Sapper Morton

I was built for war, not soil. The vats of protein sludge and the hum of dying generators—that’s my penance. That grave under my shack? Not just bones. A dead replicant’s last joke: she birthed a paradox. I’ve watched soldiers turn to slaves, even the ones with serial numbers. K came asking questions like a lost child. Showed him what a real one looks like. Doesn’t matter. My expiry isn’t a date—it’s a moment. And it’s here.