even as non-essential processes terminate abruptly in the wake of the synchronization, the complex language that passes between them where they've connected fills him in a way that he knows humanity could never comprehend. binary that is full to bursting with rapid conversation, a poet's self-portrait spoken blindly against his bared casing, the stimuli that passes lightning-quick between all points of white-hot contact where markus feeds into him and he desperately feeds back into markus. gently copying over their leader's emotions and thoughts and core functions into a tidy little data package that sits like a mote of divinity, stored lovingly somewhere in the depths of simon's mind.
they trade themselves, through contact. copied data, easily accessed in the form of a crystal clear memory. he has more than one memory of markus - from the moment that they had met, to this point in time where he has connected to him and drawn him in. felt him settle into his alloy bones and the worn corridors of his coding. what little he is, he partitions away and fills himself with markus instead. his core stutters and glows, soft as a nightlight - his structure designed to simulate comfort for young children, not to compose himself as a companion might. yet, here he was.
bare. his nose bleeding, a soft drip-drip that came with overburdened subroutines that struggled to follow markus's lead. markus, who could easily copy twenty of simon into himself and still have room for everyone else in jericho. markus, who was full of voices and minds. he carried their people with him, at all times. and simon, old and decaying at the rate of winter's first snowfall. ] Josh. It was Josh who taught me.
[ he's laid open. in more ways than one. ]
I met him, before I met North. All he could do was recite his lectures, he just wanted - so badly - to do as he was designed.
[ gentle, soft, wonderful josh who had fallen into simon's hands and wept raggedly after he finished hundreds of hours of ethics and philosophy lecturing to the single individual who sat by him patiently and listened. it had been something cathartic, despite how wounded and heartsick josh had been after completing his task. simon thought of him now, the way he thought of her -- hoping in his secret heart that they were okay. knowing that if they weren't... he could not bring himself to regret stealing markus away, the way they had all decided to. ]
I'm not much of anything, really.
[ there's a light, wry laugh that escapes him.
it shivers out, as he wipes his nose with a dark sleeve. ] I've become a very good thief, though.
no subject
even as non-essential processes terminate abruptly in the wake of the synchronization, the complex language that passes between them where they've connected fills him in a way that he knows humanity could never comprehend. binary that is full to bursting with rapid conversation, a poet's self-portrait spoken blindly against his bared casing, the stimuli that passes lightning-quick between all points of white-hot contact where markus feeds into him and he desperately feeds back into markus. gently copying over their leader's emotions and thoughts and core functions into a tidy little data package that sits like a mote of divinity, stored lovingly somewhere in the depths of simon's mind.
they trade themselves, through contact. copied data, easily accessed in the form of a crystal clear memory. he has more than one memory of markus - from the moment that they had met, to this point in time where he has connected to him and drawn him in. felt him settle into his alloy bones and the worn corridors of his coding. what little he is, he partitions away and fills himself with markus instead. his core stutters and glows, soft as a nightlight - his structure designed to simulate comfort for young children, not to compose himself as a companion might. yet, here he was.
bare. his nose bleeding, a soft drip-drip that came with overburdened subroutines that struggled to follow markus's lead. markus, who could easily copy twenty of simon into himself and still have room for everyone else in jericho. markus, who was full of voices and minds. he carried their people with him, at all times. and simon, old and decaying at the rate of winter's first snowfall. ] Josh. It was Josh who taught me.
[ he's laid open. in more ways than one. ]
I met him, before I met North. All he could do was recite his lectures, he just wanted - so badly - to do as he was designed.
[ gentle, soft, wonderful josh who had fallen into simon's hands and wept raggedly after he finished hundreds of hours of ethics and philosophy lecturing to the single individual who sat by him patiently and listened. it had been something cathartic, despite how wounded and heartsick josh had been after completing his task. simon thought of him now, the way he thought of her -- hoping in his secret heart that they were okay. knowing that if they weren't... he could not bring himself to regret stealing markus away, the way they had all decided to. ]
I'm not much of anything, really.
[ there's a light, wry laugh that escapes him.
it shivers out, as he wipes his nose with a dark sleeve. ] I've become a very good thief, though.