It was already dark in Parz. Snowstorm winds howled across the battered countryside, yet the camp nestled near the tree-choked outskirts of the city remained unbothered. As with most Parzian storms, the snow came thick but warm, swirling like ghostly ash. The camp was aglow with the burn of Colossal oil engines, their amber lights crackling against the gloom, casting long shadows on the snow-slick earth.
Canvas tents dotted the site, flanked by sputtering metal piping. The camp's inhabitants were far from ordinary—most bore the scars and splendor of mechanical augmentation. Clockwork limbs hissed with pressure valves, copper-plated jaws clanked when some of them spoke, and many had glass canisters embedded in their chests or arms, pulsing with strange fluids or housing living organs in their mechanical augments.
This was a Metal Up-Movement camp—a faction of machinists, tinkerers, and radical engineers who believed flesh expires, steel is forever. They replace either parts of it or much they can with replacements powered by Colossal oil, organ powered, and runestones.
On the outer edge, gear-worked turrets clicked and whirred, turning of their own volition. These sentries were grotesque hybrids—machine shells animated by brains of beasts suspended in enchanted fluid and in glass jars, granting them animalistic instinct and unnatural precision.
In the camp center stood a towering conductor's pillar, a brass lightning rod crowned with copper rings and feeding into the earth via thick, rune-welded tubes. The pillar shuddered suddenly. Its green-glass panel blinked thrice. Three red glyphs flared to life.
A squat troll engineer, his skull bolted with four glowing ocular lenses and arms replaced by spider-limbed contraptions, spun to the panel. With a hiss of steam and a squeal of gears, he slammed down a lever. A distorted, half-synthetic voice bellowed across the camp:
"Three approaching from the west!"
Camp stirred. Figures emerged from the tents—some clad in reinforced boiler-plate, others in flowing coats with exposed gearwork at the joints. Augmented people, brass-boned mercenaries, even full-body automaton suits clanked into position. Turrets swiveled on their mounts, glowing like angry eyes as they aligned toward the west.
Through the curtain of falling snow came three travelers.
First was a Makrian, a lizard creature of grim reputation. His crimson scales shimmered under the camp's glow, and bone-spikes crowned his head like a savage crown. A worn black coat hung from his tall frame, and his slit-pupiled eyes held no warmth.
Beside him strode an Adlet—a cousin race to Fang's. As adlet unlike Fangs had a tail and far more pointer ears. With ghost-white fur and a glass eye. He wore a deep blue coat fastened tight over a broad belly, and his ears twitched against the storm winds.
Between them walked a one-armed druid, skin dark as wet earth, his long black hair trailing behind him like a banner. His steps were deliberate, his breath steady. They advanced together, the storm curling around them like a cloak.
"We came to talk," the druid said, voice thick with accent and spit. "Where's your leader?"
The metal-clad crowd parted.
Out stepped a tall human, striking in appearance—long crimson hair, heavy bronze shoulder plating, and steam vents coiled from his forehead like dreadlocks of brass. A tattoo in Old Trollish language snaked across his neck, and his left arm gleamed—a coin-slot implant embedded in the wrist like some twisted merchant's mark. His white tunic was stained with soot, layered beneath dark leather armor
"I lead this camp," he said, voice gravel and iron. "Name's Boris Leep. What brings you three to my forge?"
The druid stepped forward, unshaken.
"We came for upgrades. The Movement's known for that… right?"
"Why come all the way out here?" Boris asked, his tone flat and skeptical. "There are people in the city who know our secrets—Why not ask them?"
The druid raised his only arm with calm confidence. "If we want the best," he said, "we come to the best." He motioned toward his missing limb. "As you can see, I need a new arm. My Makrian friend here wants a voicebox—maybe even the ability to breathe fire. And this fat bastard," he jerked a thumb toward the Adlet, "needs his flab turned into something useful. Extra claws, if you've got 'em. We can wait two weeks. But today would be better."
Boris raised an eyebrow, voice dry with exhaustion. "You paying?" He said it like he'd said it a thousand times.
The druid looked genuinely insulted.
"Paying?" he spat, literally, onto the ground. "No. We're getting them for free."
Boris blinked slowly. "And what makes you think that?"
The druid smirked, like he'd just been told a joke with a knife hidden in the punchline. "We're men of Ivan the Merciful. That should be enough." His voice hardened as he took a step forward. "You know him—Tube Brain. The Money-Chief at the top. Ruler of Parz. Man who slaughters those who defy him." His tone curled into threat. "And if that doesn't make you piss oil, your own guild master, Silas Irons, said we could get all the augments we want. Free. Because we're Ivan's men."
He leaned in, sneering. "Is that enough, old man?"
Boris's jaw clenched. His coin-slot arm twitched, metal plates groaning as he pointed a single mechanical finger.
"Irons can go fuck himself." His voice was low, but sharp as steel. "This camp follows the Metal Up-Movement. Our ideas. Our passion. We owe no one—not Irons, and certainly not your fucker"
The druid's smile vanished. His voice dropped to a growl. "Then we do this the hard way. Give us the augments—or we take everything. "
There was a hiss of steam. The camp responded.
Weapons cocked. Pistons clicked. Augmented limbs whirred into place. Arms, legs, even torsos shifted—revealing blades, barrels, and devices glowing with runestones and flame. The entire camp became a weapon. The turrets turned like wolves scenting blood. The snowfall slowed, as if waiting for the first scream.
But Boris didn't flinch. His eyes were locked on the druid, even as the central lightning-conductor behind him began to thrum with power. He spoke calmly.
"Walk away. Live. Return in peace, and we'll talk business. We'll even augment you with valuables. But until then—nothing here is free."
The druid spat again. "What if we come back with fire and friends?" His eyes narrowed. "Steel melts just like flesh."
Before the battle could erupt, a heavy slumping sound echoed across the camp. Steam hissed into the air, metal groaned under strain, and something massive approached from the blizzard's edge. The druids' group turned toward the sound—this was no man or woman.
It walked like a knight but wore no traditional armor. This was no knight of Luulax. Its body was encased in a steely carapace—welded and fitted like a second skin. Brass joints hissed with pressure, small vents along the limbs sputtered steam. Its helm, a smooth metal shell with blackened goggles, hid any hint of a human face.
It was tall—nearly matching the 2-meter Druid. Sparks flickered from its hip and a transparent tube on its side pulsed red, steadily filling with blood. The camp lowered their weapons. All except Boris, who looked angrier at Legion's battered arrival than at the trespassers themselves.
The druid raised a strange firearm with a long, flared barrel and grinned as he aimed it toward the figure.
"Well, well... Look who's hobbling in. The machine-man himself. Tin-can of the Faceless Ones," he sneered. "Hello, Legion."
Legion said nothing. It walked toward them, slow and deliberate, leaking steam and blood alike.
The druid's grin twisted.
"Looks like the leader of the Faceless Ones is in rough shape. You know there's a fat bounty on your head, right? Dead or alive. Tell me, Boris—if we hand you his broken corpse, do we get our augments for free?"
Boris didn't respond. But the druid glanced back and caught his eye—and the look was enough.
"Gold is gold," the druid hissed, and pulled the trigger.
The gun barked. A flaming buckshot tore through the snow, engulfing Legion in fire and shrapnel. The air filled with the stink of smoke and scorched metal. But then the smoke broke—and Legion charged. Not limping. Not falling. Charging. Its fists forward, metal knuckles glowing faintly from heat. The bullets hadn't pierced. The shell was scarred, but unbroken.
It leapt—steam firing from. It's boots—and descended on the druid like an iron meteor. But the Makrian was faster than he looked. He swung his massive shield up and caught the blow with a deafening clang, hurling Legion backward.
Legion hit the ground and rolled, landing catlike, even as one gloved hand clutched at its side—ribs torn, not armor. Legion was hurt. But still standing.
The Makrian's shield was a jagged slab of torn scrap-metal, spiked at the bottom and painted with his clan's blood-red sigil. He rushed, trying to impale Legion with its edge.
Legion rolled —clumsy due to the canister on its back—but landed another strike to the Makrian's ribs. The impact staggered him. Even with thick-scaled skin, it hurt. Grunting silently, the Makrian pressed the attack. He swung the shield down again and again, trying to crush Legion. But each time, it dodged—rolling, striking, bleeding, yet fighting. Blow after blow, five in total, and still the Makrian stood.
Then came the Adlet—fat and grinning, sneaking behind. He lunged and grabbed Legion from behind, locking its arms.
"Hold it!" the druid shouted.
Makrian charged with the shield, roaring silently. But Legion's boots hissed. A sudden blast of steam and mechanical pressure kicked it's right leg high—directly into the shield. With a sharp clang, the force knocked the shield out of the Makrian's grip.
Still pinned by the Adlet, Legion stomped—once, twice—and a hidden blade extended from it's left shin. With a sharp backward kick, the blade sliced into the Adlet's leg. Fur turned red.
Howling, the Adlet released Legion—just in time for Legion to spin and drive a fist into his snout. Once. Twice. Blood flew.
Then Legion turned back and cracked Makrian across the face—again. Again. The lizard-man reeled, armor denting under the fury of the strikes.
But the druid fired again. And again. The scent of metal and blood thickened in the storm air. Legion staggered. A panel on its waist beeped. Blood and other liquid leaked freely. Legion clutched it's side and dropped to one knee, finally overwhelmed. Breathing ragged, suit wheezing, gears slowing.
The druid, Makrian, and Adlet began their slow approach—grinning, limping, cracking knuckles. Weapons in hand.
Ready to finish it.
"Time to kill the fucking metal monster," the druid grinned. "Don't worry—your Faceless Ones will die with you. Your stupid gang? Forgotten. Their names lost to the wind—and it'll all be your fault."
Something in those words struck deep within Legion. A spark—buried under metal, flesh, and pain—ignited. Legion looked up, straight into the druid's eyes. The handgun hovered inches from their helmet. For a moment, everything was still. Then a flash erupted from a small device nestled at the center of Legion's helmet—hidden until now. A pulse of light, bright as lightning, burst across the battlefield. The attackers flinched, blinded.
It was all Legion needed. They rose.
With a hiss of pistons and grinding gears, Legion's arms swung forward. Panels along the wrists hissed open. On the left: a slender blade flicked out with surgical precision. On the right: a compact, double-barreled wrist gun emerged, steam puffing from its sides.
Legion cracked their neck left, then right.
And attacked.
The right arm lashed out—blades slicing across Makrian's thick hide, blood spraying from the deep wounds. At the same time, Legion's left wrist aimed and fired, striking both the adlet and the druid with sharp, hissing shots. Then, without pause, they reversed—slashing the druid across the gut while pumping lead into Makrian's chest.
The druid stumbled, gurgling, before Legion kicked him to the ground. With mechanical speed, they unloaded a storm of gunfire into the adlet—rounds tearing through fur, hide, and bone until the beast dropped like a sack of wet meat. The snow around him turned crimson. Makrian bellowed in rage, lunging with clawed hands to crush Legion like meat between stone. But Legion shifted—left wrist twisting again, transforming the gun into a second blade.
Clang.
Steel met claw. Legion's blade severed fingers clean off. Makrian screamed, staggering back in shock. Then Legion lunged forward, plunging both wrist blades into his towering foe—striking low, then high, then deeper still. Even a creature his size couldn't stay upright forever. As Makrian tipped backward, Legion leapt, driving both blades into his skull. The stone spikes cracked as the metal carved through.
The Makrian was still. The adlet, silent.
The druid tried to crawl away, intestines trailing behind him. His hand clutched at the gaping wound in his gut. He whimpered, cried. Legion stepped toward him, the right arm shifting again. The wrist folded open to reveal a smoking rotary saw. With a loud grind and burst of steam, the chain came alive.
Without hesitation, Legion drove the saw into the druid's neck. His screams ended in a wet gurgle as the machine carved through sinew and bone.
The battlefield was silent.
But Legion was failing.
The steam-armor groaned. A harsh snap echoed from the left leg as it buckled beneath them. They collapsed, one knee digging into the red-soaked snow. Blood now filled the transparent tubes across their body—dripping from joints, welds, and seams.
They were drowning.
Their voice rasped through the helmet, distorted and broken:
"Help… us."
Then the right lens of the helmet cracked. And Legion collapsed.
For a heartbeat, no one in the camp moved. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Boris stood frozen, jaw clenched, watching Legion in the snow. Around him, the others glanced at each other, unsure. Waiting.
But none stepped forward—not without him. Boris closed his eyes. Grunted. The tension broke in his shoulders. He stepped aside.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the darkness, red and orange flames suddenly lit up, swallowing the void. Legion was back there—in the fire. It remembered the blazes devouring the metal houses of Parz as it ran through the streets. Monsters with weapons laughed as they fired volleys of flame, melting steel homes to slag.
Then Legion saw them—flames of innocents. Their flames were different: blue, vanishing in a hiss as they were executed. One by one, they fell. The fire-monsters kept shooting, even turning their weapons on Legion—who, back then, had no armor, no augmentations. Just flesh.
Legion was afraid.
It ran, blindly, through alleys of fire. It tried to reach the large house at the edge of the district—the place it had called home as a child. The roof was caving in, and flames clawed at the walls. Legion shoved at the burning door until it finally gave way.
Inside, surrounded by rising smoke and falling ash, was an old woman. She smiled—a soft, warm expression—and her flames were different too. Blue and beautiful, accompanied by the faintest sound of a music box. Legion stared, frozen, tears cutting down soot-streaked cheeks. Then the floor gave out. The house collapsed. Both of them were buried.
Legion remembered the fire crawling across its skin, eating everything away. It remembered the pain. From the cracks of the burning rubble, it saw their faces: the druid with blue skin, and the troll with green skin and tall as human. Ivan the Merciful, ruler of Parz. And Dante Hook, the troll financier behind the slaughter.
They orchestrated it. They watched it burn.
Legion never forgot.
For hours, it screamed beneath the rubble. It fought to survive while the flames tried to erase what remained. It felt like years passed before the fire finally died. Somehow, it survived.
No. The person Legion once was died that day.
Now it saw them—thousands of spirits burning with blue fire, surrounding it in the dark. Children. Adults. Elders. Men, women, the forgotten, the nameless. Trolls, druids, humans. They were all there, flickering and wailing in the ash-covered void.
They cried out for justice.
Legion would be their voice.
The voice of the innocents of the Yengh Street Massacre.
And slowly, the shadows and fire began to fade.
Legion woke up in a treatment chair. They weren't restrained, but they were too weak to leave. The large tent around them was warm, lit by lanterns and some strange heating system that kept the temperature comfortable — even if Legion couldn't feel it.
Their right arm brushed against some tubes that, unlike before, weren't connected to the canister on their back. The canister itself lay on a nearby table, broken into pieces, surrounded by tools. The tubes from Legion's helmet and back now led to glass canisters filled with a light blue liquid. That liquid made it easier for Legion to breathe.
Then they noticed it — their left leg was gone. In its place was a new leg, a crafted clockwork replica, built to replace the broken replicant one. Their old leg was nowhere to be seen, just this new one
Facing the entrance, Legion saw the tent flap move. A young woman stepped inside, carrying a box full of metal pipes and machinery — spare parts, most likely.
She had long, voluminous copper-orange hair flowing past her waist in a ponytail. A pair of goggles rested atop her head. She wore a black, sleeveless, torn-open vest and short, ripped brown shorts. Fingerless black gloves covered her hands. But the most striking thing about her was her left leg: from mid-thigh down, it was replaced by a beautifully crafted steampunk prosthetic, detailed with brass and gold accents, gears, and mechanical plating — more beautiful and refined than Legion's new leg.
Legion knew her.
They tried to speak but could only cough — the installed voice box had been damaged in the fight.
The woman noticed Legion was awake and looked relieved. She quickly set the box on the table and pulled a stool closer, sitting next to Legion.
"Legion! You're awake," she said happily.
Legion couldn't answer, only staring at her through their helmet.
"Your LUN3 machinery was badly damaged," she said while working, "Something caused overheating all across your systems. The worst part — your MAX replicant liver — couldn't draw fuel from the canister. It imploded and shattered the steel ribs on your right side. After that, all your augments started to fail."
She spoke while setting her box down and rummaging through her tools.
She glanced at Legion's visor.
"You held your breath during the fight," she said softly. "You knew breathing would only cause more damage. You were in a lot of pain."
Legion shifted their gaze to the roof of the tent. She was right. They had been in pain — incredible pain.
The woman picked up a small screwdriver and carefully removed a section of Legion's armor at the neck, revealing burned skin and the damaged voice implant. With a few quick adjustments and replacement of some rune chips, she got the system working again.
Legion spoke, their voice synthetic, deep, and ambiguous — neither clearly male nor female.
"Thank you, Milkova," they said.
"Anytime, Legion," she replied with a warm smile.
As Milkova moved to gather her tools, Legion lifted their right hand, trying to feel if their last organic limb had been removed. It hadn't. But the mechanical finger that touched the chair felt different — already replaced by augmentations.
"How did you destroy the LUN3 machinery?" Milkova asked while dragging a welding machine on wheels toward the stool beside Legion.
"Attack on the Faceless Ones. Left side of Norule," Legion rasped. "A sharpshooter got a lucky shot. We knew immediately we had to find you. Breathing would've caused more damage."
"You held your breath for that long?" she asked, surprised.
"It's easier when there are no lungs left," Legion answered, "only a ventilation system installed... just in case."
Milkova grabbed a wrench and a strange piston tool, then started removing the joints on Legion's torso armor.
"I replaced it with an older version," she muttered, "my father forbade us from using the newer machines. And now, my friend's going to reinforce your plating while I start on the MAX replicant. Had to see if you'd wake up before replacing it."
Legion let Milkova work, calmly removing bolts, screws, vents, and small machinery built onto the armor. Beneath the heavy plating, Legion's burned body was exposed — it no longer looked like it belonged to any living race. Dried, skeletal, yet filled with machinery. Some systems replaced the lungs like the LUN3 system that Milkova replaced, others recycled fluids that flowed between flesh and armor.
The MAX liver — a large mechanical organ with three gears sticking out — was still cracked in several places. Milkova had already removed its tubing and disconnected it to prevent further harm.
Milkova set the chest plating aside and whistled sharply.
A man entered the tent — human, with a metallic half-mask instead of a helmet, messy black hair, and a long black coat that exposed his chest, revealing tattoos over his abs.
His arms were heavily augmented with rugged clockwork machinery, small jars of liquid mounted on the backs of his palms.
"Yes, Iron-Rey," the man said casually — Iron-Rey being Milkova's nickname.
She quickly shoved the armor into his arms. Before he could turn to leave, she barked out:
"Reinforce it on the outside. Wax it. Maybe add padding around the stomach," she commanded.
But the man's eyes lingered — not on the armor, but on Milkova's cleavage.
She caught him immediately and snapped her fingers in front of his face.
"Eyes up here! Now move!" she snapped.
The man shuffled out, his expression showing some regret. Milkova muttered angrily as she returned to Legion.
"Do they really need sex on the brain just to work?"
Legion stayed silent.
"You've no idea how many idiots come here for breast augments or dick implants," she grumbled. "Last week alone, I installed three for one man. Three! Ugh."
She pulled her goggles down over her eyes, hit the welding machine's button, and a bright arc of light crossed the tent as she began her work.
The welding machine hissed and sizzled — the only sound in the heavy silence.
Meanwhile, Legion mumbled names — the names of the dead, the lost, those that must be avenged. Names spoken every day by vessel that shall give them their revenge.
Milkova paused when she heard one she didn't recognize.
"Odric? He's new," she said.
"He died in the suprise attack"
"You're still fighting?" Milkova asked.
"Who else, if not us?" Legion answered. "The Faceless Ones will fight against the monster Ivan the Merciful. The innocents of Yengh Street will have their vengeance. And those who fight with us and fall... will join us. Like Odric. He speaks through us now. Someday Ivan will fall, and all of them will finally rest."
Iron-Rey welding Legion's armor — switched the welder's nozzle while Legion spoke.
"You'll need more than fists and guns," Milkova said, her voice low as she continued welding.
"You need allies."
"All of them are afraid of Ivan's tyranny," Legion rasped. "This is Parz. Here, there's only corruption and monsters. No Money-Chief will risk their skin to save anyone. None of them."
Milkova didn't argue — it was the truth of Parz, ugly and unavoidable.
It didn't take long for her to finish welding. She pushed her goggles up and sighed loudly, stretching her arms with a groan. Rising from her stool, she moved to the table where Legion's canister rested. Legion's gaze followed the tubing connected to the tank.
Milkova noticed and side-glanced at them.
"Colossal oil... mixed with blueberry essence and Garfick fish scales," she said casually.
"Far better fuel than the old colossal oil we were using on you."
Legion tilted their head slightly.
"A lot of upgrades," they said. "I only came for simple repairs. Is Boris okay with this?"
"No, I'm not," came a sharp voice from the tent entrance.
It was Boris — standing tall, arms crossed, a gold coin sliding through the slot of his mechanical hand. His eyes burned with anger as he stared at the tin can patient.
He turned his gaze to Milkova, disappointment etched deep into his scowling face.
"Flexible spiral silver tubes. The Oil of Progress. Padding made from Makrian scales," Boris spat.
"What the fuck are you doing, Iron-Ray?"
"They need help," Milkova said quickly, clutching a wrench in her hand, avoiding her father's eyes.
"And what about our camp, huh?" Boris barked, stepping closer.
"That metal monster hasn't paid a single coin back! Not for saving their ass from that burning street! We thought Legion was some rich Money-Chief — but they haven't had a damn coin since—"
"FUCK, BORIS! FUCK!" Milkova screamed, almost throwing the wrench at him.
"Everything isn't about gold! It's about doing what's right! The Metal Up Movement was founded to save lives from fragile flesh! That's what we stand for! That's what my ideals stand for!"
"And what about our people, Milkova?!" Boris yelled back. "We don't get parts for free. We have to pay for the metal! For the blood in these machines! Our augments are rotting! Our people are suffering because we can't afford upgrades! We need the gold to survive — not waste it on... that thing!" he snarled, pointing at Legion.
Milkova's hands trembled around the wrench. Her voice broke.
"No, Father, I don't want our family to wither. But—"
"No buts," Boris cut her off.
"Remove the upgrades. That's what I ordered. Not to save Legion."
Legion tightened their grip on the chair. The tubes, the heavy breath, the anger boiling in the air. But they didn't seek a fight — they needed a voice. Slowly, they raised their head and spoke — calm, heavy, final:
"Boris Leep," Legion said, their mechanical voice steady,
"after our fight is done... you can claim every upgrade. Every piece of metal. Every machine. And whatever is left of us. But let us finish this war. Let us plan Ivan's downfall. No tyrant rules forever."
Legion's dark visor locked onto Boris' scowling face.
"I am grateful you saved us from the flames. Grateful you gave us this body. Grateful you gave us a second chance to fight. Fix us. And when the battle ends — whether we stand or rot in the dirt — you can claim our corpse."
Boris clenched his teeth, ready to bark and rip the tin can apart — yet those words... grateful, humble...They gave him pause. He looked at the oil pumping through Legion's bloodstream, then at his daughter's face — broken but determined, refusing to back down even now.
"The oil's already fused," Boris said finally, voice calm but tight. "Last upgrades. Understood, my daughter. And you, tin can," he growled, glaring at Legion, "the next time you crawl into my camp — we strip you apart. So make this count, 'Leader of the Faceless Ones.'"
Without waiting for thanks from Milkova or Legion, Boris turned and left the tent. He didn't want to fight his own daughter. He didn't want to tear apart the wounded either. And somewhere, buried deep, he still believed in helping those who sought to rise — once.
"He hates me," Legion said after a moment.
"My father is... stubborn," Milkova answered, setting her tools aside. "But he cares for our family. Legion... did I ever tell you how much gold we put into you?"
"You saved us," Legion said simply. "That is enough"
Milkova turned around and gently pushed Legion's head back into the surgical chair.
The cracked, battered mask stared up at her — glass shattered, metal dented.
"When Uppo and the others scavenged the streets... you were there," she said softly. "Still alive. Somehow. Barely breathing. On death's doorstep. My father — he wanted to ransom you. Maybe get a few gold coins out of some desperate Money-Chief. But I was there."
She smiled sadly, remembering.
"We argued for hours. I finally convinced him. I told him... if we stand for progress, for saving lives — then this was our chance. Even if it meant risking everything. Even if it meant hoping you were some secret rich Money-Chief."
Milkova looked down at Legion.
"How much gold do you think your augments are worth?"
Legion said nothing.
"Six hundred sixty thousand, six hundred gold," she whispered. "Making you the most expensive creature in the Innerworlds."
Milkova touched the cracked side of Legion's helmet gently.
"And you know what?" she said. "I never regretted it. Not once."
Legion stared blankly at the ceiling, mind lost somewhere distant.
Milkova leaned closer, noticing a faint leak hissing from one of the helmet's side vents.
"I need to remove your helmet," she said quietly. "Check the leak... fix the broken glass. Is that okay?"
For the first time since they'd dragged themselves into the camp, Legion tensed. Not at battle. Not at wounds. At that request. They nodded stiffly, silent. Milkova worked carefully — unscrewing the tubes, unlocking the clamps with delicate hands. Finally, she lifted the helmet away, revealing Legion's real face beneath.
Milkova smiled warmly, holding the battered helmet to her chest.
"You have beautiful eyes," she said.
Legion flinched, looking away, shame radiating from their frame — not from the scars, not from the mechanical parts — but because the helmet had been their face for so long, they no longer knew where the machine ended and the human began.
Milkova spoke gently.
"Do you want to see a mirror? Your burn marks... they've been healing well."
"No," Legion answered quickly.
Milkova's heart twisted. She set the helmet aside.
"It's not bad," she said.
"This face belongs to the dead. Our body... was built by you and others. Our voice... belongs to the innocents of those that have died. We are Legion.
Because we are made of many ."
END