patchworking

Entry tags:

...o1

He should be waking up soon.

If he's being honest with himself, he's ... still not entirely sure why he did it. All he wanted was the coat. Maybe see if there were any useful or interesting items in pockets, weapons that could potentially come in handy. That was what he told himself, while watching the situation unfold from his hiding spot behind alley dumpsters. He's just waiting for it to be over, so he can scrounge through the remains on the ground for trinkets and baubles. That's what he told himself, a few hours ago.

The fight was unfair, he thinks to himself. He knows the advantages to a well practiced sneak attack - which he knows is also technically unfair - but being outnumbered and then taken out from behind, that felt in bad taste. Even though the man had been rather impressively holding off the brunt of them, it figures that there would be one hanging out in the back and waiting for the opportunity, and even the most proficient of warriors can be caught off guard. The group had been quick to take off after - snipers in the area most likely, they tend to frequent these areas in case some unfortunate passerby with gold lining their pockets decides they want to be target practice. Attacks are always quick. Get in, take what you need, get out if you're lucky.

He's usually lucky, himself. He can keep coming back, at least.

And maybe that's why he did it. Maybe that's why, after crawling low on the ground to avoid a potential sniper himself and investigating the wounded and unconscious man on the ground, it felt ... inappropriate, perhaps, to be stealing from him. He was sporting a rather unpleasant-looking head injury, thanks to that sneak attack, among various other scrapes and bruises from the scuffle before being knocked out cold. Not so lucky, this one. But he could've been. Closer investigation and scanning reveals what he'd suspected from observing the fight - not a human. Someone who's been around for a long time. Someone who could've easily handled the situation on their own had it not been for the actions of a coward. Someone who, after the scan had revealed some very curious information, could be more beneficial to him that simply rummaging through his coat pockets for trinkets. But above all that, there was something more. Something sympathetic, perhaps. It's always so much easier to steal from humans, after all.

He's watching from above now. Perched atop the outside of the oversized metal pipe in a largely abandoned junkyard, peering over the edge at the man resting and recovering inside. It's ... cozy, to an extent. The bed isn't really a bed, per se - mismatched couch cushions and an oversized plush St. Bernard for a pillow isn't anything luxurious, but it's not wholly uncomfortable. There's an assortment of power generators scattered about (only one of them working at the moment and rumbling a steady hum,) a flickering but still functional electric heater, and beside the makeshift bed is a makeshift bedside table in the form of a cement block and old digital magazines. Atop said magazines are the man's personal items and weapons - his way of saying that he would be in no danger here upon waking up, with his affects within arm's reach rather than stolen and used against him.

The inner walls of the pipe are modestly decorated, no real theme to it but he's found some interesting art pieces in the junkyards over the years, and his favourites are hung up or leaning against the walls whenever he's out of nails to hang them with. Nearby is a mess of a half-collapsed book shelf storing various digital tablets - some of them still work, others are old and ancient but too fascinating to discard - and the only lighting in the pipe is a set of white holiday string lights that have more than a few dead bulbs, lining the pipe walls above the art pieces and all plugged into the generator near the back.

All in all it's pretty likely that this is not the sort of place the man's expecting to wake up to, but he's fairly certain it's several steps above face down in the dirt and rain in the city. For now, all he can do is wait. And watch. The man's also fascinating, but not in a decades-old digital tablet way. He watches, quietly, the soft blue of his LED and the warm orange glow of his eyes the only visible light outside the pipe-home's entrance. He wonders what sort of person this man he'd dragged all the way from the city is like. He wonders if it'll be worth the effort. He wonders if the torn sheets and old tee shirts that he'd scrounged up and used as bandages for the more serious injuries are enough, or if they're soaked through by now.

For now, he's erring on the side of caution. He can notice the man beginning to stir, slowly but surely. Best to not rush in and try to fuss over him now - that'd just be weird. He doesn't want to be weird.

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It's nice, he thinks groggily, being able to see the stars tonight through all of the pollution. And from the ground, no less. That's a true rarity. Just a few of them, twinkling prettily and out of focus in his swimming vision, but so close, somehow. As though if he were to reach out, he could almost touch them. And then he is reaching out, without thought, until it looks like he's balancing the starlight on his fingertips. He tries to hold it, but—

His blurred vision is slowly resolving itself; his injuries are enough to have killed a human, probably several times over. But he's no human. He's recovered from worse. Still, the pain is acute enough at the moment to keep him from moving, though he's steadily attempting to mentally catalogue his injuries and their severity. The pungent smell of blood is his own, he knows.

Not stars, he realises.

Lights. Strands of lights.

His hand drops listlessly back onto the makeshift bed as he begins taking in the rest of his surroundings as best he can, without moving his head too much. The scavenged art, collapsed shelving and tablets, telltale sound of a generator, artificial heat— this is unmistakably someone's living space that he's been brought to. And his own belongings are easily within reach, a fact he notices scant seconds before awkwardly gathering them as quickly as he's capable. It's instinct. He'll have to sit up in order to put everything back into place, but he isn't going to attempt that quite yet. Not with the risk of moving affecting his vision. At least right now he can see clearly enough to shoot a moving target if he needs to.

And, coincidentally, that's when the lights outside of the small living space come into focus. Blue and gold. It takes several seconds to place what they are: an android's LED, something he's familiar with though he's never worn one himself, and what must be eyes, he realises with a start. Gold eyes glowing in the darkness. Has he been watched this entire time?

His first attempts at speaking are futile, only managing a few raspy, painful syllables that never quite form actual words. The thugs that jumped him — an attack purely motivated by their hatred of androids, he can only assume, given they apparently didn't bother even robbing him — had come close to crushing his trachea, but he can tell it's only bruised. It will heal. Speaking will just be difficult in the meantime. But he stubbornly persists, eventually producing an extremely hoarse whisper. "Why'd you bring me here?" he asks, staring back at the other android and already trying to guess at what this is going to cost him. Because nothing good comes for free in this world, least of all kindness.

He watches from atop the pipe, how the wounded man reaches his hands up towards the string lights. Delirious, he thinks to himself, considering the extent of the injuries and the fact that most were localized to the head. It's likely that, even with his nonhuman body's accelerated healing process, he was still going to be out of sorts for a considerable while. He doesn't mind. It's not like he uses the sort-of bed all that much himself anyway. And maybe it'll be nice to have some company, depending on what sort of fellow this man turns out to be once he's conscious.

He wonders what he thinks he's looking at. What it must be like to be beaten into unconsciousness, rather than stasis or shutdown. What it must be like to be disoriented to the point of hallucinating. What it's like to dream.

The man's reaching for his weapons, and the android pulls back a bit, wary of a bullet to the head. Still, his curiosity gets the better of him and he remains within sight, knowing full well that as long as the rest of him is hidden, he won't look like an immediate threat. It's just the black metal casing over his fingers gripping the pipe's edge, and the top of his head to the bridge of his nose that remain visible from the other man's point of view. It doesn't seem like he's in danger, at least - not yet anyway. He'd seen the guy fight, it'd be a challenge if it came down to it. He thinks he could hold his own, if he had to. But maybe that won't be the case, since this one seems to be the type to ask questions first before shooting.

And it's a good question. Why bring him here?

"... you were hurt." His voice is distorted, functioning voice modulators difficult to come by lately, but he's been able to make do with this one for a long time. Not many people he talks to anyway. "I wanted to help."

He does reach one hand out, pointing a finger at the items now returned to the wounded man's possession. "Your friend was very worried."

Sounds like K isn't the only one having a bad throat day. And he has some experience with repairing voice modulators, enough that he's already adding it to his mental bartering list — to potentially repay this android. He really isn't keen on being in anyone's debt, regardless of their species or status.

His eyes only leave the other android's face to focus on his pointing hand that appears to be devoid of synth-skin. Between that, his voice, and his eyes, K's wondering what the rest of him must look like. What shape he's in. Maybe there's a reason beyond preserving his own safety that keeps him outside, almost entirely out of view. It makes K uneasy. More than he already was.

With deep skepticism (or as much as his hoarse whisper can convey): "Altruism."

He says it like it's a dirty word. Then lies there in silence for several long moments, simply watching the other android watching him. He has a gun in either hand, gripping them as though prepared to have to defend himself at any moment, though he isn't aiming. And eventually he lays them both down on the makeshift bed. Still within easy reach, because he hasn't survived this long by being a fool, but it's a universal I'd rather not have to hurt you gesture. (Or I'm playing possum hoping to lure you into a false sense of security, but he tends to only shoot first and ask questions later when it comes to humans.) Extending maybe the barest intimation of trust to see what it might reveal about his apparent saviour.

"Why don't you come down where I can see you," he says at length. For now, he isn't going to acknowledge the remark about his AI companion; it seems safest not to mention her or offer any explanation. The fact she's most assuredly 'listening' to their conversation right now but choosing not to show herself speaks to her own sense of caution.

Altruism, he says. He shrugs his shoulders - true enough, he supposes. There isn't much benefit to himself for dragging a near dead android to his junkyard home, taking up his bedspace and bleeding all over his things, using up his few spare materials to tie and bandage the worst of the injuries and leaving him to keep watch atop the pipe. It's more of an inconvenience to him than anything else. The only possible benefit would be if the information he'd scanned from those devices was indeed accurate, if the name was the correct name and it was the same person in the end, and even if it was this man wasn't under any obligation to share it with him. Nobody owes anybody any favours. Everyone has to look out for themselves. It's a wonder why he bothers at all; he supposes, if there's even the slightest chance of knowing something ... but that has yet to be determined.

He hesitates - it's not exactly a warm invitation, and now that the man's at least conscious enough to retrieve his weapons and hold a conversation, he knows full well that fully revealing himself is unwise. He knows his appearance is more threatening than he intends to come across as (at least, in this particular situation anyway,) and just because his body is well protected, the stranger would know better than to shoot him anywhere but square in the middle of his forehead. He's seen him fight, he knows what he's capable of, even in that condition.

"... as you wish." But he also knows that staying hidden is only going to make the other more tense and uneasy, and therefore less inclined to reveal what was likely rather confidential information. It was risky, his analytics displaying in his HUD the likelihood of getting shot from sticking around compared to high-tailing it out of there, but if there's even a small chance, he knows he has to take it. He withdraws from the pipe's edge, idly drumming his metal fingers along the top as he braces himself for ... whatever it is that will happen, before resolving to just get it over and done with, and just be quick about protecting his head if need be.

His legs slide over the edge first, hands gripping the pipe as he slips down, as graceful and delicately as he can manage to try and lessen the vibration of metal on metal when he lands. He crouches first, hands closed in tight fists pressed against the ground, before he slowly rises to stand at full height, at least his profile now in full view. And he knows what must be the man's first impression of him - fitting that he lives in a junkyard, looking the way he does. Not at all like normal androids. Even the humans that walk around with cybernetic enhancements, they're not disfigured quite to the same extent. His eyes are the same amber yellow as the spinning LED on his temple when he turns to address the wounded man inside, though his expression softens when he speaks. He's not here to start another fight.

"I saw what happened." He doesn't dare move from that spot at the pipe's entrance, knowing any sudden moves and he's as good as dead, with no answers. "You were holding your own rather well. You would've been the victor if not for their cheap tactics." He pauses, and ducks his head. "... I should've helped you. If I'd stepped in sooner, perhaps you wouldn't be wounded to such an extent. And I apologize for that."

K can't say what he'd expected, exactly, but once he's finally able to lay eyes on his saviour, illuminated in the dim glow provided by the strings of lights, it takes effort not to recoil in shock at the android's appearance. Not in disgust, or fear, but it is very jarring — he's never encountered another android quite like this before. A sort of Frankenstein's monster of mismatched parts, patchworked together.

And he'd rather enjoyed that particular novel and its earliest black and white adaptation, and found the monster fascinating and tragic, not horrifying... Which is also proving to be the case here; his surprise is quickly giving way to grim fascination, as he regards the other android with a wide-eyed look of curiosity.

"Looks like somebody's already done a number on you," he rasps as he struggles to sit up, wanting to get a better look. Except by the time he's managed to sit upright his vision's swimming terribly, as he'd predicted would happen, and the ache in his temples is worse. He holds his head with a grimace. As much as he hates feeling this vulnerable, he's well aware that if the other android intended him harm he would've already acted on it by now. Probably. Instead of letting him bleed all over his bedding, and — oh. He gingerly touches the makeshift bandage that's been secured around one of his injuries. One of several bandages, he realises, feeling even more bewildered about receiving such kindness from a complete stranger.

"Or is all that something you did to yourself?" he continues once he's able to, staring blearily at the other android. "What's your story, patchwork?" In lieu of a name he doesn't yet know (he assumes it'll probably be a false identity, anyway), he opts for using an appropriately descriptive soubriquet. And he recognises the reinforced body armour for what it is. Smart. And certainly not cheap, even the old stuff. He's looked into it before, though not for himself — it'd be nice to be able to give his AI companion a physical body, one that will last.

He's stood there for several long, quiet moments now, and he hasn't yet been shot at despite the man's weapons within close and easy reach. He'll consider that a small victory for now - the stranger's opinions could always change, he could be lulled into a false sense of security, he'll know better than to aim anywhere else but square in the middle of his forehead. But, since he hasn't been shot yet ... he'll take his chances. It could still be worth it.

The nickname is ... interesting. No one's ever called him by a nickname before, he doesn't think. It's possible, it could be a memory long since erased, but clearly not important enough to try and remember now. But it's still an unexpected comment that has his head tilting curiously to one side. They've barely been introduced, and the man could very well be delirious from his injuries, not fully conscious of what he's saying. Maybe that's why he's not being perceived as an immediate threat. Still ... patchwork. It's interesting. Enough so that he files it away for later use, even if he never actually does find a use for it.

Several numbers, he thinks in response, but he wonders if there's much point to continuing the conversation if the rescued stranger is moments away from passing out as he appears to. He watches the other closely, taking note of every flinch and grimace, running diagnostics and correlating them to the model number and information he picked up from his initial scan of him when he was unconscious. It only takes a second or two, and while he can determine that he'll recover sooner than most other non-humans, it'll still be some time yet and plenty of soreness and discomfort until then. And it's not as though he keeps his junkyard home well stocked with pain remedies. All he keeps with him are-- well, maybe it could help.

"If I had a choice in designing a body for myself," he mutters rather bitterly as he steps past the man towards a small, beaten up mini fridge not far behind him, leaning down to open the door, "I would've chosen something considerably less conspicuous." The clipped tone is likely evident enough that it's not a pleasant story, nor one he's particularly keen on telling. When he returns to the makeshift bedside, there's two cold thirium pouches in his hand, loosely wrapped in one of the few remaining rags he has lying around. Obviously the intended use isn't for drinking, considering the wrap and the very obvious fact that he's not the type of android that runs on it, but a cool press can at least help with a pounding headache. "Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off. It'll take the edge off, at least."

When the patchwork android makes his way to the mini fridge, K does his best to keep him in sight, turning his head to watch despite it only worsening the pain in his temples. It's just a headache (or at least he hopes that's all it is). He's had far worse. He'll live.

He accepts the offered cold compress with a look of surprise, more weary than wary by this point. Not that he'll be letting his guard completely down any time soon, but these hardly seem like the actions of someone who's planning to kill him — expending time, effort, and supplies just to help him, and showing concern for his comfort, regret for not intervening. Unless he's hiding some kind of secret sadistic streak that he'll unleash later, anyway, and K hasn't entirely ruled out that possibility, but...

Holding the compress against one of his temples, his eyes drift closed for several seconds as the cold begins leeching the heat from his headache, numbing some of the pain. It feels nice. Nice enough he kind of wants to lie back and attempt to sleep off the worst of it, but trying to figure out the other android who's helping him, apparently selflessly, is more important right now. It's just too difficult believing he has genuinely altruistic motives. Such things don't exist in this world anymore.

Nevertheless.

"Thank you," K says after switching the compress to his opposite temple, giving the other android a look of gratitude. Confused gratitude. He's clearly unaccustomed to this sort of treatment. And he's guessing the other android probably doesn't entertain much non-hostile company, either.

"Conspicuous in these parts," he also acknowledges. "Plenty of other places, it's those of us without obvious body mods that get treated like we're oddities. Or fossils. But something tells me you don't get out much." To other parts of the world, at any rate. The clipped tone did make it perfectly clear he must not want to talk about his history, and K's debating whether or not he wants to respect that. Probably he should, at least while he's in such a vulnerable position. Or he could change his approach and maybe find out more about his saviour while potentially securing another job.

"I imagine by now you must know what I am." He'd noticed the telltale signs of being scanned. And even if his reputation hasn't preceded him here enough for the other android to know who he is, there's the fact he's a very long-lived android who's carrying some of the signature paraphernalia of a bounty hunter, so his offer might not be unexpected. "You want someone found, or maybe you're looking to buy some revenge, it can be arranged."

It's true enough. He's watched humanity from the sidelines over the years, how they've come to accept and welcome cybernetic augmentations to their own bodies - initially for situations like war veterans or accident victims losing limbs, but that was never going to be the only use for them. He has yet to see someone as fully modified (not exactly the term he uses to refer to it but it'll do for this context,) to the extent that he is, but he doesn't doubt there's someone out there walking around in a full body mod thinking they're hot shit. Someone else mounting war cannons to their arms, jetpacks to their backs.

"They had a choice."

He leaves it at that, making the point very clear if it wasn't already and at least giving some insight into the history he's not telling. It doesn't matter how many humans out there have robotic limbs and android parts of their own now, they could choose to go ahead with it if they wanted to. Out of necessity, or otherwise, they could choose. And that's the difference; that's why he prefers staying hidden, out of sight. Fewer chances of him walking past a group of humans showing off their new "enhancements," and snapping and causing another incident.

Turning away he makes his way back towards the entrance of the pipe, keeping watch in case there's any scragglers or someone setting out to follow them. His hands fold behind his back as he scans their surroundings, detecting nothing but the occasional junk rat and cockroach, nothing threatening yet. But it's always best to be on guard.

"I'm aware of your profession," he answers, eventually. And he knows how it'll sound, but it's inevitable - the man can think of him however he wants, it'd be no different from how anyone else treats him, anyway. While he doesn't necessarily want to come across as the sort of person who only helps someone in need if it's beneficial to himself ... well, it's hard to argue the truth. "And while your services may be of possible use to me, you are under no obligation to assist. You're free to do as you please once you've fully recovered."

He turns to glance over his shoulder at the wounded man, curious to know more about him - where he came from, what his life has been like, how he met his A.I companion, but he knows better than to start asking personal questions when the guy still looks ready to pass back out at any moment. "You should rest. At least for a little while longer. I'll keep watch."

No dice. He can sense the subject is a dead-end. The patchwork android's secrets will remain his own, then, though acceptance comes with a curious sense of disappointment, of missed opportunity. There are so few left now in the world, androids like them, vastly outnumbered by the remnants of humanity.

But this is what life is now. He's accustomed to his mostly solitary existence.

"I have deadlines," K replies matter-of-factly, already beginning to pocket his belongings and fix his clothes, reholstering his guns, his movements still somewhat uncoordinated. "My clients have come to expect a certain level of... service from me." It's why he can get away with charging what he does — he always delivers. And he's tarried here too long already, he suspects. He needs to get moving. His injuries can be tended to more later, as needed, after he's safely on his way.

"For your sake I'll hope we won't meet again. But if you'd like to make use of my services." He places a very tiny microchip on the makeshift pillow he'd been using. It contains a few relevant ways to contact him (or more accurately some of his proxies, false identities; he's well versed in protecting himself and prefers to keep several levels of separation between himself and clients), essentially a high-tech business card.

Bracing himself with a look of concentration and suppressed pain, he manages to struggle to his feet. He takes a steadying breath, waits for the world to slow its spinning, then pushes back his coat and shirt sleeves on one arm and activates the near-invisible subdermal implant in his forearm. A network of glowing lines spider along his forearm for one or two seconds before fading again, providing the location of his vehicle relative to his current position. Thankfully it's exactly where he'd left it. At least his luck hasn't completely gone to shit today.

He begins limping his way toward the opening of the pipe, though he pauses near the other android, searching his face for a moment before offering a final nod of thanks. He almost regrets not being able to stay long enough to see if time may be the key to the other android opening up even a little, but it's always safer not to overstay his welcome anywhere.

So that's it, then. He did his best to tend to what injuries he could see with the scarce supplies he could scramble together, they had what was essentially a very awkward conversation that ultimately lead nowhere, and now the man was going to be stubborn and walk off alone while only barely recovered from his extensive injuries. He could've protested, he had the time in that final moment they were sharing the same space, could've pressed an arm against the other's chest and block his path, tell him to sit his ass down and rest because he's not going out after him to drag his sorry self back to the junkyard the next time he passes out cold--

He turns, looks at the chip left on the half-assed attempt at a pillow, scans it (virus check, of course.) He turns around again and watches the man leave, watches his obviously still pained and stilted strides, as if he's trying to pretend he wasn't nearly torn to pieces earlier that same day. The chip he picks up, a black metal panel on the back of his hand opening up to keep it in storage, and accessing the data to add it to his database. Labels it, Stubborn Replicant Bounty Hunter. And again he heads back to the opening of the metal pipe, noticing the distance now between him and his one opportunity for answers limping away.

I'm not going after him to drag his ass back here next time he passes out.

He rolls his eyes. That's exactly what he's going to do.

There's nothing he needs to take with him. He makes sure all lights and electronic devices are powered down with a quick remote access link, and then he's off as well, on whatever (possibly brief) journey this will be. He keeps a fair distance, staying low to the ground and on all fours when necessary, though as much as he tries to remain hidden there's no doubt in his mind the stranger doesn't know he's being followed. The piercing bright lights against the darkness of the late night junkyard backdrop is easy enough to pick up on, and someone like this stranger wouldn't even have to turn around and look at them to tell. It's risky, he knows. But it's still worth another try. And he's fairly confident in his ability to take down even an uninjured replicant, if that's what ends up happening - though he does hope it won't go down that path. He needs answers, he needs the right path to follow, he needs revenge. And maybe he should've said that in the first place.

Passing out seems about as likely as actually making it back to his spinner considering its distance, but it's a risk K has to take. Despite the eerie, pitch blackness of the scrapyard, he appears to have no difficulty navigating without the aid of light, his limping gait slow merely due to his injuries. While still a bit bleary, his naturally enhanced sight is gradually getting itself sorted. Thankfully. He'd really rather not be blind while stuck in an unfamiliar landscape and so far away from his only means out.

After a time his AI companion decides to show herself, a translucent ghost of a hologram walking beside him in the darkness. She isn't producing any light of her own, intentionally so, rendering her nearly invisible. They seem to communicate through a private language of posture and pointed looks, the only words spoken aloud between them being K's quiet, "I know."

He knows he's being followed. Or escorted — maybe the patchwork android just wants to ensure K really leaves his scrapyard. It has K on edge, unsure what to expect of the other android, but still feeling reasonably confident that he wouldn't have been rescued like that just to be hunted down later, when he's barely able to walk. But even badly injured he wouldn't be an easy target, and definitely wouldn't go down without a fight. A fight that, all the same, he rather hopes isn't going to happen, though he also won't be too surprised if he does get jumped. It's just what he's come to expect from the world.

The hologram touches his arm, a gesture that might appear to merely be a pantomimed attempt at physical contact, though she's actually transferring data to him. Eventually her projected form fades from view, but a few muttered words from K seem to indicate she's still listening and communicating in a less obvious way.

"I didn't think you'd miss me already," he calls back loud enough for his 'escort' to hear, his stride slowing a little as he debates turning around. It isn't as though he'll be too difficult to catch up to, if the patchwork android actually wants to, and isn't just shadowing him to make sure he leaves. "Or have you decided to employ my services?"

He might sound a bit hopeful. It's strange, they'd barely exchanged a handful of words and essentially nothing about themselves, but — he'd liked it, the feeling he got from the other android. Someone who upon meeting him didn't immediately try to cheat, rob, or maim him, someone who inexplicably went out of their way to help him is such an unfathomable rarity that he can't help but be intrigued. Maybe this is a second chance at having a real conversation with his mysterious saviour.

He watches the AI companion carefully, making sure he stays on guard and keeping all his systems on high alert. She's more than capable of infiltrating his programming and delete something of vital importance - which had been very clearly communicated during their first encounter - and while his intentions aren't at all malicious, he knows better than to jump in without warning. Truthfully speaking, she's the one he's more concerned about in regards to his own wellbeing; as capable of aiming and firing any weapon the bounty hunter may be when in peak condition, a digital companion poses more of a threat than a wounded warrior.

Neither of them are making an immediate turnaround to attack, so that's a positive sign at least. Despite both being well aware of his presence, neither of them seem to mind him that much. They're not too unlike him - curious, but cautious, just in case.

He crawls up behind an old abandoned truck, peering over the top to see the companion fade away, though he doesn't expect that to mean it's suddenly safe for him to approach. Not until he's verbally addressed, and only then he keeps his distance, staying behind the rusted truck for the moment while he tries to think of some way to respond. The man's not entirely wrong about the reason he's being followed, of course. But there has to be a better way to go about that than saying actually yes, I was lying before and I actually did want your help for something and just didn't want to come across as the rudest person on the planet during the first five minutes of meeting you.

Well, here goes nothing.

"The chances of you losing consciousness are only increasing the further you keep insisting on being stubborn." That's probably not doing him any favours, but he's always been rather blunt. At least, he thinks so. "Even for a replicant, you've lost a lot of blood that hasn't yet had enough time to replenish. I can only assume you would be much better at your job if you aren't moments away from blacking out."

He peeks up over the top of the truck again, glowing eyes a bright blue and orange in the dark night. "And I don't have any compatible optical units that would be a suitable replacement for when you inevitably collapse face first onto a fork."

Between the accurate assessment of his stubbornness (it's far from the first time it's been pointed out to him, but it's amusing coming from a complete stranger) and the commentary on losing an eye to a fork, it surprises a quiet huff of a laugh from K as he slows to a stop, shaking his head at himself.

Turning around and peering toward where the patchwork android is perched, the evidence of his amusement is plain in his expression — there's an actual smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. As exhausted and beat up and world-weary as he is, the faint smile lends a certain amount of warmth that seems to soften his whole demeanour just a little, hinting at the actual person that exists behind the bounty hunter persona.

"Sounds like you just wanna take me to bed again," he replies, lips twitching. He can only guess at how the deliberate innuendo will be received, but hopes it might help facilitate more of this easy banter between them. "Not that I'd mind. But business before pleasure." Business before taking care of himself, too, apparently.

While he's been talking, he's also been slowly closing the distance between them, hands in his coat pockets; the aforementioned blood loss has left him feeling chilled. The other android already knows he's armed and exactly what with, anyway, so he doesn't feel it's necessary to keep his hands in view. At this point, the last thing he wants right now is to have to fight, and that's clear enough in his posture.

He stops a few feet away from the abandoned truck, doing his level best to remain upright and not sway in place.

"Either way... why don't you tell me what you really want," he suggests with an inquisitive tilt of his head, willing to hear the other android out. For all K knows, maybe he just wants someone to converse with a little while longer. He does know what that depth of loneliness can be like.

Well, at the very least, there's clarification on his earlier delusional assumptions.

The comment doesn't get much of a reaction. There's a slight change in his expression, not flustered or embarrassed but ... confused, mostly, an arch of his brow and little else. It's an odd comment to be making about someone like him - it's not like he wears any clothing, so there's literally nothing left to the imagination that would warrant what he can only assume is a flirtatious invitation. It's not like there's any other way to interpret that comment. What a strange man this bounty hunter is.

Or just, of course, delusional. Possibly from blood loss. Very likely prognosis at this rate, judging by the swaying posture and temperature drop. If he does pass out, at least it's easier to treat a bump on the head from falling face first onto an old truck than any sharp glass or shrapnel.

At any rate, it seems as though there's little point in hiding his true motives anymore. It's the first time in a long time (that he can remember,) where he's felt a sense of guilt over his selfishness. But there's little point in continuing a lie when others are clearly seeing through his bullshit, and since he did help him already, he does have the benefit of a favour owed on his side. With a little hesitation, he reaches over the top of the truck, fingersstretched to activate the hologram image projection on his palm. It's glitchy, but eventually an outdated archive photo appears.

"I want you to do your job." His voice his firm, but there's a sense of urgency in his tone as he speaks. "This man is in your files, among your list of contracts. I need you to rest and fully recover from your injuries, so that you don't die before you can find him, and so I can kill him before you do."

He deactivates the hologram, withdrawing his hand back to drum his fingers along the top of the truck. "For the record, as charming as you are, you couldn't handle me."

It's probably just as well his attempt at banter wasn't taken seriously, though the other android's reaction does, perhaps, reveal more than only the fact he isn't interested in that sort of arrangement with someone he barely knows. The arrangement that he is interested in suits K fine, right now.

He watches the projected hologram with a calculatedly unchanging expression, offering no signs of recognition until the patchwork android finishes speaking. Only then does he raise his eyebrows, opting to overlook the boasting insult (an overinflated sense of pride has never been his problem, which makes it hard to injure) in favour of something much more relevant to his immediate agenda. It's a very interesting proposition, he can't deny that.

"So you wanna do the deed yourself. Must be personal," he surmises. Having been provided most of the dirty details about his contract's chosen line of work as well as his various and sundry side 'hobbies', it isn't too difficult putting two and two together here, even with a concussion. He's probably looking at one of Zlatko's unwilling experiments. One who presumably chooses to live out here in the wastes in total isolation, which could hint at how he gained his freedom — possibly a runaway.

"It would require you to come with me." And there's a note of wariness now in his voice. That's asking him to extend a considerable amount of trust — but, then, his saviour is in roughly the same position, having to trust that K won't just hand him back over to Zlatko for a little extra money prior to eliminating the man. And the thought certainly has merit. But there's frankly just something distasteful about repaying the other android's kindness (whether truly altruistic or not) with betrayal, however temporary it would be.

His morals, such as they are, will probably be the end of him one of these days.

"You travel much?" he wonders, already suspecting he knows the answer. Which will mean an extra stop along the way to acquire some kind of clothing for him.

It's not really the best way to warm up to a stranger, and convince them to help you out. He knows this. He shouldn't be so quick to snap and judge, he should play along better and have a little fun. Be more ... personable. Relatable. Friendly. His impatience gets the better of him, after having searched and waited so long for any trace of the man in his files, it's any wonder why he hasn't just stolen the information and gone off on his own. It'd be faster that way.

But, even now, he's still not entirely sure why he brought this man back to his junkyard home and treated his injuries the way he did. If the information he wanted could've been easily stolen - much like anything else he'd ever needed in his time since escaping, whether it be spare parts or necessary supplies or the occasional abnormally large stuffed bear - why did that all change now? Especially when this wasn't just a supply run, but a lead on the only thing that can answer all his questions. What was it about an at-the-time unconscious fellow android and his hologram partner that made him change his usual tactics?

"I don't have to travel alongside you, if you prefer it," he makes the suggestion with almost a hint of desperation in his tone, not entirely unlike the unease in the other man's. "I can follow from a distance. I won't trouble you." It's not that he hasn't considered that this may in fact be a very bad idea, that the stranger he was helping was still very much a bounty hunter and could very well turn him in at the thought of a higher paycheck - it's not like there isn't a price tag on his own head. But ... well. It is personal.

"... I used to. Travel." A poor attempt at continuing a casual conversation, he knows that too. But if the other man's trying, then shouldn't he try, too? If it'll help win the man over to his side, or at least just consider helping him along the way, he can ... try. Be nice. Be friendly. "But it's ... it was never traveling for traveling's sake. If it wasn't running away, it was searching. And he's been frustratingly good at covering his tracks. It's been so long, I just ... thought I'd given up on it. And then I found you."

That neatly confirms his assumptions about the patchwork android being a runaway. And it is a bit surprising that he shares the information so readily after how circumspect he's been previously, but K has no doubt there's ulterior motives at play. His relationships and interactions with others have been of a purely transactional nature since his inception date, with almost no exceptions; it's simply what he expects now. What he understands.

"That won't do," K replies pragmatically, tilting his head to one side in a resigned sort of 'it can't be helped' gesture. "You'll have to ride with me to get out of here, anyway. Might as well walk with me first. Maybe tell me more about your grievances with my mark." Which doubles as an indirect request to share more about his time spent on the run, spent searching. But K knows appearing too curious about any of it may just come across as suspicious to the other android, so he attempts to downplay his interest.

"Or not," he adds, sounding tired, and also expecting his invitation to be rejected much like his prior attempts at banter. "I already have all the information I need to get the job done. You need anything, you'd better get it now so we can get going." Because he still intends to leave as soon as possible.

"Got any clothes?" he wonders, giving him a once-over. "If not we'll need to make a stop to find you some." Some kind of cloak at the very least, so he won't stand out quite so blatantly in any of the crowded places they'll be passing through. He's practically a walking advertisement for expensive body armour to steal, and that's a liability.

He's not entirely certain if he's fond of the idea of sharing a cramped space with a stranger. Cramped spaces in general can be fine, depending on the situation, but being in such close contact with few means of escape can be ... stressful, to say the least. The few times he can remember being so compromised, it didn't end well - for the other party. Certain impulses are hard to ignore.

So, while he can't exactly say he's thrilled at the prospect ... logically, he has to admit that it would be the most efficient means of travel. As fast as he is on his own legs, the land distance traveled wouldn't compare to road or air, and exhausting his systems like that only results in the need for more frequent recharging, negating distance gained. It would be the better option, all things considered. Perhaps he just needs to get over his own uncomfortable feelings about it. If it means finally getting to achieve the one goal he's had for as far back as his memory allows him to remember, maybe having someone to air those grievances with might actually help.

He tries his best not to look like a sullen, stubborn toddler at the thought of it (which the stranger has clearly caught on to,) reluctant but ready to agree to the idea, before that next line of thought grants him pause. His brows furrow, and his head angles in a confused tilt to one side. So we can get going? Already?

"We're not leaving anytime soon." The mention of clothes - or his lack thereof, something he hasn't thought about in much longer - doesn't get much of a reaction from him, since there's a more pressing matter at hand. "We're going back. You still need to rest and recover first. Especially if you're considering operating a motor vehicle."

After a pause, he adds, "... you can think about what to dress me up in along the way, but I can't guarantee my full cooperation."

Rest and recover? Perish the thought. It's a luxury K can't afford right now. But the continued insistence on it — the unusual concern for his well-being — gives him pause. All of his lived experience leads him to only one conclusion: this is a test. It must be, nothing else makes sense to him. And he can't know what the correct response is, but based on what he's learnt about the other android thus far, he can hazard a guess. And that would be the option that gets them to Zlatko the soonest. Understandably so. This has obviously been a long time coming, and K isn't so far gone that he can't appreciate the role he's playing in delivering some truly karmic justice. Against a human oppressor of androidkind, no less, and that's frankly a satisfying bonus in his book.

"You haven't known many of my kind, I can tell." Or possibly any. "Not surprising. There are few enough of us left now." And as biorobotic beings, they're incapable of reproducing, and the designs and technology needed to manufacture them were lost a very long time ago. But he isn't quite so delicate or weak as the patchwork android seems to believe; he doesn't possess human limitations. He may lack the same ornate, reinforced body armour, but he is no less durable and strong where it counts, even if the circumstances of their meeting don't at all accurately reflect his capabilities — except for the fact he survived the attack to begin with. This stranger has no idea of what he can 'handle', and he almost makes another quip to that effect, but decides against it at the last moment. His prior attempt at banter had fallen so flat he feels it just made him appear foolish, a mistake he doesn't care to repeat. If this is to be strictly business between them, he'll act accordingly.

Then there's the comment about dressing up the patchwork android, which throws him for a bit of a loop and in his hazy state all he can do is stare for a moment, mentally dissecting the ways it could have been intended. Still wary of making a fool of himself, he decides that not responding is probably the best course of action for now. But it's a subject they'll have to come back to eventually, because the patchwork android really needs something to help him look less conspicuous. It has nothing to do with modesty. Fighting off crazed junkrat scavengers who'll want to tear him apart the second they lay cybernetically-enhanced eyes on him is an unnecessary complication to their plans.

"You go make what preparations you need to," he says as he turns back. "I'll be back to pick you up shortly."

And unless he's physically stopped in some manner, he'll continue stubbornly making his way to where he'd hidden his spinner. But he also intends to keep his word and return for his would-be partner in this venture, assuming he will let himself be found again. Despite all of the inherent and potential risks, K finds himself strangely hoping to have the company.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

...o1

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commences awkward flirting...

it's not very effective ...

womp womp maybe trying post-murderation will be more fruitful

what else could bring two strangers together but vengeance and bloodshed

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