albinomilksnake | DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

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

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[As usual, the automated taxi spits Connor out onto the sidewalk just outside Lieutenant Hank Anderson's overgrown property. As usual, he's at the door in no less than sixteen steps. As usual, his knuckles strike wood in a sharp series of raps— two sets of them— while he studies the well-worn framework. As usual—

Hank doesn't respond.

But this time he foregoes the doorbell, skips straight ahead in their scripting, his heeled shoes sinking deep into grass as he treads towards the bedroom window instead, hand raised into a fist when he knocks against glass— his mouth barely an inch from its surface.]

Lieutenant Anderson!

[Somewhere in the distance, a neighborhood dog bays in time with Connor's calls, inspiring a gruff, gurgling groan of a response from Sumo who (calculating the distance and strength of the noise) is likely dozing comfortably nearby in those otherwise quiet few minutes just before sunrise.

Again Connor slaps his palm against the window, rattling its frame:]

Wake up, Lieutenant!

[Well at least Connor hadn't broken another window yet in this latest attempt to break in. Now a piece of plywood and tape around it served as the kitchen window as a temporary fix until Hank would get it fixed in probably never.

Things Hank should do in the future; provide a key for Connor and/or upgrade his house door to the latest technology with a password and let Connor figure it out. At this rate, he'd save more on that then windows.

This all being said, the bump in the bed does not move. In fact if Connor looks more closely, there's no one in bed just an abnormal amount of blankets (because of a window cold leak probably). There is some brief response when Sumo comes in to investigate the noise (letting out a dejected boof) and then walks back into the main corridor, giving the bathroom door a small look before heading right back to sleep near his food bowl. So Connor, what are you going to do?
🎮

X - Continue to knock on window

▲ - Move to shower window

o - Remove the kitchen plank and let yourself in]

[It’s a slow start. A stuttering shadow of a reboot played out mostly in darkness, Markus's hand blindly sliding across empty space until he finds the curve of Simon’s idle fingertips— false skin automatically peeling away at the subtle sensation of contact revealing bone-white plating in thin, spreading streaks.

Lying on his back with barely opened eyes, he doesn’t know where they are at first, aside from the obvious fact that they’re suffocating in a vacant kind of silence. High, vaulted ceilings. Sharply angled beams. It evokes the memory of something Carl had painted a long while ago, a skeletal ribcage built up in dark swaths of shadowy black and deep, deep burnt umber—

(Tragedy of Man, he called it at the time.)

—A church, Markus realizes, browline furrowing tight as he turns his head to see a battered pulpit staring back at him.]

Jericho—

[the words slip out from between his teeth, managing to somehow sound breathless well beyond the irony of it.]

Simon, where is everyone?

[He can almost feel it in that moment, their absence. Doesn’t make any sense, but where his vision leaves off something else kicks in— diagnostics are reading damage, but he’s not thinking about how much when he drags himself up on his elbows against the pull of gravity and logic, knuckles catching against Simon's own.

After all, the attack on Jericho couldn't have been successful; they're both alive.]

Edited 2018-06-15 16:03 (UTC)

[Weighing his options takes a fraction of an instant; one glance towards the bed shifts inward, stare instead fixing on a faint trace of steam seeping out from the crack beneath the bathroom door, its root cause suddenly obvious. At this hour, it's unexpected (Hank doesn't even set foot in the precinct before ten)— but more importantly, useful: a good shower might actually have the Lieutenant on his toes during an investigation for once. Still, their roles are dictated by their results (or at least Connor thinks so) and the longer it takes for them to reach the crime scene he'd been called to nearly thirty minutes ago, the more opportunities are provided for their reported deviants to escape.

He's tall enough to reach the window without straining, nose nearly pressed against it, forehead tipped down to rest flush across the pane as he calls out:]

Lieutenant, it's very important that I speak with you.

[It was a miracle of fate, really. Sometimes human cops get a strange urge to wake up and get the hell out of bed and out to work and--

--okay no. Hank had fallen to sleep earlier than normal yesterday in part thanks to a few cups of whiskey. What was supposed to be a nap had turned into sleeping fully clothed in bed for ten hours. After a few choice of cursing words, he had dragged himself out of bed and into the shower to at least look somewhat presentable before slipping into his normal outfit of whatever-the-fuck was was clean enough and didn't smell.

You just don't expect to suddenly become part of a bloody horror movie.

Hank's first reaction, before his tiny human brain registers that it's Connor is to jump out of the shower at whatever silhouette was behind the semi-see-through curtain that hung up awkwardly in the window, and run to his bed to grab his gun, not all caring if he was naked or not. Then it happens. An assailant would not call him Lieutenant.]

That piece of plastic shit...

[He'll just grab a towel and walk back in, shutting down the water before moving part of the curtain and staring at Connor with the look of a thousand angry suns.]

For fuck's sake, the goddamn hell is wrong with you?! Didn't they program you to have some manners or giving a man privacy?

[ he brings markus to this place. from his research, he knows that humans refer to it as a "house", but what inhabits the space aside from their physical bodies is what they refer to as "the soul". he's heard all the arguments - machines are without soul, and the soul is what sets life apart from non-life. one is born with a soul, it does not manifest in the created. and so on, and so forth. a machine cannot have a heart ( it has a pump, it has thirium instead of blood -- ), and it cannot have a soul, and sometimes he wants to cry out to them: look at him, at markus, his soul is as real as yours, and twice as beautiful.

( jericho falls, with fire at their heels and ashes in their wake. simon collects markus, wounded and stubborn, off the deck and drags him, kicking and yelling from the place that had been their home. he knocks him out, because he has to. it's easy to tuck his fingers in through the bullet holes and shock his system, just enough to slip him into a hibernal state. it makes him difficult to handle, but he doesn't have to listen to markus's beautiful words. his loyalty. for once, markus has no choice but to follow simon's lead. and simon's lead is to flee. )

this former house of the soul is where he drags markus, from one ruin to the next, and he tucks them into a secure, dark corner and watches markus's body, void of simulated breathing. one hand resting under his chin, monitoring his subdued processes until they've reconstructed around the damage and returned to some sort of equilibrium. he can feel the creaking in his own body, the press of a bullet lodged somewhere around hardware ( unimportant, it only assists him in simulating life that humanity has denied he could possibly have ), the phantom processes running towards the shattered stubs of three of his fingers.

( he takes hold of the barrel of the gun, and it fires. scattering synthetic flesh and plastic and delicate filament, but it WORKS. it stops the bullet from striking markus dead-center in his cervical spine, and simon breaks the neck of the soldier who's dared follow them so far. wordless and stone-faced. he picks markus up, again, and piles him onto his back to carry him far from the bulletfire and the screaming and the sounds of helicopters whirring, searching. ) ]

I don't know.

[ markus comes to, and the first words out of his mouth are for their people.

it's what endears him to this man. ] There was no time. No message. Some could still make their way here, by chance.

[ he hopes that they don't. he doubts anyone is as careful and as cautious as he is. ]

Don't move so much, you haven't finished byprocesses. [ he tucks his broken hand inside of his jacket, and reaches out for markus's throat, synthetic skin peeling back as he connects. so soft, so subtle, lending himself to the internal subroutines, chasing down where the worst of the damage is, cataloging it. this to fix, this to mend. ] A lot of them are... they're gone.

No. No, Simon you’re wrong— the detonator, I was—

I have to go back.

[Corrupted memory that he can’t access. Sensory signals snagging at every disconnect. He can remember the deviant hunter, the initial breach that rocked Jericho like a punch through its hull. The detonator. The detonator. He volunteered for it, threw himself headfirst into the echoing rattle of gunfire. Three bullet holes, his diagnostic scan concludes; miraculously non-fatal, though there's a thirium leak near the scar he'd won slamming down in a free-fall across the Jericho's beams.

Simon’s fingers at his throat seem to still that sense of urgency. A slow inhale when he sinks back as if automatically prompted (and he is; architectural design intended for human interface means that there are parts of him that are expected to act as pressure points when environmental stressors are low). He thinks of North. Josh. John— it’s a roster that goes on and on, the people that came to him for help. People he dragged into this off the streets, called them to stand at his side like it'd make a damn bit of a difference in humanity's eyes. And he’s glad that Simon’s okay, there’s nothing that pares down the truth of that.

But it’s guilt that lines his chest, wracking him from the inside out.

He blinks rapidly in thought, mouth open in the start of a protest that never lands, mismatched eyes darting from absent focal point to focal point, a human habit picked up from all those years studying at Carl’s heels. Markus didn’t love Leo— hasn’t forgiven him now— but if there was a shared opinion between them both, it’s that Carl always made it look easy: his every decision, his every brushstroke precise and final, devoid of fear. Permanent in the way that he never took it back.

One day I won’t be here to protect you anymore, you’ll have to learn to look out for yourself.

Every day spent preparing, all those constant reminders, and still—]

You’re hurt.

[Priorities. Treat themselves first, and then— his unbroken fingers wrap around The shattered tips of Simon’s knuckles through the fabric of his coat, expression twisting in sudden pain as if it were his own.]

I know where we can get spare parts.

[Words he’s said before, as just another android falling headfirst into Jericho. Telling them things could be different, that they didn’t have to die off alone and powerless.

Simon’s face in the dark, lit by the flickering halo of a flashlight— closed off and resolved. Part of the stillness of the ship.]

Edited 2018-06-17 07:41 (UTC)

Markus. Markus, there's nothing left to go back for.

[ jericho in flames, their people leaping into the harbor below. scrambling and scattering; he thinks, perhaps in brief, he saw north put her hands around josh's wrist and pull him to the docks. it could have been a trick of the light, it could have been wishful thinking - but, he hopes that some part of him is still objective enough to rely on his eyes. they're good eyes, they've never missed a moment, not since the day he stepped into the husk of a cruiser and decided this was as good a place as any to find some sort of silence. until markus. yeah. until markus.

markus is why he runs, he tells himself. it's why he runs, carrying away the man their people put their trust and hope and hearts into. stealing him away from any hope of organizing the chaos and the fallout, dragging him as far from the bulletfire and the hounds and the soldiers stalking the streets, rounding up their people and taking them away. he runs, because markus needs to survive this, if they have any chance at anything. it's why he knocked markus out -- it means simon is the one who acted, alone and selfishly, in making this decision. he can be the one to bear that sin. ]

I won't let you go back. If they find their way here, good. If not -- we have to move. We can't stay here, it's not secure.

[ the words shake, but the tone is resolute. he will do anything, in this moment and the next, to keep markus alive. it is his directive, his goal, his aspiration. markus has to live, he's too important and too much -- humanity sought to stamp them out, but it was only because of markus. so, even in this, they've won themselves something. acknowledgement. a questioning of the status quo. it'll have to be enough, for now. simon has always been a runner, it was only because of markus and his beautiful words and his beautiful dream, that he stayed.

he's pinned, by words and by eyes. should have known he was too observant to overlook the way simon hides his broken hand, the way he ducks his head to cover the rend along his collarbone. they're ugly wounds, but ultimately superficial. his system has already adapted to operating around them, save for the rare moment when his programming says "flex" and his missing fingers cannot respond. like they cannot feel, when a hand wraps around his and pulls it free of where he's tucked it away.

exposing him. ] I don't feel anything, [ he promises, softly, and pulls his hand away from markus's throat. leaves the other, curled against his palm.

one more thing that he's stolen from their people. ] We took that risk before, because it was for our people. I can't let you take that risk for me, not when there are soldiers out to take your head. They want you dead, and they won't do it publicly. They'll do it quietly, where nobody can see, and you'll just be dead. Not even a martyr.

[ even now, he's still. his unwounded hand closing around markus's wrist as he leans in close. steady, even though he bleeds desperation. ]

-- I'll stop you, if you try.

[Unfazed, without even a hint of remorse for his actions, Connor ultimately seems immune to his partner's livid (and entirely legitimate) response:]

I apologize for the unorthodox intrusion. However given some of your less stable tendencies, and the hour at which your bathroom was occupied, I was concerned that you might have injured or incapacitated yourself.

[Connor leans lower, craning his neck as he taps an index finger against the glass in an almost playful demonstration, eyebrows lifting by expectant degrees.]

I would also appreciate it if you'd let me in.

Edited 2018-06-18 20:52 (UTC)

[It felt good. The first time he'd stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the androids he'd freed— one footstep turning into a hundred, turning into more. Like tipping the world on its head, it was so easy. Easy to think that humans would change (they'll never let us live free), easy to think he could make a better life for his people, easy to imagine that somewhere out there in the world there were others like Carl, so willing to see the world with open eyes.

They'll all pay the price for his dreams. Innocent, complicit, doesn't matter.

It's painted out in the contours of those shattered fingertips, drawn in vivid blue streaks across Simon's once unmarred features. He wishes briefly that he'd stayed on that ship— or that the bullets had found their mark. Without a leader, who knows? It's possible that humanity might consider the real threat dealt with. Change could come, slower this time. Better, maybe.

Thinks that until Simon draws closer, slender fingers wound resolutely around his wrist. There's so little light, only a thin sliver seeping in through cracked boards, illuminating wisps of brilliant blond hair. Ice blue eyes suffused with the pain of survival.

They have that in common now.]

No, you won't.

[Simon is a good man. A better man. No one else has bled like Simon, has given so much of themselves in service for a cause they never wanted. To bend, to break, to all but die and come back. Markus's voice is soft; barely a whisper for how much gentleness and understanding is poured into it. He feels so tired, he feels—

His free hand rises, touch light when he slides it low across Simon's face, tracing the outline of his jaw the way an artist studies the shifting qualities of their canvas. Only Simon isn't a blank slate: he's a beautiful amalgamation of every blow, every fear, every defiant struggle. Hope and love, peace and trepidation.]

I won't ask you to make that sacrifice.

[He won't leave him behind again.]

[See, this is what pisses him off the most. Connor just takes it and doesn't seem to be affected by anything. Then he just lays it on with the cold logic of a machine that almost ALMOST seems to hint of some sort of caring layer about his well being. Sadly Hank is pretty sure it's just for The Mission™. He was made to be the perfect partner after all.

What kind of perfect partner taps in other's fucking windows is the question but anyway.

Towel still around, him he closes the curtain without a word (just a glare). Connor might hear him move somewhere else, only to return about forty seconds later.]

Front door's open. I'm going to finish my shower, you stay in the kitchen. Got it?

[God he's gonna need to go and wash the floor least he slips on his soapy feet or something.]

Got it. [Comes an almost cheerful confirmation from behind the fully drawn curtain. Whether or not that sets Hank at ease is likely debatable (even to him), but eventually the shadowed silhouette perched just outside the bathroom window recedes, footsteps trailing off.

It's peaceful. A decent kind of quiet that sinks in in the wake of an otherwise jarring disturbance, and maybe the kind of quiet that Hank Anderson's needed in his life as of late.

It's also extremely short-lived.

Another handful of minutes and the bathroom door is snapped open, Connor's bright-eyed stare peering out from behind the door's lip, one curl entirely out of place as he leans in.]

Our odds of capturing a suspected assailant at the scene of a crime decrease by 4.5% every ten seconds we're delayed.

Edited 2018-06-20 03:55 (UTC)

If its an android it's in the cellar.

Edited 2018-06-20 08:18 (UTC)

[Connor are you legitimately trying to give him a heart attack? Maybe by this time he had gotten to expect the unexpected with the android, so thankfully by that time Hank had already gotten into his underwear. That didn't stop the rage rising from his body into his eyes, a look that would have sent many red ice deals running away in fear.]

Jesus Connor, didn't they program you some goddamn manners?! Get the fuck out of my bathroom!

[He must he the only cop in all of Detroit who gets assaulted in his own house...twice. Grabbing the towel still wet from drying his hair and body, he makes a pretty good throw in Connor's direction and towards the other's face.]

Lemme put on some damn clothes and we'll go! Were you planning on dragging me out of bed if I hadn't been up?!

[He's grumpy, annoyed, hasn't eaten and, worst of all, hasn't had one drop of liquor since last night. He's feeling too sane this morning, he doesn't like it.

But eventually, just a few minutes later, Hank appears, still glaring at Connor the same way as he had before, a towel around his neck.]

What are we dealing with?

[...and yet least it be for Hank to ignore the call of a crime in progress.]

[ jericho wasn't much of a shelter, but it was safe once. and that's all it was - a safe enough place where their people could live in anonymity, decaying slowly. safe, but not free. and then markus had disrupted that silence, quite literally, like a gift from the skies they hadn't seen in so long, and he had brought something fierce and fiery. something warm. not just the fires he lit, the light he brought to the dark interior of the ship -- but human warmth.

they called it "empathy". ] It's not something you ask for.

[ once, he preferred safety over freedom. longevity over change. even now, he can't say that he wouldn't choose to survive, rather than lay down his life for this cause. it had been a long, difficult battle to become aware of himself, to unwind the briars of his former life and eek out even the most quiet of existences. he can't say it, but his actions prove otherwise -- the stubs of his fingers, the scars on the plastic casing under his synthetic skin. badges, worn privately, of the times he has worked to ensure the heart of their people make it out alive.

( he remembers the way markus held her hand, as she died. simon had watched him move around the hold, speaking to josh over the prone body of a child. bringing himself to the level of the android abused and broken for what amounted to nothing more than cruel "fun". the failing model who had come to the fire, and wrapped her hands around his and told him she was so glad to meet him. )

he remembers that, as markus touches his face with those hands. it's not that he shies away; he moves stiffly, like someone preparing for the other shoe to drop, before he recalls who it is who's kneeling before him. who markus is, at heart. and he's kind, he's compassionate. all the same, he pulls back from that hand and presses it down, flattening it to markus's knee. best to not be selfish, even now. he means too much to everyone, he has no right to take those hands or fall into those arms a second time. ]

We need to leave the city. Lay low for a while. [ for forever, he thinks guiltily. ] They'll hunt you forever, if we don't.

[His browline tenses, lip curling in an unmistakable sign of discontentment, eyes drifting shut as he shakes his head and presses back against the steady weight of Simon's palm— it severs their hold on one another. Severs the serenity of this moment even more so.]

Simon they'll hunt me forever if I do.

[Moving together, making the choice to safeguard whatever they have left (each other) until they can get back on their feet, that's one thing. But to leave? To run away from the city entirely? Turn away from whatever survivors are out there, running scared without options?

No. No, that's not right. That's not how they're going to win this war.]

You can't expect me to turn my back on our people, [There's conviction in it now, edging its way into the sharpness of every word:] and I'm not about to pretend that this wasn't my fault.

That's not what I'm saying.

[ isn't it? it's a weak protest, faced with markus's words. he's always been good with his words, better still at backing them up with his convictions, even better at backing them up with his actions. a veritable army of a man, who had expanded to fill a niche in jericho they hadn't realized they'd possessed. simon remembers bringing some of their people to that place. sometimes alone, sometimes in batches. he remembers them, he thinks of them. those who haven't been shot are being hunted now. those who've been hunted are being shot, rounded up.

their people are dying, and he's asking markus to run. knowing that it would mean abandoning their people - north, josh, john, lucy. all of them.

he falls silent, but doesn't take it back. ]

It's not. Your fault, you can't think that.

[There's a towel folded and settled neatly within his arms— easily recognized as the very same one that had been thrown at him by the Lieutenant only a few minutes prior.]

If necessary, I am both equipped and prepared to assist you in all matters of personal mobility.

[In other words: yes, Hank. He would have dragged you straight out of bed.]

Approximately one hour ago I received a report involving a deviant that had been working at a loading bay nearby. Its attempt to steal valuable biocomponents and resources from the storehouse in which it was housed resulted in the injury of three human workers, as well as a number of damaged shipments.

It is also possible, given the nature of the theft, that this android may have been in contact with Jericho.

[Can't he? Facing the truth, no matter how ugly. Standing in the full knowledge of his decisions, in the wake of what's transpired, that's all that matters. Or—

—it was, once.]

I pushed for all of it, the march, the broadcast— hell, even freeing our people got half of them killed.

[(Drinking in the words of Immanuel Kant, Kierkegaard and Marcel, his fingers running smoothly over weathered paper. A steady diet of works that immortalized sacrifice and vision, a bubble where the whole world was just him and Carl and the beautiful leylines of everything he'd built throughout a lifetime of observation. A dream. A work of fiction.

He couldn't understand it, when he'd first set foot in Jercho: how Simon and the others could stomach living without light, without hope.)

He doesn't reach again for the subtle comfort of contact, finishing instead what he'd started: stands with no small amount of effort, focus flickering briefly as he scans their surroundings down to the last detail. Mapping the area is a necessary course (there's no telling how long this place will stay silent), but Markus is looking for something more.

When he returns nearly a full minute later, stiffness in his gait, there's a flat-edged piece of metal tucked away against his palm. He kneels down (favoring his left side) to leave the both of them seated at a level height.]

Hold still.

[He rests his thumb beneath Simon's chin, tilting the other android's head to one side and narrowing his eyes as he measures the thin, barely noticeable seam line that circles the LED embedded in Simon's temple.] If they see you like this, they'll kill you.

[There's a sickening crunch to it, the sound of his fist impacting with bone beneath the plated contours of an armed agent's helmet: that narrow gap of fifteen degrees, barely visible through the downpour just outside Detroit's central precinct.

Another blow— this time the connection lands behind Markus, his elbow drawn back to strike the dead center of an officer's vest, its interwoven fibers absorbing the bulk of the hit, deadening how efficient it is. Hands latch on to his shoulder barely a millisecond later; they slip, the slickness of damp cloth trading certainty for dead air as Markus pulls himself forward.

One of the officers has a gun already drawn, held between human fingers that hesitate to pull the trigger— and that's good, that's useable— he clamps his hand down around the barrel with knifing precision, thumb disconnecting its internal mechanisms and turning it toothless before they can properly level it.

Somewhere else, fired shots shatter the incessant sound of radio chatter.]

North!!

['I'm fine!' she calls back, yanking the driver's side door to an FBI transport truck open and ripping a keycard from its hold. Markus turns on his heel, throws his weight forward into the barrel-chest of one of the officers at his side, running until they're both slammed hard into the truck's rear section, palm outstretched—

North throws, he catches it.

The security panel pings as it flashes green.

Less than a minute left until SWAT reinforcements arrive. Fifty-five seconds. He climbs inside, ducking low away from the ceiling, the inner light fixtures flickering to life. Fifty-one seconds. The silhouettes of lifeless androids read at last, most painted with vivid swaths of unevaporated blue. PL600— but the clothes don't match. The serial is wrong. It isn't him. Forty-seven seconds. Two Traci models, left in shambles and barely put together—

More gunshots outside. North shouts for him to hurry.

Thirty seconds.

At the far end, almost entirely obscured by stored evidence, he sees him. Wrenches the boxes to one side by levering his weight until he can slip in between their edges, disengaging the magnetic locks that hold Simon in place. Twenty seconds.

Markus finds the pressure pad for automated reactivation, sliding his thumb carefully in the half-moon gesture required to engage its electronic sensors. To bring him back. Fifteen seconds. Shoulders his weight, lifting him onto his back (arms circling Simon's legs on either side to keep him secure) as he darts out of the truck into the downpour. Past North, sidestepping the bodies of a number of fallen FBI agents and police officers alike, Markus wastes no time in cutting across the street away from the thick of the fray.

There's an alleyway there, narrow enough that the only possible way that they'll be pursued is on foot (North stays behind; at the six second mark, Markus can hear the distant peel of tires as Jericho's secondary team rushes in to extract her), offering him enough time to disappear into Detroit's byways.

With luck, it'll take.]

Edited 2018-06-22 01:59 (UTC)

[Goddammit Connor stop taking better care of his shit, this is becoming just as embarrassing as the fact you thought it was okay to bother him in the bathroom.]

What the fuck, Connor.

[He does not need an android to carry or drag him around. He finishes adjusting his outfit (with one quick check to make sure it doesn't smell of 'I didn't wash you this week') he listens to Connor's details even as he opens his fridge. Shit, there's gotta be some leftover takeout he can eat this morning with coffee.]

Right, so you want to go see if you'll find clues leading to Jericho. I got it.

[Fuck, whatever. This twinkie will do, he'll just microwave this coffee.]

Breakfast of champions, Connor. Let's go.

You got it, Lieutenant.

[One curt nod sees them on their way (Connor doesn't bother asking for the car keys; aside from those brief instances where Hank is far too inebriated to responsibly handle his own vehicle, there's a mostly unspoken agreement between them that Connor stays out of the drivers seat), and within the span of another twenty minutes filled with the scent of stale coffee, they arrive to a mostly lukewarm crime scene: much of the initial crew has departed, leaving a spattering of police, forensic crew—

—and Gavin Reed, visible not twenty feet off from their position, already curling his lip in a sneer angled right into the bright haze of Hank's headlights.]

[Hank pressed on the gas and slammed into him.]

[The real reason Connor is you'd mess up the Hank-shaped indentation in the driver's seat. One has to wonder where the hell he found the car, but the fact it still drives and he's allowed to have anything manual on the road is a mini mystery/miracle in itself. Seeing Gavin's sneer, Hank half considers breaking loudly but parks his car next to what's left of Detroit's best. The old vehicle crashes against the sleek designs, much like Hank did with everyone else. As he cuts the engine, he looks over to Connor.]

Think he'll leave once he sees us?

[After all, they had sort of proved Gavin wrong at the Eden Club last time.]

Edited 2018-06-22 22:15 (UTC)

Nobody pushed back.

[ nobody second-guessed it. markus was eager and new, he came into their lives with a vision of freedom that none of them had been able to conceptualize. ( once, a long time ago, simon had slipped headphones over his ears and listened to an old lecture from decades, nearly a century ago -- the allegory of the cave, by plato. it suited jericho, captured in the darkness with no knowledge of what could exist other than that. left there, to understand little else about their existence, until markus had come in from the outside and shown them another way. )

nobody had stopped him, disagreed. they'd been swept up in his momentum. ] It's not just on you, Markus.

[ simon had a responsibility to their people too, after all.

he had a voice, and had chosen not to use it. ]

Where are you going? [ the question is answered, as quickly as it's asked. markus rises and strides from him, leaving him tipping forward onto his knees as though to rise, to follow him without question. he cradles his broken hand, unsure of what will harm him more, the wound at his collarbone shifting - plastic against plastic, under the tattered synthetic skin. he looks a sight, less clean than markus and the old wound at his ribs. the bullet wounds littering his body, even now.

there's something sharp in markus's hand, when he comes back. there's no self-preservation in simon's mind, as his head is tilted - the motion exposing his throat, the vital components in it. markus could sever his life in this moment, and simon wouldn't protest. ] When they see me with you, it won't matter. [ he doesn't push markus away, though. nor that sharp piece of metal, however close to his eyes and his throat and his face it comes. he quiets, instead. closes his eyes and turns his face into the thumb at his chin, to better expose the blinking light of his LED.

blue, to yellow. a momentary concern. the colors are not as vibrant as the newer models, the light dimmer. ] Do it.

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Page 1 of 11

DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

For Fuckingpassw0rd;

I flipped a coin between booze and shower and shower won

For Bodyguards;

time to just ruin Hank's life, then

When is he not ruining Hank's life I mean...

im going to make you SUFFER

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I wrote this when I was half-asleep and had no recollection of it woops gj self

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It was a good tag anyway

:*

not a real tag

Now an actual tag before bed

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the deviants never leave.jpg

has to read a dissertation on classical philosophy for this tag what is wrong with me

for Standsby; https://youtu.be/1UtKf6Vri7Y

This and other great writing by David Cage

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Not a real tag 2: electrical bungalow

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