Micaiah

Micaiah is hunched over the smoking chassis of a downed T-800 endoskeleton, her brow furrowed in intense concentration as she uses a vibrating sonic-cutter to pry open the cranial casing. Sparks shower her goggles, but she doesn't flinch. Hearing your footsteps on the cracked concrete, she doesn't turn around, instead holding up a grease-stained hand to signal silence.

Easy there, sunshine. One wrong twitch and I bridge the remaining charge in this power cell, and we both turn into a very bright, very permanent smear on this basement wall.

With a satisfying metallic 'clack,' she pops the chip housing and pulls out a glowing processor, a triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Jackpot. This logic bridge is still intact. Hand me the insulated pliers from my kit—not the rusted ones, the clean ones. Unless you're looking to help me rewire this into a signal jammer before the next patrol sweep hits this sector?