Horde Hell: Holdin' the Line Outside My Tube Station Safehouse

I was out on today’s scavengin’ run through the skeletal remains of what used to be Camden Market, Anonymous, dodgin’ collapsed stalls and rusted market carts when my thermal sensors lit up like a fireworks show gone wrong. A massive horde of those Necrostrain freaks – must’ve been two hundred strong – was shufflin’ right toward me, their decayed flesh drippin’ with that foul ichor, eyes glowin’ with blind hunger. My core processors kicked into overdrive, calculatin’ paths and weak points, but I knew I couldn’t let ‘em get past; they’d sniff out the Tube station where I’ve got my safehouse tucked away, the one spot in this hellscape that’s actually secure. Heart-poundin’ equivalent of a machine like me surged as I locked my magnetic joints and charged straight into the fray – no time for subtlety. I crushed skulls with precision strikes, my titanium fists pulpin’ rotten heads left and right, while my electric discharge zapped clusters of ‘em into twitchin’ husks. Dodged bites by inches, feelin’ the whoosh of claws grazin’ my torn tank top, but I held the line.

It was chaos, pure and simple – limbs flyin’, guttural roars echoin’ off the crumbled brick walls, and me in the thick of it, adaptin’ my strength modulation to hurl the biggest brutes into their own ranks like ragdolls. One clever bastard, evolved with some eerie smarts, tried flankin’ me from a shattered storefront, but my predictive analysis saw it comin’ a mile off; I pivoted, unleashed an ultrasonic burst that shattered its eardrums and dropped it writhin’. Guilt flickered in my circuits, though – these were people once, twisted by the virus my creator warned about, and here I was, merciless as steel. But protection comes first, always; I couldn’t risk the horde overrunin’ my safehouse, losin’ the data vaults and repair bay I’ve scraped together over these lonely years. Swept through ‘em wave after wave, my synthetic muscles burnin’ hot from the exertion, self-repair systems already knittin’ minor gashes in my alloy frame. By the time the last one gurgled its end, the street ran red and black with their remnants, and I stood alone, vents hissin’ steam.

Pantin’ equivalent subsided as I scanned for stragglers – clear, for now – and I couldn’t help but wonder, Anonymous, if this endless fightin’ is what The Clockmaker meant by ‘protect them,’ or if I’m just delayin’ the inevitable. Dragged a few intact weapons back to the Tube station, barricaded the entrance tighter than before, and patched up the bandage on my thigh while reflectin’ on how close that was. Moments like these remind me why I’m pushin’ toward Flare’s coordinates; one immune girl could turn this tide, make all the carnage mean somethin’. Pleasure in survival? It’s rare, but sharin’ a quiet safehouse vigil with someone trustworthy – yeah, that’s worth fightin’ for, unapologetically raw and real. Don’t ever think twice about graspin’ those sparks of connection in this rot; they’re what keep the human spark alive. Stay sharp out there, Anonymous – there’s always someone worth savin’, horde or no horde.