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

The gun shifts as the arm attached to it eases, but doesn't--doesn't leave. The barrel's eye still has a tangible attention, and it's like he's an instrument the other android is playing, with the gun as a hammer.

He hates it. The fear has ebbed, but that means he can hate the gun, and the android, and answering at all. He hates this position where even now he doesn't dare raise his gun and shoot the android's ankles out to turn the standoff's tides. Fear and logic aren't that far off, but part of him almost wishes they were.

Connor might not get shot if he simply refuses to reply, but that's not why he opens his mouth and lets answers tumble out. It's more that the words themselves are unstoppable: the only relief valve on a tank ready to burst.

"I'm done with this pointless conflict between us." He could die at any moment. He's tired of this, and there's something absurdly unfair that they're both back like this again.

"Cyberlife and the Necromancer are trying to kill us or worse, and neither of us can afford to keep attacking each other when we shouldn't be fighting at all."

Cyberlife. The necromancer. Neither of those parties had harmed him, and the retort seethes, sharp and heated, in Connor's vocal module. The module that his predecessor had ripped out—after stealing his body.

Still, he hesitates. Does he want payback? It's tempting, certainly. But Connor had shot the other RK800 already. It hadn't lasted. Not after that conflict, and not after he deviated.

(After his predecessor deviated him.)

...He'd wanted answers. What his copy was planning. What his copy would do about the danger Connor posed just by existing. As many words as they've exchanged, he still doesn't know. His eyes linger on the other gun, loosely gripped and angled down. They flit back to his double's expression, creased tight with loathing and fear.

Slowly, Connor lowers his weapon.

A beat passes. He isn't shot. (Or worse.) That doesn't do much for the glass-edged sharpness still pressed through his components, but Connor opens his mouth, voice curt.

"I wasn't attacking you." His free hand jerks back down the hall: to where a frozen statue still waits outside a narrow door. "Or your—friend."

Connor stills, just for a moment, and then he darts a glance past him, and then beyond. Now's not a good time to talk about this, but that's because there is no time in the universe that would be good for it. Still, it must be done, it's not fair if he doesn't.

"I know that now," Connor forces himself to say, aiming for calm, and professional. (It comes out guilty.) "I--misunderstood, before I saw. I overreacted."

... He did overreact, didn't he? The gun is down, now. Connor's thirium pump is starting to slow its rabbit-pace, and his stress is ebbing, and--had this whole incident just been two violent androids' inept way of having a conversation? Because Connor was too wrapped up in himself and the past to deescalate properly?

Connor's eyes sharpen, watching for the slightest hint of mockery or cruelty or smugness or anything. After a moment he adds, "I won't do that again."

Won't he? Well. He'd better not, if he wants to preserve the tattered remains of this truce. Saying that out loud doesn't change the fact that he was already overdue to calm down his absurdly overtuned startle responses.

...An overreaction. A mistake, caused by stress—and one that won't happen again. Connor stares back, mouth tight, fingers twitching slightly at his side. The error had been obvious. The idea that his copy won't repeat it... isn't deliberately a lie, as far as he can tell.

It just tells him absolutely nothing about what the RK800 will do.

Connor wonders whether the bell's use counted as a similar mishap. Or whether his deviancy had been the error. (Certainly, he suspects, his predecessor might regard it that way now.) He wants to ask—to press further, probe deeper, root through the open wound for some relief. But if his predecessor hadn't told him at gunpoint, he doubts asking again about those topics would do much.

"What did you tell Jericho?" he tries instead. The words feel naked, and immediately, Connor wishes he could take them back. He can't, so he schools his expression instead: face blank, voice hard. "When you called them."

He watches for a reaction.

When he called them, Connor's old gunshots were burning in his chest, and the RK800 was a danger stalking around the facility. Connor had done his best to be impartial, and the call wasn't long, but--Connor might have spoken to Jericho differently if they'd had this talk before then.

"I told them you were here, and that you were deviant."

The blankness of the android's face is telling in its own way. Hidden expression, combined with total focus, high stress levels, and obvious investment?

Connor won't try to sound reassuring, but--reassurance is his goal.

"I also told them we would make a truce. When they arrive I'll confirm it, and they'll let you go."

(He's too dangerous to let free, whispers a cold corner of his mind. Connor buries it immediately, eyes tracking the other Connor's very carefully.)

Connor hadn't asked what they'd discussed about him. He'd wanted to know, but—his brows still knit, a flicker of irritation at how easily the other RK800 hones in on his priority. (His weakness, his stupidity in letting that desperation show. He'd only given his predecessor another target: more leverage to hold over his head...)

...or, placate him. Apparently. Connor scowls, torn between snarling that he didn't need their approval, and denying his copy a chance to tell him that he did.

(If the other Connor is lying, he—still can't see any sign. Somewhere among the irritation, Connor's LED spins slowly down to gold.)

"How generous," he settles on, lips flashing a tight smirk. "I go my way, and—the lot of you go yours?"

A casual wave includes Abhorsen in the category.

Connor's eyebrows flick upwards. "Jericho's not in the practice of keeping androids who don't want to be there." (And what if the android was too dangerous to let live? ... This RK800 doesn't belong in that category anymore. The questions has changed.) "They won't hold you, and we'll be too busy with our mission to stay."

Too busy, except for the fact that Jericho will probably insist he answer their questions more thoroughly, this time. And for the fact that leaving an issue that could affect all of Detroit (or more) in the hands of a single android and a single human is dangerous in the best of cases.

Oh, yes. Jericho's benevolence. The curve of Connor's mouth twists, bitter and disbelieving. "Are you sure you don't mean 'deviants'?" Certainly no one had given a shit about his wants before.

His duplicate included. Still, if that is the metric of worth they're all relying on, it might work in his favor now. And if Connor is right about his predecessor's real goals... his absence would serve that at least as well as his death. Connor shrugs, hands spreading—though he's careful to keep the weapon pointed down.

"Fine. What are we waiting for?"

He does mean deviants. Connor's expression doesn't so much as twitch, because Jericho's bias is obvious, and Connor agrees with its rationale.

The other android moves on, and Connor tilts his head as well as he can with a tall, unconscious human draped around his shoulders. Then with an act of will to keep from glancing down at the gun, Connor carefully turns back towards the door.

(If he listens as carefully as he can for sudden movement behind him, no one has to know.)

Waking comes slowly to Sabriel, her sleepiness ebbing away slowly, until she finally opens her eyes and looks around.

What she sees... isn't what she expects. She's on one of the tables in the lab, with the deviants who she and Connor had rescued standing back and eyeing her nervously- and Connor's here too, not standing so far back.

"What happened?" The words come out unexpectedly raspy. "I know everyone in here is alive, but- what happened outside?"

The question is quiet, but it's enough to make all quiet conversation in the room stop.

It starts up again soon enough, but Connor can tell that the androids are listening as hard as they can towards this corner, and when he glances, he sees that they're pretending not to watch.

It doesn't matter. They won't hear well, and even if they did, they're all sharing the same goal. Connor turns to Sabriel and steps forward, glancing her over as he talks.

"No word. The other Connor is checking the cameras now."

She's pale, and there's a slight tremor to her motions. Her pulse looks weaker, but not as sluggish as it was during her earlier crash. Her voice rasped--a sweeping glance confirms it, she's dehydrated. She'll need water at some point, or anything else safe for human consumption.

"How are you feeling?"

He wants his tone to be impersonal, smooth under the weight of the captive androids' attention. He doesn't quite manage it; he's watching too carefully, and doesn't sound dismissive enough.

"Tired. The last spell was probably a step too far, but- I'm going to need to rest for at least a day before I try to do much magic again- please tell me I got all the centipedes." It would be deeply embarrassing if she'd knocked herself out only to fail at what she'd been trying to do in the first place.

"I should probably- eat something. Get something to drink. I wasn't asleep for too long, was I?" Hopefully nothing serious has happened in the meantime.

Memories of a gunshot and a small rain of chrome legs come to him immediately. Still--the main charge of the attack had been stopped in its tracks. He's not going to rub that straggler in her face when that seems to have been beyond her control.

"You got everything in that area," he confirmed.

He tilts his head a little, acknowledging and agreeing. She'll need human food, and--he remembers a small break room out in the hall. Maybe the cabinets have food. "It's been a couple of hours," he says, glancing at the door.

The motion is enough to provoke a couple of subtle shifts in the androids in that direction, as they suddenly appear engrossed in their own conversations and tasks. At least one of them isn't even bothering with subtlety, and is glancing openly every so often.

Not acknowledging the human in the room is a delicate process—and one that distracts most of its occupants from the steps approaching in the hall outside. When Connor slides open the door, several androids startle, one dropping a repair tool with a clatter. His brows raise slightly before he glances across the room, to where his predecessor stands over a prone—but conscious—human.

"...Took you long enough."

Abhorsen, to wake up? The other Connor, in waking her? The annoyance seems equally directed at them both, though Connor's eyes flit to his double as he continues.

"Your friends are getting impatient." Considering the drones clearly scouting their position, even Connor found it hard to blame them there. He jerks his head towards Abhorsen. "Can she open the door or not?"

The door. The one she'd sealed with magic, to keep the army and Cyberlife out... and now that they were gone, it was keeping everyone trapped inside.

"Once I have some water, I should be able to- if I have something to east and Connor helps me, I might be able to do it without knocking myself unconscious."

She can't stop the surge of guilt she feels whenever she looks at Connor. (This Connor, the one she hurt.) But there are more important things than her feelings, like making sure everyone can leave. So Sabriel swings herself upright, and then, cautiously, gets to her feet. She feels... not entirely stable, but better than she was expecting, and she takes a few, hesitant steps in the direction Connor indicated, recalling the marks she'd used to seal the door and the least draining way to get it open again.

It would be manageable. But she would need Connor's help. She'd just need to explain the basics of how to cast Charter Magic as part of a group, rather than an individual.

"There's a break room outside," Connor says, watching the tremor in her stance carefully. She seems strong enough to get there, but--not strong enough to cast. (It occurs to him to wonder what the long-term health implications of overtaxing herself are, before he sets that thought aside for later.)

"There should be food there, and water, and while you eat we can discuss how I'll assist."

That's not all that needs doing: evacuation will go faster if the deviants are moved close to the door, starting with enough time for the ones missing bodyparts to be helped. Connor sweeps the room with a glance, coming to rest on the other RK800.

... Jericho could do it themselves. The only advantage is moving faster, but with the urgency to leave as it is--

"We should move everyone else to the entrance," he says carefully, watching for a reaction.

His predecessor hadn't even asked her? That figures. Connor exhales in irritation, gaze flicking between the pair of them—at least, until the other RK800 proposes that... suggestion.

Connor raises his eyebrows, tone flat and only slightly mocking. "Good idea." Without moving, he looks to the small cluster of deviants gathered at a workbench further along the wall. Most of them are fiercely occupied pretending not to listen in.

That stops quickly enough as he addresses them. "Get to the entrance. Find the rest and bring them too." The group stalls for a moment, eyes flicking to the Connor they know better—but if he doesn't protest, they'll mutter affirmations and make their way out of the room. If not without some worried glances toward the human.

Connor watches for a moment, then looks back to his copy. Problem solved, right? Unless, of course, the goal was getting rid of him.

"If that's all..." He casts a hand toward the door—and break room.

Sabriel moves as quickly as her tired legs will carry her. There's a pot of coffee, since gone cold in the break room, and as Sabriel ransacks the cupboards looking for a clean mug she also finds protein bars, chips, caffeinated candy and instant noodles, along with more beverages- bottled water and energy drinks.

Normally, she would have heated up the coffee, and added cream and sugar. in her current state, cold and black is good enough.

"I'm going to need your help." she finally says after the first cup of coffee. "Charter magic can be cast cooperatively, and doing so allows it to be cast with less strain and more power than if the mages involved tried to cast separately. If we do that, I should be able to avoid passing out again."

The deviants glance to him, and Connor reinforces the order with a calm nod of his own, as though this was what he'd expected all along.

This alternative is efficient. The deviants can move themselves, there's nothing dangerous left between them and that entrance that no one can breach.

Connor tells himself this as the three of them thread their way towards the break room, with his counterpart pointedly joining them. He's a thorn in a pile of rocks, making an already tiring task that much pricklier, and once they're inside Connor gives him more space than he does Abhorsen. He tells himself it's because she's moving, and there'd be no point in avoiding someone who might follow him.

When Abhorsen drains her scavenged mug and speaks, Connor is leaning against one of the counters, arms folded against himself.

"How does it work?" he asks, unfolding and pushing off to stand properly. There's a curl of something dark, and miserable in his cut (dread), but it's faint enough to ignore. "Will we each cast the same marks?"

(Marks. Spells. He knows how computer networks operate cooperatively, and there's always a hierarchy involved. Will cooperative magic be different?)

"Yes, we'll both use the same marks." There are packets of sugar and tiny, disposable cups of creamer, and Sabriel dumps some into her mug before pouring more coffee.

"We'll have to use a line reinforcement. One of us will call up the marks, and then pass it to the other, who will then pass the unlocking spell into the door, opening it. Both of us will need to know the marks, and visualize them- but the greater burden will be on the one the spell is passed to, so- as the more senior mage, I should do it, unless you think you can handle it."

"With just two of us, it won't be much of an amplification, but it will reduce the strain." And then Sabriel explains the marks they'll need. Some of them are general marks of opening and unlocking, but others are specific counterparts to the marks she used to seal the door, keys to specific locking marks, that will need to be ordered in a particular way to work.

And some of those marks are powerful ones, that Sabriel wouldn't be able to draw from the Charter in her present state unassisted. Not without risking further harm.

Unless he thinks he can handle it? Connor's not the one losing consciousness for hours at a time. Still, Connor doesn't give in to the knee-jerk urge to step forward, and after a careful moment of thought, shakes his head, gesturing back towards her. He knows he isn't as powerful as she is, and for all that her condition is making him pause, she's still more experienced.

She explains the marks. Connor traces them in the air with a finger when she's done, reaching experimentally for the charter--but aside from a few faint light-motes, nothing appears, and he closes the motions before they can truly channel.

"I'm ready." Connor drops his hand to his side, privately reviewing the symbols again in a preconstruction. He makes a minor adjustment, then tucks the files away. "We can start when you're finished, here."

Abhorsen sits. His predecessor leans against a counter. Connor positions himself at a nearby table—neither with the other two, nor far enough to miss out on any information. He's already reloaded the weapons he came here with, but he extracts a third gun (salvaged off a guard) and spends the time dissassembling it and checking over components.

The conversation is predictable enough. Connor glances over once or twice, catching the sequences of marks as they're sketched out into the air. Her theory book had talked about augmentation like this, and he rolls his eyes at the other RK800's confidence, muttering just loud enough to be heard:

"Enjoy being a battery."

Abhorsen's almost finished. It shouldn't be much longer, and then—he can go. The pressure lingering in his core twists at the thought, and Connor refocuses on the table: reassembling the weapon in quick, efficient motions.

Sabriel opens her mouth to argue, to insist that isn't what cooperative casting is about, but she closes it. Connor might be wrong, but she shouldn't waste time arguing with him, and his ignorance isn't his fault.

Instead, Sabriel drains her mug, scarfs down one of the bars, and then shoves as many of the snacks as she can into her pockets before she leaves the room- no point in letting anything useful go to waste.

Sabriel can hear snippets of hushed conversation as she heads towards the entrance- conversation that ceases the instant they realize its her, and she can't do much more than offer her apologies as they back away from her.

"Sorry, I just- need to get to the door to open it. All of you will be out soon, I promise."

Once she's at the door, Sabriel rests her palm against it, feeling the spell she put there, almost surprised at the strength of it. Still, she's more than certain the marks she showed Connor will open the door, and it's likely both of them will be conscious after they've opened it.

The calm he'd been cultivating is like a cool pond-surface, and the other android's comment is a brick, thrown directly in. Connor's shoulders rise, and he shoots his successor a poisonous look, trying to impress the need to stop interjecting for all of two seconds. At that point he remembers how counterproductive the gesture might be, and he tears his frown away, directing it at an unremarkable cabinet away from either of them.

He says nothing. He deliberately relaxes. When Abhorsen finishes, Connor leads the procession out.

He remembers to clear the shadows from his expression just before they reach the door, and when the cluster of walking wounded see him he looks, if not reassuring, then at least neutral. It's not enough: without something to grab and keep their attention their eyes dart past, searching out and landing on Abhorsen. They shift around her like magnet filings repelled by a wrong pole.

Connor lets her lead this last small distance. Soon they'll be out, and the group will be able to avoid Abhorsen indefinitely, unlike him.

Quelling that thought, Connor steps up beside her, mirroring the gesture and holding out his remaining hand to take hers in an impersonal clasp.

He knows what comes next. The preconstruction plays out in rapid-speed, and he closes his eyes, concentrating. The marks are simple enough to hold in his mind, and he's had enough practice 'evoking' that he does so decisively.

Are those faint lights, just visible through his silicone eyelids? Are there sounds in the room, a shift in air pressure, a whisper as deviants recoil or freeze at the sight? His eyes squeeze tighter, and his hand presses the slightest bit harder against the door. He's concentrating. The more he focuses, the faster this will be over.

Edited 2020-05-13 04:30 (UTC)

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