It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Techie, a survivor through and through, finally gets himself into a good place with good people just to relapse into this divine shit and sneak off to stick his veins with good ole heroin: an old, if dangerous, friend. 

He’s hardly breathing when Foxglove comes by, shallow, raspy gasps for air filling the silence. The used needle lies beside his twitching, open hand on the ground. Techie’s skin had gone paper-pale besides his lips and fingertips, which held a blue-ish tint to them.

The mechanical eyes, usually with huge pupils, had contricted so they were tiny pinpricks. Techie was murmuring nonsense to himself, trembling on his back.