It's more than vivid; he lives it, there, in the span of a single, jaggedly condensed second: back on the roof of the Stratford Tower, hidden away, and he both knows and doesn't know Connor as his hunt-hungry silhouette comes darting towards him. As he dies, again— swallowing overlaying gunshots and the mismatched warnings that accompany them, divided by years of development and purpose— the difference between a dated PL600, and one shaped by Kamski's attentive hands.
And then it's dark.
He knows that voice, unmistakable. Not infuriating until a full minute later when he hears— he hears himself, and even immersed in the depths of Simon's memory as it comes to a sickening halt, Markus doesn't need to strain to realize exactly how Connor had found him in the heart of Jericho, gun level and drawn.
"You are," He promises, voice hardened as he fights to temper the anger crawling its way up hot along his spine. One broad, heavy hand resting against the small of Simon's back as he pins his weight against the high point of his chest, free hand already hunting down the magnetized latch still keeping Simon fixed to the wall. It gives with less effort than Markus (impatiently) applies, wrenching it so firmly that it threatens to break. Good, he thinks. Good, and if not for Simon's fear of loss, he'd take the time to make sure the rest are equally unusable.
But contact is the only balm left to the broken PL600 in his arms, and so it's contact that he keeps, exiting the DPD's central precinct without a single word to either Connor or Hank— or the encroaching swarm of attentive journalists hovering just at the edge of the exit. A clamor of voices calling his name, the click click click of digitized shutters, sniffing out visceral images for the official pardon given by the US Government for all formerly titled 'deviant androids', provided they'd never taken a human life.
It's short-lived, if nothing else.
The taxi he'd left waiting provides a decisive end to the din, segueing into silence. Into the give of plush seats, and the quiet weight of Markus where he's settled down into the seat beside Simon, still watching with decisive attentiveness.
no subject
And then it's dark.
He knows that voice, unmistakable. Not infuriating until a full minute later when he hears— he hears himself, and even immersed in the depths of Simon's memory as it comes to a sickening halt, Markus doesn't need to strain to realize exactly how Connor had found him in the heart of Jericho, gun level and drawn.
"You are," He promises, voice hardened as he fights to temper the anger crawling its way up hot along his spine. One broad, heavy hand resting against the small of Simon's back as he pins his weight against the high point of his chest, free hand already hunting down the magnetized latch still keeping Simon fixed to the wall. It gives with less effort than Markus (impatiently) applies, wrenching it so firmly that it threatens to break. Good, he thinks. Good, and if not for Simon's fear of loss, he'd take the time to make sure the rest are equally unusable.
But contact is the only balm left to the broken PL600 in his arms, and so it's contact that he keeps, exiting the DPD's central precinct without a single word to either Connor or Hank— or the encroaching swarm of attentive journalists hovering just at the edge of the exit. A clamor of voices calling his name, the click click click of digitized shutters, sniffing out visceral images for the official pardon given by the US Government for all formerly titled 'deviant androids', provided they'd never taken a human life.
It's short-lived, if nothing else.
The taxi he'd left waiting provides a decisive end to the din, segueing into silence. Into the give of plush seats, and the quiet weight of Markus where he's settled down into the seat beside Simon, still watching with decisive attentiveness.