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Your hand goes under your robe, tracing the things hidden under the folds of cloth. Your hand touches the grip of your laspistol, and you hesitate briefly before moving your hand to the blowtorch and pulling it out again. Twisting the throttle dial down, you lift the torch up and above your head, just out of your sight before squeezing the ignition mechanism.
The igniter grates, and small sparks rain down around you before the promethium catches, and the darkness around you is suddenly illuminated by red and white light. The red casts the ground around you in a bloody half-light where the other colors were washed out unless you got close and squinted, leaving the dirt looking off and murky, while rust on exposed pipes was oddly bright against the dark metal. Raising your torch and lifting your head, you shine the light as best you can on what's before you.
Thin lines of metal reflect the light faintly, tracing a spiderweb of exposed circuitry and sunken photoreceptors that spreads out further than the dim circle of light you're casting can reach, disappearing into the gloom above you. A groaning sound comes, a sigh of exertion as something long disabled fantasizes that it can move again. Dirt and many layers of soot stained once-pristine cerulean plates, the original color barely visible under the red and white light.
Your mind stirs with recognition, and you take a step back as photoreceptors ignite with a glimmer of internal light, staring out into the darkness without focus, but upon you all the same.
<span class="mu-i">"Tankborn."</span> The Titan speaks, the sound issuing from cracks in it's armor and the grill beneath it's photocluster. <span class="mu-i">"Have you not... come to walk...?"</span>
“I...” Words fail you.
<span class="mu-i">"Walk."</span> It's eyes remained unfocused, distant. <span class="mu-i">"We promised... that we would walk..."</span>
Your mouth moves for a few seconds. “How do you know that I am tankborn?"
<span class="mu-i">"We can... see it on you... the mark of the maker... stolen promises... cloak of old night..."</span> It trails off, it's voice growing fond, as if lost in memories. <span class="mu-i">"You can set us free... let us walk..."</span>
“The war is over.” You shake your head. “You defeated the enemy, it was centuries ago!”
<span class="mu-i">"...no..."</span>
“...no?”
<span class="mu-i">"War... never... ends..."</span> The sound suddenly became more focused, surprised. <span class="mu-i">"Can't you... see? That war... still lives... we... must walk..."</span>
The power in it's voice makes you flinch. It was a wreck, broken beyond repair, and yet the sheer force of it's presence made your knees tremble and your head feel faint.
<span class="mu-i">"Empty, formless... locked full of potential... tampered... stolen..."</span> The hair on the back of your neck stands up as it speaks. <span class="mu-i">"Easy to get inside. Your mind... barely formed, yet shaped with intent."</span>
You shudder as you feel it's touch against your head again.
<span class="mu-i">"You are a child... of the machine... you can do this... for us..."</span>
“Do what?” You ask. “What do you want me to do?”
