Wounds

Chapter 7: Wounds

"With great power comes great responsibility, right? Surely you can't expect me to be the bait? At least you're made of metal—you're bulletproof." Kestrel spoke gravely to TPAL.

"Screw you." TPAL gripped his rifle tightly, his reverse-jointed legs tensing before he launched himself forward, sprinting straight toward the enemy line.

Bullets streaked through the air, chasing TPAL's figure. Within seconds, furious shouting erupted from the other side as stray shots hit unintended targets.

"Ha! It worked!" Kestrel clenched his fist in triumph as the two factions turned their weapons on each other.

A sickening schlick shattered his exhilaration.

Kestrel's grin froze as he looked down, his breath hitching. A bloodied energy blade had pierced through his abdomen, its crackling edges sizzling against his flesh. As the blade was yanked free, a hot spray of crimson splattered onto the ground.

Shaking, Kestrel turned, expecting to see his attacker. But there was no one. Only the bloodstained blade, hovering in midair.

Before his eyes, the air shimmered, and a man materialized—a bald figure with cybernetic arms, a branded inverted cross seared into his neck. He sneered as he deactivated his camouflage. "Batard."

"You son of a—!" Kestrel roared, raising his rifle.

A flash of silver.

In the blink of an eye, his right arm was severed, the gun tumbling uselessly from his grasp.

Time seemed to stop. Kestrel stared in horror at the dismembered limb, watching as bone marrow spilled from the jagged stump. A chilling realization gripped him—I'm going to die.

Then, gunfire.

Bullets rained in from the left, forcing the bald assassin to retreat. He spared Kestrel one last smirk before vanishing once more into thin air.

Just as Kestrel's body began to collapse, TPAL was there, hauling him away from the battlefield with mechanical efficiency.

Thanks to the chaos he had sown, their pursuers had their hands full killing each other.

"Am I... dying?" Kestrel's voice was barely a whisper, his vision darkening.

"Not today." TPAL dragged him into a shallow trench, scanning him with lightning speed.

Thin fiber-optic threads shot from TPAL's fingertips, burrowing into Kestrel's torn flesh. Blood vessels knit together at an impossible pace, but it wasn't enough—Kestrel was on the verge of hemorrhagic shock.

TPAL's sensors flared to life. With a single sweeping scan, he located a corpse nearby.

Tearing the lifeless body closer, TPAL jabbed a cable into its artery. The translucent line darkened as warm blood siphoned through it, flowing into Kestrel's veins.

"W-wait... I'm still alive!" Kestrel groggily protested, eyes flickering open.

Without hesitation, TPAL smashed his fist into Kestrel's skull, knocking him out cold. "Not anymore."

As the fresh blood coursed through his system, color returned to Kestrel's ghostly complexion.

TPAL wasted no time, scouring the battlefield for supplies. He soon found a syringe of stimulant painkillers among the dead and plunged it into Kestrel's arm.

Gasping, Kestrel's eyes snapped open. His first word was a visceral, "Fuck!"

Staring at the stormy sky above, he sucked in ragged breaths, reeling from the near-death experience.

For the first time, he genuinely thanked whatever impulse had made him bring TPAL online. Without the outdated robot, he would be nothing more than another corpse in the wreckage.

"We need to move. Now. You don't have time to waste swearing. I don't have any antibiotics, and your wound's been exposed to acid rain. If we don't find a medic soon, you're still dead."

TPAL hoisted him up, supporting his weight as they prepared to flee.

But Kestrel hesitated.

Through the haze of pain, his eyes locked onto a nearby corpse—the one TPAL had drained.

A fallen mercenary.

Both arms cybernetic, sleek black plating betraying cutting-edge tech. His body was riddled with bullet holes, his ragged clothing barely holding together.

His face was tattooed with a skeletal grin, filthy dreadlocks hanging in disarray, two thick nose rings glinting under the dim light. A walking sign that screamed bad news.

Kestrel glanced at his own severed arm. Then back at the cybernetic limb.

"Can you... attach that to me?"

He wasn't just acting out of spite—though the memory of the bald assassin loomed in his mind, mocking him. That bastard had cut him down like a weakling.

No. Kestrel needed to adapt. Fast. If that assassin was still lurking nearby, he couldn't afford to remain helpless.

"Overloading your body with augments can cause cyber-psychosis." TPAL warned.

"Does this look like the time for a mental health discussion? I need to make it out of here first." The gunfire around them hadn't stopped. If anything, it was getting closer. He was running out of time.

"Fine. You're the boss."

With mechanical precision, TPAL's fingers morphed into surgical tools. He worked swiftly, severing tendons and removing the ruined remnants of Kestrel's flesh.

The new arm clicked into place.

A searing jolt shot through Kestrel's nerves as the interface connected. His fingers twitched—first sluggishly, then with growing dexterity.

Testing his grip, Kestrel slowly flexed the matte-black metal fingers. They obeyed seamlessly.

Then—shing!

A crackling energy blade snapped from his forearm, its edge gleaming in the dim light. Kestrel's reflection stared back at him in the polished metal.

He grinned.

With a sharp clack-clack, the blade retracted. The fingers curled inward, plates shifting as his palm twisted open, revealing a hidden firearm within.

So that's what had been causing those distant explosions.

Wincing as the painkiller began to wear off, Kestrel grabbed another dose from the fallen mercenary's stash and injected it straight into his thigh. The rush of chemicals hit instantly, making the world sharpen into crisp clarity.

"Looks like I hit the jackpot."

Pocketing the last of the drugs, he forced himself to his feet.

But before he could leave, he turned toward the battlefield—where the ones who had chased him were still fighting.

Raising his new arm, Kestrel took aim.

A barrage of plasma fire erupted from his palm, detonating in a chain of explosions that sent debris flying.

Watching the flames consume his enemies, Kestrel exhaled, feeling his wounds ache a little less.

"Let's go." He motioned to TPAL.

Just as they turned to leave, a trembling hand clutched his ankle.

"W-wait..."

Kestrel looked down.

The mercenary's mangled face peered up at him—skull tattoo, shattered skull, missing right arm.

The original owner of his new limb.

And he was still alive.