Rowan had just finished up on one of his routine gigs, a small bar in the same slum he grew up in. He always stuck with his own people, not matter how much money his music made him. It felt right, a thank you. No matter how hard life could be, the community here was home. A small reprieve against the ever worsening political climate outside. As tech got better, so did greed and the riches’ desire to control. Communities like this, all nameless and similar in nature, were relatively left alone by law enforcement. So long as they didn’t cause too much of a ruckus.

He quietly sits on the stage and packs up his guitar, before collecting that and his other stuff and heading into one of the back rooms. As much as Rowan loves making as much noise as possible most of the time, sometimes quiet is nice. He sighs, dumping his stuff beside the door and wiping off the most of his stage makeup. At least, he was doing that until a loud thud in the corridor outside started him.

Rowan hesitates. The authorities? That was entirely possible, but… usually there’s signs before they get involved. He hesitates, running a hand through the blond mess of his hair, then he goes for it. He cracks the door open and peers through the gap. Holy cow…

Before him is a killing machine. At least that’s what they call them down here. Fancy-shancy scientists would call them androids probably. Not that it made any difference to their intended purpose — being a soldier. They’re not supposed to able to go places on their own. They’re not supposed to think. It’s stood awkwardly beside a cabinet it seemingly just bumped into.He locks eyes with the machine, and it… doesn’t do anything at all?

“Hey… uh… you doing… okay?” Rowan curses himself for the stupidity, but what else is he supposed to do?