conditionalinstability (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
conditionalinstability) wrote2019-07-13 05:52 pm
conditionalinstability) wrote2019-07-13 05:52 pm
Entry tags:
psl for saviorexe
Connor has a job in front of him.
He has a lot of jobs in front of him, all of them coalescing into one central job - a mission - the ultimate goal of which he doesn't really care to put into words. It has to do with the androids he led out of CyberLife Tower, the way they look at him - and the ones he didn't. The ones he hunted. It's in the way they look at him, too, the job that Connor has to do.
Connor has a lot of work to do.
Luckily, Connor is the most advanced model CyberLife has ever - maybe will ever - produce. Luckily, Connor can multitask.
He pauses in front of the junkyard. It's the largest in the city, a good place to start, and for the moment he and one other are the only ones who are going to start there. He has a sense for why he was chosen for this particular job; the negotiation expertise programmed into him is second to none, as far as artificial intelligence is concerned. Even the androids to whom deviation seems to come more naturally might not be quite up to the task of seeing so much pain, seeing bodies in pain and dying in front of them, and staying calm and reassuring in the face of it. He might have chosen him, too, if he'd been in Markus's shoes. Still, it's an honor to be chosen.
He grips his t-shirt - my ex-wife said I only had two faults, it says, I didn't listen and something else - and tugs it so the stretched out collar sits straighter over his shoulders. A suit makes any android stand out these days, especially one in a crowd of other androids, and barring that wearing Hank's shirts is the least uncomfortable option. This one, he'd been assured, was alright to get dirty with all the various grime and fluids Connor is going to encounter today, and Hank assures him that he has plenty of others for Connor to steal.
Thinking about that settles him more than thinking ahead. He hasn't spoken to Markus much since the revolution, not outside professional business, advice on what buttons to push during a meeting with this or that stubborn politician, updates to Markus's security detail, reports on the progress of attempts at android-friendliness at the DPD. The amount of time they are going to spend together here makes personal conversation not unlikely, although if Connor is lucky they'll be too busy for too much of the time to do it
Too busy. What happens in Connor's systems when he thinks that, when he actively hopes that they'll find too many suffering, abandoned androids down there to have time for a single awkward conversation, is probably a feeling. It's likely, judging by the memories of a couple previous conversations with Hank, that the feeling happening inside Connor now is probably guilt.
He heads down with swift, businesslike strides down near to the pit, thinking of nothing consciously save the lingering urge to have a tie to straighten. A tie with a t-shirt, he thinks, wouldn't look too formal to be seen in. He'll have to talk it over with Hank later. It's a pleasant thought.
He looks around for Markus as he goes, his LED flicking back and forth between yellow and blue as he handles multiple emails with politically and socially important parties, follow ups with a few of his contacts, reviews camera footage for one of Hank's open cases. His systems, as they are now, can deal with the load. Connor has a lot of jobs in front of him, and all of them are too important not to get done.
He has a lot of jobs in front of him, all of them coalescing into one central job - a mission - the ultimate goal of which he doesn't really care to put into words. It has to do with the androids he led out of CyberLife Tower, the way they look at him - and the ones he didn't. The ones he hunted. It's in the way they look at him, too, the job that Connor has to do.
Connor has a lot of work to do.
Luckily, Connor is the most advanced model CyberLife has ever - maybe will ever - produce. Luckily, Connor can multitask.
He pauses in front of the junkyard. It's the largest in the city, a good place to start, and for the moment he and one other are the only ones who are going to start there. He has a sense for why he was chosen for this particular job; the negotiation expertise programmed into him is second to none, as far as artificial intelligence is concerned. Even the androids to whom deviation seems to come more naturally might not be quite up to the task of seeing so much pain, seeing bodies in pain and dying in front of them, and staying calm and reassuring in the face of it. He might have chosen him, too, if he'd been in Markus's shoes. Still, it's an honor to be chosen.
He grips his t-shirt - my ex-wife said I only had two faults, it says, I didn't listen and something else - and tugs it so the stretched out collar sits straighter over his shoulders. A suit makes any android stand out these days, especially one in a crowd of other androids, and barring that wearing Hank's shirts is the least uncomfortable option. This one, he'd been assured, was alright to get dirty with all the various grime and fluids Connor is going to encounter today, and Hank assures him that he has plenty of others for Connor to steal.
Thinking about that settles him more than thinking ahead. He hasn't spoken to Markus much since the revolution, not outside professional business, advice on what buttons to push during a meeting with this or that stubborn politician, updates to Markus's security detail, reports on the progress of attempts at android-friendliness at the DPD. The amount of time they are going to spend together here makes personal conversation not unlikely, although if Connor is lucky they'll be too busy for too much of the time to do it
Too busy. What happens in Connor's systems when he thinks that, when he actively hopes that they'll find too many suffering, abandoned androids down there to have time for a single awkward conversation, is probably a feeling. It's likely, judging by the memories of a couple previous conversations with Hank, that the feeling happening inside Connor now is probably guilt.
He heads down with swift, businesslike strides down near to the pit, thinking of nothing consciously save the lingering urge to have a tie to straighten. A tie with a t-shirt, he thinks, wouldn't look too formal to be seen in. He'll have to talk it over with Hank later. It's a pleasant thought.
He looks around for Markus as he goes, his LED flicking back and forth between yellow and blue as he handles multiple emails with politically and socially important parties, follow ups with a few of his contacts, reviews camera footage for one of Hank's open cases. His systems, as they are now, can deal with the load. Connor has a lot of jobs in front of him, and all of them are too important not to get done.
no subject
Yet it requires a bold heart and an even sturdier spine to do this. Too much of it reminds him of that night, when he was flickering awake with his head in the rainwater, programming stuttering back to life when he should have been in a state of permanent shutdown. He remembers the limbs of so many discarded androids, the way they looked at him, how he had to pluck out various parts to ensure his own survival. And Markus realizes — perhaps belatedly — that he had never given himself time to process the trauma of that night. To properly mourn all that he had lost; Carl, his old life. He hadn’t stepped over the threshold into a new awakening, so much that he was pushed with no chance to really look back.
He has that chance now. This isn’t the same place, but it’s close enough. Packed with mud and walls of biocomponents, some still in the vague shape of androids. There isn’t any life in this section; he cannot see any, though perhaps they’re still buried so deep under all the muck and detritus that they cannot know for sure.
He knows this isn’t a two-man job. That it’s nothing more than an attempt to see what resources they will need when they do manage to make this place less of an android’s nightmare. But it feels overwhelming all the same.
Markus hears the Connor approach, shoes sinking in muck. He turns his head to look at him, mismatched eyes heavy but welcoming.
“Connor. Sorry I wasn’t waiting at the entrance, but this place makes me feel…” he pauses, searching for the right word to encompass the suffocating feeling of this place. “…restless, I guess."
no subject
There is no personal connection for Connor here. He's seen bodies on his way in but not spoken to them and everything else, everything he sees more closely here, only registers as parts. It occurs to him, hearing Markus admit the place's effect on him, that its lack of effect on Connor is one of those facts about himself it's probably better not to share.
He leans to one side, peering in front of Markus to try and get a sense of whether Markus is working on something, and then he tilts his head, peering now at Markus's face. "Would you like to talk about it?" he asks, his voice a moderate percentage warmer than before. "It could help our work here if any..." He pauses, searching for a delicate way to put this, and doesn't quite find one, "...lingering emotional issues are taken care of before we start trying to take care of anyone else."