They left you to rot. Buried in the slop, letting it seep through the barest openings in your tightly sealed shell, coating your ceramic bones and squelching between your gears. It smells rank, tastes bitter. How appropriate.
They knew that you wouldn't decompose any time soon. That it could take decades before the barest hint of decay starts to eat through your soft porcelain skin. They don't mind. They won't have to look at you in the meantime.
What they didn't count on was that you might find something useful among the trash. A lighter. No fuel in it. But the sludge you've been stewing in is plenty flammable. Far more so than your magically-reinforced limbs and face. One good spark is enough to turn your limbo into an inferno.
Plenty of it has pooled inside you, at this point, and it burns slowly. It'll be a good long while before you run out. More than enough time to find them. To make them regret what they've created.
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