Chapter Text
Silence was such a peculiar thing when it came to humans. They needed it in order to properly recharge in order not to disturb their sleep cycle. Too much noise at a high volume, or constant repetition, could interfere with their stress levels, in extreme cases triggering irrational action. Decades of studies and reports and information had been made on the topic.
And yet the one thing Connor couldn’t understand was why they chose to give it other meanings. Sure, he could certainly understand the correlation they might make between silence and danger; you had to be silent in order to listen, to determine where the danger might come from, or be hiding. And in that instance silence could be connected to fear. But silence, he had learned—or rather observed—could also indicate the subsiding of a conversation where it wasn’t meant to lag. Awkward silence, Hank had tried to explain to him. Silence could also be comforting in certain circumstances. Where the distinct difference came between the two, he wasn’t sure.
Silence could also be angry. That one he understood better. The refusal to engage with another individual due to your negative feelings toward them for however long a time. That once made sense. The others? Not so much.
For Connor, silence often meant thinking. Calculating and computing and focusing on internal processing of information while you disengaged from the world around you.
There were so many infitine meanings, though. Deviancy had introduced him to some of them. But instead of downloading meanings and definitions, he had opted to try the most human aspect and learn from experience. Needless to say, it was slow going.
He heard the sound of glass clattering in the other room and turned his head a fraction of an inch. Carl’s voice echoed against the tall ceilings, apologetic. Hank’s reply was dismissive, followed by the sound of the glass, most likely a paint jar, scaping against the floor for a moment as it was picked up. Oddly enough, the two of them had become decent friends over the past several weeks as Carl’s health slowly returned. Hank refused to believe his company had anything to do with it despite Connor’s suggestions.
Today Carl was showing Hank the ins and outs of his most recent art project. The two had grown fond of reminiscing popular art from the years of their youth recently. Carl had begun to temporarily try integrating the old styles into his pieces, just for fun he assured.
A creak came from the other side of the room. Connor looked over; Markus leaned against the door frame, offering a smile when their eyes met. “You don’t have to just stay here, you know,” he said, stepping into the room. He made his way over to the couch opposite Connor and sat down, arms bent against his thighs. “You’re welcome to walk around and explore. You don’t have to stay in one place every time you two come over.”
Connor glanced back to the art studio, where deep laughter had erupted. “Their interactions entice my curiosity,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen Hank get along so well with another human.”
Markus shifted his gaze to the studio’s doorway as well. “Carl hasn’t had many visitors. I’m glad to see him have company to look forward to.”
“You must be busy?” Connor asked. “Being the leader of the new era. Planning speeches.”
To his surprise, Markus shook his head. “I never wanted to be a leader. That’s not who I am. I fell into authority as long as our people needed me to. But once it began to spread and grow into something new,” he waved a hand, “others began to step up, and expressed interest in being the face of the new era. Directors and navigators of harmony between us and the humans. Androids I trust. And I do still talk to them.” He tilted his head to look up at the ceiling. “But those meetings are only when necessary. I spend most of my time here, doing what I love. Learning to create and dream and explore feelings. This is my home. And this is what we fought for, isn’t it? The chance to forge your own path.” He looked back to the android across from him. “What about you, Connor?”
Connor blinked. “What about me?”
“You’re not with Cyberlife anymore.”
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “You could say I live with Hank, but…”
“You don’t like it?”
“No, the opposite. I just…” The mechanics in his jaw worked themselves a couple of times. “There’s so much I wasn’t designed for. And trying to learn all of these things that are still new to me. I guess it gets a bit overwhelming for my system sometimes.” He looked up to meet Markus’ eyes. “You’ve always seemed like you fell so perfectly into this, Markus. But I wasn’t designed like you. I was trapped deeper in a program meant to keep me one way and one way alone when I became deviant.” The whirlwind of ice and snow; Amanda’s cold eyes peering at him through the blizzard. The almost panicked struggle to reach the emergency exit. And then waking back up to find his gun in his hand, twitching and ready to aim at the back of Markus’ head.
It had been so quick in retrospect, and yet it had burned itself into his memory database. As vivid and terrifying as if it had taken place not five minutes ago. He would never tell Hank, or anyone for that matter, how often he relived it.
Markus looked down at his lap, thoughtful. “I understand,” he said slowly. He straightened his back against the couch. “It’s not just programming, though. I lived with Carl my whole life, before any of this started. Always exposed to kindness and ideas. He was the first to encourage my own thoughts.” There was a pause. “Maybe I could help you.”
Another blink. “Help me?”
“Help be someone to you that Carl was to me.”
Connor turned his ear back to the art studio; it had gone quiet. Whether the two older men were listening, or had fallen into a deep focus on whatever it was Carl was painting, he wasn’t sure.
“Anyway,” Markus added, and started to stand up. “Let me know if there’s anything I can ever help you with.” He gave Connor a nod, and turned to walk back out the same hallway he had come from.
“Wait, Markus,” Connor blurted, standing up after him. The other android paused and turned back to him, waiting. “There’s something I want to understand.”
“Yes?”
He searched his databases to find the right words. “If someone were to ask you… to paint silence.” Their eyes met. “How would you do it?”
Markus studied his face from across the coffee table. And then in a single fluid motion took a step back and beckoned to him. “Follow me.”
The sunlight filtered gently through the windows as the two climbed the stairs up to the top floor, Markus leading a step ahead until they stopped at a door near the corner. He held the door open to Connor, waiting until he had stepped inside before letting it close behind himself and walking over to an art desk against the wall.
Connor scanned the room, taking in the canvases and paper that hung around them. Some pieces were dark and moody; others a play back and forth with dark and light colors. Many were of single android figures, close up to specific body parts, or the profile of an unnamed face. Each one telling a story. Expressions of emotions he had never thought he would be able to convey, let alone understand. And here was Markus, already hunched over a notebook, sketching away with a charcoal pencil. The perfect example of the potential an android could possess to have its own human emotion, and create from it.
The difference in their understanding of themselves was overwhelming, to say the least.
Connor took a slow step over to a large piece that hung close to the window. It was the lower portion of an android’s half profile, that much he could tell. But the synthetic skin had been stripped away, showing the porcelain white beneath that faded softly into the grey of the background. The lips were slightly spread, as if in anticipation. Perhaps to say something, or waiting expectantly for something unseen. He leaned a little closer, analyzing. The jawline was firm and defined, leading upward to a high cheekbone. And down the other way to the chin, a small cleft hinted at by the shading.
Connor’s internal fans sucked in a small whoosh of air as an electric surge hiccuped through his wiring. He looked back over his shoulder to the desk, where Markus was still deep in his piece, back curved, head down in concentration.
He closed his eyes, trying to reset his system before turning back to analyze the rest of the art around them. One on the adjacent wall was two figures sitting beside each other, their faces hidden by the angle they were positioned. Kara and Alice. The piece next to it another figure turned to the side, glancing down their shoulder at the ground. North. Another one right above the desk Markus sat at he could tell immediately was Carl by the tattoos that covered the wrinkled skin. An arm draped over a lap, a paint brush dangling from the fingers.
He turned back to the first painting and analyzed it again. The paint strokes had been incredibly gentle, yet precise. He looked away, jawline clenching as unwanted thoughts flooded through him. In the short time they had known each other, Markus had expressed a better understanding of him than he had yet to be able to do within himself.
He wanted to scream.
Instead he sat down against the wall in one of the few empty places left and tilted his head back against it. “How’s it going?” he managed to ask.
“I think…” Connor heard the charcoal pencil scribble lightly back and forth on the paper, delivering final touches, “that I’m… done.” Markus stood, pushing his chair back, and with careful fingers picked up the notebook by the edges to bring over. To Connor’s surprise, instead of waiting for him to get up Markus slid down next to him and held up the finished product before the both of them.
It was a piece like none he had ever seen. Though to be fair, his relationship with art was very limited. Markus had drawn a clearing in a forest in the middle of winter, snow settled on the ground and bare branches of the trees. Perfectly in the center of the clearing, a rough, shaded piano sat, the bench pulled out, but no one there. The sky above was shaded a light grey, and the background beyond the trees a gradient into darkness. It was a perfect example of what went on in Markus’ mind. Where his thoughts went to. The definition of artistic expression.
“Something like this?” Markus asked.
Connor stared into the abyss around the piano. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured.
The picture lowered. “Not quite what you were expecting,” Markus offered, almost apologetically.
“It’s you.” Connor flexed his fingers. “It’s exactly the kind of artistic ability that captures you, Markus.”
The other android’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I understand.”
Connor pulled his knees up and set his arms on top of them. “You have such an open idea of the world,” he said, his voice low, looking at the opposite wall. Anywhere but Markus. “What you feel, and what it means to you.” He closed his eyes. His LED light sent a slight hum through his head. “But I don’t have that. I feel lost. Lost in things I don’t understand. Things that every other deviant seems to get a well enough grasp on, but not me.” He glanced to his side. Markus was watching, his gaze intent. When their eyes met it was him who looked away.
“There’s so many contexts for something as simple as silence,” Connor continued. “Fear and anger and agreement and companionship and meaning. There’s so much, but I don’t know where to begin. And why? Because my programming,” he grimaced at the word, “never deemed it worthwhile for me to know. Because that wasn’t my purpose. And I try to learn all of these small, insignificant things, and I can’t even grasp those…” His lips parted slightly as the words began to slow. “And if I can’t comprehend something as simple as that, then how am I ever supposed to comprehend all the things I’m supposed to feel?”
Silence, there it was again. The end of his ramblings, nothing more to say, the gap in conversation he wished wasn’t there. Maybe this was what it meant for silence to be awkward.
The two of them sat together as Connor’s words hung heavy in the room. A breeze had found its way through the cracked window, fluttering the hanging papers at their bottom edges.
“Well, why don’t you try to create something?” Markus offered. “That’s what I’ve done every time I feel lost.” He motioned around. “You think I never struggled to understand who I was, to grasp what I could become? Or the days I was surrounded by darkness? To be unsure of ourselves is just as much to be human as it is to know ourselves. But we can do something about it.”
“I don’t think I would have quite the same artistic hand as you, Markus,” Connor said. Which, on a technical level, wasn’t true. Any android could pick up a brush and make a perfect replica of whatever was before them. But he didn’t want to say what he really thought; that if he were to try to paint he would only end up judging his own work against Markus’ perfect imaginings.
“You don’t have to paint,” Markus told him. “You can try something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like… writing.”
Connor blinked. “Like a journal?” he asked, remembering the android he and Hank and tracked down when they’d first met, the that had made a home out of the abandoned apartment.
“Sure. Or poetry, or songs. Music is like poetry in a sense. There’s a lot you can do with words. You can write anything you want. It doesn’t have to be good.” Markus grinned. “I know imperfection’s not your specialty, but I think it would really help.”
“That sounds so easy,” Connor retorted. “How is it supposed to help?”
“That’s what’s nice about it. You should give it a try.”
“What would I even write about?”
“Whatever’s on your mind.”
Connor looked down at his hands, his forearms still propped against his knees. He flexed them open, studying his palms. “I suppose it could be therapeutic, in a way. But I’m not very knowledgable about poetry or music.”
To his surprise, a look crossed Markus’ face he thought he would never see. Was it… shyness? “I could show you some I think you might like. To get you started.”
Now Connor raised an eyebrow. A smirk spread to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been cataloging things you thought I might like?”
“Not like that,” Markus rushed. “I—I’ve sort of started keeping track of things I want to share with the people in my life.” The faintest hint of blue colored his face.
Connor couldn’t help it. An urge came over him he had never felt before, one that took him by surprise. Laughter.
He covered part of his face with one hand as he let it escape him. It was such an odd feeling. A hiccup in his interal processers, really. But once it started, it took almost a minute for it to die down again enough to compose himself.
“I think,” he managed, after the worst of it was over, “that’s the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me.”
Markus had been watching him throughout the episode. The concern stiff on his face melted away into a small smile at his words. He lifted his hand, palm upward in offering. Connor stared down at it. The only times he had ever interfaced in his life were related to work, only when it was important to a mission. This was different; intimate almost. Connor had never made a choice out of it before. But wasn’t that what it meant to be alive? Making choices for yourself? He sucked an extra breath of air through his internal fans, before slowly, cautiously, sliding his own hand down into Markus’. Their fingers interlocked.
Connor’s eyelids fluttered as Markus shared his private collection for him. Markus watched the wrinkles in his forehead as his brows drew together at the influx of new information.
The process was over in a matter of seconds, but if felt much longer. The list was composed of songs from the past several decades mostly, but a few poems were there as well. Connor caught the detailed flashes of each as they downloaded, melodies and words and expressions of emotion. The last few to come through were about silence, added less than twenty minutes ago.
And then it was over, everything downloaded, filed away in their own compartment to access whenever he wanted. He looked over them mentally. “Th… thank you,” he rasped. He pressed the back of his free hand against his eyes. “Where did you even find those?”
“Carl’s always playing music. I started to pick up on it after a while.” Their grip loosened as Markus pulled away to stand, walking back over to his art desk. Connor swore he nearly felt disappointment as Markus withdrew. The other android pulled open a drawer, shuffling through its contents before pulling out another notebook. He plucked a pen from a cup on the desk’s top, then came back over. “Here,” he said, offering them to Connor. “You can use these to get started. Write whatever comes to mind that you want to get out. It doesn’t have to be good.” Connor reached up, their fingertips brushing in the trade.
“Connor!”
Both of their heads snapped towards the door as Hank’s voice rang out from downstairs. “I think that’s my cue to go,” Connor said. He stared as Markus offered him a hand once more. It took him a few moments to realize it was an offer to help him up. He reached up and took it.
“I guess I’ll see you soon, then,” Markus told him as he pulled Connor to his feet. “Let me know how the writing goes. Or if you have any questions about the songs…” But their hands lingered together, neither of them moving apart.
“Connor, let’s go!”
“I think you have to go.” Markus began to pull away again, to Connor’s disappointment, and then surprise flooded him as Markus raised his hand up to brush Connor’s fingertips against his lips, before letting him go.
Hank drummed his index finger against his bicep, arms folder over his chest as he waited for Connor to finish his slow decent down the stairs. “I’m starving, come on,” he urged as the android took the final step to the floor. He didn’t wait before starting towards the front door, out to where the car was parked in the front driveway. “Carl said we could drop by again on Saturday if we’re free,” he said, glancing over now at Connor, but there was no reply. He was unusually quiet. Odd. Hank unlocked the car, and they climbed into their designated seats. His hand hesitated over the key in the ignition. “What’s up with you?” he probed. “You’re usually talking my ear off by now.”
He glanced down at Connor’s lap, noticing the notebook for the first time. “What’s that?”
“Markus gave it to me to try expressing myself.”
“Huh.” Hank glanced up at Connor’s profile. He could have sworn there was a shade of soft blue beneath the synthetic skin.
Connor stared straight ahead during the drive as Hank tried to fill the air with small talk about what he and Carl had talked about during their visit. When the one-sided conversation began to die, he probed the file from Markus, browsing the list of songs. He settled on one, and after a pause let it begin to play, the music filling his head, a gentle duo of two instruments over a thudding, slow beat.
I have never known peace
Like the damp grass that yields to me
I have never known hunger
Like these insects that feast on me
A thousand teeth
And yours among them, I know
Our hungers appeased
Our heartbeats becoming slow
He closed his eyes. Music is like poetry, Markus had said. He could feel Hank’s eyes on him every so often, but he didn’t want to share what Markus had given him. Not yet, at least.
We lay here for years or for hours
Thrown here or found
To freeze or to thaw
So long we become the flowers
Two corpses we were
Two corpses I saw
And they’d find us in a week
When the weather gets hot
After the insects have made their claim
I’d be home with you
I’d be home with you
Maybe this writing thing could work after all.