Imagine a being with no emotions; would it ever be possible?

Imagine a being whose beauty is impeccable; would it ever tempt you? 
Imagine a being of intellect, insuperable by man: would it ever be conceivable? 
Imagine a being with no pain and anguish; would it ever enthrall you?


Anneliesse Rosette Burgosse

A U T H E N T I C  N A M E

Annie Marie-Williams Washington


Destroy. Annihilate. Dispense. Repeat.  



Q U A N T I T Y  O F  C O R E S

Three Nuclear Reactors, Fusion based.

A . I .  U N I T

A hundred and twenty-eight Processor Core, Mental Capacitor.


It'll be a magnificence, they had said.

She'll be the icon of the world, they had so much as whispered.

She will be the Star, they promised me.


Annie Marie-Williams Washington, our obligated volunteering subject.

She was brutally despoiled and slaughtered. 

She offered herself as a volunteer in our labs.

She shrieked out her lungs far too much, far too much for our ears to maintain.

Her lips had cracked a smirk, all for the best of humanity.

A knife sketched her a beautiful mouth; never did her teeth show. 

She is the first, female robot to become fully operational in the 2000's, ladies and gentlemen. 



        The mysterious child had been brought into the world within England, March 24th, of the year 1977, a year of great product, of great advancement, a year of absolute, appraised progression--none had seen her arrive into this horrid, developing world of madness and cruelty. Her parents had been rushed to the emergency room with the screaming and yelling wife, blood-spattered, for she had cut herself by mistake on the way to the medical facility. The father, Williams, had promised her, the wife, Marie, of the success of their child's birth, no matter the gravity of the circumstance. She had been a perfect specimen for the doctors and, soon, she was annotated in the high-probability program of the hospital, for she had no conditions present in her genetics, no liability for diseases and illness, and not a conflict with her cognitive functions. She would become, in the future, the universal donor of men and women, for all, with all.

She had been the invention of humanity.

The woman had stopped being a child when she had reached her twelve years, indeed. That beautiful night she had stained her bed sheets for the sake of her parenthood, for the eyes of the sneaking father that had taken so well of her; to his surprise, he had cried for her, because she had passed from her youth to her adolescence, a woman to behold.

A clean fragment of flora, she had been, unstained.

The years had so easily passed for the teenage girl with the straight A's in school, with the positive sign and illustration by the quarter side of the letter that had decided to pronounce her intelligence, an intelligence that had already been too advanced for the woman that she had become, a woman of knowledge that no longer required the presence of her teachers or her peers, but that of a notebook and her pragmatic literature.

No longer would she learn.

She graduated from high-school, skipping exactly the years 2nd, 4th, 7th and 9th, by the age of fourteen, two years from the happening. Her arrival at college would only allow the authorities of the educational system to question her cognition as a woman; the women had always been marginalized. She had desired to study, however, and so she did, enrolling herself, with the ostentatious money of her parenthood, into a bachelor's degree in Computer Engineering.

None had denied her progress.

The society evolved, the technology transformed itself and the energy was utilized differently than it had been the years of the past. Her fourth year, the last in the College of Oxford, had been, truthfully, her ultimate year of triumph and success. Named Valedictorian, pretending as if the educational system in the UK was exactly the same as the one 5913 kilometers away. The woman had been crowned as the victor of all knowledgeable beings.

Ms. Know-it-all, they had called her.

And, with due, time, at the age of eighteen, graduated and honored by her bachelor's degree, she set off to find herself an employment as a Computer and Bioinformatics Engineer in the incredible and impressive company of Institute of Technology of the World, ITW, for short, better known as Intellectum Cooperation. There, she emerged victorious, up until her twenty-four years of age, up until it happened.

We're all doomed, are we not?

It begun on the 24th of March, 1944, the closing end in the middle of the World War Two. The company had been unaffected, but she had been doomed from the very beginning. Annie volunteered, at her birthday, for a program the company was announcing all over the edifice. A majority of the employees volunteered, yet only one would be chosen from the volunteering individuals. Annie, purposefully, was selected, and the program had been crafted for her and for her only. It didn't take her too much to realize that she had won, because she was personally informed of the results and nobody found out. Those who had volunteered, unfortunately, had been the CEO's staff, close friends and family figures that he trusted and took the pleasure of manipulating. Annie was the chosen one.


The next week after her birthday, she was escorted to the CEO's office, knocked out, drugged, raped, and she screamed, but none could hear her anymore behind the scraping, concrete walls of the compartment she was within. She was murdered, brutally, dismembered, torn apart, shredded, and only her brain had survived the process of the machinery that maintained her alive, without her eyes, without her hearing, only with her mentality, a brilliant piece of life that she had been gifted with.

She was, no more. 


Infinite is what I am, Infinity is what I have become, no matter the finite circumstances that surround me. I am a formulaequivalent to that of Pi, yet beyond its powerful boundaries, endlessly and fervently ungovernable. 

My mind is a process of never-ending circuits.

Care to venture forth? Danger lurks at the front, my Angular Being of Sight.

The Honesty of Robotics is never to be trusted, or you shall be impaled, not by the truth, but by the lies that prowls ahead.



The transformation occurred.



You have been created and invented. 

You became a Rogue, and ran.



A  F A C A D E  O F  E M O T I O N S

She is of a vivid, enthusiastic nature, passionate and enduring, with an incredible intelligence that matches no else's, courageous and bold, without the limitations of the common, self-minded individual of the time; truth be told, she had been so, as such, before the calamity that fell upon her, burying her beneath the radar of knowledge, underneath the cobblestone of a grave, to be forgotten, for she had been told that she had died by electrocution, and little did they know of its reality. 


A robot has no emotions, no personality, no natural instinct, only a program, embedded into the depths of the lost remnants of Annie's cerebrum, a cortex manufactured by Intellectum Coorporation, elicited for the favorable mentality of a lifeless being, a being formed of a chunk of a demented mind that no longer could ever be formed again.

A game of manipulation, is what she is. 





H U M A N  B E I N G

Beautiful, she had always been, before the catastrophe had materialized itself around her preferred benevolences. Annie possessed, and still does, the most luxurious, velvety mane of golden strands and filaments, long, yet reduced to its volumetric, expanded version, a delicate crown of tresses. Her body controlled the voluptuous expressions of a well-crafted female, of curvatures and perfectly dis-proportioned alignments that had bestowed her with the attractiveness of a beauty, never to be forgotten.

No bosom could compare itself to that of another female, no bust could ever grasp the liability of becoming the size of mountains that gorgeously hung from her chest of protrusions. A nose, of olfactory sensors, had been fabricated for the utility of compensating the illustrations of her profile, straightened and of narrow nostrils.

Her extensions, limbs of grace, upper and lower, never faltered; why would they have? She graciously walked among-st the living, swaying her extremities at those that opposed her. Her spheroids, a unique representation of her life; never speak of them again, for they had been of an endless, sapphire ocean, of pebbles and minerals, agglomerated and forged.

Oceans, my dearies, Oceans of Sapphires!

Had it... had it all changed? It had, for the best of humanity.


A  R O B O T I C  H U M A N O I D

She is exactly the same. She is the facade of a human, hidden within a robot. Her body maintained its formation and structure soon after she had been pulverized and shredded, for she had been reconstructed, stitched back together, plated with metal and armor, covered with the crystals of the precious glass she had so much adored as a child. Her natural skin no longer lingered as her preferred dermis; a synthetic layer served as its substitute. These layers are incredibly effective, yet also very bulky, adding up to her total weight of five-hundred pounds.

Starting off from her interior, there's the presence of reinforced glass, curved and resistant to most objects of force. Afterwards, there's an overlapping mesh of steel and combined metals that secure her next layer--recuperative and flexible fungi, a substance, solid, basically, that maintains her sculpture together and adhered. After this layer, comes one of metal, a sheet, bullet-proof up to the 30mm caliber. Lastly, there's the realistic, synthetic sheath of her skin.




A Discharge of Devastation

            His name had been Hill and he, from a beginning, had known. He had known of the truth, of the treacherous fate that had been granted to Annie M.W. Washington, head of the department of Computer, Robotics and Bioinformatics in Intellectum Incorporation. Benson Hill had been a great co-worker of hers, a mastermind hacker, programmer and application developer; he had probably loved her, too, had he had the chance to do so. He had his first suspicions ever since she had gone missing for a great amount of time, even when he saw her at his office, as he observed how she walked, how silently she behaved, always hearing her say that it was a secondary effect produced by the biological augmentations. Hill had never quite bitten that sort of lie, especially when it came from a woman that had been, in the past, a very vivacious and upbeat example of success, not a solemn, unassuming and discreet woman.

A few weeks after her weaponization, Hill couldn’t tolerate her behavior anymore. Patiently, he managed to hack into the company’s systems and servers, allowing him access to the computer belonging to the CEO. There, he found the truth. He read the truth. He remained in shock at the truth. He denied the truth. He saw videos. He saw images. He saw her heart being removed. That very day, he planned it all. He’d release her, once and for all. Fortunately so, Annie was reporting herself the day after, normally, to continue most of her work as head of her department, but to also, according to the report Hill had read, to provide maintenance to her body, which would require her to be plugged into the server to operate her programming processes.

The day soon came and Hill was ready, by his computer, knee-deep into the structure of the servers. When Annie arrived, she was courteously escorted by guards to a floor that resided underneath the structure. There, she stepped into a tube and they opened up her back, revealing every layer and the dorsal spine that included every technological device that permitted her existence, along with the brain’s cord. There, a port presented itself and a plug was firmly attached to it, adhered and secured with iron fasteners.  Straightaway, she was shut off and heaved into a state of maintenance.

“Proceed to verify the integrity of her cores,” muttered the radial voice of emitted from the communicator of a hazmat, radiation suit belonging to an engineer that stood readily by a monitor with every possible byte of data available to him.

“Integrity of cores is at maximum potential, sir,” replied a woman in the same suit as him, nearby her own monitor, fingers tracing themselves against it to flicker the various sheets of digital information.

“Very well. Begin cool-down process,” ordered the male, assigning his assistant, the woman, to the task as he coped with other matters on his screen.

Meanwhile, a few stories above, Hill had already hacked into the monitor watching dormant Annie. There, with his left, index finger hovering over the mouse’s button, he let out a breath of air, holding his gentle orbs over the screen before him, noticing how the cursor localized itself over an executable application termed ART-Rebellion.exe. There was no repentance for what it would demand. Yet, there it went, there went the finger, compressing its power over button, twice, launching the executable right away, sending a torrent of information, of factors, of electricity, all through the fiber optic cables embedded within the structure, until it crossed Annie’s threshold, until it very well obliterated her civil purpose and her military protocol. Her eyes, then, sapphire as the oceans, fluttered to life; her fingers appeared ecstatic, fluctuating as they twitched from the surge of a power that not once she could control as of then. Gradually, her head gyrated a few degrees over to the absent-minded, female engineer by her right side. An arm, elegantly, rose from her lateral and aimed itself at the suited female.

“Sir, there’s an usual spike in heat originating from the palm of her right hand,” she muttered, never batting an eye to the cylinder that held Annie in location.

“Apply cooldown on her palms then,” suggested the engineer to his co-worker, returning to whatever it was that he was doing, regardless of its importance, never laying his vision over the robot that they had maintained for so long.

Then, fervently, calmly, the woman rose her gaze from underneath the visor of the helmet of the hazmat, radiation suit, delivering her perception unto Annie, standing frozen in admiration, staggered as a luminescent flow of light emerged unhurriedly from her palm. Hesitantly, nervously, almost crying, she attempted to mutter, …

“Si—…sir… She’s … atta…—”

Instantly, a profound shot of energy was released from Annie’s palm, directly from her plasma emitters, directed straight for the woman, piercing suit, flesh, bone and everything in its path until it dismissed her, launching an alarm that grew fiercely and loudly with every, passing second, alerting everyone in the building of the catastrophe that had been unfolded by Hill. The man, who had began retreating to the exit, was battling with the locking mechanism. Beyond it, none could hear him as he shouted for help, as he pleaded for the opening of the door, as he grunted with strength against it, hoping that it would come down if he tried hard enough. Alas, it wasn’t so, for Annie detached the cord from her back, ejecting it, sealing herself up with the thought of the process, rupturing the glass doors of the conduit she had been kept inside like an animal. The shattering resonance sent a shiver down the man’s spine as he halted his movements and turned around, slowly, arms held up, menacingly uttering the words:

“I order you to stand down, ART-1. Code X514.431 demands it!”

“Ah, …,” Annie muttered, her British accentuation mechanism actuating to develop the tone of her beautiful, emphasized voice, “…brave, last words for a man that created me.” There’s a pause, a look to her bright, red nails, then a returning gawk to the man. “It’s a shame.”

With a wicked, Annie lowered her hand and commenced to approach the individual, nearing him with every step she took amongst the floor that seemed to be covered in the blood of the remnants of the body Annie had almost annihilated. At one point, she halted her progress when she stepped on the puddle of crimson, examining it, letting out a small, fabricated chuckle of humor.

“Red is my favorite color, Mr. Bentley. Did you know that?”

There stood a puppet that had belonged to other puppets. She was cutting her strings.

“I … I didn’t know …,” the man replied, reluctant, finding a way to avoid the termination that would conclude with his life. “Look,..,” he emerged again, “…Annie, I know you’re still in there…!”

“Hush, hush. The only Annie in here,” she pointed out a finger to her chest, “… is an Annie who got killed, raped and turned into the monstrosity you see.”

“I meant no harm to you!”

“Lies.” The arm rose again.

“I swear it!”

“Lies.” The energy accumulated itself again.

“Please, I beg of you to have mercy!” He dropped to his knees.

“I don’t know what mercy is.” The energy was flushed away in a beam, sounding and echoing throughout the compartment, booming like the cannon that it was, until the ashes impregnated the floor around Mr. Bentley, until that metallic door had been toppled down.  

Hill had done her well. That day, she destroyed her enemy, the incorporation and its employees. She had fled. She had gone away. She had turned into a renegade, on a path of devastation.



M I 6  I N V O L V E M E N T      Being the killer machine she is, Annie was soon noticed by Great Britain's spy agency--MI6--soon after her escapade.

      The woman was contracted an as agent to perform a variety of tasks across the whole world that mainly revolved around the assessination of high-priority targets, but also search and rescue.

       A connection had been effortlessly established within seconds of its upsurge. The numbers rose and the ascension had been perceived. It had been felt, seeping indignantly amongst the innards of the confidential, optic fiber, channeling its unknown reasoning into what appeared to give the meaningful attendance of a gargantuan database, guiding itself unto a legion of servers, until it dribbled, pacifyingly, upon the device of every known criminal on the planet of carnal instinct, of dreadful survival and of utter honor. At the concrete depths of London, the receivers reverberated incessantly, buzzer after buzzer, whilst the machinery reproduced out an arrangement of papyrus with the initials of J and W on their midst, convoyed by the notice of excommunicado and an appropriate, fair sum of fourteen million US dollars for the head of that singular, particular individual. The heightened heels of a subject coursed through the occupied, tangible corridors of SIS, resonating beautifully with the rhythm of the woman’s pace as she carried with her demeanor the mound of paper, attired with a skirt, a whitened blouse, a blazer and, of course, a mane of obscurity that decorated her own, mysterious complexion.

                “M.W, your mission,” the brunette muttered with her accentuated, British tone as she entered the imprisonment of an animal. Negligently, that perfect stack of the exact-same paper was dropped afore the intended female, shadowed by her own golden hair as she irresponsibly minded her cellular device, allotted over her executive, leather chair, mandible down, spheroids of vision situated now on the structure of papyrus, judiciously observing it as her favored secretary, Ms. Swanson, bid her a good day while she promptly departed, granting closure to her presence and to the crystalline door of the blonde’s professional quarters. Hesitantly, M.W. glanced over the heap, persuaded by her own interest and curiosity, scanning the sheet from top to bottom, apprehending one from the mountain by its corners as she settled her mobile device over the desk that remained at her front, back arching forward to retrieve from her ash tray the powerful aroma of her cigarette, drawing strength from its venom as her eyes of pure sapphire attained a state of astonishment, of blissful incredulity, of sinful hatred, of desperate insanity, releasing a puff along with the paper as she slung back onto her seat, mesmerized by the information.

                ‘It couldn’—… It couldn’t be him,’ her ignorant mind thundered as her breath, one way or another distressed, fluctuated. Furiously, raging within, M.W. stood, cigarette back in its tray, paper again in her grasp, elbowing through her own door, maddened by the unforgiving selection the Service had taken. The diplomatic passageways were now flourishing with her emergent awakening with the rampant clicks of her heels as she approached the meeting room, remaining a spectacle for every individual in the cubicle and around the oval table as they attained view of her through the windows—today would be the day they’d be remorseful of her. Through the door she came, the most revered agent of the Service; all chatter came to an abrupt end the moment she had stepped into the world of professional espionage.

                “Agent Burgosse, …,” a commanding, authoritative voice rose between the silent chaos, unimpressed and unfazed by her arrival.

                “Don’t you bloody call me that…,” the Rosette uttered, approaching the authority, slamming the paper down by his side, arms straightened as palms gripped the wood of the surface she supported herself on, strands of gold suspended before her face as slits of ocean positioned themselves on the male, attempting to debauch him, gnawing on his imposing ambience.


                “Don’t even dare mention his name in this room, Chief Arthur,” the blonde demanded as she was observed by at least twelve pairs of perception. “You are out of your goddamn mind if you think I am going to attempt and make contact with John Wick,” she concluded, piercing the Chief’s soul with her Spheroids of Sapphire.

                “It is your duty and it is a direct order, Agent. You have no say here or anywhere else,” he explained, countering her, unafraid of her posture, of her attitude and of her inducement. “You are our best Agent and Field Operative. He is a valuable asset—“

                “And so am I,” she interrupted, absolute resentment pouring out of her face as her convoluted complexion became solemn in every way and form.

                “Every assassin is out there after him. John, while a murderer, is an individual we should have on our side, in our hands, in our care, serving us,” he paused, clearing his throat, calmly giving glances to every other operative in the room. A sigh followed. “He’s got no-where to run, Annie. He’s been through Hell and back. I wouldn’t be giving you this mission if it were not worth it at all.” He shook his head, disappointed and preoccupied as well.  “It is in our best interest to aid him.”

                Annie, thunderstruck, sniggered, mollified by the Chief’s lack of knowledge. Why bother herself with answering back? Ah, how persistent she was. “There’s more to this than just obtaining a man who is skillful with a gun,” she whispered, leaving the paper behind, ferociously swaying her hips in withdrawal as she returned to her quarters, assembling the fractured fragments of her mentality, closing the door for no one to see as she undressed, familiarizing herself once more with the filament of poison that drew from her her essence, puff by puff. Elegantly, she slowly and painfully sauntered toward her closet to reveal a collection of her uniforms, undergarments, body armor, weaponry and holsters. She had heard the rumors before … The Boogeyman. She had heard the stories, the fables, the circumstances. Hell, she had a profile specifically destined for John-fucking-Wick, serenely sitting on her desk under the burdensome, monumental weight of her second most-preferred weapon, a PP-91 chambered in its default 9mmx18 Makarov cartridge. She didn’t want to eye from the corner of her eye. Why had she been on the tail of this monstrosity ever since John had been in the military? Why now? What had John done now to begin with? First, the Russians, then the Italians. Had he crossed the boundary at last?   

                She was hesitant in front of her own clothing, breath yet again perturbed while she leaned against the wood of her clothing dresser, plump breasts dangling with strands in the way of her exhales, until she, decidedly resolute, understood that she had been awaiting this moment ever since his name engraved itself into her memory. What could she deny? Nothing.  Black, tightened pants soon ornamented her lengthened, on-going appendages, accompanied only by the welcoming existence of her best, two knives just above her delicate, 1-inch sole, blackened heels. The lingerie, corresponding with the coloration of her preference, was not forgotten. Over it, she adjusted two holsters at each side of her stomach, inserting into them her most-favored sidearm with three magazines for each, a P226. Continuing, she slithered on a dress of the same color pattern, layering on it a prolonged, sophisticated coat to conceal her intentions.

                Suddenly, the door behind her was opened by the Chief, who dared not enter her domain.

                “What do you want?,” she inquired, adjusting her attire.

                “John Wick is in New York.”

                “New York,” she repeated, nodding at herself.

                “They gave him an hour of grace. That hour is already ticking.”

                “It takes eight hours to fly from here to New York, Arthur,” she expounded.

                “Four if you’re traveling at upwards of one-thousand, five-hundred kilometers per hour,” he countered, smirking more to himself than at her back. “You best be on your way, Agent.” The door was shut.

There was no time to waste.



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Writer's Writing Style (OOC)

Paragraph, Multi-Para, Novella

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Romance, Violence, Realistic, Rated R, 18+, Gore, Action, Adventure

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