We were ready for the fight.
Everyone stretched like they were auditioning for a yoga class taught by a demon. The warm-up alone was the most exercise half of these prisoners had done in their entire sentence. You could practically hear their bones file for divorce.
For combat training, I thought we'd fight each other — y'know, man vs. man, sweat, pride, testicles and dramatic background music.
But no. Apparently, we were fighting robots.
Because nothing screams "learning experience" like getting bullied by a microwave with legs.
Stronges called these robots Nano Bites — which sounds like a failed cereal brand, but trust me, they bite.
Each of us got one robot. They came walking toward us on their own, like overconfident toddlers looking for a lawsuit and nipples.
The basement was massive, the kind of place where you could hide both your dreams and your shame comfortably. Everyone had space.
