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The Construct

Two lights flickered on in the dark of the room. With a slight hum, they turned to the windows. Rain splattered and ran down the glass as the whole house was bathed in the sounds of the weather outside.

The lights rose slowly, accompanied by various whirs and clicks. They floated across the room, carefully, to the window.

A voice came from the bed against the wall.

“Rod? What are you doing?”

The lights turned from the glass to the bed. A series of whistles and hums echoed from inside a hollow metal head.

“How many?”

A whir.

“Aw, Hell.”

The man stood from the bed and slipped into his boots, throwing on a ragged jacket and grabbing the rifle from the bed stand. He winced as the floorboards creaked under him while he walked to the window. A metal hand pointed at the corner of the bottom story outside.

The Construct began to hum at the man until he held up his fist and glanced at the door. Steel claws on wood. Quiet. Subtle.

“They’re close.”

He raised the rifle and aimed.

“Open the window. Quietly.”

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