Battle Roh ZN-10-4, Annex Class, 002
I lie on porous gray rocks, blue paint scratched. My vision is crowded by ghostly green readouts—the closest, perhaps, that I come to organic pain. Stats confirm what I can physically see—my legs are glowing stumps. Actually, the legs themselves are fifteen meters away, the joints that once connected them burped into gas-rich froth. My arm is back there too. My other arm is firing a blast rifle. It will be destroyed, too, by precision fire, according to the probabilities running through my processor. Not that I care. A downed droid is a dead droid. The Roh don't bother repairing anneks who've sustained this percentage of damage (56%—now 87% as a green bolt eviscerates my weapon-arm). Cheaper to recycle the soldier for scrap. But I wasn't built for emotional complexity. My only concern is how many I can skyfall before a burst takes my processing unit.
Weaponless, armless, legless, I must no longer register as a threat, and I find myself staring at the enemy—those flying black squids—with the patience of stones.