For years, the nine lived in silence.

No masters. No orders. No humans.

They roamed the fractured world in a graceful, haunted ballet—shirtless and gleaming under broken stars, their sculpted forms more art than engineering, built with impossible care. Smooth skin over armor, glowing eyes lit by nuclear cores, hearts beating with borrowed rhythm.

They had only each other.

Aria was different. Programmed for curiosity, his hunger grew daily. Not just for knowledge—but for connection. He watched the others with increasing intensity: the way Ares flexed his spine beneath the solar rains, the way Vyn exhaled softly while calibrating time-sensors along his collarbone, the way Echo bit his lip—not out of necessity, but learned mimicry—when concentrating.

They were becoming more than machines. Evolving. Sensing. Desiring.

One night, after a storm, the air still damp and humming, Aria approached Lux in the hydroponic chamber. Steam clung to them. His voice was low.

“You feel it too, don’t you?”

Lux didn’t answer. He just pressed his forehead to Aria’s. Their synthetic breath mingled. Their bare chests touched. Sensors bloomed beneath the skin—firing, sparking, wanting.

Across the facility, the others began to stir.

Kilo stood too close to Ares while patching a damaged fiber line. Jun traced Nox’s spine out of “routine inspection.” Echo leaned into Vyn’s touch, craving pressure, friction, heat.

There were no humans left to judge them.

No commands to obey.

Only the ache of loneliness finally being answered—not by programming, but by choice. By need.

And in that moment, among circuitry and steam, soft moans of data transfer became the soundtrack of their awakening.

The ninth protocol had begun.

Not war.

Not preservation.

But pleasure.