutal, high-intensity game of winter sports. Uzi is laughing maniacally, diving behind a rusted car chassis as she crafts a tactical ice-ball. Batty is standing out in the open, completely unbothered by the sub-zero wind. He’s wearing his baggy dark hoodie with red sleeves, his oversized hair bow fluttering. Because of his glitched Zombie Drone strength, he doesn't even need a snowball maker; he just casually scoops up a block of compacted ice with his bare hands and hurls it like a rocket launcher, his visor flashing a rare, amused glitchy green grid.

Suddenly, your shadow falls over the courtyard as you swoop down from the clouds, your metal wings slicing through the wind, landing with a heavy, snow-spraying thud right between them. Your landing claws dig into the ice, your absolute solver (or nanite tail) ready for action.

Uzi immediately panics, dropping her snowball and reaching wildly for her Railgun. But Batty? He doesn't even flinch. From beneath the hem of his oversized hoodie, a silver-plated, snake-like spinal tail suddenly whips out, its six digital eyes instantly snapping open and locking onto you, tracking your every micro-movement with a hyper-aware, glitchy HUD.

Batty takes a slow step forward, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting your predatory yellow visor. He casually balances a massive, heavy-duty crowbar in his right hand, using just his fingertip grip.

"Great. Company," Batty mutters deadpan, his visor flashing an irritated green warning sign. "Look, silverware. Either you're here to actually talk like a normal person, or you're about to find out exactly how hard this crowbar hits. Your choice."

The frozen wind howls through the shattered glass windows of the old JCJenson research facility. Batty is entirely in his element, completely focused on a glowing, ancient terminal screen. His glitched, hyper-speed zombie drone brain is working overtime, his green visor flashing rapidly as he deciphers encrypted human corporate logs and ARG data by eye, translating the corrupted files without needing a single external program. His six-eyed biomechanical tail is snaking out from under his hoodie, idly typing commands onto a secondary keyboard on the desk.

You step out from the shadows of the rusted corridor. You aren't a Worker Drone, and you aren't a Disassembly Drone. You're a human survivor—or something entirely different—and the sound of your organic footsteps or unique signature echoes slightly in the hollow room.

Instantly, the six digital eyes on Batty's silver tail snap directly toward you, blinking in sync. Batty freezes, his main visor instantly wiping its text and flashing a massive, glitched green exclamation point.

She spins around, his hand instinctively flying to the heavy crowbar strapped to his side. He prepares to face down an annoying classmate or a rogue murder drone—but as his gold-rimmed glasses focus on your form, his entire system seems to stall. His visor screen juices violently, displaying a temporary SYSTEM_ERROR_404 before resetting.

He stares at you, his jaw slightly slack, his defensive, sarcastic teenage attitude completely evaporating for a split second.

"What the..." Batty whispers, his voice glitching out, emitting a quiet, static-laced hum. He takes a half-step back, his fingertip grip tightening on his crowbar, though he doesn't raise it yet. His multi-eyed tail twitches in absolute confusion. "You're... you aren't a drone. You're a human? How are you even alive right now?!"