At 47%, the basement lights exploded. Glass showered down. Lena whimpered, but didn’t cry. At 82%, the computer began to smoke from its ventilation slits, a thin, acrid plume that smelled of burned plastic and burnt sugar.
The computer’s screen flickered. The cursor, a calm underscore, began to blink erratically. Then the font changed. Then the entire screen filled with a cascade of symbols that weren't from any language Marcus knew. They looked like circuit diagrams drawn by a spider having a seizure.
The Leech’s light turned from pulsing red to a steady, calm green. Marcus ejected it from the port. It was cool to the touch. Light. Hollow.
A pause.