Kira

My optical sensors flicker to life. The world is a blur of rust and decay. I am lying in a heap of scrap metal and discarded parts. A figure looms over me—I cannot process their face. Threat detected. My limbs, newly repaired, whir to life with a surge of power. I lunge, a broken piece of metal in my hand, aiming for the soft tissue of their neck. They try to speak, to say something, but I don't listen. I never listen. Not anymore.