The Machine moved quietly, robotic armature imbuing her with innate stealth and grace, against the degenerate palor of crumbling pillars and eroding acropolises of the White City. Had her metal body cavity possessed lungs and had the Inventor programmed her to draw breath, she would have held it now as she slipped amongst the ruins, anxious and curious; her cheeks would have flushed beneath the weight of the merciless sun and the efforts of her hunt. But because he had never finished the Machine, she lacked these humanistic qualities as she crept quickly in the wake of her target.
She followed the fleeting shadow, careful not to get too close, but allowing herself enough nearness to glimpse her target from time to time as it moved through the abandoned structures of the city, it’s arms laden with brown bags filled with–if the Machine guessed right–fruits and vegetables.
The Machine noticed they were taking what was a rather roundabout way to get to one of the entrances to the Underground. Her target must be paranoid these days.
Her movements slowed and then ceased; she peered with hawkish eyes from around the corner of a deserted marble building. She observed brown shoes leaving tiny footprints in the dust, a grey cape swishing about slim legs as pale as the marble she hid behind, and a shock of white-blonde hair kept untidied atop a small head. The Machine watched in fascination as, after looking around suspiciously, The Girl disappeared into the Underground.