There's this TV commercial he saw once as a little kid. He doesn't quite remember what it'd been trying to advertise, but the one line that's stayed forever in his head is: "When mistakes are made, you get body-slammed by a lowland gorilla."
Regrettably, that sentence almost completely accurately describes his life at the moment.
As a teenager, he used to watch all these action-packed anime in which the protagonists would sporadically go through training-from-hell mini-arcs. Back in the present, his ribs feel like they've been at the receiving end of every single one of those myriad of training-from-hell mini-arcs. Ditto for his arm, which most definitely is broken (it feels squishy; is it supposed to feel squishy?). He probably has a concussion from being thrown around like a sack of... well, a sack of whatever stuff people tend to throw around. "Not kittens" is all his mildly concussed brain can come up with presently.
The good news is his right arm's the squishy one, so his dominant hand is still free to squeeze off as many shots as he can between the nigh constant barrage of gunfire spewing out the opened door (God only knows how many bots are still in the building). He's also alive, which is a definite plus.
The bad news is pretty much everything else.
His MX, crouched a few steps below him on the staircase, has taken two shots - one to the arm and one to the lower torso. The latter seems to have luckily missed any important processing and motor control centers. A few stray lines of red run and spiral across his cheek, sparks arcing across circuits every so often below the layer of synthetic skin. The MX twitches slightly each time that happens; Richard would laugh, but now's really not the time to be an asshole (a distinction he knows how to make, thank you very much, Kennex and Stahl).
"Detective Paul, you have sustained several injuries that may be compounded to life-threatening status by further action. It is advised you seek immediate medical attention." The MX takes him by surprise, and he starts.
"Really? Now? In the middle of a crisis like this?" he demands, turning to look at the MX even while keeping his gun perfectly steady.
"Yes. In your current state, there is a seventy-eight percent chance you will be a greater hindrance than help to the operation."
"You can take your statistics and shove them up your - " he breaks off, remembering the MX design schematics that had been reviewed in the mandatory (for everyone but Detective Special Snowflake Kennex) seminar shortly before the MXs were integrated into the workforce.
"... nostrils," he finishes weakly.
The MX cocks his head slightly as his processing lights map out the intricate circuits in his head.
"Statistics are an abstract concept that have no form with which one could - "
"Shut up," Richard says, ducking lower on the stairs as a stray bullet ricochets off the handrail. He pops his head up to floor level as the shooting ceases and empties an entire magazine in the direction of the bots' hiding spot. "And don't think I've forgotten that you were the one who broke my arm."
"I tackled you to remove you from the predicted trajectory of the HCL's bullet, which would have been a fatal hit directly in the right ventricle of your heart. I believe the bullet in question is the one currently lodged in the palmaris longus fiber bundle of my left arm."
"Are you seriously trying to guilt-trip me here?"
"The previous statements were not issued with the intent of eliciting any type of emotional response. I was merely stating the facts, sir."
Richard presses his lips together, knowing from the moment the MX uttered "sir" that the argument is a lost cause. Reloading his handgun, he rises slowly from his defensive position on the stairs and takes a few cautious steps toward the door, his MX following closely behind. "Lead me in. And don't tell me to fall back. Ever again."
"Your order has been duly noted."
Out of all the lines and combinations of words programmed into the MXs, that has to be the one he despises most. What is it even supposed to mean? His order's been recorded in the MX database? The MX will obey the order? The MX is listening but will disregard the order as stupid? He shoves the thoughts into a corner of his mind as his MX runs one last scan or another and steps into the open doorway, firing off four shots in rapid succession, four satisfying thuds following. He has to admit the MXs do have their uses.
What Richard isn't prepared for, however, is for said MX to go flying backward, tumbling off the stairs to the floor below, as the last illegally reprogrammed HCL bot charges forward. It grabs onto his shoulders and yanks him toward the spot where his MX fell. Gritting his teeth against the pain as his back slams into handrail, he shoves his gun into the android's midsection and pulls the trigger three times. It whirs as it slumps down at his feet. He takes a moment to collect himself before pushing it away.
"Detective Paul, that appears to have been the last android," a somewhat muffled voice comes from below. Richard leans carefully over the railing to peer at his MX. He's picking himself off the floor, where he'd fallen facedown. The electrical arcs and twitching have worsened, and the arm that had been shot now hangs uselessly by his side.
"Can you still function?" Richard asks. The MX lurches.
"I have lost motor control in my left arm, and some functions have been impaired by the impact. Currently operating at approximately seventy-eight percent of optimal functionality."
"Good. We'll check out the last two floors and the roof before heading back down."
"That is not advised, sir. Preliminary bio-scans show new contusions in your lumbar region as well as possible spinal fractures or vertebral displacement. It is recommended you seek - "
"What did I say about telling me to fall back?"
The MX tilts his head to the side. "And don't tell me to fall back. Ever again," he says in Richard's voice. So that's what he'd meant by "duly noted." Richard cringes.
"Don't do that ever again either."
"I am programmed to protect you at all costs. I do not advise you to advance any further. I will continue alone."
"Look," Richard says indignantly, jabbing a finger in the MX's direction as the latter walks up the stairs, "just five years ago I did all this by myself. I'm not letting a synthetic do my job for me."
"Very well then. I will lead you in."
The worst part, Richard thinks, is that he lets the MX do it. He - like Kennex, he admits reluctantly - had resisted switching to the android partner system until it'd become required, and now he's almost pathetically dependent on the glorified mass of silicon. If time travel were possible, he'd never be able to face his self of five years ago.
"This floor is clear, Detective."
"Right. Next one."
They march up the stairs like two battered Santa Clauses of law enforcement bearing their gifts of justice and lead slugs. Every few steps the MX almost trips, slowing down their progress considerably. Richard mentally revises his previous conclusion of the MXs' utility.
"This floor is clear too, Detective."
"To the roof."
When they get there, the door is locked. Richard slides to the ground, head (and pretty much all of his upper body) throbbing, as the MX sets to destroying the lock. He's never been body-slammed by a lowland gorilla before, but he'd bet twenty dollars it feels something like this.
"Clear."
He jolts back awake and lets out a breath of relief, shakily holstering his gun as his MX helps him back onto his feet.
"Did you radio the others?"
"Yes." The MX studies him with mechanical eyes. "Detective Paul, you just lost consciousness for ten seconds, indicating you have suffered a grade three concussion. Immediate medical attention is imperative. The paramedical team has been notified and is heading to this location as we speak. Do you require assistance down the stairs?"
"No," Richard snaps, jerking his arm free from the MX's grasp. He starts making his way back down, the MX following so closely behind that if anything's going to make him fall, it would be the MX stepping on his heels. The forensics team is already on the fourth floor when they reach it, holotape set up around the forcibly deactivated HCLs. Officer Martinez straightens up to greet him as they approach.
"Are you alright, Detective Paul?"
"Yeah, if there was a way to be alright after being tackled by two bots in one day."
Martinez winces, eyebrows crinkling in sympathy. "This one, huh?" he asks, gesturing at the HCL Richard had shot. "Sorry, I'll get out of your way. Medical team just arrived. They're sending one of the EMTs up to take a look at you."
"Thanks." Richard pats his arm wearily as they pass, stepping carefully over the pieces of the bot littered on the ground. The EMT meets them halfway down the stairs between the third and second floors and immediately begins the barrage of questions leading into yet another annoying medical evaluation and - inevitably - yet another annoying hospital stay.
The MX climbs into the ambulance after they load Richard's stretcher in and, despite the paramedics' protests, adamantly refuses to budge from his perch in the back. Eventually they give up and drive off toward the hospital, ignoring the silent bot staring watchfully at them.
Richard supposes it's some measure of comfort, even if the MX was one of the lowland gorillas (or something close enough) that had body-slammed him for his mistakes.
A/N: That lowland gorilla commercial is an actual thing, and I 100% recommend that you go check it out along with all the other "don't _" Directv commercials. I have a hard time referring to anything with a human form as "it" even if a robot should technically be an "it," so the MX is "he" here. Which probably just made this 500% more confusing. If you were wondering if the HCL bot is a stupid reference to hydrochloric acid, you would be absolutely correct because we're currently in the acid-base/equilibrium chapter in AP Chem and I've done so many ICE tables I'm crying (thank god for the Henderson-Hasselbalch equation).