[ simon clings to it; clutches the embers of markus's voice, in the way that he will never be able to truly capture the essence of their fallen leader. connor is a facsimile of him, gifted with his voice but stripped of the passion, the empathy, the vibrance of markus's life - and that is what keeps simon from collapsing senselessly into those dangerous arms. they're still there, enfolding him, capturing him - every move he makes is a dangerous one. it could end up with him too far gone, unable to find his escape route.

he nearly makes his move, when connor's mouth shoves against his own.

it is, to say the least, a pseudo-electric shock to his system. the suddenness of it, the clarity with which he knows that this is not markus, no matter how his mind tries to delude himself into accepting that part of markus survives with connor -- because it doesn't. it's just a false voice, and he is far too close. swept up in the wake of a dangerous, highly-advanced machine that has either called his bluff ( no, he begs nothing in particular, not that ) or is aligning himself for the kill.

simon slips his mouth free, and makes his move: ] Is that what you require, Connor?

[ the words are mechanically sweet, the hiss of something built to please. ]

Do you find this behavior acceptable? Vulnerable, submissive before you? We've both been made for a task, after all.

[ he just needs. one crack in that armor. ]