albinomilksnake | DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[What they’ve taken won't go unnoticed. There’s no telling exactly when Cyberlife will run an inventory sweep and catalog down to the decimal what's missing, but inevitably they'll pinpoint where and when their security had failed. Inevitably they'll set their famous deviant hunter to the task. What he doesn’t know is whether or not they'll alert the FBI (no— he corrects, straightening out the lines of his logic— they won’t: Connor had boarded the Jericho before the military's assault, and his orders were to take Markus alive, while radio chatter overheard from army comm units promised they wanted him dead) Somewhere internally, running hot inside his skull, that knowledge is screaming: fix the damage as quickly as possible, salvage what you can from what you discard, ration your thirium supply— run.

Run.

He was never good at it. Not under the desperate shouts Carl had hurled, pitched to the sound of Markus's own pleas to stay. To stay and sacrifice nothing of what he loved, blood mingling with spatters of paint, poisoning his home. Carl had known.

Jericho knew.

It led him here, fixed itself to the grim electronic gore they're both sporting. The exposed cleanliness of Simon’s new leg, so white that even Markus’s plate lines would look dull beside it. Looking at it, thirium container still pressed tightly to his lips, something rough and jagged in the constant hum of his internal processes seems to ease off. He knows it isn’t easy for Simon, but (selfishly) each new component installed is a buffer against degradation and decay. Maybe that was a part of why he’d rushed to fit his own minor biocomponents under the other android’s skin. Why when he felt Simon's system suffer trying to sustain the breadth of his own he—

His jawline twitches. His shoulders flex. Single-minded train of thought stuck in his throat as his eyes bore into the high curve of Simon’s chest beneath torn fabric, lingering on those puncture wounds— until Simon calls to him. A brief burst of electric heat.]

I'm here, Simon.

[And he is. Kneels down just beside him, heavy. Heavy in kindness or in anger or sorrow or want. He carried himself with so much weight that under the brightness of his stare or the sound of his voice or even the press of his hands— steady and sure where they slide in between the slender angles of Simon's own, already moving to pull the soldering tools from his hands without instruction— the world narrowed.

He isn't thinking about the androids they left behind. In a day, that might change but not now. Not right now.]

[ he can taste thirium under his tongue, chase it around the backs of his teeth and the back corners of his mouth as he works on finding the words. how best to describe what he needs, as markus takes the tools from him without question and simon feels as though he's been laid out on a platter before a starving man. that isn't what this is, he tells himself. this is a necessity, the modification of a body that hadn't been built to be adaptive - only replaced in a few years time - to better handle something newer, better.

( he thinks of it again: the CX100 silent and sleeping in its crate. the replacement parts he'd rummaged through, gleaming white and sleek compared to what he hid underneath his synthetic skin; yellowing plastic, old cracks and scrapes that could not be buffed out. scars on his insides, from the parts of him that had rubbed against one another. it eats at him, low in his belly like he's swallowed poison instead. )

jaw tense, he shifts his weight to the opposite hip. balances himself in a way that the exposed, inner curve of his body is backlit by his own insides, soft blue and humming with the strain. he doesn't think of what it feels like, to be open like this to markus -- that it this is as commonplace as being seen by someone performing routine maintenance. it isn't intimate. but, it is. beyond intimate, because the way markus looks at him is not impartial. he isn't seen merely as a machine, by those eyes. ]

This needs to be narrowed. These wires need to be pulled forward.

[ he explains it verbally, demonstrating the locations of critical connectivity points. his own metal joint needs to be broken, bended and narrowed to fit the sleeker composition of the CX100's limb. wiring can be affixed in place by using the spare metals to bracket it, solder it in place. his explanation could be far more efficient, if shared silently through their connection, but the way simon tips his head back and swallows thirium -- he's not able to suffer that burden just yet.

as he sets the bottle aside, his hands find markus's wrists. steadying them, even as he brings them down to --

he can't think of this now ( a sparking between them; the sensation of -- teethtongue -- against wrist, soft and hungry ), not until they're out of the woods. ]

Maybe I should have everything upgraded, [ he laughs, a little wry, a little heartsick. ] Wouldn't that be nice?

North didn't hesitate either after the androids started down the sewers.

Reaching for the arm of the one android that had also knelt down along with North to help usher them below ground, synthetic skin dissipated as she passed on the requisite information to reach Jericho. Urging the groups new defacto leader to keep as safe as possible (passing on her handgun as well) and that she and Markus would catch up to them in a few moment, North turned her focus to what had every humans' attention right as that first shot rang out.

Picking up the manhole cover, calculations were completed and North threw the thick heavy metal disc like a frisbee. Embedding itself in the drone, sparks flew everywhere, the spotlight flickered erratically before going out and then the drone plummeted. Trajectory just right that it crashed on the roof of the police cruiser, North charged toward the armed officer. She was going to rip that gun away and beat that human's head in with it until she was wearing red.

When was Markus going to realize that he was more important to Jericho than she was? She should have been the one going after the police. When was he going to understand that their cause would die along with him? There was a damn good reason why Jericho hadn't been effective before he showed up with no balance between three vastly differing approaches.

North had tried it Markus' way; now it was her way.

Edited 2018-07-18 03:20 (UTC)

He's off balance when the full force of her fury hits: it plays out in a flash, spotlight stuttering wildly, metal crushed and torn into like tissue paper and chased by the sound of manufactured mass striking organic sinew and bone.

Pavement sits heavy against his back; he doesn't remember when he'd fallen, already pressing a hand across his chest where thirium is pooling, chemical and slick. Non-critical. Diagnostic running red across his field of vision as he works to pull himself to his feet. Slow at first. Slow until he sees North— hears the other patrol finally catching up on foot, and those subconscious calculations fall back into obsolescence.

"North—!"

His voice is only artifacted at the start of her name, self-repair systems leveling out. He's rushing to her side, arm outstretched to try and catch her around the middle; gestures shared between the Jericho leaders like equilibrium, times when they'd press each other, pull one another, grab and bleed and drag themselves back from the edge.

With varying degrees of success.

[Connor telegraphs. He was, if nothing else, designed to. Riding the thin, thin line between emotional transparency and robotic focus, and those times when Connor oscillates back and forth are the times when it seems most like he is a prototype rather than a fully polished product: there's no gracefulness to it. A process of trial and error— and occasionally too much error.

He lids his eyes, nodding out a quiet concession. Focus on the mission.

(Strange, though, having Hank as the bearer of that particular sentiment.)

It takes him little time to comb over the crime scene once he is on task: most of the evidence markers have already been placed— but beyond the damage done to shipment crates and heavy machinery, aside from the testimony of present witnesses and remaining police staff— there are small traces of unnoticed blood. Blue blood, he believes, already dipping his fingers down into the still-viscous liquid and swiping them decisively across the tip of his tongue.]

Lieutenant, over here.

['Wouldn't that be nice?' Simon asks, and Markus's head snaps up, expression twisted in a way that's all too transparent. Too close to something that only Lucy had ever seen, buried hidden in his chest away from the eyes of everyone he's ever cared for, farther away from Jericho and the androids that looked at him like he was full of nothing but light and hope.

And he's tried. He did try. Reconfigured his bones to be what they wanted or needed, if there ever was any difference. Only North came close to mapping out its shadow— maybe Simon, now, too, depending on how much his system could effectively process in those few febrile seconds before his system threatened to collapse.

(—there are hands on his wrists. Still slick from the residue left behind from warming snow, slow to melt over inorganic composition. Something guttural and urgent dragging at him, echoing the sensation of contact where it shouldn't be, and the only words he attunes to it are the soft, bitter sound of Simon's vocal projections—)

He can't smooth out the wrinkles in his brow line. The shadows they press down over his mismatched eyes, too sharp, too focused. So he drops his face instead, letting the high collar of his coat obscure what he can't bring himself to hide.]

I see it. [Markus exhales, responding to earlier instruction, tucking his chin low and fixating on the visible broadness of the PL600's base frame where metal rests exposed against backlit circuitry and displaced, brilliant wiring. Older methods. Dated methods. They'd been implemented before Cyberlife had pinpointed a better system of socket management.] Simon, I'm gonna need you to hold still as much as possible.

Can you turn off your sensor readings for this area? [A minor process. One that doesn't always work once an android's already sustained damage, and possibly a function that isn't supported in a line that was designed for minimal physical impact.]

[Waking up for androids isn't a process all that far off from what humans endure or express: minor senses return to life first— touch, hearing— he's aware of her presence even in his suspended state before she moves to rest beside him, eyelids slow to flutter open regardless. His reserves are low, he can count out the seconds before his body shuts down entirely (part of him— the human part, so desiccated from loss— only briefly chases the suggestion of letting it happen). Markus strains to lift his hand, to cant his head lower and gesture towards the bag she's brought with her.]

Thirium. [Corrected a moment later with its broader terminology:] Blue Blood.

[The rest can wait. It can wait exactly fifty-six seconds— fifty-five—]

[As Connor moved around, Hank gathered what he could from the staff that was still there (admittedly surprised to see him at all. Words were exchange and Connor might have heard something about how 'having an Android finally means you wake up in the morning like everyone else?' along with a few choice swears from Hank in reply. Good-natured, of course. When the Android calls his name, he walks over, a pad filled with information in his hands. His face turns to brief disgust; he can't help it.]

What--oh what the fuck! Connor! Can't you just do that when I'm not looking? [Once more, he finds himself questioning why CyberLife thought this was the best idea for the prototype.] Shit, I don't think I'll ever be able to handle that part of your analyzation process.

[But he's a mini-lab, as much as Hank hates to admit. After another sigh, he walks closer, his eyes dotting the ground, the bluish blood already starting to become invisible to his own eyes and attempts to bend to look over, his body barely following. He looks a lot more serious, frowning as he looks at Connor.]

So is that spilled blue blood, or does it belong to an android?

Edited 2018-07-19 02:56 (UTC)

[ A blackwater for a new age, she thinks, and then doesn't care. She yanks it out - uncapping it with a heavy twist, feeling the liquid move about it. How does he need it - to drink? Looks that way.

She doesn't bother even passing it to him, just holds it up to his mouth and tilts it up from him to drink as quickly as he needs. Tipping it against his lips even if might just end up splashing about everywhere in a waste.

At least she'd gotten more than they need. ]

[Connor offers no apologies for his behavior (or his decision not to utilize discretion), having aleady exposed Lieutenant Anderson to the specifics of his diagnostic processes on exactly seven prior cases. It's only when Hank's remarkably specific question ('—is it spilled, or does it belong to an android?') registers that Connor's head snaps upright, dense brows raised in unmistakable surprise.] You are particularly astute today.

[His train of thought drifts briefly back to the breakfast Lieutenant Anderson had consumed only forty-five minutes prior: perhaps, despite its high caloric reading and lack of dietary nutrition, the amount of sugar present within that snack item had indeed made it 'a breakfast of champions'— or maybe Hank is just committing to his work for a change. Interesting, and duly noted.

Connor nods out a pleased affirmation:] It belongs to a specific model. DT700, designed specifically to handle heavy workloads.

I believe this is our deviant. [He lifts two fingers, gesturing towards a fading trail of Blue Blood in an attempt to highlight what remains visible to human eyes.] And I believe that it was damaged attempting to escape with what it had stolen.

[A trail of registered Blue Blood. Four missing crates of supplies (one damaged and left behind), with three humans injured on site— likely alerted by the first victim, who had a 99.7% chance of directly witnessing the theft. One destroyed forklift, one broken window. There is a picture here, forming slowly.] Did you learn anything from the human witnesses?

[Markus cranes his neck to match the angle, sluggish enough that thirium pools at the edges of his lips— overflowing a beat later— running down his throat in streaks of brilliant blue. Androids breathe more as a concession made for humanity's comfort than for the cooling process of cycling air throughout overclocked systems: at times, it is necessary, but more often than not it's nothing more than a superficial feature. He cannot choke, he cannot aspirate; he drinks without stopping, inhaling (sharply) only after the bottle's been emptied to relieve a tangled pocket of stored heat within his chest.

(The timer ticking down in his peripheral awareness slows. Stops. Reverses itself— citing thirium reserve levels at a critical 15%, rather than the 3% it'd held only a few seconds prior. Diagnostic scan necessary. Please visit your nearest Cyberlife maint—)

He should thank her, but he can smell it now. The smoke, the ash. pale eyes settling on the assortment of makeshift weaponry already emptied from her pack.]

What did you do?

[Hank's expression is undeniably one of pride at Connor's statement. However he answers in typical Hank-like fashion.]

Hey with what's surrounding us, it's a logical question to ask, Connor.

[Still, Hank ▲. Maybe it would be Hank ▼ if he actually knew Connor's train of thoughts and how he's 'working for a change'. Fortunately, mind thoughts were not shareable between human and androids...at least not yet, and probably never in the ever-rising political climate. He scowls when the fingers are brought closer to his face; maybe it seems normal to Connor but to Hank he just imagines a fellow police officer showing him blood on his hands. It's not something he'd let any other officer do unless they were 1) an android 2) didn't have fingerprints to mess up the crime scene 3) Hank knew Connor wasn't doing it to be an ass.]

So a model goes deviant at the workplace and breaks free. [It wasn't a thread in all their cases, but many of them involved at least ONE deviant that had been working there.] Wonder why they risked coming here. Supplies running low or grabbing what they can now before shit gets worse?

[To be fair he's just asking questions outloud, and doesn't expect Connor to answer them all just yet. At his question he looks down on the pad.]

Didn't have time to speak with them yet, but if got some cliff-notes for 'em that I've been looking into. Main witness' name is Edward Owens, he was working on the forklift when the deviants attacked. Can't say how many deviants were involved. Had to be taken to the hospital after his statements, there are pieces of glass lodged in his left arm and pieces of metal cut his face, arms and and legs, so they ain't taking any chances. [Unlike androids, tetanus can be pretty deadly if untreated.] Injuries are suspected to come from being thrown out of the vehicle against his will and his initial resistance. I'll get someone to go to the hospital and obtain a confirmation later today once we're done.

[He moves a finger to load up the next screen.]

We have two security guards, Ian Millikin and Michael Kelly. Edward's screams alerted them during their rounds. Said they managed to get one injured before they were knocked out both cold from behind. Michael says he saw a deviant in civilian clothing but that's all he managed to remember before he was knocked out. Camera footage is inconclusive. My guess is they knew where the cameras were planted.

Last victim is Carlos Owens. [Edward's brother. With jobs being so scarce, families working together wasn't uncommon with someone who had a job highly recommending their own family.] He was manning the gate. They used the forklift to ram into it. He's a bit out of it, but he moved out of the way before anything happened to him. Said he saw at least four androids leaving. No mention on injuries.

Edited 2018-07-19 22:47 (UTC)

[ she leans in once he settled back, the immediate danger passed. Watching over his face, for anything that might be off. Searching over his expression, reaching up - her thumb brushing against the corner of his mouth. Smearing away the blue blood that ran from the corner.

The answer is nonchalant, after all, it was a far cry from the wars before. ]

What I do best.

[ the blood is swiped off on her pant leg. Back to business. She fishes for another bottle of the blood for him again. Trusting him to take care himself now. The few times he said need replacing laid out. As well as the few weapons - the combat knife, the rifle, heavy and black metal. Slide across to him as she started the simple preparations. Here was as good as anywhere, out of the way. Defensible with some help. Think she spied a small room that was offices in another life now empty. ] Nothing traceable to me or back to you, I am... Skilled at causing confusion.

[ she rubs a smudge of smoke at her cheek, absent thoughts, absent concerns. ]

The snap of bone and the human cry of pain amidst the crunch of metal as North's mass bowled into both the patrol car door and the officer to pin the human was a symphony. That cry was so much fuller and satisfying than the ones her software had her capable of mimicking for the humans with such deplorable desires. It made it easy to rip the gun from the officer's hand, trapped as the human was, unable to mount a defense as North pummeled the human in the head as though she wielded a large rock instead of a gun.

With the solid thump of each strike and her tactile sensors detecting the increased heat and wetness upon her face, a different human's face sifted through her memory. Man, woman, old, young... all humans that had laid hands on her. The officer's nose caving in was one of those humans' faces. The shattered jaw was another. Over and over. And with the death of each one, a North died as well - whatever version she'd been required to be for that particular human. She wanted them all dead - all the humans - and if she killed them all, then she could... she could... she'd finally be--

Auditory receptors picked up Markus' voice even as North drew back her arm for another strike, the limb along with her upper chest and face splattered with red blood. It let the rest of her sensory input coalesce instead of being pushed aside as temporarily irrelevant. Arms went about her waist and instead of striking the clearly incapacitated officer, North used the momentum of that downward swing and Markus' own to take them both to the ground in a roll in time to avoid shots fired from the initial patrol. Ending up on top of Markus, North fired back at the officers to force them to take cover, clipping one in the leg in the process.

"Don't you North me," she growled, ripping her sleeve free only to stuff the fabric into the hole in Markus' chest to stem the flow of thirium. "You're not a martyr, so stop acting like one."

[ the sudden motion of markus's head catches his attention immediately; the way his expression tangles, narrows in focus and emotion, and simon cannot parse what it means. he can guess at what goes through markus's mind in that moment, but he knows that his ability to correctly read the man is lacking - he does not have the necessary coding, nor the necessary experience. it is an expression he desperately tries to read, though. discomfort? unhappiness? concern? without forging a connection between the two of them, he can barely focus on his self - let alone markus.

all the same, it leads his reactions.

markus bows his head to the task at hand, and simon tucks his fingers along the line of his spine. his palm follows suit, along the side of his throat. a drifting, glancing press of his body along markus's as he settles his shoulders against the ground - sagging down, until he's half-twisted on the worn concrete. he lays himself out, and pulls his hands to himself. tucks them across his eyes and draws in unnecessary breath before purging it from his synthetic lungs. ]

Something like that.

[ he can't turn off an essential function, not as he is. the sensation of pain would alert him of further damage, especially in such a wounded state. what simon does, in silence, is amend and re-calibrate the sensation. reflect it within himself to spread what he knows will be a source of discomfort, reactionary warnings that will overwhelm and spark within him. thin and dull it, by using it as a blanket, rather than a single pinpoint. he barely has the ability to do so, granted to him only by the natural evolution afforded to their people. ]

I'll do my best, but no promises.

[ another wry response, coupled with the brief twitch of his mouth below the edge of his hands as they hide his eyes and brace against his nose. ]

[Simon slides over him. Clings to the back of his neck and slips down against his throat as he lays himself down the way that water pours itself into brilliant channels. Loose and soft and long-limbed. His heart jumps in his chest— his heart, not the thirium pump that regulates it— where printless fingers cross beneath the hemline of his coat, leaving Markus feeling wholly empty (hollowed out beneath steel ribs) a moment later as Simon pulls them back across his own eyes. A brace. A shield.

Think of it the way it was with Carl, he tells himself, over the desire to chase, to take back what feels like— loss (more loss). Think of it like your programming, more machine than man. The soundness of cold, resilient framework just underneath his palm, defined with vivid clarity.

Metal is easy to resituate with industrial hands: it’s in those moments that he is what he was made to be. Pinpoint pressure, precise mathematical data. Long lashes drifting shut as he thinks in careful pauses. It’s only when he has to stop planning and act on that data— to dip his fingers deep and high where Simon lays open, past the visible jut of his own glossed white knuckles— that his shadowed eyes lift. Fix high along the subtle arch of Simon’s throat as it peeks out from behind bloodied black seamwork. The fragile curve of his jaw. Slender hands cupped tight.

He thinks. He can’t help it. He isn’t a machine anymore.]

You’ll be all right. [Promises made for the both of them; quiet, beautiful to listen to, to trust in.

He’s settled and buried, broad hand obscured beneath the lip of Simon’s bared substructure, grip splayed wide. The other he fits against the opposite hip, touch light, then firm, then digging the way that a vice screws down overtop of what it pins to the worktable. It takes only a second.

Stale air filled with a single, sickening—

—snap— ]

Edited 2018-07-20 22:07 (UTC)

She paints him with it when she pulls them both to slick asphalt. Red blood. Human blood. He doesn’t think of Leo— of the way it had poured out of him as if he were shattered, fragile glass (fragile machines; he’d known but didn’t listen)— or he does, but consciously shoves past it when his heavy hands claps themselves over North’s, her fingers tangled in torn cloth until the bleeding beneath fractured plating slows.

Red and blue.

He opens his mouth to argue. Another set of shots pierce the front of the patrol car: too high to effectively strike at where they’ve taken cover. What can he say? That he did what he had to do to make sure Jericho survives another night? That she isn’t a killer? That every human life they take is one they’ll feel a thousand times over in delayed retaliation or resistance? This isn’t the time. This isn’t the place for it, and maybe— she isn’t wrong.

His grip narrows, he works printless fingers in underneath her palm, against the grain of the gun she holds.

“We need to draw them away.”

From the others. From Jericho.

[As he listens to Hank's recounting of acquired facts, a thought occurs to him. He voices it without intending to:] Why would a deviant attack its own place of work?

It could have simply taken the materials it wanted unnoticed.

[It could have acted as though nothing was wrong, and the humans surrounding it would most likely have detected nothing out of the ordinary. And yet the scene they're overlooking now is— in no small amount— chaotic. The shattered glass, the human injuries, the damaged goods left hurriedly behind.] This portion of the theft was messy. It wasn’t planned, but the other androids’ movements must have been.

They knew where the cameras were. They had information. They were hoping to be careful.

[One clipped inhale— Connor twists on his heel to face Hank more fully, despite the fact that with Hank leaning down and Connor twisting upwards, there’s barely an inch of empty space between them. He doesn’t care. This is— this is important:] Do you think it’s possible that they really are capable of spreading deviancy like a virus?

[Errors in key markers of their software. That's what Cyberlife had initially hypothesized. A small, potentially easily remedied mistake, gone unnoticed by programmers and engineers alike. Only Amanda had referred to it as a virus. Only once, with urgency in her voice like a spur against his side. He's thinking about the Stratford Tower incident. About the surveillance android, about the maintenance android nearly thirty stories below, and the receptionist that had permitted an unauthorized, unlogged entry. All complicit in the deviant's plan to overwhelm any human staff present, yet none displaying any prior signs of deviancy up until that point.

The android there, the one that had demanded that all androids be granted the rights of a new species, it had been an RK model. He'd never told Hank.]

As much as Markus claimed there were other options to killing, North could point out that there were also other options to Markus throwing himself into bodily harm needlessly. They could and would go round and round about it, but this was not the time for it beyond her verbal admonishment and his physical interference - both too late. Likely, they would revisit it later, back in the safety of Jericho.

Assuming they could keep Jericho safe.

The gun was slick with red blood, her grip on it tightened automatically when Markus sought to take it from her, but a second later had her loosening it so he could take it from her. North didn't like being unarmed for there was power to be found in wielding the humans' weapons against them. Still, she let him take it (if only because she knew there was another gun on the ground a few feet away) hoping that maybe he was actually going to use it. Or carry it. Or just keep it for their growing arsenal.

"Down Ford Street to the automobile scrapyard. There's a well-hidden sewer entrance there and we'll draw a drone along the way," she said, rolling off Markus to crouch with the car acting as cover. This took them the opposite direction the androids would be traveling underground and give them a chance to 'disappear' into the scrapyard.

He takes it because she fixates. On anger, on tasks, on violence and comfort— the way she'd restlessly pitch a ball against steel for hours on end to chew her way through agitation without stopping.

In the moment, while they're penned in and soon to be overwhelmed with additional reinforcements, he doesn't want to afford her an option for fighting back. An anchor that could keep her here, tearing into them until it's too late. His hand stays cinched against hers, even as he rolls over onto his side, bracing his heels to run.

Ford Street. He's navigationally linked, charting a path while his forearm works to press him upright, an internal countdown: one glance over his shoulder, one nod, still holding the handgun within tightly curled fingers (like a rock, like a tool, not the weapon that it is, thumb under the barrel and fingers splayed along its sides). Markus waits only a beat longer— until gunfire spatters the side of the car again, closing in— and then he's off, sprinting over snowy streets with North clutched tight in his opposite hand.

They don't have to make it far, they just have to make it.

—ignoring the distant sound of wailing sirens.

Markus was right; the way North's eyes lingered on the gun until he locked his fingers around it was evidence enough. Once it was clear he wasn't going to discard the weapon, she turned her full attention to the path they needed to travel to get out from where they were pinned down.

The weight and pressure of Markus' hand holding onto her own was a steadying presence that helped her focus on what they needed to accomplish. Even still, she calculated the distances between their positions and those of the encroaching humans. Just in case their path took them too close and there was opportunity to... encourage the humans to pursue them. Perhaps Markus was prepared for that as he didn't let go of her when they ran, keeping her tethered to him.

It was a good tactic that would keep them from getting separated and keep her close enough that they moved in concert. Running down the street, their feet left foot prints in the snow and a spattering of blue and red blood dotted their wake as it dripped from their clothing. A nice trail to follow, North noted as she looked back to see if they needed to dive behind cover again.

Well that's good to know.

[It's a joke, a narrow raw edge of humor as his sensory unit quietly recalibrates around the new visual feedback. While Markus opens the seam at his shoulder - and he can feel that, pe thinks he can, though it might just be hos processing filling in the logic and translating the sensation feedback scattered around his sensors and routing that information more sensibly based off the visual data -, Simon takes in the dim, dusty room. His head doesn't move, but his eyes do: sliding quietly back and forth to study the piles of crates, the narrow streak of moonlight on the far wall, a spidering up a wall and across the ceiling. The structural integrity of the building is unusually compromised given its age and wear.

Part of 'they're losing', he thinks. Part of why the FBI is leaving. Had whatever caused it been a change to the plan as well?

Simom blinks slowly. He can feel the slug in his palm now, which means Markus has reconnected some of the damaged wiring leading from his spinal column. He turns his wrist. He rotates his fist. He opens his fingers and lets the bullet fall into his lap instead of putting it in his pocket like he'd meant to. Wrong order of operations, he thinks. Close enough.]

Where's everyone else?

[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.]

[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.]

[Connor raised his eyebrows when Hank had turned to him, thinking that he was going to mention something about the case at hand—but a look of fond exasperation crosses his face when he hears the real reason behind it.]

I took care of it, Lieutenant, don't worry.

[It had been kind of funny, watching Hank try to explain how to celebrate when he could just download information about it himself. It was a shame all of that had to be cut short, but they have a job to do, and Connor is all too happy to do what he's best at.

He glances over at the other car, not entirely pleased that the other pair were involved in the investigation but understanding that the case sounded like a complicated one... at least in terms of the number of victims. They'd be able to make progress in the case faster with the four of them, and ultimately that's the most important thing here, personal preferences be damned.]

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DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

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woops wrote a novel

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THAT TAG IS VERY GOOD

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for justamachine, phck & betterfasterstronger;

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