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 plunges into the terminal's code like diving into a deep pool. He stirs up processing-power costly programs, starts enormous (recursive) file copies from one side of directories to another, and while the computer is as bogged down as he can manage, he reverses himself sharply, surfacing from the depths.

He hasn't been gone long. It's not complete chaos, though it feels like a scene on the brink of it, and Connor stalks around the table, wading through the mess of cables and equipment connecting the terminal to the room's setup.

Connor nods to Abhorsen. Tracks the rising hum of system fans, and his double's ensuing motion. If the other RK800 does fail, Connor probably won't live long enough to know it. Would it have been better to change places? But even the preconstruction of oblivion can't quite override the spike of horror fresh in memory: claws digging into his synthskin, the liquid flow of metal snaking (too fast) toward his port. In theory, the technical role would be more vital here. They'd have to guard him. And, one death or another—Connor knows there isn't really any difference.

He still feels sharp and raw and far too tired at the thought.

(At most thoughts in the last twelve hours.)

A faint crumbling in the surface to his left draws his gaze—and weapon—quickly. The advantage of his chosen role is the option to react, and Connor wastes no time in squeezing off a burst of fire as the silver shape protrudes through the wall. Bullets drill through the its processor and motor systems both, and the device sags... before twitching again, propelled by pressure from behind. Not just one, then. And, if the growing scraping is much sign, not just from one direction, either.

"Incoming," Connor mutters to the room. He squeezes off another burst of fire.

Sabriel's hands shake as she traces out the last mark of the spell- and one wall glows with Charter marks, running over its surface and reinforcing it.

One direction they don't need to worry about. Now there's just the other three to worry about. Sabriel takes a deep, ragged breath, and steadies herself, reaching back into the Charter.

She can't use powerful magic. But these things aren't made with magic in mind, and she doesn't need powerful spells to break them- she just needs to aim, and not collapse until the centipedes stop coming.

The first centipedes are easy- a minor spell sends two back, the head of one sparking with something- the mouth is different than the ones before, Sabriel realizes distantly. It almost reminds her of a... taser?

First one hole in the wall. Then two. Now four, five—more, as Connor steps sideways, gun twitching smoothly from one opening to the next. Abhorsen's barrier appears to be holding at a glance, which makes it possible to keep most of the apertures in sight, but between the central column and the bulk of the capacitors, there's still more cover than he'd like.

His gaze slides past his predecessor: crouched to dismantle the central apparatus. How much longer will it take? And how fast can they afford to rush the process? (If they'd listened to him before, there wouldn't be any need to hurry now.) Connor vents his bitterness on another segmented form, a neat cluster of shots cutting off its scuttling across the floor. (Further than the others made it.)

He'd expended most of the rifle's magazine on humans. When it clicks empty, Connor drops it, reaching without pause for both handguns. One of the holes across the room is glinting with new motion—but there's a sound even closer, and Connor stills, eyes flitting across all three walls—

—before snapping upward. "Shit." A pair of pincers can be seen extruding from the ceiling: tearing their way through the same flimsy drywall as the walls.

He puts a bullet in it, voice sharp. "Watch the ceiling."

"I will!" At least they're not coming through the floor. another one starts gnawing through above her, only to be cut off by another quick spell, before a group of three comes swarming out of another wall, close enough to all be stopped by one spell.

Sabriel can't keep this up- but if Connor can shut off the EMP while she still has enough energy... Will a single, powerful spell be enough to shut all of them off?

One of the centipede's gotten- too close, and Sabriel stamps on its head as hard as she can, feeling the thin metal plating bend as something in it breaks and it goes still.

Just a little longer, she tells herself. She just needs to keep her strength up until the other Connor disables the EMP.

Connect these cables. Use that port to override the access while the system's primary protocols are caught up, interface here, proceed cautiously, checking to make sure he doesn't trip the wrong sequence--

--he's in the clear. Carefully, oh so carefully, Connor sends a command that zips through the whole system like the first domino in a branching cascade. The pitch of the terminal's fans shifts. The lights on the capacitors start blinking quickly, disks sighing and humming--and in stages, everything begins to quiet.

The shifts in sound are impossible for Connor to track over the sounds of gunfire, so Connor rests his free hand on a faintly vibrating terminal case, tracking the feel of the fans and the lights that blink. Finally, the fans still, and the lights dim.

Connor stands up, threading through the tangle of cables and reaching for his gun. The rest of the room is still in chaos, and if the caterpillars reach the capacitors, there's still a risk, even if much smaller than before. He skates past Abhorsen, who's a whirl of motion and impossible, surgical precision, glancing over the RK800, a gun in each hand and aim inhumanly perfect--

--bits of insulation fall away from the ceiling behind him, and a curl of silver snakes out, pausing to calculate.

Connor's all-clear dies on his lips, and for an excruciating (useless) instant he's imagining the aftermath of this, with the RK800 attacked once again, and this time without anyone to intervene. Warnings clog up the edges of his vision--

--His gun goes off, cutting through the thoughts and useless loops, and Connor is very abruptly aware of squeezing the trigger again, and again. The centipede flies apart in mid-air, legs waving and wires sparking uselessly. Connor's hand tightens around his gun, and he considers scattering the pieces further, but he can't spare the bullets.

He forces himself to breath, a process that'd stalled with the surge in (useless, unhelpful, dangerous) errors. His gun switches to a new hole in the ceiling, and he's already tracking the next danger, but he can't help but steal a glance at his allies, scraping as much information from the looks as he can.

Edited 2020-04-14 04:31 (UTC)

Lights surge, fans hum, and for a moment, Connor's pump skips with cold fear. And then the sound quiets. The blinking status lights go dark. The terminal is—off?—and his predecessor straightens—and Connor meets its eyes, searching for confirmation. That it's done. That they can pull the plug, get out of here at last—

The RK800 isn't looking at him.

Shit. Connor spins, gun lifting—in time to see a silver shape explode under repeated fire. He stares as the shards scatter. Blinks, as he reconstructs the only vector from which they could have come.

When Connor turns back to his predecessor's smoking gun, his expression is furrowed in a frown.

...He'd had it under control. (He hadn't.) He could have shot the thing himself. (Not quickly enough.) It had been too close—again, and Connor's lips press together, twisting and flattening as his LED blinks rapid gold.

"...Fuck." He jerks his gun up, sighting on the still-connected plug and firing. Sparks fly as the cable drops, and Connor retreats quickly toward the door, weapons shifting toward new targets.

"Let's go."

Sabriel relaxes as soon as Connor shoots the cord- except the centipedes are still coming, with no sign of abating.

"I'll get rid of them." The centipedes might follow them, or go after the other deviants once they realize the EMP can no longer be activated. Best to deal with the mass of them now, while they've converged in this room, and take them out all at once.

Sabriel reaches into the Charter, the rest of the world falling away- and even if it's draining, it's also comforting, her fears and anxiety ebbing as she focuses on the Charter, vast and unending and connecting her to everything else as she immerses herself in the endless universe of symbols.

The Master Mark she needs is easy to find, and she links it up to a hastily assembled chain of marks, shouting out the spell as soon as she surfaces and sees centipedes gnawing through the walls and ceiling in half a dozen places.

The spell explodes outwards, and she can see them convulse in the half second before the lights flicker and die, and Sabriel realizes that she pushed herself too far, again, before she looses consciousness.

Edited 2020-04-14 05:28 (UTC)

Abhorsen calls behind them as Connor--both Connors--turn to leave. The older Connor only gets two steps away before he's suddenly aware of a surge behind him, of some sort of magical activity.

She'd said she would get rid of them. How? Connor twists to look back, mouth opening to ask what, why, and urge her after them--

--He's met with a wave of energy, like a wall of nonphysical water that freezes him with a flinch. There's a roar of sound, and every sense tingles and blanks in a haze of noise and static. He knows this sense of distortion by now, and a moment later it's gone.

Along with his sight. Or--almost all of his sight? He can see vague shapes through the receding static, with pinpoints of color and a slight yellow haze--

--His LED blinks in alarm, and the haze pulses with it. Understanding dawns, and Connor shakes himself internally, quickly leaving the disorientation behind.

What's the situation? The scuttling is utterly silent. In fact the whole room is, but for the two androids still in (and partially in) the room.

"That stopped the attack," Connor says. It also, from the sound of it, stopped her, too. "Abhorsen? Status."

If Connor is unhurt, then chances are the other android is too. Connor spares him a glance as he steps back towards the room's center (yellow too), before Connor focuses on the downed human.

There is, of course, no reply. He doesn't call again, kneeling and touching her neck.

Unconscious. Fatigue? ... Of course.

Abhorsen announcing her intent to cast a spell decidedly does not slow Connor down. He makes it to the doorway by the time the wave of power floods his sensors, and turns, eyes narrowing into the shadowed haze. The static clears much more quickly this time than before, revealing his predecessor, Abhorsen's insensate form, and several gleams of motionless silver.

Currently motionless. Despite the dramatic display, Connor doesn't trust in the slightest that they'll stay that way—or that more won't crawl in from above. He stays in the doorway, watching as the other android checks Abhorsen. By the reactions, he assumes the obvious has happened.

Unfortunate for their current resources. But the humans in the lab are dead or trapped, and if more devices do appear... at least they won't be pinned down inside a deathtrap.

Assuming, of course, his predecessor stops stalling. "There's no reason to stay here." The words are short, flat, and unexpectedly loud against the sudden silence in the room. "Carry her out if you're feeling charitable. Or don't."

She was never a target.

Connor glances up at the harsh words, then looks back down. Leaving Abhorsen would mean leaving her defenseless, and as obvious as the centipedes' goal was to detonate the EMP, there's still a few ways they could cause damage to a prone target.

Connor is holding his gun, still. He tucks it away, and with both arms free he lifts one of the human's arms, then carefully leverages her into a fireman's carry. She's secure by the time he straightens, and he starts for the door.

"We'll move her to the lab," he says quietly.

To the lab. Where the other deviants should be. Connor's eyes linger pointedly on Abhorsen's insensate form: blood-streaked hands and the slow rise and fall of unconscious human breaths. And probably new bruises forming from that fall. This promises to be an interesting conversation.

Still, there's not much point in arguing. He shakes his head, tucking one gun into its holster as he steps back to leave his copy space. Connor's stare flicks briefly across the room, stopping at the spent rifle he'd dropped amidst the fighting. But he doesn't have more ammunition, and if something does happen, a free hand would serve him better than a spent gun.

(Besides. He's ready to get out of there.)

He leaves the rifle. Scans the hallway as his predecessor exits, checking for any stray devices. The space is quiet, though, and empty except for the debris left by earlier attacks. One crumpled shell by the far wall is still stained with flecks of blue. Blue Blood: RK800 313 248 317-53 flickers in his vision, and Connor's mouth flattens, crunching the device under one heel as he passes.

His predecessor wanted to bring the human. As far as Connor's concerned, that means his predecessor gets to explain her too, and he lags deliberately behind the other RK800 as they move along the hall. It's this position that lets him spot the glint of light on metal: ahead, above, by a vent where he remembered damaging one of the creatures.

His gun snaps up. It drops. He fires—bullet skimming just shy of the other Connor's head to produce a scatter of small parts.

Edited 2020-04-17 18:00 (UTC)

The gunshot fills the hall like thunder, and Connor flinches violently, ducking as he feels something hit it. There's warnings in his vision, and he grasps blindly for his gun, trying to cancel out the alerts and identify what the damage is, and--where he is hurt, since all his sensors tell him is that he isn't. Abhorsen is tilting dangerously by the time he notices, and he delays bringing his gun up to shrug her into a position he can pivot around with. (When had he drawn his gun? His memory logs are glitching, they don't say when.)

By then the echoes of the gunshot have faded, and pieces of the centipede--large and small--are falling from his hair and clothes, landing on the floor with a clatter. Connor's eyes lock on the other RK800's gun immediately, except he's also trying to stare at the android himself, and at the jagged pieces. There's a feverish intensity to it, obvious signs that he's re-gathering himself after an instant of expecting death.

Finally, he settles on his counterpart's face, eyes burning as that intensity stabilizes.

"What did you--"

His diagnostics are finally clear: no new damage in the last few seconds. A couple of fragments of debris have fallen under his collar, and something is still draped across his hair.

Not wanting to, but needing to see, Connor looks up at the vent. Then down at the centipede's larger pieces.

Any satisfaction at his accuracy vanishes fast. Connor stiffens, his own weapon freezing halfway to the ground as the other RK800 jerks around—gun in hand.

It stops just shy of his position. Connor eyes the android holding it: stress levels spiking, LED flaring a bright crimson that only slowly bleeds to gold. His own LED has gone from blue to yellow, and he matches his predecessor glare for glare, waiting until his copy breaks his gaze before he finishes lowering his weapon.

"What do you think?"

The centipede is shattered. Debris aside, the other Connor hadn't been touched. It's the same task he's been carrying out for the last few minutes: destroying their attackers, and preventing the other two from taking harm.

But clearly that wasn't the first assumption.

Connor tears his gaze over towards him. What had he thought?

The places he'd been shot have already been healed, but all at once he thinks the regrown plastic feels particularly hollow, and it aches. He wants to touch the points on his exoskeleton to see if they're thin enough to give under his touch, but--no. Not now.

... Connor has words for an answer. They're shining out in his expression, clamoring at his throat, but he doesn't want to antagonize their unsteady alliance more than he already has, and he doesn't want to deal with combing through the facts that he was disproportionately startled, and he was wrong.

Connor swallows the words back, tilting his head slightly (acknowledgment? Politeness? Apology?), before carefully turning to go again. His skin crawls at the thought of turning his back on the RK800, just on principle, but Connor's newfound capacity to feel doesn't mean he's at his emotions' mercy. He ruthlessly crushes the dread back, continuing the action despite it.

Connor's stare doesn't drop. It's his predecessor who stalls, mouth nearly parting with an answer. Nearly but not, and as the other RK800 nods and turns to leave, Connor feels his own resentment spilling over.

"I'm not an idiot, Connor."

It's not a snarl. It's not calm, either—not the clipped and measured syllables of control. The other Connor can walk away if it insists. He doesn't budge from his position in the hall: glowering at the shape in front of him, one fist locked tightly around his lowered gun.

"I wasn't before, either."

The other android's words chase after him, hounding his heels and latching on so that his feet stop in their tracks.

He turns, and when his eyes land on his successor again, they're darker than before, lips curling up in a blade-like arch. He needs to stay calm--Abhorsen is depending on him, the captive deviants are depending on him, Jericho--he needs to avoid getting into danger that he's too burdened to deal with.

The thought is enough to straighten him as much as he can under Abhorsen's weight, and he pours as much casual sincerity as will fit into the reply: "Of course not."

That tone was designed for humoring belligerent humans, and its use can't be anything but deliberate.

"I'm sure every time you've shot me has been deliberate, and... well-thought."

To bristle, Connor would need to have been relaxed in the first place. The tension coiled in his frame doesn't change, particularly—but his mouth twists, teeth flashing in something too sharp to be a smile.

"It didn't happen by mistake."

The first time he'd shot his predecessor was on Cyberlife's orders. The second, after it ambushed them and stole his body. And most recently, of course... after he'd deviated.

After it stabbed him, and trapped him, and held him for Abhorsen to correct.

No, Connor doesn't regret that reaction in the least.

"Are you pretending you would have done differently?"

It didn't happen by mistake?

Connor knows it wasn't an accident. Each time had been deliberate. And the sheer unpredictability of it is part of what has him tensing inwardly, bracing in turns for a hit that still hasn't come.

"When I deviated, I did do differently," Connor shoots back with forced calm. "I didn't shoot."

Connor's head slants, sharp and distasteful.

"Didn't you?"

His right hand lifts, spreading toward the other deviant—toward its (his) shoulder, and the neatly sealed hole below the skin. "You shot me." In Cyberlife Tower. It killed him there, albeit with a proxy.

"You'd have done it again, if Abhorsen hadn't stopped you." At least three times at their first reunion, if his analysis is right.

"But no. You mean Markus?" Connor's lips quirk up, spiteful and brief. "Congratulations to him, then."

"Those weren't the same," says Connor immediately, fighting the urge to move that shoulder. He knows what the old bullet damage feels like: a slight catch, a necessary recalibration to adjust for the slight angle the clavicle-strut has taken. He didn't feel that wound happen--just the others.

"Those weren't the same as shooting someone who wasn't trying to hurt me."

Instantly the memory of the bell echoes in his ears, and the still, trapped look of the struggling android fills his mind. He shoves it to the side immediately, but the damage is done, and shame and guilt flood through him inexorably.

(He hates it. Hates the way it matters, even as it changes nothing at all.)

Connor hadn't had a gun, when his predecessor tried to shoot him in the alley. It had deviated, and he hadn't, and it had never hesitated to do harm—not with its own weapon, or the humans it could talk onto its side.

But the hot, close rage that pounds through Connor's pump doesn't source from those incidents at all.

"...You helped her keep me."

His voice is soft and furious. His fists are clenched at either side, gun all but forgotten as he takes a step forward. Toward the android that 'hadn't tried' to hurt him. Who had acted so differently—so much better than he had.

"You helped her—" the words break off on brittle edges, LED flickering red as he struggles, "—put me back. Again."

Anger rolls towards him like a stormcloud, and Connor stands his ground, feeling it wash over him. It scorches without warming. He's left cold inside, and rotting, like his wounded arm had rotted.

"I--" Connor starts, then stops, faltering as a bead of read breaks his LED's previous gold. "I hadn't known what the bell's effects were."

He hates the other for this. He also hates himself, because Connor hadn't passively stood back. He'd helped, guarding the android, enabling every step of the undeviating, and it'd planted seeds of something vile in him, ones that wouldn't be uprooted.

Edited 2020-04-23 06:46 (UTC)

"You didn't care."

If it cared, it would have asked. Would have reacted with something other than relief as Abhorsen described how effortlessly she'd overridden him before. His predecessor never spared a thought for the method—or much of anything besides ensuring he complied. A breath barks out, harsh and bitter, as he spits out the words.

"Anything to keep me on her fucking leash."

"No." Connor can't seem to look away. He wants to. "It wasn't that. You were dangerous. All I--"

He breaks off, silent just for a moment. (He won't plead.) His jaws are tense, and he forces himself to face the other more squarely, like facing an open furnace.

"I had to keep Jericho safe. And myself. You were dangerous, and I thought we were fighting Cyberlife's control."

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