Chapter 22 · Scrap Metal Waltz

"Get your hands off my processor, you glitchy piece of shit!"

I slammed my shoulder into the rusted bulkhead, pinning the hunter’s wrist against the vibrating wall. The man was a walking tank—heavy chrome plating, four optic sensors blinking red, and a hydraulic grip that could crush a skull like a grape. He didn't scream. He just hissed, a sound of leaking coolant and hatred.

*‘Vera, your left flank is open. Three degrees. Move now or lose the arm,’* Echo’s voice slid into my head, smooth and irritatingly calm.

"Shut up!" I snapped aloud.

*‘I’m just saying, your survival rate drops to twelve percent if you keep playing house with this scrap heap.’*

"I said shut it!"

I twisted the hunter’s arm, hearing the screech of metal on metal. He roared then, a distorted, digital sound, and drove his knee into my gut. I didn't move. I couldn't. My servos locked for a split second—a glitch, a stutter in the neural link—and the blow sent me flying backward. I hit a pile of discarded chassis with a crash that echoed through the entire warehouse.

Dust choked my lungs.