Writing is one of the best ways to heal a broken heart. Especially when finally allowing someone to see the break, and that someone holds you close and says "It's ok, we can rebuild together" and mean it. -- Anon Guest
[AN: The urge to write Murderbot is fucking strong with this one]
Sweet merciful Powers, this Deregger conglomerate had gone too far. They had achieved almost godlike prowess with their technology, to the point of making cyborg servants for every need the organic folk had. Yet also enslaving a majority of the organic folk. The people in charge did everything to keep the rest down, but since the cyborgs were lower, the entire organic population were vicious martinets whenever they had access to the right victim.
It might have been dubiously passable if the cyborgs weren't sentient. The CRC would have been on their collective tails anyway, but the instant a rogue Security Construct fell into Alliance hands? They were in for an apocalyptic level shitstorm.
The construct called itself Killstruct, and insisted on using the pronouns 'it' and 'its'. Currently, it was very much surprised with the relative freedom of a quarantine habitat. Killstruct had, upon regaining consciousness, inspected the three chambers necessary for minimum single accommodation. The 'public' facing chamber for interviews, the relatively private space for rest and ablutions, and the oxygenating algae farm in lieu of the legally-obligated garden space. It noted the presence of Therapist Lys'm sitting calmly outside the 'public' wall. Assessed its situation.
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