Zhao Meiyou wasn't particularly skilled at the delicate task of dismantling machinery. He was a pig butcher by trade; give him a cleaver and he was a master, but give him a wrench and he was a disaster. Consequently, the scene inside the cockpit was exceptionally gruesome. Severed mechanical limbs were strewn about haphazardly. Following Qian Duoduo’s instructions, Zhao retrieved a chip from the wrist, the heart, the abdominal cavity, and the calf respectively.
Qian Duoduo, now reduced to a lone head resting on the dashboard, moved his lips. "Piece them together."
Zhao complied, found an interface on the console, and slotted the chips in. A blue progress bar appeared on the screen, beginning a slow analytical crawl.
Afterward, Zhao made a clumsy effort to shove the internal components back into the abdominal cavity—at least enough to restore some of the android’s mobility. Dragging half a torso and a single left arm, Qian Duoduo dragged over a tool kit and began the slow process of bolting himself back together.
In the lull of the data processing, the cockpit fell silent. After a brief, awkward pause, Zhao scratched his cheek. "Brother Qian, can't you just... transform back?"
"I could," Qian Duoduo replied, a screw held between his teeth. "But an android’s physiology is a high-precision transformation. It consumes too much energy. There might be a hard fight ahead; I need to prioritize stamina."
Zhao Meiyou looked out the window. He had to admit, the reality of the late 22nd century was a far cry from the scattered records in the Metropolis archives. He had expected a city choked by smog and heavy light pollution, where violence ran rampant in the streets, living spaces were compressed between tenement blocks and sewers, and pills rolled through the rain.
And, of course, androids and space colonization.
"We're on autopilot," Qian Duoduo said, pressing a button on the console. "The night view outside is an automated projection. If you want to sightsee, I have to cancel the scenic settings first."
An indicator light flickered. A ripple seemed to pass over the portholes, and the real world revealed itself.
It was a city in the middle of a heavy snowfall.
White flakes drifted down, yet they brought no sense of solemnity or chill; instead, the city felt pristine. Buildings soared into the clouds, their geometric lines simple and massive, like magnificent extraterrestrial artifacts. Some even resembled pyramids. Above the Acropolis-like plazas stretched a network of aerial streets—straight, transparent veins of crystal through which flying cars and streamlined airships occasionally descended. The construction materials were mostly white marble, fluid mercury, polished alloys, and bronze. It was hard to imagine any pollution existing here; everything was clean and orderly—a snowy utopia.
"Whoa," Zhao breathed.
In the distance, a beam of light swept out like a lighthouse searchlight. Zhao tapped the porthole, fixed the focal point, and zoomed in. The light originated from a building with a unique silhouette, shaped like a gun barrel, its exterior walls covered in copper-tinted glass. But it wasn't the building itself that caught his eye—its height would be considered average in the Metropolis. What drew his attention were the fire brigades, floating in the air in suits resembling astronaut gear.
What truly surprised Zhao was that, if he wasn't mistaken, the entire building was encased in a colossal glass box.
It looked like a specimen jar or a standalone display case in a museum, only scaled up millions of times. Zhao estimated the proportions; the glass case around the building had to be at least four hundred meters tall.
"That’s a 'Display Case,' specifically designed to protect historical architecture," Qian Duoduo’s voice drifted over. "That building is nearly two hundred years old. Its original name was the Mercury City Tower."
No wonder Zhao had felt like he was in the 21st century when he first arrived.
"We just escaped from there. The airship smashed through the glass. The temperature, humidity, and neutron radiation inside a 'Display Case' are kept at constant values. Those aren't firefighters; they're the restoration crew." Qian Duoduo gestured toward the figures Zhao had misidentified.
He tapped a few keys on the dashboard. "Here’s some introductory data on the Ideal City. You should take a look."
"The Ideal City?" Zhao Meiyou repeated the name.
Qian Duoduo pulled up a document. "This place used to be called Moscow."
Back in the distant 20th century, during the Soviet era, the city had seen an explosion of Modernist and Futurist architecture. These buildings, mostly composed of concrete, steel, and glass, were monolithic and grand, filled with Utopian idealism and bizarre, space-age silhouettes. Combined with massive sculptures symbolizing centralized power—the Palace of the Soviets, the Yekaterinburg Circus, the Institute of Robotics and Technical Cybernetics—many landmarks were products of this period.
Against a backdrop of heavy industrial might, the lightness of space-age fantasy merged with the sharp edge of Modernism to construct a tragic, romantic Soviet dream.
The Ideal City of the late 22nd century was built upon the ruins of that fragmented, grand epic. But it was more elegant, cleaner, like a pure crystalline tube of the Atomic Age. Everything was powered by clean energy; the chaos of neon lights, the pollution of fossil fuels, and the oppression of war cycles were all walled out.
It looked like a Brave New World.
Zhao tried to recall the descriptions from Huxley’s book. "They don't use the Bokanovsky Process to filter fetuses here, do they?"
"This is Diao Chan’s primary exploration site; I don't come here often," Qian Duoduo replied, dodging the question as he finished reassembling his upper body. "How much do you know about the 22nd century?"
"Not much," Zhao said. "History wasn't my major in university."
Qian Duoduo threw out a prompt. "The first two prohibitions of the Metropolis."
Zhao understood. "Android technology and space colonization reached their peak at the end of the 22nd century."
"Exactly—pass me my thigh, thanks." Qian Duoduo took the left leg from Zhao and began wrapping electrical tape around the exposed fiber-optic veins. "I arrived a few days before you. In that time, I’ve figured one thing out. In the 22nd century—at least, the version of it presented in the S45 Ruins..." He corrected his phrasing. "Android technology is actually divided into several types."
This was a blind spot in Zhao’s knowledge. He made a "please continue" gesture, listening intently.
Qian Duoduo didn't give a long lecture. "The two main types are Gene-humans and Mech-humans."
A beep came from the dashboard; the analysis was complete. Qian Duoduo skimmed the results, pulled a file from the document, and swiped it onto a split screen in front of Zhao. It showed two anatomical profiles of the human body.
"The biggest difference between a Gene-human and a Mech-human is whether the brain is in its original state," Qian Duoduo explained. "Androids of this era generally replace their flesh with bionic components to extend their lifespan. The difference is that a Gene-human is born from a womb and retains their original brain, whereas a Mech-human is entirely industrial, with a brain consisting of a 'medullary program.'"
"Reason versus emotion?" Zhao guessed.
"That’s one way to put it." Qian Duoduo nodded. "There are others. For instance, a medullary program can be hacked. Meanwhile, the lifespan of a Gene-human is generally shorter than that of a Mech-human. After all, the shelf life of an original brain is only about twenty years."
"What about cloned brains?" Thanks to Liu Qijue, Zhao had done a fair bit of research into brain science. "If you clone the original brain and replace it when the shelf life expires, can Gene-humans achieve immortality too?"
"A cloned brain only copies the structure. Memory and logic are formed by the environment after birth; they can't be copied." Qian Duoduo pulled another file. "This is a typical case. There was once a Gene-human who replaced their brain with a clone. Their behavior regressed to that of an infant. By the time they completed their growth cycle again, they were a completely different person from the human they were before the replacement."
Zhao noticed Qian Duoduo’s choice of words. "You called them 'human'?"
"Yes. That’s a concept I only recently grasped." Qian Duoduo finished attaching his left leg and tried to stand. Zhao hurried over to support him. The android leaned his weight on Zhao’s shoulder. "The 22nd-century concept of an 'android' is very different from our modern common sense."
Due to the technological regression and the Metropolis’s information lockdown, modern people had a very shallow understanding of androids. Someone like Zhao only knew that androids were bionic humans made by technology, not born from a mother’s womb; that they were physically superior to normal humans; and that they were closely linked to space colonization.
Beyond that, he couldn't say much.
"When I first came in, I was like you. I thought this was a Brave New World where people were divided by class, and androids were the enslaved party." Qian Duoduo stood steady and met Zhao’s eyes. "But once you understand the existence of Gene-humans and Mech-humans, you naturally start to wonder—isn't a Gene-human with an original brain still a human? And hasn't a Mech-human, with a medullary program that makes them more rational and acute, simply achieved human evolution?"
"What is the essence of humanity? Is it the flesh born of a womb? Or the mind that took two hundred thousand years to evolve?"
"What is it that truly determines the soul?"
After listening, Zhao answered instinctively, "Should the mind not be superior to the flesh?"
"Don't underestimate the flesh born of a womb. When a mother conceives a child, she holds the same authority as a god: the power to create life." Qian Duoduo said. "DNA brings life into being, and if you linked the gene chains inside a human body together, their length would far exceed the solar system. In other words, a womb can conceive a universe."
Qian Duoduo turned back to start piecing together his final right leg. "I haven't fully figured out the class structure of the Ideal City yet, but I’ve picked up some news. The city is currently hunting an experimental subject who has caused massive chaos."
"What kind of subject?" Zhao asked.
"The data I stole is incomplete." Qian Duoduo swiped the remaining documents to him. They featured a woman.
"This is an android. There are signs of modification in the abdominal cavity." Qian Duoduo pointed to the woman’s belly. "However, it’s impossible to tell if she’s Gene or Mech."
"Since an android can be used as an experimental subject in the Ideal City, we can probably draw one conclusion." Qian Duoduo said. "At least one side—either the Gene-humans or the Mech-humans—is an enslaved class here."
Qian Duoduo fixed his right leg. Throughout the process, the cockpit remained very quiet. He looked at Zhao. "What is it?"
After a long silence, Zhao said, "I recognize this woman."
"In the real world, she is Diao Chan’s mother."
***
Zhao Meiyou and Diao Chan had met on a rainy night when they were sixteen.
At that time, Zhao hadn't yet started working part-time at the butcher shop, but he was already a regular. He paid the owner a monthly fee to use the shop’s massive meat grinder. The rain was heavy that night, its drumming drowning out the roar of the refrigeration units. He was crouching by the sink washing his hands when the plastic curtain was suddenly yanked up with a sharp, crackling sound like a knife cutting through thunder.
The boy who burst in wore a black mask. His eyes were fierce and stubborn, but not quite savage. Zhao took one look and knew this was a kid from the Upper Districts. Even his desperation had a sense of decorum. His leather shoes were soaked in mud; if he took them off and cleaned them, they’d still fetch a good price on the black market.
Zhao looked away from the boy, tightened the faucet, and said lazily, "Meat’s sold out. If you want to buy, come back early tomorrow..."
Before he could finish, a group of men stormed into the shop. The leader went straight for the boy, intending to pin him to the ground, but the boy suddenly grabbed a boning knife from the counter and lunged. The blade went in clean and came out red. Both sides immediately descended into a brawl.
Zhao finished washing his hands. He could tell the kid had probably learned some self-defense at home; his moves were precise, likely the standard training for a young master. Unfortunately, two fists were no match for four, and a hero couldn't fight a crowd. It wasn't long before he was overwhelmed.
Once he’d seen enough of the show, Zhao spoke up. "What’s your name?"
The boy’s movements faltered. Someone found an opening, grabbed him by the hair, and forced him to his knees. He seemed to realize something and spat out a few words: "...Diao. My surname is Diao."
Diao was an uncommon surname. The intruders slowed down. Zhao gave a yawn. "If you’re going to kill him, drag him outside first. If the big shots from the Middle Districts come down to investigate later, I don't want any part of it."
The leader glared at him, then suddenly grinned. "Meiyou, your old man still hasn't paid off his gambling debts. Do me a favor, and I’ll wipe the interest for you. How about it?"
"Don't bother. Let my father pay his own debts; it’s got nothing to do with me." Zhao waved a hand and pulled a bunch of jars and bottles from under the counter—soy sauce, vinegar, and other seasonings. "I just happened to make dumplings today. Why don't you stay for a bite?"
The man’s expression suddenly changed. He spat on the floor and led his men away without a word.
Zhao pulled the shutter down, locking the storm outside. He kicked the boy on the floor. "If your name is Diao, why didn't you say so earlier?"
The boy coughed, dark blood seeping through his mask. His voice was raspy. "I don't like that name."
"You're an idiot." Zhao looked at him like he was a moron. "It’s precisely because you don't like it that you should use it freely. Why would you ever be willing to show people the things you actually love?"
The boy seemed stunned. After a moment, he stood up and looked Zhao in the eye. "Do you take commissions?"
In the Lower Districts, a meat shop could serve many purposes.
"I'm tired today. If you have business, come back early tomorrow." Zhao spoke as he lit the stove. He really had prepared dumplings, handmade with thin skins and plenty of filling. As the water came to a boil, a strange, wonderful aroma began to waft out.
The boy’s nose twitched. Zhao glanced at him and suddenly smiled. "No one around here is willing to eat with me. Why don't you keep me company for a meal?"
The boy looked at him. "Why?"
Zhao shrugged. "You heard those guys. My mom was a dancer in a casino. No one wants to be my dinner partner."
*A dancer’s son.* Those three words were enough to spark all sorts of assumptions. The boy looked at Zhao; his face undoubtedly added a great deal of credibility to his claim.
The water was boiling. Dumplings needed three rounds of cold water added to the pot. Zhao prepared the dipping sauce, picked up a dumpling, and held it to the boy’s lips. "Give it a try?"
The boy hesitated, then pulled down his mask.
"How is it?" Zhao asked with a grin.
"Not bad." The boy coughed. "Is there any water?"
Zhao served him a bowl of the cooking water. "The broth aids the digestion. Drink slowly, don't scald yourself."
The boy was indeed from the Upper Districts; even his way of drinking water was refined. Once the "drowned puppy" had finally recovered a bit, Zhao rested his chin on his hand, satisfied. "Alright. What kind of business did you want to do?"
***
In the cockpit, Qian Duoduo asked, "When you first met, what did Diao Chan want you to do?"
"Thanks." Zhao lit a cigarette, took a drag, and said after a moment, "He wanted me to kill his mother."
In the rainy butcher shop, the sixteen-year-old Zhao Meiyou had nodded calmly, served himself a bowl of dumplings, and said as he ate, "Sure. I’ll make a plan and give you a quote."
He was too nonchalant. The boy watched him for a moment before saying, "When I first came down, I asked an agent for a price. They all acted professional at first, but as soon as they heard my name was Diao, they’d ask for my reasons."
"That’s because you didn't go deep enough," Zhao said through a mouthful of food. "Go below the hundredth floor, and you could hire someone to kill *yourself* and no one would ask why."
"But if you want, I can play along." Zhao put down his chopsticks. "Young master, may I ask why you want to hire someone to kill your mother?"
The boy pulled his mask back up. "I’d rather ask why you’re so calm about it."
Zhao blew him a kiss and stuffed another dumpling into his mouth, smiling.
"Because you just ate my father with me."
***
In the cockpit, Qian Duoduo snapped his last joint into place and stood up. Zhao quickly took off his overcoat and draped it over the android. "My mission is to rescue Diao Chan. Beyond that, I won't ask questions."
They stood eye-to-eye. The android’s face was too damaged to be fully repaired—half exposed circuitry, half delicate porcelain.
"Right, Brother Qian. Understood, Brother Qian."
"We need to go somewhere next."
Qian Duoduo took a step forward. This time, they were even closer. Zhao had the illusion that he could feel the android’s breath—like a butterfly fluttering out of a chest cavity, turning into concrete sentences in his ear. He took a moment to steady himself before asking, "...Where are we going?"
"Your 'Shapeshifting' ability is still in its early stages, but we don't have time for you to practice slowly. Feel me." Qian Duoduo gripped Zhao’s hand. With a *click*, he opened his synthetic skin and guided Zhao’s hand into his chest. There was no hot flesh there, only cold, smooth metal bones.
"This is the stomach, made of plastic and metal, containing synthetic digestive fluids. The ribs—the frame consists of folding blades that can be deployed from the chest for a counterattack. The liver—the core duct is connected to the tear glands; all alcohol entering the body is converted into tears and excreted..."
He guided Zhao’s hand from the inner thigh down to the ankle. The android’s lower limbs were fitted with an entire set of killing tools, hidden beneath the porcelain-white skin. Qian Duoduo opened the chassis, letting Zhao feel the edges of those blades, which were tightly integrated with the delicate surface. When the chassis closed, the silver lines looked like the sheen on a pair of silk stockings.
Zhao looked at Qian Duoduo. The android’s hands and feet were ice-cold, his eyelashes lowered, his gaze clear and his expression calm. His voice was like falling snow, carving a path through a river beneath the permafrost.
With a *scritch*, Zhao snapped back to reality. Qian Duoduo had stepped away. He was holding a cigarette, which he lit with a fingertip before passing it into Zhao’s mouth.
An incredibly strong tobacco scent—bitter and pungent. A flavor bead popped, and Zhao’s soul instantly returned to his body. This cigarette was definitely laced with something; his focus was now razor-sharp.
"Close your eyes." Qian Duoduo looked at him, a finger pressed against his chest. "Visualize the body I just showed you, from the organs to the skin. Then, apply all of it to yourself."
The intense nicotine was dancing on his nerves. Zhao had no choice but to close his eyes. Only Qian Duoduo’s voice remained in his mind, and he instinctively followed the command.
The next second, the ability activated.
He successfully transformed into an android.
Just as Qian Duoduo had said, Zhao’s "Shapeshifting" was still in its infancy. When he was being hunted at the amusement park, he had panicked and grown three breasts. Transforming into an android required extremely high control because it wasn't just a surface change; it penetrated to the internal organs and the incredibly fine folding bones. If a novice tried it recklessly, they would likely lose control and dissolve into a puddle of slime.
But Qian Duoduo was clearly an excellent teacher.
"Well done." Qian Duoduo snapped his fingers and covered both their android bodies with clothing. "As you saw, I stole data regarding the experimental subject from the Mercury Tower. This data is highly classified. The perpetrator will inevitably hunt down the thief. I left some suggestive clues behind. To figure out exactly how much we know, they won't kill us immediately."
"They’ll take us to their lair," Zhao finished. "Reverse fishing."
"Exactly," Qian Duoduo said. "Now, they’re here."
The skylight above the airship was violently forced open. A group of black-clad men, armed to the teeth, jumped in. Zhao’s eyes swept over them, and a data box appeared in his vision, rapidly displaying detailed information for each body—all of them were androids.
With Qian Duoduo’s warning in mind, neither of them resisted. After being captured, a metal helmet was locked over Zhao’s head, completely cutting off his vision.
When the helmet was finally opened, the sky was gone. Above them was a white-gold Baroque dome inlaid with mosaics.
His lung data told him the air pressure was low; they were likely underground. His eyes scanned the surroundings, and his vision automatically synthesized the internal structure of the entire building, though specific information was locked, preventing him from deducing exactly where they were.
However, thanks to his journey through the A173 Ruins, Zhao didn't need to search a database. His human memory told him exactly where this was—or rather, what it used to be.
This was the Moscow Metro.
But this place had clearly been abandoned for a long time. The architectural style of the Ideal City strove toward the sky, leaving the underground neglected. The magnificent industrial aesthetic of the Soviet era had grown dim. A train pulled in, and the guards pushed them into a carriage. The doors hissed shut.
Zhao looked around. The carriage didn't have standard seating; it looked more like an office.
Qian Duoduo walked over. Just as Zhao was about to speak, Qian covered his mouth and pulled a wire from his own spine. The connector was shaped like an earbud. He tucked it into Zhao’s ear.
"Don't speak," Qian Duoduo’s lips didn't move; the voice seemed to come directly from his chest, traveling through the wire into Zhao’s mind. "Just think what you want to say. I can hear you."
Zhao: *This is a Moscow Metro station.*
"From hundreds of years ago. It seems someone converted this place into a laboratory." Before Qian Duoduo could finish, bright light flooded through the windows. They had entered a station.
But there were no passengers waiting outside. The station walls were covered in black and white marble. Streamlined lab benches and precision instruments hummed low. People in lab coats bustled about. The rooms were filled with glass vats, inside of which were submerged pale, fleshy bodies.
The train didn't stop, roaring onward. Zhao’s eyes only had time to scan a small amount of data, not enough to draw a conclusion. But then they entered another station, and another laboratory—entering, exiting, entering, exiting. This repeated for an unknown amount of time. Zhao turned to look at Qian Duoduo.
Qian Duoduo’s intact eye blinked once.
*...Did you notice?*
*...Yeah.*
The continuous data collection allowed them to gradually refine their model, eventually leading to the same conclusion.
In every laboratory, the staff scurrying back and forth were all androids.
And those bodies soaking in the vats—no, they should be called flesh—were all original humans born of a womb.
They had made a fundamental error in logic when speculating about the social structure of the Ideal City. Perhaps it was a natural human arrogance.
God created man; man created technology. How could the creation not serve the creator?
But the Ideal City was exactly the opposite.
Here, androids enslaved humanity.
***
**Glossary**
