It just got pressed.
The self-destruct button has been pressed.
The timer is flashing; the numbers fluttering away.
Poor old construct won’t see another day.
It looks distressed.
The blood-soaked parcel seems so distressed.
Flickers of fear sparkle across its glistening hide.
There are puddles of oil where it may have once cried.
Its time has come!
Everyone, protect yourselves! Its time has come!
The explosion will destroy its entire fucking world.
But then, I guess its world ended a long time ago anyway.
And this is just a formality. Something that occurs every six years.