Connor doesn't get the chance to finish. He brings up the knife to try to protect himself, but it plunges into the RK800's side instead of the critical lines in the area, and the wound doesn't stop the android. Against all rationality, this hit distracts Connor from the android's grip on his coat: there's a jolt through the knife handle, visceral and gut-turning, and Connor's grip loosens, slippery with thirium.
Then there's a shift in weight, and suddenly all he can think of is their closeness to the cliff's edge, and the way they're standing far too close to it. Connor jerks his eyes up to meet his duplicate's. All words are dead in his throat, and ice and horrified energy well up in his chest, scrambling to come out in a torrent.
It's all the time he has before the grip on his jacket pushes, and the world pitches and tips around him. He doesn't scream--can't, his throat is locked tight--but his fake heart is in his throat, and he grabs wildly for purchase. Already he's too far from the cliff itself to grab on. Even if he weren't, there'd be no way to get any purchase on the sleek glass panels, especially not as he gains speed rushing past the fiftieth floor, then the fortieth, then the twentieth, then--
--he slams into something before the mental replay finishes, and a sound tears itself from his throat, too sudden to be choked away. He's still reeling. Still falling--no, he's landed. Is he broken? Is he uploading his memories to Cyberlife, and signaling frenzied checks to swaths of equipment gone dark on impact?
... It's hard to move. Connor stirs, but every motion is resisted. It's--it's cold.
...
...He's buried in snow. Connor struggles to turn over, feeling like every joint was turned to rubber and his limbs are filled with acidic liquid emotion, and when he finally puts his back to the ground he's left staring up at short walls of snow on all sides. He's been embedded in a snowdrift. He's staring up at the sky.
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Connor doesn't get the chance to finish. He brings up the knife to try to protect himself, but it plunges into the RK800's side instead of the critical lines in the area, and the wound doesn't stop the android. Against all rationality, this hit distracts Connor from the android's grip on his coat: there's a jolt through the knife handle, visceral and gut-turning, and Connor's grip loosens, slippery with thirium.
Then there's a shift in weight, and suddenly all he can think of is their closeness to the cliff's edge, and the way they're standing far too close to it. Connor jerks his eyes up to meet his duplicate's. All words are dead in his throat, and ice and horrified energy well up in his chest, scrambling to come out in a torrent.
It's all the time he has before the grip on his jacket pushes, and the world pitches and tips around him. He doesn't scream--can't, his throat is locked tight--but his fake heart is in his throat, and he grabs wildly for purchase. Already he's too far from the cliff itself to grab on. Even if he weren't, there'd be no way to get any purchase on the sleek glass panels, especially not as he gains speed rushing past the fiftieth floor, then the fortieth, then the twentieth, then--
--he slams into something before the mental replay finishes, and a sound tears itself from his throat, too sudden to be choked away. He's still reeling. Still falling--no, he's landed. Is he broken? Is he uploading his memories to Cyberlife, and signaling frenzied checks to swaths of equipment gone dark on impact?
... It's hard to move. Connor stirs, but every motion is resisted. It's--it's cold.
...
...He's buried in snow. Connor struggles to turn over, feeling like every joint was turned to rubber and his limbs are filled with acidic liquid emotion, and when he finally puts his back to the ground he's left staring up at short walls of snow on all sides. He's been embedded in a snowdrift. He's staring up at the sky.