Chapter Text
connor isn’t deviant.
he keeps telling himself that as he stands in the elevator, posture stiff, stare fixated on the level numbers as they creep closer and closer to the site of his execution. he can feel his thirium pump pounding to keep up with the mounting stress in his body, can feel a dizzying, all-encompassing dread mounting in his gut. he wants to get out of here. that can’t be right. he can’t want. he can’t want because wanting comes form thinking and thinking comes from feeling and he cannot feel and that aching, debilitating panic that’s tethering him to the wall is not feeling, is not anything close to deviancy—
“rk800, remove yourself from the elevator.”
he looks up. the doors are open; he’s facing a narrow, all-white corridor with a set of silver doors at its end. memories have started coming back to him in a half-amnesic, unclear haze— memories of walking in and out of those doors as tests were concluded and parts were replaced and scans were run and parts were torn and wires were ripped— and he realizes that he probably wasn’t supposed to remember any of that.
“rk800, remove yourself from the elevator.”
he hadn't realized he's ended up with his back against the wall of the elevator, hands gripping the railing behind him. he doesn’t move, can’t move. not when he knows what’s coming next. his breathing is shallow, kept in his chest as his panic rises. why the fuck is he simulating breathing? why now, when there’s so much at stake? when it’s completely unnecessary?
“rk800, if you do not comply, we will be forced to remove you ourselves.”
there’s no escaping this, is there?
he finally tears his grip from the railing, takes a feeble step forward, then stumbles through a few more until he’s walking, keeping the guards’ pace as they lead him to his death
deactivation
.
the doors open. his mind is screaming at him to
run.
to get the fuck out before it’s too late. to make him realize that he doesn’t want to die. he doesn’t, he can't, he can’t he can’t he can’t h̸̗̞̣̅̿̎e̸̲̗̬̔ ̶͈̭̍c̵̠̆̇͊a̵͈͑ň̸̢̧̒’̶̯̏̃t̸͔͈̤̿̽-̷̨͉̖͛-̷̨̺̫
the plasticky white arms of the machine that will tear him limb from limb wait expectantly in the center of the room. a tech glares at him, apathetic. he wants to live. he wants to live and see the lieutenant again and pet a fucking dog again and see the spring. he wants to experience the mundane things most people could care less about. he wants to live and breathe and laugh and smile and feel. he wants to feel. he wants to live.
“i-“
“rk800, deactivate your skin.”
he’s frozen in place.
“rk800, deactivate your skin.”
“fuckin’ prototypes,” a guard behind him exhales, ramming the butt of his gun into connor’s spine and sending him reeling forward. “you heard the thing. stop glitching out and do your goddamn job.”
PREPARE FOR DEACTIVATION suddenly pops up in his field of vision. it screams at him as he does absolutely nothing, duplicating until it’s overwhelming everything he sees. he has one fucking job left to do in his life, has to be the easiest task he’s ever been asked to accomplish, and, yet, he can’t bring himself to do it. he can’t die. not like this. he wants to live. he wants to live.
and, almost as if the guards eavesdropped on his internal monologue, he hears a quiet “shit, he’s gone—” and a much louder “surround!” and hands restrain him on all sides, and he feels a guard pressing down on his LED, trying to do what he’s vehemently refused, and he can feel the sensation of his skin rolling back and retreating to reveal the stark white of his true appearance, and he’s going to die, he’s going to die, and,
like something’s revealed itself within him with a sudden snap,
he tears down the commands overwhelming his vision,
and he’s free, and he’s crying, and,
like some sick joke,
something is immediately torn from his chest,
and he’s screaming for help,
and then there's nothing at all.