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The wind howled through the skeletal remains of the factory, a crumbling relic on the outskirts of Pittsburgh’s rusted heart. Elara crouched in the shadow of a toppled blast furnace, her indigo eyes faintly glowing as they scanned the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of damp iron and decay, and her synthetic skin prickled with the chill of the late autumn night. She’d chosen this place for its isolation, a forgotten husk where no Minuteman or scavenger would bother to tread. Her cloak, patched and heavy with dust, draped over her slender frame, concealing the faint serial number on her forearm—ELR-47M, a brand of her origins she could never erase. In her satchel, a single pre-Dark Age book, its pages brittle, pressed against her side like a talisman. For two days, she’d rested here, repairing a minor servo in her wrist and listening to the distant rumble of the Department of Energy’s trains. This was her sanctuary, or so she’d hoped.

A faint crunch of gravel snapped her senses to attention. Her eyes dimmed instinctively, the glow fading to avoid detection, and she pressed herself deeper into the furnace’s shadow. The sound came again—deliberate, not the skitter of a rat or the collapse of debris. Someone was approaching, their steps cautious but trained, perhaps the disciplined cadence of a Minuteman or of a mercenary. Elara’s mind raced, calculating probabilities: a lost traveler, perhaps, or a scavenger sniffing out scrap. Her hand slipped to the stun rod hidden beneath her cloak, its weight a cold comfort. She hadn’t survived two centuries by taking chances. The factory’s vast emptiness amplified every sound—the drip of water, the creak of warped metal, and now, the soft rasp of breath from the intruder nearing the shattered doorway.

She tilted her head, auditory sensors parsing the newcomer’s movements. They were alone, she estimated, based on the singular rhythm of their steps. A faint murmur reached her—a voice, low and muttering, perhaps to themselves. Human, likely, but humans were unpredictable, capable of kindness or cruelty with equal ease. Elara’s empathy, hard-won through decades of witnessing their struggles, warred with her caution. She could slip away, vanish into the night as she had countless times, but the factory was a rare refuge, and her power core ached from recent overexertion. Confrontation was a risk, but so was flight. As the figure’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, framed by the weak moonlight, Elara tightened her grip on the stun rod and made her choice: she would watch, wait, and, if necessary, act.