[ said with the tone of something that wishes it were not the case - that wishes Connor knew the moment of his destruction, that he remembered it, that he feared it. he wishes that Connor knew what it was like, to fear something. to fear an end, to know himself as an individual and not one spark in a long line of continued consciousness. that was where they differed, no matter how mechanically Simon's neural patterns operated: Connor had chosen to remain part of a whole, he had turned aside the notion of individuality and humanity.
and Simon despised him for having that choice in the first place. despised, and adored. fighting his own internal battle while juggling both sentiments.
the JB300, their companion-in-arms at the Straford Tower had been the one to give away Jericho's location. Markus's life, and Simon has no doubt that some guile and trickery was involved. the nameless JB300 had been such an earnest soul, had looked upon Markus with bright eyes and steely determination. he blamed and didn't blame it for its part in their leader's death, because the fault lay solely in the hands of those who instructed Connor. those who sought to eliminate the flaw in their design.
so, while his mouth tightens, his eyes fluttering as he recommits the painful parts of his memory and heart to a quiet corner where they may be interred and left to decay, he works hard not to let the mention of Markus topple him. his hands drift, along the side of the rifle - one falling to his outer thigh, the other to the sill behind him. the rifle tips across his lap skillfully, and he nudges it aside with his ankle. Connor's moved in too close now for it to be useful. he lets it rest against the wall, and focuses his hands on other purchases.
( the slim wire hanging behind his hip, the knife in his pocket. ) ] You can't help me, Connor. And it's okay, you don't have to.
[ said with the patience of a saint; a parental figure that speaks with serenity to a yearning child. ]
I'll let you keep me company, though. For a little while longer, at least. You'll stay here, won't you?
[ it's likely that he cannot disguise the way his hand hovers over his thigh, waiting to pull the knife from its hidden sheath when Connor draws near enough. he cannot easily disguise the resentment and admiration that wars in his eyes when he fixates on Connor - his deviancy fighting bleakly with his artificial instincts. ]
no subject
[ said with the tone of something that wishes it were not the case - that wishes Connor knew the moment of his destruction, that he remembered it, that he feared it. he wishes that Connor knew what it was like, to fear something. to fear an end, to know himself as an individual and not one spark in a long line of continued consciousness. that was where they differed, no matter how mechanically Simon's neural patterns operated: Connor had chosen to remain part of a whole, he had turned aside the notion of individuality and humanity.
and Simon despised him for having that choice in the first place. despised, and adored. fighting his own internal battle while juggling both sentiments.
the JB300, their companion-in-arms at the Straford Tower had been the one to give away Jericho's location. Markus's life, and Simon has no doubt that some guile and trickery was involved. the nameless JB300 had been such an earnest soul, had looked upon Markus with bright eyes and steely determination. he blamed and didn't blame it for its part in their leader's death, because the fault lay solely in the hands of those who instructed Connor. those who sought to eliminate the flaw in their design.
so, while his mouth tightens, his eyes fluttering as he recommits the painful parts of his memory and heart to a quiet corner where they may be interred and left to decay, he works hard not to let the mention of Markus topple him. his hands drift, along the side of the rifle - one falling to his outer thigh, the other to the sill behind him. the rifle tips across his lap skillfully, and he nudges it aside with his ankle. Connor's moved in too close now for it to be useful. he lets it rest against the wall, and focuses his hands on other purchases.
( the slim wire hanging behind his hip, the knife in his pocket. ) ] You can't help me, Connor. And it's okay, you don't have to.
[ said with the patience of a saint; a parental figure that speaks with serenity to a yearning child. ]
I'll let you keep me company, though. For a little while longer, at least. You'll stay here, won't you?
[ it's likely that he cannot disguise the way his hand hovers over his thigh, waiting to pull the knife from its hidden sheath when Connor draws near enough. he cannot easily disguise the resentment and admiration that wars in his eyes when he fixates on Connor - his deviancy fighting bleakly with his artificial instincts. ]
I'd like that very much.