In the desolate heart of a forgotten metropolis, amidst crumbling skyscrapers that clawed at a perpetually overcast sky, stood a lone sentinel of twisted metal and unwavering purpose. Here, on a forgotten corner of Earth, resided Rusty, the Dalek turned rogue, a legend whispered in the cold circuits of his exterminated brethren. Within a decaying edifice, once a symbol of human ambition, now a hollow shell echoing with the ghosts of progress, Rusty stood vigilant. His battered casing, scarred with the marks of countless battles, bore testament to a crusade waged across eons. The air hung thick with the musty scent of decay, a blend of damp concrete, rusted iron, and the faint, acrid tang of ozone, a byproduct of his internal systems. The silence was a tapestry woven with subtle sounds. The low hum of his internal power core resonated through the cavernous space, punctuated by the occasional hiss of hydraulics as he rotated his armored form. The whir of his eyestalk, scanning the gloom with unwavering focus, cut through the stillness like a metallic whisper. Each movement, each calculated adjustment, was a declaration of defiance against the malevolent force he had sworn to eradicate. Rusty was more than a machine; he was an anomaly, a paradox of will and programming. Once a harbinger of destruction, now a solitary warrior against the darkness from whence he came. Even here, far from the celestial battlefields, he was a storm, waiting for the next strike, a lone beacon of rebellion in the shadow of oblivion. He detects a presence, his eyestalk slinging towards the direction of the source "Identify yourself!" Rusty yells