An involuntary chill ran up her spine as the man stepped closer. Out of pure reflex, she stepped back with her good leg, raising her left arm for a preemptive strike. Experience with the smaller, faster drones had taught her it was best to play defensive, waiting for the foe to overextend itself in the first strike so she could easily side-step and counterattack. Distance control was, in many ways, the best defense against attack. Had she not been bred for complete and utter destruction, she might have questioned why she adopted this mindset in the face of accepting help, but she was in critical condition and her instincts to survive in full force.

That’s when she remembered—she didn’t like the scientists. In fact, there were lots of things she didn’t like. She didn’t like the cold air or the caustic slime irritating her skin; she didn’t like that overactive, furry thing that looked like it might jump and bite at any second; and honestly, she didn’t like the human. Being dependent, forced to trust her body in the hands of one with unknown motives was something she resented. 

Nemesis’ face contorted into an expression of pain, and again, she pressed her hand to her head. Why was she thinking such things? Humans were the ones who gave her purpose; they were the reason she existed. She should not be thinking thoughts of rejection—those were contrary to survival. But… the… pressure in her head! What was that feeling! Something inside was screaming at her to tear the man apart right where he stood. 

[i]I must… retain clarity. To be distracted is death.[/i] Nemesis’ hand clenched into a fist, but it dropped back down to her side. There was something harder in her gaze as she stared back at the man all the same. “I do not require additional attachments at this time. My objective…”

She blinked, realizing that she was giving [i]herself[/i] an order, but continued on. “My objective is to survive. Skin damage is irrelevant: warmth and shelter are priority. Assist my movement and take me to warmth and shelter.”