Page 122 of Dustwalker

Lara doubled over with a wheeze and crumpled onto her knees at Warlord’s feet. She convulsed and vomited, emptying the meager contents of her stomach onto the ground.

Ronin’s processors went into overdrive, pouring power into his actuators for two tasks—destroy his enemies and protect Lara. He surged up, and the gearheads restraining him stumbled away. One caught Ronin’s wrist as he started toward Warlord.

Spinning, Ronin hammered his fist down on the bot’s outstretched arm, hitting its elbow from the side. Metal crunched as the joint bent in the wrong direction, breaking the gearhead’s hold.

The second gearhead, who he recognized as Northside, rammed into Ronin from the side, tackling him to the ground. A cloud of dust obscured Ronin’s optics as he scrambled to search for Lara.

The weight of at least three bots crashed atop him, pinning him to the ground, their hands and feet pressing on his limbs. A strong hand grasped Ronin’s hair, forcing his head up to face Warlord.

“All this trouble for a meatbag,” Warlord said as the dust settled.

“Fuck…you,” Lara spat. She trembled as she glared up at him, holding an arm around her midsection.

“You already did.” Warlord kicked her ribs, making her cry out and tumble over the ground.

“No!” Ronin shouted.

“You could have made this painless for her, dustwalker, if you had listened to me.” Warlord’s stride was unhurried as he walked towardLara. He crouched before her, grasped a fistful of her hair, and lifted her head from the dirt.

A pained growl escaped her throat as she bared her teeth.

With contempt in his stare and ice in his voice, Warlord said, “Maybe I’ll let my friends fuck her before she’s dead. See if we can figure out why you thought she’s worth keeping. She was a pathetic fuck for me.”

Ronin had been slow to recognize his growing love for Lara, but he had learned hatred much faster. Lara was his life, his reason, the purpose he’d sought for so long, and Warlord meant to take her away. She was going to be killed, and Ronin couldn’t do anything to stop it.

This was no matter of survival for Warlord. Thatthing, neither bot nor human, had nothing to gain here, had no reason to do this but prejudice, cruelty, and pride.

Ronin understood the contempt seething within himself. He knew exactly why he felt it, exactly what motivated it, knew it was justified. It was an emotion of cold logic with a singular, specific target.

But he could not understand Warlord’s hatred. He had everything in Cheyenne—power, resources, entertainment, luxury. He controlled commerce and security, he dictated the law, he chose who could stay and go. Who lived and died.

The humans he ruled over had nothing, and if he’d been wronged by their kind in the past, they were many generations removed from the perpetrators.

With an angry cry, Lara lashed out. Her fingers dug into the sutured gash on Warlord’s face, and she pulled, tearing the synthetic skin away from his jaw to reveal the metal plates beneath. He snapped his head to the side, ripping off more skin before her grip broke. When he turned his face back to her, she spat in it.

“I hope you fucking rust, you tiny-dick piece of shit.”

“Fucking meatbag,” Warlord snarled, his open hand cracking against the side of her face. Blood sprayed from her mouth, falling on the grass and dirt in bright droplets. He slapped her again before she recovered.

Ronin thrashed beneath the gearheads, shifting his weight to throw them off balance. Lara would be killed while he watched. He would never again see that spark of life in her brilliant blue eyes, would never again hear her voice directly, would never again touch her, hold her,make love to her. He’d never again experience the surges of emotion she roused within him.

He pulled one of his arms free and latched on to the throat of the nearest gearhead. Metal crunched beneath his closing fingers, and he pulled. The bot’s head lolled back as Ronin tossed away the components of its neck.

Some of the weight pinning him fell away, and he pushed himself up.

“Stay the fuck down,” Northside growled.

Four shots rang out, booming like thunder in the morning sky. Four points of pain exploded across Ronin’s torso. He fell to the ground on his stomach, systems reeling as critical alerts blared across his interface.

“Ronin!” Lara screamed.

“Pull his fucking power cell,” Warlord commanded. “Let the Dust have him.”

Gearheads pinned down Ronin’s limbs, and new pain flared down his back, his sensory circuits breaking as his skin was torn away. He registered strong force exerted on his casing before an armored plate was pried loose.

There was a crack, and Lara cried out. Ronin lifted his head, craning his neck to see her curled in the dirt, blood trickling from her nose and mouth.

“Lara!” he yelled.