Incorporated with DeepSeek
The rain in Frankfurt-Offenbach wasn't water; it was a chemical mist that made the neon signs bleed their colours onto the slick asphalt. Inside "Der Goldene Saal," the air was thick with the ghosts of a thousand business dinners—cigar smoke, expensive perfume, and the faint, desperate scent of sealed deals. In three hours, it would be nothing. In three hours, Le Pirat Robo would be done.
He sat in the command truck, a repurposed Ares Citymaster armoured vehicle, its interior a symphony of silent, cool light from holographic displays. He wasn't a large man. He was wiry, all taut muscle and neural interfaces, his body a map of old datajack scars and newer, more subtle cyberware ports. He wore nothing but a utility belt holding a data chip and a worn, leather eyepatch—a theatrical touch, but branding was everything.
"Razor-Drones, deploy," he murmured, his voice a low-frequency hum that the console picked up perfectly.
From the truck's undercarriage, a black cloud erupted. A hundred Razor-Drones, each no larger than a handspan, swarmed into the night. They slipped through a pre-cut panel in the restaurant's roof access, a entry point so precise it was invisible to the naked eye. Inside, they filled the space, a buzzing, mechanical pollen. Their combined LIDAR and high-res cam systems painted the room, not as a collection of objects, but as a perfect, CAD-level 3D construct in his mind's eye. He could feel the scrollwork on the oak bar, the microscopic cracks in the faux-marble pillars, the exact thread-count of the velvet drapes. It was all data, cold and perfect.
"The canvas is primed," his AI, "Bosun," stated in a smooth, genderless voice. "Commencing deconstruction planning."
On the main holotank, the restaurant dissolved into a wireframe schematic. Eight glowing icons pulsed within the truck's trailer bays. His children. His crew.
"Release the Octopedes."
The rear doors of the Citymaster and its two accompanying GMC Banshees hissed open. They emerged. The Octopedes were things of terrifying beauty. Their central bodies were sleek ovals, from which eight multi-jointed legs unfolded with a sound like unsheathing swords. Each leg ended in a universal mag-lock and tool interface. As they moved into the restaurant, they rose onto their back four legs, their front four becoming manipulator arms, moving with an unnerving, fluid grace that was neither insect nor human.
The ballet of annihilation began.
One Octopede scaled a pillar, its legs finding purchase on smooth marble. Two of its limbs sprouted high-torque drivers and began unscrewing the massive, gaudy chandelier. Another pair of limbs, now tipped with precise plasma cutters, severed the power and data conduits. The chandelier was lowered, disassembled into constituent crystals and brass rods mid-air by two other spiders, and packed into a shock-crated pallet.
Tables of polished mahogany were not simply carried out. Their legs were unbolted, their surfaces carefully lifted from their frames, every screw and bracket catalogued and stored in labelled bags. Wall panels of silk and oak were peeled away, their mounting clips deactivated. A team of four Octopedes worked on the bar, one draining the liquor lines, another unscrewing the polished footrail, a third carefully prying the massive, carved top from its base.
Le Pirat Robo watched it all through a thousand eyes, his naked form slick with a sheen of coolant and effort. He wasn't just directing; he was *kinesthetically linked*. He felt the strain of a mag-lock gripping a two-ton safe, the delicate feedback of a pincer placing a single wine glass into a foam-moulded crate. It was a symphony, and he was the conductor, the first violinist, and the composer all at once.
In forty-seven minutes, "Der Goldene Saal" ceased to exist. All that remained was a concrete box, stained with the ghosts of glue from a long-removed industrial carpet, and the lingering smell of ozone and metal. The armoured convoy, now laden with the soul of a Frankfurt institution, rolled out towards the Rhine.
Their range was global. The trucks, hybrid monsters with massive fuel cells, could drive for days. They reached a nondescript port in Rotterdam, where their cargo was transferred to a automated, flag-of-convenience freighter. The manifest was a work of fiction, the destination a digital ghost.
Weeks later, on a sweltering, vibrant rooftop in the Lagos Sprawl, the story continued. The gaudy chandelier now cast a fractured, beautiful light over a crowded dancefloor, its pieces interwoven with local bottle-glass and reclaimed copper wire. The mahogany bar top, scarred and repurposed, served as the counter for a pop-up distillery selling cheap, potent gin. The velvet drapes were now partitions in a co-op living space, patched with colourful African wax cloth.
In a back-alley of the Bankok Sprawl, the silk wall panels breathed in the humid air, forming the walls of a clandestine noodle shop favoured by Yakuza runners and street samurai. The tables and chairs, a chaotic mosaic of European hardwood and Southeast Asian bamboo, were packed with people laughing, arguing, and living.
Le Pirat Robo watched the feeds from his new clients. He saw the life pulsing through his reclaimed parts. He wasn't a thief; he was a translator. He took the cold, oppressive wealth of the corps and translated it into warmth and chaos for the underdogs. He took the soul-crushing uniformity of a Frankfurt business restaurant and shattered it, letting the fragments seed new, wild gardens in the Sprawls.
Back in his spartan safehouse, he wiped the sweat from his brow. A new data chip glowed on his belt. A high-profile target in Paris. A corporate art gallery that pretended to be for the people but was really just another gilded cage.
He smiled, a thin, sharp expression. The canvas awaited. And Le Pirat Robo was always ready to clean.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
