[It’s the sort of open honesty, harsh as it might be, that Markus deeply appreciates. Though each word feels like it twists him inside-out, none of it is Connor’s fault, and all of it is something he wishes to hear — coupled with the unchanged knowledge that the revolution itself is still met with success, he takes the rest of the story and uses it as a balm against the gutting loss of Jericho, and the many who would call it sanctuary. It isn’t easy. He still frowns, will still have to take a day to parse everything, to grieve those that would be gone to him. Head filled to the brim, he needs to even know what to do with this information. But it’s necessary, dreadfully so.
Connor speaks of returning to CyberLife Tower (that sounds like suicide — he had let him go anyway?), of recall centers (phrasing that makes his blood run cold), a protest in Hart Plaza and an FBI agent who would call down fire upon them. More violence, more desperate attempts to keep their dogged revolution alive in whatever desperate gasps of air it could steal from their combined efforts.
He’s android-still, watching Connor. Listening, wishing he could rely on more than imagination to see it all unfold.
And when he’s told of a song, of his own voice buoying up the culmination of what they had all worked for, what they had all tried to inspire, it’s— odd. It’s like he’s hearing about someone else, a faraway dream, a story that hasn’t come to fruition yet because the players haven’t taken their places, haven’t even stepped foot on stage.
Markus realizes that he’s been holding his breath, pushing it out slowly through an exhale.]
The tipping point. The show of humanity that finally convinced them. I’m… not the only one deserving of that kind of credit, Connor. All of us are. All of us who worked to get to that point, to convince the humans that we are alive and would only live as free people.
[Markus merely believes himself to be a figurehead with the fury and passion and mercy of an entire race behind him. Any influence he wields, he thinks, is not his own — only borrowed.
Words returning to him in their natural flow, Markus moves on, not wanting to pivot around the same point. The truth of the matter is that there’s an issue that they’ve skated over, but this android is not so oblivious, returning to it as if drawn in by a magnet.]
…You said you didn’t initially tell me all of this because you were being selfish. Afraid of what I would think. If I'd alter my opinion of you. [Given the state of their relationship now, he can only imagine that fear ran deeper than ever before.] I want to say right now, that despite how hard some of this is to hear, I still feel the same way about you, Connor. I’m still proud that you made the right decision, and that you decided to stay and help us when we needed it the most.
no subject
Connor speaks of returning to CyberLife Tower (that sounds like suicide — he had let him go anyway?), of recall centers (phrasing that makes his blood run cold), a protest in Hart Plaza and an FBI agent who would call down fire upon them. More violence, more desperate attempts to keep their dogged revolution alive in whatever desperate gasps of air it could steal from their combined efforts.
He’s android-still, watching Connor. Listening, wishing he could rely on more than imagination to see it all unfold.
And when he’s told of a song, of his own voice buoying up the culmination of what they had all worked for, what they had all tried to inspire, it’s— odd. It’s like he’s hearing about someone else, a faraway dream, a story that hasn’t come to fruition yet because the players haven’t taken their places, haven’t even stepped foot on stage.
Markus realizes that he’s been holding his breath, pushing it out slowly through an exhale.]
The tipping point. The show of humanity that finally convinced them. I’m… not the only one deserving of that kind of credit, Connor. All of us are. All of us who worked to get to that point, to convince the humans that we are alive and would only live as free people.
[Markus merely believes himself to be a figurehead with the fury and passion and mercy of an entire race behind him. Any influence he wields, he thinks, is not his own — only borrowed.
Words returning to him in their natural flow, Markus moves on, not wanting to pivot around the same point. The truth of the matter is that there’s an issue that they’ve skated over, but this android is not so oblivious, returning to it as if drawn in by a magnet.]
…You said you didn’t initially tell me all of this because you were being selfish. Afraid of what I would think. If I'd alter my opinion of you. [Given the state of their relationship now, he can only imagine that fear ran deeper than ever before.] I want to say right now, that despite how hard some of this is to hear, I still feel the same way about you, Connor. I’m still proud that you made the right decision, and that you decided to stay and help us when we needed it the most.
That won’t ever change. Do you understand that?