bindsthedead

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.

She's taken aback. He's done something unexpected, and her reaction is... Reassurance? Factual statements, adaptation to his lead without surrendering control of the situation. That's--'fine'. It's fine.

She leads them to the kitchen with both androids trailing behind. There are instructions, orders, and this time Connor walks to the sink also, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of a kitchen chair. The shirt follows, both articles being carefully manipulated over the damaged arm. There's still the clear plastic wrappings sealing its leaks, keeping it mildly padded and held in place, but they've served their purpose, and it's time to remove them.

... It's not an easy process. Nor is it clean, and it was a practical move to do this over the sink. He finds the wrap's edge, peeling it carefully, and the more he removes the more unstable the elbow is, almost as though some critical part of the joint had turned liquid. Connor's LED turns an agitated yellow-and-red in the process, and he slows, tension stamped in every line of him. When he reaches the end of the wrap the joint moves unexpectedly, and he flinches, unable to stop a shameful strangled sound from escaping him.

The exoskeleton has a new split near the elbow, with a runny, cloudy fluid seeping out of it, and a foul smell wafting out.

"This..." His face tugs and pinches, despair fighting with resolve fighting with doubt. "... Can you really fix this?"

Despite the words, it's too flat to be a request for reassurance. Too grim. Can she really fix this? Could anyone? He'll adjust if he has to proceed with only one arm, of course, but she's promised, and with the unreal incidents that spring up around her, he can't dismiss the fact that she just might repair this despite its condition. Can she stop the wound's progress?

He's fixed her with a look that he means as sharp, but that is too intense, too saturated at the edges with smothered desperation to be anything mild.

Edited 2019-09-18 01:11 (UTC)

Sabriel has to fight back a wave of nausea at the smell, and the sight of the arm, but-

"Yes," Sabriel tells him, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "I'm a mage of not inconsiderable power. And I'm sorry, I know it hurts, but that will stop soon."

In theory she knows how to do this. In theory, she should be strong enough, but she's never actually tried. She brushes her fingertips over his forehead- just enough for her vision to fall away for a moment, to be replaced by the Charter.

Next, leans over the wound, fingers sketching out marks as she speaks- half to keep herself focused, half to explain to the other Connor what's going on- if she's going to teach him magic, why not start now, at least with the theory?

"These are marks of purification and cleansing, and these are for healing..." It's half an explanation, and half a chant as she continues, explaining how the marks connect to each other even as she sees the endless expanse of the Charter overlay her vision, the Charter marks coming more easily with each one she pulls from the Charter. To Connor, it might sound like she's describing an incredibly esoteric sort of computer program, even as a small cloud of glowing marks forms around her hands. She wonders if he can sense the power in them, as untrained as he is.

"...linked together by a Master mark of healing." Drawing the final mark out takes more effort than the others- but it shines far more brightly, and the other marks arrange themselves around it, forming a shining, elaborate pattern as the lights in the kitchen flicker and die. The Master mark was probably too much for the nearby technology, Sabriel realizes.

And then, Sabriel grasps the other Connor's forearm, where the rot seems the worst- and the spell flows into the wound.

There's a surge of pain as the Charter magic burns through the residual Free magic taint, the source of the rot- but it fades just as sharply, taking the rest of the pain with it as Connor's arm glows, marks moving over and under the surface of the plastic. There's sudden expulsion of the tainted fluids, before the cracks start to seal, leaving behind only narrow raised lines to show they were there at all as joints and internal mechanisms start to repair themselves.

Sabriel breaths a sigh of relief, looking both winded and triumphant as she turns the faucet, to wash away what came out of the other Connor's wounds.

Edited 2019-09-18 01:49 (UTC)

The limb looks ruined. But after everything Abhorsen's done, it's not entirely surprising when she reaches out regardless. Connor watches as she sketches out each sign, matching the symbols that he's seen on paper to the formulaic sequence she's constructing. Listens, as she tells his predecessor how it works.

...That's not surprising, either. She enters the last mark, binding it together, and his vision flickers, static fuzzing in around the edges. Fingers curl in reflexively, and Connor blinks, LED spinning bright yellow. Errors clear, and the status light returns to blue: offering a dim but clear view of the stolen, healed arm.

The surge of pain is enough to leave him choking, too overwhelmed to do anything but lock in place. Then--like a wildfire sweeping away underbrush, it's gone, and for the first time in days his arm is so pain-free it feels like the limb might be floating independent of him.

His sense of 'touch' doesn't fade, because now his arm is healed enough to not have its feedback drowned out as the contaminated substances purge, and the breaches self-seal. Fortunately for all of them, the state of infection was infinitely worse than the healing, and Connor is much more distracted by the new smooth seams (scars?), and the way the bruised exoskeleton is now firm and whole.

"That--worked..."

The pain is gone. It's fixed, all with nothing but the use of holographic (magical?) symbols that are sitting securely in his short term memory banks. Purification, cleansing, healing--healing. Connor opens and closes the hand experimentally, half expecting this to be some bizarre catastrophic misfire in his processor, but the damage stays gone, even as the bullet wounds in his shoulder and leg flare up with the sudden lack of competition.

"How did you..." It was magic. Connor looks up at her, then away, coincidentally towards his counterpart. The android doesn't look pleased, and it breaks Connor's slight daze, because this isn't the time to be caught on the impossible thing he just experience.

Connor looks down, then back at her, unable to keep from twisting his arm, reflecting light off the ridges of the scars. Rather than drop the subject immediately, he says, "Will I be learning this?"

He hopes he will. Realistically she'll probably deny it, but she might not. She already made the pain go away, and she healed him, and--his arm is whole again.

It's worked. And he seems relieved to be better, if a little stunned- but then, he hasn't really experienced much magic beyond her paralyzing and reviving him.

"Eventually- it's an advanced spell, and you should start with the basics." The last thing she needs is him accidentally injuring himself by attempting magic beyond his strength. He's still not completely healed- she can see the injury in his shoulder, and his leg, but- she should probably deal with Connor's injuries next- she does owe it to him.

"Connor," she says, turning to him, "I'll deal with your injuries now, then I'll finish up with his." And then they'll need to talk- about magic, the necromancer, and how they'll need to adjust their plans.

Eventually. The line of his mouth flattens just a little further as he stares silently ahead. That hadn't been part of their deal. But it wasn't the first time Abhorsen had gone past what was reasonable—especially for the sake of deviants. Connor strongly doubts it's going to be the last.

He straightens at the address. And... blinks at the instruction that comes after. Does Abhorsen not trust the deviant after all? He can't think of why else she would switch focus.

He nods—a little stiffly, but without too obvious of a delay—and steps forward. His eyes stay on Abhorsen as he starts shrugging off his jacket, ready to comply as directed.

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