[Mac Sirloin]

The "Altar Boy" led us through a sporadic network of paths and tunnels around and under the junk. The Guard and I lost our sense of direction quickly and stuck close to the robot. We spoke little. After getting a few looks at our Titanic guide, I concluded that he was definitely a custom job. He was an old (old, old, OLD) shipping/construction assistance robot, but those never had the ability to shoot their hands across clearings. His hands also had an odd split in the middle, giving them the ability to turn into simple crab claws. Weirder still was the basket he was lugging around; apart from Saunter and the Crushed assistance robot corpse there were a lot of parts packed below them. A large, dusty Medical casket sat at an odd angle near the top, with some radio poles and satellite dishes crumpled together. The guard pointed out various utilities and weapon parts scattered here and there, and seemed to get a little excited when he spotted some riot gear.
Suddenly, The Altar Boy stopped midstep and focused on a junkpile, tromping over to examine it closely. He began shoveling through it, focused. We stood clear and watched with interest as he unearthed a limp steel body. With care, he placed it on the ground. his right hand split open and weathered steel rod with a bearing on the end sprung out. With automatic precision, he placed it on the back right-side of the seemingly dead robot's neck, and jolted it to life. Immediately stepping clear, The Altar Boy watched as the robot picked itself up.
Its hands are stained with reddish crust. I thought.
It looked around, taking in the surroundings.
Its head has dents.
It stopped on The Guard and I, its attention focused. The previously dully lit eyes seemed to gain some brightness as it stared.
This thing is down here for a reason.
It charged, but before I could flinch Altar Boy had it by the torso, crushing it like a beetle as damage vocalizers picked up. The Guard and I covered our ears at the screeching sound. The stench of aging pneumatic fluid hit the air as it gushed out, a light-gray liquid seeped between TAB's fingers. Without hesitation, he tore the small robot's head off and crushed it, dropping the thrashing, headless torso onto the ground and stomping on it. He continued on the path we'd been walking, barely acknowledging us.
The guard and I exchanged glances, standing still. Right before he walked out of site, our enormous savior bellowed. "ASSIST 49. ESCORT 50 13 10." We followed, afraid of our own shadows.