The Art Of Dying
Some kind of fluid sprayed out, dark and oily and wrong.
It stumbled. For just a second, maybe less, it was off-balance, its perfect calculations disrupted by unexpected damage.
I drove my dagger into its eye socket, the blade sinking deep into whatever served as its brain.
The scout shrieked—a sound that was more electronic feedback than organic scream, like speakers blowing out and metal grinding and something breaking at the fundamental level. It staggered back, clawing at its face with jerky, uncoordinated movements.
"WEAK POINT IDENTIFIED!" another scout announced, its voice cutting through the chaos. "OCULAR SENSORS VULNERABLE. ADJUSTING COMBAT PROTOCOLS. SHARING TACTICAL DATA."
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