[It’s the second time that Connor has told him of what awaits Markus, days ahead of his own remembrances, but this one isn’t mottled with hope, not possessing a promise of a better future, a brighter future for the whole of their kind. His words paint a far more unpleasant picture, the sort with hooked tendrils digging into the human chest of the RK200, hollowing himself out piece by piece as he comes to understand what Connor is telling him. It’s an act of grace itself that Markus isn’t physically reeling from the revelation, his hands remaining still unlike his partner’s, though his jawline is utterly tense. Maybe his body simply hasn’t caught up with his mind, working furiously to unpack it all.
As they are now, with Markus possessing an affection for him running so deep that it leaves fault lines across his heart, it’s hard to imagine Connor standing there, holding him at gunpoint. Come to stop the deviant leader, likely by any means necessary. Dragging the military along with him in his wake, to put down and tie up the loose ends, or to finish what was started if Connor couldn’t. In the end, it had become the latter — a singular instance of something good happening, of the other android having made the right choice — even if the rest of the tale was couched in clamorous tragedy.
The destruction of Jericho, a symbol going up in smoke. The loss of their people, so many, more than he currently knows — faces that he’s not even met, but the discrepancies of time and space mean little when they’re talking about a culling of innocent lives. Already he can feel the weight of it acting like a suffocating force, a leader’s tendency to view it as a great failure now kicking in, even if he had no control over how the events unfolded.
It makes his stomach twist, the thought needling itself under his skin, slithering, squirming, making him feel on edge. Already tired, already stressed, this is a large amount to process, and suddenly his body doesn’t want to sit still; it wants to move to shake off some of this dysphoria, and without replying, Markus is on his feet and moves over to the middle of the living area, arms crossed, back to Connor. Then ducking his head and rubbing an anxious hand across closed eyes, the stress headache from before starting to beat at his temples again.]
…I don’t know what to say.
[It isn’t a condemnation against Connor, though maybe it might be misconstrued that way, but simply statement of fact. He hasn’t experienced it, hasn’t lived in those harrowing moments. Has simply been handed the information, and now he feels like his arms are carrying some sort of dread prognosis, uncertain what to do with it.]
no subject
As they are now, with Markus possessing an affection for him running so deep that it leaves fault lines across his heart, it’s hard to imagine Connor standing there, holding him at gunpoint. Come to stop the deviant leader, likely by any means necessary. Dragging the military along with him in his wake, to put down and tie up the loose ends, or to finish what was started if Connor couldn’t. In the end, it had become the latter — a singular instance of something good happening, of the other android having made the right choice — even if the rest of the tale was couched in clamorous tragedy.
The destruction of Jericho, a symbol going up in smoke. The loss of their people, so many, more than he currently knows — faces that he’s not even met, but the discrepancies of time and space mean little when they’re talking about a culling of innocent lives. Already he can feel the weight of it acting like a suffocating force, a leader’s tendency to view it as a great failure now kicking in, even if he had no control over how the events unfolded.
It makes his stomach twist, the thought needling itself under his skin, slithering, squirming, making him feel on edge. Already tired, already stressed, this is a large amount to process, and suddenly his body doesn’t want to sit still; it wants to move to shake off some of this dysphoria, and without replying, Markus is on his feet and moves over to the middle of the living area, arms crossed, back to Connor. Then ducking his head and rubbing an anxious hand across closed eyes, the stress headache from before starting to beat at his temples again.]
…I don’t know what to say.
[It isn’t a condemnation against Connor, though maybe it might be misconstrued that way, but simply statement of fact. He hasn’t experienced it, hasn’t lived in those harrowing moments. Has simply been handed the information, and now he feels like his arms are carrying some sort of dread prognosis, uncertain what to do with it.]