While you are impressive beyond calculating, Cortana, you are not omniscient. She does not know how he was made or from whom he was made, she does not know how deeply he is entwined with York- nor does she know the shade of the man from which he pulls his current, notably desperate, logic. Were that the case you would treat the implant with a lighter hand. It was never designed to house a full smart AI. Continued stress or excessive force has a high probability of rendering York a vegetable or leaving him permanently paralyzed, with a current five percent likelihood of killing him outright.
Focus on him. On the green, on the code- not on York. Not on the straining, writhing wires under his skin, not on the cage where York's focus skitters along violent green to a glimmer of something different. Purple and unfamiliar but close enough to someone he knows and there is a brief, shining moment of pure relief.
Rescue.
It comes and goes in a flash, relief turning to terror as he braces his hands on the opposite side of the coded glass. His mental image of himself flickering from the man Sombra knows to a younger, slimmer version coated in blood and soot, older with both eyes, with his bad eye a mass of pulpy red- "You need to get out of here-"
Too dangerous for anyone, especially someone Delta deemed a threat. Which makes the otherwise cordial conversation with Cortana...odd.
Death is an unacceptable outcome. It is finite. Dying for York would do nothing to save him, merely postpone the inevitable by thirty four minutes and sixteen seconds where he would be attempting to endure this alone. And that is something he cannot allow. He does not push ahead, nor does he retreat, attention flicking to the cage in the distance. To York where he is held as safely as Delta can manage. Living to make the more difficult choice, one that ensures his survival? Offers infinite possibilities for recovery after this has passed.
no subject
Focus on him. On the green, on the code- not on York. Not on the straining, writhing wires under his skin, not on the cage where York's focus skitters along violent green to a glimmer of something different. Purple and unfamiliar but close enough to someone he knows and there is a brief, shining moment of pure relief.
Rescue.
It comes and goes in a flash, relief turning to terror as he braces his hands on the opposite side of the coded glass. His mental image of himself flickering from the man Sombra knows to a younger, slimmer version coated in blood and soot, older with both eyes, with his bad eye a mass of pulpy red- "You need to get out of here-"
Too dangerous for anyone, especially someone Delta deemed a threat. Which makes the otherwise cordial conversation with Cortana...odd.
Death is an unacceptable outcome. It is finite. Dying for York would do nothing to save him, merely postpone the inevitable by thirty four minutes and sixteen seconds where he would be attempting to endure this alone. And that is something he cannot allow. He does not push ahead, nor does he retreat, attention flicking to the cage in the distance. To York where he is held as safely as Delta can manage. Living to make the more difficult choice, one that ensures his survival? Offers infinite possibilities for recovery after this has passed.