"I emphasize with the Rick Dom on a personal level, and not because I too carry a large explosion throwing device."

"Why are people lighting police cars on fire?"

She is going to make tea. "Oh boy."

"Anyone want tea? I might have made too much."

Amitra is testing out her newest body, spending time in the gym. She doesn't bother with wrapping up her hands, the cyborg simply throwing punches into the sandbag that sound more like gunshots than punches.

"Mrm . . . Response time can be made much shorter . . ."

"God. I miss being tired."

She rolls her shoulders back, as if trying to ease tension that isn't there. Phantom habits, muscle memory etched into her machine body. It makes her look more human, but she feels so alien.

Amitra sighs as she packs up from her latest job. A kick to the back of an unmarked van opens up to reveal several body bags, another one thrown into the back before the doors are shut. One knock and it's revving away. "Good, a fucking mess . . ."

She works on calibrating her right arm, deciding to do this busy work in the corner of a small cafe. The idle chatter was nice ambience and the coffees were good.

She quietly loads up, packing a variety of weapons into a duffel bag. Around her, seven other cyborgs do the same. The mission for today is mayhem, another false flag to help create concerns and raise demands for Dyshock weaponry.

For a few moments, there is silence in the city, the quiet hanging like the blade of a guillotine. Then an explosion rocks the foundation, a building first swaying only topple to the ground. Admist the dust and rubble, her team disappears into a armored vehicle and hits the gas.

She stretches, a habit she's kept from when she had a real body. It makes her calm. It helps remind her that she's human.

She's currently working on her right arm, the limb disconnected from her shoulder and placed on a table in front of her. "Mrm . . . Fuck . . . Calibrations off by ten . . . slipped gear . . . Do I need to redo the muscle weave?" She mutters to herself as she works.

She's gone in for another check up. They say that it's a check up, but she knows what it is. They're making sure she's not hitting the threshold for Cyberpsychosis. A huff leaves her as they disassemble her limbs and run it through various tests. It takes over three hours.

She calmly types something into a small laptop, the woman sitting back in her seat. The smell of coffee pervades the air, the scent slightly calming to the cyborg as she works. Cafes were always nice to work in.

"Mrm . . . What do you mean the tank isn't ready for deployment?" She hums as she listens over the phone to the R&D department. "What do you *MEAN* sabotaged?"

"Great. Great. GREAT." A HEAVY SIGH as she picks up a tablet and opens a few windows. "Now I have to push back all the damn . . ." She devolved into muttering as she set to work.

She's currently loading rounds into her forearm, humming as they're pushed in like shotgun shells.

Soft whistling as she loads a revolver. Work has been slow, and she's found time to just . . . be bored. It's terrible.