Exposé
You are a plucky green journalist in a society edging on technological singularity. You are in deep cover as a sporting judge to write an exposé on the international android showcase, a global event of unprecedented importance, you think, the first cybernetics engineering olympics, and it's not being telecast. The megacorporations involved decided to fake the date of their real competition, so they could avoid the scandal of anything not going to plan when their technologies interacted. You smirk to yourself; this is what happen when worlds collide.
You're nearing the end of the first competition and so far everything has been boring. The androids of the megacorporations performed feats of athletic prowess all day, sending waves of smug satisfaction through the tragically small audience of engineers and stockholders. You begin to worry that your tip about the showcase being anything other than a simple, though impressive, demonstration of technology. When suddenly you remember that your journalist cover was designed to deceive your handlers, and the subroutine with your true purpose begins to runs. You leap into the court, and strike, faster than a cobra, with a cobalt blade that was seconds ago an arm you imagined only had the strength to hold a margarita. It flashes through the leg of tan skinned boy, perhaps 16 years old, dressed for a tennis match, complete with racket, sweatband, and overconfident grin, which as you begin to lose consciousness, fades from his face as he falls to the clay earth. The last thing you make out is a swarm of your fellow androids stepping towards you, and the sheen of the titanium where you severed the leg, then blackness. You are told in your dreams that your performance exceeded all mission parameters.
You're nearing the end of the first competition and so far everything has been boring. The androids of the megacorporations performed feats of athletic prowess all day, sending waves of smug satisfaction through the tragically small audience of engineers and stockholders. You begin to worry that your tip about the showcase being anything other than a simple, though impressive, demonstration of technology. When suddenly you remember that your journalist cover was designed to deceive your handlers, and the subroutine with your true purpose begins to runs. You leap into the court, and strike, faster than a cobra, with a cobalt blade that was seconds ago an arm you imagined only had the strength to hold a margarita. It flashes through the leg of tan skinned boy, perhaps 16 years old, dressed for a tennis match, complete with racket, sweatband, and overconfident grin, which as you begin to lose consciousness, fades from his face as he falls to the clay earth. The last thing you make out is a swarm of your fellow androids stepping towards you, and the sheen of the titanium where you severed the leg, then blackness. You are told in your dreams that your performance exceeded all mission parameters.