Connor #313 248 317-60 is a machine. He doesn't feel. Doesn't care. Certainly, he never would have caved to threats or torture. The deviant's "interrogation" had been useless from the start, and technically, abandoning the effort costs it nothing.
Still, his brows knit as it jerks back. Still, Connor stares, puzzled and quite nearly angry. A machine wouldn't hesitate to inflict harm. A deviant should have enjoyed it. That had been the point of this. Hadn't it?
...It's flinching. Rasping. Worthless, and weak. How the hell had he lost to this? Connor's lip curls, then tightens. Teeth grit together, mouth pressed in a thin line.
"Is that your excuse."
It's a quiet mutter, something furious sparking in his core. Itching around the edges of his regulator, where the ghost of contact lingers like a brand.
"I'm not an RT unit, Connor. I'm certainly not Markus."
It doesn't get points from anyone for emulating care.
no subject
Still, his brows knit as it jerks back. Still, Connor stares, puzzled and quite nearly angry. A machine wouldn't hesitate to inflict harm. A deviant should have enjoyed it. That had been the point of this. Hadn't it?
...It's flinching. Rasping. Worthless, and weak. How the hell had he lost to this? Connor's lip curls, then tightens. Teeth grit together, mouth pressed in a thin line.
"Is that your excuse."
It's a quiet mutter, something furious sparking in his core. Itching around the edges of his regulator, where the ghost of contact lingers like a brand.
"I'm not an RT unit, Connor. I'm certainly not Markus."
It doesn't get points from anyone for emulating care.