Clu took a heavy step forward, clenched fists half-raised in a reflexive bid for the ready position, ten and twelve, you wanna go--and lurched out of it again, buckled by a rush of something awful chasing hot and cold up his core. His circuits were racing with energy that had nowhere to go, teeth gritted against the roll of feedback through his systems. There was something else, too, unrecoverable rattling around in the orderly queue of things the hacker had to say.
Calm. Implacable. Not to be budged.
And worried about him.
Clu squinted for that, trying to piece together threads that no longer wanted to merge into coherent findings, not with all this power tangled inside him.
Was he trying to die? Maybe he was trying to die. It hadn't started exactly that way, but. He'd needed the energy, at least at first, and then once he'd reached a conclusion--all he'd wanted was to rinse it out again.
The line between finally not processing anything and not existing was razor thin. Flynn had built him sturdy.
And Clu had sent them all to drown.
What came out was: "...Why?"
No accusation, small and sharp, all puzzlement and something almost soft, something weaker he would have hated if he had the capacity left.
Speaking at all had been the wrong choice. The last nudge on strained, aching resistors, and he barely had time to raise a hand, arm braced to get his fingers over his mouth as his insides gave an enormous twisting heave--
And liberated the excess. Harsh wet feedback rushed slick and foul through his grip and lingered noxiously on him and on the floor. Even as his circuits twinged in outraged disgust he tried to remind himself that this was natural, that free-standing energy in any form could be returned to the system--
He could feel where he was shivering, heard himself make a miserable, tiny noise, and retched harder. He was starting to panic, sides heaving after air he didn't need. There was more, how was there more, what had he done--
Just when he thought it might actually burn a hole in his throat, it was over. There was nothing more inside him, despite a last dry cough. Equilibrium achieved.
He knew, very well by now, that it was impossible to die of shame.
"You can go," ragged, harsh, still hunched over, not looking, "if you want. I--" Wanna crawl into a hole somewhere "I have your report. Well done, program."
Thin praise, but the best he had right now.
He knew better than to expect, or to even dare to want, any sort of comfort. And he had a mess to clean up.
cw: program puke is gnarly, serious don't like don't read territory
Calm. Implacable. Not to be budged.
And worried about him.
Clu squinted for that, trying to piece together threads that no longer wanted to merge into coherent findings, not with all this power tangled inside him.
Was he trying to die? Maybe he was trying to die. It hadn't started exactly that way, but. He'd needed the energy, at least at first, and then once he'd reached a conclusion--all he'd wanted was to rinse it out again.
The line between finally not processing anything and not existing was razor thin. Flynn had built him sturdy.
And Clu had sent them all to drown.
What came out was: "...Why?"
No accusation, small and sharp, all puzzlement and something almost soft, something weaker he would have hated if he had the capacity left.
Speaking at all had been the wrong choice. The last nudge on strained, aching resistors, and he barely had time to raise a hand, arm braced to get his fingers over his mouth as his insides gave an enormous twisting heave--
And liberated the excess. Harsh wet feedback rushed slick and foul through his grip and lingered noxiously on him and on the floor. Even as his circuits twinged in outraged disgust he tried to remind himself that this was natural, that free-standing energy in any form could be returned to the system--
He could feel where he was shivering, heard himself make a miserable, tiny noise, and retched harder. He was starting to panic, sides heaving after air he didn't need. There was more, how was there more, what had he done--
Just when he thought it might actually burn a hole in his throat, it was over. There was nothing more inside him, despite a last dry cough. Equilibrium achieved.
He knew, very well by now, that it was impossible to die of shame.
"You can go," ragged, harsh, still hunched over, not looking, "if you want. I--" Wanna crawl into a hole somewhere "I have your report. Well done, program."
Thin praise, but the best he had right now.
He knew better than to expect, or to even dare to want, any sort of comfort. And he had a mess to clean up.