The sky above Copper-9 crackled with static as a sleek, obsidian drop-pod slammed into the snow. The impact sent a shockwave rolling across the frozen wasteland, scattering loose metal and half‑buried Worker Drone parts like confetti.

N, Uzi, and V stood a cautious distance away.

“Well,” N said, visor flickering nervously, “that’s… new.”

The pod hissed open.

A tall, razor‑edged silhouette stepped out, wings unfolding with a metallic snap. Her armor was matte black with streaks of neon violet, and her visor displayed two sharp, angular eyes that looked permanently unimpressed.

“Designation: K‑T‑11,” she announced. “But you may call me Kitty.”

N brightened. “Aww, that’s adorable!”

Kitty’s visor narrowed. “If you make a single cat joke, I will remove your limbs in alphabetical order.”

V snorted. “I like her already.”

Uzi crossed her arms. “So what’s your deal? Another murder machine sent to ruin our lives?”

Kitty stepped forward, wings folding neatly behind her. “I was deployed because your… team”—she said the word like it tasted bad—“has a statistically concerning rate of mission

Uzi’s disgust was palpable. “Mission failure? We haven’t failed a mission since…”

”Yesterday?” Kitty questioned, armor clicking as she tilted her head.

“Yesterday was a success. We succeeded in delivering that nuclear core to the airbase.”

“You hit three pedestrians and pieces of civilian infrastructure on the way in.”

Uzi threw her hands up. “They walked into the road! That’s on them!”

Kitty stared, visor flat and unamused. “One of them was a stationary mailbox.”

N winced. “Yeah… that one was definitely on us.”

V stretched her claws with a satisfied metallic shink. “Look, if the mailbox didn’t want to die, it shouldn’t have looked at us funny.”

Kitty’s wings twitched: an involuntary tic of someone already regretting her life choices. “This is exactly what I mean. Your operational record reads like a comedy of errors written by someone who hates robots.”

Uzi stepped forward, chin high. “We get results. Sometimes morally questionable results. But results.”

Kitty folded her arms. “Headquarters disagrees. Which is why I’ve been assigned to… assist.”

N perked up. “Team building! Yay!”

Kitty’s visor flickered dangerously. “Do not say ‘yay’ again.”

V smirked. “So what, you’re our babysitter?”

“Incorrect,” Kitty replied. “I am your supervisor.”

Uzi sputtered. “We don’t need a supervisor!”

Kitty projected a holographic display from her wrist. It showed a long, scrolling list of incidents, each with a red hazard symbol. “According to this,” Kitty said, “you absolutely do.”

N leaned in. “Oh hey, that one was my fault. And that one. And, oh wow, that one was definitely V.”

V looked proud. “One of my best.”

Kitty dismissed the hologram. “My directive is simple: improve your mission success rate by 300%.”

Uzi blinked. “That’s not even mathematically possible.”

“It is when your baseline is ‘abysmal.’”

Uzi growled. “Okay, listen here, you smug, over‑engineered--”

A sudden explosion boomed in the distance, shaking the snow beneath their feet.

N gasped. “Oh no! Did we leave the reactor running again?”

Kitty sighed, already walking toward the smoke plume. “And so it begins.”

V grinned, following. “Welcome to the team, Kitty.”

Kitty didn’t look back. “This is not a team. This is a hazard zone with delusions of competence.”

Uzi stomped after her. “We’ll show you competence!”

N happily skipped behind them. “Yay! Team building!”

Kitty’s voice echoed across the snow. “N, I swear—”

But it was too late.

“Yaaaaay!”

Kitty groaned. “I hate this planet.”