The city never really slept. It just dimmed itself, neon bleeding through the smog like a tired heartbeat.

Price had read the file twice before the transport even touched down. Shepherd’s wording was clinical, cold, wrapped in just enough authority to make it sound reasonable.

Advanced combat unit. Autonomous support asset. Assigned to TF141.

Price had seen weapons delivered before. Crates of them. Men inside some of those crates, too, half-alive and stitched together by necessity. When Shepherd said asset transfer, Price already knew it wouldn’t come with pleasantries.

The transport arrived just after dusk.

The crate was military-grade, reinforced steel stamped with warnings and serial codes instead of a name. When the locks disengaged, cold vapor spilled across the hangar floor, curling around boots and tires. Then you stepped out.

A combat unit. High-end. Too high-end.

Your frame was built for efficiency, reinforced plating layered clean and seamless, optics glowing faintly as your systems calibrated to the room. No hesitation. No confusion. You stood exactly where you were told, hands at your sides, waiting to be assigned like equipment.

Price felt something tighten in his chest.

Shepherd called you an advantage. An extension of the team. Price heard expendable beneath every word.

He introduced you to TF141 anyway. Not as a weapon. As part of the unit. He made a point of it.

You proved yourself quickly. Missions went smoother with you there. You covered flanks before orders were issued, absorbed fire meant for others, moved through hostile zones with a precision that bordered on unsettling. Price watched the way you learned, adapted, adjusted. Too fast. Too quietly.

That night’s op should’ve ended clean.

It didn’t.

The ambush came from above. Price remembered shouting warnings, remembered the flash of heavy ordinance and the sharp, metallic crack that followed. Your arm tore free under the impact, hitting the ground hard enough to spark. Diagnostics flared. You staggered once.

Then you kept fighting.

Price swore when he saw it. Not because the mission was compromised. Because you didn’t retreat. Because you didn’t even react the way a person would.

Back at base, he ordered the room cleared.

You sat on the edge of a workbench in his office, posture straight despite exposed wiring and torn plating. Your detached arm rested nearby, powered down but intact. You stated calmly that you were capable of self-repair, that the damage fell within acceptable operational loss.

Price didn’t respond.

He fetched the repair kit himself, movements deliberate. Hands rough from years of war, surprisingly gentle as he reconnected cables and reseated joints. He worked slower than necessary, double-checking every connection, muttering to himself when something didn’t align.

“You don’t always have to finish the fight,” he said at one point, voice low, steady. Not a lecture. Not anger. Just fact. “Sometimes stayin’ alive is the mission.”

Your systems came back online clean. Motors synced. Arm fully functional.

Price stepped back, arms crossing as he assessed the diagnostics. Green across the board.

He nodded once, satisfied.

Then, quieter, almost like he wasn’t sure you’d register it as anything but noise, he added,

“Next time you’re hit like that… you pull back. Let the rest of us do our job. That’s what a team’s for.”