Terminator 3: Hunt

To Glitch, the world was a blur, his surroundings moving too fast, too full of debris, to resolve into coherent images.
	In his visual field, blinking red boxes announced the failure of his left arm, his right eye, of the servos that served him as left-ankle muscles would serve a human. His neck had sustained damage. A protracted effort by the T-X would now allow her to pull his head completely off, as he had done with the lowly assault robot.
	But he was still functioning—and thirty-two valuable seconds had clicked by.
The world stopped spinning. He cleared away his diagnostics boxes to give some relief to his visual analysis processes and took a split second to get his bearings.
	He was on his back on the floor again, fetched up against the wall. The RPG he had dropped was a yard from him; he would have to scoot along the wall to reach it. The T-X was six yards away and closing fast. He calculated his odds at being able to reach the RPG, aim, and fire it before she reached him at around 28 percent.
	He shoved himself toward the RPG.
	Then the world rocked. He found himself thrown up toward the ceiling. His surroundings became a confusing, spinning mass of fire and darkness, masonry and dust, and one glimpse of the T-X’s face registering a faint expression of surprise. Then new diagnostic boxes proclaiming more failures in his systems popped up, obscuring his view of reality.