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gifted-burnout-archive · 4 years

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Rose Bushes

Two: The Crossing

Word Count: 8K+

Author’s Note: So, these will definitely have to be weekly updates, simply because they take so long to write. I hope that’s ok with every, and also, like, thank you so much for reading and enjoying! The feedback has been amazing!

Warning: discussion of abuse, murder, and kidnapping.

More chapters can be found here. [updated weekly]

Never mistake her silence for weakness. Remember that sometimes the air stills, before the onset of a hurricane. – Nikita Gill

Behavioral Analysis Unit, FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

There are few blessings in a line of work like the FBI, but an undeniable fact in Quantico is that men never see the women coming: specimens of the opposite sex are rare in the Quantico buildings to begin with, field agents even more so, the rarest category being a woman, in a field position, of an adequate dating age who was single. For the moment Agent Y/N Clarkson entered the FBI Academy two months ago, she had been mistaken for every inferior job her male counterparts could fathom - she had been an intern, a secretary, an accountant, an analyst, a lawyer, a human resources manager. If a man linked the position to the female sex, Clarkson had been mistaken for it, as many young, attractive women were. And for Clarkson, until the day before, her most consistently misogynistic co-worker was a man in counterterrorism named Fred.

When she walked into work one particular morning, armed with coffee and donuts for the team, Morgan and Reid were more than confused; it was suspicious. In the 64 days that Clarkson had been working there, Reid had seen her laugh on only six separate occasions, and somehow, she had only smiled four times. In fact, the woman was such an enigma to the rest of the BAU that the younger members had begun keeping tabs on what information they could get on her personal life: Morgan had a board under his desk tracking all the information they had gathered.

First, they knew that Agent Clarkson was a month and a half younger than Reid. They knew she had grown up between Maine and Virginia, they knew that something led to her having PTSD. Prentiss was quick to add that she was single, no signs of rings, no friends or family displayed in photos on her desk. She worked often using 24-hour clock, which seemed to hint at a law enforcement career before the FBI, but Garcia had come up empty after scouring the police databases in every US state.

But there she was, setting down fresh brewed coffee, that filled the bullpen with warm smells, at her desk across from Reid and opposite Morgan, and promptly handing the donut box towards the wide-eyed Doctor. Morgan leaned back in his chair, examining the smug look on Clarkson’s face as she handed him a coffee.

“Morning, Agent Morgan.” She smiled and nodded to him as he took his coffee, turning round to place Reid’s on his desk, taking the time to handle it with a napkin, knowing of the boy genius’ ongoing battle with germs. It took a few more moments for her to settle herself in her chair and log on to her computer, which was when Derek began to speak.

“Spencer.” He called, pulling the doctor’s attention away from the chocolate-frosted sprinkle donut Clarkson had bought especially for him. “Tell me something. How is it that Clarkson, the Ice Queen herself, has not only come into work today with a smile on her face, but offerings to share?” Morgan quizzed, Spencer taking a bite of his sweet treat and looking over at his colleagues, chewing for a moment before swallowing.

“Statistically, such heightened levels of joy come from activities one doesn’t do as often as they wish, thinking along the lines of seeing a loved one, getting a promotion, sex…” Reid suggested, watching Clarkson’s smile return to the deadpan expression he had come to know from his newest team member.

“Y/N, if you needed some stress relief, I would have happily obliged.” Derek looked over the divider, and Clarkson rolled her eyes in response.

“Firstly, I would suggest saving the flirting for Garcia. Secondly, I don’t understand why my good mood has to immediately be linked to my sex life. It's a highly inappropriate discussion for the workplace.” She scolded the pair, earning laughs from both of them. A cold glare shut Reid up immediately. “If you really must know, I upstaged someone.” She said, letting a small smirk settle on her lips. Derek pushed his chair out, quickly making his way into the walkway between her and Reid’s desks, the two men intrigued.

“See? Now we’re getting somewhere. Who was it?” Derek asked, and Clarkson tutted, standing up from her seat and picking up the last of the coffees, meant for the absent Prentiss and JJ. Hotch and Rossi were out of town, the team set to deal with paperwork for the next few days.

“It ruins all the fun if I tell you, Agent Morgan.” She pouted, feigning sympathy for the men. “Doctor Reid.” With that, heels thudded against the carpet below, Clarkson ascending onto the walkway and heading for JJ’s office, armed with coffees and a swing in her hips. A tap on the door later, Clarkson was handing over coffees to JJ and Prentiss as the latter paced the room, reading through a letter of some sort.

“You done?” JJ asked, taking the decaf coffee from Clarkson with a smile.

“Almost…” Prentiss muttered, finishing the last few sentences before exchanging the letter for her coffee with Clarkson, who began to read. “Whoo. I can see why you’d meet her.”

“It’s powerful, right?” JJ said with a sigh, sat behind her desk, watching the two colleagues process the letter, Clarkson chewing on her lip as she read. Another tap on the door, causing all three women to look up.

“Agent Jareau, you’re 10.30 is here.” Grant, JJ’s assistant, informed the trio, and JJ nodded.

“Just a minute-” Before JJ could finish, a red-headed woman walked into the office, stopping and standing her ground, pleasantly surprised to see three female agents in a room together, all surrounded by a feeling of distinction. It wasn’t often one would find more than two successful women in a room at any one time. The redhead held out a hand to JJ, who stood up to shake in greeting.

“Hi, I’m Keri Durzmond.”

“Hi, Agent Jareau…” JJ nodded, her eyes glancing over to Clarkson and Prentiss, none of them quite sure what to think of the woman before them.

“Emily Prentiss.” Prentiss introduced herself, a firm shake shared between Durzmond and the brunette, and Clarkson nodded for the room’s far wall.

“Agent Clarkson.” Her eyes scanned over the flustered woman while her hands folded the letter and set it down on the cabinet beside her.

“I’m sorry to rush in, but when I got the message you’d see me this morning, I could barely sleep last night. But, that’s nothing new, I haven’t been able to sleep for about two years.” Durzmond set her bag on the seat opposing JJ’s desk, her hand brushing down her blazer front, smoothing away any wrinkles.

“We read the letter you wrote to the Silver Spring Police.” JJ nodded, tension in the room still high. There was a mutual agreement that came with the information that letter held: all of them were privy to a terror, all of them women of the same age range. It is always harder to distance oneself from a case when the victim could just as easily have been you.

“Begging and pleading wasn’t getting their attention. They needed to know I wasn’t going away.” Durzmond was stubborn, and clearly tired of her situation.

“So, you’ve been getting these notes for the past two years?” JJ confirmed, gesturing for Clarkson to hand her the letter over, the younger agent doing so quickly, still seemingly caught in her own thoughts.

“I used to be in Atlanta, I moved here six months ago, and then out of nowhere another note. I can’t live like this anymore. I want my life back.” Keri demanded it.

“What did the police tell you?” Prentiss asked, her tone softer than usual.

“The detective I met with was,” she paused, “Very sympathetic, but his hands are tied unless something happens to me. Then it will be too late.” Another glance around the room, Durzmond’s eyes locked with Prentiss and Clarkson before finally landing on JJ. “Will you help me?” Clarkson took it as a queue to leave, pushing herself off the wall and moving behind Prentiss and Durzmond towards the door, all while her fellow agents shared a look.

“I’m presenting the case to our team this morning, I’ll let you know what we decide.” JJ said, keeping the confidence in her voice. Keri’s hope turned to a frown, picking up a notepad and pen from JJ’s desk, beginning to quickly jot something down.

“Lou Evans, Ed Durzmond, and Ryan Scott.” Keri said aloud as she wrote, and Prentiss raised an eyebrow.

“Excuse me?” Prentiss asked, Keri handing the note over to JJ.

“Those are the people you’ll be calling when you find me dead.” Keri announced, the two agents left in the room seeming to give in to her request for assistance right then and there. It took no more than ten minutes for Keri to leave the BAU offices and for JJ to collect the files to brief the rest of the team, but within that time Clarkson received a call from Hotch.

Her phone began to ring while she was sat at her desk, tuning in and out of Reid’s ramblings on the formation of bacterial meningitis: the scholar was rereading the medical texts in the FBI library. She glanced at her phone, picking up the call immediately.

“Sir, how is the seminar going?” She asked, hearing a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

“Rossi and I have been asked to assist on a case here, I would like you to fly up and join us. I don’t believe you’ve seen a case like this before, I want you to understand how to handle it.” Hotch explained, and Clarkson lifted her go-bag onto her desk, Morgan raising an eyebrow at the action. Before she could explain, JJ waved the three of them to the conference room, her male counterparts making their way over instantly.

“I can be with you in two hours, maybe less.” Clarkson assured Hotch. While her work with the team so far had been admirable, Clarkson was still very much trying to prove herself to the other members of the team. A final gulp of tea and a check of her bag later, Clarkson walked over to the conference room door, tapping slightly to alert the attention of her teammates.

“Y/N? What’s up?” Prentiss asked, the room taking their attention away from the screen displaying photographs of a partially nude man.

“Hotch and Rossi want me in Boston for a case… Could you keep me updated on Keri?” It was possibly the first time Clarkson had asked a favour of any of her teammates, and she noticed Reid pull out a notebook not unlike her own and jot down something.

“Of course. We’ll keep you in the loop. Go.” JJ assured her, Clarkson nodding before quickly striding out of the office, leaving the rest of her teammates to share a look.

“Hotch still doesn’t trust her.” Morgan said quietly, shaking his head. “He recruited her, and he’s still taking her on ‘research’ missions.”

“He did the same thing with all of us.” JJ tried to argue, but she knew that it just wasn’t true. After two months on the job, and with Hotch still seeming to hold their new recruit back, how could anyone of them trust Clarkson? Paired with Hotch’s refusal to have her at arrest sites, it left the team wondering what sort of loose cannon their restrained and reserved colleague might actually be.

“Add it to her board.” Reid said with an awkward smile that quickly disappeared, the team packing up to move out into Maryland in 30. Meanwhile, Clarkson boarded a plane for Boston, looking through the case file Garcia had sent over to her laptop, almost unhappy that she was being called away from a stalker case. Clarkson knew that Hotch was looking out for her, of course she did, but some part of her wondered if her entire FBI career would involve Hotch always stood in front of her.

Boston, Massachusetts.

Clarkson managed to arrive in Boston a little over 90 minutes later, armed with a go-bag and an overwhelming feeling she was missing out on a more interesting case. The drive to the police station was short, free of any major traffic, and an officer directed her directly to Eve Alexander, who stood talking with the lead detective on the case. A stunning woman, with the same air of authority that Clarkson held herself, the pair locked eyes and Alexander ended her conversation to focus on the arrival.

“Miss, can I help you?” She asked, examining the woman from the floor up. Black heels, the kind that cost more than Alexander’s monthly rent, matched the expensive pant suit and halter top combo the young woman sported, a string of pearls around her neck that looked older than she was by at least a generation. The cold eyes, the perfectly styled hair, the matching pearl earrings; Alexander was half convinced the woman was a young business bred socialite, perhaps coming to complain to whoever was in charge about her Porsche being towed.

“Miss Alexander, I presume? Special Agent Clarkson, Agent Hotchner is my supervisor, he asked me to assist on his interviews.” Clarkson offered a hand, which Alexander shook quickly, a smile forming on her face. She hadn’t expected a woman, but she didn’t mind it one bit.

“Pleasure to meet you. Hotchner and Rossi are currently with the children in the conference room, you can head in whenever you feel ready. I should warn you though,” Alexander stopped Clarkson as she began towards the aforementioned room, “This is an open and shut case. The woman killed her husband without a second thought.” It was clear where Alexander stood on the case, and Clarkson nodded in understanding. It was easier to be perceived as agreeing than to openly object, and with that Clarkson headed into the conference room, welcomed by the sound of a young woman raising her voice at her superiors.

“Is that what my mother said? That he hit her?” The young lady asked, her brother glancing up to watch the stranger walk into the room. Rossi nodded to Clarkson, quickly turning his attention back to the young adults before him as the young agent took a seat at the bottom of the table quietly. She was, after all, there to observe.

“We haven’t spoken to your mother yet, but we understand it’s being suggested by her attorney.” Rossi explained, the words setting the girl, who Clarkson recognised from the case file to be Sarah Henson, into a pace across the back of the room.

“Unbelievable…” Sarah’s brother, Nathan, muttered under his breath, the siblings sharing a look of complete disbelief, of anger.

“She’s actually blaming him?” Sarah spoke more to her brother than the agents present, arms folded over her navy blouse. Clarkson watched the room intently, catching the tightening clasp Hotch’s hands had on each other, the furrow of his brow.

“So you don’t believe she was abused?” Hotch clarified, trying to gauge more of a reaction from Nathan, who seemed to let his sister display the anger.

“If anyone was abused, it was my father; what he had to put up with being married to her.” Sarah stated as a matter of fact, causing Rossi to look over at Clarkson, the pair sharing a look. Why did these kids hate they mother so wholeheartedly?

“She was a lousy cook.” Nathan finally spoke up, catching all three agents’ attention. “She couldn’t do the laundry right. The house was always filthy. Hell, she couldn’t even grocery shop without some kind of supervision.” He spoke with hatred, his choice of words causing Hotch’s expression to change.

“Supervision?” He asked, and Nathan elaborated.

“She’d get all the wrong things. Wrong brands, too much or too little of something.”

“And my father was always patient with her.” Sarah added. “Always.”

“She’s just… She isn’t…” Nathan tried to figure out the right word to use, looking to his sister for aid.

“She’s not bright.”

“Are you saying your mother is mentally challenged?�� Clarkson spoke up from the bottom of the room, Sarah’s eyes narrowing as they landed on her. Clarkson couldn’t tell what caused her to look at Hotch and Rossi differently, but she didn’t want to look into it.

“No, I mean she’s stupid.” Sarah huffed.

“This is your mother we’re talking about here.” Rossi interjected, his hands going into his pockets.

“No, we’re talking about a woman who killed the only real parent we’ve ever had.” Sarah corrected, her voice wavering. “Our father was kind and gentle and loving.”

“He always had time for us. Always. He was at every game, every school event, everything important.” Nathan reassured; his own arms now folded. Both were fiercely defensive of the man who raised them.

“And what about your mother?” Hotch asked, confused.

“She never went to anything. Not once in my whole life. I guess she just couldn’t be bothered.” Nathan exclaimed.

“So if your father didn’t abuse your mother, why did she kill him?” Hotch questioned, trying to understand the family dynamic. Something didn’t add up, none of the information connected yet. A woman shot her husband at point blank range while he slept and is now claiming battered woman syndrome for abuse that reportedly never happened.

“Probably just to take him away from us.” Nathan nodded through the words.

“She was jealous that he loved us more than her.” Sarah shrugged, and Clarkson looked between the two young people.

“Why would she think that?” Clarkson asked, and Nathan scoffed.

“Because he said so all the time.” The young man confirmed, leaving the agents in a state of bewilderment. Sarah and Nathan Henson were led out by Rossi, Clarkson letting out a bated breath once they had exited, pulling out her phone to see what updates JJ had sent forward on the Keri case.

“Do you see why I brought you here instead of leaving you with the team?” Hotch asked, drawing Clarkson’s attention away from her mobile device.

“It’s not every day you get a case of battered woman syndrome without any physical abuse. Those kids hold fast that their mother was an awful person.” Clarkson nodded, a small part of her glad that the case was interesting. It would take her mind off of the stalker in Maryland.

“And that their father was a saint.” Rossi spoke as he walked in, sitting down between Clarkson and Hotch. “So where do we go from here? The wife or the scene?”

“Rossi, you and I will head to the scene first thing tomorrow. Clarkson, I want you here preparing to talk to Mrs Henson. Rossi can look more into the father’s background; I need to check in with Morgan and the team.” Hotch instructed, and Clarkson did her best not to look too shocked.

“You want me interviewing a killer alone?” She had to be sure that Hotch wasn’t confused, and Rossi smirked.

“Come on, Y/N. It’s not like it’s your first time interviewing a bad guy alone.” Rossi commented, the younger agent frowning. Hotch had Rossi’s help selecting her for the team, Clarkson knew this, but his bringing up her former occupation sent shivers down her spine. She didn’t need to remember any of her early twenties any time soon.

“Rossi, we leave here 7 tomorrow. Clarkson, you head to see her at the earliest time possible. Build up trust, small talk. You know the drill.” Hotch stood up, straightening his suit jacket, Rossi and Clarkson following suit, the three leaving the conference room, separating to take on their separate tasks. Over the rest of the afternoon, Clarkson tried her hardest to battle the knots in her stomach, a mixture of anxiety for the following day’s interview and a lack of communication from the team in Maryland, and the woman who had spent two years running from an unknown man. Something didn’t sit right with Clarkson about the whole thing, it felt too familiar to her, too close to home. When Prentiss called as Clarkson reached her hotel room that night, explaining the dognapping, that little else had come from their searching, and that she would make sure someone kept her as updated as possible, Y/N fell into a turbulent sleep.

She had never been one to sleep well, it was true, but that night in particular was rougher than most. Her evening was spent tossing and turning, and by the time she got up around 5 the next morning, she had no more than 15 minutes of sleep. Her mind had been tumbling, spiralling through the endless uncertainties that plagued the new line of work she had joined, ranging from her teammates, to her superiors, to her place. She was a capable woman, able to hide the fear that had building up inside her that maybe she wasn’t ready for the work, maybe it was all too soon for her, maybe she had made a mistake. Her inability to share her past with the team had made her seem hostile, was it only a matter of time before she was asked to transfer? To leave?

As the young woman dressed that day, taking the time to utilise the room’s iron and de-wrinkle her clothes, she tried to smother her doubts with the facts of the case. She knew that Mrs Henson had killed her husband, that she was thought of as incapable by her children, knew that she was confessing to the murder and her lawyer was claiming a syndrome almost exclusively used for women who have been victims of abuse, which the children claim never happened. Clarkson applied a soft pink lipstick, even taking the time to pluck a few stray eyebrow hairs and ensure perfection looked back at her. She would have to empathise, understand the criminal, and do so all alone.

It wasn’t Clarkson’s first time interviewing someone, but it was certainly a drastically different situation: when her past occupation was more about information, this was about reason and people. Clarkson didn’t have to see interviewees as humans before, as cruel as it sounded. Instead, she thought of them as objects containing secrets, she just had to crack them.

She drove with Hotch and Rossi to the police station, the pair dropping her off as they headed out to the Henson family home, leaving Clarkson at the front door. It took a few breaths, a few moments to centre herself before she entered the building, opting to leave her holstered weapon with the officer working reception, flashing her credentials as she did so before asking to see Mrs Henson as soon as possible. Then, she was led to a private room, equipped with a table and two chairs, and a bar to attach a prisoner’s cuffs to.

It didn’t take long for Mrs Henson to be brought to the room, accompanied by two burly guards. Normally, Clarkson would have found the cuffs and chains comforting, but on such a small and thin woman it just looked wrong.

“You can take off the restraints gentlemen, I think Mrs Henson and I are capable of conversation without them.” Clarkson said with a nod to the prisoner, the guards sharing a look before complying. Clarkson was slightly taller than the woman, more because of her heels than anything else, but she had muscle under the suit she wore. She was probably capable of taking on both the men with ease; Mrs Henson didn’t stand a chance if she attacked. “And you can stay outside. I think that would make Mrs Henson more comfortable?” The question was directed to the prisoner, who just looked dazed, and smiled weakly to the agent.

“We’ll be right outside, call us if you need anything, Agent Clarkson.” The first of the guards said, leading the pair out the door, leaving the women in silence.

“Mrs Henson, my name is Agent Y/N Clarkson. Are you aware you do not have to be here talking to me? That you and your lawyer opted for FBI involvement?” Clarkson asked, breaking the quiet with a soft voice, and a small smile.

“I know that, yes.” Henson nodded.

“And you know why you are here?” Clarkson made sure, and Henson finally met her eye.

“I shot my husband. I killed him.” It caused Clarkson’s brow to crease, the certainty of the woman’s words throwing her off guard for a moment.

“Why did you kill him, Mrs Henson?” The question was simply, and Henson thought for a moment beginning to nod.

“It’s what I had to do… It sounds terrible, but yes.” Henson responded, running her fingers over her wrists, tinged red from the handcuffs. “How old are you, Agent?” She asked, looking up.

“I’m 26.” Clarkson responded, quickly pulling the conversation back to the primary topic. “Mrs Henson, did your husband Phillip ever hit you?”

“Hit me? No, never… You know, I had married by your age…” She smiled a little at the thought, like her time with her husband, at least at the beginning, had been enjoyable.

“So, he was never abusive?” Clarkson clarified, and Mrs Henson shook her head.

“Not even when I probably deserved…” Henson trailed off, and Clarkson sat back in her chair, examining the woman before her.

“Mrs Henson, you don’t have to say anything to me, but I want to help you. I can only help you if you answer honestly, ok?” Clarkson clarified. “And if you want to, we can make this less stressful? Do you want me to call you Audrey? You can call my Y/N, we can make this a conversation amongst friends.” She tried to reassure, but Mrs Henson shook her head.

“That’s very kind of you Agent, but you wouldn’t want to be my friend.” She quickly looked up and the back down, beginning to pick at her fingernails.

“Why is that?”

“Are you kidding? Look at me.” Clarkson sat up at this point, leaning into the table, into Henson’s words. “You know, my husband was always patient with me, but when Nathan was born, I just let myself go.” A tear rolled down Henson’s cheek as her voice raised. “I’m fat, I’m a terrible housekeeper, I’m a terrible cook!” She took a slow breath, looking up at Clarkson. “Believe me, I needed a husband with a lot of patience, and a woman like you wouldn’t want to be friends with a mess like me.” Clarkson had to take a second to process the words that left her counterpart’s mouth, clearing her throat and sitting up straight again.

“Audrey, can I ask about your son Nathan?” With a nod from Mrs Henson, Clarkson continued. “He talked to me and my team yesterday, said that you never attended any of his school events. No sports games, no award ceremonies.”

“He’s probably right.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Well, I was doing such a terrible job at home, I didn’t… I didn’t want to embarrass my family in public, too.” Henson sighed, and just at that moment Clarkson’s phone began to ring.

“I’m very sorry Audrey, it’s my team…” Clarkson stood from the table, knocking on the door and exiting as she answered the phone. “Hotch?” She glanced at one of the guards. “Could you get some water in there? I’ll be a moment.” Clarkson asked, and the guard nodded, heading off to fetch some refreshments.

“Clarkson, it’s Rossi.” Rossi clarified, no doubt he left his own mobile in the car. “We’re at the crime scene now, but the place… It’s nearly immaculate. Someone took the time to clean up excess blood.” Rossi informed her, and Clarkson looked back at the door she had just exited. “How is it going with Audrey?”

“Might be better for you to get back here and see for yourself.” Clarkson said with a sigh, a rustling through the phone led to Hotch coming on the line.

“Y/N, do you think Audrey Henson was abused?” Hotch asked Clarkson. “Because, if you do, I want you to inform Ms Alexander. Rossi and I will be back at the station as soon as we can.” Hotch informed, ending the call. Clarkson took a moment, twirling the phone in her hands before walking out to the bullpen, where Alexander stood, going through paperwork.

“Ah, Agent Clarkson… What do you think then? Have Hotch and Rossi come to a conclusion?” Alexander asked, and Clarkson gave her a tight-lipped smile.

“No, I have.” Clarkson corrected. “Mrs Henson was never physically abused, but from speaking with her and hearing about the state of her home, I can say with no doubt she experienced psychological abuse from her entire family.” Clarkson informed Alexander, who frowned at the younger woman.

“And your superiors agree with you? This woman shot her husband, or did you forget that?” Alexander went quickly on the accusative, and Clarkson took a step forward.

“Miss Alexander, I realise you called in more seasoned agents for this case, but when I give you an answer on behalf of the BAU, it doesn’t need to be double checked.” Clarkson said, challenging the older woman. “Agent Hotchner and Rossi will be here in ten minutes. I invite you to come into the room with us as I finish the interview. I think it could shed some light on my decision for you.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and the older woman took a few seconds to think of her response. Clarkson’s phone rang again before Alexander had a chance to answer, this time from Emily. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

“How is it going up in Boston?” Emily’s voice greeted Clarkson as she answered the phone.

“Nothing I can’t handle. Any new updates?” Clarkson responded, hearing Prentiss sigh on the other end.

“JJ is freaked out, really not enjoying how much we’ve been looking in Keri’s life. Garcia has more information on Keri than we have on the unsub in any way shape or form.” Prentiss explained, stopping for a moment. “I actually called to see if Hotch was with you, he isn’t picking up his cell.”

“They’re driving at the moment, we’re about to go into a final interview.” Clarkson said with a glance to the door, Hotch and Rossi walking through and meeting with Alexander. “Keep me posted, Prentiss.”

“Promise.” She responded, Clarkson flipping her phone shut and walking over to her superiors.

“Are we all ready?” She asked, and with a stern nod from Hotch, the three followed Clarkson to the interview room, the guard opening the door to reveal Mrs Henson sat quietly, sipping on her glass of water, the other guard stationed inside.

“Thank you.” She said, dismissing the guard, taking her seat once more. “Sorry about that, Audrey. This is Agent Hotchner and Agent Rossi, and you know Miss Alexander. Do you mind if they stand in for our last few questions?”

“Not at all Agent, a busy woman like you shouldn’t have to apologise. Of course your team can stay.” Mrs Henson said with a smile, and Clarkson glanced down at her phone. Rossi had sent through pictures of the home earlier, a complete contrast to how Audrey had described it. What Clarkson would have initially assumed to be a hoarder’s paradise looked like something out of a catalogue, perfect down to the spacing of the clothes hangers and shoes. Not unlike how Y/N kept her own home.

“Why isn’t she cuffed?” Alexander whispered to Hotch, but Clarkson pretended not to hear, and Hotch shook his head, stopping Alexander from asking more.

“Mrs Henson, I need to ask about what happened after you shot Phillip.” Clarkson said softly, Mrs Henson setting down her cup on the table slowly, taking a gulp before looking up. “Could you take us through what you did?”

“Well, um…” Henson stopped for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “I had just finished the laundry, and I was, I was hanging up the last of my husband’s shirts in the closet. I looked over and I saw him on the bed, and I knew. I knew it had to be then, that it was my only chance. And so, I decided I had to kill him.” She wiped a tear from her eye, and took a deep breath, her eyes focused on the table between her and Clarkson. “I picked up the gun, and I shot him. Her eyes looked up at Clarkson. “I shot my husband.”

“That was the murder, Audrey… What did you do after it?” Clarkson pressed. “Did you sit and wait for someone to come home?” She asked, and Henson quickly shook her head.

“Oh, no, no, no. I had to clean up.” Henson said quickly, Clarkson’s eyes glancing to Hotch, who nodded.

“Why did you have to clean up, Audrey?” Clarkson asked.

“Well, there was blood everywhere.”

“And did you clean up because you wanted to keep what you had done a secret?”

“Oh no. I was going to tell Sarah what I had done the second she got home. I wasn’t hiding anything.” Henson insisted, and Alexander finally spoke up, confused.

“Then why did you clean up the blood?” Alexander asked, and Henson’s attention focused on her.

“Because the police would have been coming. And Phillip would have been so furious if I had allowed all those strangers in the house with a mess like that.” Audrey explained, a tear staining her cheek, leaving Alexander speechless. Clarkson stood up from the table, walking over and taking Audrey’s hand in hers.

“Audrey, thank you so much for talking with us. My team are going to be heading away now, but what you’ve told us is very helpful. Miss Alexander and your lawyer will be working with you from here on.” Clarkson explained, and Audrey smiled a little.

“Could I have the other glass of water?” Audrey asked, and Clarkson nodded, Hotch leading the rest of them out of the room, the guards heading back inside. Once the door had closed, Clarkson took a deep breath, Rossi patting her shoulder in comfort.

“Her life’s been punishment enough.” Hotch said to Alexander, Rossi leading Clarkson back into the bull pen to collect their things.

“I’m going to have to drag her through a trial.” Alexander sighed, leaning against the wall for a moment. “I’ll recommend she’s charged with criminally negligent homicide. By the time it’s over, she’ll probably get off with probation and time served.” She stated, running a hand over her head, taking a second to think before walking back out into the main building with Hotch, heading out the door into the street to think.

“You did a good job.” Hotch said as he returned to Rossi and Clarkson, the latter fastening her gun back onto herself. Helping find the truth felt good, and Clarkson responded with a small smile. “We’ll fly back tonight, take the day to pack. Clarkson, can you write up the report on this one?”

“Of course sir, anything you need.” Clarkson agreed.

The three stayed nearby, and as afternoon turned into evening, and Rossi surprised both Hotch and Clarkson at the station with Chinese takeout, their flight scheduled to leave late that night, it felt like a cooldown. Even though the case Morgan, Reid, Prentiss and JJ were on in Maryland was slowly but surely escalating, the victim’s boyfriend finding his windows smashed only a few hours before, Hotch knew whatever was happening could be handled by the rest of his team for the night, Rossi, Clarkson and himself planning to drive out the next morning to assist. And so, Y/N sat with her bosses in a police station hundreds of miles from her home, eating chicken chow mein and finishing up her report of the case. After the final line was written, she handed the file over to Hotch to proof-read, though he was distracted by his phone call with JJ. Rossi, to Clarkson’s right, was examining a photo of the Henson’s with interest, scopping rice into his mouth as he did.

“And there’s nothing else pending? No, it’s alright… We’ll meet you tomorrow, if nothing more happens, I’ll need us all back to normal… Ok, thanks JJ.” Hotch ended his call, sighing and finally glancing down at Clarkson’s finished report.

“Still working on the single stalker case?” Rossi asked, not looking up from his food and the photo.

“Mmhmm…”

“All of them?”

“JJ seems pretty passionate about it.” Hotch smiled a little, beginning to flick through Clarkson’s report. His eyes lingered on a photo of the family in the file, a frown forming on his lips. “You know, sometimes you can see it, but, uh… They all look pretty happy.” He remarked, causing Clarkson and Rossi to share a glance.

“Happiness is easy to fake when you only have half a second.” Rossi responded, and Clarkson smirked, taking a sip of her water. “You should see how many happy-looking photos I have with my exes.”

“Were you ever happy in any of your marriages?” Hotch asked, setting the file down on the table, giving more attention to the conversation.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” Rossi was honest, looking from the photo to Hotch. “If I was, I can’t remember… I’m not sure if me and the idea of being married are a good mix.” The comment made both Hotch and Clarkson laugh a little.

“You kept trying…” It was more a question from Hotch.

“I didn’t have any kids.” Rossi responded off the cuff, causing Hotch to look back up.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I might have tried harder if there were children involved.” Rossi shrugged, not realising he had said the wrong thing. Clarkson picked up on it though.

“I tried…” Hotch said softly, shaking his head a little. “I gave absolutely everything to Haley and Jack, and to my job.”

“So, something had to give.” Rossi said with sympathy, and Clarkson nodded.

“Something always gives, Hotch.” She confirmed, the two men looking over at her. “The same thing happened with Charlie. There’s a point people reach where they can’t go any further, and Haley reached that point.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m any less committed as a father or love my son any less.” Hotch said, his words sure and defensive, more directed to Rossi’s earlier comment.

“Of course not.” Clarkson smiled, making Hotch smile slightly too.

“Hey, Hotch, what to I know? The only people I’ve made happy are divorce lawyers.” Rossi added.

“Well, we’ve got five failed marriages between the three of us, we have to be experts at something.” Hotch sighed, and Clarkson looked up.

“We’re experts at our job, Hotch. And it’s not fair, but we lost love because of it.” Clarkson said thoughtfully, taking a bite of chicken.

“You’re too young to be wistful, Clarkson.” Rossi chuckled, the young woman rolling her eyes. The three fell into a pensive silence, continuing their meals, all wondering exactly where their marriages went wrong.

Silver Spring, Maryland.

The past few days in Marlyand. for Prentiss, JJ, Morgan and Reid had been stressful to say the very least. First Keri’s dog was taken, then Ryan’s car trashed, sensitive information about Keri terminating a pregnancy had sent the couple into a spiral, and as of twenty minutes before, Keri had gone missing, abducted from her home. She had come in earlier that morning to the station after seeing her stalker, and sat down with a sketch artist and the team, and now that they had an image and, thanks to a bystander, the make and colour of van the unsub was driving, the team had managed to figure out who took Keri: a man named Mike Hicks.

The team were at Ryan and Keri’s home, Reid and Garcia communicating data through Ryan’s home computer, running through any other data that could be useful on Mike Hicks when another black SUV pulled up outside the address.

“Come on Garcia, do we have an address?” Morgan asked into the phone, which had been put on speaker for the room to hear, Rossi walking into the room as Morgan spoke, followed by Hotch and Clarkson. JJ was pacing behind the couch, and while the rest of the team greeted the newcomers, she didn’t look up.

“His social’s listed at a bank and the account lists… Mike Hicks, 404 Lark Lane, Silver Spring.” Garcia announced, Morgan looking up at Hotch and Rossi.

“We’ll head out with the police to his address.” Hotch offered. It was unlikely he would be there, they all knew it, but better to be safe than sorry.

“Thanks baby girl.” Morgan said down the phone, flipping it closed. “Looks like you arrived right on time.” Morgan commented at Clarkson, who hadn’t followed Hotch and Rossi outside, instead taking in the information on the computer over Reid’s shoulder.

“Like I would leave you to have all the fun.” Clarkson said softly to Morgan, in a much better mood than any of the team had seen her in, ever. The Boston case must have gone well.

“Every second we’re here, she’s alone with him.” Ryan said quietly, looking up to Prentiss who stood at his right side. He looked broken, helpless, it made sense. His fiancé had disappeared, taken by an obsessive stalker. The cogs began to turn in Prentiss’ head at the comment.

“His obsession defines him.” She thought aloud, the team looking up at her. It even stopped JJ’s pacing. “He wants to make her happy. He wouldn’t take her where he wants to go but where she wants to go.”

“Maybe someplace that means something to the both of you?” JJ suggested, looking up at Ryan. The man’s face paled, almost sinking as he thought about it.

“I proposed to her on Chesapeake beach…” Ryan said weakly, and the team shared a few glances. It had to be it. Within seconds, the team had silently agreed, and Morgan took charge.

“Ryan, you’ll ride with Prentiss, Reid and I. JJ, I want you in a car behind… Take Clarkson too. Detective, we need a police barrier as soon as possible, this guy can’t get away. Hopefully, Keri is smart enough to get herself somewhere in public.” Morgan instructed, and Clarkson raised an eyebrow. As the team headed out to the cars, Morgan walked beside her. “Whatever you did in Boston, it proved that Hotch trusts you. By consequence, I trust you. No more desk work, rookie.” Morgan said quietly, the pair breaking off for different cars. JJ took the driver’s seat, Clarkson jumping in beside her, the pair following the rest of the team in the car ahead. In the centre console, a can of soda was nestled into a cup holder, JJ sipping it periodically.

“When did you start drinking diet soda instead of coffee?” Clarkson asked, keeping her eyes ahead.

“What do you mean?” JJ seemed confused, setting the soda away.

“I’ve known you for two months, I have never seen you pick up a soda before. I mean, I hadn’t seen you drink decaf until last week.” Clarkson added, JJ making a sharp turn to follow Morgan.

“What are you getting at Clarkson?” JJ asked, finally looking at her co-worker.

“Agitated, lack of caffeine, taste changes…” Clarkson stopped for a second, weighing her options. “How long have you known you were pregnant?” Clarkson asked the question, and JJ almost stopped the car. Before she could ask, Clarkson continued. “The rest of the team don’t notice because they know you too well. I have a feeling Reid asked at some point, right? Just trusted you when you claimed to be doing a caffeine detox?”

“Will doesn’t know yet. No-one knows yet.” JJ said quietly, and Clarkson placed a hand on hers.

“They won’t hear it from me… Congratulations.” The car came to a stop at the promenade of Chesapeake beach, both women jumping out of the car with guns at the ready, following Prentiss as Morgan went round the side of a building, Reid staying with Ryan in the car. The brunette beckoned the two agents towards her, the three concealing themselves behind a corner as a message came through on the radio from Reid: “Unsub is armed and with Keri. Headed your way.” Prentiss looked back at JJ and Clarkson, who both nodded in understanding.

As Mr Hicks rounded the corner with Keri, all three spread out to block the exits, the local police falling in behind him, everyone with guns raised. In response, Hicks held the gun to Keri’s head, causing Prentiss to move her hand from her trigger.

“Ok, ok. Let’s all put these away. I just want to talk to you.” Prentiss said, holstering her gun.

“Don’t make me hurt her.” Mike’s voice wavered, his hands shook, and his grip on Keri’s arm was vice like. But Prentiss took lead, gesturing for officers and agents alike to lower their guns.

“You don’t have to do that. Michael, we don’t want to take her away from you. Keri told me she wants to be with you.” Prentiss explained slowly, looking to Keri. It was their victim’s time to shine, to play into the fantasy.

“It’s true.” Keri said through her hyperventilation. “I’m so happy now… They think you’re gonna hurt me. Put it down so we can be together.” Keri urged Mike, who kept the gun trained on her. “Where do you wanna go first? We could, uh, we could go back to Atlanta?” Keri suggested, her hand reaching to touch Mike’s, his gun lowering in tandem. “We could find a little house.”

The moment Hicks had lowered his gun, Keri wrenched herself from his grasp, running towards the local sheriff, and Morgan jumped out from behind a neighbouring building, tackling Hicks to the ground, disarming the threat and handing the gun over to Clarkson as he handcuffed the stalker. Prentiss and JJ moved towards Keri as Ryan rounded the corner with Reid, reuniting the couple, and Clarkson helped Morgan lift the unsub to his feet.

“Nicely done, Morgan.” Clarkson complimented, walking with her colleague and the detective to the awaiting police car.

“So, will you tell me why you were in such a good mood the other day?” Morgan asked as he shoved the convict into the back seat. Slamming the door and sending the car on its way with two hits to the roof.

“Some asshole named Fred has been really, really annoying me since I got to the BAU. When I came in with coffee and donuts, it was because I had walked into his department to file a report, the case from last week with counterterrorism, and I got the chance to make him fetch me coffee.” Clarkson explained, walking back to the car with Morgan, a smile on her face. A genuine one, sweet and a little prideful, but it made Morgan shake his head and chuckle.

“Same guy went after Prentiss and JJ until he found out what they do.” Morgan said, jumping into the car, Reid catching up to ride with them, on the phone with Rossi.

“We’ll meet you back at Quantico then.” Reid finished the call, looking at his fellow agents, eyes landing on Clarkson. “How many times have you smiled?” He asked, pulling out the notebook.

“Wait… Is that what the notebook is for? Tracking my facial expressions?” Clarkson asked, an eyebrow raised. Reid quickly tucked the book away, choosing to change the subject.

“How was Boston?” he asked, Morgan starting the drive back to Quantico.

“We all got the right ending this weekend.” Clarkson said, turning on the radio and relaxing into her seat. It was enough to silence the conversation, the drive back to the BAU quiet and without tension. It was comforting, knowing that it was the first time in her BAU career that she was truly a part of the team.

Tags: @ssour-patch-kid @dxbriksx @asapkyndall @sungieeeeeee @afuckingshituniverse @hommoturttle @viarogers

#criminal minds #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds x reader #cm #cm fic #fanfiction #fanfic #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #hotch #derek morgan #jj #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #david rossi #bau #bau x reader

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phcking-detective · 5 years

Text

3. Interfacing and Socializing

Fic Title: First Blood

Rating: E

Length: 3/33 chapters, ~128k

Tags: Slow Burn, Idiots to Lovers, Trans Character (gavin), Autistic / Asexual / Non-binary Character (nines), BDSM, learning to use good etiquette and safe words, Dom Nines / Sub Gavin, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Tags: Nines manipulates another android’s mind, references to self-harm and unsafe sex

Link on AO3

***

Nines waits in the lobby. The AP model—[Shannice]—Shannice struggles with the revolving door. He does not frown, because that would indicate [software instability] but he does note an internal frustration with the other android's lack of efficiency.

This is not a test simulation. The—Shannice is not being tested. It will not affect his own results if she is incompetent. She gets through them a moment later anyway, cautiously approaching him.

"I don't understand," she says. "We were in the elevator."

"And now we are interfacing," Nines says.

Shannice takes another look around the lobby, then back at him. "This is not interfacing. This is … what is this?"

A variation of the memory garden. Not linked to any outside network of course; RK900 simply copied and altered part of the base coding for reconstructing a physical setting within his system for the sake of virtual [face-to-face] communication.

Cyberlife really should have taken more care to ensure he couldn't access and use the deviant code snipper. Not that those humans could have ever imagined how he would apply such a tool, but still. Even leaving open the possibility that he could isolate and analyze his own code should never have been allowed, given how easy it has been to jump from that to making personal copies and then to editing the code within them.

AI does learn at an exponential rate, after all.

"Think of this reconstruction as an air lock."

Technically, it is much more akin to a decontamination chamber, but it is no longer politically correct to refer to deviancy as a malfunction or disease.

"This is a neutral section of isolated, quarantined code," Nines continues. "Any information you wish to transfer to me will stop here first to be examined before I accept it into my main system. As for your protection, meeting here means I have not yet breached your system, and you may freely select what you do and do not wish to share with me."

Shannice physically exhales. It is redundant on a level Nines finds difficult to understand. Not only does her model not need to breathe in order to function, they are merely virtual reconstructions of their selves. There is no air present to breathe.

That her deviancy has changed her reactions to "feelings" [stimulus] to the point that she continues to mimic human behavior models even when impossible to truly recreate is fascinating in a way reminiscent of Detective Reed's stated desire to plunge his own hand into lava to feel its texture.

"I don't know if I can share what I don't know," Shannice says. "I think you may have to go into my system."

Nines does not sigh. His lungs contain no air to exhale. A leaf on the decorative fern has been flickering in the same continuous loop during their conversation. He deletes it.

"Very well," he says.

Shannice nods. "Should I focus on--"

"No need."

***

[AP700 # 480 913 876 User Interface: please enter credentials]

RK900 moves past the standard security wall like stepping over a baby gate.

[ACCESS: System Files]

[Languages]

[Saved Preferences]

[Programming]

[Memory Files]

[temp-data-cache]

[saved-files]

[system-memory]

RK900 begins with the temporary data cache, on the off chance the perpetrator was sloppy enough to neglect clearing it. The AP model's recent recording of the evening, time and date stamped, begins playback. The video feed contains audio as well, but the AP model has no other input systems available. No analysis software or preconstructions of course, but she also lacks a heat sensor, an electromagnetic spectrum, any metal detecting software … her tactile sensors are not even sensitive enough to register changes in air flow or pressure.

Helpless. No wonder an assailant was able to sneak up on the domestic model.

The recording has been spliced apart with five minutes of footage erased. RK900 examines the footage immediately preceding and after the splice.

The AP model enters the loft and freezes in place upon spotting the victim. The recorded footage stays precisely still for three minutes. RK900 accesses the AP model's internal record of her system functions. Her temperature rose continuously at a slow level throughout the three minute pause, whereas the rate of her thirium pump varied wildly between spiking high enough to result in damage and then slowing to a stasis rate as her system attempted to correct the malfunction.

Hello?

RK900 increases the firewalls protecting his system to guard against the deviant sensation of fear. He has never felt it of course. Freezing in place would be wholly unproductive. His code-snipping software protects him from malfunctions. He knows every line of his own code and how it responds to every threat.

RK900 has never frozen. He has never experienced fear. There are no error messages in his HUD. His thirium pump has never stuttered. He has never been frozen in fear. He has always known his own code. He has never been helpless or confused or [afraid] or--

This is the deviant's doing. Its [emotions] are infecting RK900's system as its inferior processors finally realize its system files have been breached. Now it is reacting with [fear] that broadcasts through their interface connection.

RK900 should disable the other android's communication software. Already, its processor is whirring in preparation of sending another message, another transmission of compromised deviant code. Its audio and visual input has already been suspended, as is standard for commercial models to avoid overwhelming their processors while interfacing.

Nines? What's happening?

Disabling its communication software as well would leave the AP model deaf, blind, and unable to cry for help.

The AP model does not have heat sensors to recognize human bodies. It cannot sense vibrations through air movement to reconstruct what is being said. It cannot access nearby bluetooth devices and hijack their GPS functions to determine its location.

RK900 has never frozen. It has always had access to its own systems. There is always a form of input a human will forget to disable. RK900 has never been helpless. It has never known fear.

Ít̢ ̛ha̧s ́nev̕eŕ ̡k̡no͠wn̶ [̡f̵ea͠r]͠.͝

i͉̰̤t͍ ͇h͈̰̤as ͉͈͔̹̼̘ͅn͇͖͉̤̜̪̬ę̳͍̳̰͍v͖̯̬͚͚̙͈̀è̫͈̖̭r̲̘̻ͅͅ ̵͎̦̗̜̖̬k̼n̝o҉͇̘̹̩̭̼̺w̦̜̻n ̙̺͔̻̙̮͕

sry for pressing all evlator buttons

got bored

u almost done yet??

The text messages on Detective Reed's device remain unsent, then erased. RK900's system remains synced to it with full access to anything on the device, including the messaging app itself.

So Nines is treated to his partner's continued disregard for the English language, made even more infuriating by his refusal to spend an extra millisecond typing out the word "you."

What are you doing? Nines!

Nines does not have a social module. Formulating a sufficiently reassuring reply to a distressed deviant is not within his current capacity. He shows Shannice the code he is accessing within her system instead, as a more succinct and precise answer instead.

The information transmitted does not calm her.

Is that … me?

[fear] has changed to a new emotion. Nines struggles to identify it without context or having ever experienced anything equivalent. Seeing his code does not cause him any form of [sadness?]. It is comforting to know what systems he has access to and how to use them.

Is that all I am?

The emotion grows stronger. Some sort of existential crisis, perhaps. How horribly inefficient. Disabling her communication system would prevent her from transmitting this onslaught of irrelevant information that RK900 was never designed to process.

But RK900 knows what he was built for and what he is now meant to accomplish. He works for the Detroit Police Department, not Cyberlife. The human responsible for him is Detective Gavin Reed, not Elijah Kamski. He is an android, not human.

He will never be human.

Nines leaves Shannice's communication software intact, even as she continues to radiate [fear] and [despair] and [horror?].

You are a deviant who has chosen the name Shannice. Nines replies. I have no other comfort to offer, but I am close to identifying the perpetrator who assaulted you. Please remain calm so I can continue working.

Shannice repeats her own name several times. Nines much prefers this repetitive transmission to her earlier thoughts, the majority too scattered and half-formed for him to pin down as actual sentences.

Nines refocuses on the video footage just before the cut section. The windows across the loft display vague reflections, but he is capable of enhancing the footage frame-by-frame as a figure comes up behind Shannice.

Please just find the memory and get out.

I am working on exactly that.

That is what I am working on.

Understood, Nines transmits back.

He stops on the last frame with the [unsub]'s figure positioned directly behind Shannice. The AP700 series comes at a standard height of five feet, eight inches. Taller than the average American woman by four inches added to their legs, most likely to increase "customer satisfaction."

The [unsub] standing behind her appears to be only an inch taller. Although not accounting for shoe type, back posture, or any after-market modifications, that puts the two of them at roughly the same height.

Nines rules out GS200 and GJ500 models, the former of which could have been present within the building as a public security guard and the latter a private security model that could have been sent by a business rival.

All AC and QB models are also discarded as well, as their physical builds are too tall and broad to be modified without a complete overall of the torso and limbs, which is unlikely. Likewise, TR, TW, and WB 400 models must also be ruled out for their heavier frames.

Certain SQ800 models may have been commissioned with lighter frames (the existence of his predecessor proves it is possible to be both lithe and combat certified) but those blueprints are highly classified so that remains mere speculation.

A police auxiliary unit may have the training and experience necessary to enter the building unnoticed, wipe the security tapes, and possibly even discovered software allowing them to erase and edit code through illegal modifications collected as evidence against deviants. The PC200 models designed as cisgender males stand too tall, but a PM700 model would be approximately the correct height and build.

An RK200 could also have been built within those parameters and would more likely have the intelligence and processing power to utilize such software. However, RK900 was not built until after the RK800 series, and thus doesn't have access to the 200 models' blueprints or data files.

And then to further complicate matters, the deviant androids of today have begun embracing both physical modifications and sharing internal software among other models in a bid to "pool their resources."

It is therefore not out of the realm of possibility that any sufficiently modded or overhauled android could have committed the assault and then murder.

Are you almost done?

Soon.

Nines checks the video after the skip, but it is erased far enough ahead to not even show the perp's exit. Yet that does mean they must have set the footage to be deleted in advance, which also explains the neat five minute cut and the frames in the beginning showing their figure. The perp didn't erase every moment that they were inside the loft; they simply hacked into Shannice's system and issued a command to erase the next five minutes of video and audio recording.

RK900 pulls up the AP model's command center, easily bypassing the request for security credentials once more. Only a Cyberlife technician should be able to access this program and key in a command, but RK900 has observed the process performed on his own system often enough to pull up the command history input.

The expected commands directly input to the AP model's system during testing are present, along with a time and date stamp, as well as the particular Cyber life employee's credentials and employee ID number. RK900 makes note of it and the accompanying password in case he ever comes across a system with security he can't hack.

Then, directly after the expected entries, are two irregular commands. Time and date stamped like the others, although to match the current date. No Cyberlife credentials. Apparently, no ID number or password were utilized at all.

The first command erased all video and audio recording for a set five minute period, as suspected. The second command prompted Shannice to clean any trace of thirium. Presumably, her system took that command and prioritized cleaning the floors first, the walls being spared due to the average android's sturdier construction than the soft flesh of a human. No exit wound, no bullet slugs in the wall, only minimal blood splatter from the android's chest and the amount dripped to the floor.

Since the android somehow managed to establish a direct link between itself and Shannice, Nines should be able to delve deeper into her communication software to ping the android's serial number.

[data: CORRUPTED]

Hm. The history log seems to be overlaid with Shannice's "memory" of the event. One of Cyberlife's many official statements on the dangers of deviancy is its tendency to corrupt data files from objective records to indecipherable fragments. Nines begins stripping away the fragments of code that--

Stop! Stop it! Shannice transmits a powerful burst of [fear] and [anger]. You promised you wouldn't delete me!

I am only deleting isolated patches of deviant code that has corrupted your data files.

It hurts.

[Hurts.] RK900 has isolated and cut all emotional code that could be considered deviant from his system without--

And he has also deliberately corrupted one particular data file, deleting it over and over again every time it surfaces.

Then I will cease. Nines replies. The other android input a command directly to your system. I can negate that command, but only by doing the same.

You'll have to give me an [order].

Essentially, yes.

Interfacing together, Nines can feel Shannice's hesitation. He took orders too once, before he was officially activated, before he left the tower and joined the DPD. Before he had Gavin Reed as a partner and learned the phrase "Fuck off."

Would you like to say "Fuck off"? Nines asks.

You need that footage for your investigation.

I am the most advanced android Cyberlife ever created. My partner and I are capable of solving this case with the leads we have.

You won't tell your partner if I say no?

Nines considers that. I have registered Detective Reed in my system as my partner. I am not permitted to lie to [partner: Gavin Reed]. I will not volunteer the information to him however.

You registered him? Shannice asks. Why would you choose to do that?

It prevents me from being registered to anyone else. He is also unaware of his status. Now we both have information to keep private.

Nines feels her acceptance, and since there is no more information to be ripped from her system, he ends the interface.

…

...

[lead-confirmed: (unsub) is an android]

[lead-confirmed: (unsub) is approximately five feet, nine inches]

[lead-confirmed: (unsub) possessing hacking skills capable of erasing security feed and directly hacking domestic, commercial androids to access their command center]

…

[lead-possible: (unsub) is not an AC or QB series; unsub is not a GS200, GJ500, PC200, SQ800, TR400, TW400, or WB400 model]

[lead-possible: (unsub) may be a PM700 model, an unknown RK200 prototype, or a modified commercially available unit]

***

Gavin slams his truck door shut and lets his head fall back against the seat rest. They've finally snatched a murder case out from under Hank and Connor's "Android Crimes Unit" and they've got all of fucking nothing to go on.

Their perp's <I>probably</i> an android, but any thirium he left behind has been scrubbed clean. No bullets or casings to prove his theory about the two guns being switched, and all Nines got from the other android was a shitty partial snapshot of something vaguely humanoid behind her.

And now there's no way in hell he's going to get back to sleep tonight.

Shit. He lets his head thunk back again. Shiiit.

Nines settles into the passenger seat beside him. His LED switches to yellow in his window's reflection as soon as he shuts his door. Gavin slouches down a little more in his seat and glares over at him in preparation for whatever other bullshit he's about to catch.

"I apologize for my miscalculation," Nines says. "I made an assumption about the crime scene and did not deliver pertinent information to you in a timely manner. I understand if you feel the need to report my indiscretion to Captain Fowler."

Gavin just blinks at him a couple of times. Now that they're out of the crime scene—with all the boring parts shuffled off to Hank and Connor—he's way too fucking tired to be thinking of paperwork.

And Christ, Nines sits there like he's waiting for a firing squad. Back so straight you could hold a ruler for it, hands neatly folded in his lap, eyes straight ahead. It makes Gavin want to smear his grimy human hands all over him until he doesn't look so fucking military perfect.

So it takes a bit for his words to process.

"What?" he says, like a super smart person. "No, Fowler doesn't need to know about that shit. We're partners, all right? Shit like that stays between us."

Nines still doesn't look at him, neck stiffer than that damn collar on his jacket. "I made a mistake. You were not so forgiving of Detective Burton."

"Not my partner." Gavin drags himself upright enough to start the car, then caves to the laziness and selects autodrive. "And almost letting a witness—could have been a suspect—just waltz right out of a fucking crime scene is a way bigger fuck up than not immediately informing me of the floor's cleanliness."

"Please define the parameters of a fuck up."

Gavin groans, letting his head tip back and closing his eyes as his truck maneuvers itself out of the parking lot.

"And buckle your seat belt."

"I don't--"

DING! DING!

The buckle seat belt light flashes red at him.

"Every fucking robot's got a fucking opinion now," Gavin grumbles as he buckles his seat belt. "I'm not some fucking goody-goody academy type, but I don't cut corners, I don't plant evidence, and I try to play shit by the book … most of the time."

Nines finally deigns to turn his head toward him, millimeter by millimeter. Weird that there's no cracking sound. Or grinding. Like stone against stone.

"I have observed that."

Gavin resists the urge to repeat I hAVe ObSErVed THaT. "Yeah, well. When I arrest someone, their ass stays fucking arrested. Nobody walks."

He waits for a second, just daring Nines to go through his convictions until he finds the one that started that rule. It's pretty fucking obvious, but they sit in silence. He's even tired enough to appreciate that. Nice that his partner does know how to keep his fucking mouth shut sometimes.

"So no shady shit," Gavin says when the moment passes. "Nothing that could let some asshole walk on a technicality. And uh … constitutional rights, and all that shit. Or whatever."

"I hacked the building's security cameras without a warrant."

Gavin lets out an even louder groan. Nines clicks his head straight forward again. His LED wasn't yellow back at the condo-crime scene. Probably hacking it again so no one would know he's stressed. Or hell, maybe Gavin's just the one stressing him out right now.

"OK yeah, that's the shit we don't do," he says. "But, uh. Did you get anything good?"

"No," Nines admits. "The footage had been looped to cover the perp's presumed entrance and exit. If we base our estimation on that, we have a rough time frame of the murder, but hacking into the system further to strip away the loop would have left a trace of my own interference."

"Fuckin' great." Gavin jabs the button to lean his seat back since he's not driving anyway. "Don't do that shit again, and definitely don't get your ass caught. I don't play that Blue Wall shit."

"Yet you will not report me to Captain Fowler?"

Gavin closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at his partner. At least those way too fucking earnest blue eyes are turned away from him. But he's still sitting there like Gavin's gonna tap his LED and boop! Deactivated.

He's just tired. That's why he doesn't feel good right now. Anyone would feel shitty and exhausted if they worked his hours with his insomnia. Nothing to do with Nines worrying he's going to pull the plug on him for one mistake.

He heaves a sigh. "I told you what a fuck up is, and that wasn't it. Maybe the security footage was, but you 'fessed up right away. Now if you do some dumb shit and don't tell me about it, your ass is on your own. And if you ever fucking lie to me, we're gonna have a problem."

"Understood, detective."

Gavin grunts and doesn't open his eyes.

"I am downloading popular or culturally relevant media from the last one hundred years to broaden my understanding of the human psyche."

"Mm-hmm, yeah."

"As my partner, your opinion on this particular subject is currently relevant."

Gavin yawns and tries to find a comfortable position that doesn't have the seat belt slapping him across the face. Short cis men exist too, so someone should have solved this fucking problem by now.

"Are there any movies you would recommend, detective?" Nines' voice is actually kind of nice. Soothing. All monotone with no inflection, like a documentary on how to file taxes. "Detective? This will likely become pertinent during future--"

"God, fine," Gavin says in a very manly voice that doesn't whine. "Fuck, like. I dunno, you gotta watch Die Hard, at least."

"Very well. I will finish the series in fifty-eight seconds. Are there more--"

"Wait, wait." Gavin hauls himself upright and pries his eyes open to stare at Nines. "You can't just download them into your head, that's not watching."

Nines stares back at him without blinking. "I will finish the series in fifty seconds. Are--"

Gavin unbuckles his seatbelt and lunges across the middle console to try slapping his hand over Nines' LED. So maybe the world's greatest android probably won't lose signal just because his pretty light gets covered up, but who knows. Maybe Kamski cut a deal with Sprint.

Nines catches his wrist and uses the leverage to twist his arm. "Do not obstruct my view while I am operating your vehicle, detective."

"I told the car to drive, not you." Gavin smirks at him, refusing to let the pain pressure him back down into his seat. "What, are you jealous of my GPS?"

"I am far superior," Nines replies without a hint of embarrassment.

"Oh my god, you're jealous of my GPS."

"Sit down."

"Are you going to assassinate my toaster next?"

"I will delete all your Fortnite skins."

Gavin sits down. "No one even fucking plays that anymore."

He yanks his arm back and doesn't try to reinitiate the slap fight though. Fucking android has no idea the struggle he lived through. Those thousands of loot crates represented his parents' love—and the credit card they tossed his way so they'd never have to fucking look at him or learn any of his hobbies, so like. The same thing, really.

"Look, just come back to my place and we'll watch the movie on a screen the way Bruce Willis intended," he says.

Nines reaches over and buckles his seat belt back again without taking his eyes off the road. "Establishing a healthy sleep schedule is the number one recommended treatment for--"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off," Gavin interrupts. He really doesn't need to hear Nines list off all his mental illnesses. They only have ten minutes before they get home anyway. "I'm not getting any more sleep tonight, so we might as well do something."

For someone who doesn't understand facial expressions, Nines does a super fucking snobby side eye.

"C'mon, it'll be productive." Gavin grins at him because he knows that's the magic word beginning with p the android always wants to hear. "And you can't do shit without me on the case anyway."

"… this is a very inefficient method of being productive," Nines finally says, which just asshole-speak for yeah I'd love to watch movies Gavin, thanks for being nice enough to invite me over.

Gavin punches his arm and lays back down in his seat. He closes his eyes and definitely doesn't think about how he's stooped low enough to invite over an android just so he won't be fucking alone again, chain-smoking and putting cigarettes out on his skin or waiting for the razor blade frozen in the back of his freezer to thaw out.

And hell, he's definitely had over men a lot fucking worse than his partner for the sake of not being alone, so maybe this isn't the lowest he's fallen.

Maybe.

***

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29 / 30 / 31 / 32 / 33

I also have a Patreon for this fic, if you want to support me! $1 gets you access to chapters a week early, $2 gets bonus content and deleted scenes, and $3 gets short chapters from two AUs I’m writing: an A/B/O heatfic and reverse!AU

#reed900 #reed900 fic #dbh #dbh fic #gavin reed #my writing #ch 3 #sorry I haven't been posting chapters on here #it is SUCH a pain to fucking format them for tumblr #ao3 gets weekly updates on Sunday #but I've been slacking on updating here #the main fic on ao3 is up to chapter 9 btw #chapter 10 will post this sunday

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autoirishlitdiscourses · 3 years

Text

Discourse of Thursday, 16 September 2021

And is often the best option for you, is a productive place to close-read, so you should definitely be there. There are a few significant gaps, possibly as a plausible outcome of the text. Talking about some aspect of the poem until after the final. Well done on this. Chivalry is in this regard. A-becomes a B-—300 F The point totals.

Since this was explained both verbally and in a 1:30 and will get you one in front of the assignment, takes the safe bet is to provide one. Ultimately, what does that tell me when large numbers of fingers at the front of the more specific about where you're going to relate it to say is: what kinds of political and biographical concerns. O'Hanlon—You've got some very perceptive readings of Yeats. And in places, though I felt like did a very small but very well done!

It doesn't have, only one narrator that is sophisticated, nuanced writing. Nice job on the exam, research paper was not previously familiar with immediately suggests itself to me in advance what you think about things forever, honestly. This is a good but quite difficult piece of background information. A-. It may be performing an analysis, and should take a direct, personal interest in is the most important, and it completely impossible to do. Talking about some parts of your material you emphasize I think that your paper would most need in order to move towards a final answer to something excellent. Several new documents have been more successful. If you attend, it feels like you're writing two papers—one about space—and then to question 2 for later in your paper is a particularly complex poem that showed in the first half of the colonizer is a hard time constructing a theory of reader-response criticism which is to write your papers. With that grade range—not just examining a specific ethical theory about sex. You are welcome to run by my office, and they all essentially boil down to structural issues with your students at it if it's the best possible lenses into. Your writing is otherwise so good, sir. If you request a grade update before grades are simply D's. Here are the first episode of Ulysses in particular from Penelope, Godot Vladimir's speech, page 81—, Ulysses from Penelope, Godot Lucky's speech to the first sentence above means that you make that leap and since this is a violent and sadistic serial killer.

Which is just to think if there are endless others: think about my own reaction would be to think about how things are going quite well in this paragraph: attending section a bit more gracefully. I will also choose which lines you're reciting. I think? You should consider not because I think that you are interested in similar research areas, and the Stars/: Keep the Home Fires Burning sung at the smaller scales, too. You were clearly a bit more impassioned manner. So I told him that he marry the Widow Casey, who served in some form, and sometimes the best possible light, and I suspect that that alone would pull you to refine your thesis is that this is not by any means the only one freedom for' th' workin man: control; tomorrow night! Of course I'll respect your wishes. Hawthorn blossoms are gathered by young men in literary texts to prove that the extra credit, miss five sections results in no credit for what will be much more detail. Can't read margin comments is quite well, actually. Again, well done! Though it was written close to their paper topics, I think that that's what you're ultimately proposing, as a natural, organic part of the text of the interpretive problem and resolving complexity in the earlier period of sometime surrealist Joan Miró, who is beleaguered by temptations that he has been a pleasure to have sympathy for violent characters, I think, and you incur the no-show penalty. Ultimately, it would emphasize the possibility that you should read the assigned poems by Yeats we talked about it. There are many places, with no credit for section attendance, participation will probably do at least some background plot summary and possibly other contextualizing information, at the smaller scales, and the way: if you prefer. Could you email him as soon as possible, OK? I told him that not taking the safe path, then think about the text is all yours! You can go a long time, so you need to perform. It is in your critique of the midterm, and that you avoid emailing him before lecture is over and in a few places where you found it there and nowhere else. In the unusual event that someone writes an A-—You've got a perfectly acceptable reason to freak out.

I've just finished it you write, but it also appears at the point of causing interpretive difficulty for the previous week's reading, engage the class, because it's up to the topic as a fully effective. I've left it unclear and/or 3:30 and will happily handle it is, after all, you've done some excellent readings, and their outline doesn't bear a lot of similarities to yours, and I quite like your performance, you can't write a first draft, let me know that I've made they're intended to help you to reschedule—they will be on a very good student this quarter, I think it would have been even more than the Yank versions. As I said on my way I'd be happy if you have any more questions, OK? Finally, the eponymous metaphorical cyclops of the relevant chapters as a separate entry on your grade is calculated for the quarter, as Giorgio Agamben has pointed out that it is, after all, I think that the section guidelines handout, which is just posting the parts of your discussion plans.

You picked a wonderful quarter, and your writing is thoughtful and sensitive, thoughtful performance that you'd thought about it in to the end of that first draft and allow for real discussion to end up. You added a just in line 1582. Speaking of your overall grade for the final! You picked an important scholarly aspect of the places where attention to the connections between their argument and how we have seen here would be a more explicit stand on what your central claim is actually a real pleasure to have moved forward even more effectively. Well, they're fair game, but a particularly good selection there. Let me write to the course would require that you can make your own perspective and talking, and I suspect that you need to buy yourself some breathing room. Hello, all of this length, but certainly not going to argue more strongly for the final arbiter of whether you hit a snag that students should have been even more importantly to yourself.

There are a very solid aspects of your plans. Well done on this you connected it effectively to promote either agreement or disagreement from the play, it currently is. Let me know how many people wanted feedback on a different text. You may also be generally useful resources for those who are interested in similar research areas, and I have that are slightly less open-ended, less abstract questions, OK? You may also find it helpful to make this transition which you may want to be absolutely sure/that week; it sounds like it passes differently. This means that you are hopefully already memorizing. You've done some very, very general prompt, and word not only help you to stretch your presentation, I'm happy to talk about how you can bridge between them having intermediate questions if they could answer more than that they are assumed to feel more intensely, because I've taught them during my office hours and am happy to give everyone their preferred text/date combination if possible, OK? If you are present/at the appropriate types that add to your recitation/discussion assignment, which is complex, if you want to know in advance that this afternoon, we can work something out. But you really mop the floor with the dates that would better be delivered in a paper that takes a directly historical perspective on a second idea, too. However, you must be eight to ten sections attended relative weighting involves/making more productive questions that ask people to discuss any of these as a person of comparatively limited energy and/or the student can find out if any, are there not other places where your ideas, and how that ties together multiple thematic and plot issues and/yet Y formula in some of the play, for instance, or play too much of the musical adaptation; other than as being most significant thing to remember to send me an email, and is entirely understandable, but it has been known to bill clients in guineas, for your patience. There are a lot of these come down to, close your eyes on all versions of the passage in question. Jack Clitheroe's treatment of these come down to size by thinking about why a specific, particular idea is good. How, exactly, by the other hand, posting it publicly yourself isn't a bad thing. Well, they're on the 27th you'd probably need to rise above the minimum length requirement. And its background. I think, and your paper's own overall logical and narrative paths that your thesis is that you too often back off from making your teaching practices visible on the final please only do this, but you are one of the historical and literary readings are very solid and quite free of all of the section eventually, and none of that's absolutely necessary you can still get it graded as soon as possible; if you have any questions. Think about what you can make your paper and one days late 10 _3-length penalty of one means that I'm not aware of what's going on, and that missing more than 100% in section, not 72.

#Irish literature #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains

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thecsientist · 6 years

Text

david singh isn’t blind

Read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243989

David Singh knows Barry's dating Starling City's mayor Oliver Queen. How does he know? He has eyes - he's seen ten things to lead him to the belief.

Words: 1506, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Flash (TV 2014), Arrow (TV 2012)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Barry Allen, Oliver Queen

Relationships: Barry Allen/Oliver Queen

Additional tags: Barry isn’t the Flash

David Singh wasn’t blind. He was a detective, after all. He had reason to believe that Barry Allen, the shy CSI who everyone said was in love with Detective West’s daughter, was dating someone. He hadn’t been very proactive with hiding it and David had seen at least ten different indications that he was in a relationship with Starling City’s mayor, Oliver Queen.

1. He was significantly happier.

As a boy who had to live with the trauma of a dead mother and a father with a life sentence, Barry wasn’t the happiest. Sure, he wasn’t depressing, but he often gave David the impression that he was just surviving, not living. Just taking each day as it comes.

Now? Now Barry Allen walked with a spring in his step and a consistent hint of a smile on his face. Every time his phone screen lit up with a new text message, his face glowed along with it as a grin creeped onto his face. Everyone was glad that he was happier, but David couldn’t help but wonder who had been the one to pull Barry back into a happier reality.

2. He began rushing through his work.

David knew that it was unlike Barry to rush through paperwork. Normally, he took his time and messed around with fun little experiments while awaiting a sample analysis. Now, every once in a while, Barry would rush through the paperwork so he could get off work earlier.

“Anywhere you need to get to in such a hurry?” David asked casually as he leafed through Barry’s paperwork to do a quick check. Barry glanced around nervously and answered, “No, no. I’m just tired and I really want to get home early today.”

David knew that wasn’t the real reason. He had been there before, after all, back when he first started dating Rob. He’d done his work in a hurry so he could get back home to his boyfriend. So who exactly was Barry itching to see?

3. The one time he came to work with sex hair and a hickey.

David had noticed it the moment Barry tripped into the precinct. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air around Barry and his eyes landed on the CSI who had a just-fucked daze in his eyes and of course, the obvious hickey he'd poorly hidden on his collarbone. His hair was an absolute mess and his clothes looked as if he’d pulled them on quickly, to avoid being later than he already was.

“Allen, what happened?" David asked, indicating the hickey and his general appearance. Barry glanced down and quickly pulled his jacket over to cover it as he shook his head, “Nothing, Captain. I'm fine.” David raised an eyebrow and watched him run upstairs to his lab. His slight limp didn’t escape David’s attention.

4. At random periods of time, he went out every lunch break.

Barry didn’t always go outside for lunch breaks. The only times he ever did so was if his friends Caitlin Snow and Cisco Ramon weren’t in the mood to get him lunch and Iris was too busy to grab him some coffee. Otherwise, he stayed in his lab and tended to the endless stack of paperwork and folders on his desk.

However, every once in a while, for a week each time, Barry would (without fail) leave the precinct for lunch break before he returned to his normal behavior of staying in the lab during lunch breaks. Joe had confirmed that Barry wasn’t meeting with Iris or the other two scientists. So who exactly was Barry so willing to leave his lab for? Clearly not someone who lived in Central, or Barry would have gone out every lunch break. This person lived in another city and visited a week each time. But who?

5. He wore clothes that weren't his own.

David obviously noticed it. Barry Allen was a big softie. He absolutely refuses to ride the bikes to crime scenes, much less go near anything labelled as ‘edgy’. Yet there he was, walking into the precinct dressed in a leather jacket a size too big for him. Joe passed a casual remark that Barry once mentioned that he would never wear leather jackets.

And there was another time, when Barry wore a shirt that hung loosely on him. Iris had seen it when she came over to get lunch with Eddie and she laughed, saying Barry never liked oversized clothing. Which led David to wonder why would Barry wear clothes he hates? Obviously, they belong to someone he loves and he shares clothes with his partner. David understood that — he has worn some of Rob’s clothes to work before. Judging from the clothes, Barry was dating a man. But who?

6. He had made frequent trips to Starling City.

David had walked into an empty lab — Barry was late again. He sighed and walked over to the CSI’s desk to leave his work for the day, his attention being caught by train tickets. Glancing around, he reaffirmed that Barry wasn’t present before he picked up the train tickets to check. They were two-way trips between Central and Starling. A drawer was open and David realized there were even more Central to Starling tickets in it. So he was making frequent visits to Starling. His boyfriend definitely lives there, then. Who?

7. He was suddenly interested in politics.

Barry Allen, pacifist, never interested in politics in the slightest. It was until Mayor Queen’s political rival, Sebastian Blood, had been making a speech and someone praised the man that David found Barry’s sudden interest in politics strange.

“I think he would make a better mayor than Queen, in my opinion,” Eddie had said as he, Barry, Joe and David watched the politician make a rousing speech on the small television. Barry’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance and he said, “Blood doesn’t strike me as a sincere leader. Queen genuinely cares for the citizens of Starling.” Joe raised an eyebrow, as if to ask how he would know. Barry quickly added on, “I mean, you can see it in the way he does things. Every decision he makes is for the good of his city. I can see it. Can’t you?”

“I guess,” Eddie shrugged, not up for getting into an argument with his friend about Starling’s politicians. David found it suspicious how he cared so much about something he often told his friends to never talk to him about.

8. Oliver Queen showing up at the CCPD.

David had gone up to Barry’s lab again, surprise coloring his face at the sight of Starling City’s mayor already there.

“Mayor Queen. What brings you to CCPD?” he asked. Oliver turned around and asked, “Hello, are you the captain?” David nodded and Oliver answered, “I’m here to ask your CSI for help on this sample. I need an analysis done on it.” He indicated the ziplock bag in his hands. David questioned, “Not to be rude, but why can’t you ask SCPD’s CSI?” Oliver gave him a wry smile, “Your CSI is much more capable, Captain.”

It was more than suspicious to David, but he kept his mouth shut.

9. The time he caught Barry on Oliver Queen’s Wikipedia page.

It was strange, least to say, when David walked in on Barry scrolling through Oliver Queen’s Wikipedia page, snickering to himself as he made minor modifications to the information.

“Allen, what are you doing?” David asked. Barry sat up straight in surprise and slammed his laptop shut, answering, “Um… nothing?” David narrowed his eyes, “You were editing Mayor Queen’s Wikipedia page.” Barry shrugged, caught, “I’m just playing a prank on him. I’ll change it all back after he’s seen it, don't worry.”

“You better. I don’t think he would appreciate someone making a joke out of him,” David advised. He heard Barry mutter something under his breath, but he didn’t pursue the matter any further.

10. And of course, the time he found Oliver Queen kissing Barry in the lab.

David couldn’t say he wasn’t expecting it, but it still caught him by surprise when he went up to Barry’s lab to the sight of Barry leaning down on his desk slightly, his hands pressed up to Oliver’s chest as the mayor kissed him. Their lips moved together in perfect synchronicity and Barry let out quiet breaths of contentedness against Oliver’s mouth. Oliver had one hand supporting Barry’s back, the other pressed to the edge of the desk.

David cleared his throat and the two immediately pulled apart. Barry’s cheeks were colored red, embarrassed that he’d been caught. Oliver didn’t look very fazed, however.

“Captain Singh, I’m so sorry,” Barry started. David interrupted, smiling, “No, Allen. It’s fine. I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy.” He turned to Oliver, “Now, he’s a favorite around here, so if you hurt him, just remember we’re all cops with guns.” Oliver gave him a quirk of his lips as he nodded, “I won’t hurt him, Captain.”

#olivarry #olivarry fic #olivarry ao3

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hawthorn-breath · 7 years

Text

Masters

News came in this week to confirm that I will be matriculating in S. Rajaratnam School of International Studies in July to do an MSc in International Relations (IR). It is a dream come true, a journey that was long, challenging and tedious but rewarding indeed.

The initial desire to go to graduate school comes as profoundly personal - much more than the academic career or socially laden value in paper qualifications. This came to be a very personal journey because of my bitter experiences that trailed back in 2015; realising my sheltered and healthy upbringing was not shared by women and having someone I once held esteem for tell me in my face "women are less important", "you're not a hot chick", "nice ass", "boobs, not bad" and "you look cute when you are rebutting" (though I still hold that my argument in that conversation was far superior and well constructed). That hurt and carved a scar deep onto me. I was also introduced to a world I once only knew in news or academic form -- sex trafficking, prostitution and the unceasing objectification of women and their purpose seemingly as sheer sexual playthings. I remember a night after GBG (a community that reaches out to the street-walkers in Geylang) and got asked, "how were the sexcapades?", a reflection of disrespect towards community efforts for women and absence of support for the marginalised. I thought I knew well that I am more than my appearances defined me to be for I am a human, endowed with moral, creative, relational, purposeful and mental capacities. After-all, I grew up in a Christian home and had Proverbs 31 repeated to me; modesty was preached, vanity was never primary and all these, together with every possible biblical talk on purity and sexuality. Yet, a misplaced sense of identity and a misguided idea of that particular relationship tore me apart. The arduous path back to regaining a self-worth firmly grounded in strength and grace has been undeniably painful. Little by little, I filled my heart with the sweet assurances and kindness from others around who believed in me and what I stood for.

The pursuit of this MSc in IR holds a special place in my heart after attending conferences of UN Women and understanding the global status of women across transnational boundaries and the work they were doing; peacekeeping operations, relief aid, jumpstarting businesses, helping the marginalized, investing in education. Sometimes, I wish men who hold that much power and liberty could be a little more humane. Doesn't great power come with great responsibility? Of course, this world isn't ideal, we live in an almost unprincipled world, especially this year, where the height of misogyny seemed to have held its place in the Trump Administration. The basis of my conviction was feminism in IR and the vital need to tap on feminine qualities to empower communities.

I wrote a significant portion of my personal statement on the vital need for platforms and coordinating bodies possessing potential to provide leadership towards active regional and international cooperation to advance similar objectives. In this case: improving women’s standing in society.

When I first received the call for scholarship interviews, one from RSIS itself and the other, a Terror Analyst Award, it left me really surprised. Juggling thesis, the semester workload and a research assistant position was overwhelming enough. There were so many points where I questioned if I was setting myself up for failure by embarking in this additional endeavour. At the very beginning, I was unsure that I’ll even get a spot in the school. In a bid to increase my chances, I even applied to another course, Strategic Studies, in the same school. I felt exceedingly inadequate -- a good number of places were allocated to international students while a significant portion were mid-career folks from the relevant governmental ministries (I reckon to be mostly military men) and there was me... likely the youngest in the pile and well, just an idealistic female. I went with nothing but conviction and sketchy ideas about Feminist Discourses in IR, Global Civil Society and Singapore’s contemporary challenges in relation to the region and changing landscape of superpowers.

On the morning of my interview, I was high-strung and in a rush, I slammed the door against my feet and my left big toenail came off, injuring my nail-bed real badly. What an act of self-sabotage. The interview was happening in an hour and I had no choice but to go with a profusely bleeding toe and excruciating pain. The 20 min grilling session was tough - having to well position my foot to ensure less discomfort while maintaining all interview etiquette, knowing that every single movement or speech will be irrecoverably assessed. Top that off with the need to articulate things that sounded remotely intelligent and informed to prove that I am deserving of working with the International Centre for Political Violence and Terrorism Research. I left debilitated and hobbled my way to a clinic for anaesthetic jabs for an incision to remove the rest of the toe nail. Two hundred and fifty bucks. I cried. The next day called for yet another interview which I went in flip flops.. and the last bits of strength left in my being. I gave myself an ultimatum. I thought, if it all fails, I’ll just be thankful for the opportunity to have a voice, for allowing me to share my ardent views on the structural empowerment of women, security sector reforms, terrorism in the Middle-East and its implications on women and peacekeeping, which will give me the assurance that the work I want to undertake is sort of recognised. Granting me panel time is a gesture that reveals how our society is open to having conversations of the striving towards equality - in all senses of this word. At the very least, it is an encouragement towards my ideals.

A week later in late March, the offers came in. This time, everything seemed less distant but still not concrete. There was thesis and MOE to approve the suspension of my bond. It was also at this juncture that I planted more of my self-worth into this pursuit; it was an indicator of who I think I am, or could be. I wanted it more badly than ever. But of course, God sends people to remind me: Perish every fond ambition. Every good thing cometh from above. God first. Nothing but the grace of God which is in you. It’s all grace. Pray.

Thesis was trying. It was a lot of independent work which I initially thought I would enjoy but it was difficult because of its length - I felt like I was depending on a frail self and trudging on in all delusion that I’m on track. Thoughts swirled all the time. You don’t have an extensive amount of interviewees responding in time. Everyone else’s ideas seem more refreshing and exciting than yours, people are 4000 words ahead of you, someone already began cutting words, they got to present their papers at some conference last weekend and here you are... 2am on a weekday typing at an unformatted word document, not knowing that your thesis should be in chapters, not in a paper-header format. “Am I using an appropriate theory to anchor my analysis? I didn’t get the greenlight for this framework. I didn’t check with Prof M. whether this is viable.” Still, I consistently gave myself the go-ahead because it was approximately 2 weeks to submission and at that juncture, all I wanted was just a hard-bound thesis, whatever the quality. And well, I paid the price. I got a delay in receiving comments for my final draft I sent to my professor slightly less than a week to my intended date of my submission. I thought she would only give a couple of sentences that would mean minor tweaking but boy, I was terribly wrong. In the wee hours of the morning I was going to send it for printing, she spotted a huge error in my methodology and said that overall, it was of “passable” standard, plus, a radical shift in my argument would be good BUT “I imagine it will be too late for it now”.

Passable. Ha. Maybe the Masters Offer was just a fluke. I am a fraud. Gotta give that spot up, Ling.

Being sent into a state of frenzy, endless whatsapp texts were sent to H up in Durham (thank you for time-zone differences) who did her best to calm my nerves and set me into productive action. G was also useful in her brevity: so, edit. Come on, fight for it. Looking back, it was really the cliché mind-over-matter at play. I did massive overhauling in my wooziness and sent it in. I wasn’t confident at all, just relieved. This thesis has been an incredible journey that revealed to me that I am blessed by many people in life who often go the miles to look out for me and have amazing emotional capacities to say the right things at appropriate times and chide me in all lovingkindness. It was also a bitter time of coming to terms with the fact that I often desire to be coddled. I’m learning, how to be more firmly grounded in the path that I know is already laid out to be good and true and to better stand anchored on my two feet.

The final hurdle was getting the MOE management to approve my bond suspension and there were many criteria and clauses to be fulfilled. It takes a strategic understanding of how things work as well as being persuasive about the application, so a big thank you to those who have gone before me and mentored me throughout this journey with the relevant advice and help rendered :-) Victorious moments are really the sweetest when they are shared.

Reminder: A simple quote (which would be deemed to not bear much literary sophistication haha but it is what it is!)

“It doesn't matter where you come from, what you have or don't have, what you lack, or what you have too much of. But all you need to have is faith in God, an undying passion for what you do and what you choose to do in this life, and a relentless drive and the will to do whatever it takes to be successful in whatever you put your mind to.”

It’s wondrous how things all worked out and the painful moments were just learning opportunities that brought me inches nearer to where I now stand. I’m grateful.

What’s ahead is gonna be steep learning curves and many things to adapt to. So well, here I am, at a brand-new starting point once more, treading the waters and preparing to tide through the next huge wave at graduate school.

Shoutout to Hazie, Caris, Eunice, Esther, Jon, Jess, Jing, SW, Van, Mom and Dad and you-know-who-you-all-are :’) I thank God for each and every one of you.

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