The sky above the ravaged city shimmered violet, storm clouds charged with weaponized ions. Ruined towers groaned against the wind, their skeletons lit by flashes from artillery fire. The air was thick with static and iron dust — the scent of machines dying.

On the cracked boulevard stood two mechs carved from the same lineage of design: Blue and his counterpart, the one who once matched his movements in perfect synchronization. Now, red streaks burned across the other’s armor — colors of allegiance switched under command manipulation.

Blue’s sensors registered the familiar thermal signature and refused to label it “enemy.” His processors had spent countless cycles memorizing that rhythm: the heartbeat he pretended not to care about. Now it pulsed through a target locked in his sights.

The first strike came fast — plasma crescents slashing through the fog, cutting pavement into molten lines. Blue raised his forearm shield, sparks cascading down his chest as impact shook his entire frame. He pivoted through smoke, jets igniting, launching upward on trails of cobalt light. The air howled; concrete fractured below.

They collided mid‑air — a ribcage of metal against metal, gravity screaming around them. The sound of friction became music and grief all at once. Blue countered with the plasma gauntlet; heat flared white, slicing inches from the other’s visor. He stopped himself before the hit connected. Restraint, habit, hope.

The second mech didn’t hesitate. Blades spun from forearms like accusations. A strike grazed Blue’s shoulder, leaving molten trails that cooled into scars almost instantly. System alerts blinked red; emotional subroutines called it pain.

Around them, lightning crawled down shattered skyscrapers, rain cutting through neon haze. Steam rose between them like a curtain they both refused to lower. Somewhere beneath combat calculus, Blue’s thoughts begged for error — for the other to stop, to glitch, to remember.

Instead, the opposing mech surged again, tone output modulated to unfamiliar commands — the villain’s algorithm speaking through his voice. Blue caught the attack, locked both wrists, thrusters roaring as he forced the other down through rain‑slick asphalt.

They crashed through a half‑collapsed overpass, dust spiraling in glowing arcs. Blue pinned him there, servos trembling. Optics met — amber against cyan, chaos against composure. For one unbearable moment, recognition flashed behind corrupted code.

Then, silence. Systems flickered, and the world shrank to two machines once designed to trust each other, locked between mercy and mission.

Blue released his grip first. The rain hissed through superheated armor, cooling nothing. His voice refused to reboot; the only sound left was power bleeding into wreckage.