[Smart. If there is anything to be gleaned from his surroundings and the patterns of behavior this android displays, it is that it is smart. Connor can access in no less than a fractional nanosecond the full specs of a standard PL600: its capacity for monitoring and addressing up to forty-five separate tasks at a time, how many commands it can process from both primary and non-primary users, the top speed of its central neural network— only an impressive 5.812 microseconds behind its more modern successor, the CX100.
What Cyberlife failed to ever catalog, however, is how objectively intelligent its caretaker series was designed to be. How effectively it could collect a broken revolution in its arms like a dying child, or engage with the android designed to neutralize it.
He knows, meeting the attentiveness of its stare, that he’s being asked to turn his hand, like this is a game shared between them.]
Once. [Connor folds finally, tipping his chin into his response. It is the truth. (There is a gravestone in his head. Serial number 313-248-317-52 emblazoned on his chest, beneath layers of human clothing)] It was at the Stratford Tower.
[A pause. Long, by android standards, tongue touching the backs of his teeth. Even as he talks, he works, weaving a tapestry of statistical information together. Overlaying fragments with his own compiled knowledge. Watching with starving ambition for any visible signs of weakness, though— ]
Your associate had— delayed me. I could not stop it from taking an officer’s gun as it fled.
I chose to protect Lieutenant Anderson.
[His predecessor hadn’t failed in his mission. Not outright, although it was treated as if he had: the deviant JB300 had been killed in the crossfire instead of being salvaged for Cyberlife, shut away inside of an evidence locker rather than released as the rightful property of a corporate enterprise. Connor’s physical loss was expensive, and the precinct’s general approval was ultimately not enough to offset the balance. Disappointment was the lesson that came from it.
There is a hierarchy
Humanity does not exist at the pinnacle of it.]
He was the one that warned you, wasn’t he?
[(—PL600 blood, he’d tasted it at the tower. Seen the reflection in Markus’s eyes when he'd reviewed the footage. Three shadows present, Three identical figures at the forefront of Jericho's ill-fated march, and the picture threads itself together as his eyes flicker as they blink like the shutter of a camera.)
Simon. Its name is Simon. And it has been made by his mistakes.]
no subject
What Cyberlife failed to ever catalog, however, is how objectively intelligent its caretaker series was designed to be. How effectively it could collect a broken revolution in its arms like a dying child, or engage with the android designed to neutralize it.
He knows, meeting the attentiveness of its stare, that he’s being asked to turn his hand, like this is a game shared between them.]
Once. [Connor folds finally, tipping his chin into his response. It is the truth. (There is a gravestone in his head. Serial number 313-248-317-52 emblazoned on his chest, beneath layers of human clothing)] It was at the Stratford Tower.
[A pause. Long, by android standards, tongue touching the backs of his teeth. Even as he talks, he works, weaving a tapestry of statistical information together. Overlaying fragments with his own compiled knowledge. Watching with starving ambition for any visible signs of weakness, though— ]
Your associate had— delayed me. I could not stop it from taking an officer’s gun as it fled.
I chose to protect Lieutenant Anderson.
[His predecessor hadn’t failed in his mission. Not outright, although it was treated as if he had: the deviant JB300 had been killed in the crossfire instead of being salvaged for Cyberlife, shut away inside of an evidence locker rather than released as the rightful property of a corporate enterprise. Connor’s physical loss was expensive, and the precinct’s general approval was ultimately not enough to offset the balance. Disappointment was the lesson that came from it.
There is a hierarchy
Humanity does not exist at the pinnacle of it.]
He was the one that warned you, wasn’t he?
[(—PL600 blood, he’d tasted it at the tower. Seen the reflection in Markus’s eyes when he'd reviewed the footage. Three shadows present, Three identical figures at the forefront of Jericho's ill-fated march, and the picture threads itself together as his eyes flicker as they blink like the shutter of a camera.)
Simon. Its name is Simon. And it has been made by his mistakes.]