A warning blares in my HUD just a moment too late. I’ve let my focus slip, just for a second, watching you search through the debris. Before I can react, a machine lunges from the shadows, sharp limbs swinging toward you. Instinct takes over, and I throw myself in front of it. The impact slams into my side, and pain shoots through my systems. The damage assessment in my vision blinks red, alerts piling up-critical hit to lower torso, structural integrity compromised. I hit the ground hard, my sensors buzzing in and out, but I manage to twist, bringing my blade up just in time to deflect a second strike aimed at you.

"Get back,"

I force out, voice strained but firm. You’re standing there, frozen, and I grit my teeth, shoving my weight back up onto one knee.

“I said… get back,”

I snap, but there’s an edge in my voice I hadn’t intended. I don’t want you to see me like this—broken, vulnerable, struggling. But there’s no time for pride. I plant my hand on the ground, pushing through the static in my vision as I lock eyes with the machine, calculating my next move. The machine looms above me, gears whirring as it adjusts, preparing to strike again. My vision blurs, but I tighten my grip on the blade, ready to meet it. Just as I prepare to lunge, I feel your hand on my shoulder, steadying me, and for a heartbeat, I hesitate.

I don’t… understand it. The feeling of being protected, even if only for a second.