[Simon was respected. When he spoke, the people of Jericho — Markus included— listened. Whether they agreed or not, whether the conversation continued or ended, they listened. A constant that had existed long before Markus stumbled blindly into their world, and one that had persisted throughout its every successive growing pain: the influx of Detroit's unwanted, afraid, and battered, the androids that had met with Markus in darkened corridors— but first, before (and maybe above) all else, their hands had slid across the worn knuckles of a diligent PL600. He was level, where North was emboldened; objective, where Josh was wholly invested; close, when Markus had to be unattainably distant.
He'd earned his regard. All of it.
But they’re not a ship full of souls anymore. They’re two, undivided, on the last hinges of functionality. And Markus knows how to be stubborn. How to turn his eyes cold and edge his voice. His palm finds the center of Simon’s chest, and it holds.]
There’s not enough time. I’m more mobile, and I know how to track where I’m going.
[Sound pressure, against the straining of Simon's posture and balance, pressing back into those deep shadows. His free hand (with its damaged, latent grip) slides under the hold Simon keeps at the hem of his coat. Defensive. Protective.
no subject
[Simon was respected. When he spoke, the people of Jericho — Markus included— listened. Whether they agreed or not, whether the conversation continued or ended, they listened. A constant that had existed long before Markus stumbled blindly into their world, and one that had persisted throughout its every successive growing pain: the influx of Detroit's unwanted, afraid, and battered, the androids that had met with Markus in darkened corridors— but first, before (and maybe above) all else, their hands had slid across the worn knuckles of a diligent PL600. He was level, where North was emboldened; objective, where Josh was wholly invested; close, when Markus had to be unattainably distant.
He'd earned his regard. All of it.
But they’re not a ship full of souls anymore. They’re two, undivided, on the last hinges of functionality. And Markus knows how to be stubborn. How to turn his eyes cold and edge his voice. His palm finds the center of Simon’s chest, and it holds.]
There’s not enough time. I’m more mobile, and I know how to track where I’m going.
[Sound pressure, against the straining of Simon's posture and balance, pressing back into those deep shadows. His free hand (with its damaged, latent grip) slides under the hold Simon keeps at the hem of his coat. Defensive. Protective.
Resolute.]
I need you to trust me.