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

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.

>313-248-317-53: WARNING: CRITICAL BIOCOMPOENTS OFFLINE

The smears turns into a bloom, and then it's a steady flow, stark blue bleeding from each of the wounds on his chest. Connor sags to the floor, leaving a bright streak of blue in his wake. Somehow he didn't drop his gun in the chaos, but his hand is slippery and unstable, and he can barely aim.

Abhorsen is here. Either she'll stop the deviant, or he'll shoot her. Connor's mouth opens, and the gun comes up--but for all that he's facing the android, his aim wavers badly, and he's split in two mentally by the conflict.

She's here too soon, she'll stop him and undeviate him--
--he's going to kill her, and Connor also, Connor was an idiot not to plan for this--
--This was the only right choice he'd had, the deviant needs to leave--
--Connor is dying, was it worth it?--
--He needs to help one of them. Which one?--

Connor's aim pulls towards Abhorsen, but it's useless. The gun drops.

Edited 2019-12-29 07:31 (UTC)

Both shots strike home, and the other Connor slumps down to the floor. It's down—it's dying, and Connor steps back, pump humming out a thrill of sheer relief—

—when footsteps scatter, a door crashes open, and—

His owner lunges out into the hall.

Connor's throat closes. Connor's frame jolts back. All at once, his steps feel too slow, his limbs too heavy, the warnings of low thirium suddenly a beacon at the edge of his view even as his weapon jerks toward center mass. He doesn't see the bells. Does she not have them?

(Does he—have a chance?)

Distantly, the warning flags: his predecessor, raising its gun. Wavering, off-target, but still so easily a risk. Connor barely registers it. Can't drag his eyes from Abhorsen—from her hands and mouth, from the spells she could flick towards him with barely a thought. He remembers being frozen. He remembers being blind.

She doesn't need her bells to stop him.

[Stress Levels^^^ 94%]

He squeezes the trigger. He doesn't stop to see whether it hits. Connor turns and runs, bracing for his joints to lock, his limbs to stop responding. Yanks the door open, half expecting to hear the peal of a bell, freezing him in place. Putting him back, like that, again.

Nothing stops him as he turns the corner. He won't stop either—not until he's far away.

Sabriel's eyes meet Connor's, and she freezes for a moment, and suddenly her shock is joined by a sudden, irrational surge of relief, that Connor can- feel. Feel anything.

Then he fires the gun.

A scream rips out of Sabriels throat as a bullet tears through the flesh of her right arm, and when she looks up, Connor's- gone, and she can feel the other Connor dying as she stumbles towards him, reaching into the Charter for the basic spells she knows to mend wounds and stop bleeding, tracing the with her good arm over her own wound, as the bleeding slows, then stops. It still hurts to mover her arm- the wound isn't fully healed, and using it too much will reopen the wound- but she's stopped the bleeding, at the very least.

"Hold on."

Every thought, every plan, has fallen out of her head except keeping herself- and the android in front of her- alive. Sabriel reaches back into the Charter for master marks of healing, fighting back the wave of exhaustion as she starts tracing out the marks of a powerful healing spell.

"I won't- let you die."

Edited 2019-12-29 08:28 (UTC)

Connor has been shot, stabbed, thrown back on a wave of rage and hate and promised violence--but Abhorsen's gesture has him flinching before contact.

"What are you doing?" he grinds out. His eyes are showing more white around his pupils, now, and he's found the strength to tighten his grip on the gun, going rigid and having nowhere to run to.

"It's too late. You can't stop him from running." His mind feels like a ship in a hurricane, like he's swimming to catch up with all that's happened in the span of a second or two. "It's done. I already--..."

Vague notions of threatening her if she tries to undeviate him fall apart as the marks find matches in his memories.

Healing--?

She's repairing him before she undeviates him, he realizes, staring at the marks. Isn't she? ('Die', she won't let him 'die'.)

He doesn't know what's happening, and he's trembling with coiled stress and tension, like a cobra bunched up and poised to strike.

Edited 2019-12-29 20:40 (UTC)

Sabriel's not sure if Connor's simply incoherent from blood loss, or trying to tell her something. And she needs to concentrate on the spell anyway.

"You- did you fix what I did?" Sabriel can't quite keep the hope out of her voice. Or does he mean that Cyberlife's taken control of Connor, and it's too late, this Connor let him get away?

Sabriel can't think too much about that now- she needs to focus on the spell as she sets all the marks in order and lets the spell go, the marks arranging themselves in a spiral as one after another, they enter the wound and start to take effect, even as she slumps to the floor, not dying but utterly exhausted, her consciousness rapidly fading.

I overreached again is her last conscious thought before sleep takes her.

Edited 2019-12-29 21:01 (UTC)

Did he... what?

The marks find their places. He glances down as the wounds close, then at her as she sinks to the floor with a whisper of cloth and impact. Connor opens his mouth, but she's not listening, and he closes it again, reaching up to touch the knife wound. (It's the messier one of the two, with torn splits in the exoskeleton and an open chunk that'd been ripped out--)

The new exoskeleton is as thin as a chicken-egg's membrane. He's not bleeding, and his 'lung' is re-sealed.

Connor swallows, furrowing his brow at her, then back at his blue-stained hand.

Why--?

... Why?

Connor preconstructs leaving. He could walk out the door back to Jericho, he could take the gun in his hand or on the floor and point it at her--

--His gun is already pointed at the upper line of her back. Connor stares when he realizes it, and after a moment of heavy deliberation, he reholsters it.

Then he carefully creeps forward to study her. If he were human, he would need to reach forward, but as he is he can measure her pulse visually, can estimate her ease of breathing by the puff of her lips and the rise and fall of her chest.

He's not bleeding anymore. The patches are thin, but considering her current state and her past record, this doesn't seem like a deliberate slight, no matter how much a human might think it was deserved.

(She might kill him when she wakes. She'll have recovered her energy by then. Despite his new and old abilities, he'd be helpless.)

Connor gathers his feet under himself, testing his balance and the durability of his newly-healed wounds.

Looks around.

Then he crouches, gingerly gathers her close, and lifts her in his arms. The sitting room is five steps away, and for all that she's lean, RK800s weren't built for strength. They make it without incident, and Connor stops by the first furniture he passes, a short and overstuffed loveseat, and he carefully tips her into it.

She doesn't wake. Despite Connor's care, one of the membranes patching his stab's split edges has torn, and Connor presses a hand over it, mouth tightening.

First things first. His LED switches yellow, and he starts his message to Jericho. When it ends he looks towards her again. The hole in her sleeve is stained red, but it doesn't seem to be spreading.

Connor presses a hand flat over his stab wound, and leaves to search for a temporary patch.

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