There were many common adages Dobson hated purely for their lack of originality. Amongst the top contenders was the ever-banal, ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’. Alas, as much as she hated the saying with every titanium fiber in her body, there was some truth to it. She was indeed desperate and, thus, more willing to commit measures she wouldn’t normally consider due to their potentially suicidal nature.

  Oh, well, Dobson thought. As her number one most-hated saying proclaimed, it is what it is.

  And to think, she hadn’t even learned what rhymed with orange yet. Pity.

  Using the last of her fading strength, Dobson grabbed the hinge of her left arm, just below the elbow, and squeezed, activating the hidden trigger mechanism. The anatomy of her arm transformed, pieces shifting and refitting together to form something new. Her entire hand rearranged itself, fingers tucking themselves conveniently out of the way as her titanium endoskeleton converted into a crude torch. The telltale smell of gas and burnt rubber soon filled the air.

  Dobson pressed the trigger again, but nothing happened. No flame. No spark. No fiery deluge of death. She pressed again, harder, but the igniter failed to engage.

  Distracted by the stubborn igniter, unable to see beyond the pulsing flash of her glitching vision, Dobson did not notice the approaching gunslinger. His titanium fists slammed into her, one after the other, landing debilitating blows to her chin, chest, and gut. Dobsons folded like a cheap card table.

  She struck the ground and rolled onto her back, unable to breathe around the tightening in her chest. The scream of system failure overwhelmed her auditory channels. Dobson’s vision flicked between modes, offering pitiful glimpses of her attacker’s ghostly blue outline as he moved in for the killing blow.

  Dobson heard a familiar voice in the background, barely noticeable over the steady scream of system failure. She couldn’t make out what Misty said. But it didn’t matter. Stunned, stuck on her back like a useless desert tortoise, Dobson witnessed her last moments unfold before her. Her only regret was that it happened so slowly. Each second crawled past as if time itself had put on the brakes in honor of the occasion.

  Here dies the Dastardly Patience Dobson. Accomplished mech mercenary. Friend to no one. Enemy to all. Dobson is survived by her many houseplants. Her only regret in life is dying.

  Dobson paused and then amended her mental obituary, adding, That, and being unable to rhyme the word orange.

  Dobson’s mech vision blinked back on, allowing her a final glimpse of the world before her departure. Something sailed through the darkness towards her. Dobson’s eyes moved from the gunslinger standing over her and watched the nearing object, confused. It looked like a severed bionic hand. The object in question landed with a muffled thud beside her, revealing that it was a severed bionic hand.

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  An ominous green light blinked at the center of its palm.

  Realization struck like lightning, jolting Dobson’s failing system into emergency overdrive. With the last of her strength, she rolled over and crawled like an uncoordinated lizard on its belly. Her internal systems screamed as the last trickle of tronic set her bloodstream on fire. Stubbornly, one arm-length at a time, Dobson dragged her failing body out of the blast zone. The hand detonated behind her, igniting the inside of the saloon with a festive yellow and red blaze. The stench of smoke and burnt flesh immediately filled the musty air.

  Dobson dragged herself to the wall and slumped against it. The detonated hand had lit convenient little fires through the upturned saloon, allowing Dobson her first proper look at the damage. All of the goons were either dead or dying, sprawled about the dirt floor in bloody piles of metal and leather. A single figure near the bar stood victorious. The lone survivor limped closer, their honeyed voice distorted by Dobson’s damaged auditory receptors. By the time the slender form reached Dobson’s dying form, they were nothing more than a fading blur.

  The yellow-red burn of the room dimmed as Dobson’s head slumped against her chest.

  The voice spoke again, but it sounded distant, as if separated by time and space. Something pressed against Dobson’s chin and lifted her face. Luke-warm liquid flooded inside Dobson’s mouth. The salty taste of fermented ocean brine pooled across her dry tongue and slid down her throat. It hit like a punch to the stomach, except, in this case, it struck the inside versus the outside.

  Dobson’s eyes bulged open. She lurched forward, gagging and sputtering as she desperately wiped the salty film from her tongue with the back of her hand. It wasn’t working.

  “There she is,” Misty’s voice came through much clearer now. “Nothing like a little clam juice to put the launch back in your missile, eh?”

  Exhausted, unable to rid her mouth of the foul taste of toxic ocean bottom, Dobson gave up. She slumped back, resting her aching head against the wall, and stared up at Misty in awe. Misty looked worse than Dobson felt. Blue serum leaked from a crack across Misty’s forehead. Her clothes were torn and bloody, and she was missing not only a hand but her entire left arm. Loose wires dangled from the now-empty socket, leaking a sickly combination of fluid and blood onto the dirt.

  Misty swayed unsteadily on her feet, gazing down at Dobson as the color bled from her face. “Oh, Dobsy.” The concern stretched across Misty’s expression slowly turned to pity. “You’ve been hiding a secret this whole time, haven’t you?”

  “Will you sit down before you fall down?” Dobson barked. Each word felt like sandpaper against the inside of her throat. It was a small miracle Misty was even functioning. Dobson had seen cyborgs drop dead from less.

  “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Misty acted as if she hadn’t heard. Her voice fragmented. “I thought we were partners.”

  “Misty, for Pete’s sake, sit down before you—”

  Misty tried to take a step, but her legs gave out beneath her. She collapsed into the red dirt beside Dobson in a pile of blood, coolant, and mussed blonde hair. Misty’s right hand opened and an unused injector rolled free from her limp fingers. “I think.” Misty rested her head against the ground and closed her eyes, muttering one last sentiment before her exhaustion claimed her. “I think you’d better use this, Dobsy. I’m not feeling so good.”