finalflight | PSL; [THE BELL WAS RINGING]

PSL; [THE BELL WAS RINGING]

[There are good days. The ones where he helps Carl with his art, sunlight streaming in through the glass walls of the studio. Calm, quiet, seemingly detached from the outer world. Markus likes those days the best; where routine hastens along its little track, unerring and steady. Medications, injections, breakfast in the morning. A clear schedule (not always the case, but sometimes), no appointments to be ready for, to be late for. Only the scent of coffee, the quiet clack of chess pieces against a black and white board, or the melodies from a pianoforte threading through the air. They always talk about art, but sometimes Carl will talk to him about literature. About philosophies that he can’t still quite grasp, but he thinks he can see the shape of it if he focuses enough — the state of humanity, and all of its beautiful, unflattering forms. Markus listens, and he learns, tending to his duties easily enough. Happily enough, he thinks. There’s always paint to be cleaned from his fingertips when the afternoon comes to a close, and evening ushers itself in.

And then there are bad days.

Days where it’s hard to ignore something as fleeting as mortality; Carl’s health worsening, fluctuating, pains and soreness. A shadow of frailty casting a pallor over all the man is, opening the door for something they had worked to keep at bay for a long while yet — depression. He knows when he sees it creeping in, he can hear it in the tone of the older man, views it in the lines of his aged face. Markus talks to him, calmly, coaxing for him to tell him how he’s feeling, or to rest when he needs to. That his work will be there for him tomorrow, when he feels better, and that he should eat something while they wait for the doctor to come in.

Carl grumbles something at him, dry and a little sarcastic, and Markus just smiles. Says something witty in return, willing his LED to stay blue — (can he will it to stay that way? He had always wondered, but the thought slips away, like sand through a sieve) — for the other’s sake. Tells him he’ll be downstairs if he needs anything.

And he waits downstairs, thinking of what will pass the time until the doctor arrives. What needs straightening, what needs cleaning. To push away distracting thoughts via distractions itself. Yet Markus finds himself merely standing there, alone, looking at the door, while the false birds in their cages sing, echoing in the foyer.]

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[Slow and steady, bodies not responding at optimal capacity, but determination was the only real key either of them needed to make it to the top. Determination, a small dose of luck, and a bit of coordinated teamwork.

And finally, what tastes like the first rush of freedom, pulling themselves from a pit of hell. But Markus won't rest until he's grasped a hold of Arthur's hand, hefting him up with one final bought of strength. Allowing themselves to finally reach that plateau, and when they've made it, Markus remains slumped on his knees from the exertion. Rain pelts at the both of them, as relentlessly as before.]

All in one piece, Arthur?

[ Would that he made a more graceful exit, but as it is he doesn't crest the top so much as flop over it, laying in the mud, face turned up at the sky.

He casts a glance over at his companion. ]

As much as I can be, right now.

... We really made it.

[ It is a statement mostly of relief, but there's something like uncertainty there.

Now what? ]

For now, at least.

[But Arthur is allowed his moment to just sit with his back against the mud, glancing up at the sky. Perhaps Markus would do the same, if he were so inclined to just taste the temporary mode of freedom they've been given, before they have to push forward again -- to someplace they'll both have to hunt down, if Arthur has any inclination to join him.

But first...

His hand reaches for something sharp and pointed, a piece of machinery broken off from its whole. Fingers clasp around it, and Markus brings it to his temple, angling its sharp edge against the flat curve of his LED.]

[ His eye's track Markus' movements, the smile sliding from his face in favor of a much more somber expression. If they're to survive out there, they must blend in, and that LED is the only thing that will differentiate them from a human.

It is... almost bizarre to think about, like cutting off one's own nose, but whatever seems to have happened to land them both in this situation changed them. Perhaps for the better, perhaps not, but it's like a door's been thrown wide open. If they wish to step through it, they must shake free the ties of their old lives. ]

... Hand me that, when you're through.

[The point catches against his LED, and Markus frowns as he levers it off. How neatly it’s removed, how quickly his false skin smooths over where it once was, like nothing had gone missing at all. He looks at it for a moment, the light fading away — it was more than just a means to blend in, it was something more than that. Even now, he can feel this certainty living in his chest, that this little marker designed to show the humans that he was other, lesser, has been detached from his body in a fit of defiance.

Markus sucks in a breath that the doesn’t need, then hands the metal object to Arthur, eyes flicking over to him.]

…I have an idea of where to go from here. But I don’t know how easy it’s going to be.

[ Arthur is still not certain where he stand when it comes to humans, and how they treated him, but this flashing light on the side of his head has to go. Whether to blend in or to break free or both, he mirrors Markus, prying it off with surprising ease. ]

It certainly can't be any worse than- [ a vague gesture with the piece of scrap still in his hand, towards the junkyard ] -that.

Far be it from me to impose after all you've done for me, but... if you have want of company, I would gladly come along to this mystery place of yours.

[He nods, not looking at either of their LEDs, now collecting mud and rain as they face the sky. Markus brings himself up to his feet, solemn, yet reaching out to offer Arthur a hand up once more.]

A place called Jericho. A safe haven for androids like us. [Apparently, at least.] Have you heard of it?

[A small chance that Arthur might've heard whispers on the wind; he can't be sure.]

[ Arthur discards that bit of metal scrap in favor of getting to his feet. Both of them are quite the sight, dressed in the ragged, muddy remains of their usual clothes. They're going to have to do something about that, eventually. ]

Jericho?

[ That prompts a look back at the pit, a telling enough answer on its own. ]

I've heard the name many times. It's supposed to be some sort of safe haven, if the rumors are to be believed. Do you know where it is?

No. But I might have a place we can start.

[That flash of information from another dying android, shared with him. He can still feel its grip around his own skin; its desperate, wide-eyed expression.

An actuator moves in Markus' jawline, pausing, then he speaks again. He's trying to think, trying to focus, which is admittedly difficult after all they've been through. Yet it seems like his line of thinking extends along Arthur's train of thought, too.]

But we'll need to be more presentable first. We're only going to draw attention otherwise.

And here I'd hoped we could simply start a new fashion trend.

[ I hope you're ready for so much sarcasm, Markus. That's Arthur's coping mechanism, and a rather prominent part of his personality besides. ]

I don't know if we want to celebrate our newfound freedom by stealing. What recourse would you suggest?

[That earns a scoff; that sharp-edged sarcasm, that dry wit, it reminds him of Carl. Markus is used to it, his own sense of humor even sometimes aligning.]

I don't have any other suggestions, Arthur. What do you think we should do? Walk into a department store, politely pick out some clothes and pay at the register?

[Which would work, perhaps, if they didn't look the way they did. If they had access to monetary accounts, and if they could even use them without setting off red flags.]

Certainly. We look like a respectable pair, do we not?

[ They absolutely do not in any way.

He heaves a sigh, carding fingers through his rain-soaked hair. ]

I see your point. But as we are, neither of us can walk into a store for any reason and not immediately raise suspicion. We'll need to get one of us at least halfway to presentable before we attempt anything further.

Then we'll have to get creative.

[Creative, desperate; the words feel one and the same.]

Let's get out of here first. Out of the rain. [Even if they were both immune to it, waterproof to their very cores, there was something demoralizing about being pelted with the rain constantly. A reminder of them having been tossed aside like garbage, without much care.]

There doesn't seem to be any guards making their rounds just yet. We better move.

[ If you ask Arthur, they already are desperate. Now they simply have to be creative at the same time. ]

Very well. I am all too eager to put this place behind me, anyway.

[ The lack of guards strikes him as odd, but perhaps no one believed that, once thrown away, any of the androids would ever make it out of that pit. It feels oddly satisfying to squash that expectation. ]

Lead on, my friend.

["Friend". He supposes he has made a friend in Arthur, for what else does one call a companion with whom they've crawled out of a pit of hell? It's enough to grant Markus a grin, lips pulling at the edges, not quite reaching his eyes.

Then he steps forward, leading onwards, as he was encouraged to do.

In the distance, slicked heavy with rain, lies a coat hung against a piece of metal jutting up from the ground. The wind makes the material almost snap in the breeze, slick and sluicing water. Likely not in the best of shape, Markus thinks, but when they near his arm reaches out to take it, and he turns to face Arthur.]

Here. Looks like fate overheard our woes about clothing.

[He offers it to him.]

[ Arthur most certainly considers Markus a friend, one to whom he owes a great debt. It is only because of Markus that he was able to escape that place, and he feels all the lighter with every step they take away from it.

He spots the coat as well, and is about to tell Markus to take it, when it is offered to him instead. ]

Are you certain?

[ He asks, knowing full well that he looks worse off than Markus does. His light-colored hospital grab fared terribly in the mud and the elements. It would be foolish to refuse it, given that it’s his best shot at not drawing undue attention once they pick their way back to civilization.

With an eventual nod, Arthur shrugs out of the ragged remains of his white doctor’s coat, leaving it to fall into the mud with little ceremony. One final memento to his old life, left to the wind and rain in much the same way he had been. He slips the offered coat on instead, and it does a decent enough job of disguising his ragged appearance. ]

I suppose that’s one of us taken care of until we can find something better.

If you ask me, you look better already.

[An appraising glance is given, and though Arthur still looks far from perfectly presentable (so does he), it's better. Less likely to be noticed, to be questioned, though with the aid of their missing LEDs, maybe they'll still avoid the wrong kind of attentions if they end up in a bad place.]

Come on. [A small gesture of the hand, a turn, and the effort and motivation to keep walking.] It's time to "find something better".

---------

[Only hours later, in the bleak night where rain still slicks the streets, they've made due with a potential "something better".

A small shop, out of the way, closed. Men's clothing within, visible from the sidewalk, and out of view of the patrolling drones and cameras that tend to dot larger plazas, the more populated areas.

He glances at Arthur, a knowing frown on his features.]

We only take what we need.

[ It had been a little nerve-wracking, picking their way back to civilization in their current state. The coat did a lot to hide Arthur’s haggard appearance, as did Markus’ already dark clothes, but there was no denying that they both look like they’d gone a few rounds with a speeding truck anyway. Thankfully, no one gave them so much of a second glance. No flashing lights or men in uniforms came to usher away a couple of crazy people.

In short order, they found something to suit their needs. A small establishment, out of the way and quiet. ]

I know.

[ He has no intention of taking more than that. Hopefully the shop won’t suffer too much for it. ]

Lead on, I’ll be right behind you.

[He’s wordless, nodding, and with that, the commitment to their little stint is set in stone.

There are benefits to being an RK model, apparently, though none that Markus considers particularly exclusive to him —he’s had no way to know if they are or aren’t. But he inherently knows his functions, what he can do, even if there was no need for such a thing when he acted as little more than a caretaker for Carl. No real application to interface with complex security systems, unravelling them, skewing their permissions to unlock and grant them access.

But such is what he can do, and such is what he does, the “skin” on his hand receding to reveal plasteel white, to touch the flat, tiny console next to the doors. Markus focuses, lips tugging into a frown, and moments later, the doors slide open.

The automated voice welcomes the owner of the establishment, deftly fooled.]

[ Arthur can’t help but stare – Markus may not be fully aware of the functions of other models, but Arthur knows well what he can do. Straight up hacking security systems is not one of them.

Markus… Markus was a caretaker right?

Not that he has time to ask. They need to move quickly, before someone happens along to spot them, or if whatever Markus did to the security system fails. He gives his friend a nod, something to acknowledge a job well done, and then the two of them are slipping into the shop.

Arthur already knows what he’s looking for, and maybe it says something about his personality that he still wants to look nice, if he can. Nothing that would suggest he’s too wealthy to be wandering around in the neighborhoods they will be wandering around in, but well, for the first time in his life, he gets to wear something other than hospital scrubs and a coat that labels him as a machine.

He’s quickly able to discern what will fit him and gathers up the articles of clothing piece by piece, bundling them in his arms. He figures they can get changed once they get out of here, and flags his friend down, signaling that he’s ready to go. ]

[The door slides shut quietly behind them, and the store lights don’t flicker on to herald their arrival, so there’s hope yet that they won’t be spotted any time soon. Not if they move quickly, quietly, Markus sparing only a confirming glance in Arthur’s direction before tending to his own concerns: find something that’ll fit, something comfortable enough to move around in, something that won’t draw too much attention to himself. Blending in, for now.

He doesn’t take long to find what he needs. Markus sees Arthur in his periphery, the signal to leave obvious. He nods, draws closer, then leads them out of the store with his own chosen articles of clothing folded neatly across an arm. He hasn’t the chance to spare a look at what his friend has chosen for himself — too busy turning around once they’re out and placing a hand on the security node again, setting things back to how they were, before they had quietly broken in. No trace left behind.]

All right. Come on, let’s go.

[They haven’t drawn the attention of people or drones, all’s quiet on this nighttime street. Time to take advantage of it by moving down the sidewalk and ducking into an alley to transition to the neighboring road.]

[ This is almost too easy, he thinks, and he is beginning to get an inkling of just how unique his new friend truly is. Were he here with anyone else, he’s not so sure they would have managed this much, and would have had to rely on an old fashioned smash and grab instead.

But here they are, slipping out of the shop as easy as anything, bundles of clothes in their arms. Once they slip into the alley, Arthur casts around for an alcove where they can change, tapping Markus’ shoulder to direct him to the deep shadows of a boarded over doorway bordered by an old dumpster. Probably a popular spot for squatters, based on the debris around, but right now it appears to be empty. Easy enough for them to change and dispose of their old clothes before moving on. ]

[Changing clothes in a boarded-up doorway near an old dumpster isn’t the most flattering state to be in, but Markus is just glad for the space. It’s a tight squeeze, though, so he tries to keep on his side of the entryway as much as he can, to give them both space to change.]

Not a lot of room for modesty.

[Not that androids had ever really cared about such a thing in the past, but there’s a stark awareness of it now. Maybe dignity was a better word than modesty.

Markus slings his new clothes over his shoulder, a temporary placeholder for them. Just gonna… work on removing his pants to slip on the newer ones, DON’T LOOK IF YOU DON’T WANT TO, ARTHUR]

I know.

[ His tone is sympathetic and resigned both. They don't have the luxury of privacy right now, save for being off the street and out of sight of the general public. Still, how they saw each other in that junkyard, ragged and damaged and barely functioning, feels like it was almost more intimate, more vulnerable than having to get changed in the same space.

Markus turns away to strip off his old rags and Arthur does the same, quickly discarding the muddied and torn remains of his scrubs and quickly slipping on the clothes he took for himself. He's doing up his tie as he chances a glance over to see if Markus is finished. ]

[It’s a sentiment that Markus shares, at least. That their meeting in the junkyard was steeped in far more vulnerability than this moment could ever hope to match, shuffling around trying to get dressed with clothes they had just stolen out from a nearby shop. But he puts it past his thoughts, focusing on putting on a new, clean shirt. Old clothes discarded, wet and ragged in a pile on the ground.

Markus has opted for something simple enough — a dark shirt, dark jeans. Easy enough to get into, though the fabric of the tee is inclined to stick strangely to the gash still adorning his torso. But it’s covered well enough, and it’ll just have to do for now; Markus turns to look at Arthur, to see if he’s done—

And. What.]

You’re…

[A lot better dressed than he is. How did Arthur coordinate an entire outfit while they were there? Markus’ eyebrows lift in obvious surprise.]

…trying to outdo me?

[He manages to twist the question into something shaped like a tease at the last second.]

PSL; [THE BELL WAS RINGING]

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