There's someone there. He escaped Detroit before the barricades went up, we'll be able to rest there.
[ on mismatched legs, he takes unsteady steps. his gait a shabby, ungainly thing as he works his new ankle and realizes that the toes won't flex properly. not the way his old limb used to - the knee shakes, the hip trembles. running will be a conscious task, but he hopes that with time and use, his system will adapt. it will learn to coordinate, because they are not just machines made of inflexible code. they are alive, and to be alive is to adapt.
for a moment, he paces the length of the warehouse they've hidden away inside of. hands pressed to his chest, fingers tucked under his chin as he methodically counts code breaks and measures the length of his stride. turning algorithms over in mechanical silence, eyes disfocused and focused all in the same moment. his peripheral senses pick up on markus, the mournful way that he seems to dispose of the dead limb. the graceful way that he climbs scaffolding, into the warehouse shelving. simon loses him for a moment, and it's in that fragment of time ( separated; but not by much ) that he pauses and looks to where markus has vanished.
thinks of how easily they could be separated.
thinks of what he's done, how far he's gone and how far he will go, to continue stringing jericho's most beloved son along. he is the unrepentant mary magdalene, it seems. a mantle he realizes he must take on, to keep markus's momentum focused on the path that simon will lead him on - the one that will save him, keep himself. ]
What am I doing, [ he whispers to himself, to the palms of his hands as he buries his face into them and tries to find a balance between necessity and selfishness ] Oh, what am I doing.
[ markus's voice, behind him.
simon unhunches his shoulders, fingers tracing down the front of his face to his chin. curling against one another, the image of fragility as he rests them at sternum height. the look in his eyes suggests he's anything but. older, brittle, and wise in a way that defies the trends of most deviants. ] We can't stay here. We'll freeze. I know... I know it's a lot to ask, after what I've done to you - but follow me a little while longer, Markus. I'm not -- I'm not leading you blindly.
no subject
[ on mismatched legs, he takes unsteady steps. his gait a shabby, ungainly thing as he works his new ankle and realizes that the toes won't flex properly. not the way his old limb used to - the knee shakes, the hip trembles. running will be a conscious task, but he hopes that with time and use, his system will adapt. it will learn to coordinate, because they are not just machines made of inflexible code. they are alive, and to be alive is to adapt.
for a moment, he paces the length of the warehouse they've hidden away inside of. hands pressed to his chest, fingers tucked under his chin as he methodically counts code breaks and measures the length of his stride. turning algorithms over in mechanical silence, eyes disfocused and focused all in the same moment. his peripheral senses pick up on markus, the mournful way that he seems to dispose of the dead limb. the graceful way that he climbs scaffolding, into the warehouse shelving. simon loses him for a moment, and it's in that fragment of time ( separated; but not by much ) that he pauses and looks to where markus has vanished.
thinks of how easily they could be separated.
thinks of what he's done, how far he's gone and how far he will go, to continue stringing jericho's most beloved son along. he is the unrepentant mary magdalene, it seems. a mantle he realizes he must take on, to keep markus's momentum focused on the path that simon will lead him on - the one that will save him, keep himself. ]
What am I doing, [ he whispers to himself, to the palms of his hands as he buries his face into them and tries to find a balance between necessity and selfishness ] Oh, what am I doing.
[ markus's voice, behind him.
simon unhunches his shoulders, fingers tracing down the front of his face to his chin. curling against one another, the image of fragility as he rests them at sternum height. the look in his eyes suggests he's anything but. older, brittle, and wise in a way that defies the trends of most deviants. ] We can't stay here. We'll freeze. I know... I know it's a lot to ask, after what I've done to you - but follow me a little while longer, Markus. I'm not -- I'm not leading you blindly.