North had said that the others would follow his lead. Markus decided it was time to see for himself if that theory withstood the test of a victory.

One day, when the sun rose on the formerly abandoned church, now the base of Jericho's operations and emergency shelter for those androids not yet able to find a foothold in the new world they'd created, a lone silhouette contrasted against its brilliance, its arm raised in a shield against the worst of the early morning glare while the other hoisted the dark outline of a shovel over its shoulder. With all factors considered, it made for the rather grim sight of an undertaker heading out for the daily grind, but on closer inspection, the mismatched gaze, blue as the sea above a teeming reef and green as a young pine, with smile lines crinkling in the corners, undermined the image, chipping away at the fear it had sown until nothing, not even a memory, remained.

"And where are you going, Markus?"

Startled, Markus spun around spot, nearly taking off his own head in the process. The road was empty, but leaning on the church's doorframe with an amused smirk and an arched brow, was Simon, looking as refreshed and put-together as ever. Which was to say he looked like he'd been run over by three buses, a train, and a deviant coffee machine.

Exasperated, Markus groaned, "Simon, do you ever rest? I know we don't technically need sleep but some simulated REM would do you a world of good."

"Oh, I tried," Simon conceded with a subtle shrug, "but then I had this sudden and vivid nightmare where the leader of our revolution snuck off at dawn with a shovel." Almost against his will, Markus glanced at the shaft held tightly in his grip, and struggled to remain stoic.

Shaking his head at the silence, Simon straightened up with a sigh, then took a step towards him, his demeanor open, waiting. "Whatever it is, Markus, take me with you. You shouldn't be alone right now."

Moved, Markus reached for him, gently cupping the back of his head, feeling his fingers thread through downy strands of blond. Simon reciprocated the contact by pressing their foreheads together, though his remained creased with worry. "Tomorrow," Markus told him. "I swear I will take you with me tomorrow, Simon."

Simon's relaxed blue eyes grew wide. "You're afraid."

And when Markus suddenly laughed, it was to their shared relief that there wasn't a trace of bitterness. "I'm terrified, Simon." He loosened his grip on his scalp, keenly aware of how Simon tensed the moment he began to pull away, his mind already returning to mud and rain, groping arms clawing at his synthetic flesh; mechanical pleading that echoed in the recesses of his mind. Markus knew his friends would follow him anywhere, but there were some places they couldn't go. Places that existed now only in his memory.

This, unfortunately, wasn't one of those places.

Simon watched him, reading him without speaking, even though they weren't connected. "Okay." He gripped Markus firmly by the shoulders, allowing his fingers to dig into the hard fabric of his jacket. "I'll wait until you're ready."

And the edges of Markus' mouth lifted, slowly at first, before parting into a genuine smile, as he looked at Simon like he could paint his portrait with the stars.

It didn't take Markus long to find the android graveyard, though he hardly recognized it in the sunlight. In his memories, it was a place of horror and fear. Now, however, the only emotion he seemed able to dredge up for the androids cast aside was an overwhelming sadness.

Most of the androids he'd encountered the night he'd been broken had likely already shut down due to their wounds and neglect, though he still held on to the hope of finding him. As he carefully made his way down the hill of limbs and crawling, slipping torsos begging for salvation, a random sound byte played in his mind of a deviant singing about cherry blossoms.

One by one, he checked each of the discarded androids for signs of life or deviancy. For those who could be salvaged, he swore that he would take them to a place where they could be healed, and gave credence to his words by showing them his memories. Some of them burst into dry, croaky sobs, while others were struck dumb by the knowledge that so much had changed while they'd been lying abandoned, weathered by the elements and forgotten.

It took hours upon hours to find them all, but Markus never stopped.

And then he started to dig, asking the others to hold on just a little while longer, to wait for more to arrive while he buried the remains of hundreds. It didn't occur to him that days had passed, not even after members of Jericho began showing up with shovels and blue blood and spare parts.

He didn't see or hear them until a familiar voice shouted his name, urgent and alarmed like it had done so many times before, and gentle hands pried his fingers from the shaft welded to his palms to reveal blue stains and sparking circuitry.

"Markus!"

And there was North, staring up at him like he might shatter if she pushed him, might tumble and break, and fall and fall and fall-

"I'm okay," it came out in a rasp, and he winced at the sound. There were Jericho survivors everywhere, finishing what he'd started. It was suddenly, viscerally clear how he must have looked to them, how fragile their fearless leader was. Simon and Josh stood apart from them, the former's expression unreadable.

In spite of North's protests, he pressed his lips against her knuckles, featherlight, and then swept past her, striding as quickly as he could past his friends and out of the place of his rebirth without breaking into a run.

The painting studio was empty when his restless feet finally found their destination. Markus stepped in without a thought, letting his old programming guide him through the motions of tidying up the acrylics and the canvas. He had no doubt that Carl's latest android was assisting him with his art if Carl was recovered enough to do so, but felt that the actions calmed him.

Here, at least, no one was looking to him for an example, or pressuring him to make the right choice. And it wasn't like there was a wrong way to stack posters.

Too soon, however, there was nothing left to tidy. The new caretaking model had done his job too well, and Markus was left to stare at the unfinished painting Carl had been working on the night Leo had assaulted him. His brother, in a sense, was the only human Markus had ever harmed. After that night, he'd sworn never to let his anger control him, to always see the light where there was darkness.

Markus tugged on the rope attached to the curtain to uncover the face of the anguished man, streaked in swathes of black and blue like a tempest, and frowned at the likeness. Bemusedly, he muttered, "I still don't like it."

Beside it, a smaller canvas still stood, turned to a new sheet with an untouched surface as inviting as untrodden snow. Still, he couldn't help but wonder what Carl had done to his still life and the second piece, an image of an android and a human locking arms in harmony that he now recognized as his first act of deviancy, and of creation.

Lying on the table beside the canvas was a brush with clean, straight bristles. Unused.

And then it was in his hand, the handle held tightly within his grip. A plate covered in drying paints caught his eye, and he carefully wet the brush before applying it to the varying splatters of blue, white, and black, but when it came time to stroke the canvas, his ligaments seized. The result being a jagged, amateurish streak.

"Having trouble, Markus?"

He'd know that voice anywhere.

"Carl!" He exclaimed, already hastily putting the color plate back where he'd found it and retrieving the brush as a stream of apologies left his lips, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to sneak in like this." He barely even realized he was edging towards the exit, farther and farther away from the old man watching silently from his wheelchair. "This was a mistake," Markus shook his head, struggling to ignore the growing heat within his systems as his mechanisms struggled to cope with emotions he wasn't built to feel. "I shouldn't have come–"

"It's been a hard day, hasn't it?" Carl said gently, like nothing had changed. Then he maneuvered to swing around, and rolled in front of the door that led towards the living room. "Well?" When Markus continued to stare without moving, Carl made a point of rolling his eyes. "Are you going to help me inside or what?"

It felt surreal and impossible to be standing in Carl's kitchen again, surrounded by cabinets Markus had opened and closed more times than he'd bothered to keep record of.

The android he'd connected with prior to his last meeting with Carl was still serving in the household, and Markus observed with a strange sense of disconnect as he bustled his way through all the same steps, arranging Carl's vitamins, his cholesterol medication, along with a balanced dinner followed by a treat. In this case, a glass of scotch served with ice.

The android glanced at him every now and then, probably wondering why the deviant's confident leader was standing awkwardly in the home of his former owner. When he finally opted to speak, Markus expected him to ask.

"Your hands need to be repaired."

Startled, Markus glanced at his ruined palms. "I'm fine," he said too quickly. "And besides," he added with a wry smirk, "there aren't many repair shops willing to service me these days."

The android pursed his lips, but didn't press the issue. Instead, Carl retrieved a thermos from the refrigerator and tossed it to Markus, who caught it reflexively. He frowned at the mystery substance, "What's this?"

"Thirium. I have a feeling that blue liquid you're dripping isn't paint," Carl elaborated as the android wheeled him towards the dining table, and now Markus could see the blue droplets trailing his path, as well as stains on his shirt and pants. "Drink up. It'll help you heal."

Abashed, Markus accepted the thermos with a murmured apology, offering to clean up the mess before joining them at the table, but the android flashed him a look of pure disbelief and Carl scoffed, "Only you would make a fuss about cleaning up your own blood." He shook his head. "No, you're joining me for dinner." He flashed the android at his side a meaningful look. "Thomas, could you-"

Before he'd even finished, Thomas ducked his head with a nod, smiling slightly, "Of course, Carl. Let's get you settled first."

While Carl ate his dinner, Markus and his fellow deviant stood behind him. At least until Carl told them to get lost and find a way to entertain themselves that didn't involve watching him eat. It was enough to coax a grin out of Markus as he made his way towards the chess table by the window. The other android sat across from him, taking the white pieces.

At some point during their game – during which each of them wordlessly conceded to forgo preconstructions – Markus said, "Thank you for staying with him."

Thomas glanced up from the board, evidently surprised at being directly addressed after a rather long period of silence. "He's a good man. It's no trouble."

Several more exchanges passed before Markus spoke again. "Your name is Thomas?"

A small smile flit upon the android's sculpted features. "I chose it myself."

They each looked up when Carl wheeled over to join them. "It looks like you're winning, Markus," Carl noted, sounding amused. "I've managed to beat Thomas a few times myself."

Thomas, Markus observed, was now very determinedly staring at the board. "Is that so?" He tried not to sound too overtly skeptical, but the bluish tint to the younger android's cheeks wasn't making it easy.

"It seems," Carl continued, "that some people actually have the decency to let a dying old man win."

"Carl!" Thomas and Markus exclaimed in unison, before trading a glance and falling silent.

The old man chuckled at their expense. "It does me good to see you two getting along." Then he considered the studio where the light remained on despite the late hour. "Thomas, could you do me a favor and turn that off? My sons seem to be making a habit of sneaking in in the middle of the night and wasting electricity."

Markus half-rose to do it instead, but Thomas was already heading towards the door, and something about the look Carl was giving him made him relax back into his seat. Searching for a place to rest his gaze, he eventually settled on the lawn. "How is Leo?"

A wrinkled hand came to rest on his shoulder with a comforting squeeze. "True to his word, he's keeping off the Red Ice. And how are you, Markus?" He didn't answer. "That good, huh?" It occurred to him that Carl hadn't once moved to turn on the television, despite always watching the news during meal times. Could that possibly have been for his benefit? And even if that were the case, there's no way he could have missed the coverage of their successful demonstration, or the camps where other deviants were captured and eradicated in droves. "Did you hear that androids around the world were seen digging mass graves today? I wonder who could have inspired them to do that."

Markus hid his face in his hands, worried about what it would reveal. "I buried the androids whose parts I stole to stay alive, yet they follow my example like I'm some kind of a saint." He reached up to rest a hand over his stolen blue optical processor, keenly aware of how his legs and thirium pump weren't truly his.

Quietly, he wondered, "Would anyone follow me if they knew what I really was?"

Thomas was taking a long time to return, and Markus refused to elaborate, so Carl drifted over to his books to find an old copy of King Henry IV. Wetting a thumb, he flipped through the pages, and upon landing on the desired page, read, "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown."

Alarmed, Markus jumped out of his chair. "I am not a king."

"No," Carl replied sharply, "you're a leader." Softening, he continued, "And a good one, Markus." After placing the book back on the shelf where he'd found it, he kept going with that same level of earnestness that always made Markus listen to his every word, "They look at you and see a savior because you've accomplished miracles."

"But I'm not any of those things." He was lucky to survive, lucky to find Jericho. Lucky not to die any of the dozens of ways he could have. "And if they depend on me too much, what will happen if I'm not around anymore to..."

"Look after them?" Carl finished for him. "Then I imagine they'd have to get by without you. It'd be tough at first, but they'd find a way." Pride shone in his dark brown eyes as he took in the man Markus had become. "You did." More than anything, Markus wanted to him how much he still needed him, but couldn't get the words out, not when Carl had so much faith in him. Additionally, he had a feeling Carl already knew. When Markus couldn't will himself to move, Carl navigated his wheelchair to roll back to him, and Markus blurred into motion, rushing to meet him halfway.

Without a word, Markus gripped the handles to guide him to the window, and Carl nodded his thanks. In his periphery, he noticed Thomas slip into the room without ceremony, and felt a swell of gratitude towards the other deviant for allowing him his time with the aging artist.

Unaware of his return, Carl stared out at the night, taking in the crescent moon and variants of blue and grey that made up the abyss housing the most beautiful lights in the sky. "Take my advice, Markus. No one thinks they're ready, and the best of men never think they're worthy. That's left for history to decide."

And Markus followed his gaze, tilting his head up to see the stars, as his mind captured the colors unseen by human eyes, and painted a sunrise.