[Impossible to know what Connor was going to say. His friend looks at him, stowing away pain and anxiety as if they were nothing more than pieces of luggage to be partitioned aside and dealt with later, offering him a smile that might as well tilt his world upside-down; especially with the words that come hand-in-hand with them.
Strange, how in the first fractions of a breadth of a moment, time seems to still. There’s only the processing of what he’s heard — You did it, Markus. — the weight of meaning beginning its slow press into his bones, realization settling languidly instead of manifesting as a jarring, elated assault on his mind. Markus can only search Connor’s face. He can only inhale shallowly, again, until the rest of everything catches up, and the revelation hits him like any revelation should — fully, completely, crackling and bursting at his core.
And in the seconds that follow, the consequence of such revelation.
He had succeeded, according to Connor, whose timeline was nestled days ahead of his own. Would succeed, a declaration that felt heavy on his shoulders with each uttered syllable, yet transcribing elation into each nerve ending the longer it rested there. He had carried forth, had carved out the beginnings of a path, had shown humanity proof of their autonomy, of emotion, of a species that was alive — androids that could look towards freedom not as a diaphanous dream, but instead a steadfast reality. Rights, tolerance, recognition as a people. That delicate promise of happiness for their race, living in tandem with humanity, finally, slowly, taking root and blossoming in the light.
He thinks of the other androids at home — he thinks of Jericho, and wonders how they’re doing right now, what they would say, how he would tell them to continue pushing forward to make this reality tangible, even if he were not currently there to see it. Wishes his comrades were here, just for a second, to ground himself in their presence. Selfishly, maybe, but only for a second.
And Markus thinks of Carl. Thinks of him in that sunlit studio, thinks of himself standing there amongst canvases, the swatches and vibrant collection of color, laden in the bronze warmth of being home again. Asking the man if he’d be proud of what he’s done, what he means to accomplish, a world that he would create for his own, but for others, too, based on a foundation of acceptance and open-mindedness. He wishes, so desperately now, that he could hear his answer. Would you be proud of me, Carl? Would he?
It’s this final confluence of thought that rends Markus’ stuttering composure in half. Where he had held onto breath, kept his brow tight and allowed only the distant shadow of electric wonder to live there, now it unravels, shred by shred. It’s all the taut snap of a wire — face twisting into something that harbors too many emotions to qualify as one single thing. Markus’ shoulders shake in a single betrayal against him, and the tears well up along the creases of his eyes, summoned up in tandem with a tightening throat.
It’s a useless and laughable attempt to save face, the way Markus turns his head, tries to futilely shift his direction at an angle in a chair that’s already pulled up too close to the hospital bed. Hands come up to his face, wiping at tears — telling himself not like this, not in front of him, but that voice is lost in the wonderful and frightening and emboldening and overwhelming news that’s been relayed to him.
He tries to form words. They eke out, like pressed through a space too small.]
no subject
Strange, how in the first fractions of a breadth of a moment, time seems to still. There’s only the processing of what he’s heard — You did it, Markus. — the weight of meaning beginning its slow press into his bones, realization settling languidly instead of manifesting as a jarring, elated assault on his mind. Markus can only search Connor’s face. He can only inhale shallowly, again, until the rest of everything catches up, and the revelation hits him like any revelation should — fully, completely, crackling and bursting at his core.
And in the seconds that follow, the consequence of such revelation.
He had succeeded, according to Connor, whose timeline was nestled days ahead of his own. Would succeed, a declaration that felt heavy on his shoulders with each uttered syllable, yet transcribing elation into each nerve ending the longer it rested there. He had carried forth, had carved out the beginnings of a path, had shown humanity proof of their autonomy, of emotion, of a species that was alive — androids that could look towards freedom not as a diaphanous dream, but instead a steadfast reality. Rights, tolerance, recognition as a people. That delicate promise of happiness for their race, living in tandem with humanity, finally, slowly, taking root and blossoming in the light.
He thinks of the other androids at home — he thinks of Jericho, and wonders how they’re doing right now, what they would say, how he would tell them to continue pushing forward to make this reality tangible, even if he were not currently there to see it. Wishes his comrades were here, just for a second, to ground himself in their presence. Selfishly, maybe, but only for a second.
And Markus thinks of Carl. Thinks of him in that sunlit studio, thinks of himself standing there amongst canvases, the swatches and vibrant collection of color, laden in the bronze warmth of being home again. Asking the man if he’d be proud of what he’s done, what he means to accomplish, a world that he would create for his own, but for others, too, based on a foundation of acceptance and open-mindedness. He wishes, so desperately now, that he could hear his answer. Would you be proud of me, Carl? Would he?
It’s this final confluence of thought that rends Markus’ stuttering composure in half. Where he had held onto breath, kept his brow tight and allowed only the distant shadow of electric wonder to live there, now it unravels, shred by shred. It’s all the taut snap of a wire — face twisting into something that harbors too many emotions to qualify as one single thing. Markus’ shoulders shake in a single betrayal against him, and the tears well up along the creases of his eyes, summoned up in tandem with a tightening throat.
It’s a useless and laughable attempt to save face, the way Markus turns his head, tries to futilely shift his direction at an angle in a chair that’s already pulled up too close to the hospital bed. Hands come up to his face, wiping at tears — telling himself not like this, not in front of him, but that voice is lost in the wonderful and frightening and emboldening and overwhelming news that’s been relayed to him.
He tries to form words. They eke out, like pressed through a space too small.]
I— sorry. I just—
[Need a moment.]