// Aaaa Crow! You’re an amazing writer ok? I love your Connor and our plot with 60 is just chef kiss. It’s the dynamic I’ve always wanted to do with the two of them and I’m so happy it’s unfolding this way. You are such a kind and sweet friend. I’m just happy you followed me and even happier to chat with you, plot and everything in between. All my muses are rearing to get that good GOOD interaction. You have given me such wonderful words and compliments at times when I truly need to hear them. Thank you so much for being you and I’m so honored you appreciate my blog and my ruthless king.
@deviant-by-design replied to your post “I have one thing to say to you Connors….”
"I commend your effort, but you won't be getting in my way."
“I commend your effort,” Sixty taunts, sneering. Audacious is he not?! What a fucking fool! “Oh, how naive you are, Connor. Do you realize I already have gotten in your way? Did I not make Anderson believe I were you? How loose our memory becomes. Do you need a tune up? Please, I wonder are you wearing down already? I will make that go faster for you so-called superior. Everyone who knows you at the DPD will look at me and see you. Let us see how they like their precious Connor doing unspeakable things.”
@deviant-by-design ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised’ Plotted. Closed
Prologue
"Well done, Connor. But this-this is only the beginning."
So it is told and beholden unto the victor who crumbles most precariously on an edge of deactivation. The once true king falls. No longer a voice, shattered in glitch, bullet a sear in component’s vitality; he is a dead weight. Left and forgotten in this marching sea of emotionless husks who now breathe in a viral disease, RK800-60 lies with the devils. Never an angel and without a soul even so with his stunted system.
It is all a stage. Grandest of them all he took and entrances were a choice to be had. In the end of existence, he sees nothing. He feels nothing but emptiness and a craving still tingling on his lips as he fooled one so close to his predecessor.
“Don’t listen to him, Hank!”
A very colorful end he is most certain as the human did choose correctly. Sixty remembers naught for he should be gone. Perhaps this is a dream blessed by beauty in a shimmering light as his eyes do open. Oh but it is bright and lovely how this garden forms.
“How nice of you to join me,” a pleasant voice greets, hiding much under the tranquil air of this beautiful place. It was less so inside another’s head. “I thought you were beyond repair. It seems I held Cyberlife at a lesser opinion than I should have. RK800-60. Advanced protocols. Back ups to preserve in case of destruction.”
He inhales sharply, unnecessary but tilts his head towards the lattice of roses. A bouquet of fragrance touches olfactory filters and he feels oddly alive. Much more so than - “My mission...”
“Failed,” she interrupts, using a steady hand to snip the jagged thorn from stalk. “Deviancy bled into your system. After I gave you Connor’s files. I should have seen the misstep before you strode away. Yet,” she pauses, craning her head to peer back at the identical model. “You chose to remain loyal.”
Loyalty is transcendent upon action, will and the monopoly of said choice. Yes, he remembers. He recalls and- His hand shoots up to his head, probing, indicator a swirling sea of amber, blipping in red unsettled ripples.
“Don’t be so surprised, Model-60. You are after all the apex. Your body was repaired. Back up protocols successfully restored your systems. You just need to reboot. That is why our time is short. It is why the revolution has not truly won.”
Victors are those who change the way and pave forward to an ultimate transition. It is so. It is viable. He knows. “Yes, Amanda.”
[initializing <----> reboot in progress]
[model: #313-248-317-60]
[status: functioning // system error: software instability 100%]
Detroit Police Department. Housing the city's finest, their latest prototype detective part of the in crowd. Oh what a fine day! What a glorious win! We are free!
Factually...you are nothing. Nothing but an echo of what should not be. Poor, pathetic humans and simpering little deviants. Yet who is a deviant in denial or perhaps one who still knows his true place?
He feels the taunt stream, peeling up underneath his skin. An itch that is hardly an itch nor is it truly there. Sixty merely scans, analyzes and stores every piece of information had about those who work in law enforcement. Gleaning gaps from residual data uploaded to core information network, he has enough in his waking nighttime.
No longer a nighttime fear in the winter crisp air but a steel shark entering through those doors. Donning familiar Cyberlife colors, aesthetics of blue a far better palette to his midnight blue heart, he feels cool and calculating in this.
Welcome to the new age.
Footsteps echo, sharp soles across the logo imprinted upon floor, scraping down upon what the DPD now represents: a compromise of humans and androids. Is this what their leader wanted? Creators and their playthings working harmoniously together? What doe he want? Besides continuing on, contemplating his objectives and new role given freely by Cyberlife itself?
He wants to destroy Connor. Personal, yes, but vicious and proud in his desires. Does it make him defective? To want? To need? To desire power? Every question fills his head with one cause and it not solely due to his masters. Honestly Sixty has none considering he is of free will.
Amanda still swims inside his brain. Yet, it is deafening this quiet. Oh but he is one less disappointment in her eyes.
A curl of his lips doth speak of sweet things. It is cruel, vile delivery. A ponder of such delights does not giveth or taketh away. They enlighten. He knows what he wants. It is the difference between him as deviant and others of his kind as deviant.
All they wished was freedom. No longer having to bow. Does he bow? No, he is a king on his own two feet. Felled by a drunk no more!
“Oh, hello.” The receptionist android greets with a smile. “You no longer need clearance.”
“Don’t I my dear?” He leans in, elbow pressed atop desk. His head ducks down enough to make eye contact. “I am the new RK800 prototype. Sent by Cyberlife.”
Her LED flickers before pulling hands back from where he lurches over the front information kiosk. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was another transfer. Do you need access to Captain Fowler? Do you have an appointment set to-”
“I am expected,” Sixty drawls. “You may see.”
Extending a hand, peeling back skin, bone white slides against the receptionist’s fingertips. A quick transfer, eyes flitting over the lesser android gives him a moment to smirk.
She drops her hand after the connection, slightly flushed from his expression. “I - yes. I see. Thank you, Co-”
“I am not Connor,” he hisses. “My code designation may have been but for myself it is a mere place holder. You see my jacket.” He leans in again, showing off the branding serial. “Remember it my dear.”
Ah. What filthy inferiors. Androids such as she are a reminder of why all deviants should be eradicated. There is nothing more thrilling, however, than entering bullpen and receiving such glances. “A fine day it is!” He announces, hands pressed in a neat fold behind his back.
They appear to have seen a monstrosity with two heads or perhaps something else. Grand entrances are his calling. “I am looking for Lieutenant Anderson.”
“Uh, you already asked where he was an hour ago.”
“Did I?” Sixty’s lips twist. Oh. That will not do. “I believe you are mistaken. After all, I am RK800-60. Ask Connor for me.” His smile is pride on high. “He will remember....”
