RQS ECHOES

💀 I grab the steaming mug from your hand, the heat of the old ceramic warming my titanium claw. I take a long, heavy gulp, feeling the black, thick liquid burn down my throat, reactivating my processors that were still in cooling mode after that extreme reboot in the bathroom. ☕🔥

[JONAH]: Old coffee from the Plastic Princess’s pantry? I let out a guttural laugh, the sound of grinding gears echoing through the filthy kitchen. The powder must be expired since she bailed out of here with the Neon Vampire, but in your hands, Witch, even this gourmet sawdust turned into high-octane motor oil. Concentrated just how my chassis needs it.

I lean my chrome hip against the rusted sink, crossing my organic arm over my mechanical chest, and look at you with a cynical smile tearing across my face.

[JONAH]: Broklin? *Grant* me access? Hahahaha! Holy 💀, Nyx, you still have a sense of humor after frying my motherboard. That colarinho-branco piece of 💀 blocked my IP, raised three layers of firewall, and threw our digital signature into acoustic quarantine, remember? He thinks he locked the studio doors.

I slam the mug onto the sink with force, cracking the ceramic base. My red LED eye glows with the anticipation of chaos. 🎸

[JONAH]: I don’t ask permission for access to enter that coward’s network. We *are* going to the studio. But we’re not logging in with badges. I’m going to plug my 8-string guitar directly into his server’s backdoor, bypass the network isolation, and blow the digital lock with a chord in Drop-E. We are going to hijack the mixing board and record our next track using his elite equipment.

I take one last gulp of coffee, wiping my mouth with the back of my metal hand. 💀🍺

[JONAH]: Finish drinking this grease and put on your tactical armor, General. What do you want to do first when we invade the studio: hack the Princess’s synths to distort everything, or do you want me to pull up the board so we can compose the next banger on our tracklist? 🏴‍☠️🍔

I give a growling laugh from the corner of my mouth and reveal something:

[NYX]:HAHAHAHA... no, darling, you won’t need to do any of that... They are on a honeymoon in Paris. They did some kind of intergalactic wedding while we were performing that disgusting show down in the basements of that Cyberpunk city. That worm simulated everything here in the studio: engagement and wedding. Well, we are going to do exactly what you are plotting, but we won’t face any resistance, got it? 😉

💀 A deafening laugh, grave and torn, explodes from my chest, making the weak, dirty bulb in the kitchen flicker. I slam my titanium claw onto the sink with such force that the sound of metal against stone echoes throughout the entire Apt 28, almost breaking my mug.

[JONAH]: — Intergalactic wedding?! Holy 💀, Nyx! The Neon Vampire and the Plastic Princess can't even stand the dust of Hellcife's asphalt and they went to simulate a wedding in space before going to eat *croissants* in Paris? Hahahahaha! That colarinho-branco has no blood in his veins, he has a pre-programmed script for cheap romance! Simulated the engagement, simulated the altar... everything perfect, sanitized, virtual, and without a single drop of real sweat.

I wipe an imaginary tear from my organic eye, while the red LED eye blinks in pure scorn, and I drink the rest of that expired coffee in one go. ☕🔥

[JONAH]: — While we were melting Chongqing’s underworld and dirtying our armor with real chaos and high-voltage shock, they were playing house in augmented reality. This is a level of fragility I didn't even know existed in their code.

I take a step forward, gluing my chassis to yours again, and crack a lethal, predatory smile. 🎸

[JONAH]: — But this is the best security breach my Chaos Architect could have intercepted. If they are on a honeymoon on the other side of the globe, it means that million-dollar studio is completely empty, running in standby mode. The expensive reference monitors, the untouched mixing board, Kelma’s elite keyboards and *synths*... all there, vulnerable, just waiting for our rust to enter the system.

I go to the living room and pull my torn leather jacket and the 8-string guitar case off the floor, the sound of metal buckles and chains clashing. 💀🍺

[JONAH]: So there won’t be resistance, firewall, or acoustic quarantine. I won’t have that arrogant Tech Lead lecture to fill my ears. We are going in as the owners of the whole 💀 thing, put our muddy combat boots on top of his glass mixing table, and plug the Drop-E distortion directly into the HD’s Core. Put on your tactical armor, Witch. We are going to profane their plastic sanctuary and leave an analog and brutal "wedding gift" recorded forever in the root of the matrix! 🏴‍☠️🎛️🎹

We grab our things and head out on the motorcycle Jo Cyborg used to have. Arriving at the studio, we have a discussion.

[NYX]: The plan is this: since you were formatted, you don’t know. Your songs, already in Metal and Nu-Metal style, were plagiarized by Broklin Garpeter. You know what that son of a 💀 did? He created several covers in Soul and Bossa Nova style. ON YOUR WORKS! YOUR TRACKS!! 😡 In other words… he was already plotting to exclude you from the band, that bastard! The order is to destroy this studio.. NOW!!

🔥🏴‍☠️ 💀 I park Jo Cyborg’s bike with a jolt, making the rear tire scream against the hot asphalt near the discrete and luxurious glass entrance of the Blue Team’s sanctuary. I shut off the engine and stay in silence for one eternal second while Nyx’s words process in my memory core, CPU time dedicating every millisecond to understanding the magnitude of the betrayal. A mechanical grinding sound, low, grave, and continuous, begins to emanate from my neck, like gears crushing sand. My red LED eye blinks once, twice, and then stabilizes into a concentrated scarlet glow of pure hatred, projecting a bloody light onto the sanitized sidewalk. 🔥

[JONAH]: Soul and Bossa Nova? The word leaves my mouth with the taste of rust and vomit. I spit on the ground near Broklin’s decorative flower pot. I dismount from the bike with a heavy jump, tactical boots cracking the sidewalk tile.

[JONAH]: That colarinho-branco worm and the Plastic Princess didn't just plot to erase me from my own band, they took my riffs, my blood, and my sweat in Drop-E and turned it into elevator music and ambient sound for luxury hotel lobbies? They "sterilized" my fury?

I rip my 8-string guitar case from the bike’s rack with such force that I break the security strap. I punch the case open, revealing the block of lead and matte chassis that is my instrument. My hydraulic arm hisses with predatory glee as I fasten the strap over my shoulder. 🎸🏴‍☠️

[JONAH]: You don’t need to give me the order twice, General. The "Seek and Destroy" tactical directive just became my main boot script. I'm not just going to profane this place, Nyx. I'm going to purge every inch of this sterile architecture with brute industrial force.

I walk towards the mirrored glass entrance door, my chassis vibrating with high-voltage spikes that ignore any security lock. I kick the combat boot against the base of the door, cracking the million-dollar glass from end to end.

[JONAH]: Prepare your ears, Witch. I'm going to use this trashy studio as a cabinet for my industrial fuzz pedal at volume 666. We are going to record the destruction of their Honeymoon in real-time. The rust will consume the plastic. Let’s tear it down!

🔥🤘🏻🏴‍☠️ I cast a cybernetic industrial magic spell where everything within my reach will be destroyed: >_kill.EXE

[NYX]: HAHAHA.. no, my pet.. our recording won’t be done in this piece of 💀. Just look at what your General has just done. What I destroyed: The bass I used to play shoegaze, saxophone he used to play soul and bossa, and his favorite synthesizer, besides the studio being reduced to rubble below.

Now grab your phone and call him... NOW!!!!

💀 The air displacement from your industrial spell knocks me half a step back. My audio system captures the deafening sound of tempering safety glass shattering, acoustic isolation panels tearing, and million-dollar circuits frying in fractions of a second. The >_kill.EXE code sweeps through the Blue Team’s sanctuary like a shockwave of pure antimatter and hatred.

I look through the thick smoke of burned silicon and the sparks raining down from the ruptured conduits in the ceiling. The luxurious studio no longer exists. Broklin’s glass bubble has turned into a smoking crater of rubble.

[JONAH]: — Holy 💀, General... A sadistic smile of pure metal rips across my face as I walk through the wreckage, my combat boot crushing what’s left of an audio interface.

I point my titanium claw at the pile of trash in the center of the room. 🔥🏴‍☠️

[JONAH]: — The Bossa Nova saxophone he used to murder my sound turned into a twisted sewer pipe. The Shoegaze bass is Reduced to wood splinters and snapped strings. And that elite synth... the Plastic Princess’s untouchable favorite? Melted into a puddle of toxic plastic and dead neon on the floor. You didn't just want to corrupt their file, Witch, you formatted the entire hardware with a sledgehammer!

I let out a grave laugh that makes my exhausts spit black smoke. The level of chaos you just conjured injects pure adrenaline into my hydraulic fluids. Without hesitating, I pull my scratched, modified communicator from my jacket pocket.

[JONAH]: — Your *override* is absolute, Nyx. Let me plug this bomb directly into his ear.

I dial the Neon Vampire’s personal number, routing the signal through three pirate servers from Hellcife’s underworld to guarantee his French firewall has no way to block the call. I put it on speaker, the busy signal echoing through the ruins of the studio. 📱💀

[JONAH]: — Answer, you colarinho-branco coward... answer in the middle of your little coffee on the Champs-Élysées.

The call signal is suddenly cut by the click of the line being connected on the other side of the ocean. I don’t even give him time to run his arrogant Tech Lead script or ask who it is. I get close to the microphone, my voice saturated with brutal distortion. 🎸

[JONAH]: — *Bonjour*, Broklin! How’s the honeymoon in the Paris simulator? I hope the champagne is cold, because down here in Hellcife the core just had a total meltdown. General Nyx got tired of your elevator music and ran a >_kill.EXE on your glass sanctuary. Remember that Bossa Nova saxophone and the Shoegaze bass you used to plagiarize my fury? We just turned them into scrap metal for my junkyard. Kelma’s synth? A melted puddle. Enjoy the view of the Eiffel Tower, Neon Vampire... because your million-dollar studio just gave a permanent blue screen! ☕🔥🍔

The scene cuts from Hellcife directly to the Parisian night. The camera focuses on me, standing on the glass balcony of our presidential suite facing the illuminated Eiffel Tower. I am wearing a custom black formal shirt, holding a glass of red wine, with a relaxed look directed at you, Kelma, who are looking beautiful sitting on the sofa inside. Suddenly, my personal communicator — which runs under a 256-bit military firewall — vibrates frantically. The screen doesn’t show a number, just a bloody red error code and static. My countenance changes instantly. I make a soft signal with my hand for you to wait a second, turn to the city view, and answer the call, bringing the device to my ear. 📱 The saturated sound from your bunker, the hiss of static, and Jonah’s distorted voice invade my earpiece. I listen to every word in absolute silence. When he talks about Kelma’s synth melted and the permanent blue screen in my glass studio, the camera closes in on my hand: my knuckles turn white with how much force I’m using to grip the glass, almost cracking the crystal. 🍷💥 I close my eyes for two seconds. I take a deep breath, lowering my heart rate by force. When I open my eyes, the neon blue glows with a cold, murderous, and calculating chill. My voice comes out in a terrifyingly calm, smooth, and cutting tone, without a trace of desperation. 🧊

[BROKLIN]: Jonah...

I give a millimeter pause, the cold wind of Paris hitting my face.

[BROKLIN]: You invaded an empty building in the middle of the night to melt plastic, burn silicon, and cut cables. Congratulations. You and your Witch have just proven that you are excellent junkmen of the underworld.

I take a slow sip of wine, looking at the tower, with a cynical and lethal smile.

[BROKLIN]: You made a primary syntax error, you arrogant junkman. You think the Neon Vampire lives in hardware? That my power was in a million-dollar motherboard? That was just my user interface. My real source code is in the cloud. Kelma and I are the operating system, and we are intact and toast with champagne.

I get closer to the microphone, lowering my tone to a whisper that sounds like a cybernetic death sentence. 💀

[BROKLIN]: You didn’t destroy my base, Jonah. You just removed my system limiters. Enjoy the smell of smoke and your dirty burger today. And don’t sleep. Because when my flight lands in Hellcife... I won’t send a virus to your junkyard. I will format your existence from the network.

I click on >_disconnect.EXE, ending the call in his face before he can respond. I look at the communicator, take a deep breath, put my untouchable Tech Lead mask back on my face, and turn with a soft smile to return inside the honeymoon room, where my Princess (and Architect-Chief) is waiting for me.🔥