a_perfect_end: While the sergeants played a marching tune. (stripes)
a_perfect_end ([personal profile] a_perfect_end) wrote in [community profile] thisavrou_log 2017-02-26 04:36 am (UTC)

AND HERE THEY ARE, THEN.

He does not spend time correcting the User; hope is an abstraction. Hope has no value. Results have value, and the only result they'll have is failure unless they make haste.

Their transit is a blur of junk flags and a grating, infinite test of his will; he waited a thousand cycles to capture the master key, but Rinzler is his. Rinzler is his.

It bubbles up from somewhere deep--backfile hash, very, very old. You are responsible forever for what you make.

The medbay doors whisper apart with sleek, mechanical efficiency, infinitely slowly. The attendants are rather more kinetic, practically flying out of their way, gabbling irrelevancies and clutching equipment to avoid being toppled. He shoulders through without hearing or seeing them--notes them as grey proximal impact flags; damage he can absorb without care, obstacles he could easily smash aside--and pings Shepard's MID.

Text. That's all. No games, no prelude, no greetings and twiddling about. There is no trap here to bait, only necessity.

Alan-1 can make the exchange if you prefer to deal with your own kind, but medics are useless here. Rinzler urgently needs help they cannot give him.

No please, never, ever, ever. Thank you can come, backhanded, when Rinzler is well and whole.

(...IF. his processor murmurs, treacherous.)

Now, to hope.

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