Something had slithered into the room. Even in a groggy, just-awoken state Psychedelic-420 could feel his unreasonable, unmodified pride bubbling from within – a sentient egotism that disliked the way he had to be alerted of the presence of danger rather than perceiving it on his own. It was akin to the temper humans felt when they sat behind their steering wheels and received gratuitous advice on the ‘correct’ way of driving. Only, it was a pity at the same time that there weren’t many options for Psy to deal with the infiltrator at the moment; his muscles were in a state of dystrophy and the machines had awoken him too late.
Nevertheless, he could tell who – or what it was that had joined him in the premises. The strange thing about the updates the System Organization pulled him through was the fact that he didn’t feel like he’d changed; for fact he knew they’d put him through a process he’d been against, but it was a subtle memory and he couldn’t remember anything beyond being put down and locked away. It was the strangest thing - waking up after a long time and already knowing one’s objective the moment one regained conscience. Wasn’t it usually the other way around?
The intruder had come much closer. Psy couldn’t exactly open his eyes; they had been closed for too long and the secretion of some kind of sticky discharge of his human body had left his eyelids stuck together. He still couldn’t move a muscle to peel them open himself, either, so he hung there against the machines, simply brooding quietly and almost comfortably while the source of malice slunk closer.
That’s when Psy felt the thing called ‘emotion’ cooperate with him. That virus was just as he last remembered – he bled an aura that held an infectious scent, and it moved with every one of his movements. He didn’t remember anything else but this. He could have expected it when teeth sunk into his bare shoulder, but the machines pinning him back had only reacted fast enough to begin shutting down only now. What was there to do besides hide a cringe and think of what might not be worst from being bitten?
Miraculously, the inevitable surprise compelled one eye to peel and Psy opened it slowly, releasing a sigh of relief or exasperation, blearily taking in the surroundings with his emerald for an eye. The gaze passively moved on to the figure attached to his shoulder, almost as if watching a tiny bird land on his shoulder, in tranquility. Pity, Psy didn’t even remember he liked birds, so he felt no loss.
“Give me just a moment,” Psy replied, shrugging his free shoulder. Ah, so he could move; when did that happen?
There certainly wasn’t much strength for him to summon, but it was enough for him to bite down a breath and tear his free arm from the machine, severing the cords connecting him to the updates and seize the back of Virus-138’s neck, pulling him away. There wasn’t even enough strength to hold onto him, so Psy dropped the small, normally-light figure, barely even hanging down from his attachments. A poisonous grin – or snarl – danced upon his face through his one open eye, and he reached up, arm shaking from strain, to finally peel the other open.
“… So this is the kind of rat you always were. Attacking a man who’s already down,” He heaved as he freed a leg, sending splinters of the contraption behind him onto the floor; it was probably in his favor to break free as soon as possible. “… Is that the virus way of doing things?”
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