bindsthedead

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.

Connor's mouth is open, but by then she's turning away, addressing his counterpart. He wants to ask more, he has a queue of questions that's increasing at alarming rates, but--he closes his mouth. He's patient, and despite Connor's own gunshot wounds, the other android's injuries are critically located.

As the other android begins to peel off fabric, Connor steps back, opening and closing his healed hand like he can't quite believe it works. His clothes are nearby, and he glances at them, but only briefly: he still has his shoulder wound to treat, and the clothes are ruined besides.

Healing Connor takes less effort than repairing his counterpart's arm- the injuries might be bad, but they're mundane ones, inflicted by technology rather than the supernatural. The spell is less complex, and doesn't use any marks for cleansing or purification- although she does need to use a slightly different set of healing marks, due to the different nature of the injury- it hit lung, or the android equivalent of it, and Sabriel has to rack her memory for the marks she needs. She supposes it's fortunate that androids don't need to breath, or Connor would be in even worse shape.

"I suppose you're going to need new clothes now," Sabriel says, as she starts finishing up. The other Connor's clothes aren't in much better shape, and Sabriel's not sure if going to a store is a good idea. Not with the army after them, and it's likely the police will be as well.

Edited 2019-09-20 02:56 (UTC)

After disrobing and removing his synthetic skin, Connor goes still, responding as silently and quickly to his owner's instructions as he would to any order given in a Cyberlife lab. His eyes shift a little more freely, though: flickering across the marks scribed in the air, inspecting his own damage, and glancing, more than once, back to Abhorsen's face.

She doesn't seem angry. She doesn't seem to be acting differently toward him at all, and as the damage seals, he takes in a careful breath. Exhales. His brows twitch faintly at the comment, and Connor glances at the shirt and jacket folded on the counter to his side. He'd just gotten new clothes.

Still, she isn't wrong. "...And bullets," Connor mutters. He never did make it to that gun shop. And thirium, too. Abhorsen's magic doesn't seem to cover fluid replacement, and Connor knows she doesn't have a stored supply. Where would, in the city's current state? Cyberlife Tower, certainly. A retail store, perhaps—if there were any left the deviants hadn't burned.

All of which was only relevant if she still allowed him to go anywhere after tonight. His eyes return to Abhorsen, waiting for her to indicate she's done.

Sabriel spends most of her time paying attention to her spell, but once- while Connor's looking at her- she looks back, her expression surprised but not disapproving.

"Those too," Sabriel agrees, a little reluctantly. Tomorrow night, they'll face the necromancer- with an additionally ally, but still- they won't have that much time to prepare.

"Can you think of anything else we might need?" She half expects the answer to be 'more guns', but if the necromancer's followers are heavily armed, perhaps it would be a good idea. She turns to the other Connor, looking thoughtful.

"I still need to fix your shoulder, but- it won't be as hard as your arm. If you want to ask me anything while I'm healing it- well, I'm sure you have a lot of questions."

The shift of attention freezes Connor's gaze. He's not sure what the look on Abhorsen's face implies, but he keeps his own perfectly blank for her consideration. Fortunately, it doesn't take her too long to lose interest. Her focus slides off toward the deviant... but not before dropping another point of inquiry along the way.

"...Thirium," Connor admits. He locks his eyes on Abhorsen. The other RK800 was there when he lost most of the fluid. Logically—it knows his condition, or can guess at it without help.

That doesn't make saying it less galling. (Like stretching a wound wide.)

"My levels are low."

Thirium. Both androids had been shot; both lost a lot of blue blood. "We'll need to top off our levels to be in peak condition," he says carefully, before moving on.

Abhorsen turns to him and talks about his shoulder--still bleeding, though sluggishly and without major mobility issues. She offers explanations, too.

Well, obviously he has many questions. Just to start with, he has: "I'm going to learn how to perform these 'spells', but all I'm seeing have been spoken words combined with hand gestures. What other actions are you taking, and what should I be observing?"

His mission started the instant they agreed to the terms, and though she was confident he could perform whatever it is she needed, he's been withholding his own doubts. He doesn't know why the mark on his brow glows when touched, only that it does. He doesn't know how the symbols appear like floating ashes over a campfire as she casts. Will there be consequences, if he tries and fails?

With Connor's healing done, Sabriel turns to his counterpart, frowning slightly. She hadn't considered how little he'd know about magic. Best to fix that now.

"What you're missing... isn't something you can observe." Sabriel says, not unkindly. She brushes aside some hair from her forehead.

"Charter magic relies on memorizing Charter marks, understanding how they can connect and combine to create various effects. But all Charter magic derives its power from the Charter- you'll need to learn how to reach out to it, to draw power from it." Of course, he also doesn't understand what the Charter is Sabriel realizes as she reaches out to it, the first marks of the healing spell flowing easily from it, through her, and to her fingertips.

"The Charter is... I suppose you could think of it as the power that underlies all that exists, and contains and describes all things in the Old Kingdom- everything that is, has been, or may yet be."

Which probably sounds very mystical and superstitious to an Ancelstierrian, especially one whose knowledge of the world was programmed into him by people like Cyberlife. So as the first mark touches Connor's skin she sighs, and taps her forehead with her free hand.

"Touch my mark- it's probably easier just to show you."

Edited 2019-09-21 06:11 (UTC)

The marks touch his synthskin as he talks, and bullet holes close, leaving patches of clean, new exoskeleton. As they talk the synthskin closes over the areas, leaving pale sections that slowly fade.

This does sound superstitious, and completely unhelpful. She's using it to heal him, somehow, but it still makes no sense.

'Touch my mark.'

Connor's expression, which has been intent as he listens, shifts to something more inscrutable. With only minimal hesitation, he closes the distance between them, reaching for her brow.

As soon as Connor touches her mark, there's a fraction of a second when he can see it flare under his fingertips before everything falls away with the sense of something, some engergy, flowing through him.

He can't see Sabriel anymore- instead, he's falling- or perhaps floating, among an endless galaxy of Charger marks, marks moving around him and through him in some intricate pattern, and there is no end to them, no matter what direction he looks, a vast, uncountable multitude, all moving in some vast, incomprehensible pattern, strange and alien, but not menacing.

And as soon as his hand breaks contact with her skin, it all falls away, his feet are firmly on the floor, and Sabriel's in front of him, offering him a patient smile.

"Do you understand now?"

Connor stares. Out of sight, he's rebooting several minor processes and double checking his readouts, which are all spitting back the same answers.

He just...

It makes no sense. It wasn't an interface, it was magic. There was nothing to it except a touch, and--

--and the senses he couldn't describe, a sense of awareness, and presence, and a flow through his being that stretched beyond the limits of his mechanical shell.

His lips part, and he's about to speak, but before he does he focuses on the feeling, replaying it with as much attention as he can, along with a symbol or two that he recognized. (Purification?) He's not paying attention to his sight, not until a glimmer of light appears--the instant he looks at it his concentration breaks, and the light vanishes.

... Oh.

...

Oh.

...

"... Yes," he says finally. "I do."

Edited 2019-09-21 18:36 (UTC)

"Good." Sabriel's smile widens now, relieved and eager. He's not lapsing into denial, or saying that's not possible, or questioning her sanity. Instead he's accepting what his senses are telling him.

"In time, with practice- reaching into the Charter will become easier for you. For some, visualizing a few marks they're familiar with is helpful for reaching the Charter." Not that she wants him to use any of the ones he'd seen so far- they're not the kind of spells suitable for a complete amateur.

"The first spell I'm going to teach you is a simple one- there's only one mark, and nothing bad will happen if you make a mistake- the spell just won't work."

Reaching back into the Charter, Sabriel finds the mark for light, and traces it out with slow, deliberate movements. With the electric lights flickering unsteadily overhead. it casts a steady, golden light over the room as it floats in front of Sabriel.

"Reach into the Charter, find this mark, pull it out of the flow. Then let it out of your fingertips as you trace it out." Sabriel keeps her tone even, encouraging.

"Don't worry if you don't get it right on the first attempt- just keep trying."

Connor blinks twice, recording the mark and considering her instructions, then nods. He doesn't close his eyes, but he does stop paying attention to them, shifting to recall his experiment a minute ago.

... It's still a struggle to describe the experience. He becomes aware of the flow through and around himself, he concentrates on the memory of the mark she traced, and he brings one hand up to sketch it on an imaginary pane of glass. He's trying to recreate the same feeling as last time, but it's slipping through his fingers like water. A spark of light appears at the first 'touch'--then disperses.

Connor frowns to himself. Like a bird unfurling and refurling its wings, he tries concentrating on a different part of the experience, feeling for the 'right' aspect to flex.

It takes him a few more tries, with varying degrees of success, until finally he traces the mark and it stays suspended, shining light in the flickering room. Connor lowers his hand, trying not to move otherwise--but it stays.

... He just cast a spell. He just--cast one. He has this capacity, and Sabriel's deal is seeming much more attainable in very strange ways.

Sabriel watches silently, her expression cautious but eager as Connor's counterpart keeps trying until he succeeds.

Then she smiles, almost despite herself.

"Congratulations- you can call yourself a mage. Please, keep practicing that spell, and communing with the Charter, but unfortunately..."

Sabriel looks back to Connor, shuffling her thoughts into order as her smile fades.

"I won't be able to teach you more until we deal with the necromancer. Connor learned who some of the humans serving him were, and when and where their next meeting is." Sabriel's smile is creeping back, but it's more of a grimace now.

"Which is tomorrow night- at a recycling camp. So not only will we likely be outnumbered, but at a place with so many recent deaths... he'll be able to pull spirits out of Death easily, and bind them to his service, even if he didn't bring bodies for them." Honestly, she's not sure if it will be better or worse if he does.

"We need to kill the necromancer. I'll make sure he stays dead, but I need to lay down bindings at the recycling plants and the landfill to make sure no other necromancer is able to raise an army and attempt to march it north." It almost sounds simple, when she puts it that way. In truth, she's not sure how simple putting down bindings will be in a warzone.

When Abhorsen had first turned away, he waited. For instructions, or permission, or an answer to the supply list she'd asked for. Acknowledgement, at least, that she was done.

It didn't come. It took just over a minute of stiff and silent observation before he concluded it wasn't going to. Connor stepped back slowly, turning away as he put on his skin.

Shirt. Tie. He pulls the jacket on over the rest, fingers curling in the ragged holes shot through both layers. It's all he has, and he tugs the ruined fabric into place over his holstered weapons, eyes flicking back up to watch the other two. Abhorsen seems—happy. The Connor model flickers through a spectrum of disbelief and fascination, all of it disgustingly visible across its face. Connor's own fingers curl at either side, and he runs a probability construction on the odds of a 'betrayal'.

...Low. Very low. Why would it?

It's getting everything it could have wanted here.

Abhorsen provides a wealth of information. The deviant casts its new spell. Connor waits, motionless and aching, until finally, Abhorsen speaks his name. The necromancer. Tomorrow night. He looks to her, LED swimming quick circles. Is she finally going to explain what he's for, now?

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