Connection severed in an instant: jagged red cleaving through the both of them, fracturing focal points and the deep thrum of building synthesis. (Hands that swiftly rise, straightening his collar. Press themselves to his brow. Hands that fit themselves anywhere but Markus's open grasp.) His features realign. He separates himself from data, from the faded edges of a half-gleaned memory, glancing up from beneath the sharp edges of his browline.
"It's been weeks, Simon."
Is that a reason? Not really. Is it fair? Probably not. But Markus can’t let it go. He fixates, he always has, and he sat by and watched as Simon strained to find him in the dark— as he reset and reset and reset in mechanical rhythms until the only thing left was a pale-eyed ghost adhered to quiet spaces. It isn’t death, no. It also isn’t (to Markus’s mind) so different from hanging listlessly in an evidence locker.
This isn’t what they’d fought for (maybe it is, maybe that’s a decision every deviant is owed, but Simon isn't striving). Breathing but he isn’t beating with the thrum of his automated pulse. Markus can’t understand.
He moves for Simon’s hand again, the one still angled against his temple, this time without pretense.
“Show me why.”
Why he does this. Why he leaves himself to sink into the cracks of Jericho’s foundation. The android that gave everything for his people when Jericho was only huddled, broken bodies waiting out the finality of their absolution.
no subject
Connection severed in an instant: jagged red cleaving through the both of them, fracturing focal points and the deep thrum of building synthesis. (Hands that swiftly rise, straightening his collar. Press themselves to his brow. Hands that fit themselves anywhere but Markus's open grasp.) His features realign. He separates himself from data, from the faded edges of a half-gleaned memory, glancing up from beneath the sharp edges of his browline.
"It's been weeks, Simon."
Is that a reason? Not really. Is it fair? Probably not. But Markus can’t let it go. He fixates, he always has, and he sat by and watched as Simon strained to find him in the dark— as he reset and reset and reset in mechanical rhythms until the only thing left was a pale-eyed ghost adhered to quiet spaces. It isn’t death, no. It also isn’t (to Markus’s mind) so different from hanging listlessly in an evidence locker.
This isn’t what they’d fought for (maybe it is, maybe that’s a decision every deviant is owed, but Simon isn't striving). Breathing but he isn’t beating with the thrum of his automated pulse. Markus can’t understand.
He moves for Simon’s hand again, the one still angled against his temple, this time without pretense.
“Show me why.”
Why he does this. Why he leaves himself to sink into the cracks of Jericho’s foundation. The android that gave everything for his people when Jericho was only huddled, broken bodies waiting out the finality of their absolution.
Their leader.