He feels that to celebrate himself for an effort born out of pure stubbornness is a mistake. That same implacability is the only thing that has kept him alive all those years, decades, centuries, and by now he feels he is beginning to loathe it. It is a strange feeling that curdles his gut and quirks his lip, and forces him to continue marching on for the sake of sheer thick-headed determination.
The wind is unfavorable and unenlightening. It streaks his vision with static of such ferocity that he begins to doubt that he's going to make it. Where, exactly, is a question he hasn't figured out yet. Moving in and of itself seemed such an impossible concept a few hours ago, and by now he kept doing it mostly just to prove that he could.
Could and Should are not dissimilar cousins, but the distinction between them was important, and lost on him at present.
Lots of things inside are broken. He doesn't know-diagnostics are one of many things beyond him at the moment-but he can feel it, almost like a festering sickness. His legs are different lengths. His right side feels markedly lighter than his left, and there is something dribbling out of his side and into the sand. The desert, the vast expanse of waste that lies before him, seems to stretch on forever. For all he knows, it does.
Lacking a mirror, he can only guess that one of his ears is missing. The wind howls louder on a side, and the dust catches and pickles there.
It isn't long before his vision begins to decrease in resolution. His movements grow more sluggish; his body is foolishly trying to conserve energy. He tries to laugh, but all that comes out is a spurt of something slick and black that dribbles down his chin and makes him feel sick. Seconds tick by with unbearable slowness as his surroundings are reduced first to a blocky blurr, and then to nothing. He feels himself stop, wobble, and then keel over into the dirt.
With what energy he has left, he mutters insults at the dirt. Failing that, he continues to think them, bashing away at it inside of the infinite blackness of his own mind until he can no longer feel the rough particles scratching away at what remained of his synthetic skin.
The last thing he hears before he drifts to sleep is the roaring of an engine.
