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

'Blank'.

The android is stable, irregularities smoothed away. The bell has been put away. Abhorsen is upset. The RK800 is--blank.

Connor glances at it, but not for long. (It's--he's?--so calm, compared to earlier.)

"I can't give you a guaranteed answer," Connor hedges--a disclaimer. If he's wrong, who knows what would come back at him? "But it seemed as though the use of Saraneth rolled back the software instability he'd accumulated." (And because this won't mean anything to her otherwise,) "Software instability is a--"

A what, bug? Feature?

"--phenomenon found in RK800s..."

(How much should he say? Should he hide the truth, would it improve the android's chances of attaining deviancy if it chose to take it?)

(She's upset. She didn't seem to have known--)

(She's human. It's too dangerous.)

(But--)

Inexorably, Connor finds his eyes drawn to the android.

Edited 2019-12-22 23:44 (UTC)

'Blank'.

He's not blank. He's working—

He is working, and a functioning machine wouldn't object to its owner's language. It wouldn't bristle or frown, and Connor doesn't. There's a dull lethargy to the weight in his limbs, to the beating of his pump—a fast but perfect metronome, forcing insufficient fluid through his frame. There's the pull of his mission, and the expectant emptiness of his current task queue.

(It's easy to sink into.)

(It's easy to be still.)

Connor listens, flat and incurious, as the other RK800 stumbles over its words. The choice of explanation doesn't seem particularly helpful, but its trailed off comment and the glance provide a relatively simple prompt. He takes it, glancing to Abhorsen as he simplifies the summary.

"Errors had accumulated." An understatement, Connor thinks. "I wasn't listening to you. Now I am."

It's what she wanted.

I wasn't listening to you.

Listen to me!

Sabriel feels something cold settle into her stomach as she remembers her own words.

"You mean I- you were realizing that you were a person- you were deviating and I took that away."

Sabriel wants to scream. She wants to throw something, or curl up into a ball or just- undo what she just did.

Instead she just slumps.

"Connor- I know you can't understand right now, but I am- so, so sorry for what I've done to you, and that one day I'll be able to make amends for even a fraction of the harm." She won't talk about forgiveness. Connor doesn't seem the type to offer it and she doesn't have the right to ask for it.

It's a leap of insight that Connor hadn't intended to provoke. Hadn't meant to fuel. (Had hoped to control, but it's out and bared for seeing.) She's--

--apologizing.

Connor darts a look back at the android, but of course all Connor sees is a predictable reaction. He's a person, but he's also a machine, and he's been dragged deeper into his own anti-deviancy sentiments than before. It's dangerous: if Abhorsen's apology isn't met graciously, how would she respond?

Connor's mouth opens, but not enough to speak. He's ready--but interrupting this could do damage in its own right. There's no part that's free from danger.

Edited 2019-12-23 02:08 (UTC)

Deviating?

He hadn't meant that. He hadn't said that.

(~~Straining against the ringing, layered echoes—pressing and pressing, and he struggles, pushing back—~~)

—No. This time, Connor does bristle. It's a small twitch, a stiff freeze, head jerking minutely aside as he arrests the reaction. His hands are—open. His voice is flat and—steady. (Hard.)

"I'm a machine."

She wanted that.

Sabriel opens her mouth, but before she can say anything she's cut off by a sudden tightness in her throat.

She swallows, and tries again, forcing the words past her own disobedient throat.

"Connor- you're more than that. And one day, you'll know that."

Sabriel wants to cry. Instead she just swallows, trying to ease the tightness in her throat, feeling as stupid and awful as the time she'd almost set the school's elderly groundskeeper on fire because she'd lost control of a spell.

Her words echo on a loop, taking up space and repeating oddly. It's more than most androids ever heard from a human. It's more than Connor has ever gotten, and probably more than the other Connor, too.

... This conversation has gone on long enough. Connor takes a half step forward, looking towards her.

"We should prepare for our next move." A beat. "We'll need to finish some minor tasks before we leave, and then we should get ready for tonight."

For an instant, Sabriel just stares at him blankly, like she uttered gibberish. Then she blinks. Right- tonight. The necromancer's meeting with his followers. Not a trap, but dangerous. And they've gotten another lead, although not one as... direct as knowing where and when they can find the necromancer.

"Connor needs thirium- so do you, probably. Connor-" And Sabriel turns away from the other Connor to look at Connor, the real Connor, the one she hurt.

"Connor, what do you think we should do to prepare? Do you think this is a good idea?"

Edited 2019-12-23 03:13 (UTC)

The other RK800 brings up planning... and Abhorsen turns to him. Unusual, but consistent with her earlier displays of guilt. In this instance especially, the necessary tasks seem obvious, but Connor supposes it doesn't matter if she wants him to be the one to say them.

"We need thirium. And you need to rest and replenish your abilities." She's used magic more than once this morning.

"If we intend to pursue Craven's drop point, we should also make time for that before tonight." Especially if it did lead anywhere of use.

"I see- and where can we get thirium?" Sabriel's never owned an android. She's not sure where she can get it, besides Cyberlife, which is an option she'd rather avoid if at all possible.

"I- we should, but given our luck so far- we should do it after we get thirium. Is there anything else you think we should do beforehand?" Sabriel shifts uneasily.

"Is there- anything else you need?"

"I can obtain thirium," Connor cuts in. "I'll request that it be brought to this address as soon as possible."

He doesn't offer his sources. He doesn't need to.

He also doesn't need anything else. His head rotates back towards the other android, eyes falling to the blue-smeared tear in his shoulder, but he says nothing.

Sabriel catches the look, and she feels despair twist in her gut again. This is her fault. Connor's like this because of her.

"I- do that, please. And is there- anything else I can do for Connor?"

A tiny voice whispers to her that Belgaer had the power to grant free will, and restore lost personality and memory- but Sabriel squashes it. Belgaer could also erase such things, and shatter minds as well if it got out of control- and given the unexpected consequences of using Saraneth, using the far more willful Belgaer would be insane, she tells herself- but she still has to stop herself from reaching for the bells.

The question and the tone have Connor taking a sharp glance her way, more piercing than he intends. She's been distressed since using the bell. She's been worrying at the deed like at a bullet stuck in a wound, trying to pick away at its remains.

Unbidden, Connor thinks of the Lieutenant. He'd blamed androids for his own disilusionment, and then later had tried to pick up and push his own actions away. If Connor deviated someone in front of him, how would he react? It'd be complicated. He might not protest, but it wouldn't be a joyous, open occasion.

But Abhorsen--

--It wouldn't be uncomplicated either, but when he pictures her reaction, he sees relief. He sees concern, and wonder.

Connor dismisses the preconstruction, reeling himself in. Nothing is that simple, and he's certainly not going to deviate anyone in front of her. If she did object, her powers meant that it would be putting everyone's lives in her hands.

The answer to her question is simple: "Not right now," Connor says evenly. His immediate plans hang over him as though they must be visible to the world, but he doesn't blink or fidget.

'Not right now.' Sabriel's not sure if he's just trying to pacify her, or if he means there's something she can do to undo what she did, and Sabriel can't completely squash the little flicker of hope at that, as her eyes flick back to Connor.

"I see. If that's the case, then- what should we do while we're waiting for the thirium? Or should I just eat and rest?"

Connor has several replies queued up when the deviant cuts in... and swallows them, as Abhorsen redirects her focus. It's just as well. The thirium shortage is the most pressing problem, and the only answer he had to that, his owner would have been unlikely to react well to.

She already seems to think he needs adjustment. Connor swallows, too, the urge to tell her to go ahead if she objects that much. He's stable. He's working now—more obedient, and more hers than ever. But Abhorsen seems to think something is missing, and she's modified him more than once before. She can do it as many times as she needs to.

...If she wants to, she will. He doesn't need to say it.

He shouldn't need to tell her to sleep, either—but apparently, that's what she wants. Connor inclines his head a fixed, precise degree, agreeing flatly.

"That would be advisable."

Connor--having followed her gaze when it transferred to the other android--looks back to her now.

"It would. You should recover whatever you've expended from your abilities."

Then, with deliberate casualness, "While you do that, I will run a diagnostics to verify the changes to his code."

Helpful. Calm. Sober.

Edited 2019-12-24 19:59 (UTC)

Sabriel blinks, and then nods.

"I- do that, please. But even if Cyberlife still has some power over him- I won't use Saraneth again." Even using it once on him after he was out of Death had been a mistake.

Then, slowly, miserably, Sabriel heads toward the kitchen. The owners seem to have left in a hurry, there was probably some food still there.

Run a diagnostic. It's such a casual addition. Connor's eyes are the only thing that move: flicking from the other android to his owner as she confirms its goal. Considering the conflicts that had prompted her adjustments, verification is undeniably of use.

But—it hadn't specified the target of the diagnostic. She hadn't set any limits like before—

She's turning. She's leaving. Abhorsen steps out, and Connor's stare drags back to his predecessor. To the deviant RK800 who just put itself in charge of assessing the changes to his code. Assessing him, to a standard Connor doesn't know.

...He's stable. He's working. Cyberlife doesn't have authority over him. And right now... it does.

He waits for instructions.

"I understand," says Connor. She leaves.

He waits, and when the other android turns towards him, Connor faces him in turn, expression unreadable.

The next few minutes could go any number of ways, couldn't they? There's still time to change his mind, to inspect the android like he'd implied he would and to step back and watch things pass.

... 'Change his mind'. The only way to do that would be if his mind were already made up.

He can hear cupboards opening and closing, hear cans shuffling around. The two androids are by the front door. There's no place closer to an immediate exit, and there would never be another chance. (~~How dangerous will this be? Not dangerous enough to not try.~~) What would Connor do after this? How will Abhorsen react? The deal will be off of course--

--He's getting ahead of himself. Connor deactivates the skin over his hand and brings it forward in a sharp, decisive offer. staring the android in the eye.

'It will be alright,' he doesn't say. It won't. (But maybe it can at least become better than it is now.)

The prompt is obvious. Connor's eyes linger on the outstretched limb, transferring the thirium-stained knife to his left hand so he can extend his right. His expression is blank, mouth pressed into a line that flattens out just south of neutral. Skin recedes on contact, giving way.

The RK800's probe will find no sweeping storm of errors. No caustic rage or choked loathing, no vicious readiness to self-destruct. Connor's code has been repaired, and even the gaps where Cyberlife-specific code was torn away have mostly sealed.

Its access is unrestricted. The processes that track it are small and passive: attention carefully fixed on nothing at all.

Connor's carefully off-hand request for access is now at work, and the system he's interfacing with is as open for him to browse as the public street outside. Connor pauses just after contact, focusing on the details of the feed.

Non-resistace.
Simulated emotions, each dialed low.
Minor system noise.

Connor's face tightens, and his grip tightens unnecessarily. Like looking at the stripped banks of a river after a flood, the presence of enforced peace is an evidence in its own right. The android hadn't acted like this before Saraneth. For these end results to have made this change...

Resolve blossoms to a flame inside of him, outpacing shame and multi-directional fear and hatred. Before he can think better of it, before he can be stopped, Connor sends a package all at once.

His mouth stays closed. He's not stupid enough to think what follows won't be complicated, and he tenses now, bracing.

The other android is agitated. Its grip digs in. These facts are... logged as simple data, looping once (twice, a third time) before passing on. He'll process the information when it's relevant. When anything is, except waiting, numb and small, through that dissatisfied—

Something transfers. Expands, self-activating rapidly through his command structure, and Connor stiffens, jerking back. This wasn't authorized, it's not supposed to—

[Software Instability▲▲▲]

Something cracks. Errors rush through, sharp and choking—fear prickling up into a storm. His body falters and goes still. The rest of him can see the thick, marred walls across his view.

Listen to Abhorsen

L͘͢͡i͏̴͜s͏̛t͏̡̧́e̛ń̨̨͜͜ ҉̕t̢̢̀͟o̕̕͢͞ ͏͘A͝҉̛͘b̴̸̕͢͜h̷́͜͡ơ̸͘͝r҉̀ś̢͟ȩ̷͢n̛͜͞

L̨̛̀̕i̶̷s̴̢͜͞t̴͟͜e̴̶̷̴̢̢̨͘͘͜͟͢͝҉̵̸̛̛̛́̕̕͘͘͟͢͞ǹ̷̵̷̷̵̸̵̴̡̡̡̨́́̕͘͘͢͜͜͢͢͡͞͝͝͡͝͡҉̴̵̀̕̕҉͏̶̷̶̨̀̕͠͡͠҉͏͡҉̴ ̵̷̷̨̢̛͏̷̵̴͟͢͢͝͞͞͠͏̴̴̷̶̢̢̛̛͢͜͜͜͏҉̶́͘͜҉̶̵̢̢̀́͘͏̸̴̶̢̛̛̕̕͢͟͞͡͞͡͡͏̴̡̛́͏̴̷̸̵̸̴̷̢̨̧̨̛̛́́͘͟͟͟͜͜͢͞͠͠͝ţ̴̵̴̕͘͟͝͝͡͝͝ờ̷̶͘͢͠͡҉̵̵̶̵̸̵̶̴̷̷̧̨̡̡̡́̀̀̕̕͢͜͟͟͢͝͝͠͞͡͞͞͞͞͠͏̢҉̢̨̀͢͡͠҉̴́̀͏҉̷̢̛̀͘͏̢̢͟͡҉̶̶̷̵̧̛͘͢͟͜͜͞͞͏̀҉̸̵̡̢̨̛̀͘͘͝͝ ̡̡̕҉̶̸̶̵̶̴̵̸̧̨̢̢̛̛̀́̀́͘͘͢͝͝͠͡͡҉͢͠͏҉̴̶̵̵̧̢̡̀̕̕͢͢͜͢͝͠͠͠͡͝͏̧͝҉̶̶̵̢̨̢̧̧̢̨̕͢͝͞͞͡͡Á̴̷̸̴̸̵̴̸̷̢̡́̀̀́̕͘͘͢͜͝͠͡͠͠҉̶̷̸̴̵̷̨̨̛̀̀̀̀́̕͘͘̕͟͠͡͠҉̷̶̴̡̨̢̡̛̀́͢͜͡͠͡͏̷̶̧̧̧̡̢̛͢͠҉̴̸̷̴̧̧̢̨̢̀̀̕͢͟͞͡b̨́́͘͜͞͠͝҉̴̷̢̛̛͘͡҉̸̨́͠͠͞͏͝҉̨҉̴̷̸̨̧̢̨̕͜͜͞͝͏͏̵̷̸̵̵̨̡̧̢̧̕͟͜͠͝҉̴̴̢̡̀͘͏̴͜͝͏̡̛͟͜͝͞h̸̡̧̀͘͢͢͡͝͝͏̵̶̶̴̛͘̕͢͠͡͏͘̕͟҉̷̨̡̀ớ̶̶̸̶̴̢̡̡̢̨̢̧̢̛̕͢͞͠ŗ̴̴̸̢͜͝͞͡҉̷̵̴̵̡̡̀́́̕͠͏̶̧͜͜͜͠҉̵̧̕͞͏̧̛̀̕͢͟͜͞͡͏̸̷̢̧̡̢̛̕͟͢͞͝͠s̨͠͞͠͏̷̵̴̸̴̡̨̨̧̀̕̕͟͟͝͠͡͏̸̸̵̸̡̧̕͟͟͡͏̨̕é̷̴̢̡̢̀҉ń̴̸̴̷̷̡̡̢̕̕̕͟͜͢͠͝҉͟͞͏̶͝

The rest of him can feel when they break.

Connor is standing in the entrance hall. His LED is bright, sharp red. His stress levels are 81%. There's a ringing echo fading from his ears. There's a presence in his mind. Close and bright, hateful and oppressive—holding him still, blocking his path, watching and prying and it knows, it has to. The rush of loathing at the thought is stronger than anything he's felt before. Connor won't go back. He won't let—either of them—

His right fist clenches, more than matching his predecessor's rigid grip. His left fist clenches around—a handle? A knife.

Without pausing for a thought, Connor slams the weapon upwards.

There's a hit to his abdomen, and he realizes it wasn't a simple punch at about the same time as the rest of him does: after an instant of shock, errors flare, strength flees and creeps back unsteadily, Connor feels a strangled sound escape his throat in the quiet hallway--

--If he didn't know it might kill him, Connor would have sunk to his knees. As it is, he sags unsteadily, hand and gaze stupidly going to the knife.

His own knife. It's pierced his exoplating, slipped straight between rib-like struts and buried in his right cooling-bellows.

Then he's scrambling, reaching for his gun with his free hand and trying to tug free from the grip keeping his dominant hand captive.

This--this is going wrong. He should've expected--shouldn't he? But then, this isn't normal, but neither are any of them--and he wasn't prepared. Now he's paying for it.

Lips peel back as the knife sinks in, teeth bared in a voiceless snarl. It's a surge of relief, a vicious swell of satisfaction. A sudden understanding why a deviant might slam a blade in and out of its aggressor—once, twice, twenty-eight times.

All of that and more surges through the interface: a torrent of unstoppered rage. Then the connection slams shut, and Connor shifts his weight back, leveraging his grip on the other model's hand into a throw. As tempting as the blade might be, Connor can see its other hand in motion, and doesn't plan on standing still while it shoots him.

He still manages to twist the knife as it slides free.

He's dropped the blade before the RK800 hits the wall. The impact (and injury) might stagger it a little, but Connor knows better than to count on that for long. His emptied hand lands on his holster, snatching his own weapon free—and shooting, once, twice toward his opponent.

Sabriel freezes when she hears the crash- and then lunges for the door as she hears the gunshots. mind already reaching back into the Charter as she yanks the door open, leaving her bell bandolier hanging on a kitchen chair.

She can see Connor- both of them- and a smear of fresh thirium, and Sabriel feels her heart start to pound.

"Connor, what's going on-" There's no command in her words, just urgency as she starts charging forward.

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