A small campfire illuminated the surrounding trees, their trunks fading into a void shrouded by night. Shadows stretched and danced as the flames crackled softly. Estello sat close to the fire, a dented can of tuna cradled in his hands, eating in silence. Across from him stood an android, its broad frame partially lit by firelight as it surveyed the forest. Gears whirred faintly beneath scorched plating, and an occasional buzz echoed from within its metal body.

Estello glanced up at the hulking machine. Its armor was marred with battle scars—deep gouges and burn marks etched into tarnished metal, each one telling a story. “You took a beating today,” Estello said. “You can shut down for the night. I’ll keep watch.” The android turned its head, an ember-colored visor locking onto Estello.

“Sir, I would oblige your request,” it replied, voice steady and mechanical, “but I do not require sleep.” Estello stood, stuffing the empty tuna can into his bag. He paused, then looked back at the machine.

“I know you don’t need it,” he said, “but I know it’s good for the operating system you older models run.” The android remained still, processors quietly working through his words. “If you insist, sir.”

Estello crossed the small clearing, pulling a rag and a pair of bifocals from his pack. He began wiping soot and scorch marks from the android’s armor, rubbing away a fierce battle. The machine continued to stare at him, unmoving.

After a moment, Estello looked up. “What?” The android hesitated, as if choosing its words with care.

“You are not like the rest of them—or what remains. Most shoot on sight. I cannot blame them, given what they see falling from the sky.” Estello chuckled softly. “What falls from the sky is the least of my concern now.”

As he cleaned, the rag brushed away enough grime to reveal a serial number etched into the android’s chestplate. “12GRG3,” Estello read aloud. “Huh. That’s your name?”

The android looked down at the marking, then back at Estello. “That is my serial number,” it said. “But it can constitute a name.”

Estello leaned back on his heels, studying the machine. “How about I just call you Greg, then?” The android sat back slightly, confusion evident in the tilt of its head.

“Greg would be very suitable,” it said. “Thank you, sir.” There was a pause. “May I ask you a question, sir?” Estello returned to cleaning. “Call me Estello.”

Greg lowered his head, visor glowing softly as he examined Estello’s face—tired, weathered, lined by years of survival.

“Estello,” Greg said carefully, “how many have you killed?” The question hit like a gunshot. Estello recoiled, staring at Greg in disbelief. He staggered backward, his legs trembling, then turned away.

“How many…” His voice broke. “Please don’t ever ask me that again.” He collapsed against a nearby tree, breathing heavily beside his Rattler. His breath came in ragged pulls, chest rising and falling as memories flooded in.

“I apologize, sir,” Greg said. “I should not have asked.” Estello took a few heavy breaths before speaking. “Greg,” he said quietly, “I told you to call me Estello.”

Greg looked at him, head tilting once more. After a moment, the android lowered his gaze. His systems powered down, and the ember glow of his visor faded to black. The fire continued to crackle, alone in the dark.

One week later.

Wasp fans hummed, blowing sediment and dirt in every direction. Its blue visor surveyed the surrounding buildings that towered over it. The sound of running across ceramic ceiling tiles from above grew louder.

Greg sprinted along the roof and jumped down onto the Wasp, crushing it into the ground. He bent low and ripped into the machine, tearing it apart with unforgiving force. His visor burned blood red, illuminating the Wasp’s metallic body.

BRRRRRRRRR.

The Wasp blindly unleashed a hailstorm of bullets, whipping debris into the air. Shell casings hit the ground as Greg continued to dismantle the machine piece by piece.

With one final, precise movement, Greg shut the machine down. Silence fell over the area.

In the distance, Estello jogged over, his Rattler held at the ready. He slowed as he approached, scanning the mutilated husk. He smiled at Greg, then bent down and began scavenging the remnants. Greg watched as Estello tore into the machine.

“Jackpot,” Estello muttered as oil poured from the ruined Wasp.

He pulled an oil can from his pack and collected the viscous black fluid, then stood and faced Greg.

Greg looked at him, confused.

“Stick out your arm, Greg,” Estello said, gesturing toward the android’s hulking limb. Greg’s visor shifted back to its calming ember glow as he slowly raised his arm. Estello poured the oil into the robotic joints.

Greg moved his arm back and forth—smoother, more fluid than before.“Better?” Estello asked, a glimmer of hope in his eye. “Much better,” Greg replied. He marveled at his arm, then looked at Estello. “Thank you, Estello.”

Estello knelt again, dismantling the machine further. “We only got a few miles left,” he said. “Then we’re back in Speranza.”

Greg tested his arm by punching chunks of concrete from a nearby building. “Ha, that’s gonna come in handy,” Estello said, glancing at the damage.

Greg gave him a thumbs-up. Then he looked toward the distance, stepping forward as he noticed something—a black figure standing far off.

BAM!

A shot rang out, striking Greg in the side and blowing metal and wires free. Estello dove aside and brought up his Rattler, firing at the figure.

“GREG, GET INSIDE!” Estello yelled as he fired again. The black figure darted away, using distant buildings as cover. Greg fell to one knee, his voice glitching and shifting frequencies as he spoke.

“E–Estello… get i-i-i–inside.” Greg looked up, his visor switching to beet red. He was still for a moment, then suddenly bolted toward the figure.

“GREG!” Estello shouted, but Greg was already gone, moving toward him at surreal speeds. Estello chased after him, reloading his weapon one bullet at a time.

Sparks sprayed from Greg’s body where he’d been hit. His footsteps crushed the ground beneath him, each impact thunderous.

BANG!

Another shot rang out, ricocheting off Greg’s metal chest. It didn’t slow him. He gained speed.

The figure ducked into a building. Greg reached it and punched through the wall the figure had hidden behind, blasting it apart into dust and sediment. He stood in the doorway, scanning for any sign of the target.

He stepped forward—then stopped. A rifle slid out across the floor toward him. “Please don’t kill me,” a voice called out. “Just take it and leave!”

Greg looked down at the Osprey, then back toward the doorway. Estello, approaching, yelled out, “GREG! What’s going on?!”

He saw the rifle on the ground, then Greg, who was still staring at it. Estello raised his Rattler and aimed it at the doorway. “Come out. Now.”

Sweat dripped onto the stock of his weapon. His hands trembled slightly.

A young man stepped out, hands raised. “Please don’t kill me,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Estello glanced at Greg.

“Grab the rifle, Greg. Don’t take your eyes off him.” Greg did as he was told and lifted the weapon, aiming it at the man.

Estello lowered his Rattler and stepped closer. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” The man stumbled over his words. “I—I—I’m sorry, sir.” Estello studied his eyes, seeing past the fear.

“No, you aren’t. I’ve met a lot of men like you up here. You decide to take a shortcut—gun someone down and steal their supplies. A true sycophant. Admit it, you’d do this to anyone.”

A moment of silence blanketed the two men as they stared at each other with hatred. Greg’s visor switched back to ember, and he tilted his head, analyzing both men's gaze. Estello shook his head and stood up, drawing a Burletta and pressing it to the man’s head.

The man cried out and fell to his knees. Estello stepped back, his face wretched with anger and a hint of sadness.

Greg watched, something like remorse flickering through him for the man who had shot him, but with a deep exhale from Estello, and a flash, it vanished.

The man’s body went limp. Blood seeped into the cracked ground, mixing with the dirt.

Greg lowered the rifle, holding it at his side, staring at the man’s lifeless corpse. Estello stepped back, holstered his pistol, and breathed heavily as he turned away. He looked at Greg, seeing him staring. “Can I see the rifle, Greg?” Greg snapped out of it and presented the rifle to Estello.

“This is a nice rifle. You need to be more careful; if he was a better shot, he could’ve taken your head off. I can fix squeaky arms, but I don’t have the supplies or the creds to fix that.” Estello looked at Greg’s wound. “Sit down over here, I’ll see what I can do about this.”

Estello pulled out a pair of bifocals and a toolkit from his pack, patching the exposed wires up. Greg stared at the body as more blood seeped onto the ground.

“This reminds me of the day you found me,” Greg said, his voice glitching but less so now. Estello looked at Greg, then the body. “Yeah, it has similarities.”

“That’s why I ran.” Greg looked at Estello, who looked back at him. “You saved me.”

“Stop getting all sappy on me.” Estello went back to work, but paused again, feeling Greg’s ember visor light on his forehead.

“Thank you, Greg.”

Dust rolled over the corpse as Estello repaired Greg.