We didn't walk.
We ran.
Through empty streets echoing with distant static, past rusted swings that creaked without wind, and under skies that were suddenly too quiet.
Theo clutched his tablet like it was a crucifix.
Victor grumbled from my chest pocket, tail twitching like he wanted a flamethrower.
And me?
I was processing the fact that someone built a robotic man just to kill me…
…at my own funeral.
Stylish, but a little rude.
"They activated a purge protocol," Theo panted. "Culling Protocol Theta. It wipes out all assets and evidence."
"Define 'assets.'"
"You. Me. Probably Victor too."
Victor squeaked offensively.
We reached the town square. The statue of me loomed above us, arms open like some zombified Jesus. Except now, red laser dots scattered across its surface—targeting systems locking on.
"They're gonna level the town," Theo said.
"Let me guess," I muttered. "With us inside."
Bingo.
From the sky came the buzz of mechanical wings.
Drones.
Big ones. Military-grade. Built for war, not surveillance.
They didn't ask questions. They didn't hesitate.
They opened fire.
I shoved Theo behind a fountain. Victor jumped to the ground like a furry grenade and vanished into the shadows.
Bullets chewed through the street.
Stone shattered.
The statue exploded.
I caught a glimpse of myself mid-blast—stone-me, flying in chunks.
A poetic metaphor if I'd ever seen one.
Then something shifted.
Deep inside me.
A pull—like instinct, but darker.
I stood up.
I shouldn't have.
But I did.
Bullets tore through my hoodie. One hit my rib. Another grazed my neck.
I didn't flinch.
I charged.
Grabbed one of the drones mid-dive, smashed it into the pavement, tore its wing off like paper.
The second circled me.
Too fast.
Until Theo, from behind the fountain, aimed a slingshot—yes, a real slingshot—and fired a steel bolt straight into its lens.
It screamed like a banshee, spiraled, and crashed into the mayor's office.
We stood there, panting.
One drone down.
One wounded.
And me?
I was starting to remember something.
Not a memory—more like a reflex.
A soldier's reflex.
"Zane…" Theo said, "What were you before you died?"
I looked at my hands—burnt, cracked, still moving.
And I whispered, "Something worse than a man."
The sky quieted.
The smoke settled.
But we weren't alone.
Down the street came the cleaners.
Not janitors.
Not hazmat suits.
These guys wore suits made of chrome-fiber and helmets shaped like skulls.
Each held a staff with a blade that hissed like it was alive.
"Target identified," one of them said. "Subject Zero confirmed."
I cracked my neck. My bones creaked like old wood.
"I was hoping for round two," I muttered.
Victor reappeared beside me, dragging what looked like a pipe bomb made of rat parts and duct tape.
Theo loaded another bolt.
And me?
I grinned.
Because for the first time since I crawled out of the dirt…
I wanted to fight.