You stumble to your feet and make your way to your apartment. You slip in and out of consciousness until you open the door. The room seems to darken with every step. Blood splatters against your laptop screen as you cough. You try to type your password in, but your fingers don't seem to work, they falter and fall heavily across the keys. When you finally get it right, your wifi goes out.
You crawl to your router and restart the modem. When it's up, you sign in and send the assignment. It makes it just in time. You pass out on the floor.
"My Dance of Healing will mend your wounds. It takes two days, though."
It is standard procedure for the White House to have a synthetic. But it sometimes malfunctions...
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