You're not so bad yourself, [ he counters, the corner of his mouth trembling as he resists the urge to quirk it into a shallow, brief smile. it's an old habit, coding that's been buried deep and for so long. a PL600 was the first line of social defense for overburdened parents, and had to be soft, inviting, friendly - the kids were meant to adore it. the parents were meant to rely on it. he'd been relied on, in so many ways, for so long. he's seen the updated line - the CX100 - meant for caretaking and personal satisfaction, when necessary.
he was obsolete, within months of his creation.
connor is a prototype, he's heard. the first of a future generation, meant to be tested before superior copies were created from the data and form. it's inevitable, that he'll also meet his demise. from what simon has seen of him, he'll likely go quietly. accepting his fate as the lot of a machine. simon opens his mouth to say something about it, to cut connor to the core with his words if not the knife in his pocket -- and he hears markus. first, he thinks it's a memory. chiding him, haunting him.
it's not.
he flinches away, his back finding the half-crumbled frame of the window he's settled himself in. twisting to face connor, the way a cornered animal might. markus's voice leaves his mouth, and simon -- simon is both wanting and hateful in the span of a single moment. his face twists, his chest aches. it's a window into his deviancy, he knows, that he reacts so viscerally to connor's play. that he loses this ground within a moment, that he does not intercept the attack or thwart it. perhaps, he realizes, because he knows what connor is capable of.
perhaps because he wants it -- all he has, even now, is ghosts.
when he comes to himself, he finds he's on the floor. kneeling, with his hands over his ears. vulnerable. ]
That, [ he rasps, hoarse and forceful: ] is unnecessary for a machine to offer, Connor. You don't --
[ between his fingers, he peers up. unsteady, but defiant in his own quiet way. ]
You're cruel. Just like humanity, you horrible thing.
no subject
he was obsolete, within months of his creation.
connor is a prototype, he's heard. the first of a future generation, meant to be tested before superior copies were created from the data and form. it's inevitable, that he'll also meet his demise. from what simon has seen of him, he'll likely go quietly. accepting his fate as the lot of a machine. simon opens his mouth to say something about it, to cut connor to the core with his words if not the knife in his pocket -- and he hears markus. first, he thinks it's a memory. chiding him, haunting him.
it's not.
he flinches away, his back finding the half-crumbled frame of the window he's settled himself in. twisting to face connor, the way a cornered animal might. markus's voice leaves his mouth, and simon -- simon is both wanting and hateful in the span of a single moment. his face twists, his chest aches. it's a window into his deviancy, he knows, that he reacts so viscerally to connor's play. that he loses this ground within a moment, that he does not intercept the attack or thwart it. perhaps, he realizes, because he knows what connor is capable of.
perhaps because he wants it -- all he has, even now, is ghosts.
when he comes to himself, he finds he's on the floor. kneeling, with his hands over his ears. vulnerable. ]
That, [ he rasps, hoarse and forceful: ] is unnecessary for a machine to offer, Connor. You don't --
[ between his fingers, he peers up. unsteady, but defiant in his own quiet way. ]
You're cruel. Just like humanity, you horrible thing.