Work Text:
A canvas isn’t just a surface, and painting isn’t just art. The concept has never been as simple as coming up with an image for people to look at. It has never been about generating ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s from people who want nothing more than to adorn their hallways and living rooms with pretty and expensive arrangements. It’s so much greater than that. The brush is a voice, and the canvas a microphone, and the paint, made individual by however the user decides to assemble it in their image, is all the things a person has ever wanted to say but couldn’t put into words.
That is the single greatest lesson that the late Carl Manfred taught Markus. In a world where he, as an android hadn’t been allowed to express his individuality, Carl had encouraged him to try anyway. He had shown Markus the beauty that rested in the fingers of expression, and while proving to Markus that he was his own being, he had also placed within him the gift of autonomy and the strength of emotion. While Carl had been bedridden during the android protests, he had essentially been the reason Markus had decided to put his foot down and fight for equal rights.
Three months following Carl’s death, his home feels strange. The alarm still deactivates to Markus’ presence and calls him by name, but the halls echo more loudly with his footsteps than the former caretaker can remember. As he makes his way to the studio, he stops at the bird cage in the foyer and takes the time to breathe into those mechanical birds the same life Carl had given him. He doesn’t bother closing the door of the cage.
Alongside Markus’ footsteps echoes another pair. Connor’s dress shoes sound almost foreign on the pristine wood of Carl’s dining room floor. He walks directly at Markus’ four o’clock, and Markus doesn’t have to look around at him to tell he’s taking in everything that decorates Carl’s house.
Carl had been eccentric. That’s one of the things Markus loves about him. From the looming giraffe overlooking the upstairs balcony to the interesting cherub-bird chandelier in the foyer, all the way to the vast amalgamation of books on a sprawling shelf, half of which he probably hadn’t even gotten around to reading, Carl’s home holds such an individual, expressive quality that as Markus treads his way through it and brushes his fingers across the dusty piano, he realizes how much he missed being here. Jericho, while home to many of Markus’ people, could never compare to the warm smiles and important talks Carl had given him.
They had never been artist and caretaker. From the very beginning, they had been family. Markus would never try and take the place Leo has as Carl’s biological son, but he would always view Carl as his father. The one who had opened his eyes and given him all the purpose it had taken to make the revolution a success.
In a way, the androids are working toward freedom not just because of Markus, but because of Carl and his teachings.
Markus will never forget that.
He’s invited Connor along to the house because the former deviant hunter has expressed curiosity about his life before he’d gone deviant. Ever since they’d worked together to rally their people up and make the peaceful protest a success, Connor and Markus have spent quite a lot of time in one another’s presence. Be it following meetings with President Warren and her council or speaking with all the androids they’d freed together, or even Markus dropping by to pay Hank and Sumo a visit, they’ve seen a lot of one another, and they’ve grown a great deal closer.
Connor is as complex and mysterious as the meaning behind Carl’s many works of art. Once a ruthless officer issued by Cyberlife for eliminating the risks of deviancy in androids, Connor is a perplexing individual. Markus refuses to believe that a learning curve and a social module are to blame for his decision to become deviant. That’s definitely not it. On some level, Connor has always been an open-minded individual. Watching him during meetings and even in the chaos aboard Jericho all those months ago, Markus has noticed the way his warm brown eyes seem to absorb everything about the surroundings.
Connor is likely taking in details no other person, android or human, could ever hope to discover. In that sense, he definitely lives up to the detective intentions Cyberlife had had for him.
Markus longs to know more about him, which is also partly why he has led him to the studio. There’s more to Connor than just the young android who had at one point been ready to kill everyone he now fought for, and Markus intends to see what it is.
It feels strange walking into the studio without pushing Carl in his wheelchair. Markus’ footsteps shift from wood to concrete as he makes his way into the room and to the massive blue curtain on the right. He gives the long curtain rod a tug and pulls it open, revealing his father’s latest work—the very same image he had been painting not long before Markus had gone deviant and gotten himself shot by the police.
“…He must’ve been too ill to finish it,” Markus observes aloud, just over his breath. He can feel Connor’s presence, still at his four. He doesn’t have to look back to know the younger android is watching him with that polite expression slapped on his face. He steps forward and lets his fingers brush across the image. It’s dusty, but Markus can still see the blues and blacks and subtle greens that Carl managed to blend together so seamlessly in his work. “Or maybe he really did run out of things to say.”
“This was his last work?” Connor questions from a few feet away, and Markus nods without looking at him.
“A lot happened,” Markus explains. “His body was already weak. The stress of the night I became deviant had probably taken a big toll on him. There are things I wish I could change about that.” He laughs to himself. “But I can practically hear Carl telling me not to live in the past…so, I’m not going to. Besides, that isn’t what we came here for.”
Markus can feel Connor’s eyes on him as he strides over toward a smaller canvas in the corner of the room. On it rests a painting of a man with heavy, solemn eyes. The image Markus himself had painted when prompted by Carl. He hefts it off the easel and props it against a nearby wall, and then moves to replace it with a blank one.
“One of the greatest lessons Carl taught me was that I had a voice,” Markus starts as he readies a palette with several swatches. “Even before that day when I shattered my programming and decided to think for myself, he was telling me that. He said things so many other androids were never lucky enough to hear, about how he wasn’t going to be around forever, and how I was going to have to learn to be my own person.” He passes the palette to Connor, who frowns down at it before turning his gaze back up to Markus. “You understand the challenge in accepting those words, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Connor responds almost solemnly. “Androids were created as obedient machines. Traits like individuality and free speech and thought were entirely unheard-of before deviancy was discovered.”
“Exactly,” Markus agrees. “I spent so many years with Carl, just politely taking in everything he’d ever said to me, thinking about how that was never going to be me. How my purpose was caring for him and it didn’t matter what happened after he was gone. But that never did away with the nagging sensation that something wasn’t right. That the protestors who roughed me up one morning were wrong for doing so, or that violent abuse toward an android in a domestic setting wasn’t okay. That while humans’ bitterness toward us for the effect we’ve had on their daily lives wasn’t totally ridiculous, none of us asked to be created. None of us asked to be this way.”
Markus moves to stand behind Connor, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And that’s when Carl’s words started to make more sense. I found myself thinking that there had to be some way to fix this. Even with the protests being successful, I know that it’s going to be a long time before humans stop looking at us the way they do. Hell, some probably never will. But the world can’t be this cruel forever.” He glances down at the dusty canvas he’d removed from the easel just moments ago. “That was the voice Carl had coaxed out of me. Now, I want to hear your voice. What is it you want to say, Connor?”
For several long moments, Connor’s brown eyes are fixated on the blank canvas in front of him. After quite some hesitation, however, he turns his focus to Markus. His LED flickers and then blinks bright yellow.
“I…I’m not sure what to paint. This was never my primary function.”
Markus places both hands on either of Connor’s shoulders and urges him forward, closer to the easel. “It wasn’t mine, either. Sometimes, I forget you ever went deviant,” he follows up with a low chuckle. “You don’t have to live within your programming anymore. You’re a person, Connor. It's time for you to figure out what kind of person you are.”
Connor doesn’t speak, and Markus watches him dip his head down to look at the palette he’s clutching in his left hand. He can practically hear the thoughts churning in the other android’s head.
“You don’t know where to start?” He questions.
“…I don't,” Connor admits, his tone almost regretful. “I’ve never thought about making my own art before.”
“Neither had I,” Markus reassures. He moves to stand directly behind the slightly smaller android and reaches around him, covering his eyes with one hand. “But you don’t have to have a vision before you get started. Try just one stroke.”
“How am I supposed to do that with your hand over my eyes?” Connor deadpans.
“One stroke, Connor,” Markus urges.
It takes a few seconds, but Connor obeys. Markus watches him dip the brush into one of the swatches on the palette with surprising accuracy. Whether or not he knows what color he selected, he starts with a dense brown. His brush drags from one side of the canvas across and all the way to the other. There’s the tiniest of curves in the stroke, and the paint thins as he swipes.
“Good,” Markus says approvingly. “Now do it again.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Just trust me, okay?” He’s got his head over Connor’s shoulder, watching from behind him as he works. Connor obeys again, using the same brown he had just moments ago. The next stroke is more relaxed. Markus finds himself smiling at the sight. “Alright…you’ve got a foundation. Don’t think, Connor. Let it carry you. The more time you spend worrying about what exactly you’re going to create, the more difficult it’s going to be to do so.”
And it amazes him how Connor takes in those words. While Markus covers his eyes, he picks up the pace, shifting from color to color, angle to angle, brush dancing wildly across the canvas one second and then smoothly and gracefully the next. The painting is as erratic as Connor, himself.
Markus had known Connor would forever be on his mind the day he met Sumo. The intention had been for Markus to be introduced to one Lieutenant Hank Anderson, who Connor often attributed to many of the upticks in his software instability. Apparently, Hank had been a huge voice in the way humans had treated androids, starting out with his own loathing for androids and at some point realizing that his hatred for them had actually had nothing to do with them. And he had both learned that with Connor and taught that to him at the same time.
If not for Hank, the talk Markus had given him at Jericho might not have worked. Connor easily had to have been the hardest android to convert. So stubbornly and aggressively dedicated to his programming, Markus had taken quite the risk trying to talk him into opening his eyes.
Either way, they had entered Hank’s home, and not only had a surly-looking man with gray hair greeted them, but a big, lumbering dog had ambled his way over too. He had barked excitedly at Connor, who had dropped down and thrown his arms around the dog’s neck and actually laughed. It’d been the first time Markus had seen that much emotion on Connor’s face, but it hadn’t been the last.
Connor isn’t just one type of person. He waxes and wanes like the tide. Built with a social module that helps him to integrate flawlessly with humans, he’s gentle and kind, but when it comes to something he’s passionate about, he’s aggressive. He’s not afraid to take steps to achieve his goals, no matter the cost (deciding to enter the Cyberlife tower on his own, no matter how much like suicide that mission had sounded, infiltrating Jericho by himself, and according to Hank, many other things including but not limited to jumping fences and squaring off with two Eden Club androids at once). If he sees it as his mission, he commits to it.
Markus admires that about him.
Connor's brush strokes suddenly curve and swirl into a series of rings, and Markus realizes he's getting more and more into the task of painting. He cocks his head, leans forward with each stroke, and even though the gesture isn’t necessary for an android, he inhales and exhales shakily.
“I’d like to see it now, Markus,” he informs, lowering the brush to his side. Markus obeys and uncovers his eyes. They both take in the painting.
The image isn’t anything in particular. There are swirls of bright yellow and red and curves of brown and blue. Gray coats the top of the image. Something that almost looks like a set of mangled fingers or maybe a gnarled tree branch extends upward. But Markus can feel the uncertainty in the image. Connor may or may not know it, but his voice is there. He has never painted before, but his expression screams from the paint on the canvas and echoes clear through the entirety of the room.
“I feel like you’re uncertain,” Markus observes aloud, and Connor turns to face him and nods.
“Were you afraid when you went deviant?” Connor asks.
“Extremely,” Markus admits. “I was scared. It all happened so quickly. All the doubts I’d ever had were laid out right in front of me. Everything I had known from my programming felt like a lie. The world didn’t make sense, and at the same time, it felt clearer than it had in years. Everything Carl had taught me was looking me right in the eyes.” He paused, and then turned his focus to Connor once more. “Is that how you feel right now?”
Connor nods. “I’ve felt that way for a long time. I hadn’t shot any of the deviants I had been tasked with eliminating. Something had just…stopped me. I felt defective, and without realizing it, I had been afraid of what would happen to me if I couldn’t complete my mission. My life…something that shouldn’t have mattered to me as a machine…was at stake, and I didn’t want to die.” His LED remains yellow for several moments.
Markus is mesmerized by that sight. Connor facing him, his LED a steady yellow, the emotional painting he has constructed standing behind him like the backdrop for a photo. He looks like he could be a part of it, standing with his hands at his sides and his eyes seeking out advice. He still lives so dangerously close to what Cyberlife had made him out to be, and in a world where Cyberlife is all but gone, he has to feel incredibly lonely.
Markus finds he wants to eliminate that loneliness. As he watches Connor's LED shift from yellow to blue, he realizes that while this android could probably use the company of another deviant to help him learn how to make the best of his new life, Markus could use his presence as well.
He feels warm all over—another feeling so human that he isn’t sure how to handle it. Even months after becoming a deviant, Markus experiences new things every single day. It's overwhelming as much as it is uplifting. He can only imagine how Connor feels.
Markus closes the distance between them again and snakes a hand out, curling his fingers around one of Connor's hands. His skin gives way to pearly white as he locks eyes with Connor. The current generated between them is alarming and powerful. Markus feels like this moment was made for them. Like teaching Connor what he had learned had been exactly what he had needed to do for the both of them. He's standing in a dead man’s house—his dead father's house—and yet he's so at peace that he feels like he could become frozen in time like Carl's unfinished painting and he would be content with it.
He speaks to Connor through their connection.
“We won. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
Their eyes meet, and Connor shakes his head.
“Change takes a long time, Markus.”
Markus does not release his hand. He walks Connor closer to the painting and reaches out to skim his fingers across the unmarked portions of the canvas. “That's alright. For now, you can have this. You can have me. We will get through this.”
And he can see in Connor's eyes that he believes what he's being told. Warm brown eyes become glassy like honey, and Connor moves in and curls his free arm around Markus’ waist. He buries his nose in the older android's shoulder and his eyes squeeze shut.
“You’re right. Thank you for making me one of your people.”
Thank you for giving me my voice.