I was tucked under Romeo’s bed the night I heard his father’s shouts. I had just woken from Sleep, my arms tucked into my torso, and was staring at the metallic springs that lined the underneath of his bed. I could hear every word, even through the clashing notes of the Southern drawl that had always frazzled my signals.

I pivoted out from under the bed into the dank, damp mess of the bedroom. I felt too good for this place, but – despite the immediate threat below – it was the only safe zone I had left. I could feel the stiffness of my joints. I needed oil – badly.

Something stopped me from leaving immediately, a whirring at the back of my head that sent a pulse into my internal systems, making me squirm silently. A few connexions in my wrist had been severed from the blast, so the handwriting I left on his bedside table was jarred and human, but Romeo claimed to be able to read it. I suppose I trusted him now.

“I didn’t invite you all here to show you how…"

I couldn’t listen. I had to get to Gore.