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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[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.]

[ True, he probably should have gone for something a little simpler, but once he started putting the pieces together, he couldn’t help himself. He looks a bit sheepish at Markus’ jab, shrugging. ]

I can’t hack a security system with a mere thought, so I have to outdo you somehow.

[The reply has him pausing, both to take in the whole of Arthur's outfit and the implication of that comment.]

I guess so.

[Shifting his clothes around so that they fall on his form better, an old habit. Carl always made sure that Markus had a set of clothes that made him look presentable and like a member of the family, never an android meant to serve. Fingers fidget with the bottom hem of his black tee, clearing away any wrinkles.]

Maybe you're wondering why an android meant to be a caretaker can hack much of anything. I can't tell you the answer, only that it's just an innate part of my programming.

Worked in our favor, didn't it?

I did have a desire to ask, but I was going to wait on it. I should thank you, then, for saving me the trouble.

[ He’ll not look a gift horse in the mouth. Markus’ rather unique, if unorthodox, skill set have helped to alleviate a rather large problem. Now, they’re free to wander the city as they please to look for this Jericho place. ]

Where do we go from here?

[It's a small wonder, so very minuscule in the face of their troubles right now. Maybe they can question it later; maybe Markus can relay to Arthur someday the oddities of a man named Elijah Kamski, and the novelty of being built by such an individual.

Later, when they're not in such a shape.

They have decent clothes now, at least, meaning that they might pass as human without drawing too much attention. When Markus looks at Arthur again, mismatched eyes are hardened by determination.]

There's a place called Jericho; a safe haven for androids like us. Some of the... others in the junkyard showed me where we could begin, and how to find it.

Hope you like looking at street art.

[ In the face of that look, Arthur can’t help but think back to their first meeting, a lifetime and a world away. It’s true that the two of them are no longer bound by whatever forces that kept them in check before, but where others might find anger or fear or even hatred, there is a steely determination in the other android that Arthur cannot help but find inspiring, in its way. ]

You act as if I’ve something better to do. [ There’s a small smile on his face as he extends a hand, a silent offer to share with him whatever they’re supposed to be looking for. ] I suspect you have an advantage when it comes to art, but I’ll certainly help as best I can.

[An advantage when it comes to art. A comment that forces a faint grin across his features, yet threatens to wrench his Thirium pump out of place all the same. Carl. The loss is poignant and he doesn't know what yet to do with it, not in the wake of everything that's just happened to him. What's happened to the both of them.

He pushes it down and away, and nods at Arthur, determination sinking over the surface of that wound once more.]

If you have a pair of keen eyes at your disposal, that's all the help I'll need. [He turns and gestures for Arthur to follow him. They've a ways to go.] Come on. No point in staying here.

[They have a subway train to catch.]

* * *

[It's strange, trying to fit in with the humans. As the subway careens down its track, the lights flickering and momentum swaying, he occasionally looks over at Arthur to judge how he's doing. Markus attempts to keep the tension out of his own shoulders and expression the best he can. It's easy enough to be android-still, but how does one strike that balance between being calm and too synthetic?

So it's a faint relief when they exit the subway after it lurches to a halt, passing by the doors hissing open, and out into the terminal. Passerby's roam in all directions, paying them little to no heed.]

...That went more smoothly than anticipated. [-he remarks to his companion when he draws closer.]

[ Arthur has spent his entire life watching over humans in various stages of life and health. One would think that would help him to blend in with them a bit better, but much like Markus, he’s a bit out of his depth on the train. He’s never traveled by subway before, first of all. His rare forays into the field were always by hospital-provided transportation.

Plus, it’s very hard to act natural. To sway with the motion of the cars on the tracks like a human might. He’s probably over-thinking it, surely no one is paying either of them enough mind to notice how still they’re standing or not, but still. It’s a definite work in progress, and Arthur can’t help but feel relieved once they finally step off the train at their destination. ]

Worried someone was going to figure you out, hm? Me too.

[ This is a lot to get used to. ]

Yeah.

[Yes, it is a lot to get used to. Too much, the world feeling like it's spinning backwards on its axis, both of their realities turned upside-down ever since they found themselves caked in the mud of a junkyard.

Markus frowns, eyes casting out at a distance, where there's a colorful display of street art and graffiti lining the walls of the terminal enclosure. The android motions at the other to follow him in that direction.]

Though I don't like pretending to be something I'm not. [Even though it's necessary, even though it benefits their survival to be human... there's something about hiding that irks him. He cannot quite put a finger on why.]

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PSL; [THE BELL WAS RINGING]

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