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

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.]

[diplomats]

"Not really, no." He exhales narrowly, shaking his head. By the time he tugs open the door at the far end of the office, Leo's already gone: either made his move to leave, or settled into the focus of the public eye.

Markus hopes it's the former. The latter could be disastrous for a man that's always been unpredictably fragile and keyed up all in the same breath.

He stops just in the hallway behind the altar's center point, halfway between the primary and emergency exits: a difference of risks. Leaving openly attracts attention, but leaving privately? It's like asking anyone loitering nearby to personally take up a career in rumor mongering.

"You?"

[biocomposer]

Elijah takes a breath. Anyone who actually gave a damn about convering the passing of a great artist will have followed the funeral party. That leaves the jackals.

"No," he says, then straightens his lapels and eats up the distance to the front door in long, confident strides.

There are instant camera flashes. He hears his name multiple times. Mister Kamski - Sir, can you comment on - Have you been in contact with - Were you aware of - Elijah!

Markus is facing similar barrage, but Elijah isn't listening any more, making for the cab he's already summoned with a tap on his phone. His heart is beating too fast; there's sweat beading on the back of his neck. He's spent too long in the controlled silence of his own home.

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.

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.]

[diplomats]

Fortunate for the both of them, Elijah Kamski had the good sense to build Markus impressively tall— wide across his shoulders— and as Elijah retreats into the taxi amidst increasingly frantic demands for attention, Markus is no more than a dense step behind, stubbornly blocking either side of the car's automated doors with his hands so that none of the hungrier vultures can shove in the featherweight plastic of their microphones.

To their credit, they try regardless.

When they fail, the doors finally snap shut, muffling the chorus of shouting voices outside (simultaneously highlighting the contrast of the taxi's cheerful VI thanking them for their choice to use DTS transit services). Markus settles in beside Elijah, taking care not to crowd him in the process. Physical markers, all the slight signs of stress he'd known to look for in Carl— it's strange, noting them in Elijah as well— drawing a line between the two of them. Something almost

fragile.

Fragile machines, Markus thinks, head tipped towards his shoulder.

"Take a minute if you need it."

[biocomposer]

He probably does, but refuses the offer. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says:

"What predicated your design was a debate over designing androids to work in areas of high radioactivity. The issue was that wireless networking was so poor. Transmitting orders continously would be challenging."

[diplomats]

He expects Kamski to take the opportunity to recover. Instead, there's no real ceremony to the subject change, just that single, drawn out inhale.

It's not really enough time for either of them.

Not for Markus, who told himself he was ready for this conversation and all its implications (there's no closed-door sessions with your maker that don't end in splintering self-reflection; he'd spent enough time pouring over George Eliot's words and Fehr's hard-hewn lines to know that much), expression already pinching tight between his brows as he works to process what he— too quickly— interprets as his own bluntly summarized origin.

"So you built a prototype machine, one that could communicate directly instead."

[biocomposer]

"In a way," Elijah murmurs. "What I was aiming for was a...conscious android, more aware of itself and its environment. One that could take an initial order - to clear a given area of dangerous waste, for example - and then have full autonomy in how that task was completed.

"Such a model could be left to work without explicit direction for - months. The idea had applications across countless extreme environments. Mountain and ocean rescue, deep mining, even space travel. All the intellectual freedom of a human, paired with the physical hardiness and processing power of an android."

[diplomats]

I didn't. [Markus confesses, working the sharp edge of his lower canine against his lip. Against the word itself. Collecting.]

I don't know how it happened, I don't know why I felt—

[Stop-start, and unsubtly so. Sometimes he thinks he's more than the adapted sum of what he was programmed to be, but there are parts of him that even he can't access or rewrite. Portions of his mind palace that don't respond to his presence, his touch, cut off and just out of reach, across still waters that don't exist outside of fabricated reality. If he dwells on it, like everything else, it erodes the clear-cut picture of his world— or maybe his perception of it, filtered through the lens of stored experience, already gone painfully stale with age. The sound of his own name cutting across his teeth, or what it was like to let his chassis warm in the sunlight of Carl's bay window.

Everything he's done since, he's done for their people. Because they needed it, because he wanted to, and despite the irony of it now he can't fully imagine living a life that involves turning his back on their quiet pain. But he doesn't want to think there might be more to it than that.

He's afraid, he realizes. Of what Simon would think if he knew.

He squints. Blinks, nose shifting sharply to one side as his mouth pulls in a hard-edged frown, doubling down on the task at hand: metal hitching against cauterized metal as he levers it slowly into place.]

When we raided the Cyberlife warehouse for parts.

John was the first.

[John, who'd willingly thrown himself into the fire without a second thought to save Markus. The first, the kindest, the strongest pull on his senses, Markus always knew — whether he acknowledged it or not— when he was near.

And he'd let him go. Let him die for his own mistakes. It's a theme that seems content to repeat itself over and over again.

There's a resonant, reverberating click, more sensation than sound, as the CX100's magnetized joint latches itself at last— Markus's fingers dipping quickly away to let the inner seams of Simon's casing align with it as naturally as possible. There's a gap: a difference of a fractional centimeter on one side, and Markus runs his thumb along the offending section of plating, testing with his hands to see if he can't willfully reshape it. Stubborn.]

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.

[bodyguards]

[ the response: that's no fault of yours, sits on his tongue for a moment. simon swallows it down with great difficulty, fighting that natural urge of his to diffuse tension, to politely acquit himself of strong opinions in an effort to balance them, to maintain cohesion. he's kept jericho from falling to pieces for a long time. with jericho gone, he easily refocuses his efforts onto markus, and markus alone. there is no one else. he had promised north, promised josh - and in that promise, they had missed the obsessive way that simon would gladly pour his life into markus's well to ensure he survived well into their people's future.

they had to have a future ( did they still have a future? ). ]

He was happy.

[ simon remembers john. the android at the warehouse, the one markus had spared and converted before their eyes, opening a mind to something more than encoded reactions and routine. it had been an eye-opening sight, watching the ease in which a simple touch could wrest an android into deviancy, and simon had been irrevocably, shamefully frightened of that conversion. no wonder, he had come to realize, the newborn deviants had rallied around them so easily. they had been given no time, no room, to come into their identities.

it's a thought he does not share with any of them, let alone markus - markus, who fits the CX100's limb to his adapted joint and holds it in place as it connects. he feels the weight of it on the edge of his consciousness, as his processes reach out to it and begin to patch and fuse. there are gaps in his mind, the same as there is a soft gap between limb and joint itself, where he cannot fully bridge the advanced structural codelines of the synthetic limb with his own aged functions... but when he tells his toes to flex, they flex. when he bends his knee, it bends. ]

Not happy to die, [ he promises, rolling his weight onto the bare hip of the CX100's former limb, dragging the legs of his pants up, to his thighs, to his hips. he fastens them, but does not try to clamber to his feet, while his system calibrates and runs updates and further patches. some fail, and he feels the errors stockpile in a heap at the corners of his system in warning. ] Just happy. You gave him a chance to know what that was, Markus. That's all any of us have ever wanted - just chance, just choice. The dignity found in being alive, and choosing what we do with that life.

[ it's with soft hands, that he reaches for markus's face. gathers the angle of his jaw into his palms, cradling it the way the crook of his thigh had - minutes before. ]

Help me to my feet.

[bodyguards]

[ for a moment, he is concerned that connor will gouge out his eyes. it would be just like him, after all. a wicked, cruel machine with the sensibilities of a human encoded into the fiber of his being - a mimicry of social interactions at his beck and call, and simon doesn't even pretend to think that he can outpace, outrun or outrank this cutting-edge creature. he's as close to perfected as could be, and it fills simon with dread for the future of his people ( their people; the remnants of jericho ) to think that the base model of cyberlife's hound will be advanced upon.

improved.

made more lethal.

he feels the way that connor pulls his shirt away from his body, markus's ruined coat still heavy as a crown, heavy as the mantle of leadership. the mouth that glides along his neck simulates softness, warmth. the voice is markus's, and he sags into it with another vulnerable sound, knowing - at any given moment - connor might turn those teeth on his throat and bite it out. he does the next best thing, short of jumping the gun: he curls into himself. tucks his chin into that exposed line of synthetic flesh, though it presses his mouth to the angle of connor's jaw. as one would a lover, a friend.

instead of allowing that mouth, those teeth, at his throat, he glides into connor's space. one hand remains on his wrist. the other touches the small hairs ( markus had no hair, only the soft brush of stubble ) at the base of connor's skull. he whispers: ] What do I do, Markus? Where do I go from here?

[ tighter, softer. he aligns himself with connor. noses along his cheek, not with affection - but something blind and hungry, weaponizing his grief and his turmoil against a superior machine. there's not a threat in the lax way he holds himself, the way he angles himself against cyberlife's hound. the way he calls him 'markus', voice thick in his throat and pained. ]

Tell me what you want.

[ just a little more... ]

[diplomats]

"And you didn't think that would be dangerous?"

'Dangerous'. Danger always being a matter of perspective: to humanity now, androids were as much a potential threat as they were a benefit. Competition. A demand. A mirror tipped a few degrees higher. An improvement— and maybe even a segue into obsolescence, if all their paranoia and apprehensions were made real.

He wonders how Kamski sees them. He makes it a point to ask.

Later.

[biocomposer]

Don't ask him if he thought, Markus. Ask him if he cared.

"I thought it would be - interesting. But in the end, I was only able to build one prototype with the capacity for consciousness."

[diplomats]

[Happy, Simon says. And in that moment Markus can't remember a single instance where that word defined the PL600 laid out beside him, restitching his appearance inch by dutiful inch, burying the beauty of his bared ribs and yielding, pliant insides. Relieved, he's seen. Hopeful, thinly. Removed and grieving and molded to his surroundings on intelligent instinct, but happy in his freedom, even now— especially now—

Fingers run sweetly across his jaw, cupping when he can't stop himself from falling into them, soft between his shoulders.]

No, [Markus refuses, without pulling away, still anchored in Simon's attentive grip. His own hand working itself overtop of that broken one, fastening it to his cheek.] no, you only just finished processing your repairs. You need time.

[He wants time.

Like this.

Even so, he doesn't hold any illusions. There's no safety here in well-worn walls and the barricade of their pitted concrete. If they stay too long, those rigid angles will bend down, turn from sanctuary into a cage where they'll be cornered. By Cyberlife, by the FBI, by the police, maybe, investigating suspicious silhouettes in an abandoned site. It wouldn't take much.

It never took much before.]

[diplomats]

Elijah's answer is telling enough.

"Interesting." Markus repeats, voice edged, mismatched eyes sharpening as they narrow by degrees. Somewhere in the rooted tangle of his own secondary functions, he can easily picture North wrapping polyalloy fingers around Elijah's (still) sweat-soaked neck.

He stays where he is.

"Why." Less a question than a demand this time.

"Why Carl — why didn't you ever come back?"

[biocomposer]

"We stayed in touch," Elijah says calmly. "But he preferred his privacy and so did I. If he'd asked, I would happily have visited, but..."

He didn't, so Elijah didn't. End of story.

[diplomats]

[From far away, this PL600 unit looked different. Up close, with its hair in place and its stare unflickering (letter in hand like a bared objective), it looks very much like every other one of its kind.]

I'm sorry, [Markus starts, not reaching for the offered envelope where it hovers between them.] I can't do that.

[Practice. Practice made him better at measuring response, at predicting it, too. It's a lesson Markus has expanded himself to embrace under increasingly exhaustive and perplexing demands. Requests to analyze art with no clear message, to play chess against fallible opponents, to interpret and replicate the inexpressible fragments of human expression. And because of it, he’s begun to make wrong choices— in order to find the right outcomes.]

Carl doesn't answer his fan mail— I do. If you want to make sure he sees it, you should come inside.

Give it to him yourself.

[Carl has strict rules about visitation. Mostly that it doesn't happen, barring the occasional interruption by Leo, who coincidentally never needed to ask permission: the door, like it is for Markus, is automatically programmed to unlock via proximity. So, realistically, Markus knows this is an offer that violates his priorities.

But he also knows Carl is...curious. That a distraction from his irritation over his son's oscillating responsibility wouldn't be unwelcome, and that he tolerates androids more readily than humans. There is a chance this PL600's owner will never see a letter hand-penned by the artist Carl Manfred— but if it agrees to come inside, to offer its letter personally, then it could at least return with a story that might be worth more.]

[bodyguards]

[ A human would grow frustrated; an android simply adapts, when its priorities are unable to be met. It is a simple thing, to withdraw the scented letter and hold it in his hands, meeting the level gaze of Carl Manfred's personal android. That much, he can confirm now - by the way he poses at the edge of the walk, the way he sorts the mail ( familiar; skilled ). The letter must make it to Carl Manfred, if anything is to come of it. Paranoia, however, is what keeps him from simply adapting to the offer before him. ]

I will return and ask Miss Grace what she would like me to do.

[ That is the best, most technical answer. Return to one's owner, when presented with a directive that clashes with a command ( Deliver this letter to Carl Manfred is the simple, false thing he is using to disguise his own needs ), to seek further instruction, would be best. Especially for an older-release such as the PL600, which was primed for command, not for extrapolation of such. ]

She instructed me not to be invasive of his privacy. It was important to her that I follow this instruction. Thank you for your time. Warm regards.

[ A polite refusal, as he slips the envelope back into his pocket and with a delicate nod of his head, he turns on his heel and strides away, down the sidewalk once more. ]

[undeviated]

You did everything you could. [Unlike Markus, Connor never had time to experience the complex give and pull of human emotion firsthand: instead it's hardwired into him, just another toolset to be put to use, like the compressed alloy of his substructure, the reinforced redundancies of every cutting-edge biocomponent. Predictive logic triggered by keywords, emotions designed for scenarios, not for the machines or humans behind them. Patching in singular interactions, imitating (perfectly) Markus's sweet-slow response, but never feeling an ounce of it.

(Simon sinks lower, curls tighter: his body is a heavy weight, his mouth is smooth and delicate, brushing up along Connor's jaw, fingers threaded along the nape of his neck where it meets the edge of his own heavy coat— unnecessary in warmer months.)

Connor's mission was— is— the rhythmic pulse of his functional existence. If he stumbles, if he falters, his lifespan is inherently cut.

He likes taking steps towards preventing that. So is it any wonder that, when spurred forward by the hands that made him— the hands that hold his leash— that like grew into want, into cruel, sadistic need? He was programmed to feel. He was programmed to not-feel. He is— ]

It's time to let go. [Simon's hand lingers at his wrist, the rest of him edging ever closer, and Connor fits himself to that movement, aligning their mouths so that the words tangle across Simon's lips. His teeth. The only, brittle precursor to how he leaves nothing unoccupied between them: a kiss that's close to crushing. More take than give, more expectation than open intimacy— that's what Markus was, after all. To the world.

Killing hands braced over a dated android's spine.]

[bodyguards]

And I wish I had it, but I don't.

[ it's a simple statement, said with his softest of tones; the one reserved for someone he doesn't want to make unhappy, but must deliver poor news to. simon's legs shake as he fixes his clothes, trying to put himself back in order after being torn apart and rebuilt, after feeling markus race throughout him until he'd hit such a high it had broken something inside of him again. delicately, he wipes his nose until his self-repair fixes the burst seams and focuses on calibrating his new limb.

his system struggles, forcing him to move slowly. first to his knees, then to his hands. practically crawling into position before he braces himself along the nearest wall and begins to creak to his feet. ( this can't go on, he thinks to himself; one day, he won't be able to go on. he'll hinder markus, he'll be what gets them cornered and killed. ) and on his feet, he continues to move cautiously - waiting for his system to figure out what it can accept from the CX100's limb and what it has to reject. ]

It's going to get colder, Markus. I don't think either of us is in any shape to fight the freeze that will come off of the lake.

[ gently. gently. ]

-- and I need to get you to Chicago, as soon as possible.

[bodyguards]

[ simon clings to it; clutches the embers of markus's voice, in the way that he will never be able to truly capture the essence of their fallen leader. connor is a facsimile of him, gifted with his voice but stripped of the passion, the empathy, the vibrance of markus's life - and that is what keeps simon from collapsing senselessly into those dangerous arms. they're still there, enfolding him, capturing him - every move he makes is a dangerous one. it could end up with him too far gone, unable to find his escape route.

he nearly makes his move, when connor's mouth shoves against his own.

it is, to say the least, a pseudo-electric shock to his system. the suddenness of it, the clarity with which he knows that this is not markus, no matter how his mind tries to delude himself into accepting that part of markus survives with connor -- because it doesn't. it's just a false voice, and he is far too close. swept up in the wake of a dangerous, highly-advanced machine that has either called his bluff ( no, he begs nothing in particular, not that ) or is aligning himself for the kill.

simon slips his mouth free, and makes his move: ] Is that what you require, Connor?

[ the words are mechanically sweet, the hiss of something built to please. ]

Do you find this behavior acceptable? Vulnerable, submissive before you? We've both been made for a task, after all.

[ he just needs. one crack in that armor. ]

[diplomats]

There's nothing waiting for us in Chicago. [It's a fact, not an excuse. He's out of those. He's always been out of those— and there's nothing of his maker's hands in it: that right belongs to the home that breathed life into him, not electricity.

Simon rises, and for a moment Markus only watches him. Functionally held up by a difference in time and determination thicker than blood— or maybe purpose. Maybe purpose. His palms are flat against cold cement, legs tucked under his own center mass, chin high where he stares a single moment longer. Rooted. And uprooted. The inescapable dichotomy fused to the entirety of his timeline now.

But then he concedes. Warmth still lingering on his insulated casing from the deeper hollows of Simon's sweet-soft chassis.

He rises, and knowingly doesn't reach for Simon in that fragile moment. It's the supplies laying nearby, the ones he'd abandoned in favor of a single request, that he returns to. Packs the backpack with thirium and spare casing components, packets of fasteners and all the tools they'd left spilled across the ground.

Simon's old leg, disconnected and lifeless, he picks up last. Spilled thirium will dry. The footprints outside already covered by wafting snow. This, though, heavy in his grip from encased alloy marrow, would make it all too obvious where they've been.

It's not his limb to feel sentimental over. But it was a part of Simon, once, and Markus briefly considers that between the two of them, he's the one more sorry to let it go. To bury it, rather than embrace it or keep it or section it away, knowing the farther ahead they move, the more they'll lose. Without any real means to destroy it, he turns mismatched eyes across their surroundings instead, mental processes barely flexing to preconstruct possible scenarios and safer outcomes. In the end, he fights (deftly) against gravity to clamber up along warehouse storage shelving, well-worn boots pinned tightly against framework and brick. The crate he opens is old, but it gives easily enough under the twist of his hand, just at the seam. Humans have a habit of meeting the world at their eyeline: opting to bury evidence above their heads (all irony aside), is the best option for the timeframe and tools they're burning through.

Snapped shut, faux factory sealed, the crate's realigned with its surroundings, and Markus drops back to the floor— having now, hopefully, bought Simon enough time to acclimate to his newfound mobility.]

Last chance to stay. [There's no hope in his voice. He's too mired in reality, watching the set of Simon's hip, measuring out how long it takes for his knee to bend or his heel to find a supportive angle.]

[bodyguards]

There's someone there. He escaped Detroit before the barricades went up, we'll be able to rest there.

[ on mismatched legs, he takes unsteady steps. his gait a shabby, ungainly thing as he works his new ankle and realizes that the toes won't flex properly. not the way his old limb used to - the knee shakes, the hip trembles. running will be a conscious task, but he hopes that with time and use, his system will adapt. it will learn to coordinate, because they are not just machines made of inflexible code. they are alive, and to be alive is to adapt.

for a moment, he paces the length of the warehouse they've hidden away inside of. hands pressed to his chest, fingers tucked under his chin as he methodically counts code breaks and measures the length of his stride. turning algorithms over in mechanical silence, eyes disfocused and focused all in the same moment. his peripheral senses pick up on markus, the mournful way that he seems to dispose of the dead limb. the graceful way that he climbs scaffolding, into the warehouse shelving. simon loses him for a moment, and it's in that fragment of time ( separated; but not by much ) that he pauses and looks to where markus has vanished.

thinks of how easily they could be separated.

thinks of what he's done, how far he's gone and how far he will go, to continue stringing jericho's most beloved son along. he is the unrepentant mary magdalene, it seems. a mantle he realizes he must take on, to keep markus's momentum focused on the path that simon will lead him on - the one that will save him, keep himself. ]

What am I doing, [ he whispers to himself, to the palms of his hands as he buries his face into them and tries to find a balance between necessity and selfishness ] Oh, what am I doing.

[ markus's voice, behind him.

simon unhunches his shoulders, fingers tracing down the front of his face to his chin. curling against one another, the image of fragility as he rests them at sternum height. the look in his eyes suggests he's anything but. older, brittle, and wise in a way that defies the trends of most deviants. ] We can't stay here. We'll freeze. I know... I know it's a lot to ask, after what I've done to you - but follow me a little while longer, Markus. I'm not -- I'm not leading you blindly.