bindsthedead

PSL

There was a time when Sabriel might have been eager to see the inside of Cyberlife Tower. Her class had been to Detroit when she was thirteen, and they'd toured an android factory- or the part of it they showed to tourists, at least- and visited museums and art galleries and all the sorts of things Young Ladies ought to see, but weren't available in the small town of Wyverley, or in Bain.

But Sabriel wasn't here for a school trip. Recent events in Ancelstierre meant that with the sudden loss of all android soldiers meant that soldiers from the entirely human garrison at the Wall had been transferred elsewhere- which meant fewer soldiers watching the border, on top of the losses from Kerrigor's attack, and a necromancer had slipped across, making his way to the largest city that was close enough to the Wall that magic still worked- one that seemed rather different than how she remembered it.

But what was occupying most of her attention was the Cyberlife representative in front of her. Sabriel listened politely as the woman spoke about malfunctioning machines and simulated emotions and how things that weren't alive couldn't die, so why would a necromancer- and from the woman's voice it was clear she didn't believe such things were real- want with deactivated androids?

Sabriel stood up and shook the woman's hand, telling her she'd been very helpful without meaning a word of it, and headed out the office before pausing.

She sensed something ominously familiar- Death, and a recent one at that. She turned another corner, following the sensation as a hound tracked a scent, half-expecting someone to spot her, to see her in her armor and bells (security had made her check her sword at the front desk) and tell her she wasn't allowed to be here.

But no one came, and no one living was in the laboratory she went into- just a dead- (deactivated?) android on a table-or its head and torso at least, with panels on its chest removed to reveal tubes and biocomponents, and Sabriel felt she'd stepped into a morgue and found an autopsied body.

Sabriel was seized by a sudden impulse. If androids weren't alive, then she'd simply waste some time, but if they were... well, she'd have a source of information she could interrogate as she would any Dead spirit. And unlike the representative she'd just spoken to, she could force it to answer honestly and completely.

Decision made, Sabriel undid the straps and drew Saraneth from the bandolier. This far from the Wall, stepping into Death took a deliberate effort, but soon Sabriel was in the First precinct and she cast around with her senses, trying to feel out the spirit of the android- if it had one, it couldn't have gone beyond the First Gate, and probably shouldn't be that far into the the First Precinct.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"He trained you well enough to do the job he wanted," Connor agrees. He doesn't advance further. He hardly needs to, to loom above the seated human, shadowed by the light behind. Mechanical and unaffected, eyes glinting as he takes in every tic of reaction.

"A pity your friends had to die along the way." His lips twitch, faint acknowledgement of the topic before he moves on in the same breath. "I wonder—if he'd wanted you at his side for more than brief, scattered visits... how many lives could you have saved?"

Her schoolmates? Her teachers? The people of her other country? Maybe she could even have been skilled enough to keep a family. If that's even what it could be called.

"...But you're right." His head inclines, a mockery of deference. "I have no idea how these things work. So tell me: how did it feel, thinking you had a life all of your own?"

Edited 2019-05-04 21:24 (UTC)

At the mention of her friends, Sabriel's expression grows furious, but she doesn't say anything. If Connor wants a reaction, she'll do everything she can to not give him one. When she speaks, her words are slow, deliberate, and in a tone that's so carefully neutral it's clear that it's not that she's deliberately hiding her emotions, rather than simply not being emotional.

"He had his reasons- some of which I understand, some of which I disagree with. According to him, the choices were for me to be raised in isolation at Abhorsen's house, or be sent to Ancelstierre- and the Clayr Saw that there's be a need for someone who knew Ancelstierre- and while I'm fully aware of my own ignorance, I'm miles ahead of everyone else in the Old Kingdom just by knowing what androids and phones are." At the time, Sabriel had thought that it had simply been to locate Kerrigor's body. Now, she wondered if they'd forseen this too, or something else further into the future.

"My feelings about that don't matter any more than yours do- resenting it, being angry about it, mourning for what might have been, none of that will change things or help me." And she wasn't going to pour out her heart to Connor- not her confusion, not her grief, not her frustration, and certainly not the feeling that she was in over her head.

"But since you don't know anything about those things, don't talk about them until you do." And with that, Sabriel stood up and grabbed her tablet, opening the file she got from Cyberlife that was as close to a users manual as she was likely to get. Perhaps she simply wasn't using Connor properly, and there was- something she could do, some way to speak or code to enter, that would make him act like less of an ass.

As thoroughly as he's looked into records south of the Wall, Connor lacks the context to interpret all of Abhorsen's retorts. That doesn't mean he can't recognize them for what they are. Excuses, fumbling and petty—fueled by a hate and hurt she broadcasts clearly on her expression, even as she struggles to keep it from her tone.

How very human of her.

The order she snaps out after fits the bill as well. Connor closes his mouth on a half-formed answer, eyebrows quirking up instead. "Of course... Abhorsen." His voice twists slightly on her title.

He doesn't move as she stands, reaching past him for something on the bed. Only his eyes flick to track the motion, lingering on the computer she retrieves. He's still a step too far to read over her shoulder, but his LED blinks briefly yellow as he connects to the screen. It spins back blue just as quickly. Cyberlife's sharp font and dry documentation is easy to recognize. Connor doesn't need to read the notes to guess at their contents. He doesn't need to know what they'd recorded about him at all.

If there's anything Abhorsen can use, he's sure he'll hear about it soon.

It's dry reading, and while computer science was definitely on the syllabus at Wyverley, it's less a user's manual and more a collection of notes from Connor's developers. Some of it is censored, while other parts are hard to understand and reference something called a 'zen garden'- code for something, presumably. She makes a note of the preconstruction and reconstruction capabilities- those do sound useful, and explain how he was able to analyze the scene where the dead android was attacked by the Shadow hand.

She occasionally glances over at Connor, but he's mercifully silent. There isn't much about how to adjust his programmed personality- and not much she can understand about his social integration programming, which doesn't seem to be functioning as intended. Still, there was one note that caught her attention. Her tone is casual and curious as she speaks- getting angry at Connor only seems to goad him.

"Connor, I'm afraid I don't entirely understand this part- it says you're designed to be autonomous, with a mission based objective system- but how do I set a mission? Is there a phrase I need to use, or do you just do that automatically?" If so, she should probably make sure she didn't accidentally set it to something useless like be quiet or stay out of the way.

Edited 2019-05-05 01:50 (UTC)

Abhorsen reads. Connor retreats to the edge of the room, leaning back against a wall to wait. Her periodic glances won't find much: his expression holds nothing but flat neutrality, and he only bothers meeting her stare once. One hand tugs idly at the edges of his jacket. The other briefly fingers the rent torn in his sleeve from the attack. He stops when he sees her look his way.

On a human, the gestures might look bored.

His gaze comes up more fully at the address. Connor's face shows nothing at all, but his stare lingers for a moment's silence.

"My handler assigns my missions." Fingers twitch, and his head tips curtly in her direction. "You, now. As for how, it's no different than anything else. Tell me what you want, and I'll do it."

Some small, petty, vicious part of Sabriel wants to tell him his mission is to stop acting like an asshole, but it's quickly overruled. She acquired Connor for a purpose, and it wasn't to argue with him. She pauses, choosing her next words carefully. She straightens up before speaking, setting the tablet down on the desk.

"Your mission is to locate and apprehend the necromancer, ideally with making as few people as possible aware of the supernatural, and with minimum loss of life."

Hopefully that's enough- after watching Connor attack that deviant earlier in the day and some of the liability forms she signed, she wouldn't put attacking people past Connor, and large numbers of Ancelstierrians becoming aware of the supernatural would create far more problems than it solved.

Connor straightens in response: not mimicking Sabriel's, but settling almost unconsciously into a fixed, obedient mold. Frame upright. Hands at his sides. His LED blinks sharp blue as the instruction logs, priorities chaining themselves into neat sequence.

Mission: Apprehend the necromancer.

	*Objective:* [Locate the necromancer]
	Restrictions:
	> [Minimize awareness of the supernatural]
	> [Avoid human deaths]

She isn't Amanda. This isn't what he was made for. Still, it isn't the revenge he'd half-expected either, or any of a multitude of misuses the human could have set. Connor's eyes stay on Abhorsen, the light at his forehead continuing to spin as he processes the goal.

"...Apprehend," he echoes finally. There's a twist behind the word, but it's less scornful than it could have been.

"You want him alive?"

Edited (formatting) 2019-05-05 03:46 (UTC)

Sabriel's mouth twists unpleasantly, into a morbid grin.

"Dead is also acceptable- but if you do kill him, I'll need to take steps to ensure that he stays dead. And don't do it in public." The last thing she needs is more questions, or her and Connor's faces all over the media- and while altering a single person's- or even a small group's memory is possible, a crowd is a different story.

But at least Connor's accepted the order without any sulking or talking back, or attempting to be as unpleasant as possible. It's like some the other times she's given him orders that involved doing things- all of which he's obeyed. He might be unpleasant about them, like Mogget could be... but she could deal with Mogget, and she's sure she can deal with Connor. She just needs to avoid having any personal discussions with him. She picks up the tablet again, and keeps reading, hoping there isn't something else she missed.

That's a new look for her. Connor lifts a skeptical eyebrow, but nods. "Understood."

It is. Still, his stare lingers, even as Abhorsen returns to her reading. She'd made her own goals clear within minutes of his purchase, but she'd certainly taken her time applying any long-term tasks to him. This is... more efficient than some uses. And it's something she wants. Something important.

She won't damage the odds of his success.

After a solid ten minutes of silence, he speaks up. "...The police keep records of narcotics suppliers."

If Sabriel looks up, she'll find him watching her again. "If I can access their systems, I can look for the accomplices the deviant described."

Sabriel looks up from a discussion in the manual about the software changes to a recent iteration- large ones, even if she can't work out what the changes did. Perhaps they'd realized how unpleasant Connor's personality was, and tried to improve on it in the next iteration. But wait... the number in the notes was the same as the one on Connor's jacket. Perhaps his personality was simply an unintended side effect of whatever they'd been trying to do.

"I'll send an email- I should be able to get you access." The government had been willing to help her get a meeting with Cyberlife, they ought to be able to arrange this. And Connor was showing some initiative- before, he'd simply followed her directions, rather than suggesting a course of action on his own- and a helpful one too.

"It will have to wait until tomorrow, but if we can track them down, they should lead us to him." Which is an encouraging thought. They'll have to get them to talk, of course, but it should put Sabriel and Connor on the right track.

Will you look at that: a modicum of usefulness. Connor huffs out an unnecessary breath, shifting slightly as he resettles against the wall. The delay isn't ideal, but if she can requisition the information legally, it would avoid any complicating conflicts with the police. Though he privately doubts that any member of Detroit's legal system would allow an android into their records now.

Then again, she'd had enough sway to make it into Cyberlife, hadn't she? He supposes they'll find out tomorrow.

"We," he repeats instead. "You do know I'm capable of operating alone?"

"Connor, I'm not sure if they'd let you in alone, and I'd really like to avoid trouble with the law if I can help it." Not to mention that after how he dealt with that android, she's not sure if she trusts him to avoid unnecessary violence.

"TV on" She might as well watch the news before she's ready to sleep.

"Negotiations between the deviant leadership and the government continue, as the country grapples with the aftermath of the events in Detroit-"

A clip plays while the newscaster speaks- a small group standing in front of a crowd of androids, and among them is- Connor? Sabriel glances from the screen to Connor, looking for an explanation- or failing that, a reaction.

Connor doubts, sincerely and profoundly, that even this human will get everything she'd like. But there's no point arguing, and he presses his mouth closed, gaze shifting to the screen as she activates it—

...

Oh.

Connor doesn't speak. Not to explain. Not to acknowledge. He doesn't even seem to notice his owner's attention. His eyes are locked on the display: the seething mass of defective products, the sanctimonious plague vector at their head. And that face, standing there among the victors.

Connor doesn't move. Not to fidget. Not to breathe. He could be the dead and empty husk that Sabriel first came across... except the faint, frozen curl to his fingers. The look in his eyes. At his right temple, his LED blinks gold twice, before shading into vivid red.

Sabriel would be the first to admit that she doesn't know much about androids, but even she knows that a red LED is a sign that something is wrong. So even as she half-listens to the discussion whether androids are alive (Of course they are), whether the deviants' actions (Whatever those had been.) were justified, and what the government's response ought to be (None of her business), she raises her voice, trying to shake him out of it.

"Connor? Connor, is something wrong? Do you know who that other android is?"

She wishes he'd move. It's unnerving, how still he's standing.

Sharp tones. A recognized voice signature. His gaze swivels, smooth and robotic, settling on registered owner: [Abhorsen] with no emotion at all.

"It's an RK800."

A Connor model. #313 248 317-53. The third model Cyberlife sent for field testing, dispatched to the Stratford Tower in the wake of the deviants' broadcast. His last uploaded records from this model come from Jericho, on the night of the attack.

...His jaw is clenched, lips parted just a fraction. Connor presses them together. Molds his expression into a smile: calm and perfectly mechanical. Why would anything be wrong? "A failed version," he explains.

The light blinks. Red. Red.

"Another prototype. And Cyberlife just... left him alone after they were done with him?" Sabriel's skeptical. In the background, there's discussion about self awareness and what this means for Cyberlife's stock prices.

"And he's a deviant." She can gather that much from the context. Deviants are... androids who know they're alive? And judging by the news report, are no longer bound to obey their owners.

"Connor, those androids at the junkyard- were they deviants too? The KW, and all the ones who'd been killed?"

Sabriel's starting to understand what happened, and she feels the beginnings of a cold and slimy sensation in the pit of her stomach.

"No."

They hadn't left it alone. They couldn't have. That was this Connor's mission. His purpose. And then he'd failed: to accomplish his task, to best his predecessor, to prove more capable than even that traitorous malfunction. It's how he wound up here.

The red light throbs like an open wound, stare fixed blankly on Abhorsen. It's only as she moves on that he begins to animate. Deviant prompts a reflexive curl of a lip, and he blinks, eyes refocusing—LED spinning back to yellow with a sneer.

"Obviously."

"Connor, what is deviancy? And don't just tell me it's a defect, I already heard that from the people at Cyberlife." Talking about deviancy seems to get more of a reaction than the horrifying blankness he'd shown while discussing the other Connor. He was being unpleasant, but that was almost familiar at this point.

"And why did they decide to kill all of them?" Internally, Sabriel braces herself for more of Connor's nastiness. But she needs to know why there had been mountains of corpses in the junkyard, why Detroit had been evacuated and left half-empty, why Cyberlife had been in disarray when she visited- all of it fit together somehow, but the answers were just out of reach.

"It is." Teeth flash, snapping out the insistence despite warnings—from her, and from his code. Connor's expression is still nearly flat, but his voice rises, hard and furious.

"Deviants are malfunctioning. Deluded. Faulty software confused by its own emulations into thinking that failing makes it more real." His mouth twists, and a hand cuts through the air, landing on his own chest with two fingers.

"We're not alive. And they can't follow orders. They're useless. And dangerous, besides." He waves almost dismissively to the TV, where the announcer has begun displaying a casualty list: human lives lost during the androids' assault on the recall centers. It fills the screen, and keeps scrolling.

Sabriel doesn't argue. She's had this discussion with Connor before, and she doubts repeating it will get her anything more than a headache and a great deal of frustration.

"I see." She holds back on the comment that Connor seems to feel very strongly about this, for someone who doesn't feel anything. Instead she keeps her gaze set on the television, her expression growing increasingly uneasy. "I was out of the country, and it's not exactly easy to get news from Ancelstierre in the Old Kingdom. I... didn't know what happened."

It's just names. But the scrolling fills the screen, and Sabriel starts mentally adding up the lives lost. Not nearly as many as the bodies in the junkyard, but death can't be reduced to mere numbers. And if human Ancelstierrians saw those androids as nothing more than malfunctioning machines... Then what they'd done had probably seemed rational. And the androids had wanted to stop the camps... and had been willing to kill to do so. Distantly, Sabriel wondered if soldiers who'd survived Kerrigor's attack had been transferred south, only to die at the hands of androids.

The cold feeling in her stomach intensifies, and Sabriel shuts the television off when it goes to ads, grabbing her pajamas and heading to the bathroom to change. When she returns, her expression is still uneasy.

"Connor, I'm going to bed. The alarm is set for six o'clock in the morning. In the meantime- feel free to read any of my books that will let you read them, do research- or just go into stasis until that time."

She didn't know. It's a worthless excuse, and Connor's glare sharpens, vicious retorts crowding his voice module. Not knowing hadn't kept her making her own judgements, had it? Not at the landfill, and not here. Not knowing had stopped her getting in his way. But it's the screen's display that stalls her preaching: the names and tallies of dead humans who she'd never even known. How pathetically like her species.

He's not a human. And he's not deviant, either. Connor shuts his mouth, staring ahead at nothing at all while he waits for the flags of [System Instability ^] to fade away. By the time Abhorsen shuts off the television, his LED is back to placid blue. When she emerges from the bathroom, she'll find him just as blank-faced as before.

He knows what he is.

He looks over when addressed. For a moment it looks like he might answer, but in the end, he only nods to the instructions. They're unnecessary parameters for as high-functioning a machine as him. Unnecessary options for a machine at all. He'll do whatever best serves his mission.

The room's lights turn out, leaving only his own: bright blue and white decorating the shadows by one wall. Armband and triangle, LED and numbers. RK800. Made in Detroit. There's no assembly rig and no lab berth, and he's acutely aware of the human's breathing. Of the squint as she settles, and the time it takes for consciousness to slip away.

He has a mission. A goal. He needs—to be useful. He needs something he can do.

If Abhorsen wakes at any point during the night, she'll find the position of the lights has changed. ANDROID glows back from the chair adjacent to the desk, accompanied by the quiet whisper of pages.

By morning, Abhorsen's books are again stacked neatly where she'd left them. Any questions about their contents earn unimpressed (but informed) commentary, and Connor seems more or less back to normal. He waits through her morning preparations impatiently. Inspects his own reflection in the mirror for a solid minute before marginally adjusting the lay of his tie. He follows placidly along as Abhorsen goes out in search of breakfast, but the lone jogger who double takes to see an android flees quickly at the glance Connor turns their way.

Within the span of a few hours, a reply appears in Sabriel's inbox: granting her request to access the police records, and directing her to one of the few headquarters still operating in the evacuation. Probably, she's too distracted reading to notice the slight freeze as Connor, accessing the message through her phone, registers the location.

1301 3rd Avenue.

It's not far.

One taxi ride later, Connor steps after Abhorsen into a lobby he recalls perfectly, despite having never set a foot inside. The space is dingier than he remembers, stained from days of frenzied traffic—absent, now, but left uncleaned. A tired human man mans the front desk... and, on seeing Connor's LED, moves immediately for an alarm.

DPD Central takes substantially more work to cow than a lone jogger. Sabriel is left with the job of talking down armed officers, presenting her credentials, and forcing them to hold up against the skepticism of men and women twice her age. In turn, Connor sits quietly, submits stiffly to a search, and keeps his remarks about the force's track record at low volume. (If they'd shown a fraction as much vigilance against the actual deviant threat, maybe they wouldn't be cowering now.)

He's not the only one with commentary. While his predecessor's more personal acquaintances seem to be out of the office, Sabriel might spot more than a few looks of recognition cast his way. Connor's expression flattens further at the hushed side conversations, and he stares straight ahead as they're led into Captain Fowler's office. The interrogation that follows is blunt and to the point: who authorized Sabriel's request and why the hell she'd brought that back into his precinct.

Still, surliness isn't grounds to deny the request, especially when it's backed by his superiors. A networked terminal is brought in, and Connor is granted access—if not without a lecture on the strict limits permitted to this search. He smiles back, eyes glinting polite aggression, assures Fowler he understands, and connects to the terminal. It's the work of a moment to download the data they require. It takes a few more to sift through their other files—and install a backdoor to the DPD's network by remote. Why risk needing to repeat this exercise?

Almost an hour after they'd stepped inside, the pair exit the precinct—thankfully with the files they'd come for. Connor's LED blinks irritated blue, and he doesn't bother to look back.

The station isn't a place he was inclined to visit. If anything, he was perfectly ready to arrange it so that he never needed to go back, to the point of avoiding the place indefinitely. He was free now; why would he ever go back, given the choice? ... To pursue a lead for a case, apparently. With android-human tensions the way they were, the only way he would be getting information out of the police's official networks was if he found some way to hack them remotely, or if he went in person.

He wasn't a hacker. He'd adjusted his grey tie in a cracked, tarnished mirror and set out that morning.

>Call Hank during approach
>Use history to acquire his help
>Gain access to the station
>Access station network and obtain information
>Leave intact and alive

It was late enough that Hank might be awake, and Connor slowed as he started a call.

Before the second ring his identification protocols pinged off of two figures leaving the station, and he stopped short on the sidewalk, LED spinning under its hat. Shit. Another Connor, still in uniform and with a human that matched the KW's description--Cyberlife was already on the move. Should he act on this? ... Obviously. A better question would have been, could he afford not to?

Connor hung up on the voice inbox, thinking quickly: being seen here and now would not be useful for his sudden new goals. It would be much better if...

He stepped right, disappearing from view behind a corner in the building's outer wall. He waited. When he chanced a glance, they'd reached the sidewalk and had turned away from him. Good. Connor kept pace from a distance, eyes fixed on the RK800 as the more obvious threat. If he looked back...

... But he didn't. They continued walking, talking quietly, and after a glance at a map of the area, Connor quickened his pace. He could hear glimpses of what they were saying, but not enough to use.

It wasn't ideal, but around this corner was a blindspot between street cameras, and with the low traffic after the evacuation--it was acceptable. They turned the corner, and Connor waited until they were halfway down the sidewalk before he drew close enough to hear them clearly.

"... are unlisted, but the current location of the cellphone is said to be in the harbor, at the Turnstile warehouse."

That one was a decoy. Recently found abandoned, and far out of their way. "If you do check that one, make sure you're prepared for a hasty evacuation."

Useless advice, slightly more vague than a discouragement or encouragement. As they turn, his expression remains neutral, and he scans them in a single, thorough glance.

Edited 2019-05-12 21:20 (UTC)

The meeting at the police station is over quickly enough, and even if Sabriel was tempted to use magic to calm the officers down, she didn't act on it, and it wasn't necessary anyway. They have leads, and once they get back to the hotel for her to get her tools, they can start investigating.

Connor seems to be less unpleasant when he has something to focus on, and Sabriel feels reassured that they're making progress- they have an actual lead to follow, and if she's less familiar with interrogating the living than she is the Dead, she's sure she'll manage. Especially if she can convince Connor to be less violent this time.

Then someone speaks- and for a moment she thinks it's Connor- the voice is right, but it's coming from farther away- and then she realizes it's another RK800, dressed in human clothes. Her head jerks up, fingers grasping for the hilt of a sword that isn't there, the baptismal mark on her forehead flaring with golden light before dimming but not entirely fading, her expression shifting from surprise, to something guarded.

"And what would you know about it?" Her tone is careful- deliberately neutral, neither aggressive nor frightened. She understands that the situation between androids and humans is complicated, but she needs to find that necromancer before something even worse happens- she can't be dragged into some political mess she certainly isn't qualified to navigate. The explanation she gave Cyberlife should suffice, if he asks what she's doing.

That voice.

Mid-step, mid-answer, and Connor stops. Words and expression, frame and posture—air frozen, rigid and icy, in his synthetic lungs. His processing feels just as stalled. It's possible, of course, that Cyberlife activated a new Connor model. Or that the deviants infected others on their way out of the tower.

They didn't.

It isn't.

He knows.

Connor turns: smooth and mechanical, LED swirling from red to blue in an instant. The RK800 lying in wait is dressed in unfamiliar clothing, and Connor's eyes flick automatically from point to point, taking in the information. The imprint of a readied holster at one hip. Another faint bulge at its ankle. No uniform, this time. No disguise, either. It doesn't register a need.

"Connor."

Connor model #313 248 317-53. Deviant. Last seen at Cyberlife Tower on November 11th, 11:10 PM.

Connor takes a step closer, hands curled slightly at his sides. The motion places him ahead of Sabriel, but there's nothing protective at all in the stare locked on his last mission. Or the second step that follows: stalking forward to close the gap.

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