Allen Gestup

Bloodroot

CON206 hoped no one had heard it—the empty clang of metal being struck by his backhoe. But before he could jump down from the cab to see what he had hit, the foreman was already out of his chair, wheezing from the effort. “Scraps, did you bust my rig again? I told you I’d trade you out if you couldn’t handle the controls,” the foreman yelled. Scraps—206 winced at the name. Out of habit, he glanced in the side mirror at the gaping hole where one of his eyes should be. The city had impounded it during an update session years ago, leaving an uncomfortable snarl of wires exposed, making it glaringly obvious that he was not a Bio. 206 bent the mirror away, opened the cab door, and jumped down to meet the foreman at the dig site.