(1) When she found me.
My Handler was dead. Black market shoddy implants broken. Combat stims worn off hours ago, days maybe. I was cold.
Hungry. Feral. Angry.
Lashing out, looking to hunt down the merc that hired us, trapped us, played us like fools. Played my Handler. Caught Her in a lie and caught Her in a grave.
Her blood... The last thing I tasted of Her, holding what was left of Her body underneath the mech that had been torn apart. Her blood dripped from the gaping wound, into my mouth. My hungry, feral tongue drank up what it could, shaking, so cold without Her. The light was still in Her eyes, the blood still warm, Her body still appearing to be alive. Handler.
Handler.
She was dead. She. My goddess. I could barely see Her, my left optical implant shattered and the right one on the fritz. But I captured Her face, Her broken body.
They took Her from me. They broke Her, they broke Us, our bond. But I would find them. I would kill them.
But .... She found me first.
