[In advancing, his occular components are better able to acclimate to the deep shadows that surround them. He sees more of the deviant's face now, how slivers of cast light sink into the hollows of its eyes. Blue. Its LED is blue. It is focused, and so it is also unafraid, defying the standard reactive fear that defines all deviants (aside from one model in particular. two, now). It wears—
His left heel scuffs sharply, touching dust-slick flooring with more pressure than he'd originally intended, interrupting the smoothness of his stride.
—it wears the fatal evidence of his confirmed success. Heavy canvas, a reinforced collar, twin diamonds etched in white on one sleeve. His memory is wholly accurate; he does not need to strain to recognize the exact positioning of each puncture mark, left intentionally unrepaired.
A PL600 unit. A domestic assistant near the end of its lifespan, docile and rudimentary in function. Cyberlife's first real foray into accommodating the needs of working-class human families. And it is draped, purposefully, in the crown of Jericho.
A PL600. The target of his mission. The Deviant Leader.
(Yellow— red, red— ) He stops entirely. His handgun slants as he processes more than those visible details, forcing calculated logic into the incomplete picture they've compiled. This is an anomaly. This is— not the RK200’s transferred consciousness. Similar and too dissimilar. Too impossible. This is new.
Cyberlife would want it alive.
His priorities realign: assess, persuade, obtain.]
You’re right. I do understand.
[Connor's features are designed to be pleasing. His eyes are wide set and deep, and the thickened eyebrows that slant upwards above them only serve to highlight how innocuous he can make himself seem when necessary. A trait he exploits now with subtle shifts in tone and posture. In the way that he lifts his gun, flashing its side as his fingers relax and point skyward. A fired shot from the Deviant now would undoubtedly find its mark, but it would not prevent him from destroying it in retaliation.
It leaves them on even ground.]
Which is why I think we should...talk.
[He blinks twice. Three times. Rapidly, earnestly. The pause he inserts is thoughtful. Or it would be, if it were coming from a human, false breath pinned delicately against the back of his teeth.]
no subject
His left heel scuffs sharply, touching dust-slick flooring with more pressure than he'd originally intended, interrupting the smoothness of his stride.
—it wears the fatal evidence of his confirmed success. Heavy canvas, a reinforced collar, twin diamonds etched in white on one sleeve. His memory is wholly accurate; he does not need to strain to recognize the exact positioning of each puncture mark, left intentionally unrepaired.
A PL600 unit. A domestic assistant near the end of its lifespan, docile and rudimentary in function. Cyberlife's first real foray into accommodating the needs of working-class human families. And it is draped, purposefully, in the crown of Jericho.
A PL600. The target of his mission. The Deviant Leader.
(Yellow— red, red— ) He stops entirely. His handgun slants as he processes more than those visible details, forcing calculated logic into the incomplete picture they've compiled. This is an anomaly. This is— not the RK200’s transferred consciousness. Similar and too dissimilar. Too impossible. This is new.
Cyberlife would want it alive.
His priorities realign: assess, persuade, obtain.]
You’re right. I do understand.
[Connor's features are designed to be pleasing. His eyes are wide set and deep, and the thickened eyebrows that slant upwards above them only serve to highlight how innocuous he can make himself seem when necessary. A trait he exploits now with subtle shifts in tone and posture. In the way that he lifts his gun, flashing its side as his fingers relax and point skyward. A fired shot from the Deviant now would undoubtedly find its mark, but it would not prevent him from destroying it in retaliation.
It leaves them on even ground.]
Which is why I think we should...talk.
[He blinks twice. Three times. Rapidly, earnestly. The pause he inserts is thoughtful. Or it would be, if it were coming from a human, false breath pinned delicately against the back of his teeth.]