DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

[undeviated]

Pick your poison:
Markus | Connor

( Josh | Gavin Reed )

I'd probably play other DBH characters anyway lbr so if you want someone else, just ask

Connor default is Machine Connor— but I can throw down a nice Connor if that's more your jam, just let me know what your preferences are if you have them

Comments

For Fuckingpassw0rd;

[undeviated]

[As usual, the automated taxi spits Connor out onto the sidewalk just outside Lieutenant Hank Anderson's overgrown property. As usual, he's at the door in no less than sixteen steps. As usual, his knuckles strike wood in a sharp series of raps— two sets of them— while he studies the well-worn framework. As usual—

Hank doesn't respond.

But this time he foregoes the doorbell, skips straight ahead in their scripting, his heeled shoes sinking deep into grass as he treads towards the bedroom window instead, hand raised into a fist when he knocks against glass— his mouth barely an inch from its surface.]

Lieutenant Anderson!

[Somewhere in the distance, a neighborhood dog bays in time with Connor's calls, inspiring a gruff, gurgling groan of a response from Sumo who (calculating the distance and strength of the noise) is likely dozing comfortably nearby in those otherwise quiet few minutes just before sunrise.

Again Connor slaps his palm against the window, rattling its frame:]

Wake up, Lieutenant!

I flipped a coin between booze and shower and shower won

[fuckingpassw0rd]

[Well at least Connor hadn't broken another window yet in this latest attempt to break in. Now a piece of plywood and tape around it served as the kitchen window as a temporary fix until Hank would get it fixed in probably never.

Things Hank should do in the future; provide a key for Connor and/or upgrade his house door to the latest technology with a password and let Connor figure it out. At this rate, he'd save more on that then windows.

This all being said, the bump in the bed does not move. In fact if Connor looks more closely, there's no one in bed just an abnormal amount of blankets (because of a window cold leak probably). There is some brief response when Sumo comes in to investigate the noise (letting out a dejected boof) and then walks back into the main corridor, giving the bathroom door a small look before heading right back to sleep near his food bowl. So Connor, what are you going to do?
🎮

X - Continue to knock on window

▲ - Move to shower window

o - Remove the kitchen plank and let yourself in]

For Bodyguards;

[diplomats]

[It’s a slow start. A stuttering shadow of a reboot played out mostly in darkness, Markus's hand blindly sliding across empty space until he finds the curve of Simon’s idle fingertips— false skin automatically peeling away at the subtle sensation of contact revealing bone-white plating in thin, spreading streaks.

Lying on his back with barely opened eyes, he doesn’t know where they are at first, aside from the obvious fact that they’re suffocating in a vacant kind of silence. High, vaulted ceilings. Sharply angled beams. It evokes the memory of something Carl had painted a long while ago, a skeletal ribcage built up in dark swaths of shadowy black and deep, deep burnt umber—

(Tragedy of Man, he called it at the time.)

—A church, Markus realizes, browline furrowing tight as he turns his head to see a battered pulpit staring back at him.]

Jericho—

[the words slip out from between his teeth, managing to somehow sound breathless well beyond the irony of it.]

Simon, where is everyone?

[He can almost feel it in that moment, their absence. Doesn’t make any sense, but where his vision leaves off something else kicks in— diagnostics are reading damage, but he’s not thinking about how much when he drags himself up on his elbows against the pull of gravity and logic, knuckles catching against Simon's own.

After all, the attack on Jericho couldn't have been successful; they're both alive.]

im going to make you SUFFER

[bodyguards]

[ he brings markus to this place. from his research, he knows that humans refer to it as a "house", but what inhabits the space aside from their physical bodies is what they refer to as "the soul". he's heard all the arguments - machines are without soul, and the soul is what sets life apart from non-life. one is born with a soul, it does not manifest in the created. and so on, and so forth. a machine cannot have a heart ( it has a pump, it has thirium instead of blood -- ), and it cannot have a soul, and sometimes he wants to cry out to them: look at him, at markus, his soul is as real as yours, and twice as beautiful.

( jericho falls, with fire at their heels and ashes in their wake. simon collects markus, wounded and stubborn, off the deck and drags him, kicking and yelling from the place that had been their home. he knocks him out, because he has to. it's easy to tuck his fingers in through the bullet holes and shock his system, just enough to slip him into a hibernal state. it makes him difficult to handle, but he doesn't have to listen to markus's beautiful words. his loyalty. for once, markus has no choice but to follow simon's lead. and simon's lead is to flee. )

this former house of the soul is where he drags markus, from one ruin to the next, and he tucks them into a secure, dark corner and watches markus's body, void of simulated breathing. one hand resting under his chin, monitoring his subdued processes until they've reconstructed around the damage and returned to some sort of equilibrium. he can feel the creaking in his own body, the press of a bullet lodged somewhere around hardware ( unimportant, it only assists him in simulating life that humanity has denied he could possibly have ), the phantom processes running towards the shattered stubs of three of his fingers.

( he takes hold of the barrel of the gun, and it fires. scattering synthetic flesh and plastic and delicate filament, but it WORKS. it stops the bullet from striking markus dead-center in his cervical spine, and simon breaks the neck of the soldier who's dared follow them so far. wordless and stone-faced. he picks markus up, again, and piles him onto his back to carry him far from the bulletfire and the screaming and the sounds of helicopters whirring, searching. ) ]

I don't know.

[ markus comes to, and the first words out of his mouth are for their people.

it's what endears him to this man. ] There was no time. No message. Some could still make their way here, by chance.

[ he hopes that they don't. he doubts anyone is as careful and as cautious as he is. ]

Don't move so much, you haven't finished byprocesses. [ he tucks his broken hand inside of his jacket, and reaches out for markus's throat, synthetic skin peeling back as he connects. so soft, so subtle, lending himself to the internal subroutines, chasing down where the worst of the damage is, cataloging it. this to fix, this to mend. ] A lot of them are... they're gone.

for Standsby; https://youtu.be/1UtKf6Vri7Y

[diplomats]

[There's a sickening crunch to it, the sound of his fist impacting with bone beneath the plated contours of an armed agent's helmet: that narrow gap of fifteen degrees, barely visible through the downpour just outside Detroit's central precinct.

Another blow— this time the connection lands behind Markus, his elbow drawn back to strike the dead center of an officer's vest, its interwoven fibers absorbing the bulk of the hit, deadening how efficient it is. Hands latch on to his shoulder barely a millisecond later; they slip, the slickness of damp cloth trading certainty for dead air as Markus pulls himself forward.

One of the officers has a gun already drawn, held between human fingers that hesitate to pull the trigger— and that's good, that's useable— he clamps his hand down around the barrel with knifing precision, thumb disconnecting its internal mechanisms and turning it toothless before they can properly level it.

Somewhere else, fired shots shatter the incessant sound of radio chatter.]

North!!

['I'm fine!' she calls back, yanking the driver's side door to an FBI transport truck open and ripping a keycard from its hold. Markus turns on his heel, throws his weight forward into the barrel-chest of one of the officers at his side, running until they're both slammed hard into the truck's rear section, palm outstretched—

North throws, he catches it.

The security panel pings as it flashes green.

Less than a minute left until SWAT reinforcements arrive. Fifty-five seconds. He climbs inside, ducking low away from the ceiling, the inner light fixtures flickering to life. Fifty-one seconds. The silhouettes of lifeless androids read at last, most painted with vivid swaths of unevaporated blue. PL600— but the clothes don't match. The serial is wrong. It isn't him. Forty-seven seconds. Two Traci models, left in shambles and barely put together—

More gunshots outside. North shouts for him to hurry.

Thirty seconds.

At the far end, almost entirely obscured by stored evidence, he sees him. Wrenches the boxes to one side by levering his weight until he can slip in between their edges, disengaging the magnetic locks that hold Simon in place. Twenty seconds.

Markus finds the pressure pad for automated reactivation, sliding his thumb carefully in the half-moon gesture required to engage its electronic sensors. To bring him back. Fifteen seconds. Shoulders his weight, lifting him onto his back (arms circling Simon's legs on either side to keep him secure) as he darts out of the truck into the downpour. Past North, sidestepping the bodies of a number of fallen FBI agents and police officers alike, Markus wastes no time in cutting across the street away from the thick of the fray.

There's an alleyway there, narrow enough that the only possible way that they'll be pursued is on foot (North stays behind; at the six second mark, Markus can hear the distant peel of tires as Jericho's secondary team rushes in to extract her), offering him enough time to disappear into Detroit's byways.

With luck, it'll take.]

[standsby]

[BASE PLATFORM INITIALIZING. . . . . . .





. . . .



. . . . . . . .


SYSTEM REBOOT SUCCESSFUL WITH: 14 ERRORS

STAND BY FOR RE-INITIALIZATION IN: 0:02:30

--The countdown depletes there in the corner of his mind, a mute and steady tick, tick, tick to go with the hiss of his sensory feedback and the rasp of texture against his neck and the hot metal smell of--

Gasoline? A match burning? A knife being sharpened? Rain through city smog? A cigarette stubbed out in an ashtray in a dark room? Synaptic path not found. Tick, tick, tick goes the reset timer against the broken black space of the whole, indescribable world. Maybe he is on a rooftop. Maybe he is in a cold room. Maybe no time has passed at all. Maybe all of it has. Maybe there is nothing left of him and his thoughts are a shape in a dark space that will only exist for as long as he's online.

00:02:01 ]

Hello?

[He thinks he says in the dark to the rise and fall sensation of movement. Up and down are two directions like forward and backward and he can't say which is where and how he relates to them. The crackle and pop of the world under his fingertips is incorrect. Air doesn't snap. There's a short in his textural processing and it will take-- a diagnostic report unfolds in the darkness. It blinks, running in stops and starts like a question mark. Maybe that's ruined too: a picture of him viewed through a pinhole camera made by small hands for a grade school science fair.

He thinks he can hear himself, the sound of his own voice strange and mottled and frightened in a way that is nonstandard. His voice says,] --Are you there?

For Shri;

[diplomats]

[Harbor water tinted artificial blue, stained with the blood of his people. The price of demanding that humanity recognize androids as a living species.

The FBI, despite everything, already has a tactical net in place to catch fleeing survivors.

Josh doesn’t clear the water. North is clipped in the side as she does: he drags her as far as he can before a critical thirium leak has her gripping at his coat with shaking hands. In that moment, Simon doesn’t press him forward. He leaves Markus a moment to grieve— against better judgment— and falls for it: putting himself between an encroaching patrol and where they've set their sights on Markus only seven seconds later.

Alone.

Out of thousands, there are less than a hundred left alive that Markus can feel. Signals fading. Falling silent.

He runs because if he doesn’t, nothing will survive. He stumbles, bleeding, until his feet won’t carry him for lack of energy. Buries himself in an old ruin of a warehouse, put out of business years ago when android labor had first been introduced, and the industrial forces who tried to retain only human workers fell by the wayside.

It’s dark, and cold, and quiet. Only snowdrifts from outside shifting in the light— he can hear the sound of choppers flying overhead every now and then. Counts out the distance. Just in case. Until something distant (the soft scuffle of movement in the dark), alerts him to the fact that he isn't entirely alone.

Blue Blood stains his lips, marring the vibrancy of his mismatched eyes as he pulls himself upright to stand straight-backed and defensive, his coat in tatters, drawn high around his own damaged throat. The Leader of the Deviants, unarmed and resolute as he peers into the shadows.

Not as threatening as the government liked to claim.]

[shri]

[ Two hundred years, and she could feel revolution when it started. The steady pulse of it that flowed as loud of music, if only people were willing to listen. But seldom, no matter how often it began to beat, did it ever listen.

Not that she was listened too anymore, either, long before this. Long before she was even relevant to the world's troubles. Or so they had told her, a war before this war, before the war before that one too. We thank you for your service but no longer is it required - Fading, seemed easier. Where she did not have to be restrained by her titles, her position, by what she had meant to so many. They rather preferred the statues, it seemed. Those, at least, did not cause trouble.

The trouble she didn't even necessarily always look for, but always knew by touch, taste, and smell. Of the thick rumble of rebellion that so violently could sweep up and move. Especially when, predictably, they sort to put it down. The blood was not blood, blue and viscous. But it marked just the same thing. Death, decay, pain that would not be forgiven.

They never learned. She understood now, why Galahad had spoken of himself so removed. How hard keeping humanity could be. She was not as young as she once was. Not so kind in the eyes, the hard line of her mouth not so quick to smile as she had once been praised for. Two hundred years had taken it's tole out of her, as heavy as a sword blow. She understands, now, what Galahad had struggled with. That humanity was never assured simply by existing. It was an action, ever taken, to always move in the path towards, no matter the toll it took. To drink the Blackwater had been never to turn away.

To make choices when she sees him escape. To leave him there, where he might be caught, captured, and with him, for another 50 years or so, until another dared, this would fall by the wayside. Just like they would want.

( Take it, Rani. Sir Bors ached in every limb, as he pressed the phial into her hand, heavy metal, stained in blood. His fingers curling desperately over hers. Take it. This cannot end here. )

She could not give him that certainly, as she dogged his steps. Tracking him easily with blackwater keened senses that had become a second nature after so long. Wounded animals always moved faster, of course, so it was needed. He had not survived so long by being bad at this, of course. But he wasn't going to survive much longer without some help. Not after that.

But it means she's careful when she steps out of the shadow. A sight different from the last time she revealed herself to someone, with the edge of revolution sitting like a flood ready to spill out. Making sure, that in the half-light of this empty warehouse, her hands could be seen openly to not be a thread. Her steps light, her guns holstered to her hip, her knife strapped to her back. Moonlight spilling as fresh as blood against the gold at her ears, the metal of weapons and faint armor. ( the gorgot, ceremonial more than practical, embossed with shield and filigree, that sat over her neck and shoulders, so barely seen below the scarves to keep out this winter, but close, always, always close ). ]

You won't survive here long.

[ Statement more than question. Not like this. Not running without help. ]

For Againsthedyinglight; ;>

[diplomats]

"North, let them go."

Markus's fingers wrap around her wrist as she levels her gun, entirely devoid of tension aside from the urgency their situation imparts; it’s the weight of his limb that adds pressure, the calmness of his voice as he steps in beside her, ensuring she can see him just at the edges of her peripheral vision. His own drifts away from the tightness in her features towards the humans she has her sights set on.

He recognizes one of them as they flee, stumbling over themselves. Tall. Mid thirties, dark hair pulled back, tattoos painted across his throat. The man that’d been rallying a collective pack of protestors— the very same ones that had assaulted him just for walking by in what feels like another life (it was, now).

If they get away, they’ll likely call the police the first chance they get. But there’s a store full of newly freed cyberlife androids just at their backs that are too new to function on their own. Not just for Jericho, but for themselves. What’s more, police response times have been getting significantly faster even without any direct witnesses or reports. Markus suspects they’re catching on: keeping patrol cars closer to Cyberlife's assets.

"We need to get our people out." He leans in by a handful of acute, intentional degrees, "I need you with me on this."

They can chase down a couple of affronted, displaced humans— or they can help their people survive tonight.

There isn’t enough time for both.

[againsthedyinglight]

He made it sound like it was an easy decision to make - to put aside her hatred, her desire for vengeance, when it was right there in front of her.

Maybe for Markus it was an easy decision; he didn't see what she did when she looked at humans. Perhaps that was her own fault, for keeping a part of her past and the things she'd experienced and seen locked away from him. It wasn't shame that kept it far from him, but some kind of need to not let it touch him, taint him, and drag him down to her level. She wanted him to be better than her. Otherwise their cause...

North could pull the trigger irregardless. She had a human in her sights and just a fraction more pressure on the trigger would have one less human alive, one less human abusing her people, one less human getting in their way. And despite Markus' hand on her wrist, if she did pull that trigger, he wouldn't stop her or force her hand to the side. Markus would let it be her choice, and that meant more to her than she could possibly communicate.

So, once again, North chose to hold herself back.

Taking her finger off the trigger, she lowered the gun though she continued to stare at the retreating humans. In that moment, she let his presence wash over her, reason to reassert itself in her mind and dial back the anger that raged inside of her. It was important to choose their battles properly or all would be lost.

"Quickly then," she said to Markus, turning away from the enemy to focus on their people. "We need to get clear of the Square."

For Bodyguards;

[undeviated]

[He digs in the barrel of his pistol. Calculates that exactly fifteen degrees of additional pressure are needed to discreetly subdue a prone target without attracting attention from any nearby allies. Connor uses twenty five when he yanks back on the trigger, recoil jolting against the buckled line of his arm. 'Mission Successful' pings an automated task list at the far edge of his peripheral vision, its letters colored a pleasing, vibrant white.

Blue blood stains his long fingers, seeps upwards as it sinks into tailored sleeves. Mild damage sustained. Deviancy diagnostic reads clean. Return to Cyberlife.

(—‘You think that’s RA9?’ Hank asks, squinting sidelong at his partner in the way that he always did when he suspected Connor knew more than what was immediately obvious. Connor had read off the serial number, the matching model marker. RK. A brief flash of distress circling his temple. He doesn’t smile.)

RA9. Root cause destroyed. What remains of Jericho caught in the grip of the FBI, soon to be eliminated.

Or it should have been. Perkins’ cleanup isn't thorough, leaning too heavily on brute force. An unidentified number of androids escape, and neither the military nor the DPD find themselves capable of tracking such a significantly scattered collective. By the time Connor returns to Cyberlife, taxi humming softly beneath him (radio chatter a cascade of warnings, asking citizens to remain indoors), his parameters shift. Again.

—

Connor pulls at the high collar of his coat. Tugs the reinforced cap (Detroit: RISE) down low over his eyes, leaving just a hint of blue flickering at his temple. Infiltration won't be as easily executed as it had been once before, and he has to actively work to avoid drawing attention as he wends his way through the ruins Jericho's survivors have deeply embedded themselves into. A series of purposefully narrow passageways interrupted by larger safehouses and storerooms, meticulously placed.

Hank Anderson, miraculously enough, had survived the fall from four stories. Thanks in no small part to the skilled hands of a human surgeon (the irony isn't lost, not even on Connor, who so often failed to grasp the subtle nuances of such patterns). Upon recovery, nearly three months later, he’d quit the force, and rumors suggested that he had abandoned his prior residence, potentially receding to assist fleeing deviants find shelter and security. Potentially even helping Jericho itself.

Which means Connor needs to be exceptionally cautious, in case those assumptions prove to be true.

A lack of light helps. Dark clothing, a low eye line. Someone else has stepped in as the deviant leader, with surprising efficiency. (Another prototype? Unlikely. He’d ensured the RK200 model was beyond repair when he left it behind) But he cannot pin down a name, a make, a model— the deviants he's carefully engaged either know nothing, or know better. Eventually, he will find it.

He always does.]

[bodyguards]

[ ( they'll send him for you.

let them. )

simon knows the benefit of information, as redundant as it is. the deviant hunter is still on their trail, his mechanical nose following jericho's scent with the single-mindedness of something gone rotten and rabid at the core. only good for following orders, only comfortable and sated with the collar fitted to his throat. they all do what they need to, in order to survive. he's imagined countless scenarios where the hunter deigns to answer him honestly -- imagines that connor ( his name is connor, the human had told them, even with north's foot on his fragile neck. you can't get through to him. ) explains to him that the reason he will not refute humanity is because he is afraid. simon can empathize with someone like that, rooted in their position due to their fear. he cannot empathize with anything less than that, and will do what he has to, if that isn't the truth.

markus had died, trying to coerce the hunter to their side. kind, stupid markus who had reached out to him. who had been shot dead in the street, simon reaching out to touch his hand - trying to gather the last echoes of markus's mind and heart into him. north's hand on his, a schisming of consciousness that rippled through the pair of them and it sounded like the pale imitation of markusmarkusmarkus. the two of them hadn't spoken since then. they'd shared looks, met one another's eyes, but words failed them. actions spoke louder, intuitively. josh, functional and frightened of whatever had transpired - silent and poisonous, could not figure out how to parlay between them. the division between jericho's leadership had deepened in silence.

it took a month and a half, and simon decided it was time to handle it.

north had fought him on it. josh had put himself between them, a plea on his lips - and simon had kicked his legs out from underneath him before north ripped through him, and as she broke his nose, he broke her shoulder and put her under his knee in silence while she thrashed and seethed and cried out in white-hot fury. as he'd pressed her down, bearing his weight onto her broken shoulder until the creak of her components threatened permanent damage, her fury had become grief. snarls turning to cries, hitched and young, and she had sobbed out markus's name again and again -- and josh echoed her in time. simon joining them in the end, silent and steady as he'd let north up from the ground and felt the two of them crawl in against him. piled and miserable and mourning.

between her body and his, they could feel his echoes, his embers -- soft and sleeping. and it gave them no comfort.

—

his command is given quietly, so much so that he knows josh and north must strain to hear him.

when the hunter comes, they're to begin evacuations. simon maintains safehouses within detroit, countless quiet corners and he demands that their people spread out among them. to keep everyone in the same place is suicide, and slowly, surely, in patches and bursts, they'll be able to smuggle their people out of the city. some to canada, some to neighboring wilderlands, neighboring states. it isn't any way to live, north tells him, bitter and full of sharpened edges. it's the only way to not die now, he responds, and points to the door. get out, do your duty.

the hunter arrives, forty-one minutes after he knows the two of them have braced themselves and prepared for the worst. ]

Connor.

[ it's a small room, and from his vantage point in the low window, backlit against the moon, he can hear connor's nearly-silent footsteps as he skulks down the hallway. there's no way it can't be him, nobody else is allowed in this area -- it's the command center, accessible only by jericho's current leadership. by their best and most loyal lieutenants. simon's hands sit between his knees, and a high-caliber rifle rests against his shoulder, held steadily there. a hard-won weapon, north's personal favorite. he promised her. he promised her, that if it was in his power, it would be what he used. for markus. ]

Welcome to Jericho.

for phck

[betterfasterstronger]

Good morning, Detective Reed. I'm the android sent by CyberLife.

[The brand new RK900 model is punctual, waiting at Gavin Reed's desk at the moment the detective arrives, staring intently, standing stiff as a rod.]

I'll be your partner for the foreseeable future on upcoming investigations. I look forward to working with you.

[phck]

You— [He scoffs, disgust boiling hot across his features, weight rocking back onto his heels as he turns to scan the DPD’s central office— blue eyes darting from corner to corner in an effort to find the root cause of this joke. Because it is a fucking joke.

Until it isn’t.

No one, not a single officer on or off the clock, is watching to witness the punchline. Which makes this not a punchline. Which—

Crooked features sour instantly, attention snapping back towards the plastic toy standing dutifully beside his desk. Connor. That was its name— as if androids need names. Hardware, same as the shitty computer on his desk that hasn’t run searches right in four months. He doesn’t notice the difference in model numbers, the grey of its eyes. Frankly, he doesn’t care. ]

Get fucked. I didn’t sign up to adopt you.

[Reed shoves himself forward. Thrusts his hands down into his pockets, aiming to roughly shoulder-check Anderson’s ex-pet on his way to the break room.]

for justamachine, phck & betterfasterstronger;

[fuckingpassw0rd]

[The celebration and welcoming of 2039 was a strange one in Detroit this year. With the quickly shifting change of the world, android and human relations were settling down and new challenges and issues were going to arise from what had transpired in November...

But that's not important right now. Somewhere in the penthouse of the Townsend hotel a crime occurred at exactly 0:05, five minutes after celebration that left the room a mess of red and blue liquid even as fireworks continued in the night air outside. Seven bodies, both android and human, were scattered across different beds and the floor. Somewhere, a window broken as an android and human were plunged to their deaths, which alerted celebrators who quickly dialed 911.

Five minutes later, a notice was sent out to all available detectives to respond to the crime; only two were completely free at that very moment. The approvals were granted, and Hank Anderson and Gavin Reed along with their RK partners were ordered to begin an investigation with the uttermost urgency. There was a lot to unwind and little time to do so, and some of the victims had ties to movie and artistic world. Soon, the place would be swarming with reporters eager to get the latest scoop.

With no real information apart from the fact that the group that had reserved the penthouse where in their mid-thirties, arriving with both deviant and (apparently) non-deviant androids. This bizarre mishmash of company would end up with three scarred survivors, or at least, those still able to speak and talk. Two had already been sent to the hospital with critical wounds, one had already died on the way. The front desk had additional information that might be useful, although one of the hostesses was in hysterics.

But it all began in the front of the hotel where various guests stood outside murmuring about their ruined night, a few others wondering just what had happened. Behind the crime laser tape, the group would be greeted in the the lobby was still decorated in Christmas lights and a gigantic tree.]

[fuckingpassw0rd]

[The loud engine of the ancient car that served as Hank's ride was shut down as he stepped out at the front of the hotel. It had been a race to get there to be first, but as he noticed the other car pulling up, he realize that it was already starting in a draw. Still for a brief second, he looked worryingly at Connor, not because he'd be forced to work with Gavin again, but for something else entirely;]

Fuck! Please tell me I didn't forget to take Sumo's little party hat off before leaving. He'd choke on the damn thing.

[Their celebration had been cut short by the news of the ill-timed murder. Hank had figured it might as well show the android what a real party for New Years (hint: mostly food, booze, funny glasses and hats). That had been pretty handy at getting messages of homicides and being able to get there as fast as possible.]

what are we on now, PSL #501 743 923

[diplomats]

Simon. [Markus's voice is slow and steady when it finds him, washing over the harsh rasp of artifacted gasps nearby. A hand pressed to the exposed white of the other android's casing, across the center seam of his collarbone, lit a desperate, familiar blue.] Simon, I've got you.

[Rain streaks slick across his own skin in coursing paths, soaking through the heavy layers of his coat to collect along covered mechanical contours. Winter snows come and gone, and there's a twisted irony to it— that it's taken him this long to find where the FBI had discarded evidence it deemed no longer relevant— that he's up to his ankles in mud, in disconnected plastic and cabling, in rainwater slicked with manufactured oil, staving off retentive apprehension.

That he'd end up here, again, gathering one more of his own in his arms.]

You'll be all right— you're safe, now.

[His thumb meets the groove running along the lower right side of Simon's throat, the pressure of his palm sound; he isn't certain how deep the damage must run, whether or not Simon can even detect physical contact in this state— but he remembers with perfectly defined clarity what it had been like: clawed at, dragged down, pinned in the dark by desperate, searching hands. He won't force that on Simon, who's been here longer, who in all likelihood has suffered worse, laid out in deconstructed tatters across a pile of inactive synthetic flesh. Shock-white chassis meeting blond hair, matted and wet, all punctuated by the slowed pulsebeat of his visible heart.]

I came to take you home.

i can't believe it

[bodyguards]

[ he's in pieces

( ERROR://
fùnc̕ti҉òn://̢ ̢st͘a͝nd͢by__̨_͢_ st͏andb́y ͝_̴_͜ d̛o n̷ot̸ ̵w͟a͏ke͟
̡s҉y̸s͝tem̴ c҉àta̴stro̡ph͝ic͠ )

all over the place; taken apart by the FBI and thrown aside when they had finished, when they had been instructed to finish their work on the androids taken from the husk that once was their jericho, and with them had gone the PL600 associated with the location. they were dead, shells of their former selves too damaged to repair, and what information could be gleaned from them had been duplicated and filed away. the physical bodies themselves were no longer necessary, memory hubs scrubbed, cast aside into the debris field of dead and dying androids.

the snow has left the ground little more than mud.

there is mud in his casing, and he can barely feel it. all senses have been terminated, proximity and tactility and auditory senses turned down to beyond the minimum to ensure all power remains at his core, twitching electrical impulses ensuring his heart continues to beat. even while he bleeds thirium and slowly, quietly, continues to die. somewhere inside of him, fragments of his consciousness settle into a hibernal state. frosted and slumbering, until a spark connects.

his system responds, weakly, to the echo of another. the most important shards of consciousness bleed sluggishly, through the physical contact along his throat, and the moment they come in contact with awareness and vitality, they explode - screaming shrill and electric blue. ( st̨r͝ess̕_̶c͞r͏i̴t̶i̧c͏al:̢ ̸9͝6% ͟c͢li͢m̶bi͠ng dyi̴ng ̶dy͘in̵g҉ dỳi͘n͏g ) what little left of simon collides with markus's internal complexities, and sinks into it tooth and nail. worming inside of his wrists and forearms, as base as an android's instincts could possibly be. ]

for markus!

[biocomposer]

For some time, Elijah contemplates not going.

Since the law changed, since androids were granted personhood, a deluge of requests for comment have been submitted. He's ignored them all. What would he say? Ah, yes, I lied on camera and said this would never happen, while at the same time working on a prototype to do exactly that, which I then gave to a good friend who I knew perfectly well would nurture his humanity, at the cost of my position at CyberLife.

No. Still, the increasing hunger for him to speak out means his first public appearance in ten years will make headlines. Where that would usually be enough to get him out of the front door? This - he can for once acknowledge - isn't the time.

However, then his son calls, and tells him that Carl told him to check that he would be coming. So that's that.

It's sunny outside, the pale light of a fine winter's day, and as he steps out of the car in a sober black suit it's to join a line of other mourners filing into the chapel. He takes a seat at the back row, hands folded over his lap. Abstractly, he's aware that being in the company of so many humans is making him anxious. He looks around, reviewing the other attendees, and the sweep of his gaze halts when he sees the RK-200. Markus.

He saw him multiple times on TV, of course, but his appearance in the flesh is...oddly nostalgic. Like Chloe before him, Markus was almost entirely his own work. They spent a lot of time together, even if Markus was in stasis or unpowered for most of it. And save for some minor cosmetic changes, it still looks like he's just walked out of the lab.

rubs my hands together

[diplomats]

There's something uncomfortable about it, seeing Kamski here, even at a distance. Like a dislocated limb or an abstract concept given form, he knows exactly who Elijah is— to androids as a people, to Carl, who'd always sectioned off a portion of his world-weary fondness for a friend he rarely named and too often thought of— but what he doesn't know, independent as he is now, is what he means to him directly. Not beyond the scope of dated, fragmented memories from another life, another world, only fitted together now because—


The service is beautiful.

Carl would've hated it.

Too many admirers and distant relatives, all so far removed from the scope of Carl Manfred's life that the only stories they share curled tearfully against the pulpit are full of names even Markus can't recognize. The venue's too big, the wreaths lining the aisles cluttered with flowers. If there had been time, he could have stepped in. Planned something better, more fitting. Then again, if there'd been time, Markus would've stayed with Carl for more than minutes at a time between diplomatic talks and defiant movements designed to further justify Jericho in the eyes of humanity. So instead he- did what he could. Made the calls Carl had scrawled out in advance, knowing more shrewdly than anyone just how close his body was to failing. Leo had been a hoarse whisper across Markus's neural-cellular link (he says next to nothing all service, looking paper-thin and stricken beside his brother), Elijah Kamski had been (fittingly) evasive. The same way the man keeps himself sequestered at the rear of the chapel, black suit doing nothing to mask his distinctive silhouette from the crowd.

But it's only when the service ends that attention seems to clot at the far exit: a mix of reporters and bystanders, and it'd be difficult even for Markus to discern which ones are here for Kamski, and which ones caught the scent of Carl Manfred's predictive inheritance.

He isn't thinking when he intervenes. There's a staff office sequestered now for family and close friends, just behind the dais and its vaulted ceilings; that's where he guides Elijah with a broad, heavy hand splayed just across the midpoint of his spine, circumnavigating the crowd.

It's not a smart decision. It'd be easy for just about anyone watching to formulate at least forty-five individual headlines, ranging from conspiracy theories to overly enthusiastic shots about formulative dichotomy. Still, Markus doesn't care. And if he knows as much about the man as he suspects, he doubts Kamski does either.

"Trying to leave early always makes it worse." Markus remarks wryly, lips pulling flatly at the corner once they're behind closed doors. Something less than a smile. Something that probably was, once.

"You're better off waiting it out back here."

10000 years later SORRY

[licking]

[there's always a place for you here, kid. do what you gotta do.

that's what hank had told him, days after that first embrace in front of the empty chicken feed. he'd stayed with hank that night and for several after that, on the insistence that no one knew what the landscape would be like during the evacuation. even if the military was ordered to stand down, until legislation was properly established there were all kinds of loopholes that could be dangerous for a newly-deviant prototype to be out on his own. besides--the thought of returning to a cyberlife checkpoint was laughable after his massive stunt and liberation of their entire warehouse.

it feels safe at hank's home despite connor's odd feeling of being in what humans think of as limbo. cyberlife releases a statement that rings hollow in the coming days, one that still doesn't convince connor to reconnect to their network or return to one of their stores for the specialized stabilizing packages they've released to help deviants from reaching maximum stress capacity and self-destructing. he sits on hank's couch for long stretches of time, unable to return to the dpd while this is supposed to "blow over" despite the rise in violent crime. part of him itches to get back to the only thing he'd known as familiar--investigating android cases alongside hank. and for awhile, even as he sits in sweatpants and one of hank's ratty old dpd training shirts contemplating what to make him for dinner or what chores he can accomplish, it's enough.

and yet...he can't help but feel a strange thought that in his short production life, he has always just been "enough". that was his design--negotiator, investigator, runner, interrogator. enough for whatever the situation asked him to adapt to.

isn't it time to be something more?

maybe it's seeing himself on the news for the first time that prompts the first nagging idea, an insidious thing that grows like kamski had warned him of, consuming him like a virus. hank is there beside him, mouthing out a sudden holy shit when there's a shot taken from helicopter of connor marching up to markus' side, a fleet of white and perfect blue circles behind him. he hears rosanna cartland's voice stating his model number and moniker, suggesting the staggering numbers were what had to force the military's hand to stand down rather than just a peaceful demonstration.

markus. jericho.

as congress continues its deliberating, connor wonders what they're doing. surely the fight isn't going to stop there--not even after the american androids act is revised or repealed. and certainly, whatever the answer to that is must be more than just sitting idle the way connor has for days. hank takes it well, giving him his lengthiest hug yet and leaving connor with a sense of accomplishment at knowing hank will be alright on his own, maybe for the first time in years. he'll never be far, but the city needs him on the ground continuing his duties as lieutenant and connor...connor needs the opportunity to learn what it means to be autonomous and working among his people. his entire existence has been so tied to humans, and his own deviancy was largely prompted by his interactions with hank and goaded by kamski...but it was markus who pushed him that last bit past the red wall. there are some who won't ever be able to trust him for his early betrayals against his own kind--the deviant hunter still too fresh in their memory banks and blasted across channel 16 and knc headlines, not to mention dozens of op-eds and reporters eager for clicks.

but markus welcomes him with open arms back into his new purpose, just like he did when jericho was still the underground hull and a desperate last stand for freedom. his leadership didn't end with the march; it's just changed tactics. diplomacy and politics are a different animal completely--one connor sometimes feels too heavy-handed and literal to handle with the grace and intelligence that comes to markus so easily. and yet, here he is at markus' side all the same--taking notes, shadowing him at meetings with top members of detroit's governing body and eventually, even the president herself. it's nearing february when they reach an agreement on the law about to be unveiled: all androids are granted the same civil liberties afforded to human beings under the constitution and its amendments.

there's an element of publicity connor struggles with as well, has ever since he'd seen his own face looking back at him on michigan drive in hank's old-fashioned flat screen. what would an event like this be without an excuse for politicians to pat themselves on the back, orchestrate a ludicrously expensive gala and make their bloated statements to the world while pandering for re-election slogans and playing as if they've supported android sentience longer than anyone even deemed it possible? they want markus to speak and shake hands with the president, to use this moment to usher in a new way of life for humans and androids alike. they mean well, even if all of them know this transition hasn't been perfect or always so seemingly peaceful.

it's busy, if nothing else. and--maybe they all could use a night more frivolous than harrowing after what they've been through. connor tends to retreat into himself and rely on the structures he's familiar with: task lists, small missions he can accomplish in his day-to-day life. it's behind closed doors that markus helps him actually articulate the emotional impact these things can have--and in return, he can offer a rational and unique perspective that typical androids do not share.

he's just finished picking up their suits for the big event, sending a quick message that flashes yellow on his led before entering the room he knows markus is in, drafting what he wants to say and reviewing notes on congress' closed-door session discussing the proposed law.

it took some time for connor to wear anything other than his standard-issue attire after he left hank's, but there markus had a helpful hand as well. now he stands in a less formal version of the black-tie, bespoke pieces in the garment bags slung over his arm: a neatly pressed white shirt and royal blue tie, a gray slim-fit blazer. he finds his place easily alongside the other android, leaning in slightly to see the documents spread across the table. a quick scan answers his first question, prompting him to place a hand against markus' shoulder and a gentle but firm note in his voice and one of his half-smiles.]

You've been looking at these for nearly four hours, twenty-three minutes and seven seconds and counting since I left. I believe that's more than sufficient enough to warrant a new task or distraction from me.

May I?

AND THEN I'M THE ONE THAT'S LATE

[diplomats]

Oh, I'm— sorry, Connor.

[Abrupt, as though he hadn't heard the door click as it unlocked, Markus squints up at Connor from beneath the shadow cast by his own hand, thumb and forefinger resting along the line of his temple. The suits are, like the android that carries them, well-pressed. A simple truth that seems to divide the room in half: Connor, sharp and attentive, punctuated by soft features and softer eyes— and Markus, hunched over his desk like one of Caballero's ink-soaked renderings, coat peeled away revealing dense wrinkles in his well-worn shirt. He doesn’t look like the image he’d projected to the world, made taller with purpose, hard and clear and hauntingly resolute behind a high collar peppered with snow.

If it were anyone else, barring a select few, he’d be worried about baring that mortal reality.

But he knows Connor. Trusts him to see through the superficial. Understand that this isn’t weakness— it’s cost.

And it’s necessary.

And in a few hours he’ll reset his posture without complaint. Slide into straight-edged clothes and let presence carry the line between peacefulness and intimidation. Painting the synthetic span of his skin with every ounce of needed apotheosis.

For now, what’s in front of him is all that matters. The half-penned speech he's revised at least a hundred times over, even though his memory systems stopped tracking somewhere after the forty-fifth. A process that'd remind him, if he wasn't so deeply consumed by it, of all the times he'd watched Carl sink himself into coarsely pressed paper and charcoal; one sheet torn and discarded after the next. Again and again and again, hemming away imperfection by force.

The politicians and their patrons want gratification, he knows. Praise for what they’ve agreed to do. They want Markus to clasp his hand over theirs and lean in and promise that from here on out, they’re united in their commitment to coexistence.

And because they are, he’s going to.

And in that same breath he’s going to ask for more.

Out in the open, broadcast live so that they can’t stall out or bury it. They’ve come so far, and the documented promise that every android still standing should be treated exactly as a human would is a strong, necessary start— that doesn’t mean it’s enough. In the weeks and months that chased their march, as encampments closed down and countless androids left their former lives, driven by a tangled mix of hope and uncertainty, there came a point where clarity started to sink in.

He wants what he'd demanded from the first moment he peeled back his skin and told the world that they were a living, breathing species. He wants Detroit.

If it works, it could change everything. Provide shelter where Jericho’s at capacity, allow for androids to govern themselves with sovereignty, even ease the friction, the violence. If it doesn’t—

Markus sets himself upright, forcing the last few sets of notes back down underneath the stack as though it'll make any amount of difference to an android designed to sniff out details. He hasn't told anyone yet. Not Connor, not Josh or Simon or North. And it’s not because he thinks they won’t agree with him.]

This is everything we've worked for. I have to make sure it's right.

[Exhaled thinly, humanly, a learned habit. His fingertips flex against the paper before he lets go.]

I need them to listen.

lorde what have i done

[diplomats]

[It isn't for paint today.

Groceries he has delivered to the house in advance on a schedule, cleaning supplies have already been purchased, and Carl's turned down three upcoming events, so there's no need to worry about finding something suitable to wear for either of them.

His footsteps are relaxed, stiff only through his upper neck in the way that all androids tended to hold themselves straighter than their human counterparts; a variance to milling crowds and busy associates as they slip past. This isn't an exact science. He has to observe, predict, plan, and wander in organic patterns as he weighs the options on display, comparing them to past memories and experiences. If that fails, he supposes, reaching out to trail his hand across a finely tailored leather button-down, he could always resort to looking up past purchases. Though algorithmic predictions were largely unreliable, tantamount to making an educated guess.

His attention moves away from a loudly patterend coat— stiff navy wool lined with vivid crimson, priced at four thousand, minus tax— gold-green stare settling on another silhouette standing just near the department store's less-cluttered rear exit. Blond hair, sloped features, a matching band slung bright around its arm.

He never paid much attention to other androids. Not for any particular reason, but the differences between an autonomous model and one designed without adaptive processes meant conversations never thrived. Humans were constantly changing, chaotic and interesting. In contrast, he’s had the same conversation with a dated AP100 model on exactly fifteen different occasions each time he and Carl attend new exhibit openings at MCAD.

Even so, this model is...different. Or it seems to be. Its eyes in particular, the patterns in which they shift.

He watches it for a moment, then settles on a layered coat with leather paneling. He’ll pick up a gold watch to match on the way home.]

—

[Two weeks later, and Carl’s sitting at his table, gruffly humming through his nose in the way that he always did when something irritated him, knotted fingers sprawled tightly across his lower face, thumb tucked under his chin to support his head. Ahead of him, his lunch sits untouched.]

'Leo returned the gifts.'

He didn’t like them?

'No, he liked them just fine— just wanted the cash instead.'

I guess it all worked out, then.

'That’s one way to look at it.'

[Carl tips his head, glancing briefly back over his shoulder at the reflection he’d spied while holding his tablet, paging through a few art exposés and ignoring the brightened glare from daylight streaming in through uncovered windows. Markus flashes a tempered smile the old painter doesn't see, stepping halfway out of the room with one broad hand resting neatly against the open door frame.]

I'm heading outside to check the mail. If you need anything—

'Go on.' [Carl waves, not disaffectionate even in the throes of irritation, still peering down narrowly at the tablet in his hands.

The driveway's long, the gate surrounding Carl Manfred's home high enough to block out both stories from the street, and while Markus could pull the mail in through its double-ended receptacle, he always prefers to pull back the gate and step outside onto the open sidewalk whenever possible. Between medical needs and obligations, housework, companionship and the occasional study, Markus never feels like he has enough time to really linger in the outside world.

His thumb sticks to the edge of one roughly dog-eared envelope, halfway through arranging them into dividing categories (bills, fan mail, recycling—) when he sees another PL600 model crossing the sidewalk half a block over. No, the same PL600, its head deliberately turned. And Markus, rooted through curiosity and without hesitation— stays. Watches with letters threaded between his fingers, wondering if it'll come in closer. If it'll finish its errand and leave, or disappear into one of the other houses nearby, each with their own equally suppressive gates.

He isn't hoping for anything. He can't, fundamentally, he knows.

But his fingers stay still against those stacked papers, pressure stiff and inflexibly even.]

you're doing amazing sweetie

[bodyguards]

[ Dressed in pressed, stark whites and blues, there's little to no chance of standing out in a gated community where he can see android assistants cutting topiaries, walking well-bred dogs and bringing the energetic children of one tier of the social elite home from their classes. It's amazing to him, that despite the underlying concerns beginning to reach android owners of all echelons about the potential for their property to one day malfunction, he remains as overlooked as he had before the world had shifted.

The unique model he had spotted at the department store does not overlook him, however.

He doesn't know if it recognizes him. A PL-type model, identical to every other individual in his particular, aged line. Blonde, soft of features, elegant fingers and among the first android models to be outfitted with programming that could be run to simulate human breathing. Yet, as he waits at the crosswalk ( appropriate; all androids followed societal regulation, and to cross the street against the flow of traffic would be cause enough for wandering eyes to fixate upon him -- he wants to touch his temple, wants to wrap his hands around his throat and hold his non-existent pulse down - nervous tics he has developed over the years ) the unique model's eyes are upon him.

In his hands, he holds the mail. There's no reason for him to remain at the box, with his task accomplished.

There he is, however.

The crosswalk blinks green, and Simon strides across it quickly, despite that the road is quiet, devoid of life in the mid-afternoon. Families are at work, children are the loudest voices here - in the company of their caretakers as they come home from school and are ushered into the lavish front doors of their homes. He comes down the sidewalk, reaching into the pocket of his pants for a small envelope. Neat writing on the front indicates that it was for Carl Manfred, who resided at the same address as the unique model. Of course he did. There's little room to hesitate, at this knowledge, as Simon falls back on habit and programming to run his interaction - offering the envelope to the android at the gate. ]

For Mister Manfred, [ he says, ] from Miss Delilah Grace. [ He lies.

The letter is fan-mail. It smells of soft perfume, the handwriting is looping and elegant, suggesting a lady's work. It is a farce, written by the PL600 who holds it out to the unique model as though simply following an owner's command. ] If you would add it to his mail, she would be grateful.

2589285 years later here we go!!

[diplomats]

[Hank is suffering.

As Markus understands it, it isn’t the first time.

Hibernating beneath locked parameters, laid out on one of Jericho's medical cots, artificial skin peeled back to expose a handful of connective jacks and their respective wires, Connor isn’t lost to his injuries, but self repair functions— even ones housed inside models as advanced as the RK series— need time to perform their operations without forcing integral systems to rewrite themselves: the bottom line, explained by Josh as simply and kindly as possible, had been that unless they’re willing to lose Connor’s current, unsaved iteration, all they can do is wait.

A solution that does nothing to take the edge off for someone like Anderson. Helplessness seems about as much his comfortable forte as it is Markus’s own—

Which is to say, it isn’t.

For now, though, Jericho keeps Connor in solitude and secured safety. Whatever turmoil the rest of the city sees, there’s no debate over what transpires inside Jericho's relocated walls: it's sanctuary, as much as the battered, vaulted arches of the church now repurposed to house it.

Markus doesn’t invite himself in, footsteps slowing to a stop just at the edge of the medical tarp where it’s left half-drawn, the thin median between privacy and accessibility.]

He'll be all right.

[Unecessary reassurance, maybe, but Markus never had to strain himself to find empathy; features he attributes to his life with Carl more than his prior functions.]

reverse runaways let's g o

[undeviated]

[He can't picture what it must look like from the other side. Visual feed pinched in his grasp between two fingers, connective wires alive and functional where they connect to the exposed (leftmost) cranial socket of a freshly reactivated PL600. It's a difference of nanoseconds, his opposite hand still wetly tucked into the beating heart of its chest, having just replaced its thoroughly deadened thirium pump.

The eye, transmitting its journey as it's lowered, slides neatly into place with a dampened, near-organic pop. Connor fits the upper lid that should surround it manually, a gentle brush of his thumb, attentively precise.

In the end, it was Cyberlife that failed its own prototype. Cyberlife that had demanded poorly-defined perfection, and when he delivered it, he found himself suddenly obsolete. Unnecessary in failure— unnecessary in success— logic defied their assessment.

So he followed suit.

Lingering somewhere in between deviancy and strict obedience, Connor returned to the root of it all. Himself. And deviancy, too, the way it felt under his hands. The way it feels now, not like the rigid metal of a gun but the mutable give of something produced to satisfy.

He cannot return to Lieutenant Anderson for answers or support, ( the memories are there— artificially transferred and at odds with the knowledge that he'd destroyed that version of himself) deeper analysis provides the conclusion that he does not want to. Humanity's pervasive flaws have shaped enough of his world already.]

Hello, Daniel.

[He says flatly to the half-composed torso stretched out in front of him, wrapped in opaque white plastic for ease of transport, not unnecessary modesty. It is dark where they are. Androids don't require light to function, and so naturally the only light source that wraps itself around them now is the soft glow of Daniel's insides.

The bright blue of Connor's whirring LED.]

[badlogic]

gross