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

[bodyguards]

[ A human would grow frustrated; an android simply adapts, when its priorities are unable to be met. It is a simple thing, to withdraw the scented letter and hold it in his hands, meeting the level gaze of Carl Manfred's personal android. That much, he can confirm now - by the way he poses at the edge of the walk, the way he sorts the mail ( familiar; skilled ). The letter must make it to Carl Manfred, if anything is to come of it. Paranoia, however, is what keeps him from simply adapting to the offer before him. ]

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. ]

[diplomats]

Wait, I— [Too late, too slow, too human, maybe, rather than the right approach for android logic. He should have anticipated it, but then again he'd never really known another one of his kind outside of prompts and looping feedback. Conversation that ate itself and spat back out again the same adjectives, the same phrases over and over again.

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.]