Rinzler's noise whirred out smooth and sharp with satisfaction as his mirror's lag stretched out just a nano too long. If the blue-white color was still [wrong] [wrong] [known], it was far more acceptable scattered across the ground in broken voxels. That was how things should have ended. That was what he (he) deserved.
(You failure.)
The errors didn't matter. Not the warning flags, not the crackling press of redirect, and certainly not the sourceless loathing that seemed to set them off. He was so close to fixing things, so close to wiping the glitch that had been fracturing his code for longer than he could remember. He could be better. He could be perfect, could work right, the way he should have, all this time. He had to. The red-orange disk thrummed in his grip, charge building as he lunged. So close—
—that he nearly missed the other threat completely.
Power spiked in close periphery, and far too slowly, Rinzler registered the weapon raised in the user (user)'s hand. Far too slowly, he slammed an elbow to the side to knock its aim off-track. The pulse fired, and Rinzler felt a voiceless snarl twist behind his mask as a wave of energy hit his right side. Systems locked, limbs unreadable past the crackle of raw power. Visuals glitched in and out. He was falling (no), shaking, motor functions lagging unacceptably between command and execution. He staggered, one knee dropping to the decking underneath.
Not the first time he'd been caught with a stun-strike. Not the first time he'd kept going. But this was different, and his copy was still out there, and he didn't have time. Rinzler seized his own functions and wrenched, no elegance but speed as he slammed his disk towards the new attacker's core. Wipe it. Move. Finish the Game.
no subject
known], it was far more acceptable scattered across the ground in broken voxels. That was how things should have ended. That was what he (he) deserved.(You failure.)
The errors didn't matter. Not the warning flags, not the crackling press of redirect, and certainly not the sourceless loathing that seemed to set them off. He was so close to fixing things, so close to wiping the glitch that had been fracturing his code for longer than he could remember. He could be better. He could be perfect, could work right, the way he should have, all this time. He had to. The red-orange disk thrummed in his grip, charge building as he lunged. So close—
—that he nearly missed the other threat completely.
Power spiked in close periphery, and far too slowly, Rinzler registered the weapon raised in the user (user)'s hand. Far too slowly, he slammed an elbow to the side to knock its aim off-track. The pulse fired, and Rinzler felt a voiceless snarl twist behind his mask as a wave of energy hit his right side. Systems locked, limbs unreadable past the crackle of raw power. Visuals glitched in and out. He was falling (no), shaking, motor functions lagging unacceptably between command and execution. He staggered, one knee dropping to the decking underneath.
Not the first time he'd been caught with a stun-strike. Not the first time he'd kept going. But this was different, and his copy was still out there, and he didn't have time. Rinzler seized his own functions and wrenched, no elegance but speed as he slammed his disk towards the new attacker's core. Wipe it. Move. Finish the Game.