bindsthedead

The android is in a bad situation- Sabriel can see that much. He has every reason to lie, particularly since Connor isn't the type to offer mercy.

And Sabriel- what she wants doesn't matter. What she needs to do is stop the necromancer.

She can't help everyone she meets along the way, even if part of her wants to. Connor's right, they don't have much time.

"Then we need to leave now- I'm sorry." The look she gives to the android is something between sympathy and pity.

"Wait."

They're going to leave him. He won't be able to escape with his tracker. This means...

"I have leads." And why would she listen to Connor, when her own android says otherwise? Connor glances at him, yellow LED and the tension in his face belaying any attempt at calm, before turning back to her. "Four names, addresses, backgrounds--humans that have been directly connected to the necromancer's latest activity."

It's not working. She doesn't believe him, thanks to the other android's claim. A stab of hate and frustration bleeds through him, shocking in its depth, but he smothers it ruthlessly, affecting as much calm as he can.

"If that's not enough, we could make a different deal." There's a half-second of hesitation, because what does he have to offer? Jericho's resources? Himself? He's at the mercy of a human's whims again, and this has never ended well for his model series. Something caustic and acidic is threatening to distract him, like fear boiling up from a box shut deep inside his chest. He pushes that back, too.

"What would it take for you to help me escape?" he asks simply, spreading his good hand. "I could make it worth your while."

He doesn't want to die, and the stress of it is bleeding through at the edges. His LED won't stop blinking, and he's tense enough to snap.

"The same leads you promised in exchange for my help?"

They're going. At last. He steps toward the door, tracking Abhorsen in his periphery—silently urging her to match the motion. To stick to her resolve.

"If you knew something, you'd already owe it. Since you don't—"

Sabriel stops. Hesitates. And then speaks, her eyes darting to the mark on the android's forehead. She can't count on help from the mages in the army. And he's totally untrained. But perhaps...

"Help me kill the necromancer, and stop anyone else with similar abilities from desecrating your people's graves. If you swear to do this on your Charter mark, I'll remove the tracker, heal you, and teach you the spells necessary to accomplish this."

She's not sure if he even knows what the mark is, what it means he can do. But telling him to swear on it feels right, and she needs him both uninjured and knowledgeable enough about magic to perform the bindings.

The words spring up without his conscious instruction.

Mission Objectives:
>Assist in killing Necromancer.
>Stop Old Kingdom Necromancers from using dead android's hardware.

They hang there expectantly, waiting for his confirmation. Connor doesn't move: both goals lead to outcomes Connor would have already wanted, but--she didn't say 'neutralize the necromancer', she said 'help her kill him.' She didn't say 'prevent this specific set of individuals from desecrating the corpses', she said 'prevent anyone with these qualities'. For how long would this deal last? He could set aside a few weeks, maximum, but this doesn't sound like what she's suggesting.

Swear on his charter mark. Learn spells. He doesn't know what either of these means, nor what it would cost him. What's a charter mark? Is he capable of casting spells as an android? What would power the spells, and could he replace it after the fact?

The deal is a nightmare of loopholes, unclear phrasing, and unknowns. He's being offered everything he needs, but at a cost he can't gauge. What if he fails? What kind of contracts do people with her abilities keep?

"... I would need a charter mark to swear on it," Connor says slowly, as though he's still thinking about it. As though he has a choice in the matter.

Abhorsen stops, and doubt lodges in Connor's core: heavy and solid, fixing him in place.

She wastes very little time proving it justified.

She's going to remove the tracker. She'll teach the deviant magic, manage its repair—all in exchange for its service. Help her. Kill the necromancer. That's his mission she's working into their deal. She's giving his mission to the other Connor, when she'd said she thought he would succeed. What does this mean?

(What changed?)

His LED is spinning faster, but Connor keeps his face perfectly, mechanically blank. "Abhorsen—this is a bad idea. You can't trust it."

It's deviant.

Of course Connor objects. Of course he does. She's still not entirely sure what the root of the grudge between them is, and Sabriel pinches the bridge of her nose in irritation.

"Listen- if he betrays us or attacks either of us, you have my permission to do whatever you want with him." Hopefully that will make this easier to swallow for him- Sabriel's not sure why the other android would even try to back out of this, unless he's actually as much of a sadist as Connor is and better at hiding it. As for the other android... Sabriel taps her own mark.

"This is a Charter mark. It's a physical sign of your connection to the Charter- but now is not the time for explanations. Are you going to accept the offer or not?"

He locks on to the mark as its faint sheen brightens, comparing it silently to the way his own had looked in the dirty, cracked mirror at Jericho. It's a match. What's the Charter--

She needs a decision. He's out of time.

Connor holsters his gun without looking, then brings his one good hand up to his brow. He can't see it, but he knows the mark there brightens at his touch.

"I swear on my charter mark that I will assist you in killing the necromancer you've been tracking, and that I will stop similar necromancers from desecrating android remains. In exchange you will help me to escape with you, heal me, and teach me the magic necessary to accomplish this."

He holds his position for a second, half expecting the mark to react in some way, before lowering his hand.

He's taken the plunge, and if he's allowing himself a dramatic turn of phrase, it feels horribly like the moment after a knife sinks in, but before the pain hits and the damage is clear. He doesn't know yet whether this will be worth it, and whether any of them will even survive.

Hers is the next move. And then--they escape.

Edited (i said 'for an second' and I couldn't handle it) 2019-09-10 03:47 (UTC)

Whatever he wants. Connor's mouth opens to object to the suggestion. To remind her: what he isn't. That he can't.

...Then it closes. She isn't listening, and she wouldn't care to hear it if she were. Abhorsen has always made her preferences clear.

(But now more than ever.)

It's not his place to question her decisions. Or the role she plans for him to take. (At least he's useful as a threat.) His deviant predecessor swears acceptance of his task, and Connor watches: face expressionless, hands still and open at his sides.

His LED burns clear, flat gold.

"Very well." Sabriel's fingers wrap around Ranna's handle, but she doesn't move to unfasten the handle. The soldiers are still asleep, but for how much longer? She looks over to Connor, then towards the door.

"How do we get the tracker out?" Sabriel's not familiar with android anatomy. She understands, vaguely, that androids are built in imitation of humans, although not exactly- but she has no idea where the tracker is- in his head? or perhaps an arm?

Connor's functioning shoulder shifts, before he starts shrugging off his jacket, moving his bad arm as little as possible.

"The tracker is in my back, beneath my panscapular plating. It requires reaching behind a strut and overriding it manually." A strut he couldn't reach behind on his own, and an override he couldn't trigger spontaneously.

As he sets his jacket neatly down, not folded but also not in a pile, he produces a small pocket-blade from one of its inside pockets, then offers it to her.

"For lack of any better options... we can use this to override."

There's something wrong with his arm- it doesn't seem to be the same type of injury Connor had, but something else. Almost like-

Sabriel stops- and looks down at the knife.

"And you want me to do it?" Perhaps he was worried Connor would stab him in the back in a very literal sense.

No point in wasting any more time. Sabriel takes the knife and circles around the android, resting one hand between his shoulder blades.

"So it's here? How big is it, and what does it look like?" The last thing she wants is to accidentally injure someone she's trying to help.

What were the alternatives? To trust the Cyberlife plant not to deliberately sabotage the operation when given the chance? To trust the ravenous lion not to close its mouth when a hand was placed inside of it? Ridiculous.

"Yes," he says simply, leaving no room for argument.

She circles around as he reaches for his shirt's buttons, working them one-handedly. A hand comes to rest on his shoulder blades, somehow both burning and freezing at once, and he pauses, then continues.

"It's the size and shape of a quarter. Amber plastic, with micro-etching." Buttons done, he shrugged off the shirt, exposing an upper body shaded with hyperrealistic coloring and texture. He had a scattering of freckles, his back was toned as though stretching over lean musculature. He used his good arm to slip the shirt over his other arm, and--

--the illusion of humanity failed completely just below the deltoid, skin failing to render in wide swatches, and exoskeleton bruising and bulging with odd swelling. It looked like the rotting surface of an old fruit, and at its worst point--the teeth marks--there was a clear plastic wrapped around to keep a half-clotted discharge from leaking everywhere. Connor went out of his way not to let the shirt snag or pull, and when it was finally free, he carefully laid it down over his jacket.

He straightened again quickly, already reaching for the plate between his shoulders.

Sabriel stills as she sees the bite marks. So he's encountered the Dead- perhaps that's why he was willing to work with her. The clear indication that the person she's dealing with is not human doesn't faze her though- she's had to repair Connor before, this is nothing new.

"So you've faced them," She murmurs, before she leans over as he retracts the plating.

Sabriel doesn't elaborate further, instead nudging aside wiring, trying to find what he described without causing any further damage.

Connor's head cocks, waiting for her to continue, but her next act is to reach into his back. He can't feel a thing, but he still looks forward quickly enough to hide his expression from her, then puts a careful hand over his bad arm's bicep, hunching to help shift the right structures outward.

It's an incredibly vulnerable position to be in, and considering who's with him here--it's uncomfortable. He needs the help, and it's going to save his life, and he thinks she's going to follow, but he could also wind up shot through the face on a damn whim--

Anxiety and stress stab through him, and he bites back a wince, glancing down.

"Faced what?" The timing of her statement replays itself, and his gaze shifts from the floor to his arm. He's seen wounds like this before, unfortunately, on other androids. "... One of the necromancer's--constructs?"

"Yes. It was brave of you to face them- but also rather foolish." Because as far as she knows, the deviants don't have spelled blades, or any knowledge of how to easily hurt the Dead.

With one hand carefully holding back several wires, Sabriel's able to spot the tracker and press the blade into it, the tiny LEDs on it going dead as the plastic cracks.

Still moving very carefully, like the other Connor is made of fine china and might break if mishandled, Sabriel withdraws both her hands.

"I think I've broken it- is it offline now?" Or does she need to find a way to pull it out of him?

There's a brief surge as the plastic cracks, and a message blinks into view.

>Warning: Biocomponent #i2391 is Offline.

Connor dismisses it, holding still as the hands carefully withdraw. Then--the pressure is gone, there's no sounds of wires and plastic brushing against hands, and when he shifts minutely there's no subtle resistance.

Connor straightens, reactivating the exoskeletal plate. "It's offline." And after a slight pause, "... Thank you."

He picks up his shirt and starts working the sleeve over his swollen arm, pulling and yanking too much but too conscious of how little time they have to stop. The pain is staggering, and he clenches his jaws briefly.

"... I haven't faced any of those creatures. This arm was already damaged when I took it." 'Took'. The word has a flavor that forensic samples don't, and his mouth twists around it.

He finishes the sleeve, slips the other one on much more quickly, and works on the shirt's buttons. The jacket--it'll be easy to grab, and then he'll be mobile, dragging it on as they go.

Sabriel frowns at that, shooting a reproachful look at Connor. If the injury had been inflicted when he was in that body... Then it must have been during their very first confrontation with the Dead.

He should have told her, so she could have fixed it. But now simply isn't the time for lectures- instead she fiddles with Ranna, loosening it from its place on her bandolier.

"Right, let's get out of here. Do either of you know a place the army's unlikely find? One that has a place for me to sleep once I'm done with both of your repairs?" Going back to the hotel is no longer an option- luckily, she took everything of any value with her when she left- her weapons, her books, and the small amount of Old Kingdom currency she brought with her.

While Abhorsen bonds with her new pet, Connor has been staring fixedly ahead, shutting down stray processes. Unfortunately, audio isn't among them. His LED (blue, now) spins steady circles, expression blank as the deviant outs him and Abhorsen glares his way. When he'd been bitten, he'd had no orders to report harm. And the damage hadn't been severe at first.

He'd followed orders. He was still useful.

(He still is.)

'Either of you'. Connor blinks, waiting 2.4 seconds to see if the deviant plans to cut in. When it doesn't, his LED spins yellow, running a fast search and cross-referencing it with his most recent download from the police server.

"Springwells Village has been evacuated."

A residential district, and well out of the way of the reported conflicts. Which, unsurprisingly, also puts it far from deviant-claimed space.

Connor's own LED spins yellow as he searches up the name, aware of the byplay but missing the history behind it.

He spends half a second considering. It's unnecessarily far, and close to dangerous territory, but it means keeping them away from deviants, and... that's not a bad thing, in his books.

"Springwells Village is acceptable."

They'll need to get there quickly; it's unsafe where they are, two of them are injured (damaged), and--as reluctant as he is to have to account for this now--humans can't stay awake indefinitely.

Connor reaches into a local network for driverless taxis, putting those thoughts aside. Since the revolution started the networks maintaining them have been unreliable, but he can still use it now to locate one they could hack.

There. Three blocks away.

"We'll find transport at the intersection of Madison and Parmer."

He turns, ready to go immediately, ready to take the lead--then the motion stutters minutely, because he's working for a human now. In his original design, he was built to accommodate little things like servility, and clear authority. If he's going to be working under her, is he going to start conforming to old expectations?

The full hesitation takes less than an eighth of a second, barely noticeable for a human, but significant for an android. Connor steps forward, leading the way out of the room with only the briefest of pauses to check for trouble outside.

Edited 2019-09-16 01:30 (UTC)

"Thank you." It's brief, and vaguely aimed at both of them- Connor for finding a place, and the other Connor for finding transportation as she follows them out.

The soldiers are mercifully still asleep, and no reinforcements have arrived yet, so Sabriel just tries to move as quietly and quickly as she can.

Once they reach the taxi, Sabriel hops in as soon as she can, closing her eyes and trying to get as much rest as she can, not wanting to repeat the last time she overreached herself with magic.

Sabriel's woken from her strange half-slumber by the sensation of the car coming to a stop, and she follows both Connors to the front door of a home she points out- one with a fairly fresh coat of paint. It's started to snow, and her breath mists out in front of her.

Once they're inside, she strips off her coat and gloves, and turns to them, nothing sleepy or exhausted in her expression.

"All right. Let me deal with both of your injuries, and then we can talk- about magic, and what I need from you to help the two of us." That last comment is directed solely at the other Connor. She needs to think of some other way to refer to him, it's confusing to call him by Connor's name.

Edited 2019-09-16 01:59 (UTC)

The walk to the taxi is quiet. So is the car ride. There's nothing to be said. Not to Abhorsen, and definitely not to the malfunction wearing his old face.

He watches the stutter in its steps with bitter satisfaction.

Most likely, it means the offer off alliance. At least until Abhorsen's given it repair. That doesn't mean he doesn't track its motion in his periphery—or isn't ready to disagree immediately when it moves to choose the hideout for their group. Abhorsen's gesture settles the pending dispute, and Connor falls in line, scanning the walkway and surrounding streets for any sign of recent traffic.

None. He glances around the house as they enter—three bedroom, two stories, cat hairs stuck to the lintel—but as Abhorsen speaks, his eyes flick quickly back to her. The two of us. She is planning to keep him then (at least, for now), and Connor swallows back a sharp remark about how necessary the deviant isn't.

Repair first. He stops himself from glancing toward his copy, and inclines his head: waiting for her to indicate which one of them she needs first.

Connor's lips thin, but he just gives a curt nod, touching his swollen arm's sleeve lightly with his good hand. He doesn't say anything out loud, and neither does the other android; when Connor looks, they're both doing the same thing: standing still while waiting for a cue from the human.

... It feels like his exoskeleton is a size too small. Like his coat is actually made of lead, like instead of the dim lighting from their LEDs and the mostly-shut-out streetlights, he has a spotlight on him. It's like the air cycling through his lungs' fans is stale, and clogged with dust and some indescribable tension.

Objectively it shouldn't bother him to be folded into a rank and file like this. He has no bad memories to associate with it. He's never worked alongside another Connor.

Still, Connor shrugs his functioning shoulder, stepping forward and deliberately looking her in the eye.

"My arm is damaged beyond use."

Sabriel pauses for a moment, a little surprised by the boldness, even as she meets the other Connor's gaze with a steady one of her own. Still, he's probably in considerable discomfort. And it probably is more serious than Connor's, even if she had assumed she'd deal with his first.

"But not beyond repair." Sabriel says firmly. "It's in bad condition, but I should be able to repair it- I'm not unfamiliar with what happens to wounds inflicted by the Dead, and I know the spells to stop and reverse the damage. Let's go to the kitchen, so I can clean up any mess afterwards."

It's what she promised him, after all. Sabriel makes her way to the kitchen, fumbling with the light switch as she looks around- there are still dirty dishes in the sink. The home's owners must have left in a hurry. She stands, ramrod straight, in front of the sink, rolling up her sleeves to reveal forearms just as pale as the rest of her."

"I'll need you to take your shirt- and the bandages, too. Connor, I'll deal with your injuries next- can you wait that long?"

Abhorsen leads the deviant to the kitchen. Connor follows, as much for lack of other orders as anything else. The hole through his side had subsided to a sluggish seep well before they made it to the taxi, and as low as they are, his thirium levels are unlikely to drop to critical thresholds.

"Of course."

Wait. He glances around the kitchen, eyes lingering on the dishes and a half-cleared cupboard to one side. He could sample the residue, or inspect the area to reconstruct the departure of its occupants. Piece together who had lived here, when they left, and whether there was any chance they might come back. Would that be useful? Unlikely—the odds were less than one percent of an evacuated family returning during the current state of conflict. He could search the rest of the house instead, checking for potential tools or exits if they needed to escape.

...He hasn't been told to. And leaving the deviant alone with Abhorsen presented its own risks. After his own fraction-of-a-second lag, Connor steps sideways, taking up an unobtrusive position by the wall.

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