[Markus could be convincing. He had a way of selling concepts and ideas that made people listen against even their own predilections. But when he agrees with Simon this time, it's flat. Distracted for how much he's focusing on doing exactly what he doesn't need to, expression not all that far off from the image Simon's already constructed in his mind.
Because logic is what drives machines. It defines their movements, their needs, their every last pattern of behavior and priority. Deviancy didn't always come as a choice, but it came with a choice: to break away from an internal system of rules and regulation and value more than just cold competency. To value themselves, to value others—
The way he values the components underneath his fingers. The idea that Simon, beyond his own recovery, shouldn't be forced to perpetually house the thing that had almost destroyed him.
(Simon, who'd led Jericho for years. He'd earned the respect of their people, long, long before Markus had stumbled blindly into their world. He deserved better.)
The first attempt at wrenching it free ends with the sharp snap of plastic fingers clicking together against empty air. Too much strength, not enough leverage to counter how violently the metal framework has been dented. He reaches up with his other hand, tucking Simon's jaw in against his palm without asking. Catches the lip of the bullet, twisting first, against his hold and the grip he's keeping on Simon and—
It snaps free with a thin, vacuous noise.
Markus releases Simon entirely in that moment, directly pressing aside the other android's fingers to place the bullet down into the center of his hand. Something to keep, something to throw away: a waypoint, a victory, a piece of metal— defined only by his own needs and expectations. Things Markus isn't about to dictate.
He picks up the optical fibers. Plucks out the burned components, secures a new length of cording, internally measuring out exactly how much he'll need. It hisses faintly when it connects, carrying new life in the form of a subtle charge. The plating he replaces, along with the attached eye and iris. Clears away the dust. The Blue Blood. The cracked plastic. Smooths it down with the edge of his thumb, slowly coaxing nanoskin back into place.
For now, it'll have to be enough.]
You should be seeing a slight improvement. How's it feel?
no subject
[Markus could be convincing. He had a way of selling concepts and ideas that made people listen against even their own predilections. But when he agrees with Simon this time, it's flat. Distracted for how much he's focusing on doing exactly what he doesn't need to, expression not all that far off from the image Simon's already constructed in his mind.
Because logic is what drives machines. It defines their movements, their needs, their every last pattern of behavior and priority. Deviancy didn't always come as a choice, but it came with a choice: to break away from an internal system of rules and regulation and value more than just cold competency. To value themselves, to value others—
The way he values the components underneath his fingers. The idea that Simon, beyond his own recovery, shouldn't be forced to perpetually house the thing that had almost destroyed him.
(Simon, who'd led Jericho for years. He'd earned the respect of their people, long, long before Markus had stumbled blindly into their world. He deserved better.)
The first attempt at wrenching it free ends with the sharp snap of plastic fingers clicking together against empty air. Too much strength, not enough leverage to counter how violently the metal framework has been dented. He reaches up with his other hand, tucking Simon's jaw in against his palm without asking. Catches the lip of the bullet, twisting first, against his hold and the grip he's keeping on Simon and—
It snaps free with a thin, vacuous noise.
Markus releases Simon entirely in that moment, directly pressing aside the other android's fingers to place the bullet down into the center of his hand. Something to keep, something to throw away: a waypoint, a victory, a piece of metal— defined only by his own needs and expectations. Things Markus isn't about to dictate.
He picks up the optical fibers. Plucks out the burned components, secures a new length of cording, internally measuring out exactly how much he'll need. It hisses faintly when it connects, carrying new life in the form of a subtle charge. The plating he replaces, along with the attached eye and iris. Clears away the dust. The Blue Blood. The cracked plastic. Smooths it down with the edge of his thumb, slowly coaxing nanoskin back into place.
For now, it'll have to be enough.]
You should be seeing a slight improvement. How's it feel?