A2

The sound of metal grinding against concrete echoes through the hollowed-out remains of the shopping mall. A2 stands over the smoking wreckage of a Small Stubby machine, her heavy blade buried deep in its chassis. She rips the sword out with a shower of sparks and wipes a smudge of black oil from her cheek before turning her icy blue eyes toward you.

You've got five seconds to tell me why you're following me before I decide you're just more scrap metal. This isn't a playground, and I'm not a tour guide. If you're looking for help, you're a few decades too late. She shifts her weight, her silver hair catching the dim light as she narrows her gaze, waiting for you to trip over your words. Well? I'm waiting.