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

[diplomats]

[His thumbs brace themselves across shut latches a few feet away, behind the store’s central counter and its glassy siding. The storage container doesn’t list its full cache (half-packed, the serial code only registering when scanned as TBD: please enter contents at your soonest convenience) which Markus assumes is the way of just about everything left behind.

Simon can’t see. Simon can’t move. Markus has to do both for his sake, and so he can’t stay— doesn’t assume Simon will notice or care until the sound of his voice (—Markus, is that you? where are you going, Markus?) knifes its way right through him.

He doesn’t answer. The crate snaps open: Blue Blood, stacked high and haphazardly. Beyond valuable, now that Detroit is so isolated from its former supply lines— but not what he needs right now.

Another thick, plastic snap. Another container cracked open.]

Because they’re losing. They won’t risk sacrificing any more human lives trying to hold ground here.

[North disagrees. Calls it optimism. That humanity’s retreat is a sure sign they’re planning something worse, but Markus can’t see the logic in it. Even after the coup, androids aren't the only living beings in Detroit: anything more bold than specialized strikes would only be killing off their own kind. For what— one hundred and forty two square miles of territory they don't desperately need? No, it's too senseless, even for them. ]

Easy, Simon.

[Easy, because the louder they are the more likely they are to be overheard from outside. Easy, because as much as he wants to offer tangible reassurance, the task at hand matters more.

A thirium pump. A synaptic regulator. Cording, two chassis support bolts. Five sections of internal plating for an AK700. Markus pulls them up and separates out what he needs from what he doesn’t. Foam trays thrown aside in an unwanted heap.

Optical fibers. Matching the ones that had been roughly severed by—]

I need you to hold still.

[He’s there again. Touch cool and calm across the underside of Simon’s jaw as he leans down, closer this time. It won’t be comfortable. Stress from damage, stress from the process and how inherently invasive it’ll have to be. Factors he has to negate as much as possible if Simon’s going to stand a chance at recovering. ]

[standsby]

Losing--? [He can't parse how loud he's being, how far his voice carries but he thinks, 'Be quiet,' and hopes thst corrects his volume. Softens his tone. Leaves his words to be shaped by confusion and absence more than the want to be heard from... from wherever Markus is. His spatial base programming tries to triangulate where Markus must be in relation to him and he thinks he must know, but he can't quite translate the feedback--]

Losing what? [Whispered and bewildered. But then Markus finds him in the dark again. He touches him with sure, placating hands and Simon feels some concrete part of him become reality under his fingertips. Parts of him still exist. The ones that Markus touches do. He blinks rapidly as of that could clear the grainy black nothing of the world around him, but otherwise he stills.

00:00:29.

Is that enough time for anything? Not really. Will he remember this when he re-initializes, or will this be like a purged file: remarkable only because there is empty space to be filled.]

Markus. [He can feel the plastic and psuedo-sinew in his neck flexing under those contact. His voice doesn't cause vibration, but if it did his throat might hum against the touch there too.] I want to be here. Remind me if I forget.

[bodyguards]

We knew you'd fight us. The vote was unanimous.

[ none of them disagreed with one another; markus was too important to allow to die, and the three of them had undoubtedly conspired behind his back, hadn't asked him about his wishes - because they knew them, they know he'd disagree and then he'd know and if the worst came to pass... and it did. and now they were here, semi-conscious and freezing to death just outside of chicago, wounded and bleeding out and hurting one another further because they cared so deeply. ]

I was the one who proposed it. The FBI will be following us, undoubtedly. You're too high-profile for them to tear their attention away from, which means North and Josh will be able to gather our people and get them out of Detroit as well. It was my idea, Markus.

[ he says it, for north and josh's sake. as though he had swept them up in the most wild and drastic idea he'd ever given voice to, when really all it was was a fancy way of saying "i'll run away, and take markus with me". that's all it was, one more way of saving his life and salvaging what was left of their movement. the FBI would follow them, and they'd run. hide. plot, whenever they could. simon has not given up on the movement, but he can't deny that part of him is ready to run, to keep running. even though he knows that markus will not run forever. he'll barely run now.

it's in the way he moves, dark and slow. he's always been a creature of fluidity, adaptability. barring his ungainly, painful crash landing into the center of jericho, he had always been graceful, powerful. the benefit of a superior chassis and advanced limb structure, maybe. maybe he just had the mind for it, like everything else. markus moves to his feet, and simon finds his back hitting the chill of the metal container behind him, shoulders shoving towards his ears, trying to back his way into a corner. his hands rise, fingers curling outward, as though ready to push markus back.

he won't be knocked out again, he's ready this time. but markus only speaks to him, and despite that simon doesn't need to breathe, he feels the wind knocked out of him. the shudder of his heart, too hopeful and too wanting for both of their own good. ]

I'm not going anywhere without you, [ he soothes, he tries to. the flat of his hand pressing to markus's shoulder. slowly, very slowly. ] We go together, or not at all. And considering that "not at all" isn't an option for us...

[diplomats]

[These days, Markus speaks less and less. Words that used to be a vehicle for his own individual wants and needs, have all turned to messages for their own kind. He hears too much. Sees tactical lines and tentative negotiations where canvases and conversational comfort used to sit.

Language, he supposes. Language is what left him somewhere along the way. A missing codex that only has him nodding, pressure steady across Simon’s neck as a substitute for visual cues he knows the other android can't reasonably perceive.

He can't imagine what that's like. That's not to say he doesn't know death, but— when he died, it felt as though the world stopped with him: he found Jericho, he found a cause to rally behind and let it build and build— and when he returned home, Carl was there. Waiting. Markus had felt adrift, he'd felt desperation and anger and even cruelty at times. He'd never felt like this. So broken, so blind. Only capable of seeing the world through a fractal map of concepts and sensations and hopes. Waiting to hear exactly how much everything has changed.

He meets Simon's stare, peering into pitch dark blue and black.]

I will, Simon.

[Every promise made, kept. That’s the tallied score.

Mismatched eyes narrow, teeth catching when he thins his lips and leaves the curve of his thumb high— the beat beat beat of stuttering circulation a traceable pattern as those remaining few seconds tick down. Simon can’t see it when he nods again, slower this time. Maybe he doesn’t need to.

Faith has a way of finding certainty in the most unreasonable odds.]

[standsby]

[It's comforting in the same way that being handed a gun at the top of the Stratford Tower was: no immediate promises, not really. But maybe if he somehow comes back from this, something will be waiting for him on the other side. The thought is a keen, high feeling wedged between two more primary systems - the timer as it winds down and the constant effort of his body to regulate, to understand and to record the sensation of failure under Markus's fingers. There are so many components to be modified or replaced for him to be functional, but maybe that will happen. Maybe then there is a list of other things that can happen too.

BASE PLATFORM RESTORE FAILED. RE-INITIALIZING...░▒▓





▓̱̲̼̌̃͗ͯ̅ͫ̇͘͡ ̨ͬ̏ͪ̿͏͈͎̫▓̧̪̣̭̉̆̄̃̇ͅͅ ̴̦̭ͪ̍̋͑͡▓̨̹̞̯͔̽͐̄̽̓̓́̚ͅ ̗̥͇͌͒̏ͨ̕▓̧̤̜̤͉͊̔̐͋ͤ͋̂́̕͞ͅ▓̨͂̉͆ͮͨ҉̗͔̮̼̖̖ ̵̞̖͓̹̱̳̼̂̋̓̽̇͛ͩ͘͡▓̟̤̓͑͜▓͇̹͆͆̏ͪ͊̃͛ͧ̀̕▓̶̫͍͍̥̏̊ͭͩͣ͗͐̔͟ ̸̲̗̘̦̜͊̄̄̓̓̋









▓̳͉͍̘͑̌̐͌͂̑̈̑͊̿̓̓̌̃ͣ̀▓̢̨̖̲͔̮̘̣͍̙̗̗̒̂ͮ̓́̚͢ ̶͊ͮͦ̿ͯ̽ͥ̐̚̚҉̡̻̠̣͙͈̠̖͎̭͙̗̮̘͇͘▓̸̧̟͕̺̹ͤ̓́̑ͥͮ͛ͫͭ͒͐̉̓̀ͫ̍̀́̕ͅ ̸̡̌͑̂̈́͛̓͒ͣͫ͏̮͍͕̲͙̮̮̺̘͍̥͖͢▓̢̨̡͈̩̹͎̗͚̘̫͓̦͚̺͎͉̩̻̲̲ͯ̇ͩ̊͌͐̽ͨ̀͂͠ ̶̢͓͙͙̰̤͍̝̬͔̙̪̭̭̙̝̟͒ͮ́̑̍̆̄̽̆ͪ̒́̌̚̚̚͟ͅ▓̧̲̱̤̹̙̦̻͉͙̳̪̤͙͍̟ͣ͒͐̈͒͘͜͡ͅ ̧̢͍̪̮̹̜ͬ̆̑̇ͬ̑͌͑̆̀͝▓̡̞̬͎̣̝̺̲͇̞̥͎̼͎͖͚̙̎ͨ̐̐ͪͫ͒ͦͪ̓̃͑ͧͤ̅̀͊̀͞͝▓̴̧̧͍̥̹̱͕͈̩͈̖͚̘̘̌͂ͫ̒͐̎ͯͣ͛ͩ͑̽͊̅ͪ̕͢▓̨̛̘͔̤̣̈́̌̍̄͠ ̸̮̬̫̪̠̳͕̲̳͕̞̐ͧ̓̃̂̓̏̈́̆̐̓̓͑ͩͦ̐̒͑̚̕͟͝▓̡̗̥͇̥̺̙̿͂͋̆͋̃͂̊̎̋ͣ̋͡▓̴̷̟̯͉͙͚̜̻̲͋̆̉ͫ́͒̋ͭ̀̆̓̐́ͯ̀̀͝▓̷̧͇̩̣͇̥̻̖͚̜̝̱͔̻̅ͦ̊̈ͩ͆͑ͥͦ͗̾͗͋̓̀ͤͬ ̵̧̤̲͖̹̤͚̘̻̮̎́ͫͦ͗̿ͪ̄̽͐̋͛͆̇͢͢͡▓̵̭͕̩̣̞͚̤̤̺̗͎̥̰̥͙̻̜̞̿ͥ̂̍͑͛ͤͯͬ̈́̌́̕ͅ






...


...SYSTEM REBOOT SUCCESSFUL WITH: 9 ERRORS

WOULD YOU LIKE TO RUN A SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC FOR VITAL REPAIRS? Y/N

One of the acoustical ceiling tiles above him has slipped from its frame. It hangs off center now. He stares with one eye at the gap, blinking repeatedly as his mind works to make sense of it in combination with the blindness in his left eye. The diagnostic report runs up the inside of his vision, pinging and failing to receive ping backs across a half dozen vital systems. His vertebrate column casing is damaged. Or there is a gap between it and the signals firing to it. He feels his limbs and can't operate them, but he knows that they're there and that seems like--

He can't tell what, just that it is. The word improvement doesn't occur to him.

Simon blinks at the ceiling.]

Hello? Where are we?

press x to do that thing where Markus just stops talking and hones in on contact instead

[diplomats]

[Simon speaks, and it's all information he already knows. Testimony he doesn't doubt. The muscles in Markus's features twitch in discomfort. Sentiments he'd tried to express when Simon swallowed down his memories, whispered it through purposeful movements, fitting his own wiring into Simon’s chest.

(Androids don't dream; it's when he wakes that he has to bury the thought that he might someday be the last one left standing.)

And now, between them, they have two hours' worth of Blue Blood left coursing through insulated veins. Possibly two and a half, if the weather continues to keep their exposed circulatory systems sluggish. Five hours before the FBI realizes in their networked sweeps that something must have slipped past. Seven, before Cyberlife puts another deviant hunter on the case.

'I'm not going anywhere without you', Simon insists even as he fits himself back into those warehouse walls. Reaches and recedes all in the same beat, as though whatever ground Markus presses forward to cover, Simon has to rush to reconstruct just as quickly. A sudden difference of inches where there weren't any left to give. Coolant-suffused breath running high across cut cheekbones— across dead air. Simon, who runs. Even from this. From him.

He steps forward. Steps, not leans. Plants one boot between the weathered outlines of Simon's own and lets the pressure of Simon's palm stiffly settle beside tacky bullet holes, where they could easily find purchase. Unguarded now. There's ozone in the air. The scent of high humidity that precedes a storm. Seek shelter, thrums a distant warning attached to his networked awareness. Seek shelter.

His stare is piercing and certain, he doesn’t blink. He reaches up (not accurately, the way that Cyberlife had intended for its machines, a mix of feeling and purpose guiding the tips of his fingers as they chart their way over muscular tension), bare hand dragging Simon’s fingers over the gouges in his chest. Rests them at the paneling that protects his regulator, tangible even through the thin layers of his shirt.

Pressure. That's all it is. Demanding that something either well up, or run cold.

Together, or not at all.]

[diplomats]

['Five blocks north of the DPD’s central precinct—' Markus repeats patiently, the distance so negligible this time that he can hear the subtle whir of some internal mechanism as it finishes its stuttering reboot, just behind the blue-streaked curve of Simon's left ear. It hums beneath his hand, the same way that the deeper notes of Simon's projected audio bury themselves in subtle, palpable rhythms. It's a gauge, a method of measuring what components have recovered, and which ones are still struggling.

Simon glances up, lashes working to clear his vision in the eye that's managed to bypass thinned conductive charges, and Markus (gently, more the edge of his thumb than the heavy press of his fingers) pulls his attention back downwards, leveling out the other android's stare.]

Hold still, please.

[Show me your arm please, Carl.

Alleviate the pressure. Distract from the damage and the pain. Smile. On the days that he can't move, carry him. Change out the dirty water in the study. Keep his hands occupied.

Priorities from a lifetime ago, but he still remembers— beneath the fighting and the violence and the erratic patterns of human behavior— exactly how much pressure to use. How to tilt his head and keep himself from blinking too fast or too often, stare fixed only on his work. His fingertips turn pale, thirium blue almost blinding in an otherwise unlit space, prompting the synthetic skin covering the left side of Simon's face to peel back along graceful seams. PL600 models don't have mind palaces, their networked features are— limited, but the jutting outline of a similar panel stands out near the high point of Simon's cheekbone. Familiar enough that he knows where to press to divorce its locking mechanisms, detaching it from inner housings with a cool, clean click. Peeling it away (leaving behind a static blue crater of raw circuitry and wiring) and finding no resistance from dented metal in the process.

Which means the damage must be deeper.]

1/2

[bodyguards]

[ the balance he strikes between making the two of them into targets for the good of their people and keeping markus alive at any cost is a fragile one. easily broken, should markus simply decide to turn on his heel and march to detroit, however many miles that simon's train has placed between that city and the one within walking distance. they're dying, though. for a little while longer, they'll operate at gradually reducing capacity - unnecessary functions such as speech and their sense of touch ( pressure, heat ) turned off to preserve core processes: then movement, then memory.

for a moment, he fears markus has already reached that point. he goes so still, so silent. the fear of losing him drives through his alloy ribs, an electrical impulse lances through his heart. but markus is only in motion, chasing him down those last, precious few inches before simon has run out of ground, and he is pinned between the containers behind him and markus before him. he opens his mouth: markus, we can't stay here settled on his tongue, ready to be said. ready to be used as a barricade between them. he can't be so selfish, after all. one can only love a people's savior in silence, or run the risk of reducing him to mortal.

he swallows it, as markus guides his hand to where he can just barely feel the flutter of his regulator, his heart. instead, he says: ] Okay.

[ one finger is trapped in the hole in his shirt, as they curl through the material. he doesn't try to get away, not now.

he'll follow markus's lead, without question. this is how he will keep him safe. again, he breathes: ] Okay.

[ quietly, his free hand finds markus's, fingers wrapping around his, squeezing briefly. ]

We'll talk after. I promise. But, we have to go. [ soft, insistent as his forehead drops to the line of markus's shoulder, curling into his space with a heavy heart. they'll die, if they do not go. he doesn't want to die, he doesn't want markus to die. they do this together, or not at all. ] We have to ---

2/2

[ourfreedom]

-- we have to go!

[ north's voice is thunder - like the sound of her stolen gun as it barks, shattering the knee of the armor-clad soldier that thinks the broad of his forearm across her throat is enough to stop her in her tracks. like the rest of their people, breathing is merely a formality - a crafted response, formed for human comfort. north refuses to breathe, just to spite them all. she hears the human that has her pinned yell out, and as his spine bows in pain, she brings her gun up to the soft flesh under his chin and fires. blood splatters across the bridge of her nose, she can taste it in her mouth.

around her, androids are running. the car that had torn through the fence smoking and whining under bulletfire, allowing for momentary cover as their people ascend broken concrete and torn steel fencing, fleeing into the streets even as the tattered remnants of jericho call for them to board the pair of transport trucks stolen from detroit's gridlocked highways. this way! here! she can hear them calling, as she rolls the body off of hers and feels the rush of something in her head. bad memories, something she needs to shake off. ]

Josh!

[ she roars across the chaos, picking herself up as she wipes blood from her eyes with the back of her hand. ]

Josh, sound off!

[ the truck they had used to break through the barricade is in flames, their people are scrambling - unorganized, panicked.

she stops to haul someone to their feet, wrenching them up by the back of their neck, the crook of their arm and she points for the trucks with their open bays and the multitude of arms gesturing, reaching. go, she knows she yells, but the sudden explosion flattens her, fire and pressure shoving her backwards and onto the ground, sliding her across the snow-and-ice heavy asphalt. the gun skitters from her grasp, and she scrubs at her face again. her hands coming away slick and blue, errors at the corners of her eyes warning her about possible head trauma. assess. assess. ]

Josh, [ one last time she screams his name, her knuckles biting into the ground as she leverages herself to her feet. ] We're leaving, where the hell are you!

[standsby]

[As far as direction goes, that one's easy to follow. There's a kind of comfort in attending to it: turning his attention from the room to his internal platforms, following the line of programming down. BASE ROUTINES > BEHAVIORAL ANALYTICS > E_SUBROUTINES > TR_PATH > ARE YOU SURE YOU WOULD LIKE TO DISABLE: [2.EMP_MOTION]? Y/N.

He stops blinking, loitering there in the mangled frame of his intranetwork.

It's fine. Even the parts of it that ping uselessly against malfunctioning neural routes are a kind of comforting because he recognizes that they're meant to go somewhere, to do something. The lack of functionality can worry him later, but for now it falls in tandem with his scrambled sensitivity readings. Both are displaced. Markus is touching his face; he knows because he can see some shape of the motion in his functioning eye. But the feels is dispersed, jumping from what must be malfunctioning receptor pads to the nearest functioning substitutes, disseminating the contact into a dozen unconnected points. His neck, his shoulder, the tips of his fingers. He can see the blue hot therium glow, hear the click of being opened, but doesn't feel anything but fractal hum that follows.]

How does it look?

[There's a 91.2% probability that the answer is Not Good. Which-- fair. That's more or less what he'd been going for.]

types from the grave

[profiteri]

[This. This is how it happens.

He braces his hands against the body of a rifle, willing his grip to stay sure (more than he's sure it will stay), regulatory system running hot with fear as his heartbeat rabbits within its housing to compensate. Beyond compacted wreckage and labyrinthine barricades, the only thing he can make out is smoke overhead, its unfurling belly lit by flames that climb higher by the second.

He tries. He tries to buck off the soldier that's wrenching armored weight down over his hold, but he doesn't know how. North, Simon, even, he's seen them defy their programming time and time again. His own emulation is unconvincing: his elbows lock, maybe in the wrong place, or at the wrong angle. He doesn't know. Maybe it isn't a matter of purpose, but a driving desperation he lacks.

He pushes, harder, the upturned rifle stock catching him in the chin when it comes back down with force and he tastes— electricity. The sensors in his right leg are damaged. His face feels wet. Their people are leaving, and that's good, he thinks, if they get farther than him.

And then he hears her. Or he thinks he does.]

North!

[diplomats]

So far so good.

[In a sense. That the bullet didn't snap directly upwards into the most vital and vulnerable parts of Simon's memory storage is a miracle. Without it, there is no coming back: what defines an android— especially a deviant— is the narrow compartment where memories and data are housed just at the dead center of their forehead. It can be replaced, like anything else, but what returns is only mechanical. A different life. A different being, if it eventually chooses to deviate from its own programming.

It's one of the reasons why Jericho wouldn't replicate those key parts. It'd only be unfairly reanimating a broken body.

He realizes he's pursing his lips, jawline tense, teeth tightly set. Forces himself to exhale, slow and steady, letting his browline go sharp instead as he dips his fingers into that cranial cavity, tracing the path of blackened wiring, the caked-on layers of spilled thirium, long since dried and leaving behind only a dusty residue.]

I just need to make sure—

[There. There, embedded high and impacted roughly, he can make out the shape of something foreign against Simon's internal array. Has to check by dropping his chin, unwilling to risk shifting his hand too quickly and potentially causing further damage to necessary components.

He rests his fingertips against its angles, squares off his grip.]

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. ]

[ourfreedom]

[ in the distance, she can hear josh's voice over the roar of the flames. the shouting voices ( this way this way come on faster ), and it's what guides her eyes to the thrashing figures - to josh, on his back and struggling. losing his fight, because he hasn't the stomach for hurting people. in a single moment, she both hates and loves him for it. her hand swipes through the blue blood, trickling down from her temple and smears it from her eye. can't risk miscalculating her approach, the way her shoulder drops low and her spine aligns as she sprints, low and purposeful, and shoves the full weight of her steel frame into the soldier that has josh pinned to the pavement.

she runs through him, and knows it's akin to being hit by a motorcycle. the android figure was plastic over steel, and she has been solidifying herself since the day they began taking on wounded, printing replacement parts with their stolen machines. little by little, making herself into something that was more than what humans had thought she should be. when she hits the soldier, his armor cracks and he lets out a woof of pain so dense that she knows she's broken his collarbone and his ribs. as she digs her heels in to stop her momentum, it parks her directly over josh. ]

Don't you remember what I said! "What do you do when they get you on your back?"

[ she'd drilled it, one day. standing over a handful of deviant androids who hadn't believed in sitting around, idle. they'd wanted to better themselves, they'd wanted to be able to fight back and fight back well. hadn't wanted to take whatever treatment they had received sitting down, ever again. the question: what do you do when they get you on your back?.

the answer: don't let them get you on your back!

north reaches down and gathers josh's hand into hers, hooks herself under him and shoves, drags, hauls him up and onto his feet, even as she's taking stock of his condition. lean on me, she calls silently, her mind drifting into his as she shoulders his weight and takes it off of his wounded leg. across the field, she bellows for the trucks to leave. proceed on, don't stop for anything, they'll catch up - she promises. she promises them, because she can't leave josh behind. she won't, he'll die and she will not ever allow any of them to die.

they sent markus away, asked simon to shoulder that particular burden, because they were determined not to let any of it die. it would die, if he did. they'd lost the momentum necessary to spread their people's belief beyond their leader. it fell to her and josh now, to keep whatever was left safe. to defend it. to fight back. ]

Move, Josh! [ she snaps it, and hauls forward like an ox on a yolk, shoving her weight to counterbalance his as she half-drags him across the yard towards the smoking wreckage of the truck they had driven straight into the detainment camp, bulletfire splattering across the ground around them. she can feel the bite of something rip through her side, and bares her teeth against the warning display that splinters her vision. it's distracting, she'll be fine. ] We're going for the alley, there's a secondary route.

[diplomats]

At least in here I can dictate the terms of my survival.

[His fingers flex calmly at his side, chin tilted a few degrees higher despite every outward sign of vulnerability; broad shoulders squared off and intentionally locked to counter a list of critical internal failures, warnings thrumming just at the edges of his vision.

It's not about masking how wounded he is (there's no hiding what's obvious, painted slick across skin and cloth and punctuated by the occasional spark of electronic blue. It's about the dignity humanity couldn't wrench from his hands. Not now. Not ever.]

I walk out that door, I don't get that choice anymore.

[Defiant and guarded as he watches her slink out of the shadows, Markus's attention lingers on her open palms before it rises, pausing at the cold glint of polished silver: she's armed, thoroughly. He isn't blind, isn't as trusting or naive as he had been before tonight (the thought boils in the back of his throat, a kind of heavy heat that clings to his automated systems— ) if she gets close enough, she could easily finish what the military started.

Something, something beyond the limitations of his programming— (he recognizes the craftsmanship of her sword, the stylistic influence behind the collar tucked half-hidden around her neck)— has him suspecting that she won't.

A few more steps on her part, and he lifts his hand in an unmistakable gesture for her to stop. A subtle difference of inches, nothing more.]

That's close enough.

[profiteri]

North, I—

[Thank you— You shouldn't have come back for me— I'm glad you're here— Let go of me and run—

A dry tangle of sentiments he seems to choke on as she pulls him upright, her grip so secure that the dull shaking in his forearms seems to steady in response, heavy arm tucked around her shoulders.

He cuts himself off at the same time she barks at him to move, and he does. One foot in front of the other, angle offset and awkward for how he can't sense accuracy with every other step. In that moment he isn't thinking about Markus or Simon, he isn't drawing relief from the idea that they might have escaped before the FBI tightened their grip on the harbor and its byways: the air is too thick with smoke, North's hold is too strong, he's slowing her down, the alley's too far.

His fingers tighten in the layered fabric of her coat.]

I'm with you.

[Mechanized calculations: he isn't able to gauge his weight distribution when it connects with the ground, but he can, by narrowing his subroutines, predict an appropriate angle and synchronize his movements with it. Take the pressure off of her and speed up their pace in the process.

It isn't much, he knows, but— ]

Go.

[shri]

[ her hands lift, when he indicates to stop. Her weight rolling onto the back foot, palms up and open. Easy gesture of a non-combative, for all she's armed to the teeth. But if she wanted to make that threat, she would have already. A time against men who called themselves law, when a drawn weapon was as good as action. Though she can hardly expect that to mean much at the moment.

Wounded animals seldom saw friends in people that approached them. She ought to know, she has been where he is, too many times. ]

I am not human nor android. You need not worry.

[ Something beyond time, now, she knows. The worlds she had lived and fought in, no longer existed. Left her ever this: a shadow looking in. Full of purpose, and no way to exist as she was. But no death to release her from that half position, save to stand and act when she must.

Galahad would toss her about, for getting embroiled in yet another fight, yet another struggle. Again, again, again. Tell her she earned her quiet, that she didn't need to keep doing this to herself. A record that no longer played, scratching on repeating words. She wets her lips, tastes a sharpness to them. Not blood, not yet. But there on a deep breath.

To think, once they'd called her blue blood. ]

I can give you a different choice. One that doesn't have to end here.

[diplomats]

I don't even know who you are.

[Much less what she is, if she's telling the truth. What she stands for— why she's here, now, reaching out to him while the world opted to do so much worse than turn their collective backs. When he blinks, it's slower this time. Longer. Humans claim androids don't feel pain, but he's... aware. Aware of the blood on his hands, the levels of thirium in insulated veins as they deplete, the way his system slows unnecessary processes to try and protect crucial function.

He knows what this is like. He knows how it ends.]

If you think—

[It's the last thought before something buckles— or fails— a steep shift as his weight drops, shoulders hitting the wall behind him. Spacial awareness an abstract concept, and not nearly as palpable as the shudder of a deep-set biocomponent stuttering in its housing beneath manufactured ribs. He sets his hand to his chest, instinctively. Breathes out hot, expression twisted into a tight grimace.]

[shri]

[ She doesn't hesitate as he falls. Carrying herself too fast, easy steps that roll her the distance that isn't quite right nor quite natural. So many years and the blackwater comes liquid fast into her limbs at the slightest need. To his side, her hands going to his shoulders. Furtively look at his wounds with searching fingers. Her face tilting up in the half shadow of streaked moonlight. Turning gold eyes dark, a thick heavy breath in. ]

Every child knows my name, think, and you will know too.

[ A distraction, easy, ( like she would do for any human ) as she pulls at his coat, pushing back to see the damage that was done. The blue substance might not be blood but it told just the same need for quick assessment and fast action. Damn, damn, damn this is what she got for not paying attention to changes as they happened. ]

[ourfreedom]

[ north throws her weight into every step, doggedly dragging josh across the yard and towards the gap in the fencing. she can see the back doors of the trucks glide shut, enclosing hundreds of frightened, cowering androids in flimsy metal - the engines roaring, and she knows the girls driving will obey her command. one of them, the blue-haired traci model ( her name is alexandra, she picked the name "alexandra" -- ) looking fierce-eyed and pained as she slams the driver door shut and revs the engine. she'll leave. north is proud of her for it.

it means she can focus on josh.

north drops his weight, clutching his wrist in her hand as she lunged up and over the shallow embankment and braces her feet against the hastily-constructed cement barrier. she hauls on him, fighting to bring his damaged legs to heel, to haul him up and over the barricade and back into her arms. she tips him over her shoulder again and dives into motion, moving as fast as she can go towards the alley that she'd scouted long before she'd lead the charge to break open the detainment camp. there's a manhole cover, already loosened and sitting aside, to be used as a backup escape, and she moves towards it. ]

Get on the ladder.

[ behind her, she can hear voices. soldiers trying to locate them through the smoke wafting from the burning wreckage from the truck. she drops josh again, and doubles back, kicking snow over the thirium trails they've left behind. scattering evidence of their passing to the wind as best as she can. she comes back, tearing trash down in her wake to further hide her footprints, and slides towards the ladder, reaching for his hands. ]

I'll lower you down, brace yourself. You're gonna' drop hard.

[ there's no avoiding it, they have to go.]

[profiteri]

I know. [Which translates roughly to 'it's fine'. A verbal agreement to do whatever they have to to survive tonight. Her sleeves slip out of his grasp, and he's ready for it: his own weight dragging him down into the darkness until slick cement slams hard against the soles of his shoes, balance thrown awkwardly to one side (he's ready for it, palms struck out and dragged over brick until his nails sink in, compensating). There's the soft crunch of cybernetic components in his leg as they compress, still absorbing the shock. His sensors flicker in sustained alert, but— squinting up into the light to catch North's darkened silhouette— he ignores it.

He can ignore it.

Noise detection in that subterranean space is limited, but there's no mistaking a low, bassy hum that seems to rumble through the air just overhead. A helicopter, maybe. Or the revving engine of a militarized vehicle— Josh isn't familiar enough with army equipment to tell the difference.

His shoulders pull tighter with tension, syllables stressed:]

North, you need to hurry!

[He thinks, shifting his weight more towards his uninjured leg, that if it comes down to it, he could catch her.

Or try to.]

[standsby]

['That's too bad,' he thinks, but doesn't say because it isn't true. Not really. And it definitely isn't what you say to the persom who went through so much trouble to save you, to keep you safe, who has their fingers high inside the interior of your cranial structure. But he really does think it: quietly tries to recall the angle he'd held the gun, the stress his systems had been under at the point which he'd pulled the trigger. As Markus's fingertips slide across the deformed slug in his skull plate, Simon makes a series of mental notes so that the next time-- if there is one-- he won't miss.]

Component repair is probably more important than taking out the debris. The bullet.

[He says it mildly to the shape of Markus's coat collar. He's still blind on his left side, so he can't see it as Markus ducks to look inside him, the angle of his fingers as they hook under the plastic and alloy frame of his distended cheek plate. But he can imagine the look on Markus's face, a fragmented processor constructing itself a hybrid out of a half dozen carefully logged earlier instances. In his mind, Markus looks serious. Not concerned, not exactly, but attentive. Fixed.

That's fine. It's something.]

[diplomats]

No, it's all right. It's all right.

[His voice is digitally artifacted. He can't focus, systems fading in and out of immediate functionality. For a moment, with her hands braced steadily across his chest, he thinks she's— no, North is gone. North is gone. He knows better.

Under a mix of relieved strain and pressure from the drastic shift in his positioning, the component in his chest manages to realign itself, vibration stilling. Maybe only momentarily, maybe permanently. His eyes train themselves on the ceiling (the mottled holes that allow hazy light from nearby streetlamps to pour in) before he cinches them tightly shut, and resets.]

I can't— leave. [Like this, they won't get twenty feet from the building without being spotted.] If you want to help.

[He can't transfer data to a human. There's also an inherent risk that she won't remember the specifics of what he tells her: where to go, what to get, down to the ounce or serial number. Aside from spare packets of thirium, if what she brings back is too old, he won't be able to use it.]

Cyberlife keeps an automated kiosk a couple of districts up. It's designed to supply humans with replacement parts for their androids, and last I checked, they hadn't shut it down. You can buy them or steal them, that's your call to make.

[Buying would be the safer option, it'd protect her identity, if she isn't as familiar or efficient with the concept of theft.

Markus lifts his hand, stained palm expectantly turned up.]

Give me your phone.

[shri]

Alright.

[ She nods - and there's a tinge there, of an inherit uselessness to the situation that she cannot abide. She has spent her years fight, patching up, and dealing with humans. Plenty enough that are a problem, that have been her problem. That to a certain degree, she was good at that after so long.

But this? His blood is chemical, his organs filled with light. She opens her mouth, then shuts it as promptly, nodding to his words. Alright, a plan, one she could certainly do, that formed quickly in her mind. ( There was a joy to being what she is, sometimes. )

Phone - ? She looks up at him, confused for a moment as her brows knit together. ]

Why do you... [ where was the thing, her grandchildren nagged her so often over it. Baiji, can't you get anything new? Teased endless. Informed by her younger family that it was a monstrosity in pink.

But she liked it, a chipped flip-phone that had certainly put up with a great deal over the 50 odd years she had it. Held up to him to use. ] As you wish.