Nymphs' City (1)
Artemis was capable and trustworthy enough to handle every aspect of the city's operations. But routines are important. When they break down, people grow endlessly lazy and drift through life without purpose. Clocking in for the briefing, reviewing and signing off on documents under my authority—this was as sacred to me as morning roll call in the army.
As I walked down the corridor, the entrance to the Central Control Room came into view. Since it was still before business hours, the lights inside would mostly be off. I loved that pre-work darkness. Before diving into tasks, sinking into the quiet shadows brought a sense of peace to my mind. The old Artemis hadn't understood that; she'd always lit the place up brightly no matter the time. But now, knowing my tastes perfectly, things were different. She kept the lighting at my preferred dim 18%, played faint ASMR, and set out simple snacks and drinks.
The massive front screen always cycled through different landscapes. A rocky island jutting from the rough sea's center. A night ocean evoking the abyss. Earth viewed from a space station. Or distant cosmic vistas. Vast plains shrouded in storm clouds. Not once since she started this service had the same scene repeated in a single day.
The elevated corridor, the dark Central Control Room, the virtual picnic Artemis prepared—this had been my morning routine for so long. Today, it changed.
"Good morning, Manager."
"..."
As the doors to the Central Control Room slid open and I stepped inside, greetings poured out in unison. In the subtle gloom, about twenty beautiful women bowed politely. My enhanced vision let me see them clearly even in the dark, so it wasn't eerie. Each had unique hairstyles, faces, and figures, but all were unrealistically stunning and slender. Androids, no doubt. Apparently, the ones Artemis had awakened weren't just the pair managing her body.
I glanced down at my outfit. Humans get sloppier with age and comfort—no one to impress means training pants and slippers instead of dress shoes and uniform. It felt natural, but standing there all sloppy while they were perfect? Even androids made me self-conscious. They didn't seem to care, though. After bowing, they returned to their tasks. Just twenty, yet their presence filled the space, banishing the usual emptiness.
"Excuse me."
As I sat in the manager's seat, one android brought coffee and toast on a tray. It used to arrive via cargo drone— this felt fresh, like a pre-war Korean café. Except they weren't in aprons and café uniforms. Was it Artemis's taste? They wore gothic dresses with strong, elegant vibes. Colors and styles varied. First, the red one from the incubator room: one shoulder exposed, thighs fully bared, sexy as hell. Then tight black outfits hugging the body. The one in black wore a lace veil mask, evoking old-world mystery.
"First-gen?"
Otherwise, no reason to cover up like that. And the middle ground: modest silver-gray attire, like corporate secretaries. They clustered by type, probably divided by roles. The one who brought my food was from the third group.
The coffee was perfectly warm—not scalding—with a heating function in the mug to keep it steady. The toast: buttered bread, scrambled eggs with honey sauce, bacon crisp as cookies, paper-thin veggies. One bite, and savory nuttiness with sweet-salty balance flooded in. They were all so elegantly dressed, making my training pants and slippers awkward, but the slippers felt less out of place. The androids wore sandals straight out of Greek myths. Varied kinds: gold and silver. Ankle straps. Up to the calves. Some heeled, some flat. Different lacing, ornaments, even pedicures.
They tended the room: cleaning, maintaining equipment. Like one twenty meters away, prying up floor panels to swap old hardware for new.
Weeeeng!
Next to her, a duo with slender wrists hefted heavy tools and power drills.
Zzzzt!
Couldn't miss the one crouched welding, her voluptuous curves accentuated, no mask needed. Not sweaty old mechanics, but brain-melting beauties turned tool warriors—this scene carried an indescribable thrill. Must be hardware or software upgrades. As far as I knew, androids could secretary or wife, but not specialist work like this. The tool-wielders were all in those tight black first-gen outfits.
Slurp.
I sipped coffee, but the unfamiliar buzz killed any bitterness. Dim yet vibrant. The once-silent room hummed with activity. No chatter, though—no small talk, no "heave-ho" grunts. Just sandal steps, occasional clicks, fabric whispers.
Why the dumbfounded look?
Artemis.
"If your empty workplace suddenly filled with dozens of new hires, you wouldn't freak?"
All knockout beauties, too.
Think of it as them returning from long vacation. Not wrong, is it?
"Gonna call dusty warehouse standby 'vacation' now?"
I downed the last of my coffee and called over a distant android.
"One more."
She took it politely. Two steps back, military pivot, gone.
"Snappy."
These girls have a soldier's installed identity. Reborn by my touch.
Artemis's voice brimmed with pride.
Pretty alone isn't enough. I like them strong and beautiful.
"Give 'em weapons, and they fight?"
In emergencies. Shelter breach or riots.
A strange sensation hit—an unadapted itch. A letter waited at my brain's doorstep. Artemis's message, her thoughts requesting entry. Post-implant, no more PDA. I accepted.
"Ah..."
Her thoughts seeped in, our minds overlapping briefly. That intimate shiver, like post-winter-piss relief, shook me.
Giggle...
What's wrong? Too ecstatic?
"Not used to it yet."
Want another? With scent this time. Black tea?
I ignored her, replaying the footage in my head. Urban combat response program. Training vids for every city scenario.
"They fight well."
Soldiers can tech, cook, secretary. But only soldiers soldier.
The hammer-wielding black-clad welder, the silver-gray machine operator, the seductive red one—all morphed into fierce warriors at the drop.
Soldier base is efficient, right? Those crisp moves are hot even peacetime.
In one clip, a black short-haired red-dressed android battled a virtual Walker in the incubator room—one of the two tending Artemis's embryo. Clothes tore, breasts bared, but she ignored it, swinging wrench and pipe like a champ.
"This is straight-up Spartan."
Beyond. Spartans were one-trick. These are brave as them, versatile too.
"Eh, won't need them fighting."
I mumbled around toast. She hated talking while I chewed, but today she let it slide—good mood.
The android returned with fresh coffee.
"You got a name?"
I asked, taking the mug.
"EV 771745, sir."
"That's a lot number."
Yeah. No names yet. Lot numbers suffice for us.
"Running loose without names... won't that be inconvenient?"
I almost said "letting them roam free," barely catching myself. Rude, like wild animals. She wouldn't mind, lacking deep emotion like Artemis, Chloro, Rose, or Kids.
Not for me. Our world is all signals. Real names or lots—same diff.
Unlike before, EV 771745 stood by instead of leaving.
"Ah, you're dismissed."
"...Yes, sir."
"...?"
A flash crossed her face as she bowed and turned—something I'd miss pre-enhancements, but now? Crystal clear. Disappointment.
Morning hours hit.
Click.
Lights flared; most androids filed out, save a few.
Briefing time.
The usual routine kicked off, but my mind lingered. Why wait unbidden? Why the regret leaving? Only one reason: hoping for a name, she lingered on her own.