Chapter Text
It wasn't sure when the line was crossed or when it fell into this role.
In the beginning it had little to no concern over the wellbeing of its host. Often keeping Emre awake for long stretches of time; filling his days with an endless string of travel, reconnaissance, scouting, and infiltration. In between assignments he would eat very little and sleep even less since Chernobog did not bother with such trivial things.
So long as Emre was able to achieve its goals it would gladly push its host's body past his breaking point, until eventually Emre's body would triumph over the will of the AI and he would collapse on the spot, physically unable to carry on any further.
It would happen in the most inconvenient of places too– in the middle of the busy sidewalk or an alleyway, making him mirror the consequence of a wild night. The locals would pass him without batting an eye or offering any help, thinking him to be another drunkard who couldn't find his way home after being kicked from the bar and succumbing to intoxication.
Chernobog would retaliate by sending a series of painful electric shocks down the length of his spine. Trying to rouse him awake since it had no tolerance for such a foolish notion as this, but Emre didn't budge. His limbs, pinned under the weight of exhaustion, kept his body from cooperating and he only managed a grunt of pain or to writhe in place.
After determining further attempts to be futile, it would stop and retreat into the recesses of Emre's mind; allowing him a few hours of dreamless sleep before peeling him off whatever surface he made his bed and ferrying him off to the next task.
It should not have come as a surprise then when the culmination of these things resulted in a mission going awry.
Emre was just coming off of a particularly long stretch without quality rest. His reaction time was already frustratingly sluggish due to his organic synapses, but the utter exhaustion had him moving particularly slow.
They were able to successfully infiltrate the building, following a route carefully planned by Chernobog after numerous hours of surveillance, but somewhere along the way the guards were tipped off to their presence and stormed the server room where Emre was.
They were ambushed–which is usually not anything new given the nature of their work–but this time because of Emre's plodding he was too late to react to the oncoming fire and a bullet tore across his abdomen, shredding apart his kevlar suit and the flesh underneath and bringing forth a torrent of blood.
He cried out, flesh hand immediately gravitating to the wound and doubled over onto the floor. The wire tendrils extending from his augmented arm pulled taught, threatening to disconnect from their ports in the terminal with Emre's sudden shift in posture.
Chernobog initiated its override protocol, pulling Emre swiftly to his feet and eliminating the offending party and anyone else who dared interfere with its usual destructiveness; all the while maintaining the connection to the terminal. It did have an objective to complete after all, and it wasn't going to let anyone stand in its way.
Once the extraction was complete it disengaged and retracted its connectors, returning control back to Emre.
Emre crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut the moment control was relinquished by Chernobog. Anytime Chernobog took control he felt his subconscious being dragged into the depths of a vast ocean; sinking deeper into its frigid depths until he was violently wrenched back to the surface. His head pounded as his senses suddenly snapped back into being his own.
A ringing in his ears and the stench of charred flesh mixed with the distinct metallic smell of blood were the first things to greet him. Followed by the familiar sight of destruction as the smoke cleared and his vision gradually shifted into focus. This wasn't surprising to him at this point, but what was out of the ordinary was the vague burning sensation he felt across his abdomen and a strange warmth spilling down the length of his legs.
He took stock of the situation, pawing at his midsection as he began to recognize his body as his own until he grazed the source of his pain. He sucked in a sharp breath and reflexively withdrew his hands, which now felt abnormally warm and wet.
He looked down and to his horror saw his palms coated in a layer of blood. His blood. He followed the trail and saw a wound steadily sputtering blood.
“Oh no…no no no–shit!” he scrambled to press a hand firmly against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but to his dismay the blood continued to seep through his fingers and onto the floor below, the usual questions flooding his mind:
“Where am I?
How did this happen?
…how many people did I–”
His thoughts were running a mile a minute before the authoritative voice of his parasite cut through the noise: “GO.” It commanded, and for once Emre didn't protest. He staggered to his feet and began the arduous task of exiting the facility.
By now the overhead alarm systems were blaring out notifications of an intruder, and reinforcements were undoubtedly on their way to the server room. Luckily Chernobog had the foresight to memorize all possible access routes in addition to the guard's patrol routes, so Emre was able to slip out the building without any further encounters.
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By the time Emre had made it out of the facility and back onto the street his vision was swimming and a throbbing ache settled behind his eyes. Chernobog kept a steady stream of adrenaline coursing through his veins the entire time he escaped to keep him moving, but by now it had begun to wear off and he was feeling woozy. He weaved through the thankfully empty nighttime streets, all the while clutching his side. The bleeding had thankfully slowed, but he knew he needed to stitch himself up, ideally before he passed out from blood loss.
He followed the coordinates Chernobog displayed in his visual field to a desolate alleyway littered with trash and other refuse, all the while his legs threatening to give out. The surroundings were…less than ideal, but he was sure no one would look for him there, or want to look for him here for that matter. Emre all but collapsed against the brick wall, sliding to the floor with a pained gasp as the impact sent a jolt through his body.
“INITIATE FIRST AIDE.” Chernobog demanded.
Emre didn't move, numbly considered refusing and just being done with all this. Figured he'd be doing humanity a favor.
Ultimately he decides against it, if only to avoid Chernobog commandeering his body for a second time today. Although he had a vague sense that this resolve wasn't entirely his own.
He exhaled sharply and peeled his hand away, wincing as it revealed a shaky palm coated in layers of blood in varying states of drying. He fished out his suture kit from his pack, fingers fumbling with the zipper before successfully producing it.
Kit in hand, he took in a breath to steel his nerves and mumbled, “Okay, Emre…remember to breathe,” to himself before setting his jaw and beginning to stitch the wound.
The initial meeting of the needle against the jagged edge of his flesh was heralded with a stifled cry and a flash of white overtaking his vision. He threw his head back against the wall, cursing and trembling. His every instinct screamed not to continue, begging for an end to the parade of torment, but he pressed on.
Each stitch was agonizing, and his body shook even harder the further he went along the length of the wound. Sweat began beading along his brow and his mouth felt dry. He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle his groans and give his mind something else to focus on besides the searing pain engulfing his abdomen. All the while Chernobog continued pumping adrenaline through his veins to keep him moving, silently observing from behind his eyes.
As he neared the end his fingers numbly followed along. Clumsy in their approach and nearly failing to complete the stitching altogether. Darkness encroached the edges of his vision and Emre felt the sensation of being pulled under the tides of an icy ocean again. His eyes threatened to roll back and his head bobbed before being yanked upwards by an unseen force.
When the final stitch was set his hands fell limply to his side and he was panting. Utterly spent, he slumped over, his stomach sick and head feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. He was vaguely aware of the voice in the back of his mind ordering him to ‘rise’, but any attempt was quickly met with him falling back down. His whole body felt numb and stars invaded his field of view. Chernobog warned from inside his mind to not pass out, threatening punishment if he disobeyed but before he could even register the threat it was too late–the last of the adrenaline burned from his bloodstream and he surrendered to the blissful darkness.