[Its hand flashes up. One last bullet embeds in Connor's leg. And then his predecessor sags against the ground, a hole drilled through its processor in perfect symmetry. It's done.
Connor succeeded, and the creak of pressure as his damaged leg gives way is almost inconsequential. He hits the ground on one knee, reaching out with his undamaged hand to stabilize. He stares again at the body, logging the sight to memory even in corrupted monochrome blues. It's over. He won.
He needs to report in.
WARNING: DAMAGE TO BIOCOMPONENTS #7821j, 3720, 3317b, ...
A hole through his wrist. A bullet in his leg. Plating cracked and bleeding at his side. None of the damage is critical. But there's a weight pressing down on Connor's limbs, a crushing pressure squeezing his torso. It's difficult to take a breath. He—doesn't know if he can stand.
Connor tries. He spends the next half hour trying, as the sense of pressure builds and builds. He crawls as far as the hallway. He spits clipped threats into the corridors, but if whoever tampered with his systems is still here, they don't answer. No one does, and he doesn't make it to the exit. Just a little ways outside reception, the weight becomes too much to move, and Connor lies there, staring at the ceiling, skin glitching and plating cracking under a force he still can't see.
...He won't survive this.
It's not the first time Connor's been deactivated. It's just the first time the process has been slow enough to feel. He shudders helplessly as his thirium lines rupture. As his components compress. He can feel the blue blood pooling through his internal cavity. He can feel more weight, grinding against his skull, and he grits his teeth against the choking agony of errors.
He needs to report in. He tries again. Again. This shouldn't be happening. He's succeeded at his mission now. Does Cyberlife know that? If they did—if he could tell them—would this stop?
(Will they bring him back this time?)
He doesn't know. He doesn't, and it shouldn't matter, because Connor is obedient; Connor is a machine (and maybe, that will help). He jolts as his limbs snap. Blinks at the timer that appears as fragments of his shattered plating cut through vital lines inside his core. The pressure is mounting, crushing, inexorable, unbearable—
His thirium pump ruptures with a pop and the world—
cw robogore, death
Connor succeeded, and the creak of pressure as his damaged leg gives way is almost inconsequential. He hits the ground on one knee, reaching out with his undamaged hand to stabilize. He stares again at the body, logging the sight to memory even in corrupted monochrome blues. It's over. He won.
He needs to report in.A hole through his wrist. A bullet in his leg. Plating cracked and bleeding at his side. None of the damage is critical. But there's a weight pressing down on Connor's limbs, a crushing pressure squeezing his torso. It's difficult to take a breath. He—doesn't know if he can stand.
Connor tries. He spends the next half hour trying, as the sense of pressure builds and builds. He crawls as far as the hallway. He spits clipped threats into the corridors, but if whoever tampered with his systems is still here, they don't answer. No one does, and he doesn't make it to the exit. Just a little ways outside reception, the weight becomes too much to move, and Connor lies there, staring at the ceiling, skin glitching and plating cracking under a force he still can't see.
...He won't survive this.
It's not the first time Connor's been deactivated. It's just the first time the process has been slow enough to feel. He shudders helplessly as his thirium lines rupture. As his components compress. He can feel the blue blood pooling through his internal cavity. He can feel more weight, grinding against his skull, and he grits his teeth against the choking agony of errors.He needs to report in. He tries again. Again. This shouldn't be happening. He's succeeded at his mission now. Does Cyberlife know that? If they did—if he could tell them—would this stop?
(Will they bring him back this time?)
He doesn't know. He doesn't, and it shouldn't matter, because Connor is obedient; Connor is a machine (and maybe, that will help). He jolts as his limbs snap. Blinks at the timer that appears as fragments of his shattered plating cut through vital lines inside his core. The pressure is mounting, crushing, inexorable, unbearable—
His thirium pump ruptures with a pop and the world—
.
..
...
Outside the clinic, Connor model #313 248 317-60 slowly sits up on the pavement. His limbs are weak, and his vision tinted red.]