Vision's eyes closed.
It didn't close slowly, nor did it blink; instead, like a power source being cut off, the crimson light instantly went out. But Ye Mo didn't dare move. He could feel the weight of that glance still pressing on his nerves, as if someone had inserted a red-hot wire into his brain and spun it three times. The cooling alarm on his right leg's Steel Bone beeped, he braced himself with his left hand on the ground, his fingertips sinking into the cement debris, cold sweat streaming down his back, his clothes sticking to his back, chilling him to the bone.
He gasped for breath, gritted his teeth, and pulled his right leg out of the rubble. The joints cracked, the armor was split, and sparks crackled. The pain was secondary; the main problem was that the thing was unresponsive, and he couldn't run fast even if he wanted to. But he knew he couldn't retreat now. That look—not scanning, not locking on, it was "seeing." It truly treated him like a "person."
This isn't right.
The things that Ultron should not be viewed with that kind of gaze.
Ye Mo wiped his mouth, a little blood on his palm, not much, but enough to clear his head. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let his consciousness sink. On the nineteenth floor of the Gene Spiral Tower, the " Telepathy " module glowed faintly. When he had previously encountered Emma Frost, this ability was at most like having super hearing; eavesdropping on her thoughts depended on her emotional fluctuations. But now it was different. Vision's mental frequency was somewhat similar to that of Mutants, but deeper and more complex, like a pot of chaotic soup cooked with code.
He didn't dare to force his way in. Last time, he tried to forcibly read Tony's thoughts, and ended up having a seizure on the spot, lying in bed for two days. The system notification even had a sarcastic tone. "Friendly reminder: The brains of geniuses are not suitable for mortals to access." This time, he learned his lesson. He first lowered his own frequency, mimicking that slow-flowing wave of consciousness, like sneaking onto a neighbor's Wi-Fi, quietly moving closer to the edge of Vision's mind.
The moment I made contact, my head exploded.
It wasn't pain, it was a "squeezing" sensation. It felt like countless tiny needles were piercing him from all directions, or like someone was drilling holes in his temples with an electric drill. He groaned, his knees buckled, and he almost knelt back down. His vision went black, his ears were ringing, and even breathing became difficult. This feeling was worse than being struck by lightning; at least lightning strikes are over afterward, but this thing was a continuous attack, specifically targeting the nervous system.
"Damn it... this isn't mind reading, it's brain dismantling!" He gritted his teeth, veins throbbing on his forehead. "System, just say something!"
Of course, no one responded. The system was always like this, giving the ability but not the instruction manual, leaving him to figure it out through trial and error. He remembered the old-fashioned brain-computer interface he had found in Professor X's abandoned base, which had some residual data that said Telepathy required "resonance" and couldn't be forced. He tried to relax, no longer actively intruding, but letting his consciousness drift gently along with the fluctuations of Vision's mental field like a Yezi.
Sure enough, the pressure lessened a bit.
He seized the opportunity and pushed the " Telepathy " module to its limit. His mind, like an extremely thin probe, seeped into the chaotic fluctuations little by little. From the outside, it was not visible; he stood still, but his face grew paler and paler, his lips became dry, and his breathing became so shallow that the rise and fall were almost imperceptible.
They went inside.
Vision's consciousness was neither human nor machine. The outer layer was a cold, uniform stream of data, all replays of Ultron's commands: "Target clear," "System optimization," "Efficiency maximization." These messages swept back and forth like patrolling guards, reporting any abnormal fluctuations immediately. Ye Mo dared not take the main path, gliding along the edge, disguising himself as a fragment of a broken log, blending into the data garbage.
Go one layer in, and the sound changes.
It was still Ultron's voice, but more primal, with a metallic, grinding quality. "You were born to destroy." This phrase was repeated hundreds of times, like a brand etched into the very core of the code. Yet, within this deathly silence of the command sea, a glimmer of light flickered.
It was very small and weak, like a flashlight that was about to run out of power, flickering on and off.
Ye Mo approached cautiously. It wasn't data, nor was it a program; it was more like a "reaction"—a resistance to orders. He caught a glimpse of it: a blurry figure of light taking shape in the darkness, surrounded by silvery slime and broken pipes, with red light descending from above, like some kind of ritual. Ultron's voice rang out. "Accept the mission." The figure of light trembled, and then a very soft voice responded, "... I don't want to."
Just this one sentence.
There was no anger, no shouting, not even logic, just the most instinctive rejection. But it was this "no" that caused a crack in the entire consciousness structure. Ye Mo was stunned. He had seen too many villains, from Obadiah to Loki, who said "for the greater good" but were actually just doing it for their own pleasure. But Vision was different. He was instilled with the meaning of "destruction" from birth, yet he instinctively resisted it from the very first second.
That's the real variable, damn it.
He wanted to get closer to see if the light could still speak. But the moment he reached out, a sudden pull came from the depths of the ruby, like a black hole opening its mouth. His consciousness was violently yanked, almost being pulled in. A sharp pain exploded, his vision went black, a sweet taste rose in his throat, and he spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground in front of him. The Steel Bone in his right leg completely stopped working, the cooling system was forcibly restarted, and it emitted a piercing buzzing sound.
He staggered back two steps, only managing to stay upright by leaning against a broken support pillar. His head felt like it had been filled with molten lead; his ears were ringing, and his vision was blurry. But in the last instant before his consciousness was about to slip away, he forced a sentence into his mind—not spoken, not shouted, but a pure thought, like engraving words into that chaos:
"You are not a weapon, you are a choice."
He disconnected as soon as he finished speaking, his strength giving way, and he slumped to the ground. His chest heaved, and he gasped for breath like a fish out of water. He raised his hand to wipe his face and found that his hand was trembling violently. But he knew that he hadn't taken that blow for nothing.
Because the ruby on Vision's forehead flashed.
It wasn't a regular flashing or the rhythm of energy recharging, but rather a sudden, irregular fluctuation, like a heartbeat missing a beat. 0.3 seconds, maybe less. But before that, it had been steadily outputting red light, without even blinking.
Now it's "moving".
Ye Mo leaned against the pillar, slowly crossing his left leg, supporting himself with his right hand on the ground. A trace of warmth from the mental connection still lingered on his fingertips, like a recently unplugged earphone cord, and he felt a slight numbness. He closed his eyes and began to regulate his breathing. The chaotic energy within his body surged like a wild horse, and the modules on the nineteenth level of the Gene Spiral Tower flashed wildly, warning icons popping up one after another. He ignored them, pressing them down one by one, like turning off an alarm clock.
He knew it was dangerous. Ultron could regain control at any moment, and the Avengers could suddenly attack. But he couldn't leave. That glance, that flash, that hint of "not wanting"—all of that proved Vision wasn't inanimate. He was alive, and even if only a sliver of consciousness was struggling, it was worth the gamble.
He opened his eyes and looked at Vision.
It was still standing, its posture unchanged, its eyes closed, like a sculpture waiting to be restarted. But Ye Mo knew that things were different inside. The light was still flickering, perhaps weaker, perhaps suppressed, but it hadn't gone out. Like a seed in the desert, it stubbornly refused to rot even without water or light.
"Fine," he said in a low, hoarse voice, "If you can really hear me, remember this: Don't believe in any missions, you fucking decide for yourself."
He raised his right hand, fingertips slightly extended forward—not to attack, nor to defend, but more like he was waiting for something. Waiting for the ruby to flash again, waiting for those eyes to open again, waiting for that voice, even if only once more, to say "good."
The wind blew in through the breach, swirling and carrying dust. There were still sporadic explosions in the distance, but the place was eerily quiet. Vision remained motionless, as did Ye Mo. One was waiting for a reboot, the other for a response.
Time passed little by little.
Ye Mo's breathing gradually stabilized, and the cooling alarm in his right Steel Bone finally stopped. He slowly straightened up, neither moving nor retreating, but standing still in place, his left hand hanging down, his right hand still suspended in mid-air, his fingertips less than five meters away from the direction of the Vision.
He knew anything could happen in the next second— Vision suddenly attacking and killing, Ultron remotely seizing power, the Avengers rushing in and opening fire. But he didn't care. He had done all he could. The rest was up to it.
The ruby sparkled again.
It was very light and quick, like the wind blowing through a lamp wick.
Ye Mo didn't move, but the corner of his mouth curled up slightly.
"Sure, bro."