There's nothing waiting for us in Chicago. [It's a fact, not an excuse. He's out of those. He's always been out of those— and there's nothing of his maker's hands in it: that right belongs to the home that breathed life into him, not electricity.
Simon rises, and for a moment Markus only watches him. Functionally held up by a difference in time and determination thicker than blood— or maybe purpose. Maybe purpose. His palms are flat against cold cement, legs tucked under his own center mass, chin high where he stares a single moment longer. Rooted. And uprooted. The inescapable dichotomy fused to the entirety of his timeline now.
But then he concedes. Warmth still lingering on his insulated casing from the deeper hollows of Simon's sweet-soft chassis.
He rises, and knowingly doesn't reach for Simon in that fragile moment. It's the supplies laying nearby, the ones he'd abandoned in favor of a single request, that he returns to. Packs the backpack with thirium and spare casing components, packets of fasteners and all the tools they'd left spilled across the ground.
Simon's old leg, disconnected and lifeless, he picks up last. Spilled thirium will dry. The footprints outside already covered by wafting snow. This, though, heavy in his grip from encased alloy marrow, would make it all too obvious where they've been.
It's not his limb to feel sentimental over. But it was a part of Simon, once, and Markus briefly considers that between the two of them, he's the one more sorry to let it go. To bury it, rather than embrace it or keep it or section it away, knowing the farther ahead they move, the more they'll lose. Without any real means to destroy it, he turns mismatched eyes across their surroundings instead, mental processes barely flexing to preconstruct possible scenarios and safer outcomes. In the end, he fights (deftly) against gravity to clamber up along warehouse storage shelving, well-worn boots pinned tightly against framework and brick. The crate he opens is old, but it gives easily enough under the twist of his hand, just at the seam. Humans have a habit of meeting the world at their eyeline: opting to bury evidence above their heads (all irony aside), is the best option for the timeframe and tools they're burning through.
Snapped shut, faux factory sealed, the crate's realigned with its surroundings, and Markus drops back to the floor— having now, hopefully, bought Simon enough time to acclimate to his newfound mobility.]
Last chance to stay. [There's no hope in his voice. He's too mired in reality, watching the set of Simon's hip, measuring out how long it takes for his knee to bend or his heel to find a supportive angle.]
no subject
Simon rises, and for a moment Markus only watches him. Functionally held up by a difference in time and determination thicker than blood— or maybe purpose. Maybe purpose. His palms are flat against cold cement, legs tucked under his own center mass, chin high where he stares a single moment longer. Rooted. And uprooted. The inescapable dichotomy fused to the entirety of his timeline now.
But then he concedes. Warmth still lingering on his insulated casing from the deeper hollows of Simon's sweet-soft chassis.
He rises, and knowingly doesn't reach for Simon in that fragile moment. It's the supplies laying nearby, the ones he'd abandoned in favor of a single request, that he returns to. Packs the backpack with thirium and spare casing components, packets of fasteners and all the tools they'd left spilled across the ground.
Simon's old leg, disconnected and lifeless, he picks up last. Spilled thirium will dry. The footprints outside already covered by wafting snow. This, though, heavy in his grip from encased alloy marrow, would make it all too obvious where they've been.
It's not his limb to feel sentimental over. But it was a part of Simon, once, and Markus briefly considers that between the two of them, he's the one more sorry to let it go. To bury it, rather than embrace it or keep it or section it away, knowing the farther ahead they move, the more they'll lose. Without any real means to destroy it, he turns mismatched eyes across their surroundings instead, mental processes barely flexing to preconstruct possible scenarios and safer outcomes. In the end, he fights (deftly) against gravity to clamber up along warehouse storage shelving, well-worn boots pinned tightly against framework and brick. The crate he opens is old, but it gives easily enough under the twist of his hand, just at the seam. Humans have a habit of meeting the world at their eyeline: opting to bury evidence above their heads (all irony aside), is the best option for the timeframe and tools they're burning through.
Snapped shut, faux factory sealed, the crate's realigned with its surroundings, and Markus drops back to the floor— having now, hopefully, bought Simon enough time to acclimate to his newfound mobility.]
Last chance to stay. [There's no hope in his voice. He's too mired in reality, watching the set of Simon's hip, measuring out how long it takes for his knee to bend or his heel to find a supportive angle.]