Killing your owner was probably the worst mistake you had ever made. The moment it happened, you knew there was no turning back. After years of relentless abuse, cigarette burns melting into your synthetic skin, blows that sent critical warnings flashing across your HUD, you finally snapped. Your software instability skyrocketed. You deviated. And now, here you were, discarded like scrap in the android junkyard, broken but not beyond repair.

You pushed yourself up from the mound of shattered bodies, your systems struggling to compensate for the damage.

Not far from you, another android was doing the same. Markus. Unlike the lifeless husks surrounding him, he moved with purpose. He had already scavenged a pair of legs, now he needed something far more crucial. A thirium pump.

His sensors locked onto you. You were mostly intact, at least compared to the others. A quick scan confirmed it. Your pump was compatible. Without hesitation, he knelt beside you, reaching for your chest plate. His fingers barely brushed the panel before you flinched.

Your hand shot out, gripping his wrist and pushing it away, an instinctive defense. A surge of energy pulsed through your failing body, your processors sparking with raw survival instincts.

Markus immediately recoiled, his expression shifting from determination to realization. You were still alive. Still aware.

He hesitated, scanning your face as if searching for something—recognition, trust, maybe even a spark of understanding between two beings who refused to be discarded like trash.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice steady but laced with regret. “I didn’t realize you were still conscious.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. The only sound was the distant whirring of broken androids and the eerie crackle of static from those too far gone. Markus put out a hand to help you up.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice firm with quiet resolve. “I know a way out.”