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As it turns out, salvation doesn’t always mean good news.
The pinhole that ART (un) delicately poked into the hull of the station immediately began ripping open and bleeding oxygen into space. SecUnits don’t need as much air as humans, so I still had, what, 10 minutes? Feeling yourself slowly deoxygenate as you stare into a dark, unfeeling black sky was better than several other options for dying and being a SecUnit at the same time.
ART pinged me. I pinged back. It also saw the hole op—my legs were lifting off the ground.
I sent a few more pings in rapid succession (mostly ART and HELP, with a sprinkling of FUCK, SHIT and a little AAAH) as my body was thrown out into space. The fluid leaking out of my legs was evaporating as fast as it was leaking, which wasn’t bad yet. Emphasis on ‘yet.’
My eyes felt dry. I closed them.
My shoulder bumped into something hard and decidedly un-space-like. I opened my eyes, and turned my head to see—ART’s drone? wrapping its spindly arms around my torso and propelling us back to ART Prime.
Got you, ART repeated. I’ve got you, you little idiot.