Chapter 3: The Foreign Hand
The darkness of the shelter was his friend. It was cramped here, smelling of mold and stale grease, but the walls made of ship-grade steel reliably protected him from the outside world.
Marcus pressed his back against the cold bulkhead. His chest heaved, simulating shortness of breath, though he didn't need air.
"Calm down," he ordered himself. The voice in his head sounded firm, unlike his trembling chassis. "You are a technician. Technicians don't panic. They fix things."
He inspected his shoulder. Hydraulic fluid, looking like dark blood, rhythmically spat from the torn hoses. System pressure was dropping.
He took out the wrench he had found and a piece of copper wire lying underfoot. Working with only his right hand, he clumsily crimped the main lines and tightened the emergency valves. It was rough work, but the leak stopped.
> STATUS:
> * Energy: 4.5%
> * Hull Integrity: 55%
> * Weaponry: None.
> * Left Arm: Missing.
>
He was a cripple. In the Scrapyard, this equaled a death sentence. He needed spare parts. Immediately.
Marcus switched on the built-in headlamp (this cost another 0.1% energy) and illuminated his "cave."
He wasn't the first to hide here. In the far corner, under a layer of dust, lay a massive silhouette.
Marcus crawled closer. It was an industrial loader bot of the "Atlas" series. A model for heavy docks. Its chest plate had been torn open by an explosion, and the central processor had long since burnt out. It had been dead for decades.
But its left arm...
Marcus ran a scan.
> OBJECT: Cargo Manipulator V-7 "Titan"
> CONDITION: Mechanical wear 30%. Servos functional. Hydraulics sealed.
>
It was huge. Yellow, with thick pistons and massive vise-like fingers. It was created to bend beams, not for fine work. It was twice as heavy as Marcus's entire body.
"Incompatible," the interface flashed in red. "Different protocols. Different voltage."
"I am a Constructor," Marcus replied mentally. "I will make it work."
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He began the dismantling. Rusty bolts yielded with difficulty; he had to hit the wrench with a stone. The "Atlas" gave up its part reluctantly.
Then began the scariest part. The grafting.
Marcus pressed the massive joint of the cargo arm against his shoulder socket. They didn't fit. He had to bend the mounts, literally hammering them into his chassis.
He twisted the wires—the thin, delicate cables of his nervous system with the thick power buses of the "Titan."
A flash. Pain—real this time, electric, coursing through every chip. The system screamed about driver conflicts.
> ERROR: Unknown Device.
> ACTION: Ignore.
> ACTION: Rewrite Protocol.
>
Marcus closed his eyes and focused. He imagined the signal flowing along new paths. He forced his software to accept the alien metal as part of himself.
> SYNCHRONIZATION... 99%... 100%.
>
The heavy yellow arm shuddered. The hum of its powerful servos was much louder than the rest of his body. Marcus tried to clench a fist.
The sound resembled prison gates closing. CLANG. The metal pipe he grabbed for the test crumbled like paper.
> MODIFICATION SUCCESSFUL
> * Left Arm Strength: +250%
> * Attack Speed: Very Low
> * Accuracy: Low
> * Title Gained: [Scrap Frankenstein]
>
He tried to stand. The left side pulled him down. His center of gravity had shifted. He looked ridiculous—a thin, skeletal robot with one giant gorilla arm.
But now he could kill.
Thunder rumbled outside. Marcus peeked through a crack. The sky had turned completely black. On the horizon, an electric vortex was forming—a magnetic storm that burns out electronics.
And through the clouds, he saw drop barges descending. They opened their hatches, and new tons of garbage fell down.
Marcus understood the irony. To someone, this is trash. To him, it is building material.
He looked at his new, monstrous hand.
"Time to look for a battery," he creaked. "Before I shut down."
With a blow of the "Titan," he smashed through the blockage, stepping out to meet the storm.
