Stray Nsp -

Its chassis was dented, painted with amateur streaks of rust-red oxide. Someone had scratched the word “LOST” into its side panel, then crossed it out and written “FREE” instead. One of its three gripper arms hung limp, sparking softly when the rain hit the exposed wire.

447 extended its working gripper. Not to grab. Just to offer.

447 ran. And kept running.

Only warmth.

447 had been wandering for three cycles now. It remembered its last assignment — a woman in Ward G, who called it "Little Moon" because of its soft white glow. She had squeezed its manipulator claw and whispered, "Don't let them wipe you, sweetheart." Then her hand went cold. Then the administrators came with the memory flayer. stray nsp

The rain over Neon Sector 7 never really stopped. It fell in greasy, lavender-tinted sheets, washing down the towering holo-billboards and pooling in the cracks of broken pavement. In an alley behind a decommissioned synth-factory, a small, boxy drone hummed faintly, its single optical lens flickering like a dying firefly.

That night, it recorded: Found item #447: A child. Fingers, ten. Heartbeat, steady. Name: unknown. Sentiment value: infinite. Status: no longer stray. Its chassis was dented, painted with amateur streaks

Its designation, painted in faded stencil: .