The machine took an almost lazy glance at me as it passed by, stopping right within reach.

They say all animals have a flight or fight response. There’s a third one that’s not as catchy: Freeze.

Everything in me came to a complete stop from terror as I stared up at the monstrosity that loomed over. It could casually end my life if it so much as bothered to. A single swing of that arm would rip my jaw and head clean off my neck. That white skull-like faceplate with those horrifying violet lit camera eyes alternated between me and Father’s body a few times, contemplating a decision with no rush.

It made a choice, turned and shambled towards its broken opponent in a slow, confident trot. If Father was still alive, that machine was clearly going to make absolutely sure that wasn’t the case. I had been judged and found a non-threat.

Out of time. I was out of time.

Nothing was working. The jammed rifle dropped from my hands. I stuffed my free hand back into my glove and drew out my pistol. Ten shots were loaded inside, standard for scavengers.

The oversized handle had been made for thick gloves. It wasn’t made to be used by a terrified wielder.

The pistol shook wildly in my hand as I lifted it into position, the tremors in my arm enough to ruin my accuracy. I couldn’t take the shot like this.

I also knew in the very core of my being: The moment I started firing, if I didn’t destroy the thing within the first shot, it would turn and kill me. I had to make this hit count. No missing. I had to stop my gods-damned shaking.

The machine lumbered forward, step by step, unhurried.

I took more breaths, trying to steady my arm. Just this one tiny thing needed to be done right. Aim and shoot. That’s it. The gun still shook in my hands, my heart continued to beat like a mouse, and the chill of adrenaline was overwhelming my system.

The creature bent over the motionless body of Father, hand reaching out and delicately wrapping around his helmet, a massive palm obscuring the faceplate. Once it had a solid hold over the helmet, I heard metal groan as that hand started to squeeze. But the family armor held its shape.

Either the armor was more durable than the creature had expected… or it was taking its time to slowly crush the relic armor. Father’s body remained prone and limp the whole time.

The pistol still shook wildly in my hands and nothing I could do was slowing that down. The gods flashed through my addled head.

Tsuya was the goddess of tenacity, the paragon of resisting any opposition.

Talen was of resolve, the willpower to commit to and stay any course.

But Urs - Urs was the aspect of resilience. To overcome limitations from within. To overcome things of the living, like fear. It was his name that blazed through my mind, and cut like fire through my scattered thoughts.

I whispered a prayer between my hyperventilating breaths, desperate for anything to steady my aim. Here was something I could focus on that didn’t feel like the weight of the world was behind it. Just a few words under my breath.

The shaking slowed. The weapon steadied in my hands.

Father’s helmet groaned and began to dent inwards where the thing’s fingers were grasping, the creature’s strength now exceeding the ancient metal.

There was no time to wait for my hand to fully still. No other choice. I wasn't ready, but there was no such thing as ready, only ready enough. I pressed the trigger and prayed the shot would land.

The cheap weapon barked in my hands, the sound piercing through the air. The bullet whizzed forward, tracer round showing it's curving trajectory. It clipped the monster’s chassis, dealing negligible damage and missing the back of its neck by a few inches. I fired again.

The second shot hit a part of its arm and chipped off a ceramic chunk. The monster dodged the third shot as it twisted with an inhuman screech and sprinted towards me. The fourth shot went wild as panic ripped control from my senses with my own scream.

I’d been trained hundreds of times on how to re-adjust my aim after missing. My sister could have managed this. But I wasn’t my sister. I was just a worthless pretend scholar who had nothing to offer my clan other than scribbling numbers in the dirt. And now I’d die for it.

There wasn’t a fifth shot as the machine was already on top of me. It’s odd how quickly the flip between fight, flight and freeze could be turned.

I dove out of the way, scrambling to my feet and bolting. My target was one of the machine corpses - the one with Father’s knife still embedded into its skull. If I could get that dagger, I might have a second chance against this thing.

The machine clearly realized this. It chased behind, leaping above me and landing directly ahead, blocking the way forward. A massive hand swiped for me, catching me directly in the chest, knocking the breath out of my lungs and throwing me outright off my feet. Sensation and orientation vanished as I found myself rolling on the floor.

Only halfway through standing up, my ankle twisted in pain as I was yanked up into the air, suspended upside down for a half-second before being thrown. A wall stopped me, and it wasn’t gentle about it.

The warning alarm triggered from my speakers, screaming, adding even more confusion to my shaken and addled mind. The suit’s backpack had taken the blunt damage. These systems were hardy, but they hadn’t been made to resist being slammed into a wall like that. The padding inside my clothing had saved me both times, softening the blow just enough to not break bones, but the outside gear I wore didn’t have any of that protection.

I couldn’t run from this thing. With those massive long legs, it could catch up to me within a few strides.

That left only one option: To fight back.

It trotted towards me, leisurely. Violet glowing eyes locked on my own, watching as I steadied myself back up. The machine had been strong enough to rip armor plates, lift me wholesale with one hand, and crush relic armor helmets.

It’s playing with me.

It’s clear it could rip my head off my neck at any time it wanted to, so maybe this was more like a cat playing with a mouse.

I tried to aim and shoot the thing with my pistol again, only to realize that I'd dropped the weapon at some point after I’d been hit. My mind flashed through possible weapons I could use, warning alarm still ringing in my helmet. The only plan of action that came to mind was going to have to come with a miracle.

I tore off the hood, earpiece and rebreather, getting free of the obnoxious alarm in the most physical way possible. The air was cold, but the adrenaline damped everything now. The increased vision probably wouldn’t do me any favors, but it certainly wouldn’t reduce my chances.

The machine stopped, watching as I fumbled to rid myself of gear. Its hands idly ripped gashes into the concrete floor, almost as if impatient for me to finish. I didn’t need to be told twice, and moved as I could to take advantage of the spare time.

I disconnected the heavy backpack, unhooked the pipes and cast them off. Dropping the thing on the ground freed up a lot of weight and also gave me a first view at the damages.

Instantly I could tell getting back to the surface was going to require a spare system; mine had been crushed beyond fixing. Thoughts for later - gods above, if I could survive to worry about what comes after, I’d consider myself extremely lucky already.

There were only a few tools that had survived through all of this. What I really needed was Father’s knife, but the corpse into which it was embedded laid behind the machine, out of reach. The only other weapon left in my arsenal was almost fitting, really.

I lifted my crowbar once again. The machine nodded, pleased I would give it at least some kind of fight.

The weight and heft of my weapon calmed me. A glimmer of a chance came into light. The power of a crowbar wasn’t something to mess with.

If I could bash the head in before it could swipe my head off my shoulders, I might just make it. Father’s rifle had killed these with a three-round burst directly into that ceramic skull. They might not be as durable as they looked - I just needed something to even the odds so I’d get that chance. It wouldn’t be a surprise if wildly swinging at the monster’s head would not work. I’d need a backup plan for when it didn’t.

The creature clicked its claws in challenge and then charged forward. It howled for blood.

I dropped my crowbar, then grabbed my detached backpack by the top handle. Inside were the broken down environmental suit’s systems, junk metal now. But all I needed it for was its weight.

I spun around, letting the centripetal force lift the backpack up. After one spin, I let it fly right into the approaching automaton.

Instead of watching to see if it worked or not, I grabbed my discarded crowbar and charged behind my improvised throw.

It hadn’t gone perfectly straight at the thing’s head, but it flew well enough to hinder the creature. The charge hadn’t been paused; Instead, the machine reached out with one hand and shoved the flying object out of the way with a slap. The backpack struck the ground again. If there had been any doubt that the system could have been repaired, the sound it made upon smashing into the ground confirmed it was dead and gone.

I hadn’t expected the throw to do much damage in the first place, so this was still going according to plan. The point was to make it pay attention to the sack of useless metal while I tried to get the first strike in.

I lifted my crowbar and made a lunging attack the moment its head came into range. I saw it turn its attention away from the backpack and back to me. Realization passed through those eyes - I hadn’t stayed put like good little terrified prey should have.

Dodge this.

My crowbar swung down through the air and struck an outstretched arm guard. Chips of ceramic armor broke off from the attack. It glared at me, safe from the crowbar by quick reflex.

There wasn’t time for a second attempt at distracting it.

Its free hand shot out and hit me directly in the stomach.

Vomit and bile came up as I tumbled on the ground this time. It had hit harder, knowing the padding protected me last time. The blow drowned me, my lungs unable to draw a breath back in.

Pain finally cut through my adrenaline haze and blackness dragged my mind back and forth. Every bit of me was focused on getting air back into my lungs, coughing, wheezing.

When my senses came back, I’d found myself sprawled on the floor, still trying to get more than a few whispers of breath. The crowbar had slipped from my hands at some point. Getting up was impossible; the best I could do was roll on all fours.

Father’s voice echoed in my mind when he’d explained how to spot their patrol paths.

Machines are predictable.

That swiping attack had been a mirror of the first attack it had thrown at me, only harder. Could I make use of that? I tried to buy myself more time, half crawling on the ground forward.

If I knew the thing would swipe again the same way, was there a chance to —

Its hand suddenly grabbed my ankle and reeled me backwards before I could finish thinking. My head hit the ground hard from the inertia change.

The world turned in my sights, before I realized I had been flipped over on my back.

The thing looked down at me almost curiously, head tilted to the side as it dragged me closer. The crowbar had landed only a few feet away, but far out of range now. I couldn’t even see where my pistol had ended up - probably somewhere behind the creature too.

Dreadfully long fingers reached down to my face. Before my groggy brain could come up with anything, those fingers had wrapped around my throat like a noose. I could feel the ice cold metal pressed against my exposed skin. The hand constricted. Breathing gradually became a struggle as it squeezed little by little.

It had me pinned down, holding me by the ankle and neck. I wasn’t even strong enough to crawl away correctly, let alone fight back. Three gods above, I hadn’t even gotten a full breath back after that hit to the gut, and now I was being strangled.

Had I any shred of sanity left at that point, I might have laughed at just how terribly I’d messed up every single part of this. Everything would have gone differently if I’d had the simple presence of mind to take my fucking gloves off before reloading that rifle. It wouldn’t have gotten jammed and I’d have been able to shoot the thing dead.

This was it. I was going to die from one single mistake.

Like an animal, desperation took control of my hands as I tried to pry the metal fingers off my throat. The machine’s claw was utterly unyielding and my strength was like a toddler’s in comparison. I could hear ragged breaths, my own, noisy and filled with panic. The vice grip tightened, slowly. Soon breathing stopped altogether and I couldn’t draw even a fraction more.

Three weeks without food. Three days without water. And three minutes without air. That was how long the average human could stay alive. My life was now measured in painful minutes, at the mercy of this thing.

Instinct and terror suffused every single cell in my body. I kicked wildly without thought, but only one leg was free while the other was still held down by the creature’s other hand. That did nothing to it, of course. I beat at the arm, clawed, and tried to pry it off again. My body twisted and twitched with wild abandon. The metal was laughably stronger than me.

It could have crushed my throat then ripped my whole head clear off. It hadn’t done that.

It could have squeezed my arteries shut and had me pass out in seconds. It hadn’t done that either.

What it had done was cut off my breathing, without cutting off the jugular veins. That could only have been intentionally done.

The skull-like faceplate inched closer and closer to me, as if fascinated by my struggles. I could see the small, glowing, violet cameras deep inside the bony eye sockets, staring me down. It felt like something was watching me through those lifeless eyes.

It was watching me die as if I was a bug it had skewered, utterly enchanted.

Something heavy landed on top of its spine with a thud. The creature’s head spun around in surprise, only to collide against the barrel end of my lost pistol.

Father stood on the monster's back, holding that weapon.

He squeezed the trigger, point blank.

- Pyrrhic Victory