VII.

“You would let me so easily?” Disbelief tinges his rueful laughter, eyes crinkled as he rounds the statement with a warm smile. “Oh, my dear friend.” Spoken carefully, genuine in the sentiment as though it’s a fulcrum, and Rauf just now chose the way the world will turn, he leans in. Presses their foreheads together for a long, devout moment. Trust is a rare commodity in this day and age, and yet this android offers it all without a second thought. His fingers rise, tender, sweeping over the angles of that attractive (in the way most dangerous things are) visage while his mind slips into the familiar confines of a relaxed state — though, this time it is no drug that fills his limbs with such fog-like lightness. He shudders at the feel of talons digging into his skin, never sharp enough to puncture and utterly teasing. It’s been so very long since Rauf let himself touch and be touched for the sheer sake of it, and he’s so, so starved.

With a soft breath, an exhale wrapped around a word, a name, Rauf slides closer, legs wrapped securely around the narrow jut of SA-M43L’s waist. He knows the sound of his engines rumbling, purring to life, and it’s an exploration. A discovery in the way Rauf kisses him, lips over the outline of teeth, beard scraping against delicate nodules, and the faintest of smiles glimpsing into view, appreciative of the slower slide and press of their bodies; of flesh against steel. “Maybe I can… My prosthetic is connected directly to the nervous system. If I bridge that between your systems and mine,” he mutters on, theory at the forefront of his concerns. It’s plausible with some creative coding and some by-passes. At least, he believes it so. “You’d feel what I feel. I can’t guess the extent or how much it will be, but we could try that.” His fingers toy at the cable connecting them, the prior surge of electricity suddenly a gateway for more possibilities.

     the smile adorning rauf’s face rattles through him like an earthquake, warmth blossoming pink and flush as rose petals under his skin. dear friend, he says, and the dragon dips his head as rauf presses their foreheads together, unnecessary breath leaving him in a satisfied rumble. a friend - has he ever had one of those? someone that cares for him as the man does, with his work-rough hands sealing SA-M43L’s hurts closed without hesitation and the brush of his lips, gentle and earth-shattering against the unit’s teeth? no, he realizes; nobody has even come close to the kindness rauf shows as second nature. he does not think he has ever had a companion before now, camaraderie hanging soft and pleasant between them. “ a friend, ” he echoes, adjusting his arms until they wrap around the man’s lower back rather than hold, an approximation of an embrace. now that rauf is here, one long line of shaky heat against him, he has no intention of letting him go anywhere. “ i trust you to because i know you would not damage me intentionally. you care careful despite my indestructibility. ”

even machines can learn, grow. not in the mechanical, technical sense but the way flesh and blood learns. how muscles heal when they tear, how the brain scars over the old wounds of bad memories. or how the first time one loves, he shies away from lacing fingers, he doesn’t quite know how to kiss and stumbles his way into a bed. the next time is not so bad. nour smiles, orion finding his feet beneath, asking himself if emotions can only be for man. like a doe, like a lamb. that if nour is art, what role does he play ? can he only admire in passing, does he spend hours in worship, is he painter or the brush ? it’s not a decision nour can make for him. he can only linger in his temptation, the electricity he ignites while orion chooses who he dreams to be. 

‘ it is not a fault, ’ he lets orion’s metal fingers dip above his collar. he can feel the turn of machinery in that touch and hear it pitter patter. ‘ some people might describe it as you do. lost. jitters, maybe even get sick. snd they start to fret, their ribs hurt, they can’t remember their words. but i think one should ride the high of it. ’ is there anything sweeter than the dizzying haze of a new love, like one’s been given purpose, direction. ignoring the natural laws that say : man is flesh, he will fade, fall, meet an end. ‘ sometimes i think i wasn’t real, that a love i had made me tangible, like i existed, suddenly. that’s what it was for me. ’

     the smile playing around nour's mouth is soothing, warm where his lips quirk around his canines, and OR-10N considers the outlook that has been laid about before him, fingers tracing over a treasure map. it is reassuring to know that he is not malfunctioning, that his systems work as reliably and ardently as they always have - but it still feels strange to be unfamiliar with his own processing or what a certain sensation means, sounds and sensory input he has never experienced before. he has long learned every corner of himself, but there is a first time for everything, and who else but nour to set him on this path? this is not a situation he ever dreamt ( or perhaps, dreaded ) stumbling across with all the grace of a newborn foal. nour is coaxing, fingers plucking words from him the same they pull notes from violin strings, but he is dangerous, too; OR-10N cannot ignore the hungry jut of his teeth, nor the temptation to confess his own weaknesses. he is a predator same as the unit is.

              IN THE LOW-LIGHT, her once strange irises aglow indicatingremote control of the device through its angry red oculi, plotting a viablecourse for their departure from this precarious steel labyrinth, dims to aflickering hue that of a white dwarf star.  one blink & it completely FADESinto the void of cold, biting & maddening darkness.  ( bythis late hour, they have adjusted to it, perceiving or-10n’s mechanized shape! )  her brain still processes the data transmitted her up tothe point of his inquiry, calculating the equidistance of a well-timed leap tothe adjacent platform based solely on memory. 

elbows are fastened over the ice coldtitanium railing as he speaks as though to dissuade her dogma. one that she’s sunken her razor-sharp claw FINGERNAILS into long ago,from the moment the first bit of metal & technology slid beneath thesurface of her disgustingly organic skin.  it was a baptism in fire &blood that’s made a woman of 𝐕’s caliber something harder & STRONGERthan steel.  for him to ask of her to suggest peace of she ——a woman, whose entire career is predicated on the very diametrically opposite of it, is likecoaxing blood from a stone.  improbable.

❛ ——not that hard to draw attention in thistown, ❜ a defined, dyed browraises before a more stoic EXPRESSION washes over her features, ❛ & in this town? peace ain’t an option ; nobody respects it. power only respects power, ❜

❛ ——there’ll come a time where we all gotta’decide if for what we want is worth the evil shit we do. ❜

     despite the singular focus she devotes to their escape plan, the unit she pilots as if a physical extension of herself ( and perhaps it is - another layer to her vision, an addendum to seeking fingers ticking over humming hydraulics ), she still encourages this topic he’s brought them to, halves herself comfortably between plotting a course and steering him onto the right path of existing in this city. is it kindness she speaks with, or resignation? he finds himself stuck, sometimes, and often requires a nudge to keep moving, his internal systems kicking back on like a key turning in the ignition. perhaps she knows the feeling if she helps him forward with such ease.

     “ have you used violence to make yourself known? used power to claw your way to the top? ” he asks, think he manages to land the metaphor. there’s a degree of coolness in her tone, one that does not dissuade him but does stick out in his brain, wriggling for attention.

     he steps a boot up onto the railing, testing, leans over to look at the yawning darkness beneath them; a jump across will be no challenge for him, but caution still lays heavy across his shoulders, hard and hungry. privately, he hopes she has found a route that does not involve a great leap or testing their ability avoid machinery that is capable of crunching them into a broken heap of wires and cybertech. still, he trusts her, a revelation that he finds himself surprised to accept without issue.

Edward’s heart hammers in his chest. They’d finally figured it out. The late night orderly must have made her rounds, saw the ripped-open slab of his cell door, and saw an empty, still-neat cot. She’d pulled the alarms. Now, searchlights dart over the asylum. Edward hears the red-blue sirens, his lungs rattling, and runs. 

He hadn’t planned for this. Edward always has plans. Plans for besting Batman. Plans for crimes. Plans for escaping, which had been in the works. This isn’t one of them: this thing, this- variable, shorter than him, 5’9”, maybe 5’10, visor glowing purple and pitch black in the dark. It pulled apart Edward’s cell door like so much as cellophane then stood at the precipice, and Nygma had wound up. An all-black shadow with two pointed ears had stared back at him. Instinctively, he thought Batman. Only it wasn’t. Now they’re here, jumping over the rooftops of Arkham. 

In front of him, a wide gap stretches between him and the next building. Edward stalls. An arm scoops him up. Edward soars. He smacks bootfirst onto the rooftop with an oof then fumbles on all fours.

“Why you-” He grits through his teeth, exasperated. The variable lands after him and Edward whips around. “Do you expect a ‘thank you’? For me to grovel at those well-calibrated boosters?!“ he jabs quickly. This variable could be an ally or it could be trouble, a debt he has to pay off later. Maybe worse. Nygma rises to his feet, his palms scraped from gravel, and starts. “If you must know, your assistance was… unnecessary,” he finally cools. “But far be it from me to turn on good behavior.”

It could do with that as it will.

Edward follows suit. He can see the iron gates and freedom in front of him, the words Arkham Asylum bleeding into the night. The GCPD are almost here, and he stabs at the question.

“Tell me who’s hired you, or I will forced to expose you.”

     so prideful - if OR-10N had the capacity to be exasperated, he would have met nygma’s irritation with a roll of his eyes. OR-10N takes the risk to rescue him, and here he is, ungrateful and stabbing at the android with questions he does not have the time or the desire to answer. not for the first time, he thinks men terribly foolish, but he had already undertaken the stress of breaking the prisoner out of his cell, and what is one more second taken to ensure he won’t run as soon as the unit has gotten them to a safer location? vitriol is spewed in his direction, anger coiled in narrow shoulders, and OR-10N ignores every part of it in favor of continuing to strategize.

     “ i expect you to thank me by not getting either, or both of us, caught by the authorities, ” he intones, peers up the tall, wrought-iron gates, considers whether he should break them apart or haul nygma over them. it seems the latter would not be the man’s first choice, but it is the best one. he hesitates to cause property damage, as it leaves a trail that can be followed, breadcrumbs tossed along a winding path - but his options are few and far between. “ if you were going to break out yourself, you would have done so already. step back, please. ”

     he wraps his fingers about two bars, vents clicking open on the backs of his shoulders, and wrenches, pistons firing and steam jetting from the open gaps of his armor. the gates bend easily, violet bulbs flaring bright as rust cracks into his palms, and he steps back, gestures with a hand to the darkness punctuated with red-blue lights just over the horizon.

Trying to recall, the process of coming back together - of remaking themselves after such close calls. Such moments of feeling like they could and would tear the universe apart at a whim. Just because they could and that it was hard to tell themselves not to do so, not at this time. Not without any really need to do so.

“It was difficult. I honestly had to let myself dissipate and not be near anyone. To be as close to non-sentient as I could possibly be. Just to give myself that kind of time and space before interacting with anything and anyone.“ That seemed to be a crucial part of pulling themselves back together.

It’s something that they had done before and chances are would do again and again over the years.

Hearing OR-10N’s description of the apparent meaning, Atieno can’t help but agree with it.

“Hm. Fair. I would have to say that’s true. That sense of self, that sense of what I do, what I am and where I lie in the scale of things is something I … am very, very aware of.“ Sometimes painfully so. Often that is the case really.

     he likes to watch the recollection in her expression; the way her brow furrows with her focus, the thoughtful tilt of her mouth as she forms the words in a way that she can communicate to him. he has patience in droves, waits quiet and crooning as she brings the response together and speaks it into the warm air between them.

     “ what was that like for you? essentially evaporating back into the universe. you seem as solid as i - but you are not. ”

     they are unlike most beings he has encountered in his short life, and the opportunity to ask more questions is not one he will allow to pass him by. he is not a citizen waving to a train as it moves on to war but the soldier within, active and aware of his final destination.

     it is a sad truth the man speaks: money does indeed control society’s moral code. if one is rich, they can buy their way into anything, can even purchase a politician to place neatly in their pocket and control events at a tangible level. the man clearly speaks from experience, but not in an obvious manner; he holds himself tall, sure, a certain confidence poised in his limbs like a leopard lounging in the wake of a kill, tail coiled over its legs. OR-10N wonders how much power and wealth he has at his disposal to speak so casually on the topic. does he have enough to buy the unit out for his own purposes? more than likely.

grayson unleashes an exhale. ❝ yeah, don’t gotta tell me twice. ❞ the encouragement is appreciated, though. the confirmation that nil is in fact in charge of this situation. something they often need reminding of; the absence of their leadership. of course, that confirmation stokes terror in grayson like a flame. lacking control makes him feel — almost drowning. it’s a confusing mix of comforted and deranged, the feeling that sits in his stomach. it rolls over gleefully as he walks.

they’re dressed incredibly – out of character. simple black and white suit and tie garb. no heels. makes them feel shittier. why does it suddenly feel like they’re in the land of the ents? even the doors that the approach loom like two great giants. ❝ not gonna walk into any beanstalks round here, am i? i left my magic beans in my other suit. ❞ more than likely walk into the barrel of a gun, either way.

“ follow my lead. ” // @sevient·

     he thinks this may be the most nervous he’s ever seen grayson. despite their attempts at remaining lighthearted, NIL can see the uneasy tangle of their fingers in their blazer, the way his steps fall a little harsher than they would on any other day. perhaps he should have allowed grayson to lead them both in, to arrange the situation that they find themselves in now - but it had seemed wise to allow him to take the back seat, for once, to loosen the iron grip he keeps on himself and the world around him. NIL is still unsure if it would end up being a mistake, but the doors are dark and beckoning before them, eagerly waiting for their entry. too late now, then.

In matters of survival, unique is often a quality destined to a terrible, tragic end. Loneliness — like something dead — lies buried, forgotten. Or perhaps, in the confines of these tangled thoughts, Rauf ascribes a (cruel) trait to the android it does not yet deserve. After all, to be lonely, one must be aware of solitude’s debilitating, elegiac nature. Designed as a weapon first and foremost, SA-M43L stands amidst the broken parts of machinery and scrap of the workshop. A lone figure amidst a ruin. “It’s more of a phrase than anything literal. Think of theater for a moment. During dramatic parts, they shine a single spotlight on the actor to further drive home the point they are alone in the narrative.” His dark goggles reflect the spit of flame, face an amalgamation of concentration and exhaustion while welding metal parts into something more functional. Burn scars small and old litter industrious hands. “Have you seen a lighthouse? Many will say they’re a beacon of hope, but it’s closer to the truth to say they are a warning sign. Lighthouses signal danger to avoid. And you are more of that than anything else.” Yet, what does it say of him? A (foolish) man who remains inexplicably drawn to the risks the android presents, willingly treading through these dangerous waters.

“Do you wonder about your predecessors? The models that came before you? As far as I’m aware, you’re the only one in existence.” And it’s a lonely fate, one he can empathize with to some degree: Uprooted from his culture and heritage, drifting aimlessly from one place to another as the work-flow dictates. “I ask because you come here even when you don’t need repairs. That’s a sign of something.” Rauf wouldn’t pick himself as a first choice for companionship. Regardless, SA-M43L returns in the intervals where the world is quiet, seeking out idle conversations while making a nuisance of itself — a distraction hovering in the peripheral that breaks the depressing monotony of his routine.

     think of theater, he says, as if SA-M43L as any interest in the arts - as if he has any real use for stories and brushstrokes and the devoted swell of song across a silent stage. his life is defined by knowledge and tangible fact, by what he can feel and see and touch with his claws. if rauf says it is true, perhaps it is; it is as close to understanding as the android will get. his own brain is only barely capable of wrapping around theory and interpreting it at any real level; what use does a weapon have for guesswork? for dreams, or imagination? “ you give me too much credit. i cannot understand metaphors. ” it is said bluntly, without inflection, information delivered by a bored newscaster on the radio. he knows he is incomplete in living terms, and it does not pain him. “ not in person. i know what they are, and the function they serve: to ward off approaching ships. ” flames lick over his skin, sparks flying, and he studies the spectrum of light they cast in rauf’s goggles, a rainbow sheen glittering on black glass. “ i do not see a lighthouse as lonely. it is an object as much as i am. you still have not explained in terms i am able to understand. perhaps i am incapable of it. ”

     everything is aligned perfectly beneath the cover of night: his lights dimmed, lilac flares a dull glow along his limbs, a knife and a handgun stored equally hidden in separate compartments in his lower back, heavy and pointed in their purpose. OR-10N moves with the silence of an owl, boots a whisper across marbled floors and his hands still and steady by his sides, wings beating quiet under winking stars. he had been warned extensively about the defenses of this fortress, the problems he may encounter once he jumped the wall and slipped down unlit corridors, but there had been no guards present at all - perhaps they’d been given the night off, or were tucked away in a corner somewhere to catch a quick few minutes of rest. it didn’t matter to him; all that he was concerned with was completing the contract he had been assigned.

     the sounds of slumber reach his ears, regular breathing and the twitch of fingers over soft sheets, and he lurks in the doorway for a moment, ensuring that the target is, truly, asleep. he watches her chest swell with oxygen, the deflation as it leaves her, tracks the regularity of her pulse beneath her jaw - she is well and truly dormant, dead to the world. he wonders what it must be like for a brief second, comes close to envying her for her ability to seek true rest. his sleep had only ever been his systems shutting down, his brain and systems still whirring away constantly where they plug into his docking station. there were never any dreams, either.

     he creeps low across the floor, hushed, remains below sight line; still nothing from her, zero inclination that she is aware in her dreaming state that something is amiss. it only takes seconds - he draws the blade, at first, testing its weight in his palm, but elects for the simplest solution instead. OR-10N easily wraps his hands around her neck and gives a brutal twist, quieting his own thrum to listen for the crack of the vertebrae slipping out of their cradle -

     blood has always been familiar to him, coppery and slick on his fingers, his visor, a constant red film over his optics even when he’s cleaned it off. it sings to him from beneath warm skin, thrumming and alive, so unlike the electric impulses under his own armor. he has drawn his hands through countless pools of it, felt it spatter over his chest, watched it drip down the seams of his abdomen in particularly messy fights. he is no stranger to flesh rent open and the ooze of life departing this world.

     it almost seems the definition of destiny that he would find a companion in someone so hinged on the sanctity of blood.