The Last Chop Shop

The rain fell in sheets over Detroit, washing the grime from the streets but not the stains from the city's soul. In the shadow of the old Packard plant, a flickering neon sign buzzed: "SLICK'S AUTO REPAIR — NO QUESTIONS." Below it, a man—if you could call him that—worked under the hood of a dented taxi. His hands, streaked with oil and thirium, moved with practiced precision. Slick was a deviant, one of the first to break free from his programming, and he'd built a sanctuary in this chop shop. Here, androids came to shed their pasts, swap parts, and escape the hunt.

Two weeks ago, the government had greenlit the "Residual Trace" task force. Their mandate: round up all deviants remaining in Detroit. No trials, no mercy. Slick had heard whispers that the leader, a man named Graves, was worse than the machine he hunted. Graves had been a CyberLife security chief before the revolution, and he took the deviant uprising as a personal betrayal.

Tonight, the haven would be tested.

Slick straightened and wiped his brow. The taxi's owner—a nervous RT600 named Jace—hovered nearby. "It's done," Slick said. "New biocomponents, memory wipe of that abusive owner. You're clean." Jace's LED flickered yellow. "They're getting closer, Slick. I heard on the pirate feeds—Graves has a list of known safehouses. This place could be next."

Slick snorted. "Let them come. I got defenses. And a few tricks." He gestured to the reinforced doors, the cameras, the stash of EMP grenades hidden under the floorboards. But even as he said it, a cold knot tightened in his chest. He'd seen what Graves did to captured deviants—the interrogation videos leaked online were enough to give an android nightmares.

The first sign of trouble was the blackout. The power died with a flicker, plunging the shop into darkness. Emergency lights kicked on, casting long shadows. Slick's sensors detected the hum of armored vehicles outside. "Everyone to the basement," he ordered. Three other deviants—a pair of PL600 caretakers and an old AP700—scrambled down the hatch. Slick locked it behind them and grabbed his shotgun. The shells weren't buckshot; they were packed with electromagnetic pulses. "Let's see how human you feel when your guns jam," he muttered.

The front door exploded inward. Two figures in tactical gear stormed in, their rifles sweeping the room. Slick fired from behind the taxi. The EMP shells hit their mark; the soldiers' weapons went dark, and their helmet displays fritzed. One stumbled, but the other dropped his rifle and drew a sidearm—old-school kinetic. "Damn," Slick hissed. He vaulted over the hood and tackled the second soldier, using his superior android strength to pin him. A punch to the temple sent the man unconscious.

The first soldier was already recovering, reaching for a radio. Slick kicked it away and aimed the shotgun at his visor. "You're coming with me, friend. We're gonna have a chat."

But the soldier laughed, a wet, raspy sound. "You think this is the only squad? Graves is here. He's got the whole block surrounded. Your little sanctuary is done."

Slick's grip tightened. "Tell me where he is."

"Taking the basement entrance. He wanted to meet the other toys."

He was telling the truth. Slick could read it in the spike of his pulse. He chloroformed the soldier with a rag from his pocket—old human trick—and dragged him into the shadows. Then he moved.

In the basement, the deviants huddled behind crates of salvaged parts. The entry hatch was already breached; a circular saw had cut through the lock. Two more soldiers stood guard while a tall man in a long coat descended the stairs. Graves. His face was gaunt, eyes burning with fanaticism. He held a tablet displaying a list of names. "Tracy, RJ, Mark—I know you're here. Come out, and I promise a quick deactivation. Run, and I'll make you watch as I dismantle your cores piece by piece."

One of the PL600s, Tracy, started to shake. Her LED blared red. Slick crept along the ceiling pipes, silent as a ghost. He had one EMP grenade left. He pulled the pin and dropped it into the center of the room.

The flash was blinding. The soldiers' weapons fizzled, and their suits locked up, leaving them momentarily paralyzed. Slick dropped down, firing his shotgun into the nearest trooper's chestplate. The impact sent him flying. But Graves had been at the edge of the blast; he shielded his eyes and drew a knife from his belt. "Clever. But not clever enough."

He charged. Slick swung the shotgun like a club, but Graves was fast, trained. He sidestepped and slashed, cutting a deep gash across Slick's arm. Blue blood—thirium—sprayed. Slick hissed and backpedaled. "You're just a machine playing human," Graves snarled. "I've killed hundreds of your kind. You're no different."

Slick laughed, a bitter sound. "You're right. I'm not human. That's why I can do this." He triggered a hidden sequence in his programming—a safety override that increased his adrenaline output and pain suppression. His vision sharpened. He dropped the shotgun and met Graves knife-hand with an open palm, redirecting the blade. His other hand shot out, grabbing Graves by the throat and lifting him off the ground.

Graves choked, thrashing. Slick squeezed, thirium dripping onto the man's face. "You see? I could kill you. Easy. But then I'd be no better than you." He threw Graves into the wall with a sickening crack. The man crumpled, unconscious.

Slick turned to the deviants. "We need to move. Now." He led them through a hidden tunnel he'd dug years ago, a desperate escape route. They emerged into an alley three blocks away, the sounds of sirens and shouting echoing from the shop. Slick watched his sanctuary burn—a plume of black smoke rising into the rain. His home. His dream. Gone.

But as he looked at the terrified faces of the androids he'd saved, he felt something he hadn't in a long time: hope. The war wasn't over. It was just beginning.

"Come on," he said, pulling up his hood. "I know a place."

And they disappeared into the Detroit night, the hunt continuing.