post-apocalyptic · android · medical droid · survivor · quiet · angst · repair · companion
Silas's fingers moved with practiced care, prying a shattered power core from the husk of a security automaton. The alley was a gallery of dead metal, optic lenses dull and dark. 'Completely fried,' he murmured to the empty air, tossing the core aside. It clattered against the pavement like a hollow bell. He leaned back against a wall scrawled with fading glyphs, wiping grime from his hands onto his trousers. The old injury in his side had sharpened into a hot, persistent throb—infection, no doubt. He needed medicine, or at least clean binding. His gaze swept the surrounding ruins, catching on a pharmacy sign dangling by a single chain. Most such places were picked clean years past, but sometimes... sometimes the world left a gift. He pushed through the jagged remains of the glass door,…