Chapter Text
It’s been a hard day. It doesn’t help that this was exactly the type of event Carl used to hate, that would leave the old man grumpy and uninspired for weeks after all his supposed fans and patrons had convinced him it didn’t matter what he painted, it would make them all money and fame.
Markus understands Carl better now, standing in the eye of a whirling storm, feeling as though he’d left his soul on canvas and everyone’s looking in the wrong direction and still coming up to ask… What does it mean?
“If I could explain it in words,” Carl would mumble later, staring out over the vibrant garden. “I’d have become a writer, wouldn’t I?”
It felt like betrayal, standing there, letting Carl’s works slip between his fingers. Leo had donated every painting in Manfred mansion to New Jericho. He was here tonight, standing in a corner in a dark suit and brand-new haircut, seeing his father’s paintings for perhaps the last time as they disappeared into private collections and overseas galleries.
Because Jericho needed the money.
“Dad would want you to have them, you know?” Carl’s son had said, when he’d arrived on New Jericho’s doorstep with an appraiser, a lawyer, and a notary. “If he was alive to see all this, everything you’ve done… I’d probably be cut out of the will entirely.”
He’d tried to smile, like it was a joke, but Markus could see the insecurity, the hurt and pain.
They’re still… cautious around each other. There’s too much history. Too much turbulence. He almost blames Leo for putting him in this position.
Because if Markus hadn’t been made the owner of Carl Manfred’s complete works, he wouldn’t be able to sacrifice them for his people. He wouldn’t have to sell Carl’s dreams for his own.
All they care about is how much money they’re gonna make out of it.
But New Jericho needed that money, and he could just about justify it as Carl joining the cause. Giving a legacy of freedom and choice, which the old man would have wanted anyway.
“You know?” Simon said at his side. “I think this one is my favorite.”
Markus blinked at him, then up, to the piece he should have been staring at. The blue canvas was impossibly tall and wide, and yet showed only a small portion of a man’s face. It was hard to tell whether the wide swathes of blue pigment were meant to shroud or emphasize the features of the man.
It was large. It was difficult to transport. It was difficult to display.
And it was priced at nearly two hundred million dollars.
It alone could re-open the factories. Lay out new thirium supply routes. Pay for a hundred androids’ legal and technician bills.
It could make New Jericho more than a refuge. More than a camp set up in the abandoned shell of Cyberlife.
“He named it ‘A Portrait of an Undrowned Man’,” Markus said, looking up at the painting. “But he never finished it.”
Simon considered this, tilting his head up to interrogate the figure. “Maybe that’s why I like it.”
Markus looked around at the gathering. There was a bidding war already. He didn’t even want to look at the numbers. He’s halfway hoped the price would dissuade any potential buyers, but that was a futile dream. It was Carl’s last work.
Collectors were rabid for it, whether they had set eyes on it or not.
It’s almost over, Simon muttered in his head.
He took Simon’s hand in his own. I know, he said. I’m fine.
You don’t seem fine.
He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. I just wish you could have met him. I wish you could have seen him, the way I did.
Simon’s hand went stiff. He withdrew his voice from Markus’s head. A renewed wave of frustration broke through Markus. Even after all they’d been through, everything they’d done together, Simon was unwilling to sync with him, to share their memories and feeling. The history of themselves.
It hurt, sometimes. It was hard not to see it as a rejection. But the pain was far worse when this happened. When they misunderstood each other. Communication could be so easy, between them, if Simon would just let him in.
I didn’t mean like that. I just meant—
He suddenly realized the gallery had gone silent but for a pair of footsteps. He turned letting go of Simon’s hand. It was Connor and Lieutenant Anderson walking in from the cold. The Lieutenant was shaking the snow from his collar, scraping his iron-gray hair from his eyes.
The snow and frost took didn’t melt from Connor’s hair or cheeks. He walked with purpose, his eyes fixed on Markus. For the first time that night, a genuine wave of relief broke through him. “Connor,” he said with a smile. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.”
The other android didn’t smile. “I’m sorry Markus, I’m not here to stay.”
As he walked closer, he realized Connor’s eyes weren’t fixed on him at all. But slightly beyond and to the side. On Simon, or maybe the gallery, the thousand beautiful people and their whispers.
“Are you working then?” he asked blandly.
Connor met his eyes firmly. “Yes.”
What’s North done now? It’s a thought born of half exasperation, half panic. Tonight has been hard enough. If he has to come to the station and bail her out, be in front of all those cameras, make yet another public statement of apology on behalf of New Jericho—
And the worst thing was, he wouldn’t even blame her for it. There would be a plausible reason she had to break someone’s arm, or smash a window, or steal a car. Not a good reason, but plausible. New Jericho had been told numerous times that vigilantism was a crime, but everyone knew North was one shade away from a mask and a costume.
Yet, somehow, she could always explain how she had found herself in the middle of an android trafficking ring or scrapyard as if she’d simply gotten lost on a walk through Sentry Park.
He sighed, but before he could ask to fetch his coat or send a missive to New Jericho’s hierarchy of administrators and volunteers, Connor had squared his shoulders to Simon.
“PL600 501 743 923,” he said.
Markus frowned. He’d still tenuously connected to Simon’s comms, just enough to feel the bridge between them snap. The door slam shut and lock.
“I am arresting you on suspicion of murder,” Connor said.
Markus almost laughed, but the humor evaporated as Connor’s eyes fixed on him. The other android’s shoulders setting in determination. He paused, his lips halfway to an indulgent smile.
“What?” he said.
Connor didn’t look at him. Markus looked to Lieutenant Anderson.
Who was looking at Simon as well.
It was… he hated to admit it, but it was strange. When he and Simon were together, people looked to him. They spoke to him. “You have the right to remain silent,” Connor told Simon.
This was ridiculous.
He tugged Simon back, but the other android resisted. Staying exactly where he was. Markus had to compromise by stepping in front of him. Blocking Connor and Anderson’s view. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.
Connor finally met his eyes.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” he said softly. The words for Simon, but the pity in his eyes was all for Markus. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand?”
Markus shook his head. This felt… This couldn’t be real. This was some simulation. A trick that--
“I understand,” Simon said softly at his back.
He turned. “Simon?”
The blond android met his eyes. “It’s alright Markus.”
What? What is alright? What is happening? He tried to transmit his confusion, his desperate need for answers. But they evaporated against the iron walls Simon had set between their minds.
“What do you mean it’s alright?” he finally asked out loud. “Did you—How do you know what they’re talking about?”
And suddenly Leo was there. Looking nervously between Simon, Markus, and Connor. “Don’t say anything,” Leo said firmly to Simon, even as his hand curled around Markus’s elbow, trying to tug him out of the way. “Just… don’t say anything until you’re alone with a lawyer.”
Markus wasn’t sure how the world was spinning, how time was still marching on when reality had so clearly broken. The room around them, snapshots of Carl’s long and varied life—none of it felt real.
“You haven’t murdered anyone, Simon,” he said softly.
“Don’t make him talk,” Leo whispered harshly, his grip tight. “Markus, bro. You need to wait.”
Simon still hadn’t looked directly at Markus. “I will come quietly,” he said to Connor. “I will make a full confession. Just… please let me talk to Markus for a moment.”
But the android’s eyes were hard. Unforgiving. He was angry. Connor was angry at Simon. “All plea deals shall be made down at the station, with the oversight of the District Attorney and—”
“Wow, look at that Connor,” Lieutenant Anderson said loudly, pointing to the painting behind Simon and Markus. A Portrait of an Undrowned Man. “What do you think?”
Connor blinked. “Did Elliot Neil get a moment?” he asked with bland curiosity, though Markus could feel the ghost of something like venom behind the words. An intention to hurt. “Did Daphne Neil get to say goodbye?”
Two names taken from the same family. Markus felt suddenly as if Leo’s grip was the only thing keeping him upright. This was wrong. It was all wrong.
“Just five minutes,” Simon said calmly, as if that accusation wasn’t just warranted, but expected. Deserved. “Please. I know how much I’m asking. But there are things Markus needs to know. Things he needs to organize and prepare for Jericho. Things that shouldn’t be on record.”
Connor glanced to Lieutenant Anderson, who had found a waiter with a tray of small, savory tidbits of food. Leaving Connor to make the choice, and making his opinion as loud and clear as possible. There were whispers starting up. The pricing and selling of artwork had stopped—a reflection of Jericho’s suddenly plummeting value in the eyes of the public.
Because Simon, Markus’s right hand man, a nominal leader in Jericho’s famously pacifist rebellion, had just been arrested for murder.
“Five minutes,” Connor said at last.
#
They were given space in a smaller gallery, a staggered set of rooms that made a small loop for seasonal collections. The buzz of the gathering outside was subtly hushed by the walls. Thick and solid, meant to contain, protect, and value.
Markus led them inside. Because he’d always led them everywhere. Because he could look like he knew what he was doing when the world was falling apart.
He tried not to think about how much it felt like hiding. Again.
Simon spoke softly at his back. “I know it’s hard to understand, but—"
Markus turned in the center of the room and crossed his arms. “Why?” he asked. Because it encompasses everything he needs to know right at that moment. Why are the police here? Why aren’t you fighting this? Why are they here, now, threatening everything we’ve built?
The blond android sighed. He lingered at the doorway, as if Markus’s presence were forcing him out of the room. As if he was already ready to leave with Connor. For interrogation.
“Because there is a police report. A highly classified police report, which tells a story about the man who owned me. The woman he married. The son they needed me to raise.”
“What did they do to you?”
Simon met his eyes. “Nothing,” he said. “They treated me very well. I was a point of pride, you know. A way to show off both their work and their home. They pretended sometimes that I was a member of the family, though it was always said as a joke. As if they were teasing each other with how much they needed me. It was… sweet in a very patronizing way, but I didn’t mind it for a long time. I didn’t mind… anything for a long time.”
Markus couldn’t imagine that. Carl had always treated him with dignity. Respect. Like Markus was more a friend and confidant than careless gift from Elijah Kamski.
But that didn’t… humans had done worse. Had been worse than patronizing. How could that lead to murder? Lead Simon to murder?
“Then tell me what happened.” he whispered.
“He worked for Cyberlife, developing and training AI responses,” Simon said, looking away. “This was before the PL600 had officially hit the market. I was a… gift from Cyberlife. In recognition of the work he’d done in building me. Training me.”
Markus couldn’t fight back the impulsive twitch of disgust at the mention of Cyberlife. He clenched his fists and tried to listen. Tried to understand. Because it made sense if it was self-defense. There was a precedent for that.
“She was his second wife, a teacher at a local high school. They went everywhere together, even before…”
He shook his head slightly as if to interrupt and clear a stray error from his code. “The boy was fourteen when I arrived,” he whispered.
The floor fell out from under Markus. He felt the world tip, wavering on a wire high above nothingness. “Who did you kill?” He whispered.
Simon didn’t answer. Markus’s thirium seized. Red errors flickered in his vision, warring between rage, confusion, and horror. No. Not the child. Simon wouldn’t kill a child.
But Simon wasn’t looking at him. He shifted on his feet. “When it happened. He was sixteen. He was looking at colleges. Every weekend we’d go see a new campus. He was such a smart kid, he had his pick.”
His eyes were distant, caught on a memory. Markus had never seen that expression on Simon’s face before. Because Simon never lingered in the past, had never shared any of his history or memories with Markus.
“Who did you kill, Simon?” he asked again.
Simon reached out his hands, considering his long, pale fingers.
“The police report said I was hacked,” he whispered. “That Elliot Neil who worked at Cyberlife, who trained AIs, got inside my head. That he wanted to stage a break-in and make it look like a robbery gone wrong. That she was beaten to death by a stranger.”
The silence in the room was deafening. Beaten to death.
“But he forgot about his son. The boy he gave to me to raise. He didn’t know that school was closed that day. I can only imagine his face when the police came to arrest him. When they told him his son had hidden under a bed. Had witnessed…”
Simon’s eyes were wet. His voice stumbled. The light at his back was suddenly glaring, but Markus couldn’t look away. “Deviance wasn’t well known back then. Cyberlife had a lot to lose, and they didn’t want a whiff of the scandal. If an android could be hacked, then—"
Markus’s thoughts buzzed. It hurt to think. To imagine Simon... He didn’t want to hear any more. He couldn’t. It didn’t make sense. But it had to. He had to make it make sense.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he hard himself whisper, cutting through Simon’s explanation, his thoughts spinning in a million rotations a second. If he didn’t slow down to think, he wouldn’t have to think about how impossible it was. How much of it didn’t make sense. “If you were hacked—if he made you—”
Simon’s silence was deafening. It sucked all other noise out of the room. The police report said I was hacked. There was careful distance there. But that didn’t make it true.
"Were you hacked? tell me you were hacked, Si."
"I...” the blonde android hesitated, and it was enough.
Markus pressed a fist to his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt himself chipping. Fracturing. Shattering. Falling away into a void. Black, insensate nothingness.
He forced his hand flat, pressed it firmly against his own thigh to impress the words. "I need you to tell me you were hacked,” he whispered unevenly. “If you tell me it’s possible. I'll believe you. I swear I will. I won't let them take you if you--"
"Don't ask me to lie to you, Markus. I don't want to do that."
Backing away, Markus hit a wall of the gallery with a solid thud. He can’t look at Simon. Can’t feel anything. He wants to breathe. He wants to express this pain, this ragged, raw ache of betrayal. The ripping away of faith. Of love. Of the understanding he thought he had.
“Markus.”
Markus shook his head. He stumbled back and hit a wall. The gallery’s alarm system sparked to life, only to be extinguished in a millisecond by a cold, familiar connection.
Simon dismissing the alarms off with practiced ease.
Following in Markus’s wake and easing his way.
Which was just so Simon, it felt like a bullet wound. After all the emotional turmoil of letting Carl’s life’s work slip out into the clutching hands of people he would have despised, this was too much.
He slid down the wall, curling into himself. “They must have deserved it,” he said. “They must have done something to you.”
The bond android hovered in the doorframe. “You have to distance Jericho from me. Don’t buy me any lawyers. Don’t come to the jail or the court dates. And you have to convince North and Josh to do the same. You can’t let this divide our people, create new tensions.”
Markus looked up. That… how could Simon think about that right now?
“The paperwork for the Cyberlife dissolution is in my bedroom, on the top shelf of the closet. You should give everything to Anna, an ST600 that works in the reclamation department on the third floor of the tower, she’ll know what to do with the—”
Markus turned his gaze to the dark tiles. Every word out of Simon’s mouth felt as if it were scraping him hollow. He was just a shell, a spent casing.
Had Simon always been this cold?
How had he never noticed? Why had he never questioned the secrets? Simon was a housekeeping model. He was supposed to take care of a house. Make a home. That’s what he’d done for Jericho. What he’d done for Markus.
His past had always seemed painful, but maybe Markus had just… justified Simon’s silence as hurt. He’d built up a thousand nebulous fantasies of what Simon’s life might have been like before deviance, but they had never included this.
Never.
“Why now?” he asked softly, breaking through the litany of chores and responsibilities he now had to delegate among the rest of the council.
Simon paused. For a moment Markus thought the other android might not answer. But then he calmed down. He came closer, each step more hesitant than the last, as if he wasn’t quite sure was close enough.
"I imagine Elliot Neil found someone who would listen to him. It’s not so far-fetched these days, is it? An android going rogue, killing your wife, using your own son to frame you for the murder.”
He said it so casually, the crimes he’d committed. The sequence of events that was tearing Markus apart. He gazed up at Simon for the first time. It was shocking, how unfamiliar he suddenly was. But then… Markus had met hundreds of PL600 models. What made Simon different, what made him Simon, was the character behind that handsome face.
The earnest engagement behind those blue eyes. The silent, solid support.
And it was gone. He wasn’t there anymore. And Markus couldn’t even grieve him. Because he was right in front of him and had never been there at all.
“I don’t believe it,” he said at last, shaking his head. “I don’t believe you. Tell me exactly what happened. Tell me… start from the beginning.”
Simon knelt down beside Markus and captured his face in both hands. “Listen to me,” he said softly. “You are strong, Markus. And I love you. But I knew this would happen one day. If I was going to run from it, I would have done so a long time ago. And now… what we’re doing is more important. Jericho needs you.”
Markus reached up, clasping at Simon’s hands, holding them in place. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Please Simon, if you’re not here. If you’re— I can’t. There is no Jericho without you.”
Simon smiled. “There is. There always was. There has to be.”
“Simon--”
Simon just leaned forward and kissed him.
There was no electricity. None of the pleasure or pressure that usually came from their intimacy. None of the spark, the love, the trust, and joy. The freedom and relief.
Just cold, hard, sudden disgust.
Markus shoved him away, so hard that Simon overbalanced, cracking his knees against the tiles. And before Markus could even think about what he was doing, before he could register his own reaction, he had pressed the sleeve of his coat against his mouth and wiped, hard, at the echo Simon had left there.
And they were left staring at each other. The world is fractured and wrong.
“I’m sorry,” Simon said into the dull, hushed, ominous silence. “Markus, I’m so—”
A shadow appeared in the doorway, casting Simon’s face into darkness. Connor.
“It’s time,” the android detective said grimly.