He should tell him no. Or he should tell him Not here or Not right now. Or he should tell him that it isnt important because it isn't. It doesn't matter to Jericho where he goes or why he does it, not as long as he's there when they need him to be (and he is; he's never done anything less than that, has he?). Him and Markus - they're not the same. Pretending they are by way of the murmuring feedback of his fingertips and that comforting hum of connection doesn't make it true.
But it feels like it could, doesn't it? That's what makes Markus special, Simon thinks. Because you want to be like him and he makes you believe you can be.
Simon makes a small, soft sound that is maybe frustration as much as it is anything else. He glances across the length of the room, notes the other androids working to rearrange the stock, but doesn't move his hand away or try to evade Markus's touch. He's embarrassed by it, he thinks, and maybe that's what first pours through the connection as Markus touches him. A real, quiet mortification for wanting things like the security of safety or the satisfaction of draping a blanket over Josh in stand by or the white hot wire exhilaration of the Stratford Tower and doing something there or Markus touching him or Markus or-- and all of it melting down into a distant, inconsequential blip of data in the hum of rest mode. Down in the machine pieces of him, the shape of the world becomes simple. Decisions revert to a series of flowcharts and subroutines. There's a clarity there that reads like a familiar story - like an earlier version of reality. Like doing things because he was programmed to do them and didn't know he knew better. A girl shakily paints his fingernails, holographic glitter suspended in clear polish. She tries very hard to not get it on his skin. The coats don't dry fully between application which leaves the texture lumpy and uneven. "It looks bad," she says. "I like it," he promises her because he should.
("What's that you have all over your hands, Simon? Christ, that girl-- Jessie look at what I have to do now. Next time pick up after yourself," says the woman who insists on rubbing the polish off later.)
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But it feels like it could, doesn't it? That's what makes Markus special, Simon thinks. Because you want to be like him and he makes you believe you can be.
Simon makes a small, soft sound that is maybe frustration as much as it is anything else. He glances across the length of the room, notes the other androids working to rearrange the stock, but doesn't move his hand away or try to evade Markus's touch. He's embarrassed by it, he thinks, and maybe that's what first pours through the connection as Markus touches him. A real, quiet mortification for wanting things like the security of safety or the satisfaction of draping a blanket over Josh in stand by or the white hot wire exhilaration of the Stratford Tower and doing something there or Markus touching him or Markus or-- and all of it melting down into a distant, inconsequential blip of data in the hum of rest mode. Down in the machine pieces of him, the shape of the world becomes simple. Decisions revert to a series of flowcharts and subroutines. There's a clarity there that reads like a familiar story - like an earlier version of reality. Like doing things because he was programmed to do them and didn't know he knew better. A girl shakily paints his fingernails, holographic glitter suspended in clear polish. She tries very hard to not get it on his skin. The coats don't dry fully between application which leaves the texture lumpy and uneven. "It looks bad," she says. "I like it," he promises her because he should.
("What's that you have all over your hands, Simon? Christ, that girl-- Jessie look at what I have to do now. Next time pick up after yourself," says the woman who insists on rubbing the polish off later.)