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.

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"Still. It was my fault you were in that situation in the first place." She was the one in charge, so responsibility for how things worked out lies with her. Well, her and the other Connor. It had been his choice to approach them with a gun, and call the other deviants to their location.

Still, Connor is her responsibility. Sabriel rises to her feet as he starts to unbutton his shirt, frowning as she looks for any external signs of damage.

"Next time, it will be different." Next time, she'll be on guard, Connor will be armed, and the deviants will understand they're not her enemy unless they choose to be.

Or at least, that's what she tells herself as she starts tracing out the first marks of a basic healing spell- a simpler, less powerful one than what she used on Connor, but it should be enough for her purposes.

Abhorsen had insisted on staying to restore the deviant Connor. Abhorsen had sabotaged his interrogation in the first place, enabling it to gain the upper hand. A quick analysis produces no less than fifty-five instances in the same category: moments where Abhorsen's actions had contributed to the utter shitshow that the situation had become.

Somehow, he doubts she has any of them in mind.

It doesn't matter. Connor was designed to accommodate for human faults, and this human's sentiment doesn't excuse his own mistakes. Next time, he'll do better, he silently recites. She doesn't seem interested in hearing it aloud.

He unbuttons the shirt. Shrugs out of it, left arm slightly stiff, before he folds and sets this garment aside too. At least from the waist-up, the RK800's chassis is a perfect imitation: pale skin dusted with a scattering of freckles, mimicking a slim, fit, male form.

There are, however, two points of irregularity. On his left, where a human's ribs would be, a patch of flesh melts and shivers, showing white—synthetic skin struggling to hold charge and consistency over the damaged systems underneath. And higher up on the same side, an odd divot lingers in the shoulder. Like a scar or wound, painted over badly.

Connor's stare lowers, face blank as his skin recedes.

The process stops at the neck and right arm—but what's left could certainly never be mistaken for human. Smooth plastic forms his body: grey seams and white panels printed with minute serial numbers and part codes. A ring of blue glows softly at the center of his torso. The damage to his shoulder is much more apparent: a cracked hole with twisted edges, parts melted back in place. They slide past each other unevenly as he lifts his arm.

Connor glances at it, but his attention settles at his side, where two small scorch marks are visible on the plastic. The damage is underneath, and he pauses for a fraction of a moment before continuing: an awkward reach around his body, pressing at seams until the edges open. Carefully, he starts to pull the exoskeleton away.

Sabriel waits patiently as he proceeds, frowning slightly as she sees the injuries. She waits until he's removed his exoskeleton to get to work. Some of the parts are clearly equivalent to human organs and blood vessels, but others have some purpose she can't guess at.

If the healing spell she used on the other Connor was an epic poem, the spells she uses on this Connor are a series of epigrams- small spells to heal each damaged part piece by piece- just as thorough, but slower, and less draining, her fingers barely touching him as she lays down spells that are painless, but leave an odd, lingering warmth, along with functioning biocomponents wherever he directs her to heal.

Halfway through her work, she glances at the shoulder injury.

"Did they do that too, or was it there when the other Connor switched with you?" In either case, she should probably try to heal it, but if it was there before, the other Connor probably made some effort to fix it- in which case, she was probably looking at the android equivalent of a scar, rather than a wound.

Only a couple sections of plating need to be detached. Still, the view they offer is extensive. Carbon fiber offers internal support, framing a mass of complicated structures carefully packaged in the space. A faint blue glow halos several working parts, while the damaged organs spark, glow red, or show no light at all. As Sabriel completes her work, the components reset, and if she listens closely, she can hear the whir as Connor's breathing restarts on both sides.

For his own part, Connor shows little reaction: no pain, no relief—no sign of feeling at all. His head is lowered, eyes turning automatically from one component to the next—a human mask atop a plastic doll, opened to show the machinery that pulls its strings. He looks up briefly at the question.

"Previous damage."

His own, in fact. He doesn't let the thought touch his expression.

Despite the strangeness of it, it's a little soothing to immerse herself in the Charter, to draw comfort from it without the strain of casting powerful magic. Sabriel looks up from her work as Connor speaks.

"I see." Connor's... not showing much of anything right now, like he shut off his personality along with his skin. Sabriel can't tell what he's feeling- or if he's even feeling at all. Sabriel keeps at her work, until she's healed everything that looks damaged, and she lowers her hands, trying to ignore the trembling.

"Everything I healed is working, though? Have I missed anything? Or do you want me to try to fix the shoulder?" If it's been badly repaired, she's not sure how much she can do- Sabriel knows that healing spells aren't much use if a wound has healed wrong in some way.

Connor pauses just a moment, LED spinning quick rings before he dips his head in affirmation.

"All biocomponents are functioning."

It doesn't hurt any more. Nothing removed, nothing replaced—and only a slight, lingering warmth to mark her touch at all. How... odd. Connor's lips twitch, brows knitting very slightly as she follows up the question. Want?

He can't answer that.

"You're showing signs of fatigue," Connor reports instead, tracking her motions with clinical appraisal. "If you don't rest soon, you'll have another episode."

For a moment, Sabriel wants to protest. Then a wave of exhaustion sweeps over her, and she realizes that perhaps Connor has a point.

"But I- All right. Just- Connor, please tell me if you get hurt again- I'll heal you as soon as I can."

Sabriel slips off her shoes, and heads over to the bed.

"An I'll see about getting you new identifiers when I wake up- we have enough problems without both sides of this fight wanting to shoot us, along with the Dead trying to rip our throats out." There's definitely a note of morbid humor in her voice.

"And quite frankly, the Dead are enough- I don't want any more enemies than them."

Connor nods to the instruction. Glances briefly at the unmarked garments on the desk. Deviant or not, all androids were to be turned over for disposal, and having their recycling camps routed has only fueled the humans' hate.

New indicators won't change that, especially near any kind of army checkpoint. But they're a legal requirement, and might help Abhorsen to persuade others of his place. Still, if she continues in this vein—with him, and with the deviants...

"I'm not sure you'll have a choice."

The mutter isn't as acerbic as it could be. But it's not quite toneless, either. The same prickle of attention that's coiled close around his spine through the repair digs in a little tighter as that registers. Unsolicited advice, at a time when he should hold still, be careful, comply with the technician to be cleared. His eyes flicker back to Abhorsen, but her back is turned, attention on the bed.

She isn't going to do anything.

...She's done with the repair. He should close himself up. Certainly, she wouldn't know how. Typically, the process would be accomplished by the rig, or a technican, but—Connor can do this. He reaches for a disconnected section of exoskeleton, half an eye on the human as he orients it in his grip.

"I'll do better next time," he promises. This time, aloud.

"I might not," Sabriel can't help the dull, unhappy feeling of resignation that rises at the thought, "But I'll be better next time. I won't overreach myself, and we'll just try to avoid the deviants. And soldiers, especially ones who weren't transferred from the Perimeter." Ones who were at the perimeter... they'll recognize Sabriel. And even if she doubts they'd be friendly to Connor, she might be able to convince them that he isn't- well, both of them are dangerous, but that he isn't a threat to them.

"The soldiers who were at the Perimeter- they know what the Dead are, they'll understand what it means that they can use android corpses as bodies. And some of them are Charter mages- self-taught and not particularly strong, but they're in a better position to fight the Dead than the deviants or the rest of the army." After all, unlike the rest of them, they understand the true nature of their enemies, and are proficient with swords and spears as well as guns. They even have proper chainmail, Sabriel thinks as she sits up in bed, her back up against the headboard.

Edited 2019-06-18 05:47 (UTC)

She won't overreach? Questionable, considering she'd nearly done so for a second time today. They'll try to avoid the deviants? Irrelevant, when the deviants had hunted them down.

It takes work to keep his utter lack of confidence from his expression. Carefully, Connor reaches back and around, slotting the first section of plating back in place and pressing down until it clicks. The information about the soldiers is interesting. But Abhorsen's speaking as if it were some kind of solution: allies she could command to take her side.

"They're not here to fight your enemies," he points out. They're here to fight deviants. To put down androids. Even if they recognize that Abhorsen's goals have worth, he's not as confident they'll put aside their own.

But, she still doesn't think this war is meaningful.

Reconnected to his body and the charge of thirium inside, the exoskeleton adopts an added level of plasticity. Connor's motions are a little smoother as he reaches for the second detached section, repeating the process. A click, a press, and his internal workings seal back out of sight.

Well, Connor has a point. At the Wall, they'd trusted her because the Dead were their enemy, and they knew she was Abhorsen. Here? She probably shouldn't be so sure. They are Ancelstierrians, even if they know more about the Old Kingdom than most of their countrymen.

"No, but they'll start making defenses against the Dead if they know what's going on. And if they know you belong to me, they might leave you alone." Hopefully. If Connor doesn't say something to set them off. She knows they'll believe her about the Dead and the necromancer at least. Convincing them that Connor is an ally will take some effort.

But these are people who've spent years on the perimeter, dealing with the dangers of the Old Kingdom that had leaked over into Ancelstierre. Surely they'll realize that the Dead are a bigger problem than deviants.

Might. What... slim hopes to rest his continued existence on. But if Abhorsen really wants to walk him up to the disposal teams, he's not in any position to argue. His lips press together, eyes flicking sideways as he reaches for his shirt and starts to pull it on. Skin crawls down from his neck and up from his waist, covering the smooth expanse of plastic.

He tucks in the shirt. Loops and knots the tie, before picking up the jacket. They aren't his clothes, and Connor fidgets with the lay once everything is settled, tugging at his sleeves with a small frown. It's more animation than the android's shown since he removed them.

Well, with that done... Sabriel should get some sleep. But before that... She and Connor need to get back on track.

"Listen, I should probably get some sleep, and eat a proper meal, but after that- Why don't we try to follow up on the leads you were talking about before the other Connor showed up? Unless you think we should do something else." Sabriel's tone makes it clear that if Connor has another idea, she wants to hear it- given what's happened, she can't help but think it might be better than hers.

Connor's fingers still, eyes coming up. "...No."

No better ideas. But, he'd been the one to suggest tracking the human accomplices in the first place—and less than twenty-four hours ago, at that. Still, the language Abhorsen's using, and the way her attention locks, checking for input... is she showing guilt over ignoring his advice before?

...74% chance, a quick analysis concurs.

Connor is a machine. These sentiments are misplaced at best. Delusional at worst. It's the same ridiculous projection that had her unwilling to harm deviants, even when the malfunctions clearly didn't share her hesitation. Connor has advised her to correct the error more than once before, but... if she won't...

"If we do find the necromancer's allies," he asks: expression bland, voice unassuming, "you should let me question them."

The way she hadn't, with his duplicate today.

Sabriel's not naive enough to miss the implication. If she lets Connor do that, those people will be hurt, possibly killed.

Sabriel thinks of the broken Charter stones, of villages wiped out by the Dead, their inhabitants killed or fleeing, of the fear and fatalism she's seen in people's faces in the Old Kingdom. Her expression hardens.

"You can do that. If anyone complains, I'll deal with the consequences."

Anyone stupid or evil enough to work with that necromancer deserves what happens to them.

Edited 2019-06-23 06:23 (UTC)

He'd expected concessions. Equivocation, hesitation—stipulations, almost certainly. He could ask, as long as he didn't threaten. He could threaten, as long as he didn't harm. Anything would be better than the catastrophe she'd presided over today, and if he had to leverage Abhorsen's pointless guilt to guarantee it... well, Connor's mission was to get results.

This response is... much more open-ended. Connor is silent for a moment, eyes flitting from the line of her mouth to the glint in her eyes. It's possible—likely, even—that she'll backtrack. Turn squeamish at the scene, interfere if he's not careful to pacify her sentiments. But here and now?

She seems to mean it.

Connor inclines his head, brows quirking up. "Get some rest, Abhorsen." When she's finished? They'll have work to do.

Sabriel tilts her head in acknowledgement. It will be good to get back to what she's supposed to be doing, assuming neither Ancelstierrian soldiers or androids interfere.

She's tired enough that Sabriel doesn't bother changing her clothes- instead she just gets under the covers, offering Connor a weary smile as she stops trying to ignore the heaviness in her limbs, how it takes a deliberate effort to keep her eyes open, and surrenders to sleep.

Abhorsen smiles. Connor doesn't. Still, as her eyes fall closed, he'll grudgingly reach for the light switch. This time, there are no glowing product labels to interrupt the darkness of the room. Only the soft blue circle of Connor's LED.

He waits, light pulsing slowly as the human's breathing regulates. She falls into REM quickly, but he adds a timer for ten minutes more, just to be sure. It passes without incident, and he steps silently into the bathroom, closing the door and flicking on the light inside.

The face in the mirror doesn't look any different. Connor inspects it regardless, tilting the head one way, then the next. A hand twitches up a scant few centimeters before freezing. The human is asleep, but—

...

But... nothing. Zen_Garden.exe hasn't been online for days.

Connor touches his face. Inspects the glint of light against brown optics, cautiously brushes his fingers over the texture of his hair. He doesn't have all of the data replicated for comparison, but he looks the way he should. Except for the clothes.

(Except for the number he knows is printed underneath that face: 313 248 317-53—)

Connor scowls, shrugging off the jacket for a second time. Every sensor in the area is nonresponsive, and picking apart the damage to 'his' shoulder occupies the better part of a half hour. Even if it mostly just confirms what he'd already guessed. [Bullet wound: 0.355 caliber]. Biocomponent 5183e replaced, and the surrounding thirium lines cauterized with a blunt tool. A hack job.

It probably wouldn't fall apart. Even if the scraping was annoying. Connor closes everything back up and prepares to wait. Human sleep cycles last just over eight hours on average, but between the atypical hours and the exhaustion Abhorsen had displayed, this could be... considerably more.

Sabriel sleeps for a long time, and when she wakes, her dreams are a jumbled, half-remembered mess- there's her father and the Dead, as usual, along with Mogget and Jacinth's rabbit- and Connor. Waking comes suddenly for Sabriel- a sudden jerk, a dream-memory of her own sword going through her abdomen, and she's suddenly awake.

I'ts a little before dawn, Sabriel realizes and she's refreshed but ravenous. So she hurries through her morning routine with urgent efficiency, getting cleaned up and packing her guitar case with her armor and weapons. By the time she steps out of a convenience store with coffee and several pastries, it's six-thirty in the morning.

"All right," she tells Connor, "Where do you want to start?"

While she slept, he'd looked into the case data. He'd also read Abhorsen's emails, skimmed through the police reports from the day before, reread most of her book collection, and tried to source the key discovered in his predecessor's pockets. Human biology is remarkably inefficient, and by the time Abhorsen has finally gotten herself up and functional, Connor is more than ready to investigate.

So ready, in fact, that he doesn't offer more than a pointed stare when she inquires after wants. He holds up his palm instead, projecting the image of a scruffy looking human man. Tattoos run down both exposed shoulders in the mugshot, showing a pair of snarling, draconic faces.

"Adrian Harris. Born December 10, 2002, currently unemployed. Four arrests on record for possessing and dealing red ice." Connor lets her examine the image for a moment before his palm curls shut, dismissing it.

"His description matches the KW's summary with 96% confidence." It would have been 100 if he'd been allowed access to its memories. Connor swallows back the bitter remark, inclining his head.

"And his cell phone is currently just east of Highland Park."

"I see. Not many men have tattoos like that." At least, not the sort of men Sabriel's seen. But recent events have shown her just how limited her experience is.

She hasn't heard of Highland Park before- but hopefully it isn't a particularly large park. Still, Harris matches the sort of person they're looking for, and even if he's armed and has allies... Connor has combat programming and Sabriel's both a powerful Charter mage and a necromancer. They'll be able to deal with any living or Dead opponents.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with Detroit's geograhy- is that very far from here? Will we need to go past any checkpoints on the way there?" She's sure Connor will say something snide about her ignorance, but she'd rather have him be snide than be caught unprepared.

Ignorance is, at this point, a default assumption. Connor's eyes shift into the distance, LED spinning a quick yellow circle as he checks.

"It's fourteen minutes by taxi. And still under human control." Troop locations aren't publicly accessible, but if they stay away from the border, the odds of being stopped decrease significantly. "...We should be able to avoid them."

Should. He tugs at the line of his jacket, smoothing a near-invisible crease from the holster underneath.

"Then we should be on our way," Sabriel says firmly, "And I'll deal with any soldiers we encounter." As long as they're not Charter mages, that should be simple enough.

Sabriel's mostly silent during the taxi ride, but there's an air of tension about her- like a coiled spring, or a bowstring pulled taut, constantly looking out the window as though she's ready to jump out and keep moving as soon as the taxi stops.

When the taxi does, she looks around, confused. "Are you sure we're in the right place? I don't see a park here."

Connor might be an ass, but she can't see him sabotaging her like this- or making a mistake about location. So she must have misunderstood something.

If Abhorsen's plans for 'dealing' with soldiers are anything like how she'd 'dealt' with deviants the day before... Connor has doubts. He doesn't, however, see much point in sharing them, especially when they're almost underway. He keeps his attention on the road.

Two minutes to wait. Fourteen to drive. The taxi rolls to a stop, and Connor's already reaching for the door. Shoes crunch in the snow, eyes settling on a house across the street... before Abhorsen speaks, and his gaze flicks back. This time, his expression isn't quite as restrained.

"...Highland Park is a municipal district." Each word drawls out pointedly slow, as if for an audience with a particularly challenged mind. "And I said 'east of'." A pointed jerk of the head indicates the house at the address, and Connor takes a few steps forward at an angle, trying for a better view of the windows. Are the lights on inside the building?

"I see." But there's no point in apologizing for her ignorance, or asking for more information. Instead Sabriel puts on her armor and reaches for her sword and bells, squinting up at the building. She can feel something with her Death-sense- one of the Dead, and something else- possibly corpses, possibly just old deaths. Neither is a pleasant possibility.

"Is it possible they're still asleep?" It's not that early, but it wouldn't surprise Sabriel if criminals were prone to sleeping in. And it would make sneaking up on them much easier.

"There's one of the Dead inside, but I don't think anyone's died there recently- either he's not there anymore, or it's been ordered not to attack him." Those are the only two explanations for how a Dead creature could be in someone's home without attempting to eat the occupants.

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aaand short timeskip

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