[ simon curls the remaining fingers of his wounded hand against his palm, fits the fist against his ribs where the worst of the damage remains hidden from markus's eyes, and he rises in markus's shadow. using the boxes behind his shoulders to brace himself, moving to shaky legs, already once-repaired after the stratford tower. he'd clawed his way home to jericho then, there was little doubt that the other androids could do it again. they could find their way here, they could find their way to other boltholes.
in markus's wake, he half-stumbles down the stairs to the floor that stretched between them. a steady, quiet gait that he refuses to pick up. it feels like a funeral march, more than the act of joining their leader's side. ]
Winning doesn't matter much, to the dead.
[ markus won't sit, that informs simon enough of what must be done. it thunders in his throat and his temples, it shakes his wounded interior and vibrates the malfunctioning peripherals of his eyes. he's in worse shape than he thought, and markus can't be in any better condition. self-repair or not, there's only so far it will carry him. he bends down and rifles absently through cloth, drawing up enough white, gauzy material to serve as a flag.
something that would flutter well. it's pretty enough. ] We've all told you how important you are, Markus. Before you came to us, we had no direction, no purpose. You brought us a vision like sunlight, [ quietly, he drapes the length of cloth around the other android's shoulders, tucks the ends so that they hung like a vestment across the smears of blue blood on markus's clothes. ] We didn't have a chance without you. We won't have a chance without you.
[ it's tender, the way that he rests his hand on marksus's face. the whole one, synthetic skin bleeding back to expose the white of his casing. ]
Markus, you've always been the message.
[ markus, who speaks from the heart. markus, who took the LED from his temple moments earlier, and thus does not receive the warning that simon is about to overload his system for the second time that night. pressing his wounded hand through the bullet holes in markus's coat and shirt to touch the exposed wiring through his synthetic skin. fitting the thumb of his whole hand under markus's chin. for a moment, he burns electric blue, from the tips of his fingers to the depths of his eyes, reaching for that beautiful connection they all feel for markus.
it's there, in simon's processes as he hits markus's consciousness where it's still vulnerable: an acceptance of a weight that he'll never be rid of. the greatest sin, committed in the name of love. ]
no subject
in markus's wake, he half-stumbles down the stairs to the floor that stretched between them. a steady, quiet gait that he refuses to pick up. it feels like a funeral march, more than the act of joining their leader's side. ]
Winning doesn't matter much, to the dead.
[ markus won't sit, that informs simon enough of what must be done. it thunders in his throat and his temples, it shakes his wounded interior and vibrates the malfunctioning peripherals of his eyes. he's in worse shape than he thought, and markus can't be in any better condition. self-repair or not, there's only so far it will carry him. he bends down and rifles absently through cloth, drawing up enough white, gauzy material to serve as a flag.
something that would flutter well. it's pretty enough. ] We've all told you how important you are, Markus. Before you came to us, we had no direction, no purpose. You brought us a vision like sunlight, [ quietly, he drapes the length of cloth around the other android's shoulders, tucks the ends so that they hung like a vestment across the smears of blue blood on markus's clothes. ] We didn't have a chance without you. We won't have a chance without you.
[ it's tender, the way that he rests his hand on marksus's face. the whole one, synthetic skin bleeding back to expose the white of his casing. ]
Markus, you've always been the message.
[ markus, who speaks from the heart. markus, who took the LED from his temple moments earlier, and thus does not receive the warning that simon is about to overload his system for the second time that night. pressing his wounded hand through the bullet holes in markus's coat and shirt to touch the exposed wiring through his synthetic skin. fitting the thumb of his whole hand under markus's chin. for a moment, he burns electric blue, from the tips of his fingers to the depths of his eyes, reaching for that beautiful connection they all feel for markus.
it's there, in simon's processes as he hits markus's consciousness where it's still vulnerable: an acceptance of a weight that he'll never be rid of. the greatest sin, committed in the name of love. ]