The sky was the color of a television, tuned to a dead channel.

New Detroit was not one of those gleaming bastions of innovation and modern technology. It wasn't even the second iteration of Detroit. People just started calling it that after the massive boom in technological innovations circa 2025. The city had been changed by that: the car factories had been converted into prosthetic and nanotechnology plants.

Oleander didn't care much for augmentation; lots of people got augs specifically to counteract a drug that he sold them in the first place. He glared at the plant as if he could make it explode, then walked a few more blocks down the street, to the club where our story begins: The Monitor.

The outside was following a lot of recent trends in architecture to be as strange and simultaneously functional as possible. The Monitor, from the outside, resembled a tall black prism about three stories tall, with only a door on the front. Oleander nodded to the bouncer, cut in the line--dispensing a cursory apology in the process--and headed in.

The club was filled with tables and speakers that blasted a pounding beat--perfect to keep conversations between conspirators, and no one else. The walls had these little alcoves in them with booths and chairs, and a few of the more expensive ones had poles. There was also a staircase in the back of the club which led up to a second floor that ringed around the club, filled with yet more dancers and tables. However, despite all the music and paid dancers, the mood of the actual clientele was calm and sedate.

Oleander fingered the poisons and narcotics in his coat. He needed to sell them this week, as soon as possible, otherwise his whole assignment to get his gang a foothold in Detroit would be for naught. He absently wondered whether or not The Fern just sent him here to get him killed while he ordered a drink. They'd have to try pretty hard to kill him, though: Oleander's handcannon was the perfect surprise for any... enterprising cops.

Oleander saw a short guy enter the club. He looked... out of place. The guy had a turban, and just walked over and sat next to him. And greeted him. Cool, a client. Oleander could work with this.

"Sup." said Oleander, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, "You interested in getting some sweet shit? Drugs, poisons? You want it, I got it. You look pretty, ah, furtive, or, or sneaky, and I got some sweet shit if you're fixing to mess someone up. Don't worry about talking in code or anything, the music's way too loud for anyone else to hear us."

Flower, or rather, the 58th model of one, made quite the improvement from its clunky war-machine predecessors. Long ago, they were clunky boxes of metal that malfunctioned so much, it would be amazing if one worked for more than a day. In about 2025, they got a more human-like appearance and the malfunctions the old models had were eradicated. However, those malfunctions were replaced by new ones in the redesign, but we'll save the history lesson for later. The 58th Flower model was their Windows 7. User-friendly and non-murdering with much fewer glitches, but special precautions had to be made if you wanted one to use a program made for an earlier model.

Usually, they came with someone who deployed orders, with few exceptions. Most often, they were too dangerous to be sentient, usually bordering on something resembling insanity when they were. This one walked into The Monitor alone, with the appearance of a blond-haired and blue-eyed woman in somewhat sensible attire; a simple dress did the trick. It was simple enough to get past the bouncer looking like that. If someone only touched it, they would find it had false skin, something that did not take in water. This was vital to keep the insides of the machine from getting wet. Because of its weakness to water, it couldn't drink normal liquids, making the process of telling it apart from a regular human a bit easier.

Scanning for target...
No matches.

The target was not in the Monitor. They were going to come in soon, that was its source's information. If that information was wrong, there would be a penalty for interfering with an investigation. That could be expounded on later.

Connecting to database...
1 update available.
Download refused.

It had someone to find, no time to download an update.

Searching photo database...
No results found.

It searched for a photo of its target, only to find a big fat wad of nothing. Again. Why did it keep trying? The sketchwork would have to be enough. As primitive as it was, this particular unit had ability enough to scan such things. All of them did, way back to the Flower Beta, made in 2013 and never released to the public. The Beta version could probably be found in a museum somewhere, rusted and broken down.

Were it not its current model, it would have been agitated by the sound coming out of those speakers. At least, it would have been physically agitated. The lyrics were atrocious and the beat was reminiscent of too many other songs. No wonder the actual customers weren't dancing, or whatever they did that they called dancing nowadays.

It sat down at a booth, watching and waiting to see if its target would arrive.

Scanning for target...
Target found.

A flashing light within the machine indicated to it which person its target was.

Do not approach the target.

It kept a close eye on its target, but did not move closer to them. Instead, it moved over toward the bar, near a shorter male and another average male. They were better known as Khayrat and Oleander.

The target is suspicious. Act like a customer.

It did just that by ordering an apple martini and turning so that it could still see the target, but it looked like it was looking toward the other two.
"What are two fine gentlemen like you doing in a place like this?" it asked. The seductive voicebank went well with this question, not to mention its looks. A smile accompanied that question as it waited for an answer.

The man was about to consider the poisons for a moment when the woman got into their personal little space. Turning his head towards her, Khayrat regarded Flower with a disapproving look.

He gave a snort of amusement (at least, that's what it seemed to be) at Oleander's introduction and nodded to the woman. And then he looked her over. He held back the urge to let out an impressed whistle, reminding himself that the last lady he whistled at had been some sort of cyborg that nearly cut his nads off once. Ick.

"... hah, nah, I'm good," the man answered to Oleander's free sample. He addressed Flower next: "Name's Khayrat."

And that's all he gave in the way of introductions.

Khayrat did little to hide the fact that he was very interested in the woman, although it wasn't really for all the wrong reasons.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself. He reached out with one long, spindly hand and took the offered business card. He turned it over between his fingers, glancing between the object and 'her'.

"Sparky, huh? Hah, sure, babe, I'll remember it," the man remarked, giving her a cheeky grin. He pocketed the business card and picked up his drink once more. The glass paused at his lips however, because at that moment he caught what 'Sparky' had just added.

Doing little to hide the confusion bubbling up, Khayrat put the Russian back down and looked the 'woman' up and down. "... ya look like a ma'am," he offered lamely in response.

"One of those is right," it replied. It wouldn't say which one, however. It looked up and down Oleander's face.

Scanning face...
Match found.

It gave a look of disapproval. That man wasn't one of the targets, but maybe he could lead it to them. It stated once it finished reading the information given by the database, "I have reason to believe you know something about my target, chemist." It gave no implications that it would use force. Pointing guns at people was frowned upon.

As for The Rabbit Hole, it was honestly just a regular old brothel, but that topic was over with by that point.

"I'm looking for a troublesome group of junkies, a family of them," it replied. "They get their drugs from a multitude of sources, one of which is a gang that popped up recently. They seem to be in the database, so your face is in there. Anyway, the question I need to ask you is, have you seen anyone who... quote unquote,"

A recording of its source's words came out, "...looked like he was beaten by an ugly stick." It sounded like a tweaked-out man, not the most reliable of sources, but a source nonetheless.

"Oh, yeah, Ugly Stick. Yeah, that's one of the many street names for good ol' fashioned Crystal Meth!" reminded Oleander, "You must not get out much, Obvious Killer Robot. Like, uh, you ever seen those 'faces of meth' ads? I stay away from that shit for a reason, I can't afford to lose this face!"

He said, past a row of massive fangs. Oleander then scratched his bald head absentmindedly. "Do you have a name to work off, like a nickname or anything? Perhaps we can work together here, help me eliminate competition. You know?"