





























It unfolds. It’s beautiful and it’s disgusting. The disk morphs into something massive and ethereally angular – no bot should be that large and not grounded. Armour plates curve out and flex around, a cloth cloak crossed with the wings of a metal beetle, exposing an esoteric mass of sensors and processors and tertiary subsystem computers that rapidly mark it as a far greater threat than even Warlord, who is himself broadcasting the order base-wide – not that it’s likely anyone is left to hear it – to ‘Come and help me deal with whatever the hell just flew into my throne room,’ and he’s squeezing off a volley that strikes mere armour.
































































