[—He has to leave them behind. The crates stocked full of androids at the warehouse, still locked in a deadened slumber behind sealed plastic, marked to be shipped off to Cyberlife directly.
They didn’t discuss it at the time, hurriedly scooping up whatever supplies and packages of thirium were within reach with shaking hands between looping patrols.
They don’t discuss it now, hours later, flexing their fingers in the dark. A single supply pack rests between them, filled to the brim with stacked bags of Blue Blood and biocomponents. Markus lifts another packet to his lips, drinking without restraint, chemical acidity washing over his tongue and cooling the span of his throat. His reserves are still low: forty six percent, but it's enough that his thirium regulator isn't whining hot in his chest, breathing out slow and shallow as the haze at the edge of his vision clears.
There are still warnings. Most of them insist on running a diagnostic scan to determine the (thirty seven) errors that have been detected since his last system reboot; Markus's attention slides past them all, resting on Simon's half-slumped form instead. A sharp contrast between saturated alerts and faded contours, worn through. Worn down.
For a little while, when they'd been flattened against the ground as searchlights crawled across the asphalt only a few inches in front of them, Simon had been slow to get up. So slow, Markus wondered briefly if he would make it.]
2/2
They didn’t discuss it at the time, hurriedly scooping up whatever supplies and packages of thirium were within reach with shaking hands between looping patrols.
They don’t discuss it now, hours later, flexing their fingers in the dark. A single supply pack rests between them, filled to the brim with stacked bags of Blue Blood and biocomponents. Markus lifts another packet to his lips, drinking without restraint, chemical acidity washing over his tongue and cooling the span of his throat. His reserves are still low: forty six percent, but it's enough that his thirium regulator isn't whining hot in his chest, breathing out slow and shallow as the haze at the edge of his vision clears.
There are still warnings. Most of them insist on running a diagnostic scan to determine the (thirty seven) errors that have been detected since his last system reboot; Markus's attention slides past them all, resting on Simon's half-slumped form instead. A sharp contrast between saturated alerts and faded contours, worn through. Worn down.
For a little while, when they'd been flattened against the ground as searchlights crawled across the asphalt only a few inches in front of them, Simon had been slow to get up. So slow, Markus wondered briefly if he would make it.]