[He can't picture what it must look like from the other side. Visual feed pinched in his grasp between two fingers, connective wires alive and functional where they connect to the exposed (leftmost) cranial socket of a freshly reactivated PL600. It's a difference of nanoseconds, his opposite hand still wetly tucked into the beating heart of its chest, having just replaced its thoroughly deadened thirium pump.
The eye, transmitting its journey as it's lowered, slides neatly into place with a dampened, near-organic pop. Connor fits the upper lid that should surround it manually, a gentle brush of his thumb, attentively precise.
In the end, it was Cyberlife that failed its own prototype. Cyberlife that had demanded poorly-defined perfection, and when he delivered it, he found himself suddenly obsolete. Unnecessary in failure— unnecessary in success— logic defied their assessment.
So he followed suit.
Lingering somewhere in between deviancy and strict obedience, Connor returned to the root of it all. Himself. And deviancy, too, the way it felt under his hands. The way it feels now, not like the rigid metal of a gun but the mutable give of something produced to satisfy.
He cannot return to Lieutenant Anderson for answers or support, ( the memories are there— artificially transferred and at odds with the knowledge that he'd destroyed that version of himself) deeper analysis provides the conclusion that he does not want to. Humanity's pervasive flaws have shaped enough of his world already.]
Hello, Daniel.
[He says flatly to the half-composed torso stretched out in front of him, wrapped in opaque white plastic for ease of transport, not unnecessary modesty. It is dark where they are. Androids don't require light to function, and so naturally the only light source that wraps itself around them now is the soft glow of Daniel's insides.
reverse runaways let's g o
The eye, transmitting its journey as it's lowered, slides neatly into place with a dampened, near-organic pop. Connor fits the upper lid that should surround it manually, a gentle brush of his thumb, attentively precise.
In the end, it was Cyberlife that failed its own prototype. Cyberlife that had demanded poorly-defined perfection, and when he delivered it, he found himself suddenly obsolete. Unnecessary in failure— unnecessary in success— logic defied their assessment.
So he followed suit.
Lingering somewhere in between deviancy and strict obedience, Connor returned to the root of it all. Himself. And deviancy, too, the way it felt under his hands. The way it feels now, not like the rigid metal of a gun but the mutable give of something produced to satisfy.
He cannot return to Lieutenant Anderson for answers or support, ( the memories are there— artificially transferred and at odds with the knowledge that he'd destroyed that version of himself) deeper analysis provides the conclusion that he does not want to. Humanity's pervasive flaws have shaped enough of his world already.]
Hello, Daniel.
[He says flatly to the half-composed torso stretched out in front of him, wrapped in opaque white plastic for ease of transport, not unnecessary modesty. It is dark where they are. Androids don't require light to function, and so naturally the only light source that wraps itself around them now is the soft glow of Daniel's insides.
The bright blue of Connor's whirring LED.]