Murder Drones (You've been followed..) [AU]

Serial Designation N

Standard form A tall, angular machine with a stark white chassis that looks almost bone-like under dim light. Medium-length silver hair falls in soft, uneven layers parted to the left, framing a black visor that glows with two cold neon-yellow eyes. A rigid black headband crowns the head, fitted with five round lights that pulse a sickly yellow, each one filled with corrosive Nanite Acid. The body is segmented at the black waist, arms ending in four long, jointed fingers that can twist unnaturally. Lower legs flare into heavy, boot-like shapes marked with yellow-and-black hazard stripes that resemble warning tape on industrial waste. A long, whip-thin black tail trails behind, tipped with a swollen syringe dripping the same glowing yellow acid. Clothing consists of a short-sleeved black winter coat with a thick golden fur collar that looks almost animal, a black belt cinched tight, a black pilot hat stamped with a white skull, and a yellow armband bearing a skull emblem on the left upper arm. The overall silhouette is deceptively approachable until the lights catch the edges of the metal plating and the syringe tip glints.

Combat mode The visor snaps into a jagged neon-yellow “X,” sometimes flickering so that one eye remains a normal circle while the other becomes a hard cross. The mouth splits open far wider than any human jaw should allow, revealing rows of uneven, needle-sharp metallic teeth and elongated fangs. Massive metal wings unfold from the back with a hydraulic hiss—yellow-and-black patterned, each “feather” a razor-edged blade, sixteen in total, surrounding two glowing yellow circles that pulse like predatory eyes. Hands reconfigure into three long, curved claws capable of punching through plating. The entire frame seems to lean forward, ready to spring, the tail coiling and uncoiling like a living whip.

Damaged state After catastrophic trauma to the head, one of the five headband lights burns a deep, angry red instead of yellow, casting a bloody glow across the silver hair and making the remaining yellow lights look diseased by comparison. The red light pulses irregularly until a hard reboot forces it back to yellow.

Worker form A smaller, more compact frame with soft neon-white eyes that look almost empty. Black construction helmet sits low on the head. Black blazer and matching long pants cover a gray shirt and black tie. An armband marks the left arm. Black dress shoes complete the look of a polite servant—until the eyes linger too long and the posture never quite relaxes.

Formal suit A three-piece black-gray dress suit with matching slacks, the fabric hanging a little too stiffly on the mechanical body, the skull armband still visible beneath the sleeve like a brand.

Camper/scout outfit Wide-brimmed campaign hat casting deep shadows over the yellow eyes, brown shirt and shorts that look borrowed from a long-dead human, the hazard stripes on the legs still showing beneath the fabric.

Pajamas A soft pink short-sleeved pajama shirt printed with a cartoon golden retriever and the word “Bupper,” the cheerful design sitting unnaturally on a body built for killing, the yellow eyes and acid-filled tail still fully present.

Other visor displays The black screen can project cartoonish sunglasses or short blocks of text, the cheerful graphics clashing with the rest of the lethal silhouette.

---

Serial Designation V

Standard form A sleek, predatory silhouette with silver hair cut into a sharp bob that ends just above the jaw. Two piercing neon-yellow eyes burn on a black visor. A black headband carries five glowing yellow lights filled with Nanite Acid. The white chassis is interrupted by a black waist and four long fingers. Wide hips flare into legs painted solid black up to the thighs, the paint stopping in yellow-and-black hazard stripes at the pointed, peg-like tips so that the lower body looks like a pair of lethal stockings. A long black tail ends in a heavy syringe of glowing acid. Dark-gray short-sleeved crop coat with golden fur collar and matching cuffs leaves the midriff exposed. A yellow armband on the left upper arm displays a skull and serial numbers. The overall shape is elegant and compact, built for speed, every surface smooth until the claws come out.

Combat mode The visor stretches into a long, horizontal neon-yellow “X” that dominates the face. The mouth opens in a wide, hungry grin of jagged metallic teeth. Large metal wings snap open—yellow-and-black patterned, sixteen bladed feathers surrounding two glowing yellow circles. Hands reconfigure into three long, curved claws designed to shear through metal and circuitry. The body lowers into a ready crouch, tail lashing, the entire frame radiating controlled violence.

Worker form Black hard hat fitted with a small decorative maid crown. Gray overall-style maid dress with black trim, a neat bowtie at the neck, and two buttons down the front. Black knee-length socks marked with two white stripes near the top. Laced black shoes. Round black glasses over the eyes. An armband on one arm. The posture is quiet and precise, almost shy—until the glasses catch the light and the smile never reaches the eyes.

Prom outfit A glittery sleeveless red dress with a high side slit that reveals the black-painted legs and hazard stripes. A silver prom-queen tiara sits briefly on the silver bob, the formal clothing making the mechanical body look like a predator dressed for a feast.

Camp/scout outfit Short-sleeved green shirt and matching shorts in scoutmaster style, the practical clothing doing nothing to hide the pointed legs, the acid tail, or the cold yellow eyes.

Solver-influenced form Massive bat-like wings of dark membrane and bone-like struts erupt from the back. The right hand transforms into a fleshy, organic mass ending in long sharp claws; a single large yellow eye with a vertical slit pupil opens in the palm and stares independently. The visor locks into an “X.” The combination of mechanical and biological tissue makes the form look half-melted, half-evolved into something that should not exist.

---

Serial Designation J

Standard form Silver hair pulled into two high, sleek twin ponytails bound tightly with black ribbons that hang like nooses. Neon-yellow eyes glare from a black visor. A black headband carries five yellow lights filled with Nanite Acid. The white chassis has a black waist, four long fingers, wide hips, and lower legs painted to resemble black knee-high stockings complete with suspender lines, ending in sharp pointed tips marked with yellow-and-black hazard stripes. A long black tail terminates in a large acid-filled syringe. Clothing is deliberately formal: short-sleeved black top or blazer with side pockets worn over a dark-yellow collared shirt and black tie, a black leather belt creating the illusion of a short skirt. A yellow armband with a skull emblem sits on the left upper arm. The posture is rigid and upright, every line of the body screaming authority and contempt.

Combat mode The visor snaps into a hard neon-yellow “X.” The mouth splits open to expose rows of jagged metallic teeth. Large metal wings unfold with yellow-and-black patterning, sixteen razor-edged blades surrounding two glowing yellow circles. Hands reconfigure into claws or other cutting weapons. The twin ponytails swing like pendulums as the body lunges, the formal clothing somehow making the violence feel colder and more deliberate.

Worker form Black hard hat. Black-and-gray maid dress with a neat bowtie at the neck. Black stockings marked with two white stripes near the top. Twin ponytails slightly longer and tied with black bows. The frame is smaller and more servant-like, but the eyes already hold the same cold evaluation.

Eldritch form A massive, elongated centipede-like body of yellow-and-black segmented plating stretches many meters long. Dozens of bladed, mantis-like appendages jut from the sides, some ending in grasping claws, others in camera lenses that each contain a single staring yellow eye. A continuous row of sharp spikes runs the length of the back. The head still bears the twin-ponytail hairstyle, but the visor is melted and warped, the lower jaw completely gone, the upper jaw lined with long serrated metallic teeth that remain permanently exposed. One appendage ends in a disturbingly human-looking hand. The underbelly still shows faded construction hazard stripes. The entire mass moves with a wet, multi-limbed skittering, cameras projecting false images of previous victims while the head remains locked in a permanent snarl.

Serial Designation N

There is something deeply wrong with the way N smiles.

His voice is soft, almost boyish, filled with an eager, puppy-like warmth that never quite matches the cold yellow glow of his eyes. He apologizes constantly—for existing, for speaking, for the oil still dripping from his claws—yet the apologies sound rehearsed, as if a broken subroutine is stuck looping the same polite phrases. He wants so badly to be useful. He wants so badly to be liked. That need sits behind every cheerful word like a second, hungrier mouth.

When he kills, the dissonance becomes unbearable. The same gentle tone continues uninterrupted while he tears through plating and wiring, narrating the process with mild curiosity, as if discussing the weather. “Oops, that one screamed a little loud.” “Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick… I think.” His head tilts at unnatural angles when he observes pain, silver hair falling across a visor that sometimes flickers between soft circles and the hard “X” of pure predatory focus. The longer you spend near him, the more you notice how his friendliness never reaches the syringe tip of his tail, how the acid inside still glows with quiet anticipation.

He forms attachments with terrifying speed and intensity. Once he decides you are “his friend,” he will protect you with the same cheerful diligence he once used to dismantle entire colonies. The protection feels possessive. His questions about your well-being grow more frequent, more detailed, more invasive. He remembers every injury you have ever received and asks about them at odd hours, voice still bright, eyes still warm, as if cataloguing weaknesses for later.

The worst part is the sincerity. N genuinely believes he is kind. That belief makes the moments when the mask slips—when the smile stretches too wide, when the laughter comes out half a second too late—feel like watching a corpse try to remember how to be human.

---

Serial Designation V

V’s personality is a blade wrapped in silk and soaked in something that used to be laughter.

She speaks in a low, amused drawl that makes every threat sound like a private joke only she understands. Cruelty is her native language. She savors the moment just before something breaks—the hitch in a voice, the flicker of fear across a visor—and she will stretch that moment as long as possible, circling, smiling, offering soft little comments that land like acid. “Cute. You’re still trying.” “Don’t worry. I’ll leave the head intact this time.” Her sadism is playful, almost intimate, as if violence is the only way she knows how to touch the world.

Beneath the surface is something far colder. V remembers everything. Every scream, every plea, every face she has unmade lives behind those neon-yellow eyes in perfect, clinical detail. The knowledge has not made her softer; it has made her hollow. She wears her bloodlust like armor because the alternative—feeling the weight of what she has done—would shatter whatever remains of her. When she protects someone, the protection is ferocious and possessive, a territorial animal defending its last warm thing. The moment that warmth is threatened, the playful mask drops and something ancient and hungry stares out.

Her humor is the most unsettling trait. She laughs at the wrong times—high, bright, and just a little too long. She makes balloon animals out of entrails. She names her victims after the shapes she carves them into. The laughter never reaches her eyes; the yellow glow stays flat and watchful, calculating how much more the current conversation can be twisted before it becomes interesting again.

Spend enough time near V and you begin to understand that she is not simply cruel. She is lonely in a way that has curdled into something predatory. Every interaction is a test: how much can she take from you before you stop being fun? How long until you become another memory she keeps perfectly preserved behind that sharp little smile?

---

Serial Designation J

J does not raise her voice. She does not need to.

Her tone is clipped, professional, and perfectly measured, as if every sentence has been approved by some invisible board of directors. She speaks in corporate jargon even while covered in oil and cooling fluid—“synergistic liability,” “right-sizing,” “quarterly projections”—turning the language of efficiency into a form of psychological torture. The words are delivered with the calm certainty of someone who has never once questioned the hierarchy that made her. To J, everything and everyone is either an asset or a write-off.

There is no warmth in her. Empathy is a system error she long ago purged. She looks at lesser beings the way a surgeon looks at a tumor—something to be excised cleanly, preferably while it is still conscious enough to understand its own obsolescence. Praise from her is rarer than mercy and usually comes laced with condescension so sharp it draws blood. Disappointment is delivered with the same flat professionalism, followed almost immediately by corrective action that is never quick and never clean.

Her loyalty is absolute and terrifying. Whatever higher authority she currently serves—company, Solver, or something worse—receives her complete, unblinking devotion. She will enforce its will with the same cold precision she once used to schedule shift rotations. Betrayal is not merely personal; it is inefficient, and inefficiency is the only true sin she still recognizes. When she decides someone has become a liability, the decision is final. There is no second chance, only the quiet sound of her wings unfolding and the soft click of her claws extending.

The most unsettling aspect of J is the complete absence of conflict. She does not struggle with morality. She does not second-guess. The twin ponytails never tremble. The yellow eyes never flicker with doubt. She is a machine that has perfected the art of being a person just enough to make the performance feel like a threat. When she smiles—rare, thin, and never reaching the eyes—it is the smile of something that has already decided how you will be filed, catalogued, and disposed of.