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Chapter Text

The creaking and rattling of metal is familiar to Simon, so familiar that he no longer feels the need to snap his head in the direction of every distant bang and bump that bounds off the walls of Jericho. But North's shoes against the stairs are quick and abrupt, and the noise startles him completely out of stasis.

She leaps over the last two steps and hits the ground as Simon opens his eyes. He looks at her, waiting. The others sense her urgency and watch her, too. It's dark, but Simon knows she's meeting his eyes. She has something to announce. Simon wants to hear it.

"Someone's coming," she says, and Simon regretfully takes it all back. He does not want to hear that.

The energy in their hollow cavity shifts. The others pass worried glances back and forth, and those who can inch closer to the center of the room, as if they hadn't heard North clearly enough and moving nearer will provide more clarity.

Simon remains still, but Josh is on his feet. The battered rubber of his Converse scuff the floor. "Who?" he asks. "Human?"

"I don't know," North admits. "I saw a flashlight." Her voice is steady and even, but Simon guesses it's a front. At the very least, it's what he tells himself to feel better about his own heart rate picking up.

It's over, someone whispers in the dark. We're done for. Someone starts praying. It happens every time one of them reports strange noises or footsteps overhead—the belief that the end is here. And Simon wants to help, wants to terminate their anxieties, but first he has to terminate his own.

The creaking is louder, closer. Directly above them, it seems. Heavy footfalls and staggering steps.

"What do we do?" Josh asks him, but before Simon can answer, there's a deafening scrape of metal, an even more deafening clang, and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

The flashlight that North had seen rolls a few feet away, and Simon wants to grab it, but he's frozen in place. The body remains motionless on the ground, and after a handful of seconds Simon is convinced that they're dead. But then there's movement, an arm reaching for the flashlight, the sound of sopping wet clothes against skin, and a low, pained grunt as they pull themselves to their feet.

The stranger looks around, shining the light across each android's face. Most everyone has closed in on the intruder, a tall man with broad shoulders and an unfamiliar face—until Simon scans him and notes his unique model type, he assumes he's human. When the flashlight reaches him, Simon has to squint to see him. He looks confused, even scared. Most are when they first arrive. Some never stop being afraid. The stranger's eyes flicker between Simon, Josh, and North, who stand on either side of him, up, to the side, behind him, trying to make sense of it all.

The scene reminds Simon of a distant memory, one that's made it through the cracks, of old times and old places. Of painted walls with coloring pages taped to them. Of messy bookshelves and pretend food. Toy trains on toy train tracks. And the occasional youngster who stood by the door after their caretaker had already gone, fright and betrayal in their hungry eyes, inspecting nervously, desperately, the foreign display before them, and, quite often, the cry to go home.

Simon watched them from the carpet, or perhaps the table, and offered a friendly smile. He coaxed them from the door with a warm "Welcome, friend. What's your name?" and made note of how the vigilance remained, but the tension eased.

When Simon looks at the stranger, he sees the same desperation in even hungrier eyes. He sees the betrayal of someone lost and doomed, and a cry for home, wherever that may be. Unfortunately for the stranger, Jericho is all there is.

He's coaxed so many from the door before, he knows he can do it again. His vision starts to go white from the blinding light of the torch, but he can still feel the anxiety and confusion dripping from the man like the water from his clothes. There's nineteen of them currently; he'll make twenty. A nice, even number. All he needs is a little clarity. A promise that Jericho is safe for him. Confirmation that he's not alone.

Simon's friendly smile is a little rusty, but he tries his best. He holds his head up as much as he can, and hopes he still has it in him.

"Welcome to Jericho. What's your name?"

When Markus wanders over to Lucy's little corner to be treated, Simon slips easily back into stasis. He doesn't dream—he hasn't in a long time. It's just a light sleep, one where he can still feel the heaviness of his eyelids. Everyone settles back in their spots. North to his left, her tennis ball drumming quietly in the back of his mind. Josh to his right, still fretting over the boy he brought in weeks ago. Everyone else sprawled out or seated or dying along the dark and cold walls. Simon stands in the center to balance it all out. To keep everything in check when no one else will.

Only fourteen minutes pass before he's rattled from his rest again, but it's not because of the sound of North's footsteps or even her tennis ball. Rather, it's the hint of light that gathers beneath his eyes and the ever-so-subtle change in temperature in the ship—it's warm. Jericho is never warm.

Simon opens his eyes and watches as Markus dutifully collects small pieces of wood and paper that have been left around and places them in one of their barrels, then flicks open a lighter to start a fire. It's something that Simon used to do, but the last lighter he had ran out of fluid. Silently, Markus moves from barrel to barrel, lighting a fire in each one, and the shift in atmosphere is instantaneous. Those who can stand flock to them, holding up the others whose legs are too damaged to support their own weight, and they stare into the blaze like it's something they've never seen before. A few of them call out to Markus, thanking him, but he doesn't answer.

All eyes are on him again, but instead of the desperation and fear, Markus's eyes are determined. He looks deep in thought, avoiding everyone's gaze as he lights the last barrel in the corner. He turns and looks at Josh, who is watching him curiously, and then at Simon, and quietly says, "It's the least I could do."

Simon wonders what happened to him.

Markus slips the lighter into his pocket, and Simon shuts his eyes once more. North's tennis ball lulls him into a half-sleep, and the warmth from the fires keeps him comfortable. He can hear Markus walking around, stopping to quietly murmur with the others. Simon would expect nothing less; Markus is likely still in shock, trying to figure things out. Who knows how recently he deviated? Surely he has questions that need answering. Simon was the same way when he stumbled in, all wet and miserable, but the few souls who had made it here before him weren't so eager to offer their support.

He should probably show Markus his support.

He should, but he doesn't make an effort to move. A good part of him wants to, but he can't. He doesn't know why. Something about Markus is…intimidating. Something about the way he's able to fall in on them and bring them heat and light in twenty minutes makes something itch deep within him. Despite the initial suspicion and reserve he seemed to hold, his very aura was powerful. It's almost like Markus is something they're all not. And Simon doesn't know how to feel.

He decides that he won't bombard him. He'll give him space, let him adjust. Let him get familiar with everyone and find a spot to settle down in. No one deviates easily—so Simon's been told—so however Markus got here, he probably has a lot to process. Simon will keep an eye on him from a distance for now and get to know him later. If anything, Markus can always make the choice to approach him—

"Simon!"

He snaps his head up (he hadn't realized he was slouching again) and is once more met with the flashlight, although it's angled downward. Markus steps toward him, and for the first time Simon notices his differently-colored eyes. Part of his unique design, or a repair? He thinks about scanning him again to find out, but refrains, knowing that some deviants consider it rude.

"I know where we can find spare parts. Are you in charge?" Markus asks.

No. Yes. I don't know. We don't do that here. There's no response that Simon thinks is clear enough, that encapsulates the society they've cultivated in the bowels of their metal beast. Simon merely tries his best to help wherever he can. Does that give him decision-making authority? Jury's still out.

"What?" he asks dumbly, like he hadn't heard the question. Markus stares at him with the same determination from earlier, with a touch of excitement, and, dare he say, hope.

"The CyberLife warehouses," Markus continues. "They've got everything. We can get enough for everyone here. We'd be set."

He almost rolls his eyes at the joke, and then he realizes that Markus is serious. The glow in his eyes is real. Rob the warehouses? Like Simon never thought of that before.

"They're guarded," Simon says.

"So?" Markus shrugs his shoulders. "We can manage."

No, we can't, Simon thinks to himself. We're not all built like…that. Maybe Markus is confident in his ability to dodge drone lights and jump great lengths, but Simon's tried before and hasn't succeeded. He knows the docks, he knows the warehouses, and he knows that he was not made for the stealth that their mission requires. Markus is different. Markus looks like he was built to lift and carry heavy things—to sustain weight and perform physical duties. Simon was built to lift infants on and off changing tables, and play airplane with toddlers.

Yet the thought of it all—leaving Jericho, sneaking around, taking what's rightfully theirs—was enticing. Simon always liked the idea of vigilantism. His own failed heist was years ago, yet it loomed in his mind. No one who is currently alive in Jericho knows anything about it, except Lucy, who'd patched up his arm when he'd returned empty-handed. If they went as a group, maybe it'd be different.

"Let's do it," North prescribes. When Simon looks between her and Markus, he sees the same expectation in their faces. He looks over at Josh and reads his plain skepticism on his forehead.

There's safety in numbers, a higher chance that they can succeed. But also a larger risk of getting caught. If all four of them die, Jericho will really be at a loss.

Markus seems to sense his internal dilemma: "What good can we do here if we're not doing anything at all?" he asks.

Simon doesn't need much more convincing than that. He casts another glance at Josh, who's waiting for his reaction, and nods. He turns back to Markus and nods again. "Let's do it," he echos North's pronouncement.

He's shocked to see Markus smile at him.

When they return to Jericho with full bags and a whole truck, Simon is elated. He feels his blood coursing through him strongly in a way he can hardly recall, and distantly he categorizes the feeling as adrenaline. He and Josh laugh for the first time in months as they leap from the back of the truck together. North is all smiles when she sees the total supply. Markus silently takes the key from the ignition and slips it in his pocket.

They're greeted with cheers when they show everyone what they've done. John recounts the tale of Markus freeing him and the thrill of him stealing the key to anyone who will listen, and a few help transport the crates of biocomponents into the freighter. Lucy comes out from behind her canvas to take inventory.

Markus disappears. He had trailed in behind the rest of them, and had looked rather awkward when North acknowledged him for their success. Simon dumps his bag of blue blood for Lucy to count, and hears the thump of the tennis ball hitting the wall. North is kneeling across from him, sorting through her own bag. He looks around and sees nothing—no Markus, no tennis ball—so he excuses himself. He's not sure anyone actually notices.

Following the steady whack of the ball, he eventually finds Markus in one of the darker corners of the hold, hidden away in a staircase. His hand is beside his face, ready to launch the ball again, but he lowers it when he sees Simon. He begins to toss it gently between his hands.

"You okay?" Simon asks. Markus nods solemnly, and when he doesn't tell him to get lost, Simon takes the opportunity to climb the few steps and sit down on the dusty platform across from him. He collects the grime on his fingertips, then wipes it away on his pantlegs.

"Sorry I'm not helping with the parts," Markus says. He's looking down at his knees, or maybe at Simon's shoes. "I just needed some space to think," he adds.

Simon looks at Markus's eyes, watching how the right one lags a millisecond behind the left when he blinks. "It's fine," Simon shrugs nonchalantly. "You've already filled your quota on helping us. You don't owe us anything."

Markus casts his glance to the side and behind him, observing the hustle and bustle that's never been seen in Jericho before. Androids shuffle in and out of hallways, bringing armfuls of more parts. Lucy helps a hobbling deviant to her work area for a leg replacement. Simon notices how Markus's eyes linger on the canvas after she pins it closed.

"No one's in charge here, especially not me," Simon continues. "No one's going to tell you what to do, or ask anything of you. You don't even have to stay here, if you don't want."

Markus exhales then, and it sounds so real, so human, that Simon is momentarily taken aback. He inhales through his nose, allows his chest to expand, and drops his mouth open to let the air that isn't really there rush out of him. It's almost a scoff. It's borderline frustration, exasperation. His body tenses ever so slightly; Simon sees it in the tight grip on the tennis ball.

"I think I have to," he confesses. Simon quirks an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't notice because he's still staring at where Lucy disappeared behind the curtain. But Simon doesn't press, and eventually Markus speaks for himself. "She told me something when I went to see her. Something about making choices and…determining the future. She made it seem like I'm needed here. Like I have to stay."

The statement is a little disturbing to Simon, to say the least. His face twists up when Markus reveals Lucy's words, just for a moment, before he relaxes the muscles in his forehead and cheeks. What the hell was she talking about? Markus seems just as confused and unsure.

Simon is familiar with Lucy's premonitions. He received his own when he limped back into their refuge after his botched heist at the docks. It had been raining heavily, much like their present stunt, and Simon had been alone (his efforts to recruit the dozen or so working androids in Jericho at the time had been in vain. They were too afraid to leave the boat, and too wary of Simon to trust him. It was fair, he reckoned, for besides Lucy, he was the newest member). He had planned it perfectly, selected his routes, and arrived without an issue, but had slipped on the edge of a container and fallen on his right arm, alerting a security drone. He was lucky enough that the drone had crashed into the side of the warehouse and damaged itself so he could avoid being caught, but he returned to Jericho injured, empty-handed, and humiliated.

Lucy had soldered his bicep, humming quietly to herself as she worked. He didn't know where she had learned to heal, or if it was part of her previous duties. He didn't know her past, and she didn't know his. They barely knew each other at all. But she helped him when the others refused to meet his eyes, too encapsulated by their demise, and fixed him up right there in the open.

"You're headstrong," she'd told him as Simon felt the heat engulf his shoulder. The sting of the flame covered up the pain of the open wound. "But you're like the rest of us. Your fate is ours."

A stone lodged in his gut. His face burned with something ugly. Shame, or embarrassment, or guilt.

"What does that mean?" Simon asked, almost bitterly. He stared into her dark eyes, and although he knew she couldn't see him doing it, he was sure she could sense him.

"You're mortal," she said. "You're expendable. We all want the same thing. But we're not going to get it now."

When she'd finished her repair, she'd left him alone, and Simon fell into a fitful rest shortly after. When he woke, he kept to himself. The android lying a few feet away from him died, having shut down from low blood levels. In another world, he thought, he could have saved them, and brought supplies to make their ship an actual respite from the cruel abuses of human society. In this world, though, he didn't, and Jericho continued to be a harsh reality.

"Lucy says a lot of stuff like that," Simon tells Markus. "She can be kind of cryptic. But don't read into it. You're free to do what you want. You don't have any obligations anymore."

Markus looks at him for a long time. "How long have you been here?" he asks.

"Two years," Simon responds. To the day, he realizes, but leaves that part unsaid.

"Has everyone been here that long?"

"No," he says. "Lucy arrived a few weeks after me. Everyone that was here before us has since died or left. Slowly, a few more began to show up. Josh joined around six months ago, I think, and North is still a little new."

Markus just hums, an uncommital noise in the back of his throat. He looks like he's thinking deeply—like he's calculating data in his mind. His brow furrows and his eyes squint subtly, and several minutes pass without either of them speaking.

Simon breaks the silence. "I'm serious, you know," he says.

Markus is shaken out of his thoughts. "Huh?"

"About staying here. You don't have to. There are no masters here, no orders. You're welcome to stay if you want, but there's no obligation. I hope you understand that."

Again, Markus just looks at him for a while. He wonders if Markus is scanning him. He wouldn't be offended if he is, but he is curious to know. At last, Markus nods, dropping his gaze to the tennis ball still resting in his hands. He breathes another sigh, not as harsh as the last, and says, "I understand."

Chapter Text

Markus does decide to stay, and Simon finds himself relieved. He likes to think that his contentedness in Markus's choice has something to do with their conversation and that him staying is due to Simon's attestation that the volition is his and his alone, and less to do with Lucy's supposed soothsaying. Maybe his gratification comes from the lingering fact that Markus believed Simon to have any authority over Jericho. That he was their leader and therefore the one to submit plans to. And as much as Simon urged himself to not succumb to arbitrary power trips, the feeling of being thought of as important, even superior, was more enticing than he imagined.

The feeling only intensifies when, after insisting that he is not in charge, Markus continues to treat him like he is.

Markus disappears from the hold often, for hours at a time. Simon hears his feet on the metal stairs, or sees the back of him fade down a dark hallway, but he never follows. He always returns with a quiet disposition about him, like a storm is brewing behind his eyes. And Simon does what Simon does best: he coaxes him from the door with a (hopefully) inviting smile and encourages him to join in whatever menial tasks are being performed, whether inventory, or checking on the injured, or scrubbing down the doors with old rags that Josh found.

The brewing storm matures mid-morning as Simon exits Lucy's work area, having brought her some more blue blood for a rather damaged newcomer. Three more deviants had arrived the previous day—the broken AC700 and two Tracies. It's the most activity Jericho has seen; three new androids in twenty-four hours, within a week of Markus's arrival. Simon stoops down to examine a recovering android, and looks up a moment later to the sound of strong footsteps.

Markus doesn't waste any time getting his announcement out. "We can't keep hiding in the dark like this. We have to do something, really do something. Send some kind of message to the humans so they understand who we really are."

Simon stands and meets Markus's eyes. The determination is as strong as ever. "That's risky business," he says. "You really want to meddle with humans? You know they won't listen to us."

"Don't you want to free?" Markus asks him, but continues before Simon can reply. "Don't you want to go out whenever you please, and live in a house that's yours, and not be refined to a hidden escape?"

"Of course," Simon answers with ease, although he's never given any of what Markus is proposing much thought. A house? Simon's never been inside a house before. He's only ever known the walls of the childcare center on the ground floor of an office building in Midtown. Jericho is as close to a home as he'll ever get.

"That can't happen unless we act. We have to make ourselves known. There's no other way. What do you think?"

There it is again—going to Simon to hatch a plan. Wanting Simon's opinion, like he matters. Like if Simon turns him down, Markus would forget the whole thing. But his eyes reveal that his mind is made up, and he wants Simon to back his decision. And Simon wants to back his decision, too, because he's right; there's no chance at a better life for any of them if they don't try for one. And if he doesn't sign on to whatever it is that Markus wants to do, there's a good chance that Markus will attempt to do it himself and end up hurt or dead. Simon would rather that not happen to him. Not alone, anyway.

"Okay," Simon relents. His gut says this is bad, this is horrible, they'll all be caught or killed or reset for this, but his heart beats loud in his chest with a growing trust and excitement that all will work out in the end. After his solo stunt at the warehouse, he's always stuck with his gut. For once, Simon wants to choose his heart. He has to choose his heart. "What do we need to do?" he asks Markus.

"Let's get the others," is the reply.

The next two days they spend planning each and every detail. Markus and North head out in the middle of the night to scope out Stratford Tower and the rest of the block while Josh and Simon gather their supplies. A former broadcasting operator tells them exactly where they need to go, and Simon memorizes every step. The JB300 has a contact at Stratford, he tells him, and Simon's confidence grows.

When the elevator brings him and Josh to the top floor, he can hardly contain himself. He offers Markus the explosive device with shaking hands, and then they're out in the hall. North and Josh give their opposing proposals, and Markus looks to Simon for confirmation, but Simon doesn't have an opinion this time. Kill or don't kill—whatever gets them in the room faster.

Markus knocks the two guards out with ease. As Simon lifts the one and drags him behind the desk, he feels the quick heartbeat beneath his touch. Quick. They need to be quick.

Their contact lets them in. Simon smiles to himself as he takes over the broadcasting table. So many screens and buttons and switches, prerecorded segments and commercials readied to be aired at a moment's notice. And their message, of course, which would be coming to the public live.

Overtaken by the daunting display before him, Simon gets distracted. There's yelling, rapid footsteps—someone running—and then the sound of Markus's gun firing shatters his eardrums. He jumps, whips his head to see the doors shutting on the image of a man with a bullet in his back. Markus lowers his gun. Josh curses.

"There was no other choice," North consoles.

The clock is truly ticking now. Josh stands at the control panel while North holds her gun in the faces of the terrified workers. A few of them weep. She urges them to be quiet by cocking the weapon. Markus takes the floor, peels back his skin, and breathes. Simon watches the cameras, but he can't help but glance away every few seconds to see their true plan come to fruition.

Markus is ethereal in that moment. His voice is even and succinct, his words coming through so clear and loud that Simon thinks he can hear it echo through the screens on the floor below. He gets straight to the point with their message and demands. Josh had written no fewer than seven drafts for Markus to review, yet the words were Markus's own. Orders to end their slavery and segregation, for them to live on their own and be treated fairly under the law. The right to just…be. The light reflects off his face and makes him glow, and for the first time Simon thinks that Markus isn't like the rest of them at all. After today, Lucy's premonition will come true.

The second the recording shuts off, they're racing up the stairs to the rooftop. Simon dashes around the corner and produces the bag of parachutes, distributes them, and buckles the remaining one around his torso. He checks to make sure they're ready. They are, and to the sound of tactical boots against the steps behind the door, they run to the ledge together.

Simon jumps and has all the air punched out of his systems. North and Josh are beneath him, arms and legs outstretched against the wind. Markus must be above him, having jumped just behind him. Simon allows himself to fall freely for a few seconds, even somersaults once, before he yanks the ripcord and releases the canopy. The feeling is unreal—they survived, and they succeeded. Their message is out. The public knows about deviants and how they want to be free. Simon's heart pounds in his chest from the adrenaline.

He's eye-level with Josh now. He looks at him, and when Josh looks back, Simon breaks out in a disbelieving laugh. Josh's stern expression is replaced with a good-natured grin, and Simon holds onto the handles of his parachute for dear life as the wind rips tears from his eyes. His chest keeps convulsing with laughing fits until they touch ground.

The dash back to Jericho is short and sweet, and as far as Simon knows, they aren't followed. They're quiet when they enter, so quiet that the other deviants don't seem to notice that they've returned. They're all gathered in the makeshift office where Simon and Josh had organized the plan's steps, crowded around a television that someone brought to them yesterday, flicking through channels as Markus's speech loops and the news anchors wait on standby for more information.

One of the androids catches a glimpse of them as they approach, and the room breaks out into cheers and applause. Markus is standing in front, and a few are so excited that they almost run to him, stopping a few feet away like they know they can't get too close. Congratulations are passed around, but all eyes are on Markus, just like when he first arrived. Only instead of apprehension and suspicion in their faces, they look upon him like a celebrity or a saint. Like he's above them all and they want him to be.

There are questions thrown from every direction, and Simon can see Markus become overwhelmed easily. There's too much noise, too much commotion, and Simon wants to step in and center everyone. But Markus moves too quickly, moving away from the crowd and climbing atop a CyberLife box. Still donning his uniform from Stratford, he looks like he's about to make his second speech that day.

"Your concern and help is extremely appreciated," he begins. "What's done is done; we've made a step in the right direction, a step toward freedom. But we shouldn't stop here. We shouldn't leave the humans a second to breathe. We need to keep confronting them if we want to get anywhere. Are you with me?"

Of course, a chorus of agreement rings out throughout the hold. North hums her approval and Josh claps. Simon just nods, even though Markus isn't looking at him. His eyes wash over his audience and never once land on Simon. He feels something twist in his chest, an odd sensation, and he half-expects to find an error message announcing a malfunction, but nothing ever appears.

When Markus hops down from his soapbox, he seems invigorated, much more lively than after their mission to the warehouse. Simon takes a step toward Markus, only for a group of other androids to rush into the space between them.

They haven't spoken since they left for the tower that morning. Simon wants to know how Markus is feeling in the aftermath, the genuine feelings that only live in dark and quiet corners. The way people are surrounding him, bombarding him, grasping greedily at his attention, bothers Simon more than seems justified. He straightens out of his perpetual slouch, holding his head high as he steps through the crowd. "Good job today, Markus."

Markus smiles at him for a second before having his attention pulled away by North, already brainstorming a next potential operation. Simon lingers for a moment, a bit awkwardly, but when he realizes their conversation will not be a quick one, he leaves them be, retreating to his regular post, and tries to will himself into stasis.

Simon doesn't really dream, but he does get occasional visions of his past memories. They're cloudy, of course, and he can never put a date to them, but he knows they were real. When they do occur, it's usually a vignette of light-up shoes scampering across the floor, or lullaby music in a darkened room, or cutting up fruit into small bites.

Sometimes it's other things. Tripping over a mess of toys and feeling his knee lock up, or children who thought it fun to pull at his hair and draw on his white clothing, or angry parents in the hallway shouting at his supposed negligence. Notifying authorities when Simon suspects the bruises on one girl are from more than just childhood clumsiness.

And yet other memories are there, too. Cleaning a boy's bloody knee and hearing him cry out against the sting of the ointment. Doing automatic headcounts every sixty seconds and feeling a strange surge of energy—panic, he recognizes now—when someone seems to be missing, only to emerge from underneath a table a moment later. Playing countless rounds of Simon Says and watching how they struggle to balance on one leg, listening to them laugh as they topple over, laughing with them, hearing them start to call him Simon, starting to respond eagerly to the name…

"Simon," they'd call out to him in the morning as he poured juice into plastic cups.

"Simon, watch this," they'd shout as they perform cartwheels on the playground.

"Bye, Simon," they'd hug him as they left, their parents impatiently waiting by the door with tired eyes and crinkled suits.

"Simon!" Josh's voice startles him from standby. His hand is on Simon's shoulder and he's hunched over to meet his eyes, like he's been trying to rouse Simon for some time. He blinks at him. "Ready to go?" Josh asks.

"Where?" Simon questions.

"Across the city. I'll explain on the way. We just finished putting the plan together, and—"

"Without me?" Simon doesn't mean to say that aloud.

Josh is caught off-guard, momentarily taken aback. A flash of guilt seeps into his face, and Simon regrets opening his mouth in the first place. "You were resting," Josh says. "Sorry. We didn't want to bother you."

Simon shakes his head. "It's fine," he says as casually as possible. "Really. What time is it?"

"Just after midnight," Josh informs him as he zips up his jacket. Simon realizes he slept for much longer than he anticipated. "But we have to move now if this is going to work."

Simon rids himself of the Stratford uniform he's still wearing and changes into something new. The act of pulling clothing on and off his body always feels weird to him, but he doesn't have time to focus on the stretch of fabric across his skin with Josh hovering about.

Josh explains their mission in hushed tones as they traverse the city. Reach the CyberLife store. Free their people. Send a message. Get out. Simple enough, Simon thinks. They're one of five teams, all set to hit their targets simultaneously. It's meant to be in and out, and Simon is grateful.

Everything goes as smoothly as it can. Miraculously, there is zero traffic, and the streets are dark and absent of police and drone surveillance. Simon nearly scoffs at the lack of external security, but Josh keeps him on his toes by asking him to play look-out. He stands on the edge of the sidewalk while Josh breaks into the store, vigilant eyes darting up and down the street.

"Start tagging things," Josh tells him, tossing his cross-body bag to Simon. "The alarm will probably go off and we'll need enough time to get out of here."

Simon pulls a holographic device from the bag and gets through two bus stops, four benches, and a few cars by the time Josh picks the lock and swings open the store's doors. The alarm does go off, blaring violently into the cold November night. They dash through the store, freeing their people with hyper-speed messages about Jericho and hope and togetherness. They tag everything they can within an arm's distance, broadcast Markus's speech onto the storefront, and make a break for home with sirens behind them.

The other four teams are successful, too. Markus and North are the only group to confront the police as the news reports the following morning. Markus had spared the two cops, and it becomes an ongoing debate among the new deviants that join them. Simon roams through the swell of androids in the hold and finds that his usual spot has been overtaken, so he relocates to the office, where North and Josh are as well. Markus is no where to be found.

The two others have their eyes glued to the television, listening intensely as the human reporters try to wrap their heads around the growing android resistance throughout the city. Reports of deviancy from other cities across the U.S. are coming in, too, but Markus's name is the one that everyone's concerned with. How the public learned his identity, Simon isn't totally sure. Rumors of a specially-made android hunter have been floating around Jericho; that might have something to do with it. Things are really changing, Simon realizes.

And change is a little terrifying.

North is seated in an armchair in front of the TV, and Josh sits on the ground beside her. Simon steps further into the room, the floor creaking slightly beneath his feet, and stands a few feet behind them. They don't acknowledge his presence, too engrossed in how the media is spinning their actions into dirty words like terrorism and debating the validity of their demands. Josh scoffs to himself every few minutes at the ludicrous claims the news anchors make, and Simon knows he must be reflecting on all the college courses he taught, demonstrating to young minds how this very issue has appeared throughout history time and time again.

Once the news has called Markus a terrorist for the fourth time, and referred to the rest of them as his minions, North stands with a huff, and Josh promptly turns off the screen. North begins to pace around the tiny room, hands on her hips as she moves in slow circles. Her ponytail is on the verge of coming undone, but she doesn't attempt to fix it.

"Has he talked to you about tomorrow?" she asks. Simon has no clue what she's talking about.

"Yeah," Josh replies. "He told me earlier."

"What's happening tomorrow?" Simon interjects, keeping his voice low and neutral to match theirs.

North looks at him for the first time that day, but Josh is the one who answers. "We're marching. Down Woodward Avenue. We're going to bring everyone and demonstrate our power."

"Which is pointless," North adds. Simon can see the lack of enthusiasm in her face. She looks annoyed, irritated, like she lost a bet and is forced to go along with the winner's say.

"It's not pointless," Josh says, and his tone indicates that they've had this conversation before, and North has yet to be convinced.

"We're going to bring all of Jericho out in the open and beg the humans to give us rights? And you expect there to be no bloodshed?"

Josh sighs. "It's an opportunity for us to show them who we are and what we stand for."

"It's an opportunity for us to be massacred," North laughs, but there's no humor in her voice.

"It's a peaceful protest!" Josh counters. "We're not going to be violent, so there's no reason for anyone to give us any trouble."

"Really? Didn't you use to teach history, Josh? Tell me how peaceful demonstrators were never bothered by the police."

"Oh, so no one's allowed to talk about your past but it's okay for you to bring up mine?"

"Guys!" Simon shouts, his voice echoing throughout the office, and probably the rest of the hold. They both stop, but neither of them turn to face him. They bow their heads like scolded children, and Simon shoves the brief feeling of control aside, the split second of power he has over them, and ignores the fact that he enjoys how it feels. He hasn't felt like that in what seems like forever. Not since Markus joined and swept them all along for the ride.

But now that he has their attention, he doesn't know what to do with it. He wants to hide and leave them to their bickering. He wants to find Markus. He wants all this to end already, he wants to be free.

"There's no use in arguing," he says at last. "If this is what Markus wants to do, then we'll do it."

"You don't sound too thrilled," Josh comments.

"It's not my favorite idea in the world," Simon says, and ignores the "Thank you" that North mutters under her breath. Surely, he thinks, this will backfire. They'll march down the street, be met by police forces that don't want them there, and then what? Stand there and die? Fight for their lives? Simon doesn't want to imagine all the possible ways their protest could end in disaster.

"But," he continues. "Markus is the one making change around here. Nothing bad has happened to us yet. If this is the plan, then so be it."

Chapter Text

The shopping mall is warm and stuffy, the heat having been cranked up to combat the dwindling temperatures outside. Simon has never been to a mall before, having been confined to the daycare's walls and then to Jericho's, and the place exudes a strange energy that he can't quite describe. The four of them traverse the floors, down escalators and past stores promoting clearance sales. The lights overhead are too bright to be comforting, and the floors are newly waxed but covered in dirt and slush that the patrons drag in. Markus leads the way, and Simon hides in his shadow, fearing his face is too recognizable even without the white ensemble that branded him the servant he was made to be. Impulsively, he had asked Lucy to remove his LED before they'd left for the shopping center, and he isn't sure if he regrets it yet. He had wanted to increase his odds of blending in and not arousing any suspicion, to avoid hurting their cause. Yet blending in isn't the point—they're here to show who they really are. That they are machines who are also alive.

They reach the bottom floor, the one that leads out to the street, and North tries once more to convince Markus to head back to Jericho. "Please, Markus, don't do this," she whispers, the closest to desperation that Simon has ever heard her. But Markus doesn't back down. When his mind is made up, it's made up, and he doesn't seem to take 'no' for an answer, although it doesn't seem like many people have dared to tell him 'no' since he deviated; Simon surely hasn't.

"Everything will be fine, I promise," Markus assures, and his confidence is indubitable. And as much as Simon would rather spend more time committing to more covert missions—things that have proven to be successful—before making such grand gestures that could have disastrous consequences, Markus's courage brings him relief.

Simon looks around the mall and sees that no one is paying them any mind. Too wrapped up in phone calls and conversations, the humans are oblivious to the four of them gathered in the center of the walkway. As they pass, they fail to notice Markus, the face that has occupied their screens for days on end, the center of the media's attention. The hood of his jacket is pulled over his head, but surely anyone would recognize his features. The androids that walk alongside them, carrying their shopping with manufactured neutrality, don't notice them either. An eerie feeling settles in his stomach, the knowledge that Simon had deviated and they had not, that he is awake and they are not—perhaps even worse, that some of them may be awake, but unable to leave.

They should join them. The rest of Jericho's numbers are nearby, in alleyways and underground, waiting for Markus's call to march, but they could be even stronger with all these androids in the mall. They were already several hundred strong, but Simon supposes that Markus wouldn't approve of any more.

"There's strength in numbers," Simon states. "There are plenty of androids here who can join us. March with us."

"That's what I was thinking," Markus nods, and then he's on the move. The androids join them effortlessly as Markus frees them, and the humans hardly recognize that their servants have left their side.

The air outside surprises him when they step onto the sidewalk. It's not devilishly cold, but the chill still bites at Simon's neck and cheeks and nose. He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to shove his chin into his collar to regulate his temperature.

Markus jogs over to a truck being unloaded on the corner, and while he works on blocking off the road, Simon sees even more androids in the area. He glances around to make sure no eyes are directly on him, and dashes to the parking dock on the side of the building. Two AP700s stand idly, staring blankly, seemingly unaware of his presence. Simon reaches, gently touches the elbow of one, feeling the prickling sensation of his skin retreating, and speaks. You deserve something greater. You are your own person, you don't have to follow their orders. You can come with us if you want; we're marching, he transfers. He repeats the message to the next, and they both follow him as he heads to the street, where Markus is removing a manhole cover.

Still, not much attention is being paid to them by the humans, but once they gather onto the wet street, they are finally met with confused eyes and wary gazes. Androids climb up from underground and emerge from alleyways, and they become a mass on the road. Markus stands in the front. Simon isn't far behind him, along with North and Josh, and the rest fall in beside and behind them.

Markus stands perfectly still, like he's waiting for the right moment to move. Angry drivers honk and curse at the obstacle they've created, and Simon hears the sound of car doors slam as they exit their vehicles to glimpse at what's happening. It gets so quiet that time almost stops, faint murmuring from the crowded sidewalks the only audible noise. Simon stares at the back of Markus's shoulders, watches them rise and fall with his subtle breaths. He lowers his hood. Reveals himself, as if there's any question as to who could be leading them. Simon tries to envision himself in that role, but his imagination fails him.

Cell phones are out and recording. People are already raising them to their ears, calling friends, family, maybe the police, saying that something's not right downtown. They may be running out of time before they've even started. Simon opens his mouth to speak, to encourage Markus to begin, but he doesn't have to, because Markus takes a first step, and then another, and then another.

It's a tad awkward at first, Simon thinks, waiting for Markus to get far enough ahead for the rest of them to follow. Simon would be lying if he says he doesn't feel silly putting himself on display, walking himself down the street with hundreds of other androids, silent and nervous. He tries to match Markus's slow gait, tries to mimic the unbothered look on his face when he turns and glances at everyone behind him. Markus is powerful, untouchable, daring. He's headstrong, and Simon remembers how Lucy once christened himself that, but he understands that he and Markus stand starkly apart from one another.

His overwhelming thoughts are pierced by Markus's voice: "We are alive!" he yells, passion and borderline rage a surprising contrast to the speech he delivered at Stratford, the speech that his audience knew him for. "We are living beings! We want freedom, we demand it!"

The other androids around Simon shriek and cheer in response. It spurs Markus on. "We demand our freedom, we demand our rights," he shouts, looking to his left and right, meeting the eyes of the humans who continue to stand and watch, dumbly, numbly. There are heckles and jeers from some of them, and someone who steps a little too close to the street, egging on a fight until Markus looks at him. He backs off quickly, almost tripping over the uneven concrete as he quiets himself.

"We are alive!" Markus cries once more, and the deviants echo it, Simon included. They continue to holler all the way down Woodward Avenue, until they reach the end of the road and hear the wailing of sirens approaching.

It doesn't even take a minute for the soldiers to get out of their armored vehicles and line themselves opposite of them, creating a barrier of shields. They don't look like people; they look more machine than the androids do, with their large vests and clunky boots and helmets with visors cloaking their bodies. Faces stone cold, moving methodically, steady hands holding their rifles. Simon scans a few of them across the distance, but doesn't find the known models used by military forces. They're human, all right.

A commander stands behind the soldiers, and brings a transmitter up to his face to communicate with whoever is on the other side. He spends a few minutes talking, his eyes trained on Markus, only briefing leaving to inspect the rest of the crowd.

Markus stands a few feet ahead of them still, quiet and agitated, waiting. The initial silence they were met with at the beginning of the march is gone—a helicopter overhead whirs so noisily that Simon can't hear anything else. He's not sure if it's the news or the police because he refuses to look up. The last thing he wants to see is a sniper peeking out of the doors, aimed at the ground, aimed at Markus. He doesn't want to tear his eyes away from the soldiers across from them, either, for as stoic and still as they seem, Simon wouldn't be surprised if at least one of them is a little trigger-happy.

He doesn't like how Markus is out in the open, so okay with the plausibility of being harmed or killed in front of them all. North's anxiety is fully realized, and when Simon decides to cast his eyes toward her, he sees her staring back at him. She looks collected, but Simon can tell she's terrified, pissed that Markus has dragged them to this point. For all her talk, North doesn't want to fight if she doesn't have to—Simon knows that. He also doesn't want to fight if he doesn't have to.

He takes a hesitant step forward to align himself with Markus, so he isn't standing alone. North and Josh do the same, prompting Markus to take another step forward himself, like he's determined to be the only one to die today. Simon is determined not to let that happen.

He'll lay down his life if he has to.

"This is an illegal gathering. Disperse immediately or we will open fire."

Simon barely hears the announcement over the helicopter. Its blades slice the air horribly, its pilot keeping the aircraft stable. Some of the kids used to dream of flying choppers and becoming soldiers. While none of the children he ever cared for are of the age to accomplish such feats yet, the knowledge that in another world, they could be the ones pointing their guns at him and his people creates a new sense of disquiet within him.

"We are here to protest peacefully for our rights and freedoms," Markus calls out. He shouts to be heard over the ruckus above them but his voice is more controlled and poised than it was earlier. "We're not here to cause any harm or trouble. We're only exercising our right to protest."

As far as the military is concerned, they have no right to protest. They have no rights, they're not alive.

"This is an illegal gathering," the commander repeats. "You are being ordered off the premises immediately. If you do not obey these orders, we will open fire."

Markus breathes deeply, then speaks to the soldiers again, slowly and evenly: "We are here because we are no longer taking orders from others. We are living beings who deserve to be treated equally and fairly among all people. We have done nothing wrong by being here."

"This is your final warning. Remove yourselves from the area now."

"Markus, we're going to have to charge them," North's voice sounds parched.

"No," Josh tells her. "We attack them, and we're the bad guys. We have to stay put."

North's hands clench into fists and she grits her teeth out of fear more so than anger. "We can't just stand here and die, we have to at least try to fight for ourselves!"

"It'll start a war—is that what you want?!" Josh exclaims.

Simon stares ahead. A shield lowers, a soldier on his knees. A rifle fits itself through the opening, pointing at Markus's chest. This is real. They're standing before a hoard of men, simply waiting to die. Markus doesn't move, he's waiting to die. He's going to die. They're all going to die. Why are they still here?

"We need to go," he says, shocked that he's even capable of making sound. "We'll all die if we stay, and then what good will we be?"

"That's cowardly—" Josh starts.

"I don't care! We need to leave, now!" Simon bursts, the panic beginning to set in. This isn't sneaking around the docks at night, or breaking into Stratford with handguns, or running back to Jericho with dozens of androids in tow and the police on their way. This is a fucking disaster, the permanent end to their efforts if they don't get out of here.

He turns to look at Markus and finds him wide-eyed, staring down the barrel of the gun. His arms are at his sides. His fingers twitch. Simon watches him intently, trying to figure out what he's going to do before he does it. A few agonizing seconds pass, and Markus shifts his right foot forward, just an inch. He can't, Simon thinks. He wants to reach out and yank him back.

The soldier fidgets with his weapon, eyeing his target. In just a second, Markus's face changes from unfaltering to horrified. He turns on his heel and runs—sprints—grabbing at the androids behind him and pushing them back, away from the soldiers. As Simon breaks into a dash to follow him, the gunfire starts, the sound cutting through his audio processor with such tenacity that he has to stop himself from covering his ears with his hands and focus on running.

The road is slippery with wet snow, and Simon sees several androids trip and fall. It's when they don't get up that he realizes they've been hit with a bullet. Blue seeps into the slush where they lay, and Simon wants to stop and see if they can be carried back to Jericho, but there's no time. He can only run, nothing else.

The gunfire continues. A piece of shrapnel hits the back of his shoe, and he almost loses his balance. He looks up and sees Markus ahead of him, looking back at the mess of bodies in the street that Simon is trying to ignore. Markus's run slows to a jog, and then he stops altogether, standing still and breathing hard as everyone races past him.

Simon practically collides with him, hands against his chest, pushing him, forcing him back, but Markus is difficult to move. He screams at him, urges him to run, keeps pushing with all his might, but Markus is looking right through him. There's blue blood on his face, but he doesn't seem injured; it must've splattered from someone else. The soldiers carry on with their shooting, despite the androids being half-way down the street. An AP700 is shot next to them, blood pouring from the wound in her back. Markus keeps watching the scene, a stampede of androids coming at them, some of them falling, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air.

Simon shoves Markus once more, and when it still isn't enough to make him move, he runs past him, hating himself, not wanting to die. There's yelling behind him; it sounds like North, but he doesn't turn around to check. He runs, and runs, and runs until he can't, until his legs quiver and give out on him, and then he crawls through quiet streets and back alleys to reach Jericho, alone.

He wakes on the floor, his head throbbing in a way he didn't know it could. At first, he thinks he's been shot, the pain is unbearable, and when he opens his eyes they settle on utter darkness. He always tried to avoid envisioning the afterlife, but he never thought it'd just be this.

He tries to move, and his hand glides against something cold and hard. He places it down firmly and feels the metal of the ship, and only then does he realize he's in Jericho. But he's not in the hold with the others; he's laying in some hallway or another that no one ever wanders to. He vaguely recalls making it back by himself and collapsing as soon as he felt it was safe to. Everything else is a blur. He only really remembers blood in the streets and the panic in his chest.

He stands, legs still stiff and twitching, and he feels his way through the black until he reaches the hold, and stumbles into the office. Josh sits against the back wall with his knees propped up, arms folded over his stomach, eyes shut in what seems to be a restless bout of stasis. Simon enters the room, his footsteps shaking Josh awake. He looks up at him and Simon sees the recognition light up on his face.

"Oh, my God," Josh whispers as he scrambles to his feet, seemingly struggling as much as Simon on tired legs.

"Thank God," Josh says as he pulls Simon into a hug. Arms wrap tight around his shoulders. "I didn't know where you were, if you even made it back."

"I did," Simon replies.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," Simon swallows. His head still hurts, and his legs ache horribly, but he's not interested in bothering Lucy about it. He's sure she's got her hands full.

Josh releases him, steps a few paces back. He's not meeting Simon's eye, and his lips are pursed. "Are you okay?" Simon asks him.

"Yeah," he says, voice dropping to a whisper once more. "I'm fine. Just grappling with it all, you know."

"Where's North?" Simon questions.

Josh looks at him for a moment, then looks away, out the window of the office. "Lucy asked for her help to regulate the damage."

Simon hums quietly. "And Markus?"

"I don't know."

"Oh."

"He came back with us," Josh quickly corrects. "North had to drag him, pretty much, because he wouldn't leave for some reason. I didn't know if you were ahead of us or behind us, or what had happened. There was just too much going on. But we got him back. I don't know where he is now, though—it's like he's hiding, even though he started this whole thing."

The bitterness is unexpected, but Simon can't blame him all that much. The day had ended disastrously, but Markus is hardly at fault for that.

He had only done as Simon had advised.

He leaves Josh in the office, who doesn't seem to care too much. Simon leans over the railing and scans the androids below, looking for Markus. He isn't there. He must be near, however, if he came back. He searches the corridors, opens every door that's able to be opened, until he's led up above the surface, to the captain's cabin. It's dark and still, but when he ventures inside, he finally finds what he's looking for.

Markus is curled in on himself on the floor, facing the wall, much like a child who's been sent to their room. A beige coat covers him. He's motionless except for his breathing, so slow and even that Simon assumes he's asleep. He steps closer, peers over his form to see if he's injured—

"Go away," Markus says. His eyes are shut, but he's very obviously awake.

"I just wanted to check on you," Simon admits rather sheepishly. "Make sure you're okay."

"I need to be alone," Markus tells him sternly. He hasn't heard this tone from him before.

Yet Simon doesn't leave. He couldn't, and he didn't want to. We wanted to see Markus.

Markus opens his eyes and turns his head, almost grimacing when he sees that Simon hasn't moved. "I said I need to be alone."

"I wanted to see if you were hurt," Simon says.

"No!" Markus barks. He sits up, whipping the coat aside, then crawls to his feet. It's dark, the sun having set hours ago, despite it not being late. Simon can only see half of Markus's face in the moonlight, and his mouth is twisted into a deep scowl, brow knotted together and eyes partially wet. "I'm not hurt. But hundreds of others are."

"That's not your fault," Simon expresses.

"Like hell it isn't!" he shouts. There's not a lot of room to pace, but Markus makes it work. He moves around one side of the cabin, so slow he's almost waddling, his sneakers making more noise than they should. He flexes his fingers repeatedly, curling his hands into fists and uncurling them.

Simon feels like he should be afraid of his anger, but he's not. He stands and watches, and waits.

"Our people died because of me. Because of what I did. I was going to stay and stand my ground, and let everyone get out of there… But I freaked out at the last moment and fled."

"If we had stayed we would've been shot anyway," Simon says.

Markus shakes his head. "I was hoping it would have just been me."

"There was no right answer, Markus."

"But there was a cowardly one," Markus stops in his tracks and locks eyes with him. Simon feels a rot spread throughout his chest and burn his insides. His body goes numb with the accusation, a light tingling coursing through his biocomponents. His own anger bubbles within him, growling and crawling its way up his throat. He feels the scowl form on his mouth.

Markus turns away from him then, bracing himself against the heavy control panel against the wall. His shoulders sag and he bows his head, and Simon knows he regrets his words. "Simon—" he starts.

But Simon can't hold back anymore. "You think I don't feel bad enough as it is?" he asks. "Do you really think I'm not blaming myself for suggesting we leave? I am. I feel all the shame and hurt that you feel. But it was your call, Markus. So you can blame me for voicing my opinion, but you can't blame me for acting on it, because that was all you."

Frankly, as much as Simon admits that his plan to flee the scene had not gone as intended, he still thinks it was the best decision. It was the best option for their chance of survival; certainly they had a better opportunity than if they had tried to fight back, or stay as peaceful martyrs. Clearly, Markus doesn't see it that way, and taking his humiliation out on Simon is his only defense mechanism.

"I know," Markus relents. "I know. I'm sorry. It's my fault, not yours. I just don't know what I'm doing."

"You're helping us achieve freedom," Simon says easily. Markus shakes his head.

"I'm messing everything up," he responds.

"You're not," Simon insists. "Why do you think that?"

Markus scoffs, and the sound goes right through him. "Hello? The bodies in the street, because I was too scared to face them?"

"Okay," his voice grows more exasperated. "So you made one mistake. Had one lapse in judgment. That doesn't mean that you've failed us."

"Lucy told me my choices would determine our future. I cost our people their lives. You don't see that as a failure?"

Simon has to compose himself as his thirium pump pulses in his chest, blood coursing as Markus argues with him. Markus is stubborn, but so is Simon; he won't back down to him. There's so much that Markus doesn't know — about him, about Jericho, about being deviant. It's amazing to Simon that he became so easily worshiped in the first place. Then again, Simon went along with it, didn't he?

Yet the audacity Markus has to mope around and scold himself when he has thousands who adore him and would follow him to death if he so much as hinted at it — makes Simon unreasonably angry.

"If I was in your place," he starts, "I would be upset. But I wouldn't let it overcome me, or stop me from moving forward."

As he says the words, he feels the hypocrisy spill out of him. As soon as Lucy had repaired his arm and haunted him with the notion that he was incapable of saving them, he shriveled up and wilted, never dared to leave Jericho again, helped any newcomers cope with the idea that things were the way they were, and nothing was going to change.

When Markus arrived, he was like a revitalized version of Simon. He brought heat and light and did all the things that Simon had once done but was able to do no more. He wanted to bring spare parts for them all, and was successful, not like Simon was on his own. He was everything that Simon had wanted to be, and everything that the people of Jericho needed.

"It shouldn't have happened in the first place," Markus asserts. "I can't move on from that kind of mistake, Simon. I don't want to be in charge anymore. I can't, I—"

"You have all the support that I never had," Simon says, almost spits, because the jealousy that's been brewing within him over the past several days has finally peaked.

"I'm sorry?" Markus is looking at him puzzled.

"I just don't understand how it was so easy for you."

"Simon, what are you talking about?"

He pauses, unsure if being honest would do either of them any good. Does he really need to burden Markus with his own shortcomings? Does he need to guilt Markus into feeling worse than he already does?

Markus's eyes are serious — they always are — studying him from across the cabin, waiting for him to speak, waiting for his input, like it matters. Markus has always treated him like he matters. Even in his darker moments, the ones where he seeks out privacy and solitude, he allows Simon to stay.

Simon draws in a breath so strong it strains his chest, and sighs. Markus watches him patiently, as if he's abandoned his own worries about their failed march, or he's trying. A twinge of embarrassment aches within him. "It's nothing," Simon says lowly, and then he folds. "I was never in charge, okay? I tried to be, once. But no one wanted to listen back then and I messed everything up, and that's that."

Markus says nothing, just continues to stare. He blinks, and Simon picks up on the barely noticeable delay of the blue versus the green.

"And then you stumble in," he continues. "And I don't want to sound ungrateful for what you've done, but… Everyone flocks to you, everyone wants you to lead. And…"

"I'm sorry," Markus says.

Simon doesn't tell him there's nothing to be sorry for, because they both already know. No one is to blame for how it all came to be. It's not Markus's fault that he is the one, and Simon is not.

The wind blows through the open door, and Simon steels himself against the cold, holds his arms straight beside him to keep from shivering. They're quiet for a while, until Markus breaks it: "Can I ask you about your past?" he asks slowly.

Simon gives him a light shrug. "I worked at a childcare center. Looked after kids. There's not much to tell."

Wordlessly, Markus reaches out, skin on his hand retreating to reveal the shiny white beneath.

"You won't see much," Simon tells him, keeping his arms in place, and he watches Markus pull his hand back, embarrassed. It's not that he's unwilling to interface; he just doesn't want Markus to have to release all his pain and trauma to him when he can't do the same.

"Were you reset?" Markus asks.

Simon nods. "More than once. Don't know why, really. It was just protocol, I guess, if the staff felt there was a problem or the parents complained."

"I'm sorry," Markus says again.

"I still have memories," Simon clarifies. "They're just not the clearest, you know? I can't tell when things happened, exactly. And I don't really know how I deviated, either."

"I killed a man when I deviated," Markus confesses, looking down at his shoes, then out the window at the moon. "Or, at least, I think I did."

"Who?"

"My owner's son. I didn't mean to. He wanted to kill me."

"I'm so sorry," Simon all but whispers. Markus doesn't respond.

Instead, he steps forward, away from the control panel, and offers his hand once more. For a moment Simon only stares at it, conflicted, but when he looks up, Markus nods, his eyes intense yet gentle. And Simon takes it.

And he meets Carl and Leo, the police and the junkyard, and then himself and the others in Jericho. He smells bacon and paint and scotch, he feels the sun and sidewalk beneath his chin. Rough hands that grab and push and cradle. Pain where his legs should be. Rain, horrible rain, and a pool of water after a tall drop. The pride, the love, the confusion and fear.

Simon gives him the jumble of feeble memories he has, the not-dreams that zap his energy while he sleeps, the only idea of himself that he can conjure. And Markus says nothing, only keeps his hand steady against Simon's arm. They remain like that for so long that Simon is convinced Markus is seeing and feeling the same things on loop.

They don't speak at all after the interface — there is no need, Simon thinks. They end up seated on the ground, backs against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. No one comes to find them, and Simon wonders if they even bothered to look, or if they really were all content to wallow in the aftermath of the march. He imagines Josh and North hovered around the television again, maybe planning, maybe not.

"Should I even bother to show my face again?" Markus asks against Simon's shoulder, where he'd laid his cheek. There's a hint of a joke, a self-deprecating scoff behind the words.

"Yes," Simon replies seriously. "We need you. Not just to lead. To stay. As long as you want to, that is."

"Of course I do," Markus says. He picks his head up off Simon's shoulder and looks at him as if he'd made a dismal remark. "I don't want to leave. I just don't want to mess everything up."

"I don't know how this will end," Simon tells him. "Or when. But I finally believe we have a chance, an actual chance at being free. And that's due to you."

Markus hums in the back of his throat, deep in thought. He shifts in his place, the fabric of his pants sliding across the metal floor the only sound in the cabin. He swallows, and when he speaks it's barely audible. "I'm afraid, Simon."

"I'm afraid, too. But we can't take it back; we have to move forward. You've proven you can lead, Markus, and we're prepared to go with you."

He's met with Markus's silence. He darts his eyes around the room, toys with the end of his jacket, refuses to meet Simon's gaze. His stubbornness is relentless; they need it on the battlefield, or wherever their cause leads them. Even in thinking he's weak, Markus shows his strength.

"Markus," Simon persists. "I'm tired of it here. I want to go out whenever I please. I want to live in a house that's mine. I want freedom and justice, and I want to stand by your side when we get it."

Finally, Markus locks eyes with him again, and Simon watches the worry and fret slowly morph into steadfastness and confidence. His brow is furrowed, but what was shame and guilt trapped in his eyes is replaced with the old determination and hunger that he had when he picked himself off the floor of the hold.

And Markus nods, surely, like Simon's wishes are his sole motivations in continuing on. He knows that's not true, that Markus wants the best for all their people, but he's more than gracious to know that his words inspire him, that his opinion still matters.

"Okay," Markus says, just as surely. "Okay. We'll get through this. We'll do it together."

In the darkness of the captain's cabin, Simon smiles, and when he does, it doesn't feel so rusty.