Chapter 4: Angry Gardeners and Mulch Protocols
Chapter 4: Angry Gardeners and Mulch Protocols
Four years, 364 days until Aloy's Proving
POV: Rion
I made sure to put miles between me and that damn Deathclaw.
I'd run through the wreckage of the town, across cracked highways, through alleys, over toppled buses, and under rusted train tracks—anything to make sure it wasn't following me. I didn't stop until the sounds of its growls and the chaos of the machines it was fighting were nothing but distant echoes.
After all, the last thing I needed was to become a giant reptilian snack on my first real day out. I knew how that would end: messy. So, I kept running—pushing myself deeper into this broken world.
Now? Now I felt a little safer. Not "safe," but not an active corpse either. I needed to take a break and went to take shelter in a bus.
The bus was half-eaten by rust and flipped on its side like a forgotten toy. I crawled in through a busted emergency exit, careful not to rattle the loose metal. From here, I had a decent view of the clearing beyond.
That's when I saw the dumbest turf war in human history.
Four Protectron Groundskeeper units—"Greenthumbs"—were glitching out hard.
One was ramming its head into a lamp post like it was trying to beat clarity into its corrupted core. The others were throwing tantrums at a group of GAIA terraforming bots calmly planting greenery and spraying nutrient mist into the soil. Among them were at least half a dozen Grazers, each dutifully sowing seed pods and processing biomass with whirring antler blades.
The Greenthumbs screamed like corrupted daycare alarms. Buzzsaws revved, acid misters hissed, and one was spinning its weed-whacker arm like a flail at a Renaissance fair.
Then came the voice lines.
"Photosynthesis is treason!" one of them screeched as it sprayed acid in a perfect circle.
Another spun toward a patch of flowers and bellowed, "All flora outside regulatory zones will be neutralized with prejudice!"
A third Greenthumb flailed its trimmer overhead, shrieking, "Clover patch detected! Engaging DEFCON MULCH!"
Then, one of the Greenthumbs locked sensors onto the nearest Grazer. The peaceful deer-bot lifted its head just in time to get tackled full-force.
That's when the Watchers arrived.
Three of them burst from the underbrush like security alarms with legs. The moment they saw the Greenthumb attacking a Grazer, their optics flared red.
Then, hell broke loose.
The lead Watcher slammed into the attacking Greenthumb, tail-whipped another, and jumped onto a third. Its claws tore through decaying plating with calculated fury. One Greenthumb managed a wild swing with its hedge trimmer, but the Watcher flipped clear and dropped a concussive pulse that shorted the bot on impact.
The second Watcher circled the perimeter, scanning for additional threats. It pounced on a Greenthumb spraying acid on a young sapling and the older insane bot shouted, "Botanical entropy detected! Emergency defoliation!"
The third stayed close to the Grazers, guarding them like a sheepdog. When one Greenthumb veered in their direction, shouting, "Unauthorized regrowth detected!", the Watcher shoulder-checked it off-course and slammed it into a tree trunk.
Another Greenthumb yelled, "Weed roots run deep! ELIMINATE BELOW THE SURFACE!" and sprayed acid at the legs of a Watcher. The Watcher recoiled, optics flickering, armor sizzling.
In the chaos, a Greenthumb managed to tackle another Grazer, jamming its saw into the machine's flank. The Grazer thrashed and kicked. One antler was snapped clean off. Sparks flew. A soil-analysis bot something akin to a mole scuttled in to help and was promptly sideswiped by yet another Greenthumb screaming, "Flowers are lies! Remove their deceitful petals!"
I tapped my Focus.
OBSERVATION: GAIA Unit ID: Grazer92
Function: Biomass harvesting, Blaze production
Status: Active
Threat Level: Low
OBSERVATION: RAU ID: GRNTHM11
Type: Protectron Variant – Model AG-11 "Greenthumb"
Manufacturer: Faro Automated Solutions
Function: Botanical maintenance, ecological reclamation
Current Status: Corrupted Directive Conflict: DETECTED
Behavioral Note: AI drift has caused aggressive misclassification of plant life as invasive threats.
No kidding.
The Greenthumb that tackled the Grazer finally got thrown off, leaking coolant and smoke. It staggered upright and, with its final corrupted breath, screamed, "I die as I lived... screaming at a fern!" before self-destructing in a burst of fire and sparks.
The Grazers panicked. They fled in different directions, retreating toward the treeline with erratic, bounding strides.
One of the Watchers, covered in acid burns, limped back toward the others.
The Watchers exchanged glances—or rather, rapid optical pulses.
Then they started to monitor in all directions still in combat mode.
I didn't breathe.
"Death to nature" rambled the last Greenthumb as it finally died.
I couldn't help it and chuckled. It was that damn stupid.
All three Watchers flashed red eyes my way.
BANG.
One clean shot to the nearest glowing optic. It dropped instantly.
BANG. Another optic. The second Watcher collapsed, sparking.
The third tried to call for reinforcements, its optic flashing red.
I sprinted from cover and drove a rusted rod through its chassis mid-howl.
Silence.
"Sorry, buddies. Can't let you report back."
Once the clearing fell quiet, I moved in.
Parkour and Sneak got me to the damaged Grazer. It was still running, barely. I drove the rod into its neck and it collapsed. I took my time harvesting the blaze.
Then I looted the rest. Watcher parts, Greenthumb components, and a few burned-out soil bots. Nanoboy slotted them all.
[LEVEL UP: +1 PERK POINT | +13 SKILL POINTS]
Finally.
I dumped 10 points into Martial Arts. Kure-style reflexes kicked in hard. My body felt like it remembered techniques I hadn't consciously learned. The rest went to Sneak and Repair.
Perk screen flashed.
[New Perk Acquired: Counterstrike]
Effect: After a successful dodge, your next melee hit—fist or weapon—deals bonus damage and ignores armor.
Perfect. This would keep me alive.
Not long after, I got another ping.
SIGNAL DETECTED: MACHINE CLASS – SCROUNGER Size: Medium (Hyena Frame) | Role: Autonomous Salvage | Threat: Moderate Known Attack Pattern: Ranged electrical discharge. Close-range bite/latch protocol. Visual Match: Acquisition-class machine resembling a Scrapper. Light armor plating on joints. Mandibles house tri-saw units. Resource container and exposed power cell mounted on back. No sentry antenna detected. Behavioral Note: Prioritizes salvaging torn-off machine parts mid-combat. Frequently travels in packs. Weak to acid and frost. Power cell vulnerable to shock.
I crouched low behind a fallen signpost, eyes on the brush. There it was—maybe twenty yards out, sniffing around a collapsed fuel rig.
Then it saw me.
FZZZRAKK—
It launched a ball of electricity like it was throwing shade from a storm cloud. I rolled right, fast and low. The orb lit up the metal behind me in a sizzling flash.
It charged.
Old me would've panicked. Maybe popped a shot off and hoped for the best.
But this wasn't old me.
Counterstrike activated.
The second it lunged, I slipped left—clean dodge. No wasted motion.
The world slowed.
Time didn't freeze, but it bent. My body moved like it was reading a script. I stepped into the machine's blind spot and drove a knee into its neck joint—hard, fast, surgical.
CRUNCH.
The impact sounded wrong—in a good way. Like something inside just gave up.
The Scrounger stumbled. Twitching.
I didn't stop.
I grabbed its front leg, used its momentum, and flipped it into the ground. The whole frame bounced, sparks coughing from its vents.
I ended it with a stomp—straight down into its head casing.
CLANG. PZZZT. Silence.
I stood there for a second, breathing steady. My hands weren't even shaking.
"Okay," I muttered. "This is getting a little unfair."
The Focus pinged: Hostile neutralized. Gear status optimal. No injuries.
I crouched and started pulling parts. Shock coil. Armored servo. Internal battery still warm. Into the Nanoboy they went.
Machines weren't just enemies anymore.
They were loot crates with legs.
I kept most of the Scrounger parts, but held onto the foreleg. Light, solid, just the right length for a grip. The Greenthumb's mower blade I'd looted earlier was still intact, and between the two, I had everything I needed.
I sat cross-legged in the dirt, stripped the blade's motor housing, wedged the edge into the Scrounger limb, and wrapped the base tight with burnt wiring. No welds. No polish. Just pressure, tension, and spite.
Fifteen minutes later, I had a machete.
Rough as hell. Unbalanced. But the edge was real. The mower's blade still bit, and the limb made a surprisingly good handle once I cut the servo cables.
I stood and gave it a few test swings. It wasn't fast, but it hit hard. Enough to crack plating or split a jaw.
Ugly. Heavy. Mine.
That's when I heard it. Not one, but two more sets of clawed feet scraping across metal.
More Scroungers.
They bounded over the wreckage, eyes burning hot, jaws buzzing with those same tri-saws.
I didn't wait.
The first Scrounger lunged.
I met it halfway.
The machete wasn't elegant, but it was heavy and sharp enough to cleave through one of its forelegs. Sparks sprayed. The machine shrieked and staggered.
I ducked a discharge orb from the second one and vaulted over the downed Scrounger, slamming the blade down into its exposed power cell.
BOOM—a shockburst lit up the alley.
The third circled wide, trying to flank. I turned with it, breathing steady.
It charged.
I sidestepped at the last second and swung. The mower blade clipped its head, tearing through a chunk of armor and knocking it into a rusted dumpster.
It twitched once. Then stopped.
Three kills. One blade.
"Test run complete," I muttered, flicking metal shards from the edge..
Then came a sound I knew could only mean one thing.
It was a war horn.
Deep. Tribal. Not machine.
"Guess I'm not alone anymore," I muttered.
Time to move.