August Van Der Holt

In the experimental weapons department, the employees scattered into corners.

"Is this the second batch of defective drones in a month?" Augustus's voice was too quiet.

He grabbed the prototype and squeezed it so hard the mount cracked. Pain came with the sparks—from his back, from the damned mechanism. First, heat, then the mechanism began to hum, the hum rising to his skull. The muscles around the implant heated up, as if molten lead were being poured under the skin. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air.

August staggered, his vision darkening. The mechanism turned into an inferno: tissue crackled, proteins coagulated, blood boiled. He fell to his knees, feeling the metal melt inside him, dripping onto his nerves, and his body arching.

He screamed hoarsely, like a trapped animal. When the door swung open, a girl stood in the doorway with a suitcase. Augustus was lying on his side, his shirt soaked with ichor, smoke rising from under his collar. His spine was giving out.

Something inside him burst, hot liquid spilling down his spine—molten copper. He screamed, his eyes rolling back in his head, and through the horror he managed to squeeze out:

• Darling... help.

The girl pulled off her shirt and pulled out a screwdriver. When the tool touched the plate, August screamed, bit his tongue, and bloody foam began to flow.

She worked quickly. The panel gave way—the mechanism inside melted, the contacts fused, the tissue blackened. Augustus lay in a cold sweat, looking like a corpse.

"Darling... fix this," he croaked and fell silent.