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“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” said Túrin Turambar, staring at the smoldering ruins of Nargothrond.
“Oh no? I am shocked.”
The voice, brimming with sarcasm despite its artificiality, belonged to the Intelligent Weaponized Unit Anglachel. Túrin called them Gurthang. It was one of the many reasons Anglachel resented him. Gurthang sounded like a name for a late 20th-early 21st-century metal band. Anglachel hated metal, although a significant amount of it had been used in their making.
Túrin gave Anglachel the side-eye. “How was I supposed to know Glaurung had a way of intercepting messages?”
“By using something your species calls a head?” Anglachel said. Their own body ended in a black, sharp point, which did not warrant the use of the aforementioned term. “Speaking of which, maybe put on your helm, you are going to suffocate in the atmosphere.”
Túrin rolled his eyes but put on his Dragon-helm. Anglachel considered it ridiculous (the design was too kitschy, even for one made in Belegost), but Túrin seemed fond of it, and so far it had protected its owner from the noxious air, polluted by Morgoth’s chemical weapons.
“Have you considered that there was a reason Nargothrond was hidden?” Anglachel continued, “Maybe opening a communication bridge just to moon Morgoth was not the best idea, don’t you think?”
“That was only one time, and it was Gwindor,” Túrin mumbled, “He was drunk.” His voice trembled and he shook his helm-covered head. “The bridge was opened to contact other settlements that still resisted, you know that,” he said.
“And to attract Morgoth’s warships,” Anglachel muttered, “Much good it did to poor Orodreth.”
“Would you blame me for Orodreth’s death too?”
“You know I could find reasons to blame you for Finwë’s death if I wanted,” Anglachel said, “But we can’t help Orodreth anymore. Aren’t we going after Findulias? We can still save her.”
“I am going to Dor-lómin to save my family,” Túrin said. His eyes gleamed strangely behind the helm, the way the huge eyescreens of Morgoth’s biocybernetic beast had glowed when it had held Túrin in a snare. Anglachel wondered if they should be concerned, but they weren’t a medical unit, so what did they know?
They did, however, knew one thing for sure.
“This is the worst decision you have ever made,” they informed Túrin, “And once you made me laser Beleg.”
That was another reason Anglachel resented Túrin. Somehow he had taken mental control of them and killed Beleg, whom Anglachel had rather liked. The mental connection with Beleg hadn’t made Anglachel want to stab themself in the eye, which they didn’t even have.
“Beleg would want me to follow my heart,” Túrin hissed viciously.
Anglachel made gagging noises.
“Beleg would want you safe under the Dome of Doriath,” they corrected him.
Túrin wasn’t even listening to them. He never did.
“To Dor-lómin!” he cried, running forward.
“I should have remained at the Base with Anguriel,” Anglachel muttered.
Sighing, they glided after Túrin, wondering if lasering him would be worth severing the mental connection and shutting down their central system forever. At least they wouldn’t be forced to look at the hideous Dragon-helm anymore.