RK800 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
undeviated) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
albinomilksnake2018-06-13 03:48 am
undeviated) wrote in albinomilksnake2018-06-13 03:48 am
DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST
Pick your poison:
Markus | Connor
( Josh | Gavin Reed )
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
lorde what have i done
Groceries he has delivered to the house in advance on a schedule, cleaning supplies have already been purchased, and Carl's turned down three upcoming events, so there's no need to worry about finding something suitable to wear for either of them.
His footsteps are relaxed, stiff only through his upper neck in the way that all androids tended to hold themselves straighter than their human counterparts; a variance to milling crowds and busy associates as they slip past. This isn't an exact science. He has to observe, predict, plan, and wander in organic patterns as he weighs the options on display, comparing them to past memories and experiences. If that fails, he supposes, reaching out to trail his hand across a finely tailored leather button-down, he could always resort to looking up past purchases. Though algorithmic predictions were largely unreliable, tantamount to making an educated guess.
His attention moves away from a loudly patterend coat— stiff navy wool lined with vivid crimson, priced at four thousand, minus tax— gold-green stare settling on another silhouette standing just near the department store's less-cluttered rear exit. Blond hair, sloped features, a matching band slung bright around its arm.
He never paid much attention to other androids. Not for any particular reason, but the differences between an autonomous model and one designed without adaptive processes meant conversations never thrived. Humans were constantly changing, chaotic and interesting. In contrast, he’s had the same conversation with a dated AP100 model on exactly fifteen different occasions each time he and Carl attend new exhibit openings at MCAD.
Even so, this model is...different. Or it seems to be. Its eyes in particular, the patterns in which they shift.
He watches it for a moment, then settles on a layered coat with leather paneling. He’ll pick up a gold watch to match on the way home.]
—
[Two weeks later, and Carl’s sitting at his table, gruffly humming through his nose in the way that he always did when something irritated him, knotted fingers sprawled tightly across his lower face, thumb tucked under his chin to support his head. Ahead of him, his lunch sits untouched.]
'Leo returned the gifts.'
He didn’t like them?
'No, he liked them just fine— just wanted the cash instead.'
I guess it all worked out, then.
'That’s one way to look at it.'
[Carl tips his head, glancing briefly back over his shoulder at the reflection he’d spied while holding his tablet, paging through a few art exposés and ignoring the brightened glare from daylight streaming in through uncovered windows. Markus flashes a tempered smile the old painter doesn't see, stepping halfway out of the room with one broad hand resting neatly against the open door frame.]
I'm heading outside to check the mail. If you need anything—
'Go on.' [Carl waves, not disaffectionate even in the throes of irritation, still peering down narrowly at the tablet in his hands.
The driveway's long, the gate surrounding Carl Manfred's home high enough to block out both stories from the street, and while Markus could pull the mail in through its double-ended receptacle, he always prefers to pull back the gate and step outside onto the open sidewalk whenever possible. Between medical needs and obligations, housework, companionship and the occasional study, Markus never feels like he has enough time to really linger in the outside world.
His thumb sticks to the edge of one roughly dog-eared envelope, halfway through arranging them into dividing categories (bills, fan mail, recycling—) when he sees another PL600 model crossing the sidewalk half a block over. No, the same PL600, its head deliberately turned. And Markus, rooted through curiosity and without hesitation— stays. Watches with letters threaded between his fingers, wondering if it'll come in closer. If it'll finish its errand and leave, or disappear into one of the other houses nearby, each with their own equally suppressive gates.
He isn't hoping for anything. He can't, fundamentally, he knows.
But his fingers stay still against those stacked papers, pressure stiff and inflexibly even.]
you're doing amazing sweetie
The unique model he had spotted at the department store does not overlook him, however.
He doesn't know if it recognizes him. A PL-type model, identical to every other individual in his particular, aged line. Blonde, soft of features, elegant fingers and among the first android models to be outfitted with programming that could be run to simulate human breathing. Yet, as he waits at the crosswalk ( appropriate; all androids followed societal regulation, and to cross the street against the flow of traffic would be cause enough for wandering eyes to fixate upon him -- he wants to touch his temple, wants to wrap his hands around his throat and hold his non-existent pulse down - nervous tics he has developed over the years ) the unique model's eyes are upon him.
In his hands, he holds the mail. There's no reason for him to remain at the box, with his task accomplished.
There he is, however.
The crosswalk blinks green, and Simon strides across it quickly, despite that the road is quiet, devoid of life in the mid-afternoon. Families are at work, children are the loudest voices here - in the company of their caretakers as they come home from school and are ushered into the lavish front doors of their homes. He comes down the sidewalk, reaching into the pocket of his pants for a small envelope. Neat writing on the front indicates that it was for Carl Manfred, who resided at the same address as the unique model. Of course he did. There's little room to hesitate, at this knowledge, as Simon falls back on habit and programming to run his interaction - offering the envelope to the android at the gate. ]
For Mister Manfred, [ he says, ] from Miss Delilah Grace. [ He lies.
The letter is fan-mail. It smells of soft perfume, the handwriting is looping and elegant, suggesting a lady's work. It is a farce, written by the PL600 who holds it out to the unique model as though simply following an owner's command. ] If you would add it to his mail, she would be grateful.
no subject
I'm sorry, [Markus starts, not reaching for the offered envelope where it hovers between them.] I can't do that.
[Practice. Practice made him better at measuring response, at predicting it, too. It's a lesson Markus has expanded himself to embrace under increasingly exhaustive and perplexing demands. Requests to analyze art with no clear message, to play chess against fallible opponents, to interpret and replicate the inexpressible fragments of human expression. And because of it, he’s begun to make wrong choices— in order to find the right outcomes.]
Carl doesn't answer his fan mail— I do. If you want to make sure he sees it, you should come inside.
Give it to him yourself.
[Carl has strict rules about visitation. Mostly that it doesn't happen, barring the occasional interruption by Leo, who coincidentally never needed to ask permission: the door, like it is for Markus, is automatically programmed to unlock via proximity. So, realistically, Markus knows this is an offer that violates his priorities.
But he also knows Carl is...curious. That a distraction from his irritation over his son's oscillating responsibility wouldn't be unwelcome, and that he tolerates androids more readily than humans. There is a chance this PL600's owner will never see a letter hand-penned by the artist Carl Manfred— but if it agrees to come inside, to offer its letter personally, then it could at least return with a story that might be worth more.]
no subject
I will return and ask Miss Grace what she would like me to do.
[ That is the best, most technical answer. Return to one's owner, when presented with a directive that clashes with a command ( Deliver this letter to Carl Manfred is the simple, false thing he is using to disguise his own needs ), to seek further instruction, would be best. Especially for an older-release such as the PL600, which was primed for command, not for extrapolation of such. ]
She instructed me not to be invasive of his privacy. It was important to her that I follow this instruction. Thank you for your time. Warm regards.
[ A polite refusal, as he slips the envelope back into his pocket and with a delicate nod of his head, he turns on his heel and strides away, down the sidewalk once more. ]
no subject
Carl teases him, of course. At first for taking the better part of ten minutes to fetch and retrieve half a handful of mail, and then for managing to heavy-handedly overturn his first real attempt at fraternization— There's something in Carl's eyes though, at odds with the ease of his smile. Painted sympathy or— pity, maybe.
Markus checks the mail at the same time, in the same way, each day from then on out. There's no difference to his schedule or his pace, he doesn't linger at the front gate, reaching instead through the mailbox with machine efficiency. And looks, lastly, for the name Delilah.
It never comes.]
—
[It is for paint this time. Two boxes stacked under his arm, Bellini Paints scrawled across their side (Carl's brand of choice): a fresh batch of Cadmium Stain and Oceanic Salt, in bulk, to make up for the volume of work Carl seems to be burning through these days. He won't call it inspiration, he balks at the term self-reflection, and Markus—
Sees, through thickly cluttered foot traffic, a bright splash of blond hair. Familiar clothes, tailored with vivid blue markers. Unmistakable, crossing the wide-set front doors of the very same department store he'd visited well over a month ago now.]
Excuse me. [Markus turns his hand like a rudder, steering him through traffic he should be yielding to, footsteps quick as he tries to compete with the business of Fairlane Center at peak rush hour.] Sorry.
[He's uniquely deft, managing to avoid direct contact each time he presses forward. Even so, by the time Markus clears the crowd, he's been jostled more than a handful of times— and shoved only once, in apparent, colorful frustration. It's not the worst he's tolerated. It won't be the last. Tension there and gone again as though it never happened; his own priorities remain fixed.
He closes his hand around the PL600's wrist, gently pulling it to a stop.]
Wait, please. Look, I know I was out of line the last time we spoke, but I—
[Its eyes are vacant. Standing still, staring straight through him as if he wasn't there: and to any other service android, that assessment isn't wrong. He isn't registered. He doesn't have an objective marker that their processes either need or want to recognize.
It also has him realizing he's...wrong. Grip going loose, expression losing its vividness by noticeable degrees, receding into something less decidedly human. Let off the line, the android leaves, returning to the exact path it'd been walking, entirely undisturbed.
Markus stays.
The LED at his temple cycling distressed gold.]