Mercedes | Dantés

You are the .

And you push .

You don’t shoot him. You don’t ram him. You reach out your window and press your palm against his window. mercedes dantés

Pascal doesn’t look up from the sparking skull of a hydrogen fuel cell. “Scrapped. Vasseur turned it into a trophy. Parks it in front of his tower.”

You let go.

You brake. Turn around. Walk back to the wreck on your singing, servo-whining legs.

You reach down and unbolt your right leg at the knee. You hold it up. The titanium gleams in the firelight. You are the

Vasseur’s AI screams warnings. He sees you in his rear-cam, headlights off, just the glowing cherry of your exhaust pipe and the cold fire in your eyes.