"Shit, vato." It's his suddenly passive, lurching movements that spark a pang of something deep and bitterly painful within her chest at the confirmation. Not sympathy, not empathy (she's never had much in the way of either for anyone else) but pity, maybe. Seeing what's left of a soldier so perfectly composed. An investment made... and wasted. "¿Pero qué coño te ha pasado?"
Her gun stays raised and at the ready, a tempered precaution just in case his slow strides take a turn towards aggression again; she's measured the distance at her back to the nearest scaffolding (not far, maybe less than thirty seconds if she climbs - two using the translocator), already pulling back on her heels to close the distance when the echo of Cortana's memories sink in under her skin. A puncture wound to her sanity.
As soon as the command's given, she bolts.
Quick as lightning, arm reeling back in a wind up to throw her translocator and get them the hell out of dodge. If he can't be helped, staying here won't change a thing; if he can, the bottom line still stays the same. They have to go. Now.
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Her gun stays raised and at the ready, a tempered precaution just in case his slow strides take a turn towards aggression again; she's measured the distance at her back to the nearest scaffolding (not far, maybe less than thirty seconds if she climbs - two using the translocator), already pulling back on her heels to close the distance when the echo of Cortana's memories sink in under her skin. A puncture wound to her sanity.
As soon as the command's given, she bolts.
Quick as lightning, arm reeling back in a wind up to throw her translocator and get them the hell out of dodge. If he can't be helped, staying here won't change a thing; if he can, the bottom line still stays the same. They have to go. Now.