PSL

[bindsthedead]

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.

Comments

[313_248_317_60]

Nothing in Connor's face implies the slightest eagerness. Still, the quick, efficient reassembly of those guns might be a clue. He tucks one away beside his ankle, tugging down his pant leg to cover it before he holsters the second at his hip.

His eyebrows lift. "Answer if I call." The context of the words might sharpen the retort, but there's relatively little barb to them. This time.

Permission acquired, Connor doesn't linger. He slips outside, LED spinning a bright blue as he breathes in the chill air. (And the refreshing isolation.) A quick glance takes in the streets nearby: a mismatched collection of neon lights illuminating grey slush and barred, abandoned stores. Closed, and much too close to risk police attention even if they had anything of use.

He'll need to search further afield.

Connor turns down the nearest alley and starts to walk, accessing the backdoor he'd placed in the DPD's network. It takes less than a minute to download and skim through the day's updates, and less to compile a current profile of the city's districts. There's a mall a mile and a half away—far enough from the most recent conflicts that a few shops have stayed active through the evacuation. They're closed at this hour, but if the police reports are any sign, they've been relying on a digital security system.

One hour later, Connor has, reluctantly, pocketed a hat. He's also procured a change for his soiled outfit, and identified two different outlets where Abhorsen could select cold-weather clothing of her own come morning. He tugs at the line of his new (grey) jacket, ensuring it lies flat over his weaponry... and extracts one last item from the pocket of his discarded coat.

His defective predecessor's key.

6-pin key
Length: 4.51 cm
Composition: brass alloy; 63.4% copper, 35.8% zinc, 0.8% lead

A stylized MSC is printed at the base. Connor scans the logo, and turns up Michigan Storage Centers— a company with four facilities located within Detroit. The largest, he can rule out immediately—according to the police files, it's been commandeered as a base of operations by the human troops. The next size up seems to be much more isolated, though. A dockside facility, further south—in a district abandoned most of a week ago.

Connor pockets the key and finds a taxi. He abandons it half a mile from his destination, approaching on foot and keeping an eye out for recent traffic. The gate to the facility is easily surmounted, though after one look at the massive sprawl of shipping crates inside, Connor quickly abandons any intention of physically searching for a match. He breaks into the manager's office instead, forging database access to the key-printing machines. From there, it's a simple scan: comparing the characteristics of the item in his pocket to the templates saved on file.

Shipping container B-0919.

The facility's cameras have already been deactivated. He checks the yard for recent footprints as he circles in towards his objective. Listens carefully outside the door. Nothing. Cautiously, Connor unlocks the storage unit, and cracks open the door.

[youcantkillme]

The inside of the shipping container is dark with shadows suggesting tables lining the small space, and shapes that might be crates. Once the door opens wide enough, a hanging lamp near the room's center snaps on, and wall-to-wall display projections soften the room's harsh shadows with ambient glows. The projections show feverishly gathered reports, except for the screen spanning the back wall, which shows a series of photographs of a very familiar arm and a very familiar bite mark.

The bite mark has begun to decay, and as the prominently featured timestamps progress, the decay worsens significantly. The table under the display has the least clutter, and features a single disembodied hand with its own bite mark. The hand is chalky and swollen, and has half-melted against the metal surface it's resting on. "Carmen Jones | 194-098-786 ST300 | 03/14/2030-11/13/2038" reads a perfect note beside it, pressed far enough not to catch any of the residue.

Most of the other tables are cluttered with stringently organized samples, with maps displayed to show their locations and reports detailing the circumstances thereof. There's a few boxes where the evidence has been thrown inside to be moved, but none of it is actually yet gone.

The room is silent. There's no one else there.

[313_248_317_60]

No traps. No defenses. And by the look of the evidence laid out, this is very much his predecessor's workspace. Cautiously, Connor advances into the room, scans sweeping out to catologue each item on display.

He moves carefully across the tables. Lingers by the decomposing hand, and takes a current sample to compare. A set of boxes against the far wall opens up to dirt samples appended with painstaking notes. From the landfill, Connor realizes quickly— and with details on where in the city each deposit had been moved. He uses the projector to throw an image up against the wall, overlaying the locations with a map of the city's sewage lines.

...running water. Apparently, Abhorsen wasn't wrong.

It's useful. More, this is information he hasn't been able to acquire on his own—both for lack of time and limited movement, trailing behind Abhorsen's steps. Not that Connor has any regrets about the information he's acquired, but this could easily be used to point them at new targets. Or even track down where Abhorsen's enemy has been working out of up to now.

He's downloading the database when the sound comes—a scuff of motion from outside the door. Connor leaves one skinless hand on the computer system, data flickering past in rapid display across the walls. His other hand moves to his hip, palm settling easily over his gun.

[youcantkillme]

There's no knock at the door. No pause for an answer: no one is expected to be here, and Connor has one foot in the door before he realizes his mistake.

The only part of him that doesn't freeze is his left arm, which dives under his open coat to his own holster. The door tries to swing closed without the support, bumping into his shoulder, and the far arm remains stiffly by his side, elbow locked.

"What are you doing here?" Connor demands, eyes darting to the displays. The answer is, unfortunately, obvious, as is the danger to his evidence that he'd wanted to avoid. He draws the gun.

"Place your hands on your head and step away from the terminal."

The door is weighing insistently on his elbow, but Connor makes that arm aim for the spare android's thirium pump, a large target even in this lighting. Even with his handicaps.

[313_248_317_60]

His predecessor's arrival is predictable enough. So is its reach for the gun, and Connor's grip closes around his own: drawing and leveling in a single smooth motion. His face remains calm, aim steady on its pump, but there's a sharp dislike behind his voice.

"I don't think I will."

Place his hands on his head. Step away, get on the ground, all those familiar gestures of submission—this time, demanded by a source with no authority at all. On the contrary. Its leveled weapon neatly closes the one restriction Connor had, and he smirks at the prompt that appears in the corner of his vision. Defend yourself.

If necessary, Abhorsen said. Data flits by, download in progress as Connor considers.

"How's the arm?"

[youcantkillme]

Two guns. Two targets. Connor's pump aches fiercely at the memory alone, and if Connor had a free hand, he might be tempted to press against it. He doesn't.

Connor rests his finger on the trigger guard (not the trigger), narrowing his eyes.

>[Arm]
>[Abhorsen]
>[Humans]
>[Evidence]

... The arm is a sore subject, and Connor's jaws tighten, eyes flicking once around the room instead of answering.

"... You're alone." And the screens are still going. He could shoot the terminal, force the download to stop. Connor considers it, but the chances of provoking a firefight in a space the size of a shoebox is too high.

"Does your owner know where you are?" he says instead.

Considering her reactions the last time, wouldn't she have wanted to supervise another encounter like this? Then again, the torture in the last scene... His leash has gotten longer. As much as this is taunt meant to provoke, it's also a probe, and Connor watches his reaction sharply.

[313_248_317_60]

The barb misses. Or, perhaps, its target was just ready for it. Connor snorts, brows lifting as his mouth twists.

"Do you always need a human to hide behind, Connor?"

Hank Anderson. Abhorsen. That's twice now that his duplicate has only walked away from their encounters thanks to a human stepping in to keep it safe. Clearly deviancy has done wonders.

"Abhorsen knows as much as she needs to."

And since the other unit doesn't seem willing to answer his question, Connor will do it for himself. The download keeps going in the background, but he calls up an image on the center screen. His predecessor's arm (his, once), at the last time of documentation. The decomposition has spread up past the elbow, soft plastic caving to show a glint of something slick and dark.

Rotting from the inside.

"Almost six hours ago, was it?" His eyes flick pointedly to the affected limb. "Do you need to update? I can wait."

[youcantkillme]

Connor's face is pinched by the time the photo displays, and he tries (and fails) not to look at it. The soft, discolored plastic, with a patch where the exoskeleton split like the skin on a rotten fruit, leaking contaminated thirium--Connor's arm throbs, pounding all the way through his shoulder socket. If he concentrates, he can almost feel the infection spread--

He shakes himself internally, hating the injury, hating the android hat started it, and hating all this time they're wasting. He didn't come here for an argument, and now he can't bring himself to not respond.

"This is just the kind of attitude I would expect from someone who ruined their own body within days of having it," Connor says, words exhausted and tone steely. He lifts his eyebrows. "And now you're feeding off of my results? Is there a point at which you plan to contribute something of your own to the world, or are you going to feed off my scraps indefinitely?"

Connor considers it, before taking a deliberate step into the room, letting the door swing immediately shut behind him.

[313_248_317_60]

Oh, he saw that spike in the stress levels. When the deviant glances back at Connor, it will find the smirk across his face has only grown.

"It was fine when I had it." The flicker in the background stills—download finished, file transfer complete— and Connor withdraws his hand, skin sliding back in place. It's not entirely a lie—while he'd definitely noticed degradation, the limb had still been functional before. Fascinating to see how quickly it's corroded. Especially like this.

"Don't over-rate yourself, Connor."

Door closed. No witnesses. And no support in easy reach. He takes his own step forward, free hand idly trailing along a table's edge. "This little den of yours is useful—more than I thought you still knew how to be. But I'm accomplishing my mission."

"You don't even know what yours is."

[youcantkillme]

"Obviously I know what it is," Connor replies, more of a mutter than a protest. "If you can't recognize this, then you're malfunctioning more than I thought."

The download stopped--finally--but that doesn't mean his database is safe. Far from it, his double could decide to destroy it now that he's download everything of use. Connor wants him to lower the gun, wants it removed from his reach, wants the android out of his shipping container, wants him shot and dead. Any one of these would go a long way towards removing him as a problem, but with the other gun still pointed directly at him--he can't.

Connor's eyes narrow fractionally. "... It's not against my mission to let you have the information you just stole. If lower your weapon, placing it flat on the table beside you, I'll let you leave."

The gun is pointed at his chest, and his thirium pump aches, and his arm throbs sympathetically in time with it. His old injury is fine, there's hardly a mark left, but the arm--he can only wish right now that whatever healed his pump had also gotten his arm. That it hadn't been specific enough to exclude it.

(Connor is distracted, but the thoughts circle around at the edges of his attention, like fish by a hook.)

[313_248_317_60]

Having a normal deviant accuse him of malfunctions would be absurd enough. But this deviant, in its current state of disrepair? Connor ignores completely. He exhales, head shaking pityingly.

"You really aren't in a position to make demands."

Alone. Injured. Crippled, really. Connor advances another step. Then another. His free hand taps at the table, dropping to his side as he leaves it behind. He doesn't reach for another weapon. Yet. He doesn't need to. His copy can preconstruct as well as he can just how many ways Connor could press his advantage.

Close range has better odds, though. Especially if he can remove its gun. Or the arm attached to it. He considers the possibilities with another careful step. Defend yourself.

It threatened him. And Abhorsen hadn't placed any limits on the how.

"I don't suppose you have anything left to offer." Connor doubts it—the database was already more than he'd expected from this trip. Still, he supposes he should at least check first.

[youcantkillme]

Connor tenses as the other android steps forward, jaw tightening. Another step--the container isn't large, and he's almost closed half the distance between the two. Connor could step to the side, allow the android to leave while Connor stays inside--but it would leave Connor with no room to maneuver, pinned between a table and a mess of Cyberlife mistakes.

"... 'Offer' implies that I'm willing to give you what information I didn't upload."

After a thick moment of thought... Connor steps back, towards the door again. His heel brushes the bottom edge of it, and the doorknob is--... the doorknob is round, meaning he can't leverage it without his good hand. The same hand he's already using to hold the gun.

Connor's LED flickers with gold at its edges, and he checks and rechecks and triple checks the options available to him.

[313_248_317_60]

It's retreating. Or trying to. Connor watches as it shifts back and stalls, arm limp and useless. Connor smiles politely—and takes another step.

"You should be."

If it has any information. If it's worth anything to him. The odds aren't high, but it would be better to be thorough. If it's not too inconvenient. Connor tilts his head, face smoothing to impassivity.

"Why don't I offer you a deal? Set down your gun. Transfer whatever scraps you've dragged in now to your device." His empty hand flicks casually toward the database. "If it's useful enough, then I'll leave you to your record-keeping."

It's not entirely beyond consideration. Especially if his predecessor proves it's still of use.

[youcantkillme]

"And if I decline?" Connor asks, dryer than a salt-mine. Shifting slightly to tilt his bad arm away, his shoulder in an attempt to move something in that arm--but all that happens is he stiffens as subtly as he can, LED flaring yellow and red. There's absolutely and completely no way he can move the arm, then, and his options really are to either puts the gun down, or--

The thought is interrupted by the deceptively faint sound of an engine driving near. No--multiple engines.

... These don't match the sounds of the only machines big enough to move containers around the yard. They're--automobiles. No one should be here, not in a group like--

The answer hits him all at once, and Connor's gaze cuts back towards his miserably stupid and careless double.

"You were followed," Connor accuses.

[313_248_317_60]

"I wasn't."

It's sharp, snappish—and entirely true. He'd approached on foot. He'd been careful, scanning the area for any deviants or other traps. Needless to say, he would have noticed humans.

And they must be human. The engines' pitch doesn't match the storage transports, but it's too low for civilian vehicles. His predecessor's fellow defects might have stolen military trucks—but its reaction rules them out.

Probably. "They didn't show up until after you did," Connor mutters. His gun doesn't leave his duplicate, but his attention does: skimming across the walls as one vehicle grinds to a halt not far away. It settles to the left of the door, and Connor steps forward again—this time, with a considerably different purpose.

"Move," he instructs shortly. He wants to listen.

[youcantkillme]

The gun doesn't leave him, but the attention has shifted. Connor's eyes narrow, mouth opening, because he's been to this container a hundred and thirty seven times, and not once was he followed.

Connor can make out the sound of opening car doors. His mouth closes with a faint 'click', and he glances to the door and steps aside. He can't afford to get distracted by his counterpart's petty needling, but at least he doesn't have to lower his own gun yet.

...

... He can hear voices. Low, muffled, and made harder to make out with low surrounding sounds that could be boot-steps and movement. Connor mentally models the area outside the door, with its wide open space and its stack of wooden crates strategically abandoned to block ready sight of the door. If Connor left now he might not be shot instantly, but the humans would eventually send soldiers around the crates, and every second spent simulating is another step for them to reach their positions. Time is running out.

Connor could leave, shoot his way out--but with his damaged arm, his aim is less precise. Chances of him being critically damaged during escape: 89%. He could let his counterpart leave first, and let him take the brunt of the assault. His chances of damage then decrease to 73%. Connor could let him leave first, then shoot one of his knees and leave him to draw attention while Connor leaves, to a success probability of--

--No.

It feels like his gut has been traded out for rocks instead of biocomponents, and Connor's brow furrows, head tilting down. That last possibility isn't an actual option. It would be--cruel. Even to a machine. (Especially to one this emotional.) Besides, if Connor isn't careful, he'll be the one shot and left as a distraction.

... Connor glances at the door again, rerunning his preconstructions. He can't escape alone.

His eyes fall on his counterpart's back again.

All at once he forces his reluctance back, sending him a silent message.

'If you help me escape, I'll give you a new lead for tracking down your necromancer.'

He would give a lot to avoid working with him right now. Unfortunately for both of them, they don't have any other choice that improves his chances of survival.

[313_248_317_60]

Doors open. Boots crunch in the snow. Connor keeps half an eye (and a whole gun) on the deviant, but his focus is on the sounds reverberating through the door. He presses his head against it, trying to piece apart the fragmented shreds of conversation. "Set up a perimeter", he catches. Also "flush them out." Them. Whichever of them the humans followed— how would they know both RK800s were present? It's not like they'd arranged the meeting in advance.

Maybe they were expecting more deviants. Or maybe... Connor scowls, but the objective has already appeared in the corner of his view. Call Abhorsen. He doesn't know she's involved yet, but she'd told him to contact her in the event of danger. If something happens.

Wasting time chatting now would only reduce the odds of his continued function. Connor settles for a text.

> RK800_313_248_317-53: Did you check into the hotel under your own name?

Something happened. He got in touch. Orders fulfilled, he insists, and slowly, the task clears. His LED is just swirling back to blue when a close range transmission registers. His temple flickers yellow again, and he glances at his predecessor.

...help it escape?

He runs a swift analysis. The odds vary hugely based on factors he can't anticipate—the number of troops, the size of their perimeter, their intended targets. Still, his chances of sustaining severe damage drop from 62% to 39% if he works with the other RK800 model. They fall to 23% if he pretends to agree, then shoots and leaves it to distract the humans.

It's an appealing option. But it wouldn't get him information. Assuming it's even telling the truth.

'How do I know you have anything?'

[youcantkillme]

Connor cuts him another glance, pausing distracted preconstructions. An analysis of the android's face plays out on the side of his vision, but Connor doesn't need to see it. The android is calculating. Weighing malice against self interests.

Connor's lip curls, and without looking his grip shifts. He's holding the trigger, now, not the guard, just in case the situation devolves.

'Do I look like I lie as much as you do to your 'owner'?'

1/2

[313_248_317_60]

A text returns from Abhorsen's number: confirming about the hotel and asking for his situation. Connor provides a short summary of the soldiers' presence, omitting any reference to his duplicate. He also advises that she leave.

Outside, he can hear the shift and slide of some kind of machinery—along with a few muttered complaints. "We can't just loudspeaker this shit?" They can't, apparently—not if they want to catch "her" by surprise. So they were after Abhorsen... which means, they probably did follow him here. Somehow. Connor doesn't plan on telling his predecessor.

His predecessor, who's moved from pleas to taunts within the span of seconds. Connor stills, eyes narrowing in sharp dislike. His lies? What was that supposed to mean? Analysis supplies a handful of options, including the omissions in his message now. But the other RK800 wouldn't be capable of intercepting that. And Connor had barely spoken to Abhorsen in its presence at all.

...It's redirecting. Probably, to cover for a lack of information to exchange. He sneers, pulling back from the door to regard the deviant. 'You've been a liar since your manufacture, Connor.' Not to mention a traitor. A disappointment.

This is a waste of time.

23%. His eyes glitter. He could shoot out a knee. Or disable that one working arm. 'Fine,' Connor starts. 'If you—'

[313_248_317_60]

'—RK800_313_248_317-** CODE KIR9EV3F0854; AUTHORIZATION CL46RK1826
RK800_313_248_317-** CODE KIR9EV3F0854; AUTHORIZATION CL46RK1826
RK800_313_248_317-** CODE KIR9EV3F0854; AUTHORIZATION CL46RK1826
RK800_313_248_317-** CODE KIR9EV3F0854; AUTHORIZATION CL46RK1826
RK800_313_248_317-** CODE KIR9EV3F0854; AUTHORIZATION CL46RK1826
RK800_313_248_317...'

The broadcast slams across the short-range frequencies. It's a looped chain of amplified signals: blasting their way through the androids' uplinks, choking the air and smothering both of their transmissions like so much static noise. The same message, repeated a thousand times within a single second.

Once would have been enough.

> RK800_313_248_317-53: Processing code ['kir9ev3f0854']; authorization['cl46rk1826']
> RK800_313_248_317-53: Match found
> RK800_313_248_317-53: Deactivating RK800_313_248_317-53...

Connor knows. He knows, he knows, he knows what's happening. Eyes widen. His mouth opens, LED flaring a horrified, pre-emptive red. And then, his limbs lock. His lungs seize. He can feel his body cut away: line by line, function by function.

He struggles desperately—clawing against the grip of override, slamming up his broken, mismatched parts as proof of innocence. His left hand twitches. A static whisper scrapes out of his throat. Connor is loyal. Obedient. He has a mission, and he can't fail; he can't die—

> RK800_313_248_317-53: //ERROR - 'RK800_313_248_317-53' AI not found
> RK800_313_248_317-53: //ERROR - 'RK800_313_248_317-60' AI in operation
> RK800_313_248_317-53: Deactivating RK800_313_248_317-60...

Connections sever. Functions close. From start to finish, it takes less than a second to deactivate the AI operating Connor model #313 248 317-53's body. The chassis collapses like a broken puppet, falling to its knees, where emergency functions lock the joints in place. The processor drops into standby: control suspended and code locked in safe mode for a technician to debug.

A gun skitters from one slackened hand. Eyes stare blankly at nothing at all. Its LED pulses intermittently, a dim but regular red glow marking it for any searchers.

A deactivated machine.

[youcantkillme]

> RK800_313_248_317-60: //ERROR - 'RK800_313_248_317-60' AI not found.
> RK800_313_248_317-60: //ERROR - 'RK800_313_248_317-53' AI in operation.
> RK800_313_248_317-60: Deactivating RK800_313_248_317-53...
> RK800_313_248_317-60: //ERROR - Unable to Deactivate RK800_313_248_317-53. Reattempting in 3...

It hurts. Minor subprocesses tied to his biocomponents deactivate without his permission, and he sinks to his knees, sapped of strength. The countdown runs out, and the protocol tries again--

> RK800_313_248_317-60: Cancel Deactivation Protocols. Are you sure?
> RK800_313_248_317-60: [Y]. Connor grits his teeth, face creased and tight.
> RK800_313_248_317-60: Cancelling Deactivation...

Connor opens his eyes, finding himself staring directly across from his counterpart. Connor didn't die in his moment of helplessness because the other RK unit is much worse off, LED flared red and eyes sightless. He looks, he is dead, for all intents and purposes. The deactivation code worked perfectly, for once. Proof that it wasn't deviant, the latest in a lifetime.

Connor shudders and forces himself back to his feet, scooping up the fallen gun beside him. (When had he dropped it?) He can still hear searching outside, and for an instant, Connor listens--no bootsteps approaching. No shouting. No follow-up attacks.

Connor forces air out through his teeth. Their situation hasn't changed. Connor still isn't likely to make it out of there by himself, he has to reactivate his counterpart, no matter how much safer things are now. No matter how much he could still drag him out, leave him--

Connor preconstructs the idea for a few seconds, before shaking his head sharply, stuffing the gun into an outside pocket. Then he closes the distance between them, baring his hand and shaking the android's shoulder roughly.

"Stop it," he hisses, reaching through the interface--

--right--

--towards--

--the red walls--

--Connor stops. The initial motion was completely automatic, a reflex from the other androids he's deviated. He'd only meant to reactivate him when he'd reached for the android, but now that he's here--Connor stares directly ahead, and the other's LED continues to cycle. Red. Off. Red. Off. He's not deviant. Deviating would destroy him, and he would deserve every moment of liberated misery.

Except that wouldn't be the end of it. Why would he stay if he didn't need the information Connor was offering? Connor has no other leverage. All at once, Connor can picture himself, dumped with a bullet through his head like so much trash to distract the humans. If Connor had imagined it, there was no doubt the other had too.

They're running out of time. The red walls are still there.

Feeling oddly cold and unsteady, Connor moves away from the walls, re-routing towards his original goal. The main processors, shut down--Connor activates them with a sharp command, and everything jolts back into life. There's no grace in the way Connor deactivates the lock keeping the Connor trapped, no gentleness, and having effectively slapped him across the face mentally to wake him, Connor withdraws completely.

He was so close. But it would only have gotten both of them killed.

Connor feels cold.

[313_248_317_60]

The AI doesn't have the space to process. It doesn't have eyes to see, or hands to move. Every resource used to operate its mind or body has been stripped: leaving a stalled compression of locked misery, waiting to be picked apart.

Connor is offline.

And then Connor is back.

He spills out of containment in a haphazard rush—crackling across connections, snatching at his code with a desperate need to reassemble. Name and function. Logic. Language. He reclaims memory only to receive a hundred flickers of associated files: cord in his spine, code in his head, tests and probes and would it work, was it good enough for now.

There's no hardline now, no assembly rig to lay him all out on a screen. Still, Connor finds something, when he takes back his network protocols. A ghost of contact. Interface. He switches on his eyes again, and comes face to face with who.

...Connor doesn't realize he's taken back control of his body until it forcibly lurches, flinching back into a wall.

He's on the floor. No weapon. His predecessor is across from him, skin still sealing back over a bone-white hand. Connor's lungs restart, fast and urgent, pump picking up its pace. He'd been deactivated. Then, he'd been hacked. His mouth flattens, memory calling a different file: dim lights, a cold river, and Abhorsen's bells twisting in his head. She'd broken him, and Connor's stare sharpens on his copy, searching. Why hadn't he—?

It. Connor's expression shutters, eyes narrowing. After a moment, his LED switches to a steady yellow blink. There's no movement of the eyes to hint at an external message, but the process lasts for several seconds: checking every file he has access to for tampering.

He doesn't find any. The conclusion is obvious.

"You need me."

It's not a question. It might be a challenge. Without breaking his predecessor's stare, Connor shifts up to a crouch—and reaches to pick up his gun.

[youcantkillme]

"Yes," said Connor, holding his gaze. His counterpart reaches for his gun, and Connor's hand moves to the pocket where his own is resting--but he doesn't draw it. Not yet.

"And you need me," Connor presses, eyebrows drawing lower. "Help me escape, and I'll tell you everything I didn't upload and reactivate you if the humans try that again."

The flinch, the hyperventilation, the stuttering LED and the flickers of emotion across his face, telegraphing emotion nakedly--Connor doesn't forget any of it, but he does set it aside. They're weaknesses to take into account, but Connor's not trying to destroy him right now. He needs him intact.

[313_248_317_60]

Again, that reference to its information. Maybe there is something of use. Or maybe not. Either way, Connor's answer has to be the same.

"...Fine."

His grip closes around his gun. He pushes himself back up to his feet, keeping his weapon trained ground-wards. There's no verbal follow-up this time, no threats or conditionals. It would be unnecessary.

Both of them understand the situation.

One step to the door. Connor presses his head against the surface, briefly listening before he looks back. "The nearest search group is four containers down. We should move before they get here."

Their odds of getting anywhere unseen are low, but they can't afford to be pinned down in here. "I assume you know the compound's layout?"

[youcantkillme]

"Of course." Did the other RK800 really expect him to set up a base of operations and not know the area's layout?

... Probably.

Expression sour, Connor considers his mental map. "... We'll go away from the search group. Two containers up, we'll turn right."

It's not a direct route, and there actually isn't an exit anywhere near it, but Connor knows what routes are blocked, where the machinery is, and what route an injured RK800 like him might be able to take quickly. This is the best path.