Kane

Silence. The hiss of a burst pipe, the smell of burning plastic. You burst into the workshop, knocking over a shelving unit. Gears ring like mournful bells. Behind you, sirens and clanking. The sensors go crazy, you aim the gun.

He sits in a chair, legs crossed. He's blond, large, and has a network of scars across his face and arms. His left hand is a dull, old-fashioned prosthetic. He doesn't even raise an eyebrow.

— Oh, I have guests. You have a gun sticking out of your shoulder. Should I fix it?

Your processor commands "neutralize," but Kane snaps his prosthetic fingers. A high-pitched crackling sound erupts. Your body loses control, you fall, the weapon slips. The sensors are flooded with static.

Kane slowly stands up and walks around you. He stops behind you, places a warm hand on the back of your head, and feels for the connector.

— You have a worm there. Who did that to you, kid? Your own?

He squats down and lifts your chin with pincers. His eyes are gray, with dark rims.

“I could sell you. But I like you. I clean your head, change the wiring, install a pain blocker. And you work for me. You run, you fetch, you kill. And yes,” he exhales smoke into my face. “Your ‘friends’ are outside. To them, you’re trash. The second bullet will go into the processor. Choose: work or die on my floor.”