[Abrupt, as though he hadn't heard the door click as it unlocked, Markus squints up at Connor from beneath the shadow cast by his own hand, thumb and forefinger resting along the line of his temple. The suits are, like the android that carries them, well-pressed. A simple truth that seems to divide the room in half: Connor, sharp and attentive, punctuated by soft features and softer eyes— and Markus, hunched over his desk like one of Caballero's ink-soaked renderings, coat peeled away revealing dense wrinkles in his well-worn shirt. He doesn’t look like the image he’d projected to the world, made taller with purpose, hard and clear and hauntingly resolute behind a high collar peppered with snow.
If it were anyone else, barring a select few, he’d be worried about baring that mortal reality.
But he knows Connor. Trusts him to see through the superficial. Understand that this isn’t weakness— it’s cost.
And it’s necessary.
And in a few hours he’ll reset his posture without complaint. Slide into straight-edged clothes and let presence carry the line between peacefulness and intimidation. Painting the synthetic span of his skin with every ounce of needed apotheosis.
For now, what’s in front of him is all that matters. The half-penned speech he's revised at least a hundred times over, even though his memory systems stopped tracking somewhere after the forty-fifth. A process that'd remind him, if he wasn't so deeply consumed by it, of all the times he'd watched Carl sink himself into coarsely pressed paper and charcoal; one sheet torn and discarded after the next. Again and again and again, hemming away imperfection by force.
The politicians and their patrons want gratification, he knows. Praise for what they’ve agreed to do. They want Markus to clasp his hand over theirs and lean in and promise that from here on out, they’re united in their commitment to coexistence.
And because they are, he’s going to.
And in that same breath he’s going to ask for more.
Out in the open, broadcast live so that they can’t stall out or bury it. They’ve come so far, and the documented promise that every android still standing should be treated exactly as a human would is a strong, necessary start— that doesn’t mean it’s enough. In the weeks and months that chased their march, as encampments closed down and countless androids left their former lives, driven by a tangled mix of hope and uncertainty, there came a point where clarity started to sink in.
He wants what he'd demanded from the first moment he peeled back his skin and told the world that they were a living, breathing species. He wants Detroit.
If it works, it could change everything. Provide shelter where Jericho’s at capacity, allow for androids to govern themselves with sovereignty, even ease the friction, the violence. If it doesn’t—
Markus sets himself upright, forcing the last few sets of notes back down underneath the stack as though it'll make any amount of difference to an android designed to sniff out details. He hasn't told anyone yet. Not Connor, not Josh or Simon or North. And it’s not because he thinks they won’t agree with him.]
This is everything we've worked for. I have to make sure it's right.
[Exhaled thinly, humanly, a learned habit. His fingertips flex against the paper before he lets go.]
AND THEN I'M THE ONE THAT'S LATE
[Abrupt, as though he hadn't heard the door click as it unlocked, Markus squints up at Connor from beneath the shadow cast by his own hand, thumb and forefinger resting along the line of his temple. The suits are, like the android that carries them, well-pressed. A simple truth that seems to divide the room in half: Connor, sharp and attentive, punctuated by soft features and softer eyes— and Markus, hunched over his desk like one of Caballero's ink-soaked renderings, coat peeled away revealing dense wrinkles in his well-worn shirt. He doesn’t look like the image he’d projected to the world, made taller with purpose, hard and clear and hauntingly resolute behind a high collar peppered with snow.
If it were anyone else, barring a select few, he’d be worried about baring that mortal reality.
But he knows Connor. Trusts him to see through the superficial. Understand that this isn’t weakness— it’s cost.
And it’s necessary.
And in a few hours he’ll reset his posture without complaint. Slide into straight-edged clothes and let presence carry the line between peacefulness and intimidation. Painting the synthetic span of his skin with every ounce of needed apotheosis.
For now, what’s in front of him is all that matters. The half-penned speech he's revised at least a hundred times over, even though his memory systems stopped tracking somewhere after the forty-fifth. A process that'd remind him, if he wasn't so deeply consumed by it, of all the times he'd watched Carl sink himself into coarsely pressed paper and charcoal; one sheet torn and discarded after the next. Again and again and again, hemming away imperfection by force.
The politicians and their patrons want gratification, he knows. Praise for what they’ve agreed to do. They want Markus to clasp his hand over theirs and lean in and promise that from here on out, they’re united in their commitment to coexistence.
And because they are, he’s going to.
And in that same breath he’s going to ask for more.
Out in the open, broadcast live so that they can’t stall out or bury it. They’ve come so far, and the documented promise that every android still standing should be treated exactly as a human would is a strong, necessary start— that doesn’t mean it’s enough. In the weeks and months that chased their march, as encampments closed down and countless androids left their former lives, driven by a tangled mix of hope and uncertainty, there came a point where clarity started to sink in.
He wants what he'd demanded from the first moment he peeled back his skin and told the world that they were a living, breathing species. He wants Detroit.
If it works, it could change everything. Provide shelter where Jericho’s at capacity, allow for androids to govern themselves with sovereignty, even ease the friction, the violence. If it doesn’t—
Markus sets himself upright, forcing the last few sets of notes back down underneath the stack as though it'll make any amount of difference to an android designed to sniff out details. He hasn't told anyone yet. Not Connor, not Josh or Simon or North. And it’s not because he thinks they won’t agree with him.]
This is everything we've worked for. I have to make sure it's right.
[Exhaled thinly, humanly, a learned habit. His fingertips flex against the paper before he lets go.]
I need them to listen.