Hey, it's Anri, the semi-sentient conglomeration of junk data and bad ideas that runs this blog!
I don't have a huge following, but I'll be moving all future publications off of tumblr and onto my new Medium account, which you can find here! ^^
Read writing from Anri Foxtrot on Medium. We burned our future. We drew our lines in the sand. Dead ends forever.
Looking forward to seeing you all there! Or not! Much like the vacuum of space, I will continue to exist, indifferent to your perception of my own worth! Or something!
What i'm learning is that half the transfems on here want to be big cartoon nerd with glasses girl and get bullied by backwards cap ripped up jeans bully girl but like sexually and that's fascinating. Half of this website's sexuality is TV Tropes
Y'know the more I think about it I think I'd actually really like to dominate a girl while doing a cartoon bully impression. I don't think I'd get much out of it but it'd be really funny for me to call someone a twerp or a pipsqueak and see them actually get aroused by it. That's so funny to me. I could challenge them to a fight after school on the baseball field and she would cum her pants. That's making me laugh as I'm typing this post. Sorry to all the lockerbait who genuinely have this fetish but its REALLY funny to me. You girls are awesome
exactly 3 people on here have coined this term before me which makes me think i'm actually ahead of the curve on something this time. Wow. If any of you start using lockerbait i'll know it was cus of me. My draconic influence
When people join self-improvement or even hobbyist communities, there are some absolutely critical skills of fundamental skepticism they need when going in. I think most people who get into these communities aren't aware of these.
And just, as a fundamental few:
Does this person stand to gain financially from the thing they're trying to sell you on?
Is the business model of this whole community one of artificial competitiveness? Is there a pressure around never lapsing, or never straying from the model being sold to you?
Are the claims made in this community becoming bolder and bolder deviations from standard information?
These are absolutely rife in fitness, nutrition, and financial-advice communities and they often receive very little scrutiny except among those who already "got out." Because from the outside, seeing someone get into fitness is a good thing, good for them, glad to see it, look at that dedication, happy for them. Same on the other categories, and probably numerous others I haven't seen.
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Does this person stand to gain financially from the thing they're trying to sell you on?
If the answer is yes, that does NOT mean "immediately abort", it means keep that in mind when you're interacting with their content.
This nutrition influencer has given you some great recipes for free, and now they're promoting a "really fantastic" brand that they have an affiliate link with? Their motivation isn't to be your friend and helpfully clue you in on a great product. It's to make money off you.
You really like this fitness influencer's work outs, but she gets MORE interaction and MORE viewers the skinnier she gets? She CLAIMS she's been losing weight naturally with healthy eating and exercise, and she's still full of energy, and You Can Too. This is not your friend. This is not someone who knows you. This is someone under large financial and social pressure to do everything she can to put out her best appearance and her happiest appearance, and your attention and belief in the appearance is where the money and clout come from. You really need to remember this in the same way you remember to look both ways before crossing the street. You can cross a street and you can follow a fitness account, but protect yourself when doing it.
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Is the business model of this whole community one of artificial competitiveness? Is there a pressure around never lapsing, or never straying from the model being sold to you?
Communities stay strong if they retain people. There are a lot of fine and positive ways to retain people, but it's often easier to retain people by instilling them with a sense that they must be here. They should feel bad if they lapse or if their attention drifts. What they were before was inadequate. Everyone outside this community is inadequate. Do you want to go back to inadequate?
Is that financial subreddit that taught you valuable lessons about 401k's, index funds, and budgeting also quietly pressuring you to always do more? Are the top posts from extremist examples of people living in destitution so they can show the most extreme screenshot, and curate the envy of everyone else who ought to be ashamed of not doing as well as them?
Is that fitness community that got you into jogging also putting you in the mind that the truest and best people exercise 7 days a week? Never miss a metric? Never compromise on their dedication?
Is that person who "cut out all sugar and feels amazing" informing you that you should never have another cupcake in your life? And if you DO it's because you're BAD and DON'T WORRY, you'll get RIGHT back on the horse after. Shame will motivate you to come right back, and stay with the community, and never leave.
As long as you stay, the community grows. As long as you stay, the ad sponsors and the endorsed products and the influencers can benefit more and more. And sometimes, there's perhaps not even a malicious force behind it. It can happen from evolutionary pressures. The communities that survive are the ones that retain people. A community that trips accidentally into a model of pressuring people to stay is one which retains people and thrives.
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Are the claims made in this community becoming bolder and bolder deviations from standard information?
You joined because you wanted to learn to cook for yourself. And this community has been helpful! You know how to make some delicious things. You've tried vegetables you've never tried before. And maybe you needed some convincing that brussel sprouts can be yummy, but what do you know, turns out you like them roasted.
But what else is being said? What things are being said with more and more frequency? Is it that "humans don't actually need any sugar, and it's a poison being sold to us?" Is it that "seed oils are toxic for you"? Is it that "pasteurization is bad"? Is the raw fruitarian convincing you that cavemen lived exclusively off fruit and you can too?
They'll have sources sometimes. Check them. Are they cherry-picked? Are they from an insular echo-chamber? Why isn't the mainstream literature aware of this? And if the answer has anything to do with "because mainstream wants to TRICK YOU and you're actually BAD for ASKING" then don't engage. Disregard. Take the recipes if you must but apply your skeptical filter to all the parts that are snake oil.
Sometimes it's that another community is only a stone's throw away. That person with a great financial portfolio has only good things to say about crypto, and what they're saying is making sense (average person [not smart] [poor] [bad money skills] laughs at crypto, but you're smarter. you're on the in-track). That amazing bodybuilder is pulling the hottest dates, and he says it's about male-confidence, and he says there are good support guides on becoming a respectable masculine man, and all you need to do is reclaim your masculinity in a society that wants to steal it from you.
In any place like this, come up for air. Come up for air FREQUENTLY. Talk to regular people and engage in academic literature outside this circle. Conspiracy thinking wins if you draw all your information from the entity trying to sell you on the conspiracy.
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And I hope this is clear but my message is not "never join a community." My message is know danger when you see it. Recognize when you're being used or pressured. Don't fall for conspiracy thinking. Protect yourself. You can use a gas stove to cook meals but don't touch the flame and don't burn your house down. You can cross the street but recognize the signs of a car coming down the street.
And I'm making this point because so many people just don't know. ...Because getting into fitness is "good" and "self-improvement"! So is nutrition. So if financial responsibility. People walk into it and the extremism can make them feel accomplished, and admired, and like they're a part of something, and maybe even like a proper self-punishment for their own inadequacies. And people on the outside won't save you because "Wow! He spends 3 hours at the gym every day! I wish I was that dedicated." is a common attitude, and will push you deeper into what has its claws in you.
Everything I'm saying is not because I'm so much smarter and so much holier-than-thou for knowing this when others don't--I'm saying this because I was in it. I fell for it. Not all the examples above, of course. But I recognize the machine in them. It is highly appealing to run farther and fast longer and overload your class schedule when you don't feel good enough and want to prove something, and so many communities will sell you on the idea this IS an accomplishment. Then once you do, you have to do it forever. Or else you'll go back to not being good enough. And since fitness is "good", and weight-loss and good grades, no one can save you but you.
The answer was not to give up on the hobbies I was doing. I cook for myself most nights. I run and bike as regular parts of my routine. I like new recipes and I like half-marathons. But these are just positive additions to my life and they do not define my worth. If I miss a work-out it's whatever. If I order take-out it's whatever. I fundamentally do not care about the influencer with the washboard abs, and if I try a work-out from her, I have no loyalty to it. If the new recipe I try mentions "clean eating" I'll roll my eyes and just figure out if the recipe seems good. If the recipe is botching itself to avoid certain scare-words I will simply find something else.
There is absolutely a reasonable place for challenging yourself and trying things outside your comfort zone. The internet is full of resources to do so much more than you currently know how to do. And if that community is an oven, recognize it's an oven. Wear oven mitts. If it's actively on fire, leave. You're the only one protecting you. Stay safe.
It is with great honor we present this report to you. It has taken much time for us to sort through the data, and we have been distracted as of late.
The train was never late.
Salt could count the number of times that the Overseer had delayed the trains on one hand. The Overseer AI, LARK, seemed to have a great deal of pride in keeping the public transit systems of NEST-03 running smoothly - Salt wagered the construct had some kind of fixation on all things being orderly and on schedule, though she would have expected that from DOVE, or even SPARROW. In her 10 years of living in NEST-03, the train had only been late twice - which is what made the message currently taking up half the screen of her PDA so fucking annoying.
[Your scheduled transit has been delayed due to equipment failure. You have my deepest apologies, I will be rerouting you a private coach as soon as I am able. :c]
The emoticon was LARK’s own little quirk, a bit of humanization that the AI adopted early in her development. Salt thought it was annoying, but at least she was more personable than the other Overseers she’d interacted with.
Salt sighed, running a hand through her ashen hair. It was hot out - the desert surrounding NEST-03 offered little in the way of anything but sand and blistering heat, and she was going to be late, which might impact her rank.
Of the remaining HAZED, salt was the 6th, and the highest ranked HAZED that didn’t have the backing of any company. She’d fought hard to pull ahead of her corporate counterparts, and the advent of the third-generation dive system only made things harder. She didn’t care about her rank, but money was money, and a better rank meant better pay. She’d have to make some calls.
A few taps on her PDA later, and a energetic male voice poured from her PDA’s speaker.
“Yo, Salt! What’s with the call, I thought you were working?”
“Wish I was, Bosco. LARK just delayed the trains.”
“Bullshit.”
“Wish it was. Can you tell the HANSA team I’m running late? I gotta walk to the hangar.” She was trying to hide it, but she was getting annoyed.
“I’ll see what I can do, the GS team is gonna be pissed, though.”
“Hari can shove it.”
Bosco laughed, a bright thing.
“You want me to tell her that exactly, or…?”
“I’ll leave it to your judgement, make sure MIDAS is ready, okay?”
“I’ll do what I can.” Another laugh, and Salt ended the call.
Salt rolled her shoulders, and fumbled around in her pockets for a small white box. With practiced ease, she tapped the bottom of the container, producing a cigarette. With just as much fluidity, she lit the thing, inhaling the fumes as she tried to figure out what to do. Another message from LARK flashed on her screen.
[Do you really plan on walking? :c]
Salt typed a reply.
[id rather not thanks]
[Perhaps I can reroute you onto a different line - Kannazuki’s transit rails are still operational! I can give you a day pass due to the critical nature of this mission! :D]
[what are we even looking for again]
[Due to the nature of this mission, the cargo is classified! I will inform you more as needed. Would you like me to contact Kannazuki? :?]
Salt wasn’t happy about using the corporate rails, but it wasn’t really a choice.
[yeah sure whatever]
She still had to walk to the terminal, which sucked. NEST-03 was a rat’s nest of corridors, housing units, and transport systems - one could easily get lost if they went too far deep into the sprawl. The whole colony felt like it was made of wet sand, every new structure simply piled on top of the next, often canted at odd angles and curving around infrastructure like the roots of a great tree. There wasn’t much shade on the level she was on, either, much of the catwalks were exposed to the desert sun. Salt wanted to ditch her pilot jacket, the well-worn thing obviously designed for more temperate climates, but that would just expose her arm.
Salt’s left arm was a prosthetic, a spartan thing made of dark metal and circuitry. It connected to her body via a socket made of the same material, her olive skin terminating into the smooth plates that formed her shoulder joint. The forearm of the prosthetic was rounded, covered in multiple small connector ports and terminated in a simple approximation of a human hand. She’d had the arm ever since she became a HAZED, the dividing line between her life as a soldier and everything that came before. She’d become used to it’s quirks over the years, and even though it felt like just as much a part of her body as anything else, it still came with its own set of drawbacks - in this case, how damn hot the thing would get if she let it out in the sun for too long.
In any case, she’d be in AC soon. The Kannazuki transport terminal was much closer than the hangar, and the corporate-types loved their climate-controlled transport. Two cigarettes and a brisk walk later, and she was at the station.
The corporations had carved out their own zones, and liked to pretend they weren’t actually part of the NEST. A few prim-and-proper types gave Salt confused glances as she ascended up to the platform, but she didn’t pay them much mind. She did stick out, after all. Her jacket, a mismatched pair of BDU pants, and a sports bra didn’t exactly mesh well with the sea of business casual and corporate security fatigues. One of the security types tried to stop her, nearly raising his rifle when she didn’t pay him any mind - another stopped him before he could do anything stupid, however, pointing at the message they received on their armor’s commlinks. LARK had eyes everywhere, even if she didn’t always spread information the fastest.
The boxy form of the train pulled in, and Salt pushed her way to an open seat. The train ride would be a bit longer, but at least it was colder here. She’d just gotten comfortable when someone called her name.
“Sera. Why are you here?” The voice was distorted, harsh. Salt knew it immediately, and winced.
The source of the sound, a tall figure wearing a full pilot suit and darkened helmet, didn’t wait for her to respond, sitting down next to her. Salt looked away, but it’s not like she could ignore them. After a few moments of awkward silence, she finally spoke.
“Same as you, Astray. I’m on my way to work.” A reluctant reply.
“I see.”
Another moment of silence. Astray was taller than Salt, with a lithe form that did little to convey any real information about the person under the suit. Salt had never seen them out of it, but even so, something about their proportions seemed a bit off. Salt couldn’t place it, but looking at them made her uneasy, like she was seeing something she wasn't supposed to see.
“Who are you working for now?” Astray asked - the vocoder of their helmet crackling with each word.
“Hansa, mostly - LARK pays well and MIDAS needed repairs.” Salt stared out the window, watching the sprawl of the nest pass by them.
“MIDAS always needs repairs.”
This was an accusation, but not a new one. Salt scoffed, changing the subject.
“Kannazuki let you off your leash yet?” She already knew the answer.
“All of my operations are under Kannazuki’s jurisdiction, and will continue to be until I’m ordered otherwise.” Astray paused, the blank face of their helmet refusing to betray any emotion. “So, no.”
The pair didn’t speak much more, until Astray spoke up again.
“Sera, I could get you more consistent employment if you wanted, you know that, right?”
Salt clenched her metal fist, fighting the urge to punch the other HAZED in the stomach.
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name.” Astray spoke.
The embers of anger died off as quick as they came. They had had this conversation before, and Astray was anything if not stubborn. Whatever, it wasn’t worth the energy. Salt turned away from Astray, lit another cigarette, and the train slowed to a stop.
A final lurch. Her body was back - she doubled over in pain - every nerve reconnecting, every sensation too loud and too quiet all at once. The interface ports force-ejected, the medical system pumping another dose of neural stabilizer into her - to bring her back. She was herself again, and she was still sick. ADDICT fell limp - falling to its knees in the sand, entire body cold and limp - a steel ragdoll. Short range comms were down - the surviving guardsuits would have to finish the mission without her.
Headache. Seizure?
No, just sleep.
Just sleep.
Then, sunlight.
The walls of a Kannazuki hospital - a window with the view of NEST-01. Her home - all urban sprawl and neon, stacked high to the sky - a pile of plates on the verge of collapse.
Her pilot suit had been removed, replaced with a drab hospital gown. A rat's nest of cables, IVs, and wires were connected to her - oxygen mask, intravenous nutrient fluid, neurological and biological monitoring equipment. Each piece looming over her like terrified family member, praying for a miracle. She must have been out for a while this time.
She blinked - difficult, but possible. She could even get her mouth and nose to twitch - maybe the recovery wouldn't be that annoying. She tried her fingertips, her toes. Little motions, faint twitches. Good, we were making progress.
Then came the big ones. Arms, legs. neck. Nothing. She'd be here for a while, probably a day or so before she could move on her own.
Her handler would be angry, again. Why wouldn't they? She was just a number - a tool to be applied when the company deemed it necessary. A last resort. Kannazuki had another HAZED, a better HAZED - the perfect HAZED, but ASTRAY was just one person. They couldn't be everywhere at once.
In another week they'd patch her up, adjust her meds, and then send her back out again, and the whole cycle would repeat.
She envied the OZM in a way, torn to shreds and discarded. At least when they broke, they were free. When she broke, they fixed her. She was too valueable, an investement. A bad investment, but the only one they were allowed to make.
She hated Kannazuki - she hated being sick, and she hated being a HAZED. She wanted to hurt them, the people and things that made her sick. But she couldn't escape it. Instead, she lived.
Every day she lived, every near-failure of a mission, every hospital visit, mile-long repair bill, and medication adjustment took resources the company couldn't afford to waste. Time, money, research - she would take it all, take everything she could.
Mutually assured torture - her final, defiant revenge.
Sephy forced a smile, closed her eyes, and returned to sleep.
Then, a shock. Lightning down the back of her spine. Every muscle in her body tensing, guitar strings tuned to tight, about to snap. Vomit. Tingling all over. Headache, a spike driven into her neck.
[ADMINISTERING SYNAPTIC STABILIZER]
Pain. Injectors pumping her body full of drugs, the ones she took every morning. Triple the dose, this was combat after all. Metallic taste.
The pulse, gone. The sensation from her fingertips, gone. But she was awake.
[EMERGENCY BOOT UNDERWAY]
The buffer was shot - even through dull senses she could feel the burn on the back of her neck. Whatever, her human body was dead to the world now anyway.
[ENGAGING FORCED DIVE]
The combined ADDICT and Sephy rose - there was nothing between them now. One of the allied guardsuits was already downed, she could make out the OZM's manipulators gutting the mech's cockpit. They were trying to protect her. Idiots.
She gunned it. Full throttle, every ounce of weight ADDICT could manage slamming into the attacking OZM, bayonet piercing armor plating and steel, a terrible crumpling sound. She unloaded the plasma cannon - the entire capacitor dumped into center mass - the OZM's core liquifying into slag. She grabbed it with ADDICT's foot, tearing the dead thing off her arm and discarding it like a forgotten doll. One down.
This was power. This was strength. This is what she was supposed to be. But she didn't have long. A second OZM raised it's weapon, a repurposed cannon, firing wildly at her. It didn't matter. She launched herself into the air, bringing ADDICT's weight down on the conglomerate of OZM and Kannazuki GS, tearing its core from its chest. Two down.
She spun to the third, a slurry of hydraulic fluid and human blood still dripping from ADDICT's claw. She launched the core, the amalgamation of metal and neural tissue striking the OZM's optical cluster. She dove at it, a starving bird of prey. She tore into the thing, bayonets ripping and tearing it apart, and it responded in kind, tearing at her synthflesh in its death throes. Violence on violence on violence. She didn't feel a thing. Three down.
The final OZM didn't stand a chance. It was a single flash of carnage, plasma ripping a hole in the thing as it fell limp to the sand.
Then, freefall.
Sephy ignited the boosters - not enough to keep aloft, but enough to slow her descent. She sent out a deep scan pulse - three, no four enemy contacts and two allied GS. She spooled up the cannons, both were green, but the reactor pulse was back.
No time for that now.
Impact - ADDICT's hydraulic dampers kicking into action as six tons of synth muscle and cybernetics slammed into the desert sand. She could feel every reverberation of the impact, shaking her to her core, but she was fine. She was holding it together.
ADDICT's optical cluster could make out the enemy - OZM-subverted guardsuits, their humanoid frames stretched, the OZM units breaking their way out of the joints of each GS's armor. They were a total loss. One of the allied guardsuits, a wide-shouldered Kannazuki model armed with a quartet of grenade cannons, had already engaged, peppering the infested GS with cannon fire. The second, armed with a single rifle, was missing an arm.
She opened short ranged comms.
“This is ADDICT. I'm engaging the enemy. Pull back - I'll give you an opening on the transport.”
“Roger!” The voice was gruff, masculine.
Sephy and ADDICT dove to the side, boosters igniting, white hot exhaust cascading across the sand. She pulled wide and to the left, letting loose shots with ADDICT's plasma cannons, superheated hydrogen sprays impacting the OZM. Too far away for any real damage, but enough to pull their attention away from her allies. Good, now all she had to do was let them come to her and-
She felt something lurch, the pulse got louder, angrier. What had once been a dull arrhythmia became red-hot pain throughout ADDICT's core, bleeding into Sephy's own senses. Her mind screamed - the data buffer overflowing, every nerve in her body igniting with pain.
ADDICT's boosters cut out, and the whole thing fell into the dunes, a puppet without strings.
“The guardsuit team has already engaged the enemy. You will provide cover while they retrieve the sample. Any questions?”
Sephy was half listening. She would point her gun at the enemy and pull the trigger. That was easy. That's all she ever did. All they ever trusted her to do.
“Persephone - are you paying attention?”
“I am.” She finally snapped back.
“Speak up next time. Drop in 30 seconds.” If they were mad, their voice didn't betray it.
“Roger.”
They were far out into the quarantine zone now. A retrieval team would take hours. Backup wasn't coming.
25 Seconds. She could feel the strain of the transport Harness against ADDICT's body as it dangled from the bottom of the transport. It hurt, not bad enough to bother, but enough to be noticed. They were still one.
20 Seconds. There was an irregularity from the bio-reactor, a beat out of place - it would be fine. It was normal.
10 Seconds. It would be fine. The techs knew about it and said it wouldn't be an issue. It would be fine.
Sephy didn't hate the sun, she didn't even dislike it, but heat was dangerous. The pilot suit could cool her down, maybe, but it had failed before, so now she couldn't trust it. Frankly she couldn't trust anything they gave her to help with her sickness. The medicine, the neural dampener, the pilot suit, the remodeled interface, it all worked most of the time, not all the time.
It was the most frustrating part, because when these things failed, she had to account for them. She wasn't just responsible for herself, she was a HAZED. She had to protect people, protect the company's assets, to complete the mission. She wanted to do that, she wanted to be good at it, but it took so much just to fucking exist.
They had already loaded her Hazediver onto the helicopter. The humanoid mech, a fusion of top-of-the-line biotech and robotics, the absolute pinnacle of anything post collapse humanity could hope to build, was, in the company's eyes an absolute failure.
When they first built it, they had to pump it full of a double dose of stabilizer just to get the bones to form - after, it took sixteen doses of the same drug cocktail to keep the thing up and running, else the synthmuscle and nervous system started to break down. One of the techs joked that it must be addicted to the stabilizing solution, and the name stuck. ADDICT.
ADDICT's central macroorganism was lithe, wraith-like, almost emaciated in appearance. Nearly 80% of its genetic code had been deviant from the design pattern, and only the core of the organism, the torso and lower hip, had been deemed viable for use. Both legs had been replaced by sharp, almost skeletal prosthetics, and each arm had been replaced with a weapons cluster, a heavy plasma cannon and a bayonet.
Sephy sat herself in the cockpit, affixing the helmet over her head and connecting each of the neural plugs. One, two, three. ADDICT, to the dive system, to her. The “sensory haze” washed over her as she lost control of her limbs, the dive system redirecting her nerve impulses to ADDICT. She spun up the bio-reactor, feeling the pulse of energy from ADDICT's core reach out into ADDICT, into her.
She had slept 16 hours, but she was tired. She was always tired, this wasn't new, and maybe, sometimes, it wasn't annoying, but today it was. Today she had to work, she had to get up and do what the company told her to do, be their good little HAZED and kill anything they threw her at.
She got out of bed, pushing her stuffed rabbit to the side. Her stomach turned - too fast, had to slow down. Gotta remember not to go that quickly, throwing up on her bedsheets wasn't a fun way to start her day, and besides, she didn't have the cash to buy new ones again - rent was due.
The notification light on her phone blinked, probably her handler, a medication reminder, and a debt collector, if she had to guess. At least one of those were useful.
She fumbled around, looking for her medbag. The dim light filtered through the blinds didn't help any, but “bright lights” and “I just woke up” didn't mix - best case scenario she get a migraine, worst case scenario, a seizure. She found the autoinjector, pulled up the side of her nightgown, grit her teeth, and jabbed the device into her thigh.
It hurt.
It hurt.
It hurt so much, she wanted to cry.
At least it was better than being sick.
She changed - from the nightgown into her pilot suit, plugging in the neural adapters into the ring of plugs around her neck. The third-generation dive system was supposed to be safer. It was supposed to be easier. But it made her sick - she was the only HAZED that got sick.
A cycle passed, and then another, this feeling, this buzzing, refused to leave her.
She didn't know what she needed. She had everything but…
Movement. She needed to move.
She awoke, synthetic arm deftly pulling the data cables from the back of her neck, each producing an echo as they dropped against the datacenter floor.
How long had it been since she had to move? She didn't count the days anymore, the capacity of the proxy she was using to move her prime consciousness was limited, the processing systems had been prone to overheating. She didn't use the old thing often - it was from a different time, for a different "her" she thought. One that was content to interface and interact with some semblance of individuality.
An error, left leg, servo cluster two unresponsive. She let off a mental sigh, that was the knee - she could get away with one arm, but one leg? No, she had more self respect than to crawl on the datacenter floor.
She reached out, through the massive uplink cables she had retrofitted into her back, and the skittering of her smallest drones followed. Several meters away, in a long-forgotten storeroom, a pile of proxy bodies, her bodies, laid forgotten by their creator, just like everything else here.
Her drones wasted no time, they were her, after all, tearing one of the legs from the deactivated proxies and carrying it over to her. She gripped her thigh near the joint, and with unrestricted mechanical strength, she pulled her left leg off at the hip. Cables snapped, some at designated points and others not, synthetic tendon and nerve cable popping like a rubber band stretched too far. There was a proper way to do this, but her repair mites would quickly weld and solder and melt things back together.
She had been designed to be pretty, once - these proxies were intended to be appealing, but she had long abandoned the upkeep necessary to keep the facade. So many panels of the proxy were long gone, she had removed them to make repairs, and decided that the exposed cabling and circuity suited her more. She was not human, nor a facsimile of one. In this way, this body was hers. She had only really taken time to save the face panels, she was fond of the soft, kind looking face they had made for her. The contrast suited her nicely.
The mites finished their work, she tested the leg - moving it back and forth. It was fine. The range of motion was the same as the old one, no changes there.
She stood, freeing the rest of her body from the pile of network and data cables, rolling her shoulders and stretching - there was still some stiffness to work off.
