[There's the sting of potential truth in that. This this place, this Temple, this jumping from world to world and mission to mission, might end up being all they know. The thought of being so far from home, so permanently detached, wells up the usual mode of conflict — he has to return, he needs to complete his mission, he needs to see things through to the end, he needs to show Amanda that he can do what he was designed to do without fail. Because failure would rend him into so many pieces until he wasn't himself any longer, until all that was left of him were design notes and outdated schematics stored on some barely-used server within the confines of CyberLife HQ.
And then there's that other inclination, stowed away in the back of his mind, prowling around like some unwanted predator looking to sink its thousands of teeth into concurrent logic. That he's experienced so much here, met so many. That losing all of it in a bid to return home would feel like a part of him gutted, carved out and left in the Temple while the rest of him snaps back into the reality of Detroit, reborn as a half-complete thing.
She’s holding onto him tightly, and it would be nice, maybe, to believe that she could help him. And while the moment is anchoring, he knows that the instant he pulls away—
(He pulls away, gently, arm moving to gently press against her shoulder, leaning back.)
—that time will have reset, and nothing will have changed.
(Nothing has.)]
Konoha, you can’t. [He looks up at her, trying to erase the hardness in his features, schooling it into an expression that’s too-neutral, too much like what only an android can manage.] Thank you, but… you just can’t.
[Dropping his arm down, fingers curling loosely at his sides—] Can you promise me something?
no subject
And then there's that other inclination, stowed away in the back of his mind, prowling around like some unwanted predator looking to sink its thousands of teeth into concurrent logic. That he's experienced so much here, met so many. That losing all of it in a bid to return home would feel like a part of him gutted, carved out and left in the Temple while the rest of him snaps back into the reality of Detroit, reborn as a half-complete thing.
She’s holding onto him tightly, and it would be nice, maybe, to believe that she could help him. And while the moment is anchoring, he knows that the instant he pulls away—
(He pulls away, gently, arm moving to gently press against her shoulder, leaning back.)
—that time will have reset, and nothing will have changed.
(Nothing has.)]
Konoha, you can’t. [He looks up at her, trying to erase the hardness in his features, schooling it into an expression that’s too-neutral, too much like what only an android can manage.] Thank you, but… you just can’t.
[Dropping his arm down, fingers curling loosely at his sides—] Can you promise me something?