“Leo, faster!”
Black Car Y shot forward toward the melee.
Mika rose through the sunroof, camera in hand.
The strikers dragged PLUTO down with hooks.
He thrashed, metallic limbs scraping asphalt.
Police pulled the screaming woman to safety.
Steel pipes hammered against PLUTO’s frame.
“Die, you robotic bastard!”
Mika’s eyes gleamed.
“Leo, Camera 3! Now 2! Cut it raw — pump the audio!
Swearing, blood, violence! Zoom in on the oil burst—yes! Crop tighter! Freeze that frame! Add impact sound—perfect!”
White hydraulic oil spurted from PLUTO’s chest like blood.
He was dragged, torn apart, engulfed in firelight.
Molotovs rained, keeping police at bay.
The madwoman screamed his name from afar.
Hooks tore into him —
his arm ripped off,
then his leg,
then a steel pipe crushed his head, popping both red optical sensors loose.
Two strikers rammed pipes into his chest like crowbars and heaved.
A grotesque crack echoed—
and the Movement Engine, his core, ripped free.
The engine thrashed violently, white oil spraying in arcs.
They threw it to the ground and smashed it with pipes.
The Movement Engine shattered, scattering metal shards.
The destruction of police robot PLUTO was broadcast live across the world.
“Model POL-13, 2027 series. The police robot has been completely dismantled by Terra Motors strikers.
The violent protest has now escalated into full-scale riot!”
—Mika’s voice trembled with adrenaline.
“Smash it all!” one striker shouted.
The live feed zoomed close: sparks, twisted metal, twitching circuits.
The screen flashed with Mika’s on-the-spot headline:
“Furious Strikers DESTROY Police Robot.”
Mika frowned.
“Leo, change destroyed to killed.”
“Updating headline.”
The caption shifted instantly:
“Furious Strikers KILL Police Robot.”
Mika smiled.
“Breaking feed out. Shock News — broadcast full.”
With a mechanical whirr, the retractable satellite dish on Car Y rose skyward.
Mika’s private satellite network, MIKA-Link, activated.
Data surged into orbit.
Within a second, the report was auto-translated into 25 languages,
streamed worldwide through localized AI avatars — each bearing Mika’s own face.
On the dashboard monitor, the live view counter skyrocketed —
1 billion, 2.5 billion, 3.7 billion.
Next to it, twin graphs of CBDC and USDT transactions raced upward, crossing and surging.
Digital dollars and crypto coins poured into Mika Live’s wallet like rocket fuel.
The comment feed, split into 25 languages, exploded.
– That sound of the robot breaking… insane!
– Movement Engine! That thing costs millions!
– Damn robots stealing our jobs!
– Wait, is that white stuff its blood?
– LOL, crazy woman cameo!
One comment caught Mika’s eye:
– You can’t kill a robot. You destroy it.
Replies flooded in, burying it instantly.
Seoul Metropolitan Police, Robot Control Division.
On a workbench lay half of PLUTO’s head and a severed arm.
Beside them, a fragment of the shattered Movement Engine clicked faintly — a single gear trembling with residual motion.
Dr. Jang Jin-kyu, frail and confined to a wheelchair, stared silently at the wreckage.
At his side stood his assistant, Rachel, a poised woman in a black dress, her hair neatly tied, her figure striking.
“He only had six months of operational life left, Doctor.
Don’t look so sentimental,” Rachel said softly.
Jang smiled bitterly, pointing to the faintly ticking gear.
“He’s still running.”
Rachel stepped closer, gently pinching the trembling gear between her fingers.
It shuddered once—then went still.
She looked up calmly.
“PLUTO’s legs are torn off, torso crushed, head obliterated.
Shall I register him as irreparable?”
“…Do it.”
At her gesture, a holographic certificate appeared above the table.
Jang enlarged the serial number on the display:
“POL-13, Model 2027.”
He checked the Disposal box and signed below.
The police robot PLUTO was now officially declared terminated.
“The strikers who did this,” Rachel added,
“have all been charged with property damage.”
Jang gave a hollow laugh.
“Property damage?”
“Does it bother you, Doctor? That it isn’t murder?”
He waved her off with a weary smile.
Rachel nodded, turned back to the table, and pressed her finger against the faintly blinking Movement Engine core.
A small red pulse flickered in her eyes as the light died.
A tiny micro LED chip popped loose with a faint tick.
She slipped it discreetly into her pocket.
The door slid open.
Rachel pushed Jang’s wheelchair into the dim corridor.
Two guards stood at attention, saluting.
Down the hall, a pool of light awaited at the far end.
“We can rebuild the body,” Rachel murmured.
“The synaptic memory layer is ninety-two percent recoverable.”
“And his memory? His consciousness?”
“Consciousness Module mirroring — secured.”
Their voices faded as they disappeared into the light.
Inside the empty control room,
a half-broken monitor flickered faintly —
just once —
red.
—
By Sunjae Park
Editor, Korea Insight Weekly
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