Settled back in the relative dark and quiet of the crevice, Xen took stock.
The excursion had yielded a meager energy gain at the cost of precious hit points. It was a stark lesson in the harsh economy of survival in this scrap heap.
Pushing his luck while damaged and low on fuel was foolish. He needed to recover, at least partially, before venturing out again. His HP sat at 81.3/100, slowly climbing thanks to the [Sheltered] buff. How much recovery was enough? 100% felt like an impossible luxury right now, potentially taking hours he might not have.
..90%?.. Maybe 85%? It felt like a reasonable minimum, a small buffer against another unexpected energy surge or a painful tumble.
Decision made: wait until HP reached 85.0. According to his internal chronometer and the +0.1 HP/min regeneration rate, that would take approximately 37 minutes.
37 minutes of sitting still in the dark.
He listened.
The sounds outside were a constant, low symphony of decay and entropy: the mournful sigh of wind through metal canyons, the occasional groan of stressed structures settling under their own weight, the faint plink... plink... of condensation dripping somewhere nearby within the crevice itself. Distantly, very distantly, he sometimes caught a rhythmic clank... clank... clank... Was it machinery? Another bot? Or just some loose piece of metal swinging rhythmically in an unseen breeze? Too far away to tell, but he logged the direction mentally.
While waiting, his attention drifted back to the small pile of materials his last scan had identified within the shelter. [Small Metal Shards Detected (Qty: 5) - Composition: Brittle Ferrous Alloy - Sharp Edges]. [Loose Wiring Cluster Detected - Copper/Unknown Polymer Blend - Low Conductivity - Damaged].
Could he make something? The salvage option for the Power Regulator fragment had mentioned needing a [Basic Tool Kit]. He certainly couldn't fabricate something like that from scratch, not without knowledge, materials, and proper tools. But maybe something simpler? A makeshift edge for cutting or prying?
He focused on the pile of shards near his feet, using his [Micro-Manipulation] skill to carefully pick one up.
His slender fingers closed around it. It was thin, maybe five centimeters long, with one surprisingly sharp edge. He applied a tiny amount of pressure between his fingers, testing its strength. Snap! The shard broke cleanly in two. Brittle indeed.
He discarded the pieces and tried another. This one felt slightly thicker. He handled it more gently, examining its sharpest edge under his optical sensors. It wasn't a knife, not even close, but it might be able to cut soft materials or scrape away corrosion if needed. Handling it directly felt clumsy and unsafe, though. Could he make a handle?
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His gaze fell on the tangle of frayed wires. They were thin, coated in cracked, discolored polymer insulation. The scan said Low Conductivity, meaning they probably weren't useful for power transfer, but maybe as binding? He selected the longest, least damaged-looking piece of wire, about twenty centimeters long.
Using the fine motor control granted by [Micro-Manipulation], he began the painstaking process of wrapping the wire tightly around the dull end of the metal shard.
It was fiddly work. His fingers, though precise, weren't designed for knot-tying or intricate wrapping.
The brittle insulation on the wire cracked further as he bent it. He had to carefully manipulate the exposed copper strands beneath, twisting them together, looping them over the shard, trying to create a secure binding without snapping the wire or the shard itself. Minutes ticked by, each careful twist and loop demanding concentration. His internal processors whirred quietly, calculating angles and tension.
Finally, after several frustrating attempts where the wire slipped or the shard threatened to break, he managed a crude but relatively stable wrap. The wire formed a small, rough handle around the base of the shard. It wasn't pretty, and likely wouldn't withstand significant force, but it was something.
A System notification popped up, surprising him slightly.
One whole experience point! And a tiny skill increase. It wasn't much, but it was acknowledgment. The System recognized even his most basic attempts at tool use. He carefully tucked the [Crude Shard Tool] into a small seam near his hip joint that seemed like it could serve as a temporary holding spot. It wasn't an inventory slot, just a physical tuck, but it kept the tool handy.
He checked his status again. Time had flown by during his crafting attempt.
He'd reached his target. The 37 minutes had passed, and the slow regeneration had done its work. He felt marginally less vulnerable, though the memory of the 2 HP lost to the power cell surge still stung. His Energon remained untouched at 34.8/150.
Time to move. Priority one was still stable Energon. Sitting here longer would only deplete his reserves further, however slowly. He needed to scout again. Which direction this time? Avoid the area with the depleted power cell and the old tracks.
Avoid the direction of the earlier loud clang. That left exploring towards the source of that distant, rhythmic clanking he'd heard while waiting, or venturing into a completely unscanned sector of the scrap heap.
The clanking felt like something, at least. An unknown, true, but potentially indicative of activity, maybe even working machinery or a larger energy source. It was a risk, but perhaps a more calculated one than wandering randomly.
Okay. Direction: towards the distant rhythmic sound. Method: extreme caution.
He decided the Energon cost was worth it this time. Stealth was paramount if he was heading towards potential activity.
The familiar muffling effect settled over his systems. He moved to the crevice entrance, his newly crafted shard tool tucked securely away. He performed one last quick scan outside, just to be sure.
Clear. Taking a deep intake of the stale, metallic air – a habit retained from his human life – Xen slipped out of the crevice, his dampened feet making virtually no sound on the debris-strewn ground. He paused, letting his optics adjust, pinpointing the direction of the faint, rhythmic clank... clank... clank... that served as his new, uncertain destination. Time to hunt for fuel.