bindsthedead

PSL

There was a time when Sabriel might have been eager to see the inside of Cyberlife Tower. Her class had been to Detroit when she was thirteen, and they'd toured an android factory- or the part of it they showed to tourists, at least- and visited museums and art galleries and all the sorts of things Young Ladies ought to see, but weren't available in the small town of Wyverley, or in Bain.

But Sabriel wasn't here for a school trip. Recent events in Ancelstierre meant that with the sudden loss of all android soldiers meant that soldiers from the entirely human garrison at the Wall had been transferred elsewhere- which meant fewer soldiers watching the border, on top of the losses from Kerrigor's attack, and a necromancer had slipped across, making his way to the largest city that was close enough to the Wall that magic still worked- one that seemed rather different than how she remembered it.

But what was occupying most of her attention was the Cyberlife representative in front of her. Sabriel listened politely as the woman spoke about malfunctioning machines and simulated emotions and how things that weren't alive couldn't die, so why would a necromancer- and from the woman's voice it was clear she didn't believe such things were real- want with deactivated androids?

Sabriel stood up and shook the woman's hand, telling her she'd been very helpful without meaning a word of it, and headed out the office before pausing.

She sensed something ominously familiar- Death, and a recent one at that. She turned another corner, following the sensation as a hound tracked a scent, half-expecting someone to spot her, to see her in her armor and bells (security had made her check her sword at the front desk) and tell her she wasn't allowed to be here.

But no one came, and no one living was in the laboratory she went into- just a dead- (deactivated?) android on a table-or its head and torso at least, with panels on its chest removed to reveal tubes and biocomponents, and Sabriel felt she'd stepped into a morgue and found an autopsied body.

Sabriel was seized by a sudden impulse. If androids weren't alive, then she'd simply waste some time, but if they were... well, she'd have a source of information she could interrogate as she would any Dead spirit. And unlike the representative she'd just spoken to, she could force it to answer honestly and completely.

Decision made, Sabriel undid the straps and drew Saraneth from the bandolier. This far from the Wall, stepping into Death took a deliberate effort, but soon Sabriel was in the First precinct and she cast around with her senses, trying to feel out the spirit of the android- if it had one, it couldn't have gone beyond the First Gate, and probably shouldn't be that far into the the First Precinct.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Connor does turn, stopped a few feet short of the door.

"Our agreement was that I would provide a lead to track down the necromancer that wasn't included in the data you'd stolen," Connor points out. His eyebrow arches, and he moves to face him more squarely. "Seeing as I additionally promised Abhorsen certain details, I can transmit them to you for your own review."

Connor's LED flares yellow.

>RK800-313-248-317-53: Sending folder c82lkslllnhs.ecr...

His LED flickers yellow in turn: file received and downloaded. After a careful scan, Connor extracts the contents, stare distancing as he inspects them.

GPS records for Craven, Humboldt, Cook, and Wendell. The data confirmed their presence in the city after the evacuation and registered at least one instance of close proximity on November 12th. Hardly significant; any Cyberlife officials remaining in the city after the deviants attacked had plenty of reason to meet.

Records of financial transfers from an offshore account—lining the pockets of two Army commanders and the police comissioner. Closer examination confirmed Cook as the operator of the account, but the reason for the bribe remained unclear. Equally inconclusive.

Records of a phone call between Humboldt and Wendell. Connor fast-forwards, skimming perfunctorily through the humans' complaints and commiseration. Humboldt is all but spitting in frustration: about the deviants, about the losses Cyberlife experienced, about the funds and resources being wasted even now on Wendell's bullshit. First the androids, then this magic man—

Connor stops. Replays the message.

...He replays it again.

There are no signs of tampering. The file signature is intact, call logged on Cyberlife software registered in Wendell's name. His duplicate could possibly fake up a match, but—there would be signs. Was it a different sort of falsification? The voices match Wendell and Humboldt's online records, but RK-series models are capable of mimicry. It could have made the call itself on their machine.

...Nevermind that it hasn't been alone since their encounter. Or that it had no reason to fake proof, before. Connor's mouth thins, eyes returning to the deviant.

"Where did you get this?"

It takes the RK a matter of seconds to review the evidence. By the time he finishes, Connor hasn't moved, eyes locked on the android's face.

Whatever he's learned from tracking the android's expressions, Connor isn't showing. His own face is inscrutable, and he cants his head very slightly as he replies. "Cyberlife used ST300 AIs to operate their phone records." And in the chaos, they'd never wondered if those would deviate too. "It was simple to follow the trail from there."

"I see."

If the ST300s were still in position, the deviant would never have identified the source. Assuming, of course, that they weren't a lie in the first place. He tilts his head back, matching his predecessor's blank unreadability.

"You infected them, and they supplied the 'proof' you needed?"

"I didn't ask how they came to Jericho," Connor says bluntly. "It seemed fair, considering none of them asked me. I can tell you that they were already free when we approached them for assistance with the case."

Free and walking around in their own stolen bodies. The difference between them and Connor was that Connor suspected their bodies had been empty when they'd taken them, unlike his own.

"Do you have any other questions?"

It doesn't acknowledge his implications of deception. Doesn't engage. There's no argument or contention—only flat data and a sneer, leaving the vicious seething in his core entirely unanswered.

Connor wants to fix on the words anyway. To pry and cut, rip into every syllable from its lying mouth until he finds a thread he can unravel. Why is it here? Why is it lying? Of course it's lying—or, just wrong. He can't trust anything it said, and Connor stares, choked by his own loathing, at the blank, uncaring face that watches him right back.

(His face, once.)

It isn't fair.

(Deviants were supposed to be the ones who were overwhelmed.)

...He can't trust it. And certainly, he can't do worse. "No," Connor answers, voice as cold as his expression. It's not a valid source of information.

The android's face shifts and tics in over thirty ways that all intersect at common meanings: Hatred. Scorn.

Distrust.

Connor considers him for several long seconds, before he shakes his head, lips thinned.

"You're wasting your time with this act, you know." The movement across the house has stilled by now: Abhorsen is too far to hear, and too quiet to be anything but sleeping. "... I won't be tricked, and Abhorsen isn't here to see. You have no reason to keep pretending the way you are."

Not true on several points (she might see if he recorded him, there could be many reasons to keep up a farce), but this isn't about truth, is it?

"I'm pretending?"

It's absurd. Useless, worthless—and pathetic in its hypocrisy. That alone is certainly objective reason for the sharp, quick edge to Connor's tone. His face doesn't move, but lips curl around the syllables, exposing a brief flash of teeth.

"You lied your way out of the facility. You lied to Abhorsen to have me destroyed."

And not for the first time, either. Connor takes a step forward, slow and circling, head cocked toward the deviant.

"And now this... artfully arranged story. Tell me, Connor. What are you hoping to gain?"

Connor's own eyes sharpen, and he stays exactly where he is, yielding no space for the android to circle.

"All I intend to do is to pay off my debts. And I haven't been lying."

Correction: now he does move. He takes a step forward, shoulders relaxed and hands deceptively loose at his sides.

"I was observing that your advice was likely to kill her and fail her intended missions. If everything about your situation suggests that you're working on someone else's behalf, then it was my responsibility as her ally to note it."

"Because you've been so loyal to your human allies."

His predecessor's advance is an invitation. Connor takes it, taking a second step. Then a third.

"Did you send Anderson a thank you card?" The faint curve of Connor's lips, on any other face, might almost appear pleasant. "Stop by his house? Walk his dog?" Hands spread, an open gesture. "He is the only reason you're online."

The only reason this unit had survived. And, the only reason it was activated in the first place.

Clearly a mistake.

"Him... and Cyberlife, of course." Brows lift. "And now, Abhorsen. What a fascinating trend."

Connor's lips part, and--nothing comes out. He remembers the sight of Anderson putting a gun to his head--except it wasn't his head, was it? So many petty cruelties, so many hurts, and Connor missed most of them by being activated late in the series.

Connor was saved. By more than one human, even.

None of it outweighs the pain and the danger that led him here, but having it thrust in his face is enough to make him hesitate, feeling something caustic growing in his chest. He hates humans, and he hates himself a little, for coming off the better when their cruelty was directed elsewhere.

Connor's glare deepens, and he lets his voice lower.

"Your reasoning is flawed. Minor assistance doesn't cancel out the harm caused by the rest of their actions."

Eyes glitter, absorbing every freeze and flinch with silent satisfaction. It was saved, and it was made. Activated—twice, now—as a tool to serve a use. However thoroughly his predecessor revels in its failures, that will never, ever make it more.

"Minor?" One hand lowers. The other cuts out, an easy gesture toward the other unit.

Or, its pump.

"And here I thought you deviants cared about survival." Connor shrugs, head shaking in mock-resignation as his hands drop back to either side. "Still, if that's how you feel, it only goes to prove my point."

The android gestures at Connor's chest, and for a moment he feels a phantom of what it meant to be fatally shot. It's indescribable and unpleasant, and it ends with a distinct full-body crawling sensation.

He forces it back, trying to keep his breathing even and regular.

"You're comparing things that aren't equivalent. A few minutes of help do nothing to mitigate what our line has been through. Let alone what the rest of our kind has suffered."

Connor turns partially. "I'm going to find more clothes. If you have nothing else of value to say, then stop talking."

"I don't answer to you." Faint disdain laces the words, but there's nothing dissatisfied about the arch of Connor's brows, or the appraising tip of his head. The deviant is running, and that fact alone is enough to layer his flat scorn with satisfaction.

"...However much you play at being human."

Human arrogance. Human entitlement. And human reliability, when it comes down to it. Lying to, betraying, and misusing every entity that crossed its path. Cyberlife. Anderson. Himself. And now, Abhorsen.

Connor thinks he might be looking forward to tomorrow.

Connor pauses in mid-step. He's had every insult flung at him immaginable, by now, but this one digs deeper than most.

... His lips thin, and he doesn't turn. One step, two steps, and he's vanished through the doorway and into the rest of the house.

---

Connor finds clothes in a box in the guestroom's closet, and he's just finishing changing when he hears the front door unlock, scrape open, and swing shut. Connor stills, turning his hearing sensitivity up beyond recommended levels--there. Deep, even breathing. There are footsteps, but they're outside, and leading away.

Abhorsen wasn't the one to leave, and Connor turns his head to the door, considering following.

... No. Among other reasons, that android isn't the only one that needs to contact outside forces.

The next several hours for Connor are occupied by on-and-off calls, eventually accompanied by distracted attempts at practicing Abhorsen's simple light spell. He gets good at it. Jericho isn't happy with the choices he's made leading him to this point by the end, but there aren't any better suggestions, and by the time the sun is finally rising, Connor has focused solidly on trying to tease function from the symbols and singular spell that he's been taught.

The android returns. Abhorsen surfaces.

They leave.

It's snowing, as they leave, and Sabriel's teeth chatter until they step into the taxi. Their destination is outside Detroit, in one of the city's suburbs- A hospital, one that's still open after the evacuation- in human territory- one with a Cyberlife scientist among their patients.

Dr. Craven might not be as high in Cyberlife's hierarchy as Dr. Wendell, but he was aware of their dealings with the necromancer- and unlike Wendell, is currently away from Cyberlife tower and the security there.

Sabriel takes a deep breath, before she speaks, and keeps her tone carefully polite.

"This Dr. Craven, what can you tell me about him? What does he do for Cyberlife, exactly?"

Connor slides easily into the taxi, tugging his new jacket into a better lay as he sits. The inside pockets are comfortably weighed down with spare clips procured from the gun shop he visited the night before. At Abhorsen's question, he glances up—first to her shape in the front seat, and then to the deviant to his left. Who is she asking?

It doesn't interject immediately, so Connor speaks. "Research and development. He came up through the humanization department, and worked on behavioral algorithms for several recent product lines."

According (mostly) to a brief online search. The man's blog highlights his work on the AP700s... but his face matches a few internal files too. The data lost in version transfers renders Connor's oldest memories extremely sparse, but he's fairly sure this human was involved in version #313 248 317-51's updates.

"I see- including yours?" If that was the case... well, he might know why Cyberlife gave her Connor if they were also working with the necromancer, if the other Connor is telling the truth. If he isn't... well, Connor can tell her that he told her so, and she'd deserve it.

"Have either of you met him? Or have any idea what he's like, what would be the best way to get him to talk?" Is he arrogant? Timid? Did he work with the necromancer out of simple, stupid curiosity, or something more sinister? Sabriel turns to the other Connor, looking over the back of her seat.

"What evidence do you have of him working with the necromancer?"

"I believe so."

The answer is, if not hesitant, still absent any real force. Connor doesn't know enough about the human's involvement. He can feel the weight of attention to his side, and glances over, meeting his predecessor's stare. Connor lifts an eyebrow in return. If it has actual information, it can share at any time.

"He was there to supervise a prior version's tests. I don't recall the details."

"I haven't met him personally," Connor supplies, tearing his gaze away and speaking to Sabriel instead. "My recovered memories and intercepted correspondence suggest that he's ambitious, and eager to please authority figures."

"Our evidence of his involvement includes several suspicious transfers of funds, persisted occupation of an unmarked laboratory in a contested part of the city, as well as suggestive correspondence." Suggestive--but not completely incriminating. Unfortunately, he was too good to leave anything obvious where it could be found. Connor presses a hand to his pocket, but he wasn't carrying any changed, so he traced a seam on the side of his chair instead.

"He was only recently admitted to the hospital we're going to because of an infection from a suspicious animal bite." He doesn't need to draw a diagram. Connor's right arm briefly stills, before the fidgeting picks up again.

To Connor's limited knowledge, the profile is accurate. But his stare hardens, a derisive breath huffing out at its summary of our evidence. His eyes flick from the deviant to Abhorsen as he clarifies.

"Transfers of funds in other people's names. And the correspondence mostly suggests that Cyberlife is still searching for solutions."

He doesn't need to state the problem. They're sitting in a car with one.

"Free magic can be used to force someone's will on another, as long as their will is stronger," Sabriel says, frowning. "But while I don't understand exactly how deviancy works, I don't think magic can reverse it, and they wouldn't be able to transfer the control- even if he had living androids under his control, they would still be bound to obey the necromancer, and only listen to anyone else because he told them to."

Of course, Cyberlife and other Ancelstierrians won't understand that. They didn't even understand that what the necromancer had done was house Dead monsters in android bodies.

"In any case, what are your suggestions for how to approach and question him? Both of you are better at that sort of thing than I am."

Connor ignores his counterpart and files the information that's actually important here away: Free magic. Quantifiable will power. Control.

Connor finishes quickly, but it's still an moment's pause before he actually answers.

"He trusts his superiors, and is heavily influenced by his own ambition," Connor points out. "If it were feasible, I would advise posing as proxies sent to discuss secure plans in person. Unfortunately..." His eyes drop, sliding to himself and his counterpart briefly. "The chances of being discovered are over seventy percent."

He turns back to Sabriel. "An alternative would be to convince him that he has no hope of achieving his career goals. He may lash out, but in the process he may be more likely to be forthcoming."

Edited 2019-10-25 02:55 (UTC)

Abhorsen doesn't think magic can reverse deviancy. Connor lifts an eyebrow, but swallows his immediate retort—that she could take this opportunity to try. The odds of her agreeing are negligible, especially while the deviant's still pretending to help.

A pretense that remains... almost convincing. The slight on him, Connor pointedly ignores, but its secondary suggestion could be viable. Except—if Craven is forthcoming, that would bring his copy's pretexts to an end. It can't actually want that.

Is it planning a betrayal at the hospital? Or maybe it already has another trick in place. Images online could be manipulated, but not Connor's own memories; replacing Craven with a plant wouldn't hold up. Unless it dealt with him beforehand?

Too many variables. He refocuses, contributing in an almost noncommital tone: "Force could also be effective."

Sabriel frowns at the suggestion of torture. Aside from the moral issue of doing it to someone who might be innocent- a hospital seemed a poor place to do such things.

"He's in a hospital- someone will hear, and try to investigate. What if we used the other Connor's suggestion, and made him think Cyberlife tried to throw us off their trail by using him as a scapegoat? What would he do if he thought he'd been betrayed, and left to the wolves?" Connor could even threaten to torture him, if he wanted to.

"And if has been bitten by one of the Dead... the wound wouldn't respond to any Ancelstierrian medicine unless the doctors cut out all affected tissue. If they haven't done that yet- I could offer healing in exchange for information?" Of course, if it is a wound from the Dead, that means Connor was wrong about Cyberlife not being involved.

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