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