The man was familiar under the wounds and scars; K3-73 could never forget the other coursers he had trained with. Lately, he’d begun to find that those of their cohort declared dead were decidedly not, although whether or not that was for the better was up for debate.
And so it seems we are all destined for tragedy, one way or another.
“So you did.” K3 managed to keep his voice level, which was complicated by the knife currently embedded three inches into the meat of his thigh. There was blood trickling out, and the pain hadn’t quite reached him past the shock and the naturally high tolerance of a courser. “How was the hunt?”
His hand wrapped around the knife’s handle, not pulling it out yet. He hadn’t seen Z9-19 in years; there was no way of knowing what the man wanted. All K3 knew was that he was facing down one of the few combatants in the wasteland that posed a true threat, and he was already at a disadvantage.