The screech was terrifying to most; a horrific grinding of gears, but with the crunch of bones and squelch of flesh. It spoke of the atrocities it had committed, in the name of the people, in the name of its masters.
They called them erasers.
I sniffed at the air, frowning. It smelled fresh, not like the poisoned metal of the old machines. Must be making a dent.
Not that it mattered.
It didn’t have time to react; the long, silver-barrelled hand cannon annihilated it before it had the chance…erased it.
‘Eraser Mk.2’, I’ll call it.