...o1

[patchworking]

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.

Comments

[obeir]

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.