"They didn't find any of us," Simon breathes, relieved. Not Markus, not Josh. Not North. Not even him.
He had heard the commotion below; the clattering in the broadcaster's kitchen, the shouts on the rooftop as officers-in-waiting rushed towards the sound, the bulletfire below. He'd remained there, in hiding, as the scene was shut down. As the officers were dismissed from their posts, as he was able to quietly, nervously, limp from his bolthole with the gun clutched in his shaking hand. Down stairs, through the broadcast room. Away, away, and deeper into the city. It had taken him calculation, careful consideration of every move, and raw willpower to maneuver his way past the increased foot patrol, back to Jericho.
Back to their people.
Back to Markus.
Markus, who is possessed with something. Thirium-loss? The echoes of Simon's looping, poisonous code? The eye of something studious and attentive. He wonders, sometimes, who Markus was before he'd come to Jericho. He's heard, through the grapevine, about a model that resembled him being eliminated in the middle of a famous artist's home. Now, that android has his fingers shoved inside of Simon's wicked mouth, spreading him open and exploring the violent interior of his maw. As Markus moves his fingers, and with them: manipulates the space behind Simon's eyeteeth, the needle-thin points that hide just behind the elongated fangs slip free from his upper jaw. Reactive to the presence of body, to the motion of his jaw.
He doesn't respond, while Markus's fingers are inside of his mouth.
Instead, he curls his tongue up and between those digits, tipping his head back a little further - exposing the gleam of tubing that lines the back of his throat. The insides still flecked with thirium, where he'd swallowed what Markus had to give down, tucked it away somewhere safe. He wants to run a diagnostic: I feel better, Simon shares, through the neural network they all share with one another. His voice dipping into Markus's core, reminiscent of sweet pleasures and sharp pain. Again, he moves his tongue, down to the joint between Markus's fingers and he curls it there, mostly dry, staining his skin with the pale shade of thirium-blue left to him.
You could do that, he declares muzzily, sagging into Markus's hold. A predator, digesting. You'll find that I'm damaged, not dying. Are you looking for that information now, Markus? Or, his tone ponders mock-scathingly, are you indulging in something more?
no subject
He had heard the commotion below; the clattering in the broadcaster's kitchen, the shouts on the rooftop as officers-in-waiting rushed towards the sound, the bulletfire below. He'd remained there, in hiding, as the scene was shut down. As the officers were dismissed from their posts, as he was able to quietly, nervously, limp from his bolthole with the gun clutched in his shaking hand. Down stairs, through the broadcast room. Away, away, and deeper into the city. It had taken him calculation, careful consideration of every move, and raw willpower to maneuver his way past the increased foot patrol, back to Jericho.
Back to their people.
Back to Markus.
Markus, who is possessed with something. Thirium-loss? The echoes of Simon's looping, poisonous code? The eye of something studious and attentive. He wonders, sometimes, who Markus was before he'd come to Jericho. He's heard, through the grapevine, about a model that resembled him being eliminated in the middle of a famous artist's home. Now, that android has his fingers shoved inside of Simon's wicked mouth, spreading him open and exploring the violent interior of his maw. As Markus moves his fingers, and with them: manipulates the space behind Simon's eyeteeth, the needle-thin points that hide just behind the elongated fangs slip free from his upper jaw. Reactive to the presence of body, to the motion of his jaw.
He doesn't respond, while Markus's fingers are inside of his mouth.
Instead, he curls his tongue up and between those digits, tipping his head back a little further - exposing the gleam of tubing that lines the back of his throat. The insides still flecked with thirium, where he'd swallowed what Markus had to give down, tucked it away somewhere safe. He wants to run a diagnostic: I feel better, Simon shares, through the neural network they all share with one another. His voice dipping into Markus's core, reminiscent of sweet pleasures and sharp pain. Again, he moves his tongue, down to the joint between Markus's fingers and he curls it there, mostly dry, staining his skin with the pale shade of thirium-blue left to him.
You could do that, he declares muzzily, sagging into Markus's hold. A predator, digesting. You'll find that I'm damaged, not dying. Are you looking for that information now, Markus? Or, his tone ponders mock-scathingly, are you indulging in something more?