They're both damaged. Arguing won't help. It's true, but even past the steadying sense of user, something twists at those words, sharp enough to split in two. It's the pain clouding his creator's voice. It's the certainty of his own uselessness. It's the memory of [his] [his] user's body, still and silent on the floor.

If it means Alan-one is safe, he'll be anyone he has to.

"No." The retort snaps back without delay. They're not going to the engines. Blue-white flares through cracks and circuits both, a steady burn as [Rinzler] shifts, another step back toward the lift. He's stable enough to hold together, enough to get them both to safety. He'll listen to his user after the current threat is past.

The explanation loops once, then he says it. It's easy.

"Medbay first. I can manage."

He could. He has before, and memory unscrolls, more responsive than it ought to be. No—more than [he]'s used to. It doesn't matter, and he pushes the data aside, refocusing calculations on the present—

Only to stop, frozen in place by a single word from behind. It's less the word than the question, less the question than the hesitant, fragile way his user speaks. The program stiffens, turning only slowly to face his creator. There's a pause. A wordless flicker, red light wavering beneath the blue like embers of a dying flame. Then it stops, and Rinzler's helmet turns away.