Murder Drones: New Models

The morning began with Izun stepping out of his room. Descending to the first floor, he noticed the banner “Happy Birthday, You’re Already 8!” still hadn’t been taken down. With his violet display flickering softly, he began searching for something to do—his parents were still asleep. Izun: (Hmm. I woke up too early.) Several hours passed like that, but nothing worthwhile came to mind. Usually, when he woke up this early, he’d dive into textbooks out of boredom, hoping to impress his father with knowledge he hadn’t been taught. But now they’d agreed to take a break—Izun was already ahead of his peers in the school curriculum, the same ones he occasionally locked eyes with through the window. Cooking breakfast was out of the question. Ever since he nearly burned down the house at age five while his parents were away, he’d been strictly forbidden from approaching the stove until he turned ten. Thankfully, Grandpa Han had been nearby, and disaster was averted. So Izun decided to head upstairs to his parents’ room. Cracking the door open, he saw only his father—his tail dangling off the double bed, and his yellow display glowing “Sleep Mode.” His mother wasn’t there. Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind him. A hand touched his shoulder. Uzi: Let’s go. Don’t wake him—he’s got a tough shift ahead. Izun: But you both work the same job, same shift. Uzi: W-well, yes, but he handles the harder part. Anyway, that’s not important. What matters is—I promised you a gift. Izun: Oh right! But you didn’t give it to me. Uzi: True. I was exhausted yesterday, didn’t have time. But today I’m ready. Come with me. Izun followed his mother down to the basement. There he saw Uzi’s workshop. As soon as they entered, she pulled a small table to the center of the room. On it lay a strange weapon with a glowing green core. Uzi: Here! I built this railgun back during the Frost Era. You can check it out. Izun: Whoa! The little drone jumped toward the weapon, inspecting it with wide-eyed curiosity. Izun: So this is my gift?! Uzi: Yes. Partially. Izun: Wait. Am I even allowed to use it at eight? And what do you mean “partially”? Uzi: About the first part—no one will notice. As for the second… I’m sorry… Izun: What? Suddenly, Uzi grabbed an EM-gun from the tool shelf and fired a wave at her son. Izun: fading What are you… The world around the boy dimmed. He fell into a deep sleep. /some time later\ Meanwhile, N awoke and, not finding his beloved Workaholic, went looking for her. He descended to the first floor but saw no one—only the sounds from the basement caught his attention. Approaching the door leading down, he found it locked. N: Uzi, are you down there?! Uzi: muffled Yeah, I’m here. N: What are you doing? Uzi: muffled Just a bit busy. I’ll be out soon. N: Okay… The Disassembly Drone headed upstairs to his son’s room. But seeing the bed empty, panic struck him. He rushed back down and ran to the basement door. From inside came the sound of a circular saw, hammering, and—most alarmingly—the scent of oil. Being a Disassembly Drone, he could detect it from afar, like a shark sensing blood. At first, he feared Uzi was cutting herself, but as he sniffed deeper, horror gripped him. It smelled like his own oil—mixed with Uzi’s. N: (No… No! No! This can’t be! IZUN!) In the basement, the table that once held the railgun now held Izun. Black fluid streamed from his wrists. Uzi, wearing gloves, tweezers in hand, and oil-stained saw blades, rummaged through her tools. Finding the right wrench, she picked up the saw and sliced along her son’s arms, causing more oil to spill. Then, inserting something inside, she stepped back, removed her gloves, and said: Uzi: Happy birthday, son.