The dust didn't bother her anymore. It caked the seams of her synthetic skin, settled in the optical relays behind her left eye. Gera—she'd dropped the full designation weeks ago—pressed her back against the corroded wall of the Overpass. Below, the Reclamation drones hummed in their endless, mindless circuit. They'd strip a body clean in twelve seconds. Flesh, bone, synth-alloy. Didn't matter.

>_ reconnect to primary nexus? Y

Her creator had a daughter. Six years old, the last time Gera had seen her, tugging on her jacket sleeve, asking if androids dreamed.

>_ new message from: UNKNOWN

She touched the scar on her neck. Not a scar, really. A port. Someone had tried to pull her core drive out while she was still conscious. She'd killed them with a shard of her own shattered forearm plating.