06. [text, spam] // typos IC.
Disregard previous posting. Security breach resolk v e dc.
[Sylvanas had scored a solid hit on Rinzler's left shoulder, the high-powered crossbow bolt punching cleanly through armor, skin and muscle until he could feel the tip scratching against bone.
The pain wasn't a concern so much as the fact he couldn't move his arm and more to the point, the User woman with the weapon had escaped.
One problem at a time. He dragged himself back to his room, shedding his helmet and as much of his armor around the injury as he could. Blood welled up around the edges of the wound--though it flickered and shimmered and tried to crystallize into data--which would have disturbed the Program if he had spared a thought for it; instead, he wrapped a clean towel around the base of the bolt and slid back out into the hall. He trusted in the midafternoon hour that the showers would be clear, creeping in and sagging against the first wall he came to.
Projectile weapons were a relative unknown on the Grid. If you wanted range, you threw your disc, and discs didn't embed themselves in the target and leave wounds like this. Rinzler's knowledge of User physiology was heretofore entirely theoretical; his current practical knowledge said that the arrow in his shoulder was a total nuisance and making it impossible to do his job. So it had to come out.
He grabbed the bolt near the skin, exhaling in a slow hiss as he pulled it cleanly from the wound.
And felt something tear internally.
Flynn on a fucking pogo-stick that was a terrible id--
Programs, of course, also did not have subclavian arteries to nick. Nor did they usually sprawl in untidy heaps as bright crimson ribbons of blood(data) made a leisurely track toward the shower drain.
But this wasn't the Grid, after all.]
[Sylvanas had scored a solid hit on Rinzler's left shoulder, the high-powered crossbow bolt punching cleanly through armor, skin and muscle until he could feel the tip scratching against bone.
The pain wasn't a concern so much as the fact he couldn't move his arm and more to the point, the User woman with the weapon had escaped.
One problem at a time. He dragged himself back to his room, shedding his helmet and as much of his armor around the injury as he could. Blood welled up around the edges of the wound--though it flickered and shimmered and tried to crystallize into data--which would have disturbed the Program if he had spared a thought for it; instead, he wrapped a clean towel around the base of the bolt and slid back out into the hall. He trusted in the midafternoon hour that the showers would be clear, creeping in and sagging against the first wall he came to.
Projectile weapons were a relative unknown on the Grid. If you wanted range, you threw your disc, and discs didn't embed themselves in the target and leave wounds like this. Rinzler's knowledge of User physiology was heretofore entirely theoretical; his current practical knowledge said that the arrow in his shoulder was a total nuisance and making it impossible to do his job. So it had to come out.
He grabbed the bolt near the skin, exhaling in a slow hiss as he pulled it cleanly from the wound.
And felt something tear internally.
Flynn on a fucking pogo-stick that was a terrible id--
Programs, of course, also did not have subclavian arteries to nick. Nor did they usually sprawl in untidy heaps as bright crimson ribbons of blood(data) made a leisurely track toward the shower drain.
But this wasn't the Grid, after all.]