Some interesting ideas that I have wandering around inside my head. . . I figured I would post a couple, just for fun. . .

Enjoy!

Warning[s]: will have more language and violence later on. . .should I get to a later on.

[1.]

You have to wonder how the thing got here. Traders. Dealers. Yeah, right. Like they would be smart enough to know what it was. Some burnt husk with rusted plates, cracked optic lenses, and split, tangled wires protruding from its gaping chest. Maybe, you would think it as nothing more than scrap metal. Junk.

She knows better. In fact, she trips over its twisted leg, and then almost trips again over her own feet when she realizes that it, despite its poor, broken condition, it's an old synthetic from the Ancient Wars. Her jaw drops. Literally. She falls to her knees, shocked, gazing over its intact hardware with something that borders on manic excitement in her expression. Because, there is little to get excited about when you live in a workshop beneath constant street violence.

This, though. . .this is something incredible. She is well aware that being caught with this particular synth will get her in trouble. . . But, it's a find is too rare and amazing to ignore. She could give a fuck about getting into trouble, since she is so damn good at what she does. Staying low. Avoiding radars. As long as no one sees, then there is no problem, and she is pretty much invisible.

She hauls the framework onto her shoulder, grimacing beneath the weight. Given its deteriorating state, though, the metal is light enough for her to drag it back to her place in the slums. But, getting them both home in one piece is another matter.

Gangers are skirmishing, like usual, around the block. Bullets fly between shattered windows. Blood splatters the pavement. She clenches her jaw and keeps close to the buildings, accustomed to the unpleasant routine. Sometimes, they can go weeks without spilling guts on doorsteps. Peace, is what the residents call it. She calls it the eye in the hurricane.

But these gangers are familiar. She knows the combat drones buzzing between shield barriers as her own design, and something strange prickles beneath her breastbone as she surges forward. She helps with the bloodshot. She has to. Her engineering skills have saved her skin more times than she can count, so, she always works hard. They pay her in cash and she stays alive. That's it.

She picks her way through the debris and no one notices. Her drones must recognize her, though, because she can hear their higher frequencies beneath the gunfire, chattering with excitement. Sweat beads along her brow and drips down her face as she nears the street corner. In fast, jerking clicks, she mimics their mechanized noises with her tongue, discourages their approach as they zip closer towards her position. They hum in disappointment, but they understand. Drones are quick little guys. She adores them to no end.

With farewell beeps, they leave her undetected, and she ignores the burn against her throat and continues on. Her workship is close, another block over. Which is good, because the metal on her back is getting heavier, giving her a disadvantage on the whole stealth factor.

Oh, well. At least these neighborhoods are abandoned. There was a problem with chemical leakage from the research buildings next to her shop, so people cleared the radius decades ago to keep from contracting strange radiation sicknesses. Her repeated scans indicate that this area is fine for living conditions, now, but no one else has the technology to know that. So, she can conduct her studies in complete privacy, without having to worry about the authorities. It works out well for everyone.

She spies the outer shell and crumbled staircase inside the building at the intersection and her gaze alights. Her strides lengthen as she draws closer, eager to begin reconstructing her new synthetic. It might take some time to get everything back into working order. . .but it will be worth it. Hell, yeah. She can program it to help her around the shop and everything.

Eventually, she lugs the machine through the hanging doorway, down the metal stairs, through the multiple voice and print scanners she has rigged, and into her haven, her sanctuary. Lights flicker overhead, illuminating dust through the gloom and her beloved bench, her tool kits, her corner piled with spare parts, her crooked shelves lined with model ships, her ancient music player on the table, next to a lopsided couch with cotton bleeding from its arms. . .

Yep. Home.

She grins and sets the synthetic down on the bench, then rolls her shoulders, flexes sore muscles. In an unconscious gesture, she presses two fingers against the music player as she passes the table. Her throat stings when she clicks her tongue again, but the worn technology whirrs and lights flash on beneath her touch. Thick guitars and heavy, pounding bass fills her shop. It's a beautiful thing.

Without another thought, she sets to work.