### Chapter 3: The Alien Limb
The darkness of the hideout was his only ally. The space was cramped, smelling of ancient mold, stagnant coolant, and the copper tang of old circuitry, but the walls—thick plates of starship hull plating—offered a temporary sanctuary from the nightmare outside.
Marcus pressed his back against the cold bulkhead. His chest plates heaved rhythmically, simulating the gasps of a breathless man, even though his oxygen intake systems were non-existent.
"Stabilize," he commanded himself. The voice in his processor sounded firm, a stark contrast to his trembling chassis. "You are a technician. Technicians do not panic. They repair."
He turned his optical sensors to his left shoulder. It was a ruin. From the torn, jagged stumps of synthetic hoses, hydraulic fluid pulsed out in rhythmic spurts, looking disturbingly like dark, viscous blood. His internal pressure was dropping critically.
He reached for the adjustable wrench he had scavenged and found a length of oxidized copper wire on the floor. Working with only his right hand was a lesson in frustration. He clamped the severed lines, crimping the metal tubing with brute force, and tied off the emergency valves with the wire. It was ugly work—a field patch that would void any warranty—but the leaking stopped.
> STATUS UPDATE:
> * Energy: 4.5% (Critical)
> * Hull Integrity: 55%
> * Weaponry: None.
> * Left Manipulator: MISSING.
He was a cripple. In the ecosystem of the Scrapyard, that was a death sentence. He needed spare parts. Immediately.
Marcus activated the small LED spotlight integrated into his cranial unit (a luxury that cost him another 0.1% energy) and swept the beam across his "cave."
He wasn't the first machine to seek refuge here. In the far corner, buried under a thick blanket of grey dust, loomed a massive, silent silhouette.
Marcus crawled closer, his servos whining in the silence.
It was an industrial loader-bot, an "Atlas" series. A relic from the heavy docking bays of a bygone era. Its chest plate had been blown open by some ancient explosion, exposing a charred cavity where its central processor used to be. It had been dead for decades.
But its left arm...
Marcus ran a deep scan.
> OBJECT IDENTIFIED: Heavy Cargo Manipulator V-7 "Titan"
> * CONDITION: Mechanical wear 30%. Servos functional. Hydraulics sealed.
> * CLASS: Industrial / Heavy Lifting.
It was enormous. Painted a faded hazard-yellow, with hydraulic pistons as thick as a human thigh and massive, crushing fingers designed to bend girders. It wasn't built for dexterity; it was built for raw power. The arm alone outweighed Marcus's entire current frame.
"Incompatible," his interface flashed a bold red warning. "Voltage mismatch. Protocol divergence. Connection impossible."
"I am a Constructor," Marcus thought, dismissing the warning with a surge of stubborn defiance. "I will make it fit."
He began the salvage operation. The rusted bolts fought him, screeching in protest. He had to use a rock as a hammer, pounding the wrench until the "Atlas" finally yielded. The heavy limb detached with a heavy thud that shook the floor.
Then came the hardest part. The graft.
Marcus dragged the massive joint of the cargo arm to his torn shoulder socket. They were like puzzle pieces from two different universes. He had to bend the mounting brackets, literally hammering them into his own chassis to create a seating.
He began splicing the wires. It was like trying to connect a lamp cord to a high-voltage transmission line. He twisted his delicate, hair-thin neural fibers together with the Titan's thick, shielded power cables.
A spark erupted.
Pain—real, electric agony—shot through his entire neural net. It wasn't physical pain, but a data overload that felt like burning ice. His operating system screamed about driver conflicts.
> ERROR: Unrecognized Hardware.
> ACTION: Abort.
> ACTION: Abort.
"Override," Marcus gritted out through his static-filled vocalizer.
He closed his eyes and focused. He visualized the signal flow. He forced his software to rewrite itself, creating a bridge between his modern code and the archaic, brute-force logic of the industrial arm. He forced his body to accept the alien metal as its own.
> SYNCHRONIZING... 45%... 78%... 99%... 100%.
The massive yellow arm twitched. The hum of its powerful servo-motors was a deep, resonant bass, far louder than the quiet whir of the rest of his body.
Marcus tried to clench the fist.
The sound was like a prison gate slamming shut. *CLANG.*
He grabbed a thick metal pipe lying nearby to test the grip. The Titan's fingers closed. The pipe didn't just bend; it crumpled like wet paper.
> MODIFICATION SUCCESSFUL
> * Left Arm Strength: +250%
> * Attack Speed: Very Low
> * Accuracy: Low
> * New Title Acquired: [Scrap Frankenstein]
He tried to stand. The weight was disorienting. The massive limb dragged his left side down, throwing off his center of gravity. He looked ridiculous—a thin, skeletal droid with one gargantuan, gorilla-like arm dragging on the ground.
But he didn't care about aesthetics. Now, he could kill.
Outside, a roll of thunder shook the container walls. Marcus peered through a crack in the hull. The sky had turned a bruised purple. On the horizon, a vortex was forming—a magnetic storm capable of frying unshielded electronics.
And through the swirling clouds, he saw the descent of heavy barges. Their bay doors opened, and fresh tons of scrap metal began to rain down from the heavens.
Marcus appreciated the irony. To the world above, this was garbage. To him, it was a supply drop.
He looked at his new, monstrous hand.
"Time to find a battery," he rasped, the static in his voice sounding like a growl. "Before I fade to black."
He used the "Titan" arm to punch through the debris blocking the exit, stepping out to meet the storm.