One. Scratch. Two. Scraaatch.
Cull hadn't repaired his leg yet. Couldn't. No kit, no oil, and all the scrap metal around was already picked and gleaned. His metal flesh clacked together, each armor plate slick with the wounds of a bygone era of combat. People in the shelter just stared at him. At eight feet tall, purely hydraulic in function rather than flesh, he could see and understand the fear in their eyes. The misunderstanding. They had been here for years, hiding away from the Autos. To see one here, claiming to be American no less, was cause for suspicion.
He made himself look as docile as possible, even going so far as to leave his Bolt rifle at the door.
The Arch-Sergeant shuffled into an empty seat. Someone came up to him, a human by the sound of his voice. "What'll ya have, stranger?"
"That's all we serve, any particular kind?"
"The kind... w-wi-with... that... has charcoal in it,"
Silence, longer now.
"Ah, forget it, I'll make it myself."
He stepped over the bar, broken glass on the floor. Old. Been there too long. Nothing in the bottles. No voices telling him to stop. No sirens. No bombs falling in the distance. He wasn't really here, not anymore.
His metal fingers started clenching into fists, and he smashed through the barricades keeping the dust from the floor. Anger. Venom, like fire in his copper veins. Then all at once it passed. A cracked Auto, looking back at him. One glowing eye, an Arch-Sergeant's cap.
He didn't stay. No one watched him leave. The dust settled again, on the bones of the slain.