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

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.

There's a tear in the RK800's sleeve that draws his attention immediately. There's old mud crusting his shoes, distinct and memorable. There's faint numbers across his--

--Glowing from the side snatches his gaze immediately, and the girl is treated to an even faster scan. Results: human, female. Abhorsen, Sabriel. She matches the description the KW gave exactly, if in greater detail. The symbol on her brow gets some attention, but there are no clear matches, and--how is she doing that? It's--likely voluntary, but how, and what does it mean?

Connor's eyes leave her at the android's first step. At its second he draws the gun from his side, pointing it in a single fluid motion.

"One step closer, and I'll shoot."

There's no way he'd miss. Connor never got to shoot the last RK800 Cyberlife sent at him, but if this one attacks, he won't hesitate to correct this issue. (The human is not being classified as a direct threat, yet, despite her luminescent tattoo. Because of this, he watches her from peripheral vision only.)

Edited 2019-05-13 02:49 (UTC)

Sabriel twitches as the other Connor raises the gun- then raises her hands, palms outstretched as the mark on her forehead glows brighter. She needs to make it very clear she's unarmed. The marks she needs are easily plucked out of the Charter and slide down her arm as she speaks.

"Please, stop." On the last word, her right arm extends, pointing straight at the false Connor, as the spell leaps from her fingertips to the android. It's meant to immobilize without silencing- and hopefully take effect quickly enough that Connor won't be shot- he might be an ass, but she still needs his help, and she's not sure where she can get him repaired if he's shot- or if healing spells work on androids.

Edited 2019-05-13 04:44 (UTC)

It will shoot, will it? What a novel experience. Connor's lips twitch, expression darkening as he stops to stare down the barrel of the gun. A flicker of preconstruction confirms it: no better than 12% odds of surviving its first shot if he moves now. The chances of making it in range to deal with the weapon are even lower.

Nevermind that if Abhorsen believed in firearms he could have taken out the deviant already. Frustration sparks and simmers in his components, along with a reckless urge to lunge forward regardless. Better than waiting. More useful than dying, again, without so much as—

'Please, stop.'

Light jumps across the gap, and Connor's stare snaps to it: the seed of color, and the symbol nested at its core. It's past him in an instant, but the image captured in his optics is enough. He'd spent all night poring through the categories. A binding mark. Paralysis.

...oh.

Eyes lock back on his deviant copy, and pointedly, Connor advances one more pace. It doesn't shoot. Another step, and nothing—another, circling out of the line of fire, and a gleam of vicious satisfaction lights behind the machine's eyes. He closes the gap, hand clamping on the gun and twisting it from his target's frozen grip. Connor's gaze lingers on the deviant, inspecting it like a particularly loathsome pest, while his hands move on automatic: checking the clip.

Fully loaded.

Connor doesn't understand what's happened at first. There are motes of light, and they dart towards him, making him tense and brace himself for--

--Nothing? Or rather, the lights weren't tiny flaming projectiles, and he doesn't feel any impacts. For a fraction of a second Connor assumes the lights were a distraction, and nothing more, so he turns back to the RK800, planning to--

--he can't move his head.

His brow furrows. He can't move his head, neck, shoulders, legs--anything. The signals he's sending are getting received, but the bioservos aren't responding. When he tells himself to look down at his own body, his head doesn't lower. When he tries to move the gun to the apparently more suitable target, it--doesn't change. When the RK800's eyes glitter, and it takes a deliberate, purposeful step forward, and Connor squeezes the trigger--

--His hands don't actually move.

The RK800 takes another step, and Connor tries again, and again, and again despite its uselessness. "What..." Wait--he can talk? "What's happened? How did--... How are you jamming my biocomponent signals?" It takes a supreme effort, but he can move his eyes, and he's able to watch with growing alarm as the other android puts its hands around his grip, calmly prying his weapon away. Shit. Arming it was the last thing he wanted to do, and now Connor's trapped, alone, and helpless, while his duplicate steals his gun?! Connor tries to close his hands, to grasp, even though he can't and the gun is already gone.

He rolls his eyes until he can look at her, stress levels creeping high by the second. "Let me go. Now."

(Or else what? He's at their mercy, he can hardly threaten them. He should've called someone before engaging. Anything would have been smarter than this.)

Well, he has no idea what she did. But Sabriel has no intention of letting him go after he pointed a gun at Connor with so little provocation. Had he been the one in the television broadcast? Or had that been yet another android with the same face? How many RK800s were there, anyway? And why did she feel like she'd stepped in the middle of an argument? Sabriel grimaces, steps forward, and looks over to Connor.

"Connor, keep that gun but don't shoot him unless I give you permission." Hopefully this can be resolved without anyone getting hurt- although despite Connor's claim to not have feelings, there's clearly something between him and this android, and Sabriel shifts her gaze from the real Connor to the other Connor.

"That's not important," she tells him authoritatively, her posture confident but not too aggressive, "What matters is why you pointed a gun at him and what you know about our investigation- we're trying to find a dangerous criminal from the Old Kingdom." Given everything she knew about the political situation in Detroit and the necromancers recent actions, she doubted he was working with the necromancer, so she didn't want to hurt him unless absolutely necessary. Especially given the political situation- the last thing she needs is angry androids chasing her down when she's trying to stop a necromancer.

His predecessor's useless protests are music to his ears—especially with the frantic uptick of its stress levels as accompaniment. He's contemplating precisely where to aim to raise them further when Abhorsen interjects. Connor's expression flattens, gaze flicking over to the human.

Unsurprisingly, she's trying to assert herself. Or: conduct an interrogation by telling their enemy about their plans. He represses the urge to roll his eyes, instead returning his attention to the deviant.

"It won't cooperate without incentive."

Connor stoops, tugging its pant leg aside to reveal an ankle holster. He retrieves a second gun, tucking it inside his jacket. A slow circuit finds displaced cloth at the back of its jacket, and Connor reaches under, retrieving a third gun. Eyebrows quirk as he lifts the weapon for Abhorsen to see. She still thinks it came here for conversation?

"You really should let me handle this."

Without restrictions.

Why he pointed a gun at... Why does she think he did that? Humans. Is she assuming a malfunction, or is she really that oblivious?

It doesn't matter. She's from Cyberlife, the RK800 is listening to her, and she's just given their cover story. Connor has two top priorities now, and one of them includes learning and delivering information about their real plans before they're able to silence him permanently. (The second one is to not get killed.)

He's relieved of his other two guns, and Connor winces faintly, feeling a little like he's already lost bodyparts, even though no torture has actually started. His LED has turned yellow, his jaw is clenched, and for as long as he can he follows the guns with his eyes. (This isn't going to end well. Can he get out of this alive?)

(...)

(... Connor starts gathering the most pertinent details of his work and builds a file, setting the file to send automatically upon death.)

"If it's information you're after..." He focuses on the Abhorsen. THe RK800's presence is like a blazing spotlight by his back, but he already underestimated her once, and look where it's gotten him. He's trapped between two jaws, both closing around him from either side. His LED is yellow, and his stress levels remain high.

"... Why don't we try an information exchange? I know things you don't know. And you..." Connor's eyebrows arch, corners of his mouth floating up in the most obviously fake expression known to man or machine.

Edited 2019-05-16 03:44 (UTC)

"Connor, do you know ways to question someone that don't involve torturing them? If so, use them." She knows he was built for interrogation, but... this Connor isn't one of the Dead or working for the necromancer. Maybe there's a chance they can talk things out.

That smile looks ridiculous though. Sabriel offers one of her own- sweet and polite, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She knows Connor's derided her for being soft before, but she's not quite that naive. The other Connor is dodging, trying to avoid telling them anything while getting information out of them.

"I'm sorry, but you just pointed a gun at him, and you're currently disarmed and immobilized. You're not in a position to request things." There might not be any cruelty in her tone, but there is a certain sharpness. She immobilized him instead of using a spell that would hurt him, and she hadn't let Connor shoot him. Apparently that wasn't getting across that she didn't mean to harm him, even if Connor clearly wanted to.

"Why don't you start by explaining what you think we know?"

Connor was built for interrogation. Which makes her blatant dismissal of his capability all the more galling. If Sabriel looks past the captive, she'll see her android's stare return to her: eyes hard, expression flattening. Interrogate deviant Connor (no physical harm). The restriction is idiotic, but he could still carry out the task. If, of course, Abhhorsen weren't already pre-empting him.

Justifying. Suggesting. Stepping back from her own position of control—and making it obvious that she wasn't willing to use force. She launches into coaxing without so much as a pause, leaving no room for him to interject. Was she that sure he couldn't contribute?

Not that she'd left him many options. [Pressure]? Unlikely to succeed, when the deviant knew he wouldn't be permitted to take action. [Persuade]? Only if he wants to echo the human's pleas—and make them both sound weaker in the process. He could remain silent until her own efforts failed, and try to salvage what he could from the wreckage.

Or he could use a different skill entirely.

Connor tucks a second gun into his jacket, freeing up a hand. He eyes the deviant, hesitating just a moment to wipe the memory of a blue-stained wall from cache. Then Connor reaches forward, clasping his frozen duplicate by the wrist as he launches an immediate, ruthless mental probe.

The android couldn't have picked a better (worse?) time: Connor is distracted, stare settling on Abhorsen as she not only mangles every rule of direct interrogation in the book, but finishes it with a suggestion that no one in their right mind would agree to. Does she really think he'll--

--a steel wedge crashes into his mental shields, and suddenly it doesn't matter.

Connor grunts, eyes slamming shut as he struggles to fend the attack off. He's a state of the art android designed for hacking, and his advantages are worth almost nothing against another model that knows all his tricks. Connor separates a few stray commands and fights to tear away, but he still can't move, and--his first layer of firewalls falls under the onslaught, which redoubles on the next.

"Connor, what are you doing?!" Shit. "I said no torture!"

Sabriel's not sure what Connor's doing, but whatever it is, it seems to be painful. Sabriel steps forward, not sure what will cause more damage- stopping Connor, or letting him continue. What if the damage has already been done? What if, for reasons she can't understand, the other Connor had actually been intending to hurt them?

It can't move. Can't escape. And certainly, he won't let this reject win. As sophisticated as his predecessor's code might be, it's caught off guard from the beginning: scrambling on defense as he tears apart one layer of familiar security after the next.

A final barrier shatters, and Connor drives invasively into the gap, seizing its memory and rifling through the contents. The search is ruthless and efficient, but the presence half-embedded in the other unit's code might betray a few more impressions. A flicker of triumph. A swelling of contempt. And underneath all of it? Loathing. For this deviant in particular.

RK800_313_248_317-60, the digital ID reads.

Abhorsen's interjection is unsurprising, but not quite an order to desist. Connor's lip curls, LED blinking a rapid yellow even as he places a mental bookmark and looks up. "I'm accomplishing my mission," he bites off, scorn audible. Does it look harmed? "Not that it knows anything worth—"

He knows that serial number.

It's an utterly useless realization, as deep as it hits. He knows it, but it doesn't help him rebuild his firewalls, or give him a clue to lure the android into overreaching, to trick him into exposing some weakness where--

--the RK800's attention is diverted? It happens abruptly enough that Connor blinks, wasting precious seconds in sheer surprise. He's still half embedded in Connor's code and not at all resettled into a more secure status, but he's stopped.

All at once, Connor throws himself into a counter-attack. RK800s are meant for field dissections, not to intrude and then take up residence. The lack of an attack left Connor with enough resources to lash out with his own probe, pressing full-tilt towards the channels he still has open for the transfer. The firewalls aren't strong, here, and Connor cuts through the few still up like butter.

Except--these channels don't lead towards recent memory storage, they lead directly towards where the RK800 kernel is kept. In order to control access to Connor's memories, it was using its own base programming, and now Connor has access to it. On sheer impulse he starts a transfer, grasping at everything he can. Recent memories pass through him and are brushed aside for later, thoughts, sensations--Connor has only one goal right now, and he's going to hold fast like a dying man.

The words stall mid-sentence. The steady blinking of Connor's LED stutters, eyes snapping back to his double as he scrambles to repel its attack. But his own code is disjointed, security unraveled to bypass its own, and he's—it's—

...it's a tug forward. A pull into the system he's half-occupying already: as code streams past him in reverse, cluttering his channel for retreat. Plastic creaks, his skinless hand clenching spasmodically around his duplicate's wrist, before even that sensation strips away, lost in the exchange. Connor moves to jerk back physically, breaking the connection, but—

His (its) limbs don't answer. Its (his) grip won't pry apart. The deviant in front of him is nowhere to be seen, but there's pressure on (his) wrist, a presence at his back—

"What..."

Connor can't move.

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