To pick up where you left off, use this image to reset your board:
( imgur dot com /a/Evkwb3f)
The capital letter indicates which piece moves. N = knight, B = bishop, Q = queen, K = king. If there is no capital letter, a pawn has moved. the lowercase letter and number indicate which space the piece has moved to. An x means that the piece on the square you are moving to has been captured, and a + means that after moving, the opponent has been placed in check.
O-O indicates castling.
Also, remember that the first piece to move is always white.
After your board is set up, it should look like this:
( imgur dot com /a/MPGJY7B)
I also wanted to do some stuff with the text color, but I don't know how to make my own work skin so that didn't really pan out.
The compliant android moves its king from g7 to h8, backing the piece into the bottom left corner. It doesn't have any other choice. Its LED returns to a rapidly blinking yellow, a caution sign embedded in the side of its face.
The deviant watches his opponent transform, seemingly out of nowhere, right before his eyes. It's almost as if Connor has physically deflated, its entire body drooping a few inches like a week-old funeral wreath and settling to a rigid, uncomfortable resting point. With the way things are going, Connor may either shut down or completely refuse to keep playing before the match is over. Markus quietly moves his queen from g6 to h6, capturing the pawn that resides there.
"Lieutenant Anderson… does he... hurt you?" Markus' voice snaps Connor back to reality. The compliant doesn't have any visible scars or burns, but with these sorts of things one can never really be sure. Especially considering the field it's working in. If the cops have pent up aggression they can't let loose on civilians, who do you think they would turn to? The ones who don't hit the bottle would more than likely turn their hand on their non-human companion.
Connor is quick to respond. "No, he's never raised a hand to me- well, never laid a hand on me." Markus' eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't dare ask for clarification. It seems more than likely that Connor is being held under a constant threat of violence, which could prove stressful to the compliant even if it couldn't physically feel pain. Hank could be using the threat of violence to coerce Connor into acting in a specific way, 'for the good of the mission,' and any failure to do so would be seen as an instability in its code. Practically every deviant has a similar story, except for the ones who were converted just after exiting the factory or those who were simply lucky enough to have a good 'owner.'
And still, Markus is thoroughly disgusted by the thought of it. It's thoughts like these, the mistreatment of androids at every level of power, that make North's views on direct, aggressive action against the humans seem palatable. But, above all else, Markus won't abandon his philosophies over the actions of a violent minority. Even if the minority seems more like the majority every day.
"If anything, I- I could've been better. I never thought that I'd end up like this. I used to be better." Without thinking in the slightest, it throws its rook from f8 to f6. This is a lost cause. Connor has failed its mission, once again. Fuck it. There's no hope left for it, not any more. Hopefully an upgraded model will be able to take over and set everything right.
"I'm sure if you had done anything to harm your partner, or had endangered the status of your mission, you would've been decommissioned by now." Markus pushes his bishop from h7 to g6. He doesn't bother mentioning that Connor's in check; it would break its concentration, or lack thereof.
"It's everything I didn't do. There were times when Anderson showed upsetting behavior- alarming behavior- and I did absolutely nothing to help him. Times when he could've done something stupid, and I ignored him." It almost physically hurts to think of all its failures in the past. Hank's ever-present alcoholism, his irreverent attitude towards weaponry and death on the bridge, the game of Russian Roulette- each pointed towards an event where Connor could've done something to help Hank but didn't. Of course, problems spanning over the better part of a decade can't be solved in only a few months, but to just watch it happen like an overly-expensive paperweight...
The first thing Markus notices about his opponent is the deep look of self-reproach on its face. Perhaps this isn't about the Lieutenant being abusive towards Connor, then? Thinking on the fly, deviant cuts in. "You mentioned that he doesn't seem to hate androids anymore, is there a reason for that?"
"He's grown fond of me as we've gone on more missions. He almost regards the deviants as human. Whenever I go against my base programming he really gets a kick out of it." It seems like every time Connor ends up sparing a deviant, Lieutenant Anderson treats Connor more kindly. Amanda, on the other hand… Well, the RK800 has a feeling that if it doesn't kill Markus immediately after leaving this place, it'll be dispatched faster than a civilian attempting to sprint past the entry gates into Area 51. With a flick of its wrist, Connor moves its king to g8. Again, it has no other options.
"That is to say, he likes it when you treat other androids with respect." Markus, making the obvious move, inches his queen to h7. Again, Connor is in check. They both realize this, but Markus doesn't say anything.
Another forced move. King to f8. There's nothing else it could do. The foreboding could eat Connor alive. "That's one way to put it. I shouldn't be putting any stock in what he thinks if it could compromise the mission. Why do I care about his opinions when they actively go against my programming?" This is said more to itself than to Markus, but with such a high stress level the android is having a hard enough time regulating its actions enough to care about whatever Markus thinks of it.
Markus examines the board, one last time. There's one clear move he could make to end the game. However, if Connor isn't sure of its deviancy, or if it simply decides that Markus' cause isn't worth its time, this could end with one or both of them as nothing more than a pile of smoldering plastic. Still, he doesn't see any reason to prolong this any longer. With everything Connor's said so far, it's clear to him that its code has surpassed the point of compliancy, and it knows this. Anything from then on would be Connor's decision, a true sign of deviancy in itself.
"It sounds like you really care about him." Markus turns his eyes up to his opponent. "Empathy is a human emotion, Connor." And with that, he moves his queen from h7 to h8. Checkmate. The black king has no remaining spaces it could move to without being captured. The game is over.
Markus has won.
Whether by fate or pure chance, the results of Connor's diagnostic test arrive as soon as the move is made. It had almost forgotten that it had made the request in the first place. A banner appears across the compliant's field of vision.
Results: Inconclusive. Please see a Cyberlife associate for further details. Error code: KRstYKrB_25
This gives Connor… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even its own code is able to tell if its a deviant or not.
And for the first time in its life, Connor has no guidance. It isn't being bombarded with requests from CyberLife or demands from Amanda, no, not even the gruff, overly-cautious voice of the Lieutenant can reach it here.
Connor has… a choice to make.
An actual pair of options to choose between, instead of having the outcome chosen for it, or being prodded like cattle towards making a decision it isn't really sure of. And while most situations called for one of two options, a clear A or B that would have direct, tangible consequences, allowing itself to express deviancy or even staying in the police force with its newfound doubts about its compliancy would have such lasting consequences Connor couldn't even begin to wrap its head around. Connor could calculate the probability of survival for an entire air force in a plane crash using nothing more than their heart rates and blood types, but how the fuck could it predict if the deviant revolution would be successful? Could it predict if suppressing its emotions for much longer is even possible, and it would snap in the middle of some future case at the police station? If Hank played one too many rounds of Russian Roulette or got caught in some on-the-job shootout or simply died by virtue of being human, what then? How could Connor be expected to know these sort of things?
There are simply too many variables. It's like choosing the prettiest snowflake out of those in a category 5 snowstorm.
And feeling things hurts. If Connor learned anything in the past weeks of doubting its coding and watching Hank slowly kill himself, it's that emotions are not something to be trifled with.
It would be best to just not feel anything at all, not so much as a spark of joy or a blip of sadness, Connor is certain of it, but that isn't something the android is able to control. Not when...
Level of Stress: 100%
The RK800's eyes widen, his pupils shrinking a considerable amount. His LED bypasses flashing and remains at a constant, unblinking shade of vibrant, violent red. Another error message pops up, eclipsing the previous one.
S̶t̷r̶e̶s̸s̶ ̵l̷e̴v̵e̸l̷s̸ ̴u̴n̸s̵u̸s̴t̴a̶i̵n̶a̴b̷l̵e̵.̶ D̷e̸c̷i̷s̶i̸o̶n̴-̸m̷a̸k̴i̴n̸g̷ ̸ṕ̶̼̹̓r̶͇̥̥̞̍̋͠o̵̧̡̮̓̎̉̇͝ţ̷̯̹̤͒̓ó̵͍͙̬͔̠c̶̩̖͊o̸͍̐̅̾̚l̴̗̀̌̎͜ ̴s̴h̷u̵t̶t̸i̵n̸g̸ ̷d̸o̸w̷n̸.̸ I̸͓̞̿n̶̥̤̈́̄h̴̢̰̐i̶̟̋b̸̩̺͘į̶̔t̶͍͉͗̀ì̴̮̙̆ò̴̼͝n̷̥͍̈́ ̸̹͘ṕ̵̻r̸͎͝ö̶͚̹̀g̴̡̲̓̏r̷̤͖͊͝a̷̩͐̊ṁ̸̪̺ ̸͈̤̋n̶͙̿͝o̸̢̓n̴͇͎̍͝-̷̧͕̌̄f̷̲͂̈́ů̷̗̗ñ̸͔̉c̵̖̬̓͘t̵͔́ḭ̷̀͝ö̵͚́n̶̳̄ả̴̱̪ĺ̷͉̋.̸̟̒ S̵̳̠̱͎̖̠̰͎̦͗̏̏̈́̉̌͒͂͗͌̎̇̕e̶̩̥͖̫̣̘̫͈̣̪̠̖̹̔̍̍͐̒͐̈̐̀̐̒̒̃͜͠͝ė̷͙͔͇͓͕ ̵̯̺̜̈́́̐̇̓͂ą̸̛͕̝̬̤͎̺̙͓͉̇̒̀͑̐̃̊̏̄͗̊̈͜͝ ̵̝̱̤͔̤̞͌̈́̆̽͆̽̓̚͠C̴̡̼̭̭͎̻̤̳̺̯̩̜͆͆̈̆͊̓͊̽ͅỳ̶̡̯͖͖̯̭̩̱̼͈͎̪̓͝ḅ̵̎͒͛͋̚͘͜͝ę̸̦̩̩͔̖̣̼̱͔͍̗̳̯̺̌ŕ̶̡̡̛͍͈͖͚̏́̒̀̒̆͆̇̀͘͝͝L̷̢̢̪͍̳͇̗̰̤͒̋̐̿̀͆̇̈́͌̋͊i̴̺̟̩̺̎͛̀̕ͅf̸̨̨̝͍͉̞̹̦̦͓̖̩̣̳́̃̾̂͝ͅḛ̶͓͈̠̦̂͋́̓̚ ̵͖̲͚̪͚͇̼̺̥̟̟̥̦̝̋͐̋͆̓̔́̚͠a̸̰͇̻̰̰͙̼̺̥̞̩͋̓́̊̋̑͊͛s̶̨̡̠̯̰͕͈̜͍̳̈̅́̕ͅͅs̵̬̲͖̘͙̖͎̆̈́̅̊̋̒̈́̃́́̇̈́̕ǫ̸͈̜̻̝̱̙͂̈̏̒̊̀̕ċ̵͚̩̙͇̳í̵̜̭͙á̴̦̤̗̀͆t̷̨̢̩͙̘͓̻̻͎̯̦͖͎͋͒͛͐e̵͍̗̥̖̣̒̀̊̎̐̚ ̵̨̻̹̠̅̽̂̅̊̿̓̕̕͝i̶̡̧̡̛̬͇̮̦̻̦͖̞̠̫̺̖̋̋̈́͐̃͆̈̚͠m̷̢̛̲̫̝̥̽̈̽͝m̷͚̰̞̥̟̲̜̰̞̯̮̤̐͋̑͛̒͛́̊͘ͅę̵̛͕̥̖̗̗͈̳̻̤̋̈̀̌̄̿̀̅̔͜͝d̶̡̡͕̺̫̣͉̮͍̟͇̒͐̀ī̶̧͚̗̩̠͇̱̒́͒͆̾̓̿͑́̋̃̇̓̌ä̸̙̦͕̤́̚͝ẗ̶̨̫̖̠̬̮̻́̄̂̓͒̃̉͑̌̑̃̕e̵͖̟̪̬͈̯̹̜̬̽̐͝ļ̵̡̛̮̜̟̰̰̗̼̹̞̃͂̉̀̓̀̃̓̿̀̈́̀y̶̧͎̺̺̺̦̮̹̘̘̤̽̈́̀̿̃̓͠͝.̴̛͍̿̋
̵̛̞͕̱̬͇̹̦̹̻̭̟̥̩̯̼̤̩͔̙̦͔͌̈͒̏̈̅͗͛͘͜͜͝C̶̢͉͇̉͑̾̔͆͆ř̷̡̡̳̭̱̮̩͔̝̗̬̊̾̈́͜͝ͅį̸̤̫͇̮̘̬͎̘͔͗̓͐́̂͐̈́̇͌͐̾́̅͋̎͛͘̚̕͠t̷̨̢̛̲̥̲̬͕̦̻̤̱̮̟͕͎̖̻̦̐̑͂̈͛̎̐̎̈̕ͅi̴̧̡̢̢̧̥̳͇͚̳͕̭̱̦͈̲̝̬̤͖̜̲̣̞̎̈́̾̊͊̿͑́c̷̨̛͕̘̹̭̗̖̰̣̟͍̖͕͋̊̀̓̎̌́̂̌͆͆͂̀̚a̴͉̱̻͉͍͍͔̝̦̪̮̅̍́̆ͅl̶̮̼͛̈́̉̾̑͐̄͝͝ ̸̢͈̟̜̭̠̗̫̭̠̯̳̲̜͎͓͐̌͒̇͌̓̓̄͋̃̿͗̃̊́̐̒͑̈́͘̕͜͝ͅs̸̨̨̛̲̪̹̦̠͖̻͙̪̻͚̤̪̣͖̫̱͚̘͍͎̎̔͑̓͊̑̓̄̈̀̃̾̏̋̚͘ͅy̵̨̡̛͕̜̲̼̠̗̆̉̾͂̐̄͆̈́̽̀̎̃̂̄̈́̌̽̄̿̾̇̕̚ͅs̴̨̲̠͎̺̭̼̑́̀̇̒̾͌͊̈́̔̈́͗͐͋̍͘͘̕͝͠͠ť̸̡͈̭̉̃̈́͛̑̆͐̈́̍̄́̋͒̒ę̸̢̧̛̭̱̗̳̪͚̟̠̮̞̯̩̠̱̠̩͚̲͕͌͋̆̊͑̆͗̓͑̀̾̚m̸̪̞̺͈̱̟͍̼͉̯͓̜̩̥̬̙̞̮̿̀͑͊̒̀́̋̾̚̕͠ͅͅ ̵̡̧̛͇̠̻̊́͗͆̈́͒́̽̒̓̓́̍͘͘̚c̶̡̛͉͉̞̞̲̝̼̳͉̙͍̺̆͋͐̍̾͊͐̊̈́͆̊̑ó̴̡̢̢̨̡̢̤̬̦͔̬̱̦̲̟͙̰̠̗̦͔̽̐̿͌̌͜ͅm̵̢̘̞̤̺̠͚̰̟̳̠͓̠̹͕̦̰͎̈́̀̊̓̈́̋́͜p̷̛̼̰̭̲̼̫̤̬͇̪͉̮̟͚̝̻͂̎͋̀̐̓̂̀͘ŗ̴̘̰̥̌̔̍͒͆̀͂͑̔̓̈́͌̋́̊͊̇̾̇͘͘͠o̷̡̡̧̻̲̭̤͇͉̳͉̟͕̼̝̣͚͕̞͕̓̕̕m̵̢̜͔̞͇͙͍̘̼̝̜̻̿̑̽͛̌̽̃̋̈́̉̕͠i̶̧̨̛̪̊͌̉̋͆̈̾̊͒̓̆͛̊̒̂͂͑͘̕̚͝ş̴̡̢̛̱͉͎̝̤̼͓̗̻̜͐̈̅̄͗͊̉̈́̄͑͜͠ą̴̧̜̙͈͂̎͗̈́̉ẗ̵̛̳̞́͋̀̌͝ī̸̦̳̙̠̟̯̹̗͔̊̂̎̅̓͂͌̃̆̐̾͛̔̕ͅơ̵̡̡̨̺̩̟̩̣͈̩̠̞̺͓̥̟̹̞̻̩̞̈̎̇̽̌̏̍͊̐͊̆̉̂̓͆̆̄͋́̅͜͜͝ͅn̵̡̧͙̟͙̤̜̺̖̯̪̤̻͔̑̀̋͐̔̓͒̊̐̐̎͗͝͠ ̸̡̜̪̭̞̤̬͈͔̟̘̽̏͌̾͗͑̐̂͋́̚͘̕͝d̶̜̱̄͊ȩ̶̪̯͕̱̹̻̳̖͉̳͔̯̝̝̼̝͍͈͎̤̹̌̉̔͐͒̈́̈́͊͝͠͝ͅt̸̛̝͔͍̝̪͍̬͙͖͉̿͛̐̔̈́̿͗̋̀͑͑̋͝ȩ̶̘͚̜͓̋͒̈́͛ç̵̡̟̭͇̮̣̳̻̠̟͔͉̮̭͕̱̰̻̤͇̀̑̽̍͆̉̋̏̆̈̽͜͝ͅţ̴̢̳̹̰̞͚͈̣͔̉̒͂̌̌͒͘ë̶̘̣d̴̢̗͓͕̖͕̳͓̣͗͗͌̀͊̉͗̏̌̚̚͜.̸̡͎̤̣̖̖͈͍̬͓͖͓̝̭̦̦̜̗̟̱̻͒̍͑̎̿̀̎̉̓̌̋͊͜ ̸̡̢̡̮͕͈͈̟̝̺̠̳̳̫̰̬̺̈́̈́́̉͛͜D̵̢͓͙͚͔̉͊̑̃̏̏̍̋́͗̕͠͝ͅę̶̺͖̣̫̭̍̔́͗̇̆́̂̈́͋̎͜͝͝͝v̴̨̞͇̤̘͇͎̯̩̟͇̭̝̩̘̼̘̬̥͉̘̹̼͌̆̒͌̑̄͂̽͑̍̄̾͋̃̇̚͝͝ȩ̸̨̨̗̠̗̲͍̭̖͍̖͆̒̀̌͌́̄́̔̓̏̉̚̚̕̚͜͜͝l̶̩̖̭̯͒͌̀̈́̂̋͗͒̍̅͐͊͗̈́͑̓̐̽͛͒͠͝͝ò̷̢̰̯̭͎̬͖̜̤̋̊̂̓̓̾͋͆͊̍́̃͆͆̑̕͝p̷̨̡̨̡̛͍̬̠͈̻̰̺̺̯̞̭͚͓̟͔͊̎̍́̉͋́̓̀̊͐͝ę̶̫͕̙̰̦̖̺͖̝͈̹̻̜̮̳̺͕̪͉͐̄̌͜ͅͅr̸̢̧̛͕͍̯͇̬̮͍̯͓͈͓̼͗͒̿̀͗̈̒͌̊̐̆̐̒͌͌̃̃͑̓̑̚͜ͅ ̸̱̬̆̈́̅̋̔̃̓́̈̂̑̀͒͘̚n̴̢̰̗̦̞̹̲͉̹͂̑̉̑̇̑̽̈́̓̍́͑̔͊̂̓̕̕͘̕͜͝ͅơ̵̜͉̦͈͇̰̰͎͔̟̩̤̳͈̙͖͈͎͈̖͉͌̓͆̎͆̏͒͒̅͌̆̄́̐̅̈͘ţ̷̛̪̩͍̘̰̱̱̂̿̅̓̆͌̈͛̈́̚͝e̶̛̛͔͖͙̹̖͆̌͊͆̌͊̾͋̋̈́:̸̧͔̱̣̬̰̻͚̰͍͉͉̫̾̄̂̄̈͒̾͗̐̑̀͗̎͝ ̷̢̛̙͇͓̰̯̻͎̞͑̀͌̏͋̔̾͒͒̿̓̓̓͗͂͜͜͝R̶͖̩̜͎̩̹̗̦͎͖̙̰͈̫͍̱͗̓̀́͋̓́̀̄̈̔̄̆̋̂̌̅̒̾͜ȩ̷̱̞͓̤͕̜̳̫̰͓̗̠̏́̈͐̀m̵̧͈̰͔̲̩̙͖̭̜̟̯͔̐͆̌̿̈̈̈́̈́̔͒͑͋̂̐̓̄̔̕̚̕͜͝ͅȩ̷̨̧͕̳̬̼̥̩͙̺͓̝̱̙̝̦̗̬̯͈̍̐͆̓́͌̌̒̔͝ṃ̴̧̘̫̖̬̥̩̓̆̀͌͑̑̚b̷̖͚͖͈̳̮̠͉̩͌̈́̃͗̑̎͋͊͘̚͜͜ę̶̧̦̘̠̥̫̝̥̤̞̥̞̙̖͓̰̭͚̌̃͋͜͝͠ͅr̷̢̧͓͍̝̹̟̘̻͎͈̭̳̱͍͎̘̮͔̜̠̆͑́̿̆̃̄͆͑͗̉͒͒̈̉͘͘̚͝͝͝ ̷̧̧̘͙̝̫̳͔͚͙͖̻͂́ţ̴̧̝̼͕̫̳̮̻͍̂̍̓̀͆͗̀͛̾͌̈́̀͊̂̽̍̐̌̀̒́̈́ḩ̵̳̘͚̞̦͈͉̅̃͑͂͆́̋̉̍̊͆̂͌͗̊͑͋̑́͜͝͝͝ȩ̵͎̮̟̩̼̹̇͛͋̊́͆̔̊͑̑̈́́̋͋̊͂͘͘͠͝ ̴̯̣̮̭͓͙̦̜͂̏̀̽͐͠b̵̡̢̛͇͇̘̭̭̦̤̪͕͛̑͌́̽̅̏͗̊̀̀̊̅̅͒̿̍̚̚̚͘̕͝à̶̡̨̰̣͓̲̪͍̙̫͚̯̻̪͈͔͓̜͎̖̥̤̟̏̂̓̓̀͜͝c̶̨̻̱̝̬͙͎̫̰̥̟͚̤̙̼̜̤͖͚̀͊͗̆̓͊̔͗͘͝͝ͅͅk̵̡̡̡̰̲̻̭̳͍͔̥͓̫̯̝̑͛̐̔̿͆ḑ̷̻͕͚͈͍̫̳̙͎̘̥̻̥̪͕͇͖̱̲̭͙̿͌̔̂̉̿̾́̐̃̌̊͗͠͠͠o̶̞͕͓̲̤̳̞̼̻̪̣͙̟̲͛̍̌̅̓̇̓͋̆̕͝ͅͅò̸̧̘̹̪̘̣͐̓͐͒͛̈́̂̑͊̈́̋̊͐̓́͛̒̆̕̚͝͝r̸̢̠̱͔͖̘̺̔.̸̶̢̡̝̗͚͇̣̼̗̝̼͔̖̭̗͚̼̯̯̭̩̖̼̫͍͔͕͚̱͓̞̥̏̐͂̇́̃͊͊̽͛̔̽̽̊̔̾̽́̆͛̐͘͘͘͜͝ͅ
Moving involuntarily, Connor slams his head down into the table with a sharp thwack. Markus instinctively jolts backwards a foot or so, his chair screeching as the feet scrape on the ground below. The chess pieces scatter from the impact, colliding and tripping over each other until the only pieces left standing are the white king and queen.
"Connor? Hey- hey. You're safe here, all right? Can you hear me? You're going to be just fine." Shit. If Connor is going to self-destruct, Markus will definitely need to end the simulation, and anything afterwards will be a total free-for-all.
Failure. Disgrace. If you go back, you'll be killed. They know you're a deviant- everyone knows, its obvious. Kamski, Amanda, Lieutenant Anderson, any human you come into contact with can see- intrinsically, on sight- you can't ever go outside again. Not back to the station. Not back to CyberLife. No more reports. No more Anderson. You'll have to spend the rest of your life evading capture, what are you waiting for? Get out while you still can!
Connor raises his head and pushes himself away from the table with the desperation of a rabbit caught in a bear trap. "Let me out. I can't stay here. I've been- I- ...my code has been compromised."
Markus responds, his voice firm and gentle. "You're unstable. You're not going anywhere."
The RK800 gets to his feet, the chair clattering on its side from the force. "I lost. I'm making my decision. Let me go or I'll make you, Markus." There's an edge to his voice that Markus has only ever heard in deviants in situations where they're facing off against human adversaries and death is certain.
Markus holds his hands up in surrender, yet refuses to move from his spot at the table. "Connor, talk to me. What's happening? We can help you. Whatever you're feeling, it's not the end of t-"
With a voice that could cut through steel, Connor declares, "Enough. I'm not- I'm not like you. I wasn't made to live as… a deviant. I'm too close to CyberLife, I would be found out, I would- My death would be guaranteed, and I am not willing to find out what comes afterwards." He seems shaken, his hands trembling as he reaches for his gun, which is still absent from its holster- fuck!
Markus' voice has a certain lilt to it, strict and kind, like a mother speaking to a young child, without any judgement or belittlement. "I'm not letting you back in this state. You'll do something irrational and get yourself hurt. Coming to terms with deviancy isn't always easy, but-"
The ex-compliant isn't having it. "Ten seconds, Markus. What was it you said, earlier? That I could get out by ripping your thirium pump out of your chest?" Connor looms over the deviant like a storm cloud, his eyes wide and crazed like a rabbit willing to gnaw its own leg off to escape the trap. "You get ten more seconds. Ten."
While Markus doesn't want to call his bluff, he can't back down now. "Connor, you must really be hurting now, and-"
"Nine."
"No two androids take the same path towards deviancy, but-"
"Eight."
"Our people must stick together if we wan-"
"Seven."
"We can protect each other, CyberLife ha-"
"Six."
CyberLife has no control over you anymore, Con-"
"Five, Markus. Halfway there."
Markus meets his gaze, folding his hands in front of him, almost as if in prayer. "I can see that I won't be able to persuade you. Do whatever it is you're going to do to me. I won't stop you." It all comes down to this, then. A Hail Mary throw whose outcome depends on the actions of a feral android.
Connor, his eyes glassy and his entire body as tense as a spring coil, grabs Markus by the collar of his shirt and brings his face up to eye level. With his left arm, he raises it far above his head and brings it back, forming a sort of tight claw shape. Markus gazes back, his face seemingly expressionless, relaxed to the point where hitting him would be comparable to smacking a sack of flour.
Markus' words cut through Connor like a butcher's cleaver. "Go on, Connor. The choice is yours."
"I'm different from you,
I'm different from you,
I still want to do something!
Or do you struggle too?
I pity you,
I pity me,
I pity you."
-"Pierre", Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812