[Connor sits up. Connor blinks, vision refreshing as he tries to clear the new filter from his sight. He inspects his clothing, unstained and unwrinkled. His left hand lifts (no damage to the wrist) as if to touch the cloth over his pump—then stills, lowering mechanically. He runs a diagnostic instead.
...No damage.
The arm he's leaning on trembles slightly—and Connor freezes, staring at the limb as if it might attack. (As if the heavy, helpless feeling will build again, crushing him until he breaks and breaks—) But seconds pass, and nothing changes. He's not being compressed. He's just weak, and his fists curl against the pavement, mouth pressing flat as he struggles his way to his feet. Connor glances around—though not quickly enough to catch the other RK800 slipping out of sight.
He's outside the clinic.
...He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be functioning, not before, and certainly not now. And if this is a simulation—why has nothing changed? He did what he was supposed to.]
Amanda...?
[No answer comes—in approval or rebuke. Connor waits a moment longer. Then he picks a direction, and slowly starts to walk.]
no subject
...No damage.
The arm he's leaning on trembles slightly—and Connor freezes, staring at the limb as if it might attack. (As if the heavy, helpless feeling will build again, crushing him until he breaks and breaks—) But seconds pass, and nothing changes. He's not being compressed. He's just weak, and his fists curl against the pavement, mouth pressing flat as he struggles his way to his feet. Connor glances around—though not quickly enough to catch the other RK800 slipping out of sight.
He's outside the clinic.
...He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be functioning, not before, and certainly not now. And if this is a simulation—why has nothing changed? He did what he was supposed to.]
Amanda...?
[No answer comes—in approval or rebuke. Connor waits a moment longer. Then he picks a direction, and slowly starts to walk.]