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

"Well," Sabriel says, fighting very hard to keep herself from saying something too sarcastic, "Considering how reluctant you are to agree about anything, I assume a plan you do agree on must be an excellent one. So that's the plan we'll follow."

The edge of sarcasm fades from her tone then, replaced by something earnest and utterly serious. "Now, what do you need me to do- or not do?" She knows that her interventions in previous interrogations haven't exactly been... helpful. And she reminds herself that even if it does come tot torture... if Craven't been working with the necromancer, she shouldn't feel sorry for him.

The badly hidden rage beside him, Connor pointedly ignores. If the deviant wanted credit for suggesting basic sense, it should have stuck with that tactic. Besides, the more outraged it is at their strategizing, the lower the odds they're playing into any tricks it might have planned.

Abhorsen's question is more relevant. "Don't heal him," Connor answers promptly. "Or tell him that he won't be hurt."

He doesn't look at his predecessor. He really doesn't need to.

Don't heal or promise safety. Hmm.

Connor's eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, but he didn't linger. He had other, more delicate things to think about, like phrasing his own advice.

"He may try to appeal to you, from one human to another." A beat. "Don't fall for it. His only interests will be to his own benefit."

Sabriel can't help but look guilty at Connor's instructions- she can recognize that those are the mistakes she made with the other Connor. Or at least, telling him he wouldn't be hurt was- Sabriel still doesn't think healing him was a mistake. Although there'd never been any questions about the other Connor working with a necromancer.

"So what you're both saying is 'don't be sentimental'" Sabriel nods in agreement.

"My loyalty lies with the Charter, and the Old Kingdom- not humanity as a whole. And I'll do my best not to repeat previous mistakes."

Oh, so she recognizes the mistakes now? Connor eyes his owner with a flat, neutral expression that broadcasts absolutely none of his distrust. If she recognized the problems her sentimentality had caused, they wouldn't be here now. Certainly not all of them.

She'll make an attempt. His predecessor will doubtless make its own, towards whatever ends it has in mind. Connor will adapt.

(Maybe this time, that will be enough.)

He nods: polite, deliberate agreement. "Do you have any other questions?"

"No," Sabriel says, shaking her head. "I'll let you take the lead- you've already shown you're better at this than I am."

Connor got answers out of Harris. The two times Sabriel's tried to get information from people about the necromancer were... less than successful. And even if Craven's not working with the necromancer... Sabriel can't bring herself to feel that bad about what Connor might do to him in the process of learning that.

Edited 2019-11-03 01:55 (UTC)

Connor logs the other RK800 as being assigned the authority to lead the mission, and he can't quite hold back the way the corners of his face pinch down briefly. The android is compromised, the chances of this mission's results being sabotaged just rose by an order of magnitude. He wants to protest.

He thinks about how much she followed the android's lead the first time he encountered them, and then thinks about the mangled handiwork left for him to find. Neither incidents reassure him, and he glances at the android's reflection on the smooth screen on the back of Abhorsen's chair.

The conversation continues without him for a few exchanges more, before falling silent completely. Eventually the taxi stops outside Ochoa Memorial, and when it leaves its passengers have disembarked.

Connor touches the beanie pulled snugly over his LED. "... We're looking for Room 256B," he murmurs.

Connor tugs his own flat cap into place, covering the yellow spin as he searches for more information. Maps of the hospital put the designated room somewhere in Intensive Treatment—clear of the Emergency room's metal detectors, if not by a wide berth.

He relays the information for Abhorsen's benefit and turns toward the building. They need to avoid notice. Find the room. Gain access without notifying its occupant to their impending visit. As missions go, all stages of this one seem relatively simple—but even a small misstep could be catastrophic. Something his predecessor doubtless knows as well. He watches it carefully.

The moment they step inside, one thing is clear: this hospital is desperately shortstaffed. Patients overflow the waiting area, a rumbling sea of distress and discontentment managed by a pair of harried human workers. The information booth stands empty, and visitor reception has been replaced by a paper sign-in sheet and an empty roll of sticker badges. Once they pen a few false names, no one bothers their group as they move forward.

Up the stairs. Down the hallways. Room 256B is a closed room at the end of a long hall, and when they open the door, an irritated voice immediately speaks.

"Finally! I've been paging for hours—"

Craven, Dennis.
Born: 11/8/2006 // Software Developer (Cyberlife)
Criminal Record: Hit and run

Dennis Craven is prone on his hospital bed, one leg propped up and immobilized. An IV stands nearby, feeding into one wrist, but whatever painkillers it supplies seem to be insufficient— a layer of sweat already sheens over the man's forehead, and both hands clench around the armrests by the bed as he tries to sit up. Connor steps to the side, leaving room for his companions to come in—and cutting off Craven's aggrieved rant sharply as he acquires a clear view of Connor's face.

"I... what?"

How eloquent. Connor raises his eyebrows. "Doctor Craven. Hello."

After all three of them are in, Sabriel shuts the door behind them before turning to regard Craven. She takes in the sweat, the clenched fingers, and the discoloration spreading from beneath the bandages on his leg- and she can almost smell a faint odor coming from the wound, despite the bandages. He doesn't look intimidating, or especially cunning- he looks like a pathetic, sick man. But appearances can be deceiving.

"Doctor Craven, Connor- both of them- would like to talk to you about the company Cyberlife might be keeping," It's a deliberate effort to keep her voice even, and her body still.

"What- what are you talking about, why are you with a deviant?"

"Along with how you acquired that injury." Sabriel adds, looking pointedly at his leg, although Craven doesn't seem to fully realize the significance of the gesture.

"Why hasn't it attacked you yet? How did you get it under control?"

At that question, Sabriel just rolls her eyes and keeps her mouth shut, and waits for Connor to take over the conversation.

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Dr Craven," Connor said crisply, passing his companions as he stepped towards the bed. Pressure, they've planned. Considering all the blood spilt in the revolution, Connor has an advantage here.

"I'm a deviant, and I'm not under her control."

Glassy eyes dart back and forth from one face to another, and for a moment Craven purses his lips.

"You believe that, don't you? Elegant. If they're deluded enough, they doesn't even fight." He looks back at Abhorsen, then slides towards the other android. "This one too, then? Which one is it, you know there's differen--"

There was a stack of tablets built up on the bedside stand. When it became clear that the doctor wasn't being impressed by the right things, Connor picked up the stack one-handed, then simply dropped it on the man's prone leg, keeping it in place with a hand resting on top.

The man made a sound like a wounded dog, breaking off and writhing in place. Sweat beaded and rolled, and the blankets twisted and bunched. he was grasping for something, blindly and distractedly, and without moving far Connor was able to gently lift the pager button out of reach.

Edited 2019-11-07 03:45 (UTC)

For an instant, Connor stills under the scientist's regard. This one, too? He's not a deviant—he's not—but he knows better than to voice the protests frozen in his throat. A machine wouldn't object, or interrupt. A machine wouldn't so much as twitch at the inspection—

A machine doesn't. It's the deviant who reaches out, breaking Craven's line of sight... and in short order, his bravado. Connor blinks, fingers tugging a sleeve straight as he surveys the squirming, whimpering human. His predecessor's tactics might be crude, but they're undeniably effective.

Pressure.

Connor steps forward, head slanting in dispassionate examination. "I'm not a deviant, Doctor Craven. But my predecessor is, and despite the... outbursts, its goals align with Abhorsen's current mission."

Lips curve: a mechanical, unfeeling apology. He can't dispose of it. He can't protect the damaged human from whatever this malfunction might decide to do. Not when Cyberlife told him to assist her.

"2726 Russel Street. I believe you're familiar with the laboratory there?"

"Call it off! Tell it to stop!"

Craven's attention is still focused on her- until Connor asks his question, and Sabriel sees his eyes widen with recognition.

"Yes, but- listen, I haven't been there for weeks- ever since the androids went crazy!"

He's lying. Sabriel might not have an RK800's advanced sensors or social algorithms, but even with her merely human senses and instincts she can tell that Craven is lying. That he's hiding something.

"Doctor Craven," Sabriel says, and she can see some of the hope in his face die as he hears how cold her tone is, and the frown that's spreading over her face. "I don't like people who lie to me. I'm helping Connor because our goals align, as the other Connor said. But your goals... well, apparently you value them enough to lose a limb for them. Whatever treatments they're trying don't seem to be helping."

Craven flinches at that.

"I- you can't be serious, right? Deviants wouldn't just decide to work with a human, how are you really doing this?"

The outstretched leg is thickly swaddled in soft, stained bandages. The medical records and the smell suggest an anaerobic infection. Connor considered the limb, remembering the neverending ache that came with his own past injury. The fragility of it, the swelling, and the leaking.

It was agonizing.

Connor rests a heavy hand on Craven's shin, right over the bandages.

"How--" The distraction is immediate, and Craven looks at him when Connor's grip begins to tighten. "No--s-stop that. Call it off, lady, we're just--this is just a little discussion, isn't it? There's no reason to--"

"We know you've been continuing to work in the laboratory," Connor interrupts, keeping his hand at a steady pressure that has the scientist's face twisting, and little motions of distress making him squirm in place. "The only question now is 'what were you doing before you received your wound.'"

"I wasn't--" He choked off, a raw sound of pain tearing free as Connor pressed.

Funny, how the others had ranked force a last resort when he suggested it. Still, Connor finds himself too transfixed by the sight before him to object. Craven might not have any information. This could be a serious mistake. But the figure writhing on the bed holds none of Cyberlife's authority or power. The orders spilling from its lips aren't commands he needs to follow. They're pleas.

Like Harris'. Like the other worthless, vulnerable humans who've gotten in their way.

[Objective: Pressure]

Connor takes another step. Then another, slowly circling behind the bed. "Pupil dilation by zero-point-six milimeters," Connor reports. "Spikes in galvanic skin response and vocal stress—independent of the... secondary stimulus." His mouth twitches. "You really should know better than to lie."

He should. One hand lifts, fingers curling around the stand supporting Craven's IV. "If you can provide us with the information, we'll be on our way." He nods curtly at the deviant. "We'll even take that with us. But if you can't..."

A twist of fingers, and the flow of painkillers cuts off.

"Please, what do you want?"

While Connor is standing behind the bed, and the other Connor is closer to the foot of the bed, Sabriel steps forward, leaning over Craven's head, trying to suppress her own discomfort at Craven's obvious distress as she reaches into the Charter, and focuses on the flow as she traces out a single mark over Craven's throat- a mark that cuts off the beginning of a scream.

If he really has been working with the necromancer, he's her enemy, Sabriel reminds herself as she speaks, fighting back the twisting sensation in her stomach.

"I want you to be honest. Tell us the truth, and you'll walk out of here on your own two feet. Lie to us... and you'll be carried out. Now, what were you doing in that laboratory, and how were you injured?" Sabriel's expression gives no sign of her uneasiness- it's stern and furious, and Craven actually starts talking before Sabriel can remove the spell.

"-wanted to look at the coding, to see how he did it, what changes he made- they didn't seem right, like he'd disabled some of the uncanny valley subroutines and most of the social algorithms. But there wasn't any code- nothing, like they were shut down, even though they were clearly online! Whatever you've done, it's clearly more effective, even if they're still aggressive-"

He's babbling, and while Sabriel lacks the technical knowledge of anyone else in the room, she can understand the gist- He thinks both she and the necromancer reprogrammed androids, rather than using magic.

The knowledge that he really was working with the necromancer eases some of her guilt, but not all of it. She looks over to Connor with his hands around the IV, and then to the other Connor, with his hands on Craven's leg, to see what they were going to do next.

He's--confessing.

He's confessing, and Connor's plan to expose the other Connor and his plans from Cyberlife is actually working. That makes this the most dangerous stage: at any moment the android or human could do something drastic to divert things, anything from distraction to murder. And yet Connor can't watch out for everything, because he simultaneously needs to help push the interrogation.

He steals a glance at his counterpart, but wastes no time lingering.

"What else have you been doing?" he demands immediately.

He's—confessing.

Connor's hand stays on the IV. Connor's eyes stay on the human. There's a strange numbness spreading through his chassis that makes any kind of motion seem far out of reach. He can feel the weight of the deviant's stare. Can guess without looking the smug triumph behind it.

Connor can't quite manage to feel anything about that either.

Maybe it isn't Cyberlife. Maybe Craven had worked on his own—maybe, just maybe, there was some other scheme at work. He should ask. His lips part, but the words stick in his throat, flimsy and transparent. (Delusional.)

Craven's wide eyes flicker to Connor's predecessor, but it's Abhorsen who's stepped to the fore with her demands and threats. It's Abhorsen who he listened to. Neither fact is surprising. She'd known all along, hadn't she? That Connor...

"—please, you don't understand. We just wanted to save lives, but it—the subject was still violent. It—" he jerks one tension-knotted fist toward his own leg, eyes flinching away from the deviant above it. His gaze jolts back to Abhorsen, bright and feverish. "Call it off and—we can talk. Cyberlife would pay millions just for a look at what you've done."

For a moment, Sabriel doesn't speak. Instead her face goes blank, her mind racing.

So not only had Craven been working with the necromancer, but he expected her to help him after admitting what he'd done. For her to cooperate. And given what she'd felt at the junkyard and the recycling camps, talk of saving lives felt hollow.

"I don't care about money," Sabriel says, her tone brittle, "And we seem to be talking right now."

"Tell me- who else was working with him? Was it just you, or was the rest of Cyberlife in on it? And why did they let me have Connor?" Had it been the result of the people involved not knowing Cyberlife was involved, or was it part of some elaborate sabotage?

"I- how was it going to help you? It failed its first mission less than a day after we turned it on. Listen, if you just let us take a look, we'll give you a new one, with all social programming intact-"

"I don't want a new android either," Sabriel cuts in, her tone growing sharper, "I want you to answer our questions. And by the way? Connor's been very helpful."

"Helpful how?" The look Craven spares the silent RK800 is naked with frustration. "Did you restructure its--"

"I would pay attention to the questions we're asking, if I were you." Connor interrupted. "We don't have much time." With careful, sure fingers, he began shredding the stained bandages, working quickly to expose what they covered. The smell immediately worsened, and Craven twitched and paled.

"No--no, stop, I'm helping! Listen, I'm cooperating, aren't--" He flinched as Connor pulled back on bandages that had crusted in place. Immediately the wounds began to ooze. "--Argh, god! Stop, just stop, look--I had funding! Two assistants, and--Wendell!" He seized the name like a life jacket. "Wendell was funding this, she kept the lab open, she's been overseeing my reports!"

Helpful? Craven's incredulity mirrors Connor's own, and it takes a force of effort to keep his face blank and vocalizer silent. Abhorsen's pretense denies their target leverage, and the least he can do is not sabotage the mission further. As it is, the human hardly requires more incentive to talk. Connor watches, distant and detached, as his predecessor inflicts additional pain regardless. Now would be the time to offer an alternative appeal. [Sympathize].

...Intact, Craven had said. Connor had known his code was modified, but—if he'd been intact, would he have failed in the first place?

His hand lowers to his side, leaving the IV's flow shut off.

"Wendell," Sabriel repeats, trying not to gag at the stench, "Who else? Did you ever meet with him in person? If you did, where was it?"

"Humboldt- he was the one who signed off on the whole thing. Cook took care of the finances." The lack of painkillers is starting to tell- Craven's slowly becoming more and more agitated. "I met him once- I- I don't know the address, it was to pick up some specimens and give him some of the last nondeviant androids we had for him to use."

Craven takes a deep breath, and Sabriel watches as his expression grows more calculating.

"Listen, you need to tell me how you did it- whatever you did, it might be humanity's best chance against the deviants- even if you didn't want money, you'd be a hero, you could-"

"Don't you mean Cyberlife's best chance?" Sabriel interrupts, "I'm a citizen of the Old Kingdom, here to track down a dangerous criminal- one you've been helping. Now, do you know where I can find that man?"

Craven seems to finally be catching on to the fact that she wasn't playing coy. He's silent for a moment, licking his lips and expression closing slightly, though hints of his previous desperation were too much to hide.

"I certainly don't know. I've only met him once, and it was at a temporary drop-off point."

"And what was that location?" Connor asks.

Craven shoots him a glance sour enough to curdle milk, along with--unfortunately--a look that could only be calculating. Connor considers giving the shin in his hands a sharp wrench, but with the man's stress levels already increasing from the pain killers dropping, a poorly timed shock could push him outside of the range they needed him in. It could drive him to a rage, or worse, an unintelligible panic.

"The outlet on Elm Court," Craven sniffed, darting his glance away again, from face to face.

Looking it up was the work of a second. It was an abandoned strip mall, and Connor set it aside to compare with his map of grave dirt findings later. He opened his mouth to follow up, but Craven spoke first.

"Listen, I--" His expression rippled with pain, and he needed a moment to force it back, directing his griace at Abhorsen. "I think we might've gotten off on the wrong foot. You're, ah, here for diplomatic reasons, aren't you?" He forced a nauseous smile. "You--agh, you like what you've been able to reprogram the Connors into, right? And you haven't even used some of their best features... But if Cyberlife can't get reliscenced to produce more of them, they'll be gone as soon as they break. You have your own programming, but you need our hardware."

Sabriel does not return his smile, but her expression does show many of her teeth. She shifts her weight, and suddenly she looks like she's ready to lunge at Craven.

"I didn't reprogram them," Sabriel feels like a string, being pulled tighter and tighter until she snaps, "And while everyone and everything dies eventually, I plan to everything I can to keep them in good health."

"But you don't seem to be in good health at all," Sabriel continues, feeling something vicious bubbling in the pit of her stomach, "Tell me, have any of the treatments been working? How much longer until they'll need to amputate- and will Cyberlife even pay for a prosthetic?" She doesn't even bother with the pretense of pity.

"I came here to find that man and take him back to the Old Kingdom, only to find that you Ancelstierrians have given him the makings of an army. He doesn't care about money either. Just power, and he no longer needs you or Cyberlife to get it. He will not give you anything for helping him." She looks over to Connor, at the head of the bed, her head tilted in a silent question. He'd said not to heal him... but what about dangling the possibility over his head?

She can hear Craven protesting, weakly- something about prototypes not being made to last, about Connors being made to be replaced, not fixed.

She can't bring herself to listen.

She'd reprogrammed him. Not the deviant, and for all the numbness seeping through his processing, Connor's eyes drift up—half-expecting it to punish the suggestion. But his duplicate hesitates, and Abhorsen eagerly fills the space: with taunts and repudiation, berating Craven for all of Cyberlife's (Cyberlife's) errors.

Connor barely listens. Certainly, he doesn't see the look his owner shoots his way. They have the information they need from this human already. They could leave. But—

"...Our model series was decomissioned."

It's what he told Abhorsen in the taxi. There aren't any other RK800s. But the refutation isn't sharp, this time, or vicious. There's barely any force at all. Connor's eyes are fixed on Craven's, stare focused. He's lying. Isn't he?

They failed. (He had.) There's no coming back from that.

Craven glances to Connor, then back to Abhorsen, clearly torn between the urge to target a more interested audience and a sense of ridiculousness at speaking to her device. "Well, yes." He gives a huff, stare settling on the human. "With reason. But if you were willing to, ah, offer your expertise... demonstrate, perhaps, that they could work as they're supposed to... It's possible the decision could be reversed."

Connor has been tracking the conversation, eyes razor-sharp and flicking from face to face. He's recorded Craven's confession and the names he's confirmed. He's noting Abhorsen's reactions, every deal she doesn't take and every twitch of her face as offense and disgust twist it.

He listens as the other android in the room steps forward, like a fish on a string being pulled inexorably to shore. Craven looks ready to continue, but at this point Connor leans forward, just enough to insert himself between the two, sending Craven a look like a mountain cliff face.

"Focus," Connor says. Craven glances at him, then at Abhorsen, then back to the other Connnor, and the lack of appreciation for the threat is enough that Connor reaches for the wound.

He doesn't look. His face betrays no hint of his personal thoughts about the contact. He places his bare hand directly on the festering mess and arches his fingers like claws, digging them in. Craven gives a full body spasm of pain, mouth open in a barely suppressed scream.

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