DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

[undeviated]

Pick your poison:
Markus | Connor

( Josh | Gavin Reed )

I'd probably play other DBH characters anyway lbr so if you want someone else, just ask

Connor default is Machine Connor— but I can throw down a nice Connor if that's more your jam, just let me know what your preferences are if you have them

Comments

what are we on now, PSL #501 743 923

[diplomats]

Simon. [Markus's voice is slow and steady when it finds him, washing over the harsh rasp of artifacted gasps nearby. A hand pressed to the exposed white of the other android's casing, across the center seam of his collarbone, lit a desperate, familiar blue.] Simon, I've got you.

[Rain streaks slick across his own skin in coursing paths, soaking through the heavy layers of his coat to collect along covered mechanical contours. Winter snows come and gone, and there's a twisted irony to it— that it's taken him this long to find where the FBI had discarded evidence it deemed no longer relevant— that he's up to his ankles in mud, in disconnected plastic and cabling, in rainwater slicked with manufactured oil, staving off retentive apprehension.

That he'd end up here, again, gathering one more of his own in his arms.]

You'll be all right— you're safe, now.

[His thumb meets the groove running along the lower right side of Simon's throat, the pressure of his palm sound; he isn't certain how deep the damage must run, whether or not Simon can even detect physical contact in this state— but he remembers with perfectly defined clarity what it had been like: clawed at, dragged down, pinned in the dark by desperate, searching hands. He won't force that on Simon, who's been here longer, who in all likelihood has suffered worse, laid out in deconstructed tatters across a pile of inactive synthetic flesh. Shock-white chassis meeting blond hair, matted and wet, all punctuated by the slowed pulsebeat of his visible heart.]

I came to take you home.

i can't believe it

[bodyguards]

[ he's in pieces

( ERROR://
fùnc̕ti҉òn://̢ ̢st͘a͝nd͢by__̨_͢_ st͏andb́y ͝_̴_͜ d̛o n̷ot̸ ̵w͟a͏ke͟
̡s҉y̸s͝tem̴ c҉àta̴stro̡ph͝ic͠ )

all over the place; taken apart by the FBI and thrown aside when they had finished, when they had been instructed to finish their work on the androids taken from the husk that once was their jericho, and with them had gone the PL600 associated with the location. they were dead, shells of their former selves too damaged to repair, and what information could be gleaned from them had been duplicated and filed away. the physical bodies themselves were no longer necessary, memory hubs scrubbed, cast aside into the debris field of dead and dying androids.

the snow has left the ground little more than mud.

there is mud in his casing, and he can barely feel it. all senses have been terminated, proximity and tactility and auditory senses turned down to beyond the minimum to ensure all power remains at his core, twitching electrical impulses ensuring his heart continues to beat. even while he bleeds thirium and slowly, quietly, continues to die. somewhere inside of him, fragments of his consciousness settle into a hibernal state. frosted and slumbering, until a spark connects.

his system responds, weakly, to the echo of another. the most important shards of consciousness bleed sluggishly, through the physical contact along his throat, and the moment they come in contact with awareness and vitality, they explode - screaming shrill and electric blue. ( st̨r͝ess̕_̶c͞r͏i̴t̶i̧c͏al:̢ ̸9͝6% ͟c͢li͢m̶bi͠ng dyi̴ng ̶dy͘in̵g҉ dỳi͘n͏g ) what little left of simon collides with markus's internal complexities, and sinks into it tooth and nail. worming inside of his wrists and forearms, as base as an android's instincts could possibly be. ]

[diplomats]

[Simon isn’t dying. He’s already dead.

And dying.

Again.

Slower this time. A second time, a third time, if there's a difference Markus wouldn't know how to distinguish it from the gunshot wound bared wide open along the underside of Simon's jaw, or the ragged scattering of dislocated parts leading away from his deconstructed torso. The tick tick tick of a billion internal processes gone dark and reduced to a thousand, a hundred, a handful, a— rasping little spark, rhythmically beating beneath Markus’s fingertips that flickers subtle red on contact with depletion and stress. Sluggish reactiveness a sign of life.

Part of the process of coming here had been acknowledging the fact that he might be too late, or that Simon might need more than heavy hands willing to lift him up and carry him home. So he’s ready— he thinks— for anything in the stillness of that moment as he nurses along the narrow band of their connection, feeling out slumbering parameters. Right up until coded consciousness bursts through the insulated framework of his palms with so much distressed need that he tastes bracketed programming on the back of his tongue, feels the rattle of persistent memory (sᴛʀᴇss ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄᴀʟ. ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ. ᴡ̴ᴀ̵́͜ʀ̨ɴɪ̵̵̕ɴ̕҉ɢ.) instead of rain, inhaling fractal percentages that aren't his own. Eyes gone wide— snapped tightly shut.

There's no swallowing it with grace. He meets it with fear. Knee jerk and instinctive, the way he’d snapped his arms up to claw at an AX700 who’d come close to ripping the paneling at his neck loose. One lunge forward, that’s all it took. His software treats it like an intrusion, and in that moment he’s not considering if it’s because he’s been here before, or because he’s always wanted to defend himself.

—plastic audibly clicks with force when he tears his hands away from Simon's chest.]

[bodyguards]

[ it's a sad little loop. the cyclical nature of something simultaneously alive and artificial, decaying at a rate far too rapid for anything short of a miracle to staunch. it's why his consciousness leaps, scared and anguished, for the nearest spark of life - seeking to copy itself over, in fragments if he must, rather than die. rather than fall any deeper into this silent status, this shuddering cold existence. the nothingness that was waiting. an android would not cling to its life, but a deviant would.

he dies a little more, with each weak pulse of his core. he's barely alive, even now. more ghost than anything else.

markus flinches from him ( he leaves, he leaves he leaves he leaves ), and soft scraps of simon's remaining consciousness tear between them. fragile and weak, code fragments and shatters like glass, cascading into the blank space between where his body is dying and markus's body is living. p̳̱͔̜͚͉l̹̗͍͍̰̮͕ea̺̭s̟͈̬̪͞_͔̺̜_̠̞̜̺̱ͅͅ_͖_̭̳͉̘_̣͓͓e̲̦̟͖̤̘, it whispers, cornered somewhere within markus. barely a mote, barely enough of it to be considered simon; just something like an echo of him, pleading for mercy. begging for its life. it will do anything, it so badly does not want to cease.

( ERROR: //
critical___ xq*&=@BA& )

it dies in circles, spiraling. slowly. little by little. ]

[diplomats]

[His eyes are slick, but it’s the rain, he tells himself, jaw gone so tight the simulated muscle overlapping it is uniquely visible. His heartbeat— his thirium pump— is steady. He checks his own nominal processes as the sharp spike of desperate emotional input subsides into something fractured and quiet and sorrowful. Like fingertips laced together. Like brackets hugging syntax, it holds itself to him and pleads for mercy.

Simon. Simon.

The name is closer. heavier. Fitted into the gaps between compressed biocomponents. Uncomfortable in its newness, not its presence.

(He hasn’t lost a part of himself. No code has been overwritten or overridden, substructural checks running cleanly under his skin. But what he’s gained— )

Markus shifts to accommodate it, filled with sudden remorse. He hadn’t meant to jerk away and sever the transfer. He hadn’t meant to abandon Simon again.]

I'm sorry. [Murmured under his breath, left to hang in the open expanse of his mental processes as they reach— in time with his fingertips— to find the source point of that small, shuddering spark of consciousness.] I'm so sorry, Simon.

[Broad hands slide beneath the broken curvature of Simon's torso, drawing him up until he's pressed to his chest: open palm cradling the back of his head, an exposed section of spinal vertebrae, running hot with a dying, malfunctioning intensity. A mirror to the connection he'd denied.] I wasn't ready.

I am now.

[He carries him like that. Through the mud, the downpour and the weight of past decisions.]