Inara Gibson is a green detective that's just trying to find her place in a world where a large percentage of work is now performed by artificial intelligence, in the form of androids. What paths will you choose for her? Will she rise up to her dest...
You'd think that it was buck shot, the way my body hits the floor. Every breath is more challenging than the last, as the edges of my vision blur into one mute colour.
The sound of fleeting feet tap in my eardrums until my ears explode with the sound of a high caliber round. Connor lay on top of me, blue blood oozing out of the gaping hole in his chest, cascading down my rib cage and onto the already stained carpet.
I tap on his shoulder, but he doesn't respond. Fuck.
Why did he call? Couldn't he wait sixty seconds?
"Connor?"
I roll, but don't get far. Connor's limp body is starfished across my torso. Considering he's plastic, he weighs a frickin ton! I grunt as I make a last-ditch effort to get out, and finally succeed.
Finally the back up arrives. Too little, too late.
As Connor lay on his back, I'm able to see the extent of the damage. The hole in his chest flickers blue, exposing his inner bio-components. The wires that had been severed by the shot spark, but quickly begin to fade. The central pump flickers red before turning black. He's gone.
I look down to see my favourite orange blouse is covered in thirium. That fucking android was going to kill me, after I said I'd let her go.
"I'm such a fucking fool!" Bile rises as the gravity of the situation sinks in. I know Connor is just a machine, but he— it saved my life.
One of the SWAT guys flashes his torch up and down my frame. "Clear." And they march to the next room.
"What in the hell happened here?" Hank storms in after the flaks leave, voice booming through the small space. He looks down at Connor. "I leave you for thirty fucking minutes, and you destroy the equipment?" He nudges the android's torso with his leather boot, as Connor's body remains limp. "Jesus!"
"I—" Each word I try to push out becomes nothing more than a husky whoosh of air.
I tug at my shirt; it's too tight all of a sudden.
Hank looks down at my pastel button down, and his eyes widen like saucers when reaching the blue blood. He places a hand on my shoulder. "Shit, kid. Are you alright? Are you hurt?"
"I'm, I'm—"
"Look, kid." He places a meat fist on my shoulder. "The field is a fucking crazy place to start. Tell you what, you can go back to the office and look for clues on our database, while I catch these assholes. You're not doing any good here."
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Choose wisely, many lives depend on it! You've got till Thursday 6th.
Ups! Ten obraz nie jest zgodny z naszymi wytycznymi. Aby kontynuować, spróbuj go usunąć lub użyć innego.
