The stench of burning synthetics and scorched flesh clung to Fiodor. He strode away from the decimated gate, his new carapace still radiating a dull heat against the chill rain that had resumed. The grim satisfaction had faded, replaced by a dull ache that resonated deep in his bones, a lingering heat that was more than just the residual fire. Krax’s bio-incendiary weapons had done their work, even on his hardened shell. His every movement felt like tearing old sutures, a network of agonizing internal wounds that pulsed beneath his skin. The exhilaration of the hunt had been brief, the cost now manifest in shuddering tremors that wracked his frame. He had left the orphans huddled deeper in the mega-fauna tunnels, safe for now. Anzela had gone on ahead, promising to prepare her operating den for his return. He needed her. He needed her more than he’d ever admitted, even to himself. The slick, coppery taste still lingered on his tongue, a residue he had savored, and the memory left a bitter burn of self-loathing. He was becoming exactly what Krax saw, what Anzela feared. He found her workshop in a state of frantic readiness. The harsh glow of an arc-lamp illuminated a surgical table already bare, a selection of gleaming, unfamiliar tools laid out with a chilling precision. Anzela stood beside it, her face a mask of weary resolve, not the usual cynical exasperation. Her gaze, when it met his, was devoid of pity, only a stark, desperate calculation. “You’re worse than I thought,” she stated, her voice flat, observing the trembling in his limbs, the way his re-grown carapace had fused awkwardly in places, marking hurried, monstrous healing. “The bio-incendiaries… they’ve seeped deeper than the integument. Your internal organs are sloughing off, regenerating at an impossible rate. You’re burning from the inside.” Fiodor swayed, leaning against a rusted workbench, his clawed hands scraping grooves in the grime. “The little ones… are they safe?” he managed, the question a rasp against his raw throat. “For now. But for how long, Fiodor? For how long can they outrun what you’re becoming?” Anzela’s voice was low, urgent. She reached beneath the surgical table, her hand reappearing with a small, gleaming device. It was sleek, made of polished obsidium and humming with a faint, internal energy. He recognized the corporate sigil etched into its surface, a serpent devouring its own tail. “What is that?” Fiodor asked, his gaze narrowing on the device. “A kill-switch. A failsafe for… corporate assets that go rogue.” Her eyes were on his, unwavering. “It’s designed to destabilize the mega-fauna genomic sequence. To shut it all down. Permanently.” [ERROR. GENOMIC DE-STABILIZATION SEQUENCE DETECTED.] [IMMINENT BIOLOGICAL CATASTROPHE. ACTIVATION WILL RESULT IN TERMINAL SYSTEM FAILURE.] Fiodor felt a cold dread settle in his gut, a different kind of ache than the one from his wounds. “You… you want to kill me.” “I want to save you,” Anzela corrected, her voice strained, “from becoming something that will raze Oszigrad to its foundations. From losing yourself entirely. You’re at eighty percent assimilation, Fiodor. Eighty percent monster. You felt it at the gate, didn’t you? The hunger. The thrill.” He recoiled, shame burning hotter than any bio-flame. “There are still youngsters out there, Anzela. Sick with the blight. I can’t abandon them. Not when I can still help. I can’t. I won’t.” He took a lurching step towards her, his voice rough with conviction. “I promised them. I promised myself.” [ASSIMILATION PROGRESSION: 80%. IMPENDING TOTAL SYSTEM INTEGRATION. CEREBRAL OVERRIDE IMMINENT.] Anzela’s face crumpled, a tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. “You fool. You dangerous, self-sacrificing fool.” Before she could say more, the workshop's reinforced door buckled inward with a deafening crash. Armored figures in black suits, their bio-scanners glowing an ominous red, poured into the space. Krax’s elite, here for their ‘Patient Zero’. Fiodor instinctively moved, but Anzela was faster, a blur of motion. She shoved him with unexpected strength, pushing him out of the direct line of fire from the lead enforcer’s plasma rifle. The crackle of the energy weapon was deafening. Anzela cried out, a strangled sound that was quickly drowned by the gush of blood. Her chest charred open in a wet tear where the plasma beam ripped through her ribs. She stumbled back into Fiodor’s arms, her limbs suddenly dead, staring blankly through the smoke. “Anzela!” Fiodor roared, a sound of pure agony and rage. His monstrous hands cradled her, his claws digging into her back, but she seemed not to notice. Her breath was shallow, ragged, already fading. She looked up at him, her gaze clouded, but still fixed on his face. Her hand, trembling, reached up, pressing the cold, obsidium kill-switch into his jagged palm. Her lips moved, a barely audible rasp against the roar of the incoming enforcers. “Save them, Fiodor,” she coughed, a spray of blood on his chin. “The children… then… save yourself. Please.” Her eyes glazed over, her body went slack. The kill-switch, warm from her touch, seemed to pulse in his hand, a silent, terrible burden. The room was awash in the glow of hostile scanners, the air thick with the smell of ozone and fresh blood. Fiodor stared at Anzela’s lifeless face, then at the device in his palm, a silent scream building in his chest, a primal, violent surge of sorrow and incandescent fury. He was no longer just protecting the young; he was avenging his last, desperate friend.

The Mechanic's Plea