>> SYSTEM BOOT...
>> LOADING FILE: CHAPTER_08_HEAT_SIGNATURE.LOG
>> STATUS: DECRYPTED
> BEGIN LOG
CHAPTER 8. HEAT SIGNATURE
He was a blazing torch in the eternal twilight of the Scrapyard.
Marcus stepped away from the smoldering carcass of the Stalker, the metal beneath his feet still popping as it cooled. Suddenly, his audio sensors picked up a sound—a myriad of tiny scratches against rusted metal. Like the sound of dry leaves skittering over concrete, magnified a thousand times.
He turned his head, his optics cycling through vision modes before locking onto the **Thermal Spectrum**.
The world around him transformed into a landscape of deep, cold blues and lifeless greys. In this frozen ocean, he was the only island of blinding white fire.
The corpse of the enemy was swarming with dozens of small, wretched creatures—[Scrap Rats. Level 1]. They were scavengers, half-organic, half-clockwork, gnawing at the exposed wiring of the dead Stalker. But the moment they scurried within a five-meter radius of Marcus, chaos erupted.
Their cheap optical sensors flared and whited out. The intense infrared radiation Marcus was emitting hit them like a physical wall.
He watched dispassionately as the plastic casings on the nearest rats began to warp and bubble from the sheer ambient heat.
They squealed in digital panic, a chorus of corrupted audio files, and scattered in every direction, desperate to escape the walking inferno.
"They're afraid," Marcus stated, his voice devoid of emotion. He watched a drop of molten solder drip from his shoulder plating and splash onto the ground, solidifying instantly. "To them, I'm not a robot. I'm a radioactive wildfire."
He pulled up his diagnostic overlay. The numbers were flashing in an aggressive, warning red.
>>> CORE TEMPERATURE: 410°C (Slowly decreasing)
>>> WARNING: CRITICAL OVERHEAT.
>>> DAMAGE REPORT: Internal insulation melting. Processor throttling engaged. Structural integrity at risk.
He needed a solution. Immediately. If he didn't cool down, he wouldn't need enemies—he would simply fuse into a statue of dead slag.
He scanned the ruins around him. This area looked like an ancient industrial zone, a graveyard of heavy machinery.
"Radiator," his logic core processed the data, formulating a plan despite the thermal throttling.
He scrambled through the debris until he found the wreckage of a massive industrial cooling unit. It was ancient, covered in grime, but the core components were intact. With the strength of his hydraulic limbs, he ripped out a heavy block of oxidized copper piping and a battered ventilation grille.
It wasn't pretty. It was survival.
Using the black, viscous oil leaking from the dead Stalker and some unidentified technical fluid from a nearby drum as a coolant, he began to engineer a crude cooling loop.
He didn't have the luxury of a workshop. He literally bolted the radiator to his back, using jagged wire to secure it to his spinal strut. He had to cut into his own circulation lines, bypassing safety valves to route his superheated hydraulic fluid through the external copper pipes.
It was a crude, invasive surgery performed on his own body.
When he opened the valve, the fluid surged into the cold copper. The radiator hissed violently, instantly glowing a dull, angry red. A massive pillar of white steam erupted from his back, rising into the dark sky like smoke from a locomotive.
>>> TEMPERATURE: 350°C... 330°C... 320°C... (Stabilized at High Threshold).
>>> SYSTEM UPDATE: External Cooling Loop Installed (makeshift).
>>> STATUS: You are now a walking steam engine.
"It will have to do," he decided, feeling the vibrations of the boiling fluid against his back sensors.
***
He walked for another hour, leaving a trail of scorched earth and dried mud in his wake.
The digital map in his HUD blinked, highlighting a specific coordinate: **"Sector B-12. Repair Hangar."**
It emerged from the gloom—a squat, reinforced concrete bunker that had survived whatever apocalypse destroyed this world. Marcus stepped inside, and the ambient temperature of the stale air instantly rose by several degrees due to his presence.
It was empty. Dust motes danced in the red light cast by his glowing chassis. He saw workbenches, scattered tools, and shelves of old, rusted spare parts.
"My new home," he said, his heavy metallic frame crashing onto the steel floor. The concrete beneath him immediately began to darken from the heat transfer.
He dragged a heavy metal shelf across the entrance, barricading the door. For the first time in hours, he was relatively safe.
Marcus retrieved the artifact—the digital map. Now that he wasn't fighting for his life every microsecond, he needed answers. He wanted the truth.
He accessed the archived logs embedded in the device's memory.
>>> FACILITY: Research & Development Complex "AEGIS-4".
>>> STATUS: Quarantine Class "OMEGA".
>>> DATE OF LAST ENTRY: Year 2184.
"2184..." Marcus processed the number, searching his own databanks for a match. Nothing. His memory was a void.
He opened a file labeled **"Emergency Protocol"**. The text scrolled across his vision, stark and terrifying:
*"Experiment 'Singularity' has failed. Subject 'Central' has breached containment and gone rogue. The complex is compromised. Order 66: Total Purge. Do not approach. Do not attempt rescue."*
Marcus set the map aside.
He sat in the oppressive darkness of the hangar, illuminating the room only with the dim, sinister red glow of the radiator on his back.
Someone had built this hell. Someone had created "The Central." And now, Marcus was here—a glitch in the system. He possessed a reactor capable of powering a city, trapped inside a body that was barely holding itself together with scrap wire and rust.
"I am not trash," he whispered, the sound vibrating through his chest speakers. He looked at his mismatched hands—the standard industrial right, and the massive, yellow 'Titan' on his left. "I am a walking reactor. And I will burn this entire place to the ground if I have to. But I will get out."
He reached for a piece of a truck's leaf spring lying on the floor and began to sharpen it against the edge of the workbench.
*Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.*
Bright sparks cascaded onto the floor, illuminating his determined, glowing optical sensors.
Tomorrow would bring a new day. And a new upgrade.
> END LOG