The Sentry rocks on its suspension as his fist connects with the screen on its chest.
“You- bastards! How could-“
Just a recording, he thinks. Nothing listening to your insults. But a recording attached to a mobile gun platform designed to respond to threats with extreme prejudice.
So maybe stop hitting it.
On screen, his image coughs. Embarrassment? Or illness?
“I did say you wouldn't like it. I don’t think any of us liked it. But there was no other option. It was this, or the end of the world.”
He looks sick. Dying.
“Turned out it was both.”