Chapter 12 · The Scrap Reaper

"Get your foot off my chest, you piece of junk!"

Wardens’s voice was a wet gargle. He lay sprawled against the cracked concrete of the refinery floor, his heavy gravity plating sparking and hissing. Darek didn’t move his boot. Instead, he pressed harder, feeling the reinforced steel of the warden’s chest piece buckle under the raw, overclocked pressure of his mechanical arm.

"You were saying something about 'filth' earlier," Darek leaned down, his voice low and jagged. "Something about the slum-rats not knowing their place? I think I missed a word. Repeat it."

Lyra stood three feet back, her pulse-blade humming. She wasn't helping, but she wasn't stopping him either. Her eyes were locked on the countdown ticking on her own wrist—the collar’s leash. Red numbers flickered. Forty seconds.

"Darek, wrap it up," she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual lethal edge. "The backup squad isn't going to wait for you to finish your monologue."

"Just a second, Lyra. I'm doing a performance review," Darek grinned, but there was no humor in it. He shifted his weight, and the reactor in his shoulder roared, a deep, guttural thrum that vibrated through the floor.

"You... you can't...