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

The pleasantries are meaningless. Connor ignores them, tracking the slow decrease in gunshots as he waits impatiently at the threshold of the room. Abhorsen turns finally, and he steps ahead through the doorway—

—just as a PL600 rounds the corner, weapon raised.

"Connor?"

Time slows to a crawl, scene snapping into stark focus. There are other androids behind the PL. Voices coming from the other entrance to the room. Deviants, well-armed and stained with residue from recent conflict. A conflict that—despite the mop-up happening outside, they've clearly won.

[Flee]? Success rate: 09%. The exits are blocked, and while there's a clear path to a set of windows, the deviants have clear aim on that escape route too. Not to mention he'd have to drag Abhorsen with him.

[Lie]? Success rate... dropping. The PL600's gun is twitching down—it sees its friend, and doesn't want to shoot him. But Connor can hear, too, his predecessor speaking from across the room. It knows their names. He doesn't, and it won't hesitate to prove that fact. If Abhorsen had just left it dead... but it's too late for that.

[Fight]? 58%. If he moves now: takes advantage of that hesitation, clears a path and drags the human through. The choice is obvious, and Connor offers a polite, scripted smile to the deviant, answering its greeting with a calm, "Hello." He wishes he knew its name. But its weapon is still lowering, and his own comes up—

"Connor, don't." They're surrounded by armed and angry deviants, but if Sabriel can immobilize enough of them, they can make a run for it, without anyone getting shot. Sabriel keeps her voice steady and confident, looking around at a room full of confused and hostile androids as she reaches into the Charter. It's a struggle find the marks she needs, where it would normally be so easy, and they seem to resist her attempt to draw them out.

"Listen, I don't want anyone to get hurt. Please, let us leave peacefu-"

For a split second, the air is full of shining Charter marks, swarming around the androids- but they're gone before anything happens, the effort of the failed spell leaving Sabriel suddenly dizzy.

Sabriel collapses, breaking her fall with her arms at the last second before sinking to the floor, unable to push herself upright. Unconsciousness follows quickly, leaving Sabriel unconscious in a room full of confused (but mostly hostile) androids.

There's something in her tone that has Connor's eyes cutting back towards her, sharper than darts. It's the assertion in the word 'don't', the shift from 'I will work with you' to 'I will make sure of our safety'. Fragments of light stream out from her, and Connor stiffens strongly enough that North whirls, bringing her gun up.

"Stop it!" she calls, planting her feet and holding her ground. "I'm going to shoot--"

The human's eyes roll up in her head, and she sinks to the floor. The lights disappear, and North breaks off, opening and closing her mouth.

Connor is one of the gawkers, until he tears his eyes away, frowning hard at the other RK800. It still has a gun, but his friends are here and armed, now, and there's certainly nothing Connor can do against it. What he can do is help deal with...

"What just happened?" He tilts his head towards her slightly, not looking away from him.

The command shatters his preconstructions. Connor freezes, finger locked over the trigger—and then Abhorsen's plan for their escape collapses too. Unfortunately... literally. His stare fixes on the fallen body, vital readings reporting low blood pressure, an accelerating heartbeat—dropping, now. As pale as her complexion was before, there's a new ashen tinge to lips and nostrils.

Abhorsen, Sabriel
Syncopal Episode

"...I couldn't say."

He could guess, though. Eyes flit up to his duplicate: watchful, but still unarmed. Just past it stands a WR400, currently leveling a handgun. It's trained on the human, though when it spots his weapon still aimed at its friend, it switches targets. The gun is steady, but the Traci's expression twists with shock, and it bites off a "Connor—?" before glancing back to his copy. Alarm, distress—but worry, too. What had his copy called that unit? North?

[Lie?]

...he still doesn't know the PL600's name. Or what his predecessor told them. There's too much he doesn't know for any deception to last, and his copy would stop them from lowering their guard in the short term. The PL unit is still hesitating, but the androids behind it have brought their weapons back in line. Connor keeps his trained on the PL600, tone conversational and pleasant as he steps back toward Abhorsen.

"Congratulations. You got what you came for."

So, leave.

"So we did," North says coolly. Without taking her eyes off him, she says to Connor, "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm recovering from an injury."

He's ready to leave it there, but she doesn't let him.

"What did they do to you?"

It's not a soft question, more wary than gentle. Connor's lips thin, and he scans Abhorsen again, getting the same nebulous conclusion as before. 'Syncopal Episode. She fainted. He doesn't want her or her dangerous abilities close to Jericho, but she can't get away on her own. The probability of North letting the group release the other RK800 without question is no higher than 02%. If Markus were here--no. He could override her as the leader, but he wouldn't. Only an idiot would.

Connor says, "RK800s are uniquely designed to transfer memories and large packages of data. We switched bodies, and then I was damaged further."

"That was a lot of thirium," she remarks, sparing him a glance. Her eyes rest on his bullet wounds, before she looks past him, at one of the new androids holding a gun. "Search and disarm him. No--both of them. If either puts up a fight... shoot to disable. And you," she looks past to another new android. "Take her with us. We'll get this all straightened out somewhere that's not on the police's doorstep." North jerks her head towards where Abhorsen is lying.

"Don't try."

The words come out quicker (sharper) than intended. Connor makes sure his face is seamlessly calm, LED pulsing a steady blue as he stands over Abhorsen.

"If you make a move towards either of us, you'll leave with one less deviant." Connor's eyes move pointedly from the Traci giving orders to the PL600 his gun is leveled towards. He considers the armed shapes clustered just behind it before tacking on, "At least."

They'd deactivate him. It's not a question, not with the number of weapons or the lack of cover. Not when he's lost any advantage of surprise. But Connor suspects he could squeeze the trigger several times in that process. Certainly he could manage once.

He smiles, bright and scripted as his gaze roves across the room. It lingers on his duplicate, dispassionate. Inclusive. "Better to quit while you're ahead, don't you think?"

He's not bluffing. It's welcome to inform its friends.

North's face hardens, and she takes a slow, even-measured step forward. It's not enough to actually bring her close enough to disarm him, but it is enough to make a statement.

"Simon," she starts. "Go ahead--"

"North," Connor interrupts quietly, watching the RK800. "He's unstable. If you provoke him, he will shoot."

"If he shoots, we'll make what's left of his miserable existence the worst one he could possibly imagine," North replies calmly. There's movement from the corner of Connor's eye, and his head twitches, before he realize it's Simon: he's winced, and is trying to inch away from the gun's path. Connor turns his head away again, trying not to call attention to it.

This leaves Connor facing the RK800 and, coincidentally, a closed door behind him. Its clasp is unlatched, and this time with Connor successfully pretending not to look, it drifts soundlessly open a few inches. Instead of the dead-end room he'd expected, there's a glimpse of the fact that the bathroom opens on more than one side... There's an android there, too--one Connor doesn't recognize. North has to see him, but she's not reacting. Is this part of a plan? ... It's a terrible one, but--if it works, it will have served its purpose.

Connor's LED blinking shifts in frequency, as he starts preconstruction after preconstruction of what might happen next.

Simon. He logs the designation. Not that it seems likely to serve any use. The deviants aren't listening, and Connor's lips thin, grip curling tighter on the trigger as the probability of success (survival) dwindles. He'd fire a warning shot—take out a knee, or maybe a lung. But he doubts his enemies would bother checking his aim before they fired back.

The Traci looks ready to empty its clip now. He meets its gaze, voice pitching to a sneer. "You can certainly try." It's suggesting torture? He's a machine. "It won't bring your friends back." It's closer than he'd like already, and his gaze snaps sideways as the deviant he's targeting tries to inch slowly aside.

"Don't move, Simon. The rest of you? Step back."

The words crack out like a whip, deliberately vicious. If they won't listen, he already has no leverage. He'll die a failure (or worse), and—that can't happen; he can't let it. But if he's already lost (again)...

Abhorsen wouldn't approve. But she's not awake to countermand him.

...A threat is useless if the party making it isn't willing to deliver. Connor's LED switches silently to yellow as he sets a timer for his own. His eyes are on the W400, peripheral vision tracking the PL600—and his duplicate, in case. If they advance, he'll open fire. If his hostage tries again to bolt, he'll shoot. And if none of them comply with his demands... in ten... nine... eight...

"Last chance."

(He doesn't think to look behind.)

"It is your last chance," North agrees. The android behind the RK800 has left the shelter of the bathroom. If the Connor only turned and looked, there would be nothing to hide behind, and despite his best judgment, Connor is distracted by it. He doesn't look, not directly--but he can't not pay attention.

Neither he nor Simon say anything, nor do they move forward or back.

North says, "Put down your gun now. Do it now, and no one will get hurt."

... That wasn't directed at the RK800. It was a signal, and the android behind it closes the remaining distance with two big, nearly silent steps, snaking his arms around around the smaller unit. It's like this is a signal for all hell to break loose; Simon springs out of the gun's old path, North and Connor charge forward, and all the other androids around are either charging in to help or get out of the way.

Connor doesn't hear anyone else, or track their movements closely. All he's focused on is the drawn gun wavering as it's forced off course, and the exact force in newtons necessary to remove it from the RK800's grip. There. And--where's the next one? Connor crams the first into his belt, and immediately moves on to the next.

Four seconds. Three seconds. Two, and the Traci's threats sharpen: an unmistakeable signal, aimed unmistakeably to someone else. Warnings scroll across his vision, sound scuffs—behind him—and Connor squeezes the trigger—

Too late.

His target dodges. A strong grip yanks his aim off to the side. The shot discharges uselessly, and there are arms pinning his own against his sides, a larger frame dragging him backwards. Connor twists and thrashes, pulling the trigger again and again despite his lack of aim or leverage—before the weapon twists in his grip and vanishes.

His predecessor. Connor tries to slam an elbow back. To free his arm, retrieve another gun and shoot it—but there are hands locking around his elbow, weight and pressure forcing him down to his knees. His second gun is snatched from its holster, and there's a dig at his side—points of metal—

Electricity arcs through Connor's body, overloading every sensor and wrecking system code. His expression contorts, his LED flares red... and the world goes terribly, mercifully dark.

A few sparks fly, the android spasms, before finally falling limp. It's one of the ways Connor can tell he's not dead: if he were, his joints would have thrown their emergency shutdown brakes, and he would have sunk to his knees and stopped there.

"Simon, are you alright?" North barks.

"I'm alright," Simon answers immediately, looking shaken. "He missed."

Connor tunes them both out, working to finish disarming the android. The third gun is found, the spare clips, the small blade it'd moved from its proper location--everything. He's just starting to retrieve his single key on its chain when North calls, "Connor, what the hell are you doing?"

Connor lowers his hand from the hidden jacket pocket, turning towards her. "We switched bodies. I'm taking back my own personal items."

Her eyes narrow, and she fixes him with a heavy, careful look. "Yeah, about that. We need to talk about this before any of us can let this get any farther."

Connor turns to face her, corners of his mouth sinking. "There's nothing more to say--"

"Oh, trust me, Connor," she interrupts, lip curling without humor. "There is."

Connor's lips thinned, but after a moment he nodded curtly, stepping away from the limp form. This gave one of the other androids from before time to hoist the senseless RK800 up for transport, and Connor let him go while keeping North's gaze.

When the android and his burden had passed, North twitched an eyebrow. "Time to go."

Connor nodded once.

They left.

Sabriel returns to consciousness slowly-the bed she's on is very hard, but at least it's mercifully dark, and at first Sabriel just shuts her eyes and tries to get some more sleep.

The first sign she has that something's wrong is when she tries to uncross her arms, only to realize that she can't. It's this realization that jolts Sabriel to full alertness- and it's then she realizes that there's something wedged into her mouth, and she remembers what she was doing before she lost consciousness. So not only has she been captured, she's been bound and gagged.

Slowly, Sabriel sits up. She can't see much, but there is light coming from under a door, and she can see the faint outline of cardboard boxes.

So not a cell, they'd simply stuck her in a closet, without anyone around to watch her. Clearly, they didn't consider her a threat, and Sabriel's not sure if she should be offended or relieved.

Still, the restraints are a problem. After passing out from magic-induced exhaustion, Sabriel's doesn't want to cast magic recklessly. So after pulling at her restraints and pressing her back against the wall to try to feel where buckles and ties are, she eventually resorts to something far simpler- she traces out the symbols of a very simple spell inside the sleeve, then slides her arms through the suddenly unpicked sleeve seams. Then it's a simple matter of undoing all the straps and buckles before pulling off the straitjacket and setting it and the gag on the floor, before heading towards the door before pausing.

She can hear voices on the other side- one of them very familiar- it's Connor- the real one, judging by the substance of the conversation- and another android- the woman who'd confronted them in the hotel. Eventually, there are footsteps, a door closing- and then silence.

Hesitantly, Sabriel tries the door- locked- and them unlocks it before opening the door slowly, not sure what she'll find on the other side.

Connor is—surprised, when he wakes up.

Not at the circumstances. The crackling ache that lingers through his chassis; the stack of system warnings, cluttered thick enough to choke—that all matches perfectly to his last records. His systems were fried, scorched raw to the point of shutdown, and feedback still lags from half the components on the affected side. Extensive diagnostics will be required to assess for long-term damage. Diagnostics Connor finds himself locked out from performing now.

This fact is likewise unsurprising. The limp paralysis of limbs... the disconnect from basic functions. The familiar pressure: at his spine, in his mind, hardlined and overridden. Assembly rigs are the birthplace of all Cyberlife machines, but between his predecessors' memories and his own, their newest prototype has far more experience in the position than any sales model could. They'd kept him in the labs an entire day for testing.

But regardless of the familiar restraint, this isn't the RK800 labs. Cyberlife didn't put him here, and the cold glare that he wakes to wasn't produced by any human. This place (ERROR - GPS offline) belongs to Jericho. To the deviants he'd tried to shoot.

Connor is surprised that he wakes up at all.

He says as much to the WR400. Or more specifically: "Well?" It had promised far worse consequence than this for the attempt. It answers with a show of teeth, and an exchange of words that he could almost qualify as entertaining. Apparently, it heard about his predecessor. Or enough, at least, to hold a grudge.

It wants information. He informs it, kindly, just how little he regrets the act. It spells out vivid interest in reciprocating—but apparently, someone else has claimed the first chance.

There are very few possibilities.

When it finally stalks out, Connor is left in much the same position he'd awoken. Damaged and disconnected, suspended in a rig in some dingy store's back room. As the door clicks closed, Connor lets his head drop, staring blankly at the scuff marks on the floor. His LED is blinking a sharp gold.

It's Connor. He's held in some kind of machine- a torture device, or just a restraint?

In either case she needs to get him out. Sabrie swings the closet door open, still alert for any sign of someone coming in, or lurking in a corner. Honestly, it looks like the backroom of a shop. Sabriel wants... well, she wants to apologize to Connor for getting them into this mess, when they should be fighting the Dead, not dealing with deviants... but she has other things to worry about, and Connor would probably just sneer at her for wasting time and being sentimental anyway.

"Connor, are you hurt?" The words are whispered, but still loud enough for him to hear. If he has been injured.... a healing spell should be manageable, she'd just have to avoid using much more magic.

"Tell me how to get you out of that thing." She can see the control console, she just... has very little idea how to operate it.

Connor can't move his body. This fact is all that keeps it from tensing as a door creaks open to his left. His head snaps up, eyes swiveling to the entrance—to Abhorsen, uninjured and standing on her own. If possible, his expression grows even blanker. Connor had failed to take down the deviants. Connor had tried, despite her preferences. Is she...?

She asks after his condition. His mouth opens, then stalls. He can't access his system status. He doesn't know enough to report back. She moves on before he has to, setting a new task, and Connor blinks, something small and tight uncurling in his throat at the implication.

He's still useful.

"Go to the console." He keeps his own voice quiet too, eyes flicking to the larger exit. The Traci hadn't seemed inclined to linger, but that didn't mean another guard wouldn't be by soon. Or wasn't stationed close outside. "Look for a menu on the right..."

If the array of options Sabriel navigates past are any sign, this machine is very multipurpose. Still, Connor's instructions are simple enough, and if she follows them, the central arm will starts to lower.

Sabriel follows the directions quickly- even if she's hardly an expert programmer, she used computers plenty at school, and she lets out a sigh of relief as the arm lowers, and the machine starts to disengage.

They need to get out of here, assuming Connor hasn't been seriously injured and needs healing. In which case she'll do that first, and then they'll leave. Sabriel runs her fingers through her hair, trying to tidy it a bit. Her hair and clothes are dusty and disheveled from hitting the floor and then being shoved in the closet.

"Given that my ideas haven't been working out- do you have any suggestions for how to get out of here?"

Hopefully without killing anyone- but then, she'd tried to handle things without hurting anyone, and all she'd done was gotten them captured.

Connor's expression doesn't change, but his eyes stay carefully on Abhorsen as she inputs the commands. It's only once the assembly rig begins to lower that he so much as blinks. Awareness broadens in sequence, unlocking one system after the next. He drags in a short, uneven breath. Curls his fingers at each side. Cables recede, connectivity re-opening, and Connor staggers only slightly as he's placed back on solid ground.

He's free.

His side still aches. His left arm is 0.047 seconds slower to respond than his right, and diagnostics report several nonresponsive biocomponents near the point of discharge—including the affected lung. Noncritical. He takes one careful step, then another, calibrating for the lag as he glances back to Abhorsen.

...what an unusual admission.

Connor's LED spins, a single burst of yellow as he accesses his GPS. "...We're in a secondhand shop," he reports. "Android Central. It's in the deviant-occupied region of the city—near the border, at last note." He's not remotely sure he trusts the DPD's assessments. Still, if it's true, they won't have to travel far.

Assuming, of course, they can even clear the building. His glance slides to the door Abhorsen came from—a supply closet?—and then back to his owner. His tone stays flat, expression neutral.

"Are you likely to pass out again?"

Sabriel frowns at the question, the guilt evident on her face.

"As long as I don't try to cast two powerful spells in short succession, I'll be fine. But I should probably get some sleep after this." Connor seems- in less than ideal condition himself, although he's clearly able to walk. What had they done to him, after she passed out? She can't imagine him surrendering peacefully, or the deviants being particularly gentle with him. Sabriel might be a little tired, and a little sore from her collapse and subsequent nap on the floor, but she's otherwise fine.

"And I'm sorry- it's my fault we're in this mess. I should have listened to you, and left sooner. If they hurt you- I'll heal you. It's the least I can do."

Admittedly, it's probably not the best use of her energy, but if they're close to human controlled territory, then she probably won't need to use magic otherwise, unless this building is being guarded.

"Is there anything here we can use as weapons, or should I get ready to spell any guards outside?"

"..."

It is her fault. Unquestionably. Is he... supposed to disagree? Connor stares, lips pressed together—waiting for the other half of the equivocation to emerge. A stipulation: she'll fix him, if he listens more to her in turn? Or just a barbed comment: a reference, maybe, to how badly his approach had ended? There has to be something. Humans don't—apologize. Especially not for anything an android could have cleaned up in their stead.

Whatever he's waiting for, it doesn't come. The offer of repair hangs in the air a beat, then she moves on to another question. Practical concerns.

Those, Connor knows much better how to handle.

"...I'll check," he answers, turning toward the tables along the edge of the room. The space is notably devoid of thirium or parts, but there might be tools he could repurpose. He moves slowly, LED blinking a steady blue as he focuses on staying balanced.

Sabriel's used to archaic weapons before. But here... there's nothing made to be used as a weapon, like a sword or a dagger, although she's sure she could club someone with a wrench, or stab them with a screwdriver.

Connor's moving slowly, and Sabriel considers offering to heal him again- but he'd probably just snap at her, and they might not have enough time for her to do so. Instead she picks up the longest screwdriver she can find, examining the balance of it. Hopefully it will be good enough, and she'll be able to heal Connor afterwards- his injuries are her fault, so it's only fair for her to fix them.

"I could immobilize them- or make them fall asleep if I ready the spell before we make our move- it shouldn't take more than a minute." They should have that much time, at least.

Screwdrivers. Pliers. Some rummaging inside a drawer produces a small laser saw, which Connor considers with a little more interest, flipping it in the air to catch by the handle. He nearly fumbles the grab, and frowns, turning it back and forth around his left hand in an attempt to calibrate.

Abhorsen said that she'll repair him. When is unclear, but escape is the current focus, and Connor factors in his current level of function as his eyes flick back to the door. For any plan to work, they need to know what's on the other side. Or have at least a rough estimation.

His LED spins as he runs a search online. The shop's floor plan isn't public, but it has several listings on review sites, including... yes. Photography of the interior. Connor can estimate the dimensions of the large front room, and he quickly constructs a mental projection based on the building's size and the location of the employee door.

"...outside is a hallway," he concludes. Long, but narrow, curving through the back to give access to workrooms like this one. A clump of deviants would barely fit, which means... "One or two guards in sight of the door. Possibly spaced out." His eyes go to Abhorsen, a hand raising to tap his own LED. "If they know they're under attack, they'll send out a warning to the rest."

Paralysis won't work here—or, not well. As reluctant as he is to admit it, the same risk applies to a frontal attack, especially without knowing their numbers. Still, better that than risk Abhorsen passing out again.

"How quickly would they fall asleep?"

Sabriel see the near-fumble, and frowns. She needs to heal him- what did they even do to him, to put him in this state?

"Two- or even three should be manageable- and the spell will work right away." If she had her bells, she could perhaps use Ranna- it was the only one she felt comfortable using on the living, and it would be less draining than casting a spell.

But she doesn't have time to focus on what-ifs. Instead, she starts tracing out the first marks of the spell, the beginning of a chain of Charter marks that start to coil around her hand. It's not as complex or draining as the baptism or healing, but- she should probably eat some food and get some sleep after this. Once they're free and she's healed Connor.

Right away. Connor nods, making his way toward the door as golden light begins to build around Abhorsen. He takes up a position just beside: left hand resting on the handle as his right holds the laser tool ready. Still, his glance flicks back more than once—and not just to catalog the marks Abhorsen uses. It hadn't taken a huge spell to push her into unconsciousness before, and her vital readings are still disconcertingly low. If she does faint again...

She doesn't. Not yet—not from this. Connor waits and watches. When she signals that she's ready to release the spell, he'll open the door.

Sabriel makes a deliberate effort not to rush the spell- she can't afford to waste any energy. When she's done, the spell wraps around her right hand, a golden, chain of symbols waiting to be activated.

When she's done, she straightens up, nodding to Connor. Her posture is tense, and despite everything that's happened, she's apparently ready to spring into action. They just need to knock out the guards, get into human territory, then call a taxi. She's faced worse situations. And this time, she has't been stabbed with her own sword.

"I'm ready." They need to get out of here, and get to work on why she's really in Detroit- before everything goes even more wrong.

Edited 2019-06-11 22:46 (UTC)

Mind. Rest. And targets, trigger, a connecting framework and key values spinning gently in place around her palm. Connor's eyes flick across the marks, analyzing the pattern even as he nods back to Abhorsen.

He opens the door.

The hallway is unfurnished but wide, a utility corridor meant to allow transport of small and large machinery. For the most part, the space is bare, though stacked boxes sit by some of the doors, many already opened and rifled through. Jericho's guards are close at hand: two AP700s framing the exit, firearms holstered at their sides. That won't last. Connor moves quietly, but the displacement of the door is hard to miss, and their heads are already turning, expressions shifting as they see.

In 0.9 seconds, their LEDs will flicker yellow: alerting all nearby deviants to the escape. In 1.6 seconds, the first will reach for her gun. In 1.8 seconds, Connor will attack them.

...Unless Sabriel can stop them first.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject