CHAPTER 4: THE POWER TRAP
The storm was approaching, and it wasn’t just bad weather. It was an atmospheric cataclysm. The sky above the Scrapyard had turned the color of oxidized copper, heavy and oppressive. Electric discharges struck the peaks of the highest metal mounds, and with each strike, Marcus’s visual sensors went blind from static interference, covered in white noise.
His new body was becoming unbearably heavy.
The hydraulics were running on the last drops of pressure. The massive arm from the "Atlas" loader, which he had attached to himself an hour ago, pulled his left shoulder joint down with the relentless force of gravity. It was powerful, capable of crushing stone, but right now, without energy, it was just a dead anchor.
A message floated before his inner sight, pulsing in time with his steps:
> CRITICAL ENERGY LEVEL: 3%
> IMMEDIATE HIBERNATION RECOMMENDED
"Dismiss," Marcus mentally barked.
Hibernation here meant death. If he shut down, the "Crabs" or other scavengers would strip him for parts before his processor even cooled.
Through the dense curtain of acid rain, which had begun to eat away at the paint on his chassis, he spotted a geometrically perfect shape. It wasn’t ship debris or a pile of trash.
It was a concrete cube, half-buried in rust. An old military field communication module. A broken antenna stuck out from its roof like a burnt finger.
Hope flared in his logic circuits. Such modules were always built to be autonomous. There could be a reactor inside. Or batteries.
Marcus reached the entrance, sliding in the oily mud. The door was locked. Thick steel, covered in a layer of grime.
"Well then, Titan," he addressed his left arm. "Show me what you can do."
He swung. The movement was slow, with a noticeable delay—the signal from his brain to the foreign limb traveled with a half-second lag. But when the heavy metal fist met the door, the sound was like an explosion.
BAM.
The hinges groaned. The second blow crumpled the metal. The third tore the door out along with a chunk of the concrete frame.
Inside, it smelled of ozone, dry dust, and something sterile that didn't fit the scent of the Scrapyard at all.
In the center of the dark room stood a terminal. Its screen was dead, covered in a web of cracks. But under the table, on a massive uninterruptible power supply unit, a small red diode pulsed faintly.
A heartbeat.
Marcus fell to his knees before the unit. His scanner instantly identified the connector type:
> OBJECT: Military Power Source M-12
> STATUS: Standby Mode
> CHARGE: Unknown
He didn’t have the right cable. The standard charging port in his neck didn’t fit this archaic equipment.
"We'll have to do it the rough way," he decided.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Marcus opened the service panel on his chest. The fingers of his right, "native" hand quickly pulled out two emergency wires intended for "jump-starting." He stripped the contacts on the terminal's power supply, tearing off the insulation.
With trembling hands, he pressed the wires to the terminals.
Contact.
The shock was like defibrillation. He arched backward, his joints creaking from the spasm. This wasn't the clean, stabilized energy of charging stations. This was "dirty" electricity—unstable, old, accumulated over decades. It tasted of metal and ash.
> EXTERNAL POWER CONNECTED
> BATTERY CHARGING: 10%... 12%... 15%...
It was like a sip of clean water after a week in the desert. The world around him became brighter. The glitches in his vision vanished. He felt his actuators coming to life, strength returning to his legs, and his processor beginning to run at full clock speed.
And in that moment, the room came alive.
Emergency lights flared on the walls. Red text flashed on the broken terminal screen:
> [WARNING! UNAUTHORIZED NETWORK ACCESS.]
> [DEFENSE PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.]
Marcus heard a mechanical whirring behind him, in the corner near the ceiling. Where he had previously seen only a bundle of wires, a protective panel slid open.
An automated turret descended from the ceiling. A quad-barrel machine gun. Its sensor glowed with the same predatory red color as the terminal screen. Slowly, with the hum of servos, it aimed at him.
Marcus froze. He was on his knees. He was hardwired to the power supply. If he broke contact now, he would be left with 18% charge, weaponless, against a military killing machine.
The turret spun up its barrels. That sound—he remembered it from his past life. The sound of death.
Time slowed down for him, as a machine. His processor calculated the options.
Escape? Survival chance 4%. He wouldn't make it to the door.
Attack? Chance 2%. He couldn't reach it.
He looked at the turret. And suddenly, he didn't see a threat. He saw a mechanism.
Something clicked in his interface, unfolding a new, previously unknown window:
> PASSIVE SKILL ACTIVATED: [MECHANICAL EMPATHY]
> Target: Automated Turret "Cerberus-M"
> Analysis: Powered by shared grid. Control circuit unsecured. Vulnerability in voltage controller.
He saw it so clearly, as if the turret had become translucent. He saw the current running through its wires. It was powered by the same unit he was. They were connected like Siamese twins.
"You and I... we are in the same system," Marcus whispered.
Instead of yanking the wires and trying to run, he gripped the exposed contacts with both hands, squeezing them until they crunched.
The turret opened fire.
The first burst went low, chipping fountains of concrete dust and sparks near his knees. A ricochet struck his chassis.
Marcus closed his eyes (shutting down optics to save processor resources) and focused on the flow of energy. He didn't take it. He pushed it.
He opened his capacitors and directed the entire accumulated charge, multiplied by the incoming current, back into the power supply. He created a reverse pulse—a deadly surge of overvoltage.
It hurt. His own fuses began to melt. The system screamed:
> ? CRITICAL OVERLOAD! CORE TEMPERATURE 490°C!
"Die!" he mentally screamed, sending the pulse.
BANG!
The sound of the explosion was dull and electric. The turret's control block, not designed for such a voltage spike, burst into a shower of sparks. The barrels froze, never finishing the burst. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling. The red eye of the sensor blinked and went out.
The room fell silent. Only the fan in Marcus's chest hummed, trying to cool his superheated core.
> THREAT ELIMINATED.
> EXPERIENCE GAINED: 50 EXP.
He opened his eyes. The smoke was slowly clearing.
He carefully disconnected the blackened wires from the unit. His hands were shaking—a fine tremor after the overload.
He looked at the charge indicator.
42%.
Marcus laughed. It was a strange, grinding sound, like radio static. He had won. Not by muscle power, not by reflex speed. But with the mind of an engineer.
He stood up and walked to the smoking turret. It hung from its wires, dead and helpless. Now, it wasn't an enemy. Now, it was Loot.
He grabbed the hot metal with his heavy left hand and yanked. The mounts gave way with a screech.
> ITEMS RECEIVED:
> * [Machine Gun Barrel Block (Damaged)] — Weapon material.
> * [Targeting Servo (High Quality)] — Component for joint improvement.
> * [Optical Sensor "Eye of Cerberus" (Functional)] — Military optics. Night Vision + Zoom x4.
Marcus looked at the optical sensor in his hand—a smooth, black sphere with a red lens. Then he ran a finger over his own cheap, broken eye.
"Time for an upgrade," he said into the void.
The storm outside was intensifying, but now he had something to watch it with.
