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.

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Connor opens his mouth, then closes it, LED burning yellow at two different points. North doesn't notice, too busy arching an eyebrow at his counterpart, before tilting her head slightly.

"Suit yourself."

Deviants are being led past the group, but North ignores them, like a rock in a river. Even with the few that need help it passes in seconds, LED blinking yellow in conversations and updates with her people.

Once the deviants are clear she turns to Abhorsen. "Is she carrying those bells?" she asks, speaking to Connor while her eyes stay on the human.

Connor is silent for a moment. It's not a long pause, but any pause at all is more than he wants to give, because--he's North's ally. He trusts her, and he knows exactly why she's doing this. And yet, how long will it take for Abhorsen to get them back? Is this the start of a detour that's going to derail their time critical mission?

There's nothing for it. Connor set this in motion from his first calls, and now it's up to him to move things as quickly as he can, and the fastest way through this will be to explain the situation properly. North won't listen until they're safely moved.

Connor glances towards Abhorsen, touching his own chest. "The bandolier." He wants to communicate things to her with a look, but there's no simple message to give that would solve this easily.

Sabriel grimaces, but nods. It's not like there's any danger of anyone but a trained necromancer using the bells.

With slow, deliberate motions, she removes the bandolier and carefully, nudges it away with her foot. (If she knelt down too long, she'd be tempted to lay down.) The deviant who picks it up holds it at arms length, like he's afraid it might bite him.

"You can relax," Sabriel tells him, "The whole point of the bandolier is to keep them from ringing."

But she doesn't say more- instead she turns to Connor, an unspoken question clear in her expression- what should she do now?

The look the android gives her is profoundly doubtful, though his grip does shift, and he lowers it to his side.

Abhorsen and Connor's eyes meet, and Connor spends an instant trying to convey some basic, fleeting assurance, before North is speaking.

"Alright, let's move."

Connor tears his eyes away as soon as she started, finding her already watching him. There's no time to absorb this, or try to respond, before she's turning and heading towards the exit. The android guards hanging behind her and surrounding those remaining bark short commands, and Connor acquiesces without protest.

He turns, moving to match the pace the guards are setting. They leave.

Connor's still listening for the scuff of steps behind him. Still furiously preconstructing what might happen—if they attack. If he does. But the WR400's scrutiny moves on, and the brief exchange that follows seems to settle their suspicions more on his predecessor than on him. Understandably, considering the reactions, but...

Slowly his LED spins back to gold.

They're ordered forward. He complies, gaze flitting sideways to track the deviants' positions. One of the three confronting him has peeled off, but he finds his steps matched to his right and left: a PM700 and a TR400, both with weapons in hand. Connor's lip curls, but the guns aren't leveled on him (now), and he can more or less ignore them.

Outside, Jericho's combatants work quickly to load the rescues into a mismatched assortment of vehicles—both theirs, and those claimed from the humans. Their leader splits off to speak to another group, leaving the guards to press them forward toward one of the military transports. Connor eyes it with morbid curiosity, wondering if the GPS history would put the vehicle near Recall Center N2 yesterday afternoon.

He doesn't check. They're loaded in three to a side, with extra guards standing in the footwells by the door. Connor's own guards flank his position when seated, leaving a clear view of Abhorsen, his predecessor, and the PC200 who'd been placed between them. This close, it would be easy to wrest the weapon from one escort's grip to shoot the other, and it takes concerted effort to avoid telling them so.

Somehow, he manages. The vehicle rumbles to life, and lurches into motion down the road.

As soon as she's buckled in, Sabriel slumps in her seat. She wants to sleep, but- she should probably apologize to Connor.

"Listen, I'm sorry- I know you wanted to leave, and- I'm sure they'll let you, once they know you're not involved in any of this."

They're not alone, and Sabriel's sure the guards will report anything she says, but none of this in incriminating.

As sick as Connor is of processing new threats to his supposed life—he finds he's even more fed up with hearing out Abhorsen's bullshit. He drops his latest analysis on the guards (estimating the rounds left in their weapons from the apparent weight), teeth flashing as he sneers.

"And I'm sure you don't know shit about it."

What Jericho would do. What they wouldn't. Connor's mouth flattens as his gaze skims sideways across the seats: settling on the one who had made promises in that regard.

"You're the one who said they don't keep androids."

Connor's paper-thin hopes of staying out of this crumble. It's not even for a good reason, either: Connor's eyes narrow and a silent huff of air squeezes out of his lungs, exasperated and incredulous.

"They don't. This doesn't count as 'keeping' anyone; we're going to talk, they'll verify our stories. Otherwise this is temporary."

He wants nothing more than to pass this ride in silence. He's tired, and he wants to stop feeling the weight of the guards reporting every word he says for later incriminating scrutiny.

Edited 2020-05-18 05:49 (UTC)

"I'm sure, once we explain everything, they'll set you free and give me back my bells so I can do my job and deal with the necromancer. Those things are in everyone's interest."

Unless there's something Sabriel's exhausted brain is missing, she's pretty sure nothing she's planning would be seen by Jericho as a threat- if anything, she's helping them deal with an enemy, and staying out of their way otherwise. Unlike Cyberlife, they're not allied with her enemies. She shifts her gaze from one Connor to the other.

"You're... part of Jericho. So they'll listen to you, even about magic and the Dead?"

His freedom has never been in anyone's interest. (Certainly not if they 'have analysis functions' worth a damn.) Connor shakes his head, lips curling bitterly, but apart from a muttered "of course", he won't reply.

He's interested to hear the answer to Abhorsen's question, too. As unpleasant as his own future might prove... it hasn't escaped Connor's notice that his predecessor is also under guard.

Irritation prickles under his skin, but this is a serious question, and the way he answers will influence how they act from here on. Connor stills very slightly, smothering his rising concern for their situation out of sight.

"They'll listen," he confirms slowly, looking up at both of them. "... It may take time, but this is important."

No, he has no concrete promises for how exactly this will go. Is he confident that he's going to try and continue on until they have chances of getting everyone out alive? Most definitely.

It's not as reassuring as she'd hoped, but... it's something.

"Well, you didn't believe me at first. Neither of you did." Most Ancelstierrians wouldn't- magic didn't, officially, exist.

"You can show them, too." Which might raise more questions then it answered, but it would be a way of showing that magic was real. And Connor was on their side- they'd be more likely to listen to him than her, and less wary of magic if he was the one using it.

"Hm," Connor says, noncommittal, acknowledging, and promising nothing all in a single sound. It took magic, death, revival, grievous injury, and libraries of surrounding evidence to lead him to where he is. In the end magic is almost the least of it. And if he misjudged casting a spell when Jericho's main concern is Abhorsen's surprise ability to undeviate via magic--

--it could end poorly. There would be ways to succeed, too, but--it's dangerous.

He doesn't want to talk about it. Connor feels too large to fit in the car, like his exoskeleton is too small for the body it's containing. Smothering the irritation back again, he stares past them towards a window.

"We'll see."

He falls silent after that, broadcasting as much disinterest in continuing to speak as he can.

Sabriel takes the message and slumps back. Without the conversation to focus on, she can't help but drift off to dreamless sleep, exhaustion finally sweeping away her last thoughts.

She's awoken by the truck finally coming to a stop, and shakes off the last of her sleep as she stumbles out of the transport to face... a police station. One that had recently been heavily fortified, but clearly a police station. One occupied by heavily armed androids who gawk as the three of them as their lead to towards- probably the cells, Sabriel thinks, and the tired part of her mind hopes there will be a cot there. She could sleep, while Connor explains everything.

They're led in a train into the police station, right up until they reach the open bullpen. At that point the line slows, and two guards approach with transmission-yellow LEDs, expressions shifting as they look from prisoner to prisoner. (Are they prisoners? Guests? Persons of interest?)

Both newcomers stop with their eyes resting on Connor, who'd been leading at the front. "This way, sir," says the taller one, gesturing.

Connor nods. As he steps forward he half-turns, glancing behind himself. Abhorsen is immediately behind him, and the other RK800 behind her.

"We'll talk when this is done," Connor says, and it's part assurance, part question, part statement of intent. He doesn't know how long he's going to take, nor what comes after.

Then he looks past her to the android, and... This case might be different. Abhorsen will be there because she and Connor have a mission, and Jericho wouldn't leave her unescorted. But Connor?

"If you leave before I'm done--"

What's he going to say? To his surprise, he's not ambivalent about losing track of him. What if he misjudges another infiltration plan? What if Connor's assumptions about his new personality are incorrect, and he'll torture and kill once out of sight?

... His pause has gone on too long, and Connor smooths his expression, lifting his eyebrows.

"Don't die."

His predecessor first. That figures. Connor notes the respect in the address alongside the other, less congruent factors: holstered weapons, and the flicker of yellow at their temples as they receive a private call. The other RK800 does have standing here, it's clear. But what kind seems... more complicated than it was presented.

Connor's not sure what that means about his own.

He stills under his copy's regard. Matches it, closed stare for stare. And... blinks, taken aback at the—instruction? It could be a taunt, he supposes. But as much as he searches, he can't find the edge. He can't find a reason for the advice either, especially if the other Connor really does expect he'll be set loose.

...He's taking too long. "I won't," he manages. Is he supposed to return the words? It seems pointless, and Connor settles for a careful nod, watching his double as he's led away.

It doesn't take long for their guards to direct them, too. Connor scowls—unhappy, but unsurprised—as they stop in front of the precinct's cells.

The look Connor gives her is reassuring, even if he doesn't say anything, and Sabriel nods in response.

There's a cot inside, with a bare mattress. It's more than enough to make her smile, to the surprise of their guards, and Sabriel steps into the cell without hesitation or complaint.

A bed. Finally. Even with the bright lights of the cell and the plasticky feel of the mattress, she could fall asleep right away. Except-

"Connor? Can you hear me? I'm sorry you got mixed up in all this. If there's anything I can do to make it right..." But there isn't. Breaking out would be counterproductive and suicidal, and she can't undo using Saraneth on him a second time.

Connor is... certainly, not smiling as he's corralled behind a thick, transparent barrier. The space is small and bare, a thin cot and stained metal toilet taking up one wall, while crude graffiti has been scratched into the others. The door that seals shut behind him could potentially be cracked by close range gunfire—but by the time he emerged, any number of deviants would have had time to draw their own weapons and shoot.

Connor paces to the back wall. Reverses the distance. Stops, inspecting the words scrawled into the front. The previous occupants' skill at mirror-writing leaves a lot to be desired, but he thinks he can make out a roughly carved FUCK.

As Abhorsen's platitudes float over from the next cell, he finds himself entirely in agreement.

"That's your second apology in fifteen minutes."

For the deviants taking him. For his being involved. For some of the only events in his life she hasn't had control of. Connor glares out at the camera mounted in the corner of the hall.

"Is there a point, besides stroking your own ego? Because I'd really rather not be your excuse."

He can't even see her, but Sabriel stops herself from curling up in the cot. Words aren't enough, and yet she's not sure what she can do beyond apologize. Especially while she's in a cell.

"No, I- I want to make things right. If there's anything that's in my power to give you that you want, it's yours."

She's not even sure what he'd even want. Her bells? He seemed to frightened of those. Money, a favor? She's not sure what use he'd have for the former, or if he'd put up with her for the latter.

"Anything," Connor intones in a deadpan, one finger tracing the letters scratched into the glass. It's a generous offer—at least, if one ignores the question of what Abhorsen might require in exchange.

It's also so untrue it's almost funny.

"You'd commit a massacre? Melt down your bells?" He turns, pacing back to the far wall. "Or do you mean something smaller? You'd clear out an exit from here, maybe?"

Considering her last recorded level of fatigue, Connor frankly doubts she'd manage even that.

"Be specific, Abhorsen."

"Fine. Anything in my power to do that doesn't directly contradict my responsibilities as Abhorsen." She's not sure if he'd actually try to order her to kill someone, or bring them back afterwards, but it's important to make clear that the latter isn't an option.

"I'd need to sleep before I do any magic though, unless all you want is for me to pass out trying to to cast one." She feels ready to fall asleep as it is.

"I could... give you a Charter mark?" it's the first thing to jump into her exhausted mind, "Or do magic for you."

Now she sounds almost serious. Connor's eyes narrow, gaze flicking toward the shared wall.

"I've been trying to avoid deactivation."

Not leap into it headfirst on some idiotic hope that this time, she'd change him for the better. Connor swallows back the claustrophobic sense of pressure, grateful for the barrier between them. (More grateful yet that they took her bells away.)

"....What do you think is going to happen here? You apologize, set things 'right'—and what? Everything goes back to normal?"

His lips curl, spitting out the word with sheer distaste.

"What are you talking about?" Does he think bearing the mark would put him in danger? More than all of them are already, just by the necromancer being loose and the army after both Sabriel and Jericho.

"Things between us won't go back to how they were before," He's no longer bound to her, and Sabriel has no interest in rebinding him, or certainty that she could. "I'd settle my debt, and then go back to the Old Kingdom when my work here is done. Alone."

The puzzlement sounds genuine. Connor frowns, not sure whether he's missing something, or she is. His predecessor had been thoroughly dead when she applied the mark before.

(He'd wondered at the time what made her decide that Connor was worth empowering. He hates, more than a little, how much of him still does.)

...That's not what matters here. Mostly. (If he'd had magic, would he have been able to stop her from using the bells?) Connor huffs out a breath, head tilting as he tastes the echo of her phrase.

"...your 'debt'."

It's not precisely a question.

It's not a question, but Sabriel answers it anyway.

"I wronged you, and I benefited from your work. What do I owe you if not a debt? And granting you a baptism seems the best way to repay it- unless you'd rather have a bag of gold?" She's not sure what he'd even do with the money, but if that's what he wants...

Well, she'll give it to him. What else is there? Casting spells for him, pulling strings for him in the Old Kingdom... Sabriel's not sure what else she's good for.

The pause draws out for longer, this time. When Connor speaks, his sneer is audible. The closed, distrustful stare still focused on the wall—less so.

"...you never gave a shit about that before."

His predecessor thought he was too dangerous. What's her excuse? Too useful?

(He doubts it.)

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