[Electric. Humming. The brush of connective circuitry finds him as Simon's systems level out, and he rocks forward over his knees more than his heels to catch it, occupying the space between Simon’s thigh and emptied hip socket. It’s feedback. (His own? No— he hadn’t carried Markus in his arms— it was Simon— Simon, Simon Simon, the name means less and more, it slides around inside of him between wires and vacant spaces, a spreading concacenation) Something digital corrupted and overwritten. His mind palace. His core.
‘We'll talk after. I promise..’ And it is after. And he—
Has never had a good sense of timing.
His hand sinks deeper, seeking out warm spaces filled with charged, living currents.]
I’ll go back if it doesn’t. [Markus exhales] I’ll get whatever you need.
[Tools, equipment, hardware, a body, an army, an end, a beginning, a gospel made of plastic and thirium and the beat, beat, beat of his regulated heart as it screams defiantly in the face of deafening loyalty. His side aches. Branded plastic stiff from where he'd been burned by Lucy's hands, and it doesn't twist as easily when he shifts across his forearms. He should have replaced it; he never did.
A lifetime ago (not so long ago) he knew how to stand still. How to exist quietly and ask for nothing, because he needed nothing. Now, he moves, so fast and so hard that his feet can't stop; they've gone over the edge. If Simon wants an apotheosis, then he'll press jacketed thorns into his housing and bleed until there's nothing left but absolution or ash. If Simon wants him, he'll— strip radiance from his false skin. He'll sink, heavy, hopeful, down into those arms.
That's the outcome that he wants. Simon was always better at it, giving himself up for their people.
He sets fractured metal aside. On his knees. Broad coat tails spread like wings across dirtied flooring. He nests his fingers in unsealed wiring, he puts his mouth to the concept of their consciousness, keyed so high that his own automated subprocesses suspend themselves. He could transfer what he knows of love and sex and violence— but he only pulls, working frayed titanium between his knuckles at a subduing pace. Explores through long seconds whatever Simon allows. To be inside of him and a part of him, working to the surface those vivid pangs of stop-start data flow, actively suppressed by Simon's conscious efforts.
Let go of it.
It’s his profile that he drops into the hollowed line of Simon's hip, just where it meets his thigh. Scuffing. Remorseless. He opens his mouth, draws fabric between his teeth.]
I can't believe we're gonna write smash here but these androids can't be stopped
‘We'll talk after. I promise..’ And it is after. And he—
Has never had a good sense of timing.
His hand sinks deeper, seeking out warm spaces filled with charged, living currents.]
I’ll go back if it doesn’t. [Markus exhales] I’ll get whatever you need.
[Tools, equipment, hardware, a body, an army, an end, a beginning, a gospel made of plastic and thirium and the beat, beat, beat of his regulated heart as it screams defiantly in the face of deafening loyalty. His side aches. Branded plastic stiff from where he'd been burned by Lucy's hands, and it doesn't twist as easily when he shifts across his forearms. He should have replaced it; he never did.
A lifetime ago (not so long ago) he knew how to stand still. How to exist quietly and ask for nothing, because he needed nothing. Now, he moves, so fast and so hard that his feet can't stop; they've gone over the edge. If Simon wants an apotheosis, then he'll press jacketed thorns into his housing and bleed until there's nothing left but absolution or ash. If Simon wants him, he'll— strip radiance from his false skin. He'll sink, heavy, hopeful, down into those arms.
That's the outcome that he wants. Simon was always better at it, giving himself up for their people.
He sets fractured metal aside. On his knees. Broad coat tails spread like wings across dirtied flooring. He nests his fingers in unsealed wiring, he puts his mouth to the concept of their consciousness, keyed so high that his own automated subprocesses suspend themselves. He could transfer what he knows of love and sex and violence— but he only pulls, working frayed titanium between his knuckles at a subduing pace. Explores through long seconds whatever Simon allows. To be inside of him and a part of him, working to the surface those vivid pangs of stop-start data flow, actively suppressed by Simon's conscious efforts.
Let go of it.
It’s his profile that he drops into the hollowed line of Simon's hip, just where it meets his thigh. Scuffing. Remorseless. He opens his mouth, draws fabric between his teeth.]