(no subject)
In the dream he was always running, sometimes he was being chased, but usually he was the one doing the chasing...
He always knew what he was chasing, the remaining ISO, and she was always one step ahead of him, as if she knew he was coming. He was aware, vaguely, that she could have set a trap for him if she'd wanted, and in the same vein he was vaguely relieved that it wasn't her style.
He'd been tracking her for cycles, always arriving where she'd been and never where she was, it was a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and he knew that he'd catch her eventually, it was his core directive, to destroy the ISOs. Even in a dream there was a nagging feeling that this was incorrect information, that something didn't quite fit, but he couldn't place it and in dreams, just as in the conscious world it was easier to just ignore it, that was a subroutine: disregard conflicting information ... but that subroutine had been removed, hadn't it?
He couldn't remember now, and in the dream it didn't matter either way, he was hunting, and he was gaining, she couldn't run forever, if he was right she couldn't run much longer, she was injured, low on energy and cornering herself, though she didn't know it.
He moved quietly, his pace even, inexorable, she wouldn't escape this time because she had nowhere to go and he thought that she knew it. But he also knew this had never happened.
But it was happening.
Never happened.
Was happening.
Never happened.
Was happening.
The two thoughts chased each other around in circles in his mind, like a swarm of grid-bugs having run out of things to devour and turning in on itself, but when he rounded the next corner none of it mattered, because she was waiting, one arm tight against her injured side.
It was a narrow walkway between two buildings, a footpath and little more, there wasn't enough space to use a disc as a weapon, which was, he considered, probably why she was making her stand there, since it would be down to a battle of wills, and of cunning. He could have ordered her to stand down, to surrender, but they both knew that she wouldn't, so he stayed silent.
He advanced again, that same steady, predatory pace, watching her for even the barest hint of movement. That hyper-attentiveness was his first mistake, because he jumped at her first movement, and her first movement was a feint. The battle raged on in near-silence, neither of them speaking, aside from Rinzler's occasional growl and Quorra's occasional yelp of surprise or hiss of pain. Each of them seemed to know what the other's next move was going to be, and the stakes never changed, one of them was going to die and they both knew it.
Then, just as suddenly as the fight had begun, it was over again, Quorra had a disc in hand, and he knew it was one of his own, though he was unsure how she'd gotten it in the first place. She looked sad, regretful, even, and she said: "I'm sorry." Though the words reached him almost after the disc already had, her aim was true and her arm was good, better than he'd expected.
The disc connected with his temple, and he didn't feel anything aside from the initial impact, all he knew was that the whole world shattered into hissing static and crackling lines of electric-sharp pain, bright and all-encompassing. It was only when it began to recede that he realized he was right where he'd been when he'd gone to standby, resting.
He shook himself with a faint growl, feeling disjointed and unsure, it was a feeling he didn't like, one that he'd had far too much of recently. Another growl escaped as he let his mask fold into place, slipping outside to go for a walk, hoping he could leave that unease behind.