autoaim.cfg posted:

‘Burn the bitch down. I can’t hold the thing back." The Russian program, rising
through towers of data, blotting out the playroom colors. And I plug Smythe’s
homemade command package into the center of Vegetable’s cold heart. The squirt
transmission cuts in, a pulse of condensed information that shoots straight up, past
the thickening tower of darkness, the Russian program, while Smythe struggles
to control that crucial second. An unformed arm of shadow twitches from the
towering dark, too late. We’ve done it. We've infected Vegetable's computer.