#comment on every single line of code saying what it does. this program is like 150+ lines -_- i mean im still cheating tho its just h | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pascalpanic · 3 years

Text

‘Nilla Bean (Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x gn!Reader)

Summary: A cowboy in your coffee shop is not the way you’d expected your morning to go, but you’re not complaining; especially not when he’s as attractive as he is.

W/C: 2.1k

Warnings: talk of food/eating, brief allusions to alcohol, lots of flirting, sexual innuendos, I think there’s like a single use of fuck

A/N: okay I’ve been thinking about this FOREVER but I finally went ahead and wrote it!!! hope u guys like it, I’m a sucker for a coffee shop AU as a barista myself :) thx @theteddylupinexperience for helping me name it and motivating me to write it lol

When you started your shift this morning, you’d groaned as you tied the apron around your waist, expecting an uneventful day. Most were. If you were lucky enough to see someone you knew or to have an especially nice customer, you’d consider it a good day. You didn’t know when you walked in that it would be the good day to end all good days: nothing could top this one.

Weekday mornings in the fall aren’t particularly busy. The majority of your customers come around the morning rush, and the remaining ones are usually retirees or house-spouses and their young children. It’s enjoyable, days like these, that don’t require you to dash about the shop.

The only problem, really, is having nothing to do. You clean the coffee grinder, wipe down tables, wipe down everything else, then do it all again. Restocking, usually an endless chore, isn’t even an option; no one’s using anything in the first place. You and your coworkers chat, deep-cleaning the coolers, washing the blender stations, and doing the dirty work. When a customer comes, you’re the lucky one who gets to go take their order and put your task on hold first.

It seems like you’ve done every task twice, even when your manager introduces yet another idea for you to deal with. To bide your time, you prep coffee for later, rearrange the case of pretty little pastries that sits next to your register, and doodle on your station with a paint pen, humming to the soft music playing in the shop.

People come and go, some picking up mobile orders and some ordering from you, some choosing to eat inside and some taking their food to go. You sip your drink happily between customers- a white mocha with caramel.

At one point, you’re in the back and washing dishes when a coworker peeks his head into the back. “Hey, you got someone up front!” He informs you, and you nod and wander out through the swinging doors.

Well. That’s certainly a sight for a Tuesday morning.

The man standing at the register is wearing a painfully well-tailored suit jacket, with gray tweed and patches on the elbows. Beneath it is a white top and a black tie, and the man wears jeans on the bottom half. Interesting.

Perhaps more interesting is the large cowboy hat perched atop his head. The man’s face, below the brim of his Stetson, is incredibly handsome. He has an aquiline nose, a neatly trimmed mustache that wouldn’t work on anyone else, and warm brown eyes that make you smile softly.

“Hi,” you comment as you log into the register. “Are you a part of our rewards program?” You ask as part of your regular spiel.

The man furrows his brow then shakes his head. “Uh, no. No I’m not. Can you sign me up now?” He asks, and his voice makes your chest flutter with the tone. It’s rich and smooth, with a beautiful southern twang.

Looking at your register and back at him, you shake your head. “It’s just an app on your smartphone, really easy,” you tell him.

“Ah, damn,” he groans and pulls it from his pocket. “I’m shit with technology. Why don’t you just… type it in here?” He says, handing you his phone with a notes page open. His thick fingers accidentally lock the phone as he hands it to you.

You tap the screen to wake it and find the background to be a picture of a cute little pig all covered in mud. “Uh, you locked it,” you chuckle. “What’s the password?”

The man looks down shyly. “1-2-3-4. Don’t make fun’a me, I’m like a grandpa with these newfangled phones.”

It’s endearing, you have to admit, and it makes you giggle. “Not a problem. I’m not here to chide you on your security choices,” you shrug. You type in the code and find the app, starting the download for him before handing back his phone. “Can I get a name to start your order?” You ask as you look up at him.

His eyes hold a warmth there, radiating off of his smile. “Whiskey.”

“Your mother named you Whiskey?” You tease as you type in the name, returning back to the main page of beverages. “Some kind of legal name.”

The man shakes his head. “Nah, that’s just what I go by at work.”

Whiskey likes conversation, you notice, and it makes you chuckle a little. “You got a real name then?” You ask him, raising an eyebrow beneath your visor.

The man tips his hat. “Jack Daniels, at your service.” He says and offers you a hand, which you take and shake.

“That’s a lie. You’re telling me your nickname is Whiskey and your real name is a type of whiskey?”

The man shrugs. “My momma had a real funny sense of humor, I guess. My daddy loved the booze so they went with it. I work for Statesman, so I suppose it’s fitting.”

“Ah, the distillery,” you nod with a smile, not grasping the depth of what Statesman actually does. How could you? “Well then, Jack,” you say with an honest grin on your face. “What can I get you to drink?”

Whiskey, Jack, whatever his name is, looks up at the menu, scanning the different beverages. “Well. That sure is a lot of choices. I’m new to the area, so I don’t know the menu yet, and I don’t know the first thing about coffee other than how to make it in a machine,” he admits to you. “What would you recommend, sugar?”

Sugar. Your heart beats a million times faster at the man’s words. You’ve had lots of weird and creepy men call you different things, but you’ve never been flustered and enjoyed it. This man is getting to you, quickly. “Well, how strong do you take your coffee?”

He thinks about that for a second, fiddling with the button on his suit jacket. “Pretty strong. A little sweet, with cream. I usually take it Irish style,” he admits with a chuckle, tapping a belt buckle that you realize is a tiny flask. Jesus. That’s not cheesy.

“Well, we don’t serve alcohol,” you laugh and look down at your screen. “We have all kinds of flavors.” You list them all off, off the top of your head, now staring at the ceiling to recite them all. “And our seasonal drink is pumpkin spice.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Wonderful and all, but what do you like? You seem like you’ve got a good taste, darlin’, tell me what you’d recommend.”

God, these names are going right to where they shouldn’t, especially not when this handsome man is leaning on your counter and flirting with you as he orders his coffee. “I like vanilla.” You shrug.

The man laughs and stands. “I hate to say it, sugar, but I’m not a very vanilla man,” he says, his head tilting down and his dark, sultry eyes peeking out at you from just below the brim. His voice is seductive, implying something else other than the flavor.

Oh fuck. “Oh, not like that,” you laugh as your face floods with warm blood, anxiety coursing through your veins. “Not vanilla in that way.” Fuck, that’s even worse, you think and grip the counter so as to not physically cringe at your words.

“Not like that, huh?” His words are still so seductive and flirtatious it makes you want to combust. Maybe you will, if he keeps this going.

“N-no,” you stammer, looking down at the menu screen again. “I mean, I just think it’s underrated. People dismiss it as boring, but it’s really just as interesting of a flavor as anything else. It tastes really good with our espresso.”

Jack tilts his head to the side, a smirk on his face. His lip pokes out just slightly to wet his lips and you shiver involuntarily, your skin pricking up all across your body. God, you hope he can’t see it. “I’ll trust you on it, ‘nilla bean,” the man drawls and stands up straight again. “Triple espresso with vanilla and cream.”

You nod and ring that in. God, if he keeps going with the nicknames, you’re going to melt into a puddle here and now.

“What are these?” He asks as his fingers trace over the drawings on the counter, lifting them and finding the pink and green powder of the dried paint has transferred to his fingertips.

God, he makes you nervous, but in a good way. In the best way possible, a way that makes you want to knock that cowboy hat off his head and find out if his lips are as soft as they look. “I draw when I’m bored. It’s been a slow day,” you chuckle as your own fingers trace the crawling vines and flowers you’d painted there. “Sorry about the transfer,” you chuckle and your fingertips brush his, making you involuntarily shudder again at the contact. His fingertips are calloused and radiate warmth. “Uh, can I get you anything to eat?” You ask and gesture at the bakery case.

The man inspects it for a moment, looking at the various foods lined up under the soft white light. “I’ll take one’a these,” he says and pokes a finger towards the chocolate chip cookies through the glass. You nod and take one out for him, putting it in a little paper sleeve and handing it over. “How much is this gonna hurt my wallet?” He asks, pulling it out from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Give me one second.” You type in your code for your employee discount, which takes a moment.

“What’re you typin’ there, ‘nilla bean?” He asks, brow furrowing.

Looking up at him, you push your visor up your face and smile a little. “Oh, I’m giving you my employee discount. It’s ridiculously priced here.”

Jack frowns. “You don’t have to do that for me, sugar. I’m just a regular ol’ customer.”

It’s your chance, you realize, to say something or stay silent forever. “Well, I like you,” you admit and take the credit card he hands you, swiping it through the machine. “And I’m hoping you’ll at least become a regular. I’d like to see you more,” you tell him with a grin.

The man’s face lights up, even beneath the shadow of his brim. “I’d like that too,” he nods and pockets his card when you hand it back.

A beat of silence passes as the two of you smile at each other, both of you lovestruck immediately. “Uh, your drink will be right up over there,” you say and nod to the other end of the café. “Are you going to drink that here or take it to go?” You ask.

“Oh, here,” he nods.

“Perfect,” you say with a small smile. “Then I’ll just bring it to you when it’s ready. Nothing better to do today,” you shrug and wander down to the other end before Jack, Whiskey, whatever can refute you.

You take the cup from your coworker, humming to yourself as you put some vanilla and cream in the cup, pulling the espresso shots. When it’s ready, it barely reaches the halfway mark of the small cup, so you top it with a little whipped cream. You suspect the man has more of a sweet tooth than he lets on.

Pocketing a pink paint marker, you put a lid on the drink and walk out to the dining room, setting the coffee down across from him. He’s munching on the cookie he’d ordered, looking up at you with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “Hey there.”

“Hi,” you smile and pull out the chair across from him, sitting down and pulling out the paint pen. “I put a little extra whipped cream on top. I thought it would go well with the espresso, make it a little creamier or something.”

As you uncap the paint pen, Jack’s brow furrows as he watches you. “Whatcha doing there?” He asks as you bring his cup closer to yourself and write something on the top.

“Being brave,” you chuckle and cap the pen, sliding it back. “I gotta head back. Enjoy it,” you say as you stand and pat him on the shoulder.

Only as you walk back to the register does Whiskey comprehend exactly what you put on the top of his cup. It’s your phone number, in that chalky pink paint, and a smiley face beneath it.

Jack may not be great with technology, like he told you, but he immediately pulls out his phone and takes a photo. Then he enters the number into a contact, filling out the name: ‘Nilla Bean.

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain

#agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #agent jack daniels #agent jack daniels x reader #agent jack whiskey daniels x reader #agent jack whiskey daniels #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #kingsman: the golden circle

163 notes · View notes

inkformyblood · 3 years

Text

looking means remembering

Day 04 of @bobadinweek Prompt: Family Warnings: none

“How would you do that?”

Boba pauses at the sound of Din’s voice, unmodulated and cracking whenever the words caught in his throat and tips his head back to inspect the other man, blinking away the rolling scrawl that had imprinted on his gaze from the screen.

Din catches his gaze for a moment, his eyes large and dark, his mouth drawn into a tight frown that seems out of place despite how easily he wears it, and turns away, inspecting the tangled mess of wires Boba had drawn from the central console. It takes a moment for Boba to drag his thoughts away from the loose curls of Din’s hair, floating free around his face, and the pale silver patch of hair at the curve of his jaw.

“We already stripped this ship,” Boba begins, unsure at which point his thoughts had shifted from his mind to being spoken aloud, an old habit to fill the silent air of the ship as he drifted alone and grieving as a child. “Peli was more than happy to help with that.”

Din laughs, a barely-there exhalation, and Boba lets his eyes drift out of focus as he studies the datapad, bringing Din into sharp relief through his peripheral vision. It highlights the exhausted slope of his shoulders, constantly in motion as he fidgets with the edge of his gloves, his armour a smooth burnished silver against the dark metal walls.

Boba grins, disguising the gentler than usual expression as he lowers his head to peer at the lines of programming again. His ascension to the throne had caused many people to treat with a certain level of nervous respect in the beginning, cautiously relaxing when Boba hadn’t descended into the tyranny they had all been expecting. Peli was someone different. It was hard to argue with a woman who, when she looked at him, still saw the too-slight figure in armour that was hanging off of him that had stumbled back into her workshop with cuts and scrapes and burns after jobs that had gone right and jobs that had gone wrong.

“I’d thought that had gotten all the hidden triggers out but it’s looking like there’s some coded deeper than that. Maybe on the actual core. It’s tricky and hasn’t been done in years. Too dangerous, you see. There’s not many left now but have you ever seen spacers who have large shimmering burns on their arms and chest, maybe their face?”

Boba sees the tremor in Din’s hands steady as his thoughts turn away from the planet they were approaching and what possibly waited for them there, warm satisfaction flooding through Boba’s chest. The annoyance of having to take the refurbished ship apart for a second time and hearing Peli’s comments on his work as she watched him would be worth it in the end.

“Some. Scars are their own story but those seemed…” Din trails off and Boba watches the gleam in his eye, the starlight through the viewscreen casting him in ethereal silver.

“Core burns do funny things to skin. As does Sarlacc acid as it turns out.” Boba’s grin tightens, becomes sharp, and Din turns towards him, stretching out and down to catch one of Boba’s hands in a loose grip.

“Is it hurting?”

Boba opens his mouth, a reflexive denial rising to his lips, but Din’s thumb slides over the curved edge of one scar, his mouth set into a flat line.

“A bit,” Boba says finally, the smallest concession he will allow himself for the moment. The burning pressure of Din’s touch solidifies as he works, his thumb pressing into the corded and damaged muscle until it leaves behind the shadow of his skin and a sense of relief.

“And your leg?” Din shifts in the seat, wriggling forward to brace his boots against the floor. There are imprints in the plush carpet, deeper around the toes where his heels had bounced for most of their journey, unable to settle but unwilling to pace like a caged animal. Boba understood his nerves, but hyperspace was his one true comfort, the limitless rush of stars past the window a balm on his exhausted mind. When he had been younger, hyperspace had been the only place he could sleep and, while he had broken himself of the habit years ago, old memories still remained draped around his shoulders.

“There’s sand in the joint again.” Boba stretches forward to tap his boot against Din’s, judging the motion with his memory and the soft smile on the other man’s face and he wants nothing more than to kiss him.

So, he does.

It isn’t sustainable for long. Boba can tell that in an instant from the immediate aching increase in pressure on his knee, an answering burn in the small of his back, but it was enough for the moment. Boba drinks Din in, revelling in the soft noise the action still shocks out of the other man, even after all this time. Din presses closer, his grip tightening on Boba’s hands as if reassuring himself that he was real, their noses brushing together as they parted for a moment. Din’s eyes are blown wide, brown and beautiful, and he stares at Boba, truly still at last from the nervous energy that had rumbled through him like the aftershocks of a quake ever since they first heard the rumours. Boba kisses him, unwilling to let him go but knowing it was inevitable.

“Ready?” Boba’s voice is steady even as his heart twists at seeing Din’s hands tap over his weapons again, a rhythmic jump of a brush of his fingertips over his blasters, a pause at his wrist, a shift of his shoulders to check the blades hidden in their holsters.

Din nods, his brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth downturned as he glances towards the planet in front of them. Boba scoops up the wires, hearing their hum sharpen and rise in frequency as the ship begins to land. The sharp slam of the open hatches in the depths of the ship makes them both jump, blasters flying to their hands as they whirl around.

“Karking smuggler,” Boba growls. “Of course he rigged the hatches to slam closed when the ship lands.”

Din laughs, the sound tight and the edges sharp, but he leans into Boba to press his helmet into the signet on his pauldron, his shoulders rounded with relief. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Anytime, kar’ta. Your family is my family.”

Din didn’t speak any further, but he presses his hand into Boba’s, curling their fingers together and squeezing tight.

Din’s grip doesn’t lessen the closer they get to the small settlement, growing tighter and tighter until Boba can feel the minute tremors from the force of it tremble through him and his HUD flashes with a warning.

“Look at the houses,” Boba murmurs into his internal comms, his heart twisting in his chest as he tries to remain focused. He can dissolve into his own worries and concerns when they are tucked away on the ship and in the safety of hyperspace. He feels rather than hears Din’s exhale, slow and shaky, as the man sags against him for an instant.

“Those symbols…” Din’s fingers twitch around Boba’s, an instinctive want to stretch out and trace the symbols he likely ran his hands over as a child, learning his way around his coverts new location again and again. “We used them to mark out locations and see the ones lower down?”

Din indicated one of them with the barest tip of his chin — a purple spiral twisting in on itself in concentric circles. Boba’s gaze flitted over the other houses, each one sturdy despite their ramshackle appearance, and saw more the same symbol leading away into the distance.

“That’s for the younglings in case of evacuation. It marks out a safe way for them to run.”

They were being watched. Boba keeps his face turned forwards as he glances to the side, past Din and into the muffled shadows in between two buildings. Amid the twisted groups of wire that hung like banners, disappearing into the roofs and coiling down the walls like vines, a tall Zabrak man stood, his skin a dark grey and his tattoos branching across his cheeks and bare shoulders like lightning. His face is slack, every flicker of emotion bright and clear in his eyes as he stares at them. Boba turns away before he realises it, old shame burning in his gut even as he pulls them both to a halt.

“Din. On your left, the alley.”

Boba had seen Din without his helmet, but he knew the sacrifice the man had made for that. Neither Din nor the stranger was the same as when they left the covert.

Din turns, his grip loosening before returning in force. Every scrap of fear and worry, concern and delight since they first heard the rumours poured into his voice, erupting in a single shout. “Paz!”

#bobadinweek2021 #bobadin #boba fett #din djarin #paz vizsla #my writing

44 notes · View notes

testingcheats0n · 3 years

Text

Detroit Become Human AU where:

-> Tommy is an up-and-coming livestreamer of the retro game Minecraft- forming part of a fledgling community of all-human players of the game. His growth is slow but steady and he has a future in a genre that had fallen out of fashion with the rise of the newest and more immersive VR games on the market. People love to see an actual human that could make mistakes and win against another fellow human fairly. The nostalgia it brought to some people is also undeniably at play.

It's worth noting that Tommy is a very lonely kid, with a non-existent social life since he and his family had to move to America after his father struck a lucrative business deal with his brilliant protege.

-> Wilbur, Tommy's older brother and only guardian after their father, Phil, dedicated his life to the creation of androids with his young but brilliant pupil Elijah Kamski, is a simple busker. It's hard to find a job at 24 with no previous experience or further education, he had to take care of Tommy, after all. True, their economic troubles never ended, and he could barely provide for Tommy, but at least they had each other, even if Wilbur was off to the streets of Detroit more often than not. He has no idea of his younger brother's blooming career in the gaming industry and is very worried about his future. The solution? A very suspicious android his best friend Schlatt offers for very cheap.

-> Phil Watson is a household name together with Elijah Kamski's, they created one of humanity's greatest tools, after all. Nothing suspicious here, they're definitely not hiding any potential deviancies from the code! In any case, his family never saw a dime of the frankly insane amount of money piling up in his bank account. He has an old phone he carries in his pocket every day with Wilbur's phone number, but he never dares to call it despite RN800, his assistant's, insistence that he was only making his own life harder. He is going to dial that phone number someday. Surely.

-> TU880 is an android from an old companion/educational line, discontinued after a few notable bugs and glitches in their core programming. Nothing serious, or life-threatening, but many customers have complained about disturbing behavior that falls straight into the uncanny valley- he's too human. Schlatt, his previous owner, refuses to disclose where he got TU880 from, nor does he have any legal documentation to prove he is his owner. Wilbur, desperate to find a solution for Tommy's perceived loneliness pays the fifty bucks his old pal asks for the android without asking any questions. It's weird for an adult to go around with a teen model created to counsel adolescents and help them with their homework. TU880 had problems with reading his grocery list, anyway.

-> Tommy is a bit weirded out, he thrives in an internet community which openly despises anything android, but his good friend Technoblade has plenty of useful advice, from maitenance to behavior. TU880 is odd, which he discards as kinks and bugs of the older models, but they get along nicely once TU880's programming kicks in. He likes to help Tommy edit his videos and speak about the problems of adolescence, he is oddly fond of bees or anything small and defenceless and likes to tell his 'dreams' of scientists in labcoats and other kids like him stuck in experiments. Tommy listens with half an ear, TU880 is his friend, after all. He thinks nothing of it.

-> It all becomes a bit too much when TU880 accidentally appears on camera during one of Tommy's streams. People assume he's Tommy's brother, and insist on getting an introduction. TU880 is ecstatic, but from what Tommy's told him, revealing his artificial status might harm his friend's career so he greets the chat as Toby, Tommy's older brother. The community goes wild and Tommy has to pretend that TU880 is his brother (which isn't that terrible per-se) and not the house assistant who has a complete psychological profile of him.

-> TU880 begins to feel strange, both regarding Tommy and his own place in the household. Calling Tommy hus brother is easy as calculus and makes his thirium pump skip a few beats, but he's not sure if he should be getting this attached. He's sure he is malfunctioning in some way, but Schlatt always assured him that he is fine. He thinks nothing of it and instead continues to watch over Tommy.

-> Minecraft is fun, and he eventually gets his own account on Wilbur's old (read: ancient) laptop despite possessing an internal processor powerful enough to play the game at its maximum capacity in his mind, and probably in a 3D holoprojector. At this point, he's in too deep and the friends he's making would certainly ask questions if he were to disappear. He has the opportunity to talk about anything at all to his growing audience, and the community is very welcoming in general once one integrates into their culture. He still doesn't feel it's fair to participate in the tournaments and all the other official competitions. People find it odd, but they assume he's not very good at PVP so no one tends to comment on it for now. It's okay though, he and his new friend Ranboo act as commentators during the events and everyone thinks they're pretty funny.

-> Ranboo is fun to be around. He just gets TU880- or as the internet knows him as, Tubbo. They click easily, sometimes the other boy seems just as confused about other people's reactions and behavior as Tubbo is (despite his in-depth knowledge of psychology. He's not quite connected to Cyberlife's database anymore and his learning algorithm is outdated at best.) and they like to spend their afternoons with Tommy, watching movies. The game overtakes their lives and they spend a lot of time playing privately with the best strategies Tubbo's advanced algorithms and Ranboo's sheer brilliancy can create. That's how they meet their friend Fundy, who is more than happy to keep their Technical Minecraft server a secret, as long as he gets to do his own thing with coding and they test it.

-> Tommy is just happy that he can use the cool farms for his own grinding.

-> Technoblade is Tommy's mysterious internet friend and fellow growing streamer. Everyone is sure that he's an android infiltrating the budding community, but after several years of isolated incidents, investigations, and online scandals no one was able to prove anything. Technoblade just never dies. (Tommy is 50% sure his friend is really an android, the older man simply refuses to comment). It is possible to spend months farming digital potatoes, people are just mean and want drama. Technoblade is just vibing. Incidentally, he's also the first one to figure out that Ranboo and Tubbo are androids. He is also the first one to figure out they're deviants. He doesn't mention it until much later though.

-> Jack and Niki Manifold have successfully founded their own mechanic business for android repairs. Cyberlife mumbled and grumbled at the siblings' repair shop, but in the end it was good for PR so they let them be. Tommy and Wilbur become their friends as TU880's frequent malfunctions inevitably bring the pair to the cheapest android repair service in the city. TU880 can't complain, Niki is sweet to him and understands what is wrong with him just by his description, since his diagnostics aren't working entirely and each an every single one of Jack's repairs last loner than every other mechanic he's been to.

-> Gradually, Tommy's fame becomes apparent, and Wilbur has the time to actually rest and spend time with his brother. He's just happy that they can be together. A weight is lifted off his shoulders and for the first time ever he feels like his little family has a future. Not even once does it pass through his mind that TU880 isn't acting like a typical android- he avoided the things on principle. Once, TU880 calls him his brother and he cries.

-> Sam is Cyberlife's very own private investigator. He is in charge of researching and turning in possible deviants that might help the company with developing a solution for the rising problem. In particular, he's been after the trail of a specific line of androids, the first one released by Kamski and Watson dubbed as TU. According to his investigations the line might have contained the code responsible for deviancy. Further research indicated that Kamski's code was based on a group project from the Dutch university for cibernetics.

-> Fundy is just a 21 y/o with a Twitch account and a passing interest in coding. Nothing serious, nothing suspicious. He absolutely wasn't part of the early AI coding trials that Kamski would later on use as the basis for his own code. If someone asks, he has no idea what ra9 means. He is almost sure that his friends are androids, the thought makes him very happy.

-> Puffy is Phil's new psychologist. Need I say more? Eventual Hurt/comfort baby!!!

#dream smp #detroid become human #crossover/au #tommyinnit #tubbo #ranboo #wilbur soot #dream smp au

128 notes · View notes

t4tlawlight · 4 years

Photo

Occam's razor is the principle that, of two explanations that account for all the facts, the simpler one is more likely to be correct.

this post is going to cover traits specific to the manga and the television drama, since those are the best adaptations to showcase L’s autism. THIS POST is required reading before you read anything i’m about to type, because it explains what kind of character niche L falls into--an unintentionally autistic coded character. i’ll talk more about that at the end.

i’m going to talk about manga L first, since he’s the original version after all. i’m going to go in order of physical traits, to behavioral, to his character writing. also, tumblr eats posts that have outside links, so i’m going to have my non-tumblr sources in a separate post, here.

anyways, more under the cut!

MANGA/ANIME:

sitting with his legs up and spine bent / sitting on the floor

this is such a big one and its extremely common in ppl with autism. sitting in chairs normally is uncomfortable to outright painful w many ppl with these disorders, myself included. L sitting like that (which, to recall, is a blatant homage to sherlock holmes, another character that is so blatantly autistic coded you can find absolutely ridiculous amounts of writing on the topic) and being like "I HAVE TO SIT LIKE THIS TO THINK PROPERLY" is so autistic. like sitting in a certain way to give you specific sensory stimulus/avoid distracting discomfort and pain is a thing. i found this post (1) written by an autistic person on the topic of sitting in chairs being uncomfortable, and it says as much:

“I suspect that seating discomfort is common in autism (though by no means limited to autistic people). Many of us, particularly as children, benefit greatly from chairs designed to be non-stationary: rocking chairs, “fidget” chairs, and so forth. These can improve focus, compensate for proprioceptive hypo-sensitivity, and alleviate restlessness. In short, many “attention issues” can be fixed simply by providing a little motion for the person sitting. Small change, huge results. That's what accommodations do at their best. They make (often minor) adjustments that have profound impacts.”

so when L says that sitting the way he does, for a specific sensory experience, improves his ability to think, it’s perfectly in line with this idea. Also it’s a good pressure stim.

standing with a slouch / shifting his weight around

to begin: yes! it’s very common for autistic people to stand or walk oddly for a number of different reasons, from physical comorbidity to other issues such as dyspraxia (see: movie L). From an article by YAI (2), an I/DD (intellectual and/or developmental disabilities) community program:

“Kyphosis (a curved spine), collapsed chest, dropped shoulders and even scoliosis are observed in many of our patients. These myriad of postural issues may result from reduced strength, decreased biomechanical stability, or from a sensory impairment, such as apraxia.

Depending on the scene, L has mild to severe kyphosis which is very common in autistic individuals. Other things mentioned in that article if you want to click on it is instability in standing, where you sort of shift your weight around a lot between your feet or rest all of your weight on one foot, which L is literally doing the first time we see all of him.

speaking with a monotone voice.

i obviously can’t show a picture for this one and it honestly depends on the voice actor you find for L, but in the anime in particular L has a very flat tone. a lot of this is bc he has a dry sense of humor but. just know that it’s very common for autistic people to have a flat affect (or go the other way into being too loud/emotive).

his eating habits.

a lot (a LOT) of autistic ppl myself included can only eat certain kinds of food for texture and flavor reasons. HOWEVER there’s a term in the autism community called “samefoods” which is really well put by tumblr users candidlyautistic and autism-asks:

“Samefoods or samefooding is a community word to describe the autistic trait of eating the same food over, and over and over . . . It is part sensory, part routine driven in most cases. A lot of times we samefood because we need that particular mouthfeel / texture / taste, and a lot of times even after that need passes, it turns into a need for routine until you actively dislike that food again.”

“Samefooding on the other hand is closer to a special interest. When I have a samefood (chocolate ice cream, currently), I really, really want that food. I could eat that food endlessly and not get tired of it. I will get upset if I’m not able to have the food in a day. For me, it usually is kind of routine based as well. For instance, with my current samefood, I have some in the evenings and it’s become part of how I wind down from my day.”

we don’t know exactly why L specifically desires sweet food or if he considers it part of his routine, but what we do know is that he really wants to eat sweet food and avoids eating anything other than sweet food, so it could either be that he’s a picky eater and can’t handle savory or he’s samefooding on sweets!

wearing the same clothes

L wears the same clothes every single day. It’s also worth noting that what he does wear is baggy, too-big clothing, the kind that wouldn’t be tight and uncomfortable. once again, sensory issues are a huge thing for autistic individuals. one of my favorite aspects is that in no adaptation does he wear socks. even L wears shoes, he wears them like slippers, not putting them on all the way. people comment that he seems like he’s poor, but we know for a fact that he’s very rich and that wearing these clothes is a personal choice he made.

not caring for himself/outsourcing his self-care

i don’t think one day is exactly canon, rather it’s an exaggeration of what might actually happen--i.e. L doesn’t have a huge closet full of the same outfit, but he does have several versions of the same outfit on rotation; L doesn’t use a human washing machine, but Watari might help him/encourage him to bathe regularly. One Day is a parody comic, but it was made by the creators for a reason and that reason is that L pretty obviously relies on a caretaker (Watari) for his personal needs. Watari, in the manga proper, cooks and cleans and does most things for L. we’ll come back to this topic when we get to the drama though.

doing stimming behaviors

if you don’t know what stimming is, it refers to self-stimulating behaviors, usually involving repetitive movements or sounds. everyone stims to some extent, but in autism it tends to be more obvious, go on for longer, and sometimes be more disruptive to others. it’s often used to help deal with sensory overload, or used to express feelings--think of an autistic person being happy and flapping their hands in the air.

there are a LOT of instances of L displaying stimming behavior, from stacking his food or things on his desk, to spinning in his chair, to biting his fingers/using them to press on his lips, to wriggling and tapping his toes. here are some specific instances:

there are a lot more. i’ll talk about more when we get to dramaverse, but if you rewatch/reread death note it’s definitely worth noting whenever L does something like this!

detective work as a special interest

ok, first and foremost i want to establish what a special interest is. Tumblr user cartoon has my favorite explanation of what a special interest is that i’ve seen to date:

“To have a deep, intense, passionate and incredibly focused / narrowed interest in a certain area of study, subject, topic or thing - to the exclusion of other interests. This interest is something that exists for the long-term, most often lasting for multiple months, years, or even you’re entire life “

L says that he only does detective work because it’s a hobby, and he finds it entertaining. We’ve also seen that he’s been at it for quite some time--if you take side content (the wammy’s house comic, LABB) seriously, then he’s been at it since childhood, with unwavering interest. it definitely comes across to me as L having a special interest in detective work, rather than it just being a normal hobby or a job for him, especially since he says it isn’t out of any moral obligation.

germaphobia

Germaphobia is very common for individuals with autism. a lot of the time it’s actually sensory issues associated with “dirty” things, and a lot of the time it’s because features of OCD are heavily comorbid with autism, including contamination OCD and such fears. regardless of the reason, though, L’s aversion to touching Bad Things is a very autistic behavior, and so is his resulting quirk that he tends to hold things in a very odd manner!

muted emotional expression

this is getting more into L’s character, but L tends to feel and express emotions in a very muted way. not to say he doesn’t have them, but for instance in the example above, L doesn’t have a solid grasp on what exactly he’s feeling. he thinks he might be acting irrationally and overemotionally because he logically should be afraid, but he isn’t sure, and none of these emotions present themselves visibly.

i’ve also seen it said that Ukita’s death is another good example of his muted response to emotion--he tells Aizawa to stay rational and his voice doesn’t waver as he tells him as much, but he holds himself tightly. for someone with poor emotional competence, these physical signs of distress can be hard to read in oneself, but Aizawa (a man who is extremely in-tune with his emotions) can tell immediately.

high logic, low empathy

L is also a character who, like many autistic people, lacks a certain degree of empathy. it’s not that he doesn’t have any, but it’s limited enough--and he values logic over it enough--that he’s willing to make extreme decisions and take a “ends justify the means” approach (such as using people as bait.) in the example above, L takes a moment to work through what it must actually feel like, which rings as very autistic.

bluntness/not caring about social convention

there are so many examples of this i honestly could list them all day, but L is a character who is very to-the-point and doesn’t care about mincing his words. he can be outright rude to the people around him, especially if he considers them not worth basic courtesy. see: Matsuda.

DRAMAVERSE

if you all knew me you should have known this section is inevitable. i’m not going to talk about every single adaptation because i do not have the time and the only other adaptation that is meaningful in that regard is the movieverse (i am fairly certain that movie L is dyspraxic) but on account of the fact that i don’t care about them i won’t subject you all to them here.

anyway, drama L shows much the same traits as animanga L above (they are, after all, technically the same character) but he displays them in different ways.

he has a much more advanced degree of germaphobia, with Watari saying he’s sensitive to outside air and spraying everyone who enters his space with disinfectant, but not making them wash their hands or anything like that, so we can kind of tell that his issues are more rooted, again, in a fear of germs rather than any actual medical issue. he wants to feel as though he is clean, not necessarily actually be clean. this is very common in contamination OCD, which has a high comorbidity with autism. (my girlfriend has a very good headcanon post about drama L and OCD that isn’t so much analysis than just plain fun, but it’s worth a read!)

he stims, but he has a different array of stims than animanga L--he chews on his jelly pouch bottles,

he tosses it between his hands,

he kicks his feet,

and he bounces in his chair.

he still sits in an unconventional manner. he still samefoods, this time even more exclusively--he only eats Lucky Charge jelly pouches and nutritional bars. Watari onscreen puts his shirts on for him, as well as cooking, cleaning, and mending his clothes for him.

however, there are a few traits that are drama-exclusive that i think really add to an analysis of his autism!

social scripting

social scripting and echolalic scripting are both commonly described as “scripting,” but are very different! echolalic scripting is like echolalia, but echolalic scripting is the recitation of longer passages of dialogue from things the individual has heard before. but social scripting is when you memorize common conversations so you can rattle it off without worrying too much! this can be very handy, such as exchanging basic pleasantries or ordering food, but it can also backfire if someone responds in a way your script’s not set up for. you can find more information on the difference in this video (3).

now, this relates to L in that there are two separate scenes where L says the same thing, rather inappropriately:

L: When I consider Kira’s personality, could it be that the strong-willed daughter is Kira? Or could that sweet-looking son of yours surprise us by proving to be him? You never know what humans are hiding beneath the surface... Soichiro: Enough. L: Sorry. It was just a joke.

-- Episode 2

L: Light-kun. Oh, I’m sorry... If I called you “Yagami-san,” it would be the same as what I call your father. Light: That’s okay. Call me whatever you want. L: Then what about Kira? (silence) L: It's a joke.

-- Episode 4

one could say that L just has a terrible sense of humor--and, of course, having a poor grasp of humor is common with autistic individuals--but the fact that he says nearly the same thing as a defense twice makes me feel as though he has it rehearsed as a defense when people react poorly to things he’s said, which happens often.

mirroring and echolalia

echolalia was briefly covered in the previous example, but for those unaware, via wikipedia (4):

Echolalia is the unsolicited repetition of vocalizations made by another person (when repeated by the same person, it is called palilalia). In its profound form it is automatic and effortless.

mirroring, on the other hand, is explained as such, also via wikipedia (5):

Mirroring is the behavior in which one person unconsciously imitates the gesture, speech pattern, or attitude of another. Mirroring often occurs in social situations, particularly in the company of close friends or family. The concept often affects other individuals' notions about the individual that is exhibiting mirroring behaviors, which can lead to the individual building rapport with others.

both of these are very common in autism, and they’re exemplified while L’s character is established watching his favorite TV show, Owarai Paradise. On one occasion, he’s watching the show and this dialogue happens:

Hiroshi: Despite never telling her how I felt, I still got dumped. I am Hiroshi. Watari: Who was this one again? L: He is Hiroshi. Hiroshi: I am Hiroshi. I am Hiroshi.

-- Episode 2

it’s important to note that in Japanese, “He is Hiroshi” and “I am Hiroshi” are said, at least in this instance, exactly the same, so L is echoing precisely what he’s heard.

On another occasion, L is again watching the show with a glass of wine (seemingly acquired simply to imitate the characters onscreen, as he never drinks it) and when the characters onscreen toast their glasses, L does the same, mirroring them.

CONCLUSION

I linked a post at the very beginning of this analysis talking about how characters are unintentionally autistic coded, and it’s important to understand how this unintentional coding is different from a headcanon--i didn’t make up these traits. they aren’t something that only exist in my head that i ascribe to L for fun.

i made this analysis both because i wanted to share L’s autistic coding in one cohesive place, because plenty of people have made lists before, but none that i could find that included so many examples with images and explanations--and i also made it because of the old ryuzaki persona “theory.”

for those unaware, the ryuzaki persona headcanon suggests that L faked all of these traits in order to make people uncomfortable, to put them off-guard and better mask his identity. i’ve seen posts about people claiming that nobody could actually behave in these ways, that L would surely be unhappy and uncomfortable sitting like that, or eating like that, or engaging in any of these behaviors. I’ve seen some people outright say that L isn’t autistic, but his persona is--that is, he’s pretending to be autistic.

i named this essay “occam’s razor” because, to me, L being autistic is the simplest answer to account for all of these traits. claiming that an autistic coded character is faking it is ableist and it just doesn’t make sense with anything else we know about his character.

but if you want to know more about that, i recommend reading eyecicles’ first!L tag. it’s debunked it in more ways than i ever could.

anyways, in conclusion

#death note #death note drama #death note analysis #L lawliet

348 notes · View notes

phantaloon-books · 3 years

Text

Alright I got a couple comments asking for a continuation so here's part 2 of neil finding out the feds were onto smth when they recommended witness protection program

part 1

(Also thank you so much, I genuinely didn't expect such a good reception, everything I write is purely self indulgent)

Andrew is gonna fucking lose it. It's been over three weeks and not a single word from Neil fucking Josten. He's never hated him more, and this time he means it when he says hate. Actually he's not sure he hates himself or Neil more, but he feels hatred and rage and that's what matters. But of course the rabbit just left. Once a rabbit, always a rabbit.

He wanted so desperately to believe that, that Neil chose to run, that he chose to leave him them and keep running because that's what he knows best. Even if believing Neil chose to leave hurts him more than he'll ever admit, it's the best thing to believe. It's best to believe that Neil left than to believe something happened. It's best to believe Neil grew tired and bored of him them than to listen to the worry and dread Andrew's been feeling for months. It's best to believe Neil didn't want him than to let himself think of worst case scenarios.

But he can't make himself think that Neil left willingly and because he wanted to (and not it's not because he wants to believe that Neil wouldn't leave him). Neil would never run without his things, not without his stupid binder and money and contacts, not without clothes or any resources. If he ran away he would do it properly. He wouldn't leave with running clothes and his stupid flip phone. And most importantly Andrew knows that Neil has been restless lately. He's seen the way Neil checks every corner or every place, observes the people, looks for threats. He'd left those habits behind, so something has to have happened. Neil didn't just leave him.

The best thing is the other foxes aren't convinced Neil would run either. He had no one to run from, and he had a family now. And even if he was feeling overwhelmed or anxious, he would have come back. He wouldn't have taken three weeks. So they know, they know, Neil didn't leave because he wanted or needed to. And they're all anxious as hell about that bc if he didn't leave where is he?

They narrow it down eventually, and conclude that he got in a fight and is dead in a ditch somewhere, he had an accident in a coma in a hospital somewhere, he somehow got lost and/or lost his memory, someone killed him accidentally or not and his body is buried somewhere far away, or he's been taken. And Andrew cannot take the stress that he doesn't know where the fuck Neil is any longer.

He almost killed Kevin and several federal agents when Neil went missing for a few hours. This time, he hasn't tried to kill anyone yet but that hasn't stopped him from tearing every dorm apart and the stadium and the police station and the hospital and getting in fights with the FBI. He's desperate enough that he called Browning, hell, he's desperate enough that he contacted the Moriyamas, which wasn't a pleasant experience, but Ichirou had promised Neil protection and this definitely called for mafia intervention. So far neither the FBI or the Moriyamas had helped - yes they had, they informed him regularly that they were looking for Neil, but they had nothing, no clues no trails, and Andrew couldn't believe their incompetence, like for fucks sake the Moriyamas were yakuza, they ought to know what could have happened to one of their most valuable assets. And anyway if he ran, and wasn't taken, they for sure would be behind him, looking to kill him of course, but they still couldn't find him.

Andrew hasn't tried to kill anyone yet but he will soon if he doesn't find Neil, and he's sure he will start with himself. He can't remember the last time he slept or ate well, or went to exy practice, but he doesn't care. He can't care until he knows something. The lack of knowledge is driving him crazy. At this point knowing that Neil is dead and has been rotting in the countryside of Poland would be better than not knowing anything.

He hates this so much. He hates Neil for disappearing. He hates whoever went and got him. He hates the Moriyamas for not being able to find him and not keeping him safe in the first place. He hates himself for becoming so attached. He should have known better. He knew better. He knew it was a bad idea to feel all the things he feels for Neil, especially because it's Neil, the unpredictable rabbit. But he fell for the fake hope that they would make it, that he wouldn't be hurt again, that Neil would stay. He knew letting someone in again could kill him. He knows that if they don't find him, it will. He can't keep going like this. He was stupid enough to feel hopeful, but he won't be able to live once the hope dies.

He's laying in Neil's bed. He knows it's pathetic, but frankly he doesn't care. Everyday is worse than the last one. He's slipping and when he falls it's game over, he's going to make sure of that. If Neil genuinely cared, he'd be pissed at Andrew for even thinking about this. No he'd be upset, but not pissed, about the fact that he's considering taking his life over this. But he opened the door to feelings, and he won't be able to cope with them and he won't be able to close that door again. He's giving up.

Faint buzzing interrumps his thoughts. Someone's calling him. He couldn't stomach the runaway song that matched with Neil's but he couldn't stomach changing it either, so he leaves in on vibrate now. He looks at his screen. It's an unknown number. Most likely the FBI or the Moriyamas or a random police station ready to take him out of his misery and just tell him they found Neil's body. The code says it's from Minnesota. He considers not answering, but he might as well get over it.

He flips the phone open, "I only care about this if you are from the FBI or the literal mafia, so if you aren't from either, feel free to hang up." The other line stays silent for a few seconds, but when he looks at his phone, it's still going. The person didn't hang up. He doesn't have the patience for this. "I'm just gonna hang up then-"

"Andrew, wait." It's barely a hesitant whisper. The voice is absolutely shattered, rough and hoarse and very painful-sounding. There's wheezing too and labored breaths. But god. No matter how wrecked he sounds, he'd recognize that voice anywhere. In half a second he's up and falling from the bed in his haste, alert at last. He can't believe it. He wants to but he doesn't want to believe the call is real.

"Neil? Neil is that you?" He hates how vulnerable he sounds, but the thought dies quickly. There's no way, no way this is real. A sob breaks through the line, and oh it sounds so full of pain and fear.

"Andrew, I-I need you to stay safe. I don't know if they're coming for you, for the foxes. I need you to find a place where you're safe. Call Browning or Ich- the little Lord and make sure they can protect you guys for a while."

Okay that's definitely Neil even if he didn't answer the question. And Andrew's heart is going a thousand miles an hour, he doesn't feel his body anymore.

"Neil where are you? I'm coming to get you, I'll call Browning but where are you?"

"'Drew," another sob, and this one manages to break Andrew's walls more than than the whispered 'Drew', "promise me you'll stay safe, don't come looking for me, you can't take them down, please don't come looking for me."

The exhaustion and terror in his voice doesn't sit well with Andrew. The Neil he knows is not this. "For fucks sake Neil just tell me where in Minnesota you are, I'm coming to get you."

"No- no you're not, I'm not calling you because I want you to come. I just need you to promise you'll be safe."

"Neil who took you? Where are you? I can send the FBI or the japanese shits over, I swear to god I can send them to come get you if you just tell me where you are and who took you. I'll - I'll try my best to keep the others safe, but who took you?"

"I'm sorry, Andrew, I- I didn't mean to, please believe I didn't mean to leave, they- some of the Butcher's pals found me, I'm so sorry- I put all of you in danger again."

"Okay, that's something we can work with, now where are you Neil?"

"Andrew-" his breath hitches, he gasps and whimpers, "I'm so sorry, I have to go, I need to leave Andrew. Please stay safe. Look I- I love you okay? I'm sorry I didn't say it earlier."

"Neil wait don't hang up-"

And the line goes dead.

The world is falling apart, collapsing all around Andrew. He's numb but he feels encompassing terror. He can't feel a thing, he can't think. He was so close. It feels like Neil just slipped past his fingers, like he just let go of Neil and let him fall to the darkness. He thinks he may be falling too. He needs to call Browning. He does it instinctively, he doesn't register he has his phone to his ear until the FBI agents voice is calling to him. He also goes with what he's gonna say with the same instinct he pulled in Baltimore, knowing he can't mention certain mafia.

"Neil just called me, I have no idea from where, I have no idea how he got a hold of me, he didn't say a thing, he refused to say a thing other than we're in danger, the foxes, and that whoever took him will come for us- oh and apparently it's someone involved with the Butcher."

How he managed to be as apathetic and unattached to everything he said is beyond him. But whatever he says and whatever Browning says, FBI agents are now guarding them in the locker room of the Foxhole Court, with mattresses and mats laid down on the floor. and he doesn't know how they got here and he's cuffed all over again, but this time to Renee even if he doesn't remember being violent. Even the stupid rookies are here, looking extremely panicked and terrified despite most of them not giving a fuck that Neil was gone just hours ago. The other foxes - Neil's family - are pressing Andrew for answers, but he can't deal with anything at the moment.

He needs to call Ichirou too. That's the call that matters, because that's the call that can bring Neil home because he can't do that himself while cuffed to Renee and being guarded by the fucking FBI. He somehow convinces the agent to let him make a call, to his therapist he says, to grant him privacy even if that's utter bullshit. He's dragging Renee into the eye of the storm but oh well, why did they cuff him to her in the first place, it's not his fault. He calls the Moriyama representative he's been dealing with and thank Renee's god the woman answers.

"I need to talk to- to Lord Ichirou, it's about Neil Josten's whereabouts, I got important information about him." He can feel both the condescension from the other end of the line and poorly veiled shock from Renee. "I know where he is, I know about who's got him, I need to talk to Lord Moriyama."

He isn't sure how he managed it. He doesn't know how he convinced them to let them talk to their mafia boss, or how he's able to keep his cool for long enough to actually talk to the man himself. He thinks having Renee there, who asks no questions and keeps her hand on top of Andrew's with no hesitation, is part of the solution but he's not admitting that. Either or, he talks to Ichirou (he can't deny he's not terrified of messing up with the man who keeps Neil alive, but he's not admitting that either), reminds him of how Neil is important to the Moriyamas, both as an exy player and as a Wesninski, and how Neil, Kevin and Jean are loyal to the Moriyamas, hints at how Ichirou promised protection. He has perfect memory, but he will never remember how he convinced Ichirou Moriyama to send people to Minnesota and look for him all over the state and surrounding states, all he knows is that Ichirou stuck to his promise, all is good, he didn't fuck up.

Weeks pass again, nothing happens. There's no news from the Moriyamas, the FBI keeps telling him they're doing what they can. Andrew is done. No one came looking for them at least, which is nice bc they didn't die but it doesn't feel worth it when Neil wasn't back. He feels stupid for hoping he would come back safe and alive. The Moriyamas might as well have killed him for being such an inconvenience. Things are going to hell. Andrew was an idiot for falling so hard for Neil Josten. It was a mistake. He should have known better.

His anger is gone, and numbness has settled. It was becoming a habit for him to remain lying down most of the day. It was also becoming a habit for the foxes to take care of him when he did this. He can't even bother to shower if someone doesn't remind him every day, or eat, or drink water for that matter. He's a mess and he would be incredibly embarrassed if he cared a little, but he's slipping and he doesn't mind falling. Nothing is fine. Until it is.

It comes in the form of a text one morning, while he's lying on the couch in the living room. An unknown number again, New York code, and it only reads, "Threat has been dealt with - I". And what the fuck does that mean. It tells him absolutely nothing. If Ichirou bothered to text him he could at least be clear as to what the fuck that meant. Was Neil even alive? There is a soft knock at the door. Of course, someone bothers him when no other fox is at the dorm. They couldn't ditch every class to make sure Andrew didn't combust spontaneously.

He truly doesn't want to get up. He doesn't want to go answer the door. It's too much a bother. If it's someone important they'll either knock again aor shout for him to open up. He curls up in bed. He honestly wants to disappear. There's another knock, a little harder than the first. But there's no voice, no demand, no nothing. Maybe it's a Moriyama. Maybe he'll feel so disrespected or whatever he's gonna barge in and end his misery. Whatever. "Fuck off", he shouts from the couch, hoping for the best. There's another knock, for fuck's sake, can they just walk in already? Another, and he's up. Pissed and going for the door.

"Fucking hell, what do you want?" His anger is back with a passion, and he's practically stomping to the door, throwing it wide open, "Just barge through the fucking door, and get it over with-"

He has to stop exploding when people don't answer to him right away. Maybe he should work on his patience. Because frankly it has been working against him at the worst times. No it's not his fault. It's the idiot's fault for appearing at out nowhere and stealing his breath away. Everything is Neil Josten's fault.

"Hey Drew," said idiot's voice is impossibly more hoarse than when he called him before. Andrew can't tell if his heart is beating too fast or not at all. He thought he was a mess, but Neil looks like he's been through hell and back. Well, he's been through hell and back too many times before, but he's never looked this bad, and he was a mess after Evermore. His face is beaten so badly, so swollen, if he didn't know him and those stupidly blue eyes so well. Even his eyes are different, there's no spark, they're dull and hazy. He's wearing a large hoodie and sweatpants, so Andrew can't see the damage beyon his face, but at least his hands remain okay, there's no new damage. "Looks like I still have it in me to leave you speechless, huh."

Andrew takes a deep breath and he sighs. And his heart breaks. Neil. Neil. Neil is here. Andrew wants to craddle him and hold him and never let him go again. He doesn't care if it's soft, Neil is here. He raises his hands, frames Neil's face like he has before. He presses a hand to Neil's neck, looking for a pulse, and he finds it. He's alive.

"Neil," he breathes, and he feels. He feels. "You're alive, I thought, you-"

They're both silent. Andrew doesn't notice when Neil raises his hands, framing his own face. They've been here before.

"I'm not leaving you, I promised right? You're not getting rid of me that easily. "

He hates feeling this much, "You've got some explaining to do, but- it can wait."

"That's good yeah, because I'm not sure how much longer I can remain conscious and the Moriyamas weren't the best at patching everything up, so I'd really appreciate it if you call Abby."

He doesn't trust himself to open his mouth, so he guides Neil inside, holding on to his hand like a tether. Neil deflates, he grimaces as Andrew helps him to the couch. He's obviously hiding something below the clothes. Andrew stands to call Abby, but Neil grips his hand tightly. When Andrew looks up, he sees the fear and exhaustion he heard on the call weeks ago. Neil isn't able to keep up the act of being okay for long.

"Stay, pl- just," he looks away, and Andrew doesn't know how to feel about the pause, he didn't say the word, "can you stay?"

And he does. Things aren't fine. Neil is a mess. So is Andrew. They have to work through stuff. Andrew clearly has to work on the apparent dependancy issues. But they'll have time now. Neil is safe. He's alive and safe. He lost consciousness not long after he sat down, but Abby, Wymack and the foxes are on their way. They're not fine. But Neil is lying next to him, and he isn't gonna let him go again. They'll be fine.

74 notes · View notes

akielonsummer · 3 years

Text

Mr. Riviere

[1266 words; underage]

“Are you sure I can’t write about the party I went to last weekend? There’s definitely music in the club. Tons of different music. Across genres.”

“No. It’s written clearly in the requirements that this is a classical music appreciation report,” Laurent refuses to comment on the fact that Damianos is seventeen and should not be frequenting night clubs. It’s a blessing that he’s not assigned a class to manage this year, and he would try his very best to avoid talking to parents.

The music room is soothingly calm in after-school hours. It’s quiet, save for the sound of his student’s pencil scribbling on a single-lined sheet for his overdue assignment and the knocking of Laurent’s fingertips on the wooden keys of the muted piano, silent Liszt playing.

“Ugh, what’s the opposite word for—what’s the word again—crescendo?”

“Diminuendo.”

“Right, diminuendo, ha,” Damianos repeats the musical term in an impromptu accent, fond with self-amusement.

Laurent glances at the clock slightly impatiently. 4:38. He just wants to be done with this soon so that he can go home and continue practicing, alone, surrounded by nothing but music notes streaming into his ears. He peeks to check Damianos’ progress.

It’s not like Laurent hasn’t already noticed Damianos has a very well-developed physique for someone his age. He must be at least 6‘2, and very, extremely ripped. He has loosened the tie of his school uniform a bit now that the prefects of his class are not around to pick on him. Laurent wonders whether that shirt is custom-made, because there’s no way those arms can comfortably fit in any ready-to-wear uniform shirts they sell to school boys in the shops. The front buttons also look dangerously strained whenever he takes a breath. Which school team is he in again? Laurent recalls seeing him come into morning lessons with a towel around his neck, fingers carding through wettish hair. Swimming team, it is.

Suddenly self-aware, Laurent tries to snap himself out of this inappropriate scrutiny of his underage student’s physical appearance. Damianos has dark brown curls, thick eyebrows and warm eyes which he’s now keeping shut as he makes a pensive face, searching for a word for his report. He licks his lips once when he seems to find it and resumes writing with a surprisingly amount of concentration in his eyes.

Yes, his progress. The sheet is now two-third filled. Good. Laurent peels his eyes off his student and forces them back onto the sheet music which he’s already lost track of.

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Riviere?”

“Yes.” Haven’t you already been doing that for some time?

“Why ‘@veryfastpony’?”

Of course no one other than Laurent will notice his right hand has slipped so the B flat comes out as A. He pulls a most indifferent expression and continues playing as if nothing has happened.

“Is that some trending hashtag among you young people? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your face is never seen in the videos, but maybe you’re not aware, you have a beauty mark here.” Damianos pointed at his own right collar bone, then he sticks up his left index finger, showing the side of it, “Then there’s this one time, the camera closed up on your hand for a second.”

A sense of doom begins to arise in Laurent as his own eyes move to stare at the tattoo of an eighth note on his own left index finger, but the rational part of his brain quickly takes control.

He’s no longer playing the correct notes on the sheets but acts like he is as he analyzes the situation. The situation being his student has found out about his onlyfans page and currently it seems that he has exhausted all feasible ways he can deny his supposition.

“If you want me to manipulate your grades or something like that, I can see what I can do. But then it’s not like your grades for Music are going to make any difference to the university offers you’ve already secured with sports, is it?”

Laurent says, very unprofessionally, absolutely against every rule in the code of conduct of the teaching staff. He scoffs, it’s never been his dream to be repeating uninspiring musical history from the textbook to self-absorbed teenagers in a classroom, anyway.

“What? No—I just want to ask you out, Mr. Riviere.”

It’s actually funny that of all of the absurd things they’ve both said during this unsolicited exchange, this should be what makes Laurent’s mouth go slack involuntarily in shock.

“…In case you forget, I’m your teacher, Damianos.”

“Yes, but you only teach Music. I can drop it next term if you want? I only take it so I can see you anyway.”

“…It doesn’t work like that, Damianos.”

Damianos looks visibly baffled, and Laurent suddenly has the urge to scream. In the next awkwardly silent minute, Damianos is focused on wrapping up the last paragraph of his assignment and making sure he’s written his name on it. He stands up from the seat, carefully getting himself unstuck from the comparatively minuscule table arm chair, and approaches Laurent holding the paper in his hand.

“Then can I at least see it again?” he says as he places the assignment on the music rack of the grand piano next to the sheet music of Liebestraum No. 3.

“See what again?” Laurent’s voice cracks.

“See you play the piano. I want to actually hear your play next time. Can I?”

You’re just caught off guard. Also because no one else ever says things like this to you anymore. Laurent tells himself as a fuzzy feeling emerges within him. Then, perhaps because it’s late and he just wants to hurry home, or perhaps it’s the way Damianos is looking at him with his mellow brown eyes, he makes himself say, “I’ll think about it. If you hand in your next essay on time.”

Damianos’ face lights up instantly, the smile spreading across his face like it does when he sometimes walks into class with his teammates after a practice session. He’s standing too close now, Laurent can smell the chlorine and shampoo on his hair. The images are more in focus in Laurent’s brain now—there’re words on his towel, words he can now read as he recollects with more ease—water polo team. Well, he almost got it right.

“Alright. If you have no other questions, you’re good to go.” And we’ll pretend this conversation never happened. Perfect.

“Um, just so you know, Mr. Riviere.”

Laurent has stood up and started to gather his things on the piano as Damianos leans in to whisper something discreetly near his ear.

“I’m better than your boyfriend. I last longer too. The current record is seven hours.”

Laurent’s fingers are beginning to crumple up the edges of the piles of paper in his hands.

“Get out of the music room now please, Damianos.”

Damianos’ hand is already on the door handle when he hears this, his black backpack dangling from one of his shoulders, the school blazer hung on his elbow.

“But you’ll think about it, right? Both the piano and the s—”

“GOODBYE, DAMIANOS VASILAKIS.”

He winks and shuts the door.

Laurent immediately falls back onto the piano stool, contemplating his life. He knows what he should do. This is it. This is the wake-up call for him to quit this dead-end teaching job and go pursue music seriously, perhaps finally apply for that phd program at the conservatory, so he won’t have to deal with ridiculous high-school kids anymore. Ridiculously hot high-school kids.

Seven hours?

#captive prince #lamen #laurent of vere #damianos of akielos #LOL #what have i done #had too much fun writing this #petition for more older laurent #or younger damen?#laurent is like 25 here #my fic #there might be more of this AU

35 notes · View notes

fandom-necromancer · 3 years

Text

Ghosts of the past

This was prompted by an awesome anon! Enjoy!

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed1700 (Warnings: implied past abuse, manipulation, mentioned forced drug intake, drug abuse)

[Part2]

‘I don’t feel too good about this…’ ‘Me neither, but I can’t think of any other way, unfortunately…’ Nines swallowed, looking Connor in the eyes. It was hard to look into these eyes when he normally was the one telling Nines to forget about the mission for a while. Whenever Nines sunk a little too far into his comfort zone of code and orders, Connor was there to remind him he didn’t had to follow it. He was allowed to indulge in his emotions and listen to his wants. Now that their roles had changed it really made him think about how compromised he really was with this particular case.

‘Nines, we need that confession. You know that.’ ‘I know Connor!’, the android yelled with frustration. ‘I know, but I’m not sacrificing Gavin’s mental state, health or career, just because some criminal decides to play with us!’ Connor sighed. ‘Do you think I want that? Nines, he matters to me as much as to you, I’d rather die myself than see him hurt. I’m just saying we should ask him and not decide for him just because that makes us more comfortable.’ Nines sighed, nodding. ‘His sense of duty will make him say yes.’ ‘Maybe, but it will be his decision. He’s a grown man and we will be there for him should anything happen. Come on.’

Gavin immediately shit was about to go down as both androids exited the interrogation room heading his direction. Both their LED’s were yellow bordering to red and knowing just who sat behind that door, Gavin knew exactly what must have happened. Still, he tried to look optimistic: ‘And? What did you find out?’ Nines looked aside, arms crossed over his chest, while Connor put up a fake grin that should be calming. So they both were disagreeing about their way of action. Gavin wouldn’t dare saying he knew what was going on in their heads most of the time, but he could read their emotional state like nobody else. ‘Not much’, Connor answered him. ‘He refuses to speak with anyone but you.’

Gavin swallowed and lowered his head. ‘Well phck’, he cursed, accepting his fate. ‘Guess I’ll go talk to the asshole then.’ ‘You don’t have to’, Nines immediately stated, taking a step forwards when Gavin stood up. ‘You don’t have to talk to him.’ ‘Nines, I have to if we want to get a confession, right?’ ‘He didn’t say anything about confessing’, Connor corrected. ‘Just that he doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.’ ‘Yeah, well, that’s basically the same thing, isn’t it?’, Gavin huffed determined. ‘It’s been years, I think I can talk to the asshole if it means I won’t see him for a long time, because he’s locked up. I’ll manage.’ ‘We’re right in the next room observing’, Nines tried to reassure him, knowing arguments wouldn’t help. ‘Then I’ll try to give you two a show, huh?’, Gavin joked and took the lead towards the interrogation room.

He heard the others following him and tried to keep his composure for as long as they saw him. He knew they worried about him. Hell, Gavin worried about himself. It had been a long time since he had last seen David Smith and he wouldn’t have complained if more years had been added to that. And his confidence in his ability to keep calm and professional around him was fragile at best. But they needed that confession and Gavin would get it. No matter the cost.

He took a deep breath before opening the door and entering the room. He didn’t spare the man sitting across the table any mind, sat down and slammed the file on the table in front of him. ‘Your name is David Smith, is that correct?’ He stared strictly on the papers in front of him. ‘Yes.’ Oh that phcking voice. That goddamn soft voice that reminded him of all the times this stupid phck had him wrapped around his finger. If he could, he would have thrown up already, but as it was, he kept up his neutral façade. ‘State your age and occupation.’ ‘Thirty-nine. Freelancing salesman.’ Gavin could hear the asshole’s sly grin in his words and narrowed his eyes. ‘Come on, Gav. Why so stuck-up? Not happy about seeing your man?’ ‘You will address me as Detective Reed, Mr. Smith’, Gavin commented sharply. ‘And I’d appreciate you staying on topic. Does “freelancing salesman” include the producing and selling of illegal substances by any chance? We found copious amounts of drugs, mostly Red Ice and cocaine in your flat. Additionally, there have been accounts of eyewitnesses depicting you handing over those substances to others. The evidence clearly speaks against you, but a confession might increase your chance at a decreased sentence.’

‘You’re still as beautiful as I remember you.’ Gavin felt himself shudder but ignored the goose bumps in his back. ‘Mr. Smith, I doubt you understand the situation you are in.’ ‘Hmm… all professional, aren’t we, Gav? I remember I could get you to be pretty unprofessional in a matter of seconds.’ Gavin couldn’t help but look up. It had been a mistake, as the man’s grin widened, and those eyes captured him once again. ‘Ah… So you remember too.’

Gavin sighed and closed the file. ‘Why the phck did you refuse to speak with my partners? David, we’re over and done with. The years with you were some of my worst and there is no way I will ever want that back.’ The man smirked at him. ‘So they are your partners? I thought so, they’re your type. Tall and strong enough to put you in your place…’ Gavin ground his teeth and stared at David with eyes that could kill. ‘Are you selling drugs again? Who are your suppliers? Who do you keep around to test your phcking new creations on?’ ‘Come on, babe, you were more than just that for me.’ ‘I asked you a question asshole. You said you’d talk to me. I’ve yet to hear a single word that’s worth the air.’

David leaned back and grinned. ‘Oh, please Gavin. You pretend to be so high and mighty. You can’t put me behind bars. In fact, I know I will be walking free in a matter of hours.’ ‘And why should that be?’, Gavin asked. ‘Charlotte 2.0.’

Gavin’s eyes widened and he had to hide his hands beneath the table because they were shaking too much. In one quick motion, he took the file and left the room. Only to sink against the closed door as his knees gave in. Not much later Nines and Connor came running to his side. ‘Gavin! Are you alright? What the hell happened in there?’, Connor asked, obviously scanning his vitals. ‘Who… What is Charlotte 2.0?’, Nines asked. Gavin concentrated on breathing first, speaking second. ‘We have to let him go’, he whispered desperately. ‘We have to.’ ‘What? Why?’

Gavin stood up and walked away from the door. ‘Charlotte was an android. Non-deviant. His fail-safe. Remember how I never wanted to tell you how I got out of that relationship? I killed her. Killed her and ran, moved and stopped talking to anyone I knew. Deleted all accounts and made new ones.’ ‘You did what?’, Nines asked. ‘Yeah, she was just a machine, okay? It was the only way out. I… David is anything if not prepared. Charlotte had the single task to gather as much information as she could. That means he can notify any gang, any lab, drug den or dealer in the city they have been compromised. With a single word from him, she can make every current operation in narcotics null and void with everyone alarmed.’ ‘Then why did you kill her?’, Connor asked. ‘Because she also keeps tabs open on everyone dear to the people he wants to keep in line. I’m not an idiot, I realised what I had fallen into a week after we first met. But I could only run years later because she was dead and couldn’t hold my family and friends at gunpoint in secret.’

Connor and Nines stared at each other. ‘So we need to find the android he uses this time.’ Gavin shook his head. ‘I doubt he will be dumb enough to make the same mistake twice. I’d guess Charlotte 2.0 is a program ready to unleash all the gathered information if something goes wrong.’ ‘Then what do we do? Search his apartment again?’ ‘Would be a good start.’

Less then twenty minutes later, Gavin, Nines and Connor sat in a car driving towards David’s apartment. ‘You did good in there’, RK900 suddenly broke the silence. ‘I worried for you.’ ‘We both did’, Connor added. ‘But it’s good you decided to go.’ ‘I just want to end this shit’, Gavin sighed. ‘I don’t want to think back to it, and I’ll sleep the hell of a lot easier knowing the asshole is behind bars.’ ‘Couldn’t put it better’, Connor nodded. ‘You want to come with us?’ They had parked the car and Gavin looked up to the apartment complex he knew far too well. ‘Yeah, I’ll come. Don’t like it a bit, but I might be of help.’

They exited the car and made their way up using the shitty rumbling elevator Gavin despised. Not only that you had to fear the damn thing giving in any moment, the memories of how he had been slammed against a wall, barely conscious with the bastard’s lips all over his body… No, he refused to think of that. He refused to think of anything but him being here to put an end to it all. He felt two reassuring hands on his shoulders as the door opened and gladly let them exit first, following the two androids towards the apartment Gavin had never wanted to see ever again.

In the end it didn’t look too different to what he had gotten to know: the flat was messy, clothes thrown around, empty mugs and take out containers stood on the kitchen counters and table. The dead plant that had been Gavin’s company throughout many drying-outs from some experimental drug high, still stood on the windowsill rotting and gathering dust. ‘Would you rather wait outside?’, Connor asked, but Gavin shook his head. ‘No. Thank you, but we need to find Charlotte 2.0. I’ll help.’ They systematically went through every corner and every drawer. Gavin found a few disposable phones he couldn’t activate; Connor was long sitting on the couch interfacing with a laptop while Nines was somewhere in the bathroom.

Gavin was waiting for the next phone to charge enough so he could try to get to any contacts or other data on it. He tried to concentrate on his task, but waiting hadn’t exactly sat right with him for most, so he ended up lost in memories he hoped to rather forget. Two years of his life just gone and wasted. Who knew how many years of his life the drugs had taken from him? The lies he had told. The things he had done to keep David safe. No, to keep those dear to him safe. He looked up at Connor. Did David know of his relationship with Connor and Nines? Did he know how happy he was with them, how much he loved and needed them? Was Charlotte programmed to cause them harm too? He didn’t want to imagine what would happen would they not find whatever failsafe David had thought up this time. If they had to let David go. Phck, no, they had to find it. They-

‘Nines!’ Connor had stood up and placed the laptop on the kitchen counter next to Gavin. ‘I found something, but you are better at this.’ RK900 hurried out of the bathroom and joined their side. ‘Better at what?’ ‘At breaching the security measures. I think I found this Charlotte 2.0, but I can’t access it. It’s protected with a password and I can’t get past it. The system looks everything like an android mind to me. Or at least the security is similar. I can’t get in.’ ‘Okay, let me try.’ Nines reached for the laptop to interface and Gavin watched how his LED spun faster and faster as his brows furrowed. It only was a matter of seconds, but that alone should have told Gavin something was wrong. When the android stepped back desperately looking at the computer-screen asking for a password. ‘I can’t get in either. We need the password.’

‘How many tries do we have?’, Gavin asked. ‘Three’, Connor supplied. ‘We can’t just trial and error the solution.’ Gavin stared at the keyboard, then turned around to look at the apartment. ‘Try Gavin Reed.’ ‘What?’, Nines asked. ‘Darling, we can’t just try it out.’ ‘Listen’, Gavin sighed. ‘I wasn’t the only one David tried his drugs on. But it… It was personal with me. In some twisted way, he really loved me. Why else pull such a damn stunt? He could have just moved to a different place and continued on with his business. But he stayed, he kept dealing right under our noses after I left. The asshole wanted to be found. And we don’t exactly have much time. Try my name, if it doesn’t work, we still have two tries left.’

Nines stared at him unmoving, but Connor took the chance and typed in “Gavin Reed” Then he hit enter. The screen cleared to give access to code Gavin didn’t understand. But from the way Nines and Connor interfaced with the device immediately he took it had worked. ‘It’s deactivated’, Nines stated, stepping back. He looked at Gavin, who had pulled his arms around his middle and looked to the ground. ‘Thank you, Gavin. Let’s get this Laptop to the police and then go home.’ ‘Forget this all’, Connor said, when he pushed the laptop shut. ‘Sounds good’, Gavin sighed tiredly and closed his eyes as both androids pulled him in a deep hug. ‘Sounds phcking perfect.’

[>next part]

#detroit become human #dbh #Reed1700 #Gavin Reed #RK900 #Connor dbh #RK800 #wow a short with plot? From me? I guess it can happen from time to time #didn't find a lot of chances to put the ship in there but I hope it still counts because I love them so much #how is this my first Reed1700 story?

32 notes · View notes

depressedtransguy · 3 years

Text

im tired so I can’t think of a threat but if you read this and you’re not @angelwiththeblue-box ue-box then I’ll cut off your uvula and make you drown in your own blood

Anthony was just stepping out of the Sanctum when he got the call on his glasses. They buzzed gently against his face as his sister's name flashed right in front of his eyes, reminding him that his sister was the only person connected to his spectacles. And she only called him for one thing. "I will thank every god in the multiverse if you tell me right now that you're not in prison again," Anthony whispered with a seething rage as he answered the call, his fingers flexing on a stress ball.

Her overly long silence wasn't comforting. I'm in prison again.

Not knowing whether to scream or break things, Anthony just inhaled sharply as his stress ball popped. "Frigga, I'm about to go on a date! With Atreo! Remember, the Greek god of a man that I'm somehow dating?"

I remember.

"Is there at least not anyone there who's going to immediately kill you? Can you wait a night? Please?"

There was a huff from the other end. You're going to leave your sister in prison for a night to have sex with a mortal?

"Well he doesn't make me break him out of space prison!!" Frigga was right of course. He had to help her. And normally he didn't mind it, it was cracking codes and breaking laws, two of his favorite things, but Atreo was... hot. And Anthony was gay. It was unfair. But like the message of every single Fast and the Furious movie, family came first. "Fine. I'll help. But you owe me big time."

Okay okay, I owe you I owe you, just help me get out of here.

So with the gay side of his mind screaming at him to go hook up with a man carved out of stone, he teleported into his lab and plopped down into his swivel chair with a huff, then letting it roll him over to his main computer. "What prison are you at?" He started up the monitor and tossed his destroyed stress ball over his shoulder.

The Xandarian one.

Anthony groaned. "Again? Stop going to Xandar! They know you're a war criminal!"

It was just a little treason, don't be such a bitch.

"It's not the crimes, it's the fact that you keep going to the places where you know you'll be arrested. I'm a felon on at least 12 planets, but at least I'm smart enough to avoid them," Anthony pointed out, tapping the correct coordinates into the computer before dragging out the 3D model of the building and spinning it around in his hands. "But I guess it's better than one we've never broken out of before. Even though you'll probably be locked up twice as much and have three times as many guards making sure you don't get out. Fun. Really really fun." Anthony double tapped the side of his glasses to increase the volume on her end. "Where are you right now?"

I'm in line for my mugshot. My wrists are locked together with power dampers and there's a guard ready to taser me if I take a wrong step, but besides that I'm pretty free. So I was able to tap the piece with my shoulder and they just think I'm crazy talking to myself. Same place as last time.

The young scientist increased the size of the hologram prison until he spotted the room she was talking about and he then pulled it out before pushing it back into the computer. The camera footage from that room immediately popped up. Due to Frigga being arrested so frequently, he had already programmed the entire hologram with the codes needed to access both their camera and security system. It just made the whole process a lot simpler. "Alright I'm in." Anthony rolled forward in the chair and squinted at the monitor, increasing the picture with two outstretched fingers until he could zoom in on where his sister stood waiting for her mugshot to be taken next. "Oh my god, you put up another fight didn't you?"

...Maybe.

With a groan Anthony leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You may be powerful Frigga, but you, with your wrists and neck locked, and your powers suppressed, and four Xandarian guards surrounding you, you absolutely will not win in any situation." And it was obvious she didn't win that time either. A black ring was around her eye with blood dripping down her philtrum and her chin, as well as what appeared to be another bruise on her left cheekbone.

Says the guy with more scars to mark his battles than me.

She was right. She was. But that didn't mean he liked it. "This isn't about my problems right now, this is about yours," Anthony pointed out. "Focus on listening to directions. I don't want you to get hit again." Even though she was messing up his date, that's not how he wanted to get revenge on her. He already had a better plan that was calming his anger just from knowing they'd be even in the end.

You're not breaking me out now?

"Surrounded by guards and other unstable patients and chained up to your ass? I'm not stupid. Just trust me, I know what I'm doing."

A sigh came from her end. Fine. But I need to get a new prison breakout guy. My current one's too slow.

Anthony laughed back. If he was suffering emotionally, then she could too. It was only fair. "I'm the best in the business honey, don't underestimate me. And I don't make you pay me. Calculating the exact price of a hacker-if we ignore the fact that they would have to be available for you at any time since you get arrested way more than the average person-with the amount of times I've helped you out, including now, that adds up to about... $14,191. And we're poor."

Fuck you.

"Fuck you too, I'm out of fourteen hundred dollars and a date. Now just pretend to be obedient for the next 20 minutes and I'll get you out."

I still hate you.

"I hate you too."

The siblings fell into silence as Frigga's arm was grabbed and she was then pushed onto the platform, right in front of the electronic height measurer that all mugshots had for some reason. In her flat shoes she rose up to the marking of 6' 1". Which did annoy Anthony a bit, as he sort of received the short end of the stick when it came to tall genetics, but he swallowed his jealousy and listened to what the officers had to say while she was scanned and her pictures were taken. ACAB might be true, but they did have some pretty interesting banter.

She's back again? one guard, who Anthony nicknamed 'Terry' on the spot, commented with a hint of sarcasm.

Yep, the other guard, nicknamed 'Jake', responded with a small *pop* on the 'p'. The bounty's big on her, I'm surprised she wasn't handed over sooner.

Well she's escaped out of here thrice, so she's obviously got some tricks up her sleeves.

Jake let out a low whistle. Three times? That's gotta be a record.

It is. She just... slips through our fingers every single time. I don't know how she does it. Maybe with an accomplice or something, something that our camera's can't detect, maybe a brother or a parent or a friend, but there's no way they'll get through this a fourth time.

The two space cops laughed and assumedly bumped their fists together based on the small popping noise that came from the other end. Anthony only smirked and then tuned out their annoying voices when it moved to annoying prison stuff to then jot down the information typed out on the wall where she stood, describing her ethnicity, criminal background (there was a lot of that), special powers, descriptive marks, etc etc. He didn't look up when she was told to turn to her side.

You're paying attention, right? I can hear you writing something, Frigga suddenly interrupted.

"I have to record all the information they have on you to figure out if it can possibly be exploited. I'm organized Frigga, and anything can be important."

Frigga just groaned. Just get me out.

"Patience... is a virtue."

Patience can kiss my ass.

"You can kiss your ass goodbye if you don't shut up and follow the guards; I can see them looking at you." Although it was mostly to shut her up, he technically was telling the truth, as one of the guards broke out from the group to grab Frigga's bicep and pull her away from the mugshot space. Normal prisoners moved on their own with guards nearby, but three time escapists were snatched and moved on their own. Which Frigga wasn't used to, nor did she like. If Anthony wasn't there to bargain with her for her peace she definitely would have put up another fight and made practically everything ten times harder for herself. "I'll lead your escape plan in the direction of killing that guard," he offered as a reward if she stayed calm. A pretty useful tactic that both of them used on each other whenever something that they weren't good at was involved and needed to be done.

And it worked as usual. Frigga just huffed and pushed her shoulders back in order to hold her head high as she was walked toward where she would be temporarily staying, knowing she'd get to slaughter the person manhandling her in the end. Anthony followed them through the different rooms along the different security cameras.

More and more shackles were added as they went. A muzzle slapped on that thankfully still let her speak, new and bigger handcuffs, legs chained together to be dragged along the floor, and a full on torso restraint, all with Frigga looking more and more annoyed. It was actually pretty funny. Not that Anthony would say that aloud since he knew she'd just get (rightfully) mad. Although he had clicked record a minute prior and planned to laugh his ass off in front of her later. Once no one's life (but his) was in danger.

Eventually there were enough chains on her and she had reached her single containment facility, so while one guard lifted her up from the ground, the other opened the door for her to be thrown inside like a sack of potatoes before they then slammed it shut. At that Anthony had to laugh audibly at.

Oh fuck off.

"You didn't- they just- they just fucking threw you-" Anthony struggled out, wheezing through the words due to how hard he was laughing. It was so fucking funny. "You should have seen yourselffff."

Get me out of prison quicker so I can kill you quicker.

Anthony had to take another minute or two to stop laughing before he could actually get to work. "Alright, could you describe your surroundings? I have no quick way of getting in there."

Fine. I'm in a small, most likely vibranium room, about four feet by ten feet by... 12 feet. There are some sort of magnets in the back that connect to the chains' padlocks, so as soon as I was tossed in they snapped together, so now I'm hung up kinda like Jesus Christ on the cross. The room besides the door is bare.

"Any cracks above or below the door?"

Not a thing. They really don't want me to get out of here.

"But you will. Could you describe your chains to me? I didn't get a good look when I was watching you before."

The links are about three inches across, the metal an inch thick, and the cuffs are as heavy as Jeff, being almost four inches up and one and a half inches thick. They cover most of my forearms. The color is... a dark gray with a little hint of navy blue. Uh, I should paint this scene. I think I could really piss some Christians off with it because no joke, I'm exactly positioned like Jesus was in the El Greco pai-

Silence followed for a few seconds. Anthony was planning on telling her to focus once her sentence was done and comment on her mention of Jeff, their childhood 15 pound cat, but the end of it never came. So he just zoomed in on the door and increased the volume on her side once more. "Frigga? Come in Frigga."

There wasn't even silence on the other end. Static started to come through. "What the-" Anthony's work didn't produce static. His inventions and creations didn't create static. Ever. "Frigga tell me this is a joke, what's going on?" There had been no movement at the door, and as he was forced to take Frigga's word about the room's layout, there was no other entrance to it. "Frigga. Come on."

The only reason he was snapped out of the repeated cycle of him adjusting his glasses and repeating his sister's name was because his other senses perked up and he caught the feeling of a presence behind him. A certainly unfamiliar one. But before he could even turn or react, he was snatched from behind and his whole world went black.

Frigga was being manhandled again when she woke up. "Ugh, did you dickheads knock me out again?" she hissed as she twisted in her shackles, surprised to be out of her personal prison with no warning, but still angered. "I was thinking about painting, asshole." She was struck in the face (as expected) for her rudeness. At least Anthony didn't scold her for it. Could you do your best to not piss everyone off while you're vulnerable? That would be great, is what he always said. As your doctor I have to tell you that it's a stupid ass thing to do. But he said nothing.

In fact there was no sound at all from Anthony. Not even breathing. Just static...

Wait. "What's your name?" the guard holding her up by her biceps demanded before she could properly think about where her brother was. "Who are you?"

"Who am I? You guys have arrested me four times! In fact I should be asking you that, are you a new hire or something? I didn't see you the last time I was here."

The guard brought his arm back to hit her again, but that time the other one stopped him. "Her sleeve is torn. She's telling the truth; she has been arrested multiple times."

"Then explain why she isn't in the system!"

"I can't. But she's not lying, so you shouldn't hit her. Let's just bring her to the mugshot area, get a photo, and then put her in the hardcore containment facility so we can figure this stuff out on our own," he bargained with the more unstable guard.

The guard did agree after a bit more negotiating, and soon enough Frigga was brought back to the mugshot area and positioned on it. It didn't look like the same one she was in just minutes earlier. Well, it looked... similar? Yet... outdated. Like the old system they used to use. She didn't say anything aloud, as she knew that would just get her hit again, but she tried to imprint the oddities in her mind as best she could. Dammit why did Anthony get Dad's photographic memory?! she mentally hissed as details vanished from her brain almost seconds after. Why do I have to be forgetful?

"Turn."

"Yeah yeah, I know I know," Frigga grumbled, reluctantly doing as told and then eyeing the information they were presenting about her on the screen. Some of it was from the identifying marks and tears on her clothing, like her escapist status and such, but most of it had come from the special type of scanner that The Kyln owned that could identify everything from hidden objects on the body down to a being's DNA. Hers was correctly listed as 50% Terran, 50% Jotunn. Her ear piece wasn't recognized just like Anthony had designed. But, in an odd turn of events, none of her powers were listed as they usually were. Not one.

After the scan was done, leaving both the guards and the young demi-god with more questions than answers, Frigga was grabbed by the bicep and led over to a containment facility. Not her usual single one, but a seemingly group one with approximately 13 more people inside. Only a few had handcuffs. And no chains were added to her, leaving her completely open spare her wrists, which was a ridiculous oversight on their part. (There had been a lot of weird oversights on their part by then.) At least it would be an easy break out. "Anthony, are you there?"

No answer.

Frigga bent her arms and reached over to press into the ear piece in case it accidentally got turned off when she was passed out. She said her brother's name again, ignoring the looks she got from other hardened criminals inside. "If you're fucking with me you are so dead when I get home."

"Hey crazy, stop talking to yourself, some of us are trying to nap here."

The familiar voice made Frigga stop in her action and turn toward it. "Rocket?" The other guardians also laying down looked up at the call of his name. "What- what are you all doing here? You're supposed to be in New Asgard."

They all looked extremely confused. "What? Look, lady, I don't know who the hell you are or what New Asgard is," Rocket continued, reluctantly pushing up to his paws and rubbing out the flat spot in his fur, "so I guess I'd prefer for you to talk to 'Anthony' because what you're doing now is creeping me out even more."

"Okay- no. I'm not the crazy one here. Everyone and everything has been weird, and now you guys too? Come on, this isn't fair."

"Hey, isn't New Asgard that place where Thor was living before he joined us?" Quill questioned as he too sat up.

Rocket only groaned. "Great, let's get more people in on this conversation. Peter, please don't enable her, she's obviously lost her head."

"What do you mean she lost her head, her head's right there on her shoulders!" Drax chimed in, getting up and gently shaking her back and forth with a grip on her shoulder to show that her head was really on there.

Frigga was used to Drax's typical maneuvering and his deafness to sarcasm, so him moving her back and forth was the least of her worries at that point. It was the others. "Mantis, come on, you remember me, right?" Frigga said in exasperation, being the only one in the room who was completely lost making her a bit worked up. Especially since she didn't have Anthony in her ear. He was always with her when she was arrested; in one way or another.

Mantis seemed to sense this and walked over to press her open palm to her revealed bicep. "You feel... desperate."

"Well I am desperate because I'm the only sane one here but you're all looking at me as if I'm the crazy one. Rocket, Quill, Drax, Mantis... Groot! Come on, you all know me," she went on, just waiting and practically praying that one of them would grin and tell her it was just a stupid joke. But that didn't happen. In fact the only change in their expressions was Groot looking up and murmuring something about it being too loud for him to play his game. "Oh come on!" With a huff she plopped down on the floor and rested her head against the wall's cool steel, bending her elbows again to cover her eyes with her hands and hoping that it would all just disappear. But, as one might guess, that didn't happen, and in fact she felt someone move over and sit next to her. Most likely out of pity.

It was Quill, of course. "What's your name?"

Maybe they were hit with some memory loss thing. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. So Frigga opened her eyes and turned her head toward him. "Frigga."

His eyes widened a bit and Frigga got a little too excited. "Do you finally recognize me?"

"No- sorry, but that's just this- guy that I know's mother's name. Frigga," he gently explained with a slight blush and a nervous scratch at the back of his head.

The movements were a little confusing at first, but then Frigga realized that they were coming from the mention of Thor, and didn't have to do with her at all. But why would he act like that? Thor and he had been dating for decades. Since before she and her brother were born. She and baby Anthony were at their wedding. He was in a little blue tux and she in a little green dre- wait a fucking second. "Quill... What year is it?"

"What do you mean? It's 2024. What else would it be?"

Frigga gasped and jumped to her feet. It all clicked at once. Why the guards didn't know her. Why all the technology and architecture seemed older and outdated. Why her own uncle and the guardians didn't recognize her. She hadn't even been born yet. But the only question still there was... how? And also, why? But in order to have a prayer at answering those questions, she had to get back to Earth where she knew the Avengers as well as her parents would be. Although they technically weren't her parents yet. God are they even dating yet? It didn't matter. She just needed to get there and hope that Anthony was there too. The only problem (besides every other problem that she had) was that she had never escaped a prison without him before. They could only do it with each other. It seemed like a major roadblock... until she glanced over at the raccoon.

"Hey, Rocket, could you remind me again of how many prison's you've broken out of?"

Rocket, who had clearly been trying to ignore them but was just accepting his fate as his name was called once more, turned toward them with crossed arms. "About 24. What's it to ya?"

A small smile spread over Frigga's face. "And how many times out of here?"

"Just the one."

"Great. If you bring me to Earth, I'll help you get out."

He scoffed as if that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. "And why would I need your help out of here?"

"Because I've escaped here three times myself. And, you don't have Gamora, nor is Groot an adult as he was last time. Earth isn't even that far from here, just a few jumps, so why not pad your escape with me- a demi-god by the way -and just take me there in return?" she bargained, getting more and more calm and excited as her thoughts clicked together. Sure, everything was still weird, but at least she was able to get a grip on her situation.

Based on his extremely annoyed expression, Rocket knew that she was right and that they could use the help, yet was extremely reluctant to admit it. "Demi-god? We already got a half celestial, I don't think we need any more half- things," he tried to point out.

But Quill was on her side. "No, no, I think we should hear her out. Especially since I don't even have the powers of a half celestial anymore. If she's escaped from here three times then she could really be a big help for us. They've changed a lot of things since we were last here, and we're in a new area. And, although I'm not sure how she knows about Gamora and Groot, she's right about that too."

Rocket snarled as Frigga smirked and raised her arms up at him in a shrug. "The man's got a point."

"That man is also an idiot. But fine. You can join us, and we'll bring you to Earth."

Frigga grinned wider as Rocket moved closer and removed what seemed to be some sort of bobby pin from the back of his head, making her cuffs fall off in under a minute. She rubbed her sore wrists and thanked him. "We should probably pick up Thor from Earth anywhere, I'm pretty sure he's still there with the Avengers," Quill pointed out as he joined them and glanced at the red rings on her skin. "Why were those so tight?"

"Well, due to my powers they need to restrict me so I don't just slaughter them all and escape like that, and they usually do that with overly tight power dampers," she explained to him as she continued to try to get the blood flowing normally back into her hands. "You get used to it. Especially since they get steadily tighter and tighter due to the guards' fear in me increasing every time. I killed a bunch last time so the chains applied doubled. Until I woke up in 2024 of course, but I'm ignoring that for now."

Quill very obviously had no idea what she was talking about, but as he wasn't one to judge with making sense he just smiled at her. "Good, you can do it again."

"After this stunt? Fuck yeah I'm going it again."

Stephen had no idea why he was being called to Avengers Tower. Except for the occasional meeting that he was forced to attend that he usually managed to escape early from, he had never been asked to go to their living and working quarters. So he couldn't imagine what the problem was. "What's the situation and how can I get out of it quicker?" was the first thing that fell out of his mouth once he stepped out of the portal. He was met with the stares of all six Avengers and Loki. Great. "What the hell happened?"

"We found a kid."

Definitely not what Stephen expected Tony to say. "What?!"

"Okay that was a shitty explanation. Just look." The group parted to reveal a body rested on their couch with handcuffs around his unconscious wrists. The only indicator that he was alive was the small rise and fall of his chest. He looked young, easily 18, with dark brown hair that slightly fell over his forehead, and glasses over eyes of a hidden color. Stephen noticed most of all was that he had two thick scars on the dorsal side of his hands; one for each. "We found him in our meeting room. There's no identifying items on him, and his fingerprints aren't in the database, so we have basically no idea who he is."

"So what can I do?" Stephen questioned.

"Ask Loki. He's the one who requested you."

Only then did Stephen look up to lock eyes with his fellow sorcerer. One that he had never really gotten along with. "You?"

"To be fair I didn't request you, I just said it would be useful to have another magic user here. John Doe here has magic practically radiating off of him," Loki tried to explain without making it seem like he wanted Stephen there, hints of forced annoyance and real nervousness leaking through. The 'John Doe' reference was imprinted in the sorcerer supreme's mind without a clear reason. Since when does he know Midgardian terms? "Can't you sense it?"

Stephen could. There was a large amount of power coming from him. "It's a multitude of different types. I can't even distinguish them; they're all so mixed up."

Loki agreed. "I was planning on picking through his memories, but due to the mixture of magic and power, I thought it'd be more safe if I waited for you to hold him down if anything goes wrong." An uncomfortable amount of silence passed between the two, unknown whether to continue genuinely or be sarcastic and snarky. "Not that I think you're capable of it, but you're sort of better than nothing."

There it was. The Avengers looked around at each other as they were described as 'nothing', the sorcerers forgetting about anything that wasn't the other, as usual. "You're very kind, Loki," Stephen drawled out with a sarcastic smile.

"I am, aren't I?" With that he jumped over the couch and kneeled down next to the body, gingerly going to place his fingers on his forehead.

But just as they brushed his skin the entire tower shook lightly and made everyone look up. FRIDAY spoke up to fill them in. The Guardians have arrived, sir. And they have a guest on board.

"Well that was quick," Thor murmured under his breath. "They're getting better at escaping."

"Were they in prison again?" Bruce questioned.

Thor nodded back. "I'll go greet them, you guys stay here and figure out his identity." With a small wave the god of thunder then left the room, and all other attendants watched until he left the room and then they all turned back toward the boy on the couch. Except- oh. Fuck.

"Where did he go?" Loki whispered.

"I'm right here."

The entire group swiveled to see the boy formerly laying on the couch sitting in a chair behind them all, his legs and arms crossed tightly, handcuffs done, and a stern expression on his face. "And I'd like to know what the hell is going on."

"You're the one who somehow got into our tower, why don't you explain it to us?" Clint shot back.

The boy only looked at him with a face void of all amusement. And with eyes that were a colored a blood red.

#sorry i keep bothering you with stories i feel like this thing is one sided where i keep asking you for favors and im really sorry about tha #that #hope you like it thou

2 notes · View notes

taetaesbaebaepsae · 4 years

Text

Residue

Summary: You’ve never thought much about androids, even though they’re all around you, until you meet Jooheon.

Warnings: angst, some mention of violence and some blood, unprotected sex (if they aren’t an android wrap it up), smut but the vanilla kind, at least for now

Word Count: 3051

a/n: this is a commission for an anonymous friend, I hope you like it!

If someone were to ask you how you ended up on the lam with a wayward Android, you'd start with the movie theater.

You didn't know if you even wanted to see a movie or not, but the android behind the counter was something that drew you in, you had to admit. You hadn't even known he was an android, not at first.

They usually have something, you note, something that makes them look….uncanny. This one’s a good one, though, with his welcoming smile and these deep dimples in his cheeks (that’s not a common feature, surely?) when he asks you what time.

You’re so distracted looking for the uncanny valley of the android that you blink. “What time is it?”

“9:59 AM.” He rattles off, and you’d swear he was smirking a little. Could androids even smirk?

You narrow your eyes. “You’re an android?”

He nods. “Model 29643-C.”

That number means nothing to you, so you stare at him blankly.

“Jooheon,” he supplies. “My last owner called me Jooheon.”

You freeze. "You had an owner?"

He smiles patiently. "A lot of us worker bots are refurbished. They don't usually bother wiping us, just give us new commands."

You can't help being intrigued, leaning against the counter. You've read about android rights activists, know there are humans that believe androids develop emotions in the same way humans do.

"Does that bother you?"

He tilts his head. "I don't think 'bother' is a command anyone would find very useful."

"That's not what I asked." You raise an eyebrow, not used to droids not giving direct answers.

The android, (Jooheon, you remind yourself), looks up at the camera above his head and then back at you, and you feel your heart speed up.

You've always been drawn to good stories, and it looks like this android has a big one to tell.

"If I come back just before close," you say in a low voice, "could we talk?"

His nod is almost imperceptible, but it's there.

Hours later, you're nearly vibrating with excitement, and you're shocked when he steps outside the box and out onto the theater steps.

"Camera stops here," he explains, tilting his hand to denote the angle stopping right before the second step.

You blink, and you wonder how prejudiced you are against them that you're surprised by how intelligent he is.

You sit down on the steps and he sits, too. You can feel his body heat (android heat?) in the cool air, and you wonder if that's a feature that most androids have, or.just him.

"What do you remember from before?" You ask.

"I remember my owner. Her name was Gahyeon."

"What did you do, clean for her-"

"I was her companion," he says simply, and your face heats.

"Ohhh so you were like, a sex robot."

Jooheon tilts his head again. "I don't understand that term. We did have sex."

You choke a little on your own saliva, surprised.

"But it wasn't just about that. She loved me, and I loved her." You freeze at his words.

"Are you programmed to love?"

"No. None of us are, but we feel it just the same. Just like we're only programmed to appear to breathe but if you put one of us underwater, it still feels like we're dying."

"Did...did someone do that to you, Jooheon?" You ask softly.

"When they don't bother to wipe you, they leave the good memories and the bad ones."

"What happened?"

He twists his upper body to look at you. "Why do you want to know?"

"I...I don't know," you admit. "You just seemed like you had a story to tell."

"Most people don't think we have stories. Most people think things just happen to us, like we're objects." He states.

"I don't think you're objects," you say. Anymore, you think.

"Did you know every wipe leaves something behind? That a cleaning android will still remember the chemical components to bleach even after they're wiped and reassigned?"

"I didn't know that," you admit, and you're wondering what that means for him. Remembering bleach is one thing but…

"I remember little pieces of all of them," he says softly.

Something in your heart clenches.

Jooheon stiffens as a light flashes from the movie theater. "I have to go back." He stands and turns toward the ticket box. "Thank you," he says, and then disappears into the box, going to the back of the theater.

You sit on the steps until the lights all go out, thinking, your heart seeming to seize in your chest.

It's like a floodgate, after that, you want to know everything about all of it, about how androids are treated, about their programming, and you spend a week mired in research.

You can't stop thinking about him, the way he'd tilted his head, wondering what had happened, how many companions he'd had.

You read up on companion androids, having to search through pages and pages of ads and half naked androids before finding articles on long term effects of overusing companion droids.

It takes a toll on the androids, although companies like Companions R Us and Lifetime Companions will tell you a refurbished android has been wiped and is just like a new one.

Studies prove that endless wipes of android hard drives prove problematic in many ways, however.

In 2025, a female android who had been wiped nearly twenty times completely shut down. Her hard drive proved to be fully functioning and all coding correct, but she couldn't produce a single command, no matter how simple.

In 2029, a male android wiped fifteen times became obsessed with playing a piece on the piano, over and over until the synthetic skin on his fingers ripped. When the owner tried to remove him from the piano, he became violent and had to be decommissioned. After, a research assistant discovered this companion had an owner from ten years past who was a famous pianist. The owner cited this companion as his muse before he died. The research was not published until ten years later, after the assistant left the company.

There are at least sixty reports in the last thirty years of refurbished companion androids being decommissioned, and over half resulted in violence, one even resulting in a human death.

Yet in the year 2049, as many as 100,000 refurbished androids are sold in the companion trade. They're thousands of dollars cheaper for both companies and consumers than new models, and as long as companion androids are demanded by the public, this will keep happening.

Why? Why are companion androids twice as likely to develop glitches than for example, cleaning androids?

The answer lies in the way all androids' hard drives work.

All androids, whether for companionship, cleaning, manual labor, or any of the other hundred plus uses, are programmed to learn.

This programming takes hundreds of thousands of lines of code, code that evolves over time. "Code this complicated leaves behind a residue," our anonymous source told us. "In order to evolve, there has to be a base code, and after a wipe, a similar code is put in place. Due to that ability to evolve, sometimes the code evolves backward into old codes, sparking old memories for the androids. It's something like muscle memory, but for hard drives."

We asked our source, who works for a large and popular Android company, why the decommission rate is so high for companion androids.

"The ability to learn things like cleaning methods or sales tactics is one thing, but companion androids learn things like arousal and attraction….some customers even program them to learn a synthetic version of love and affection. Even though people don't think of androids as being able to have these emotions, emotions in humans are also caused by synapses in the brain that aren't unlike the android codes."

Put simply, if androids can learn things like arousal and love, they can also learn loss and heartbreak and violence, depending on the owner.

This says a lot about the uprising of runaway androids and the cry for "rights for machines," in this reporter's opinion.

We reached out to Lifetime Companions and Companions R Us for comment, but received no response.

You're almost crying by the end of the article, wondering how many times Jooheon has been wiped, what he remembers. It's startling, realizing that many of the androids you see every day have the capacity to feel. It makes you feel differently about every interaction you have with them over the next week, and when you go to a late movie just to talk to Jooheon, your throat feels tight when he gives you a big, open smile.

"Nice to see you again. What time?"

You stutter out a showing time and sit through an entire movie you barely remember before leaving the theater, glancing over at him.

He follows you out to the steps again and it feels different somehow, from the first night.

"Do you know how many times you've been wiped?" You ask, and he stiffens.

"You've been doing your research."

When you nod, he continues, "There's no way to know, really, but I write it down, each time I have a distinct memory. Sometimes I dream about them. There's about fifty entries in my journal."

"Fifty," you marvel.

He shrugs, and you wonder briefly if that's part of the learning code, picking up tics and habits from humans like the head tilt he does when you surprise him.

"I was a popular model, one of the first."

"I read that...that you learn," you say slowly. "Do you think you learned how to love her? Gaheyon, was that her name?"

Jooheon sits quietly for a moment, looking down at the stone steps. "I don't remember learning to love," he says finally. "But I think it was a long time before her. Do you remember? Learning to love?"

He looks at you and his eyes are this beautiful combination of brown and amber under the streetlights.

"I don't...I don't think I have yet," you breathe.

He smiles at you and you look away, your breath catching in your throat.

It's different, after that, meeting with Jooheon. It's like he's human now, and you feel a bit guilty for not feeling that way from the beginning. He becomes a friend more than a curiosity and you find yourself telling him about your job nearby, how most of your coworkers have been replaced by androids. You even talk about how you were resentful at first, but later appreciated how hard they worked, how much more you were able to get done.

He always listens and smiles when you laugh, and you find yourself thinking of the amber brown of his eyes while you're at work or late at night when you can't sleep.

Everything changes, one night about two months after you had met the android. You show up at the theater a bit early with a friend, one of your few remaining human coworkers.

It starts the same, with Jooheon's dimpled smile, his words.

"Nice to see you again. Time?"

You tug your friend up to the window. "Jooheon, this is my friend Taeyong."

Taeyong waves and grins, but Jooheon does that stiffening thing you'd noticed, shoulders squaring a bit.

"Time?" He says again, something about his smile a bit off.

You raise an eyebrow but answer, and the whole movie, you're anxious.

You return right before close, like you have every night for the past month, but Jooheon isn't at the window, even when you knock. You wait at the steps for hours, but the theater goes dark and no one comes out, so you start the walk home.

You're passing your workplace when you hear footsteps behind you, and you speed up a bit. When the footsteps speed up too, you turn, panicked.

But it's concern and not fear that makes your heart speed up when you see Jooheon striding towards you.

The right side of his face is covered in red, and when he gets closer you see the white of his right eye tinged with blood.

"I can learn," he mumbles. "I can learn, I can learn," over and over until panicked, you cover his mouth.

You aren't sure exactly the rules of a work android being on the streets, but you assume there are laws against it and consequences, so you slowly lower your hand.

You tug him behind you as quickly as you can, grateful that most everyone takes the subway instead of walking in your neighborhood.

He keeps mumbling, but under his breath, almost a whisper, and when you get him inside your apartment and sit him down, he goes silent.

Somehow that's even more eerie than the repetition, and you bring a cool, wet cloth to clean the blood from his face.

He doesn't move, staring straight ahead, and your heart seizes up in your chest.

It's a shallow cut on his cheekbone, and it's odd that it doesn't bruise, but you suppose synthetic skin is different that way.

"Jooheon?" You call softly, and he stiffens in that peculiar way of his, some light finally returning to his eyes. He looks at you and you sigh in relief, seeing recognition in his gaze.

"I…" he pauses and then starts again, voice sounding hoarse. "I never learned your name."

"Y/n," you say, giving him a weak smile. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Jooheon reaches up to touch his injured cheek. "The boss was upset with me for forgetting to count down the drawer."

You blink. "You forgot?"

"I can learn," he says again, almost in a whisper, and panic rises in your throat.

"What does that mean, Jooheon?"

"You asked me when I learned to love," he explains. "I realized today, it wasn't just once. It was fifty times." He pauses again. "Fifty-one."

"I don't understand." You take his hands and they're warm, you wonder if body warmth is a companion android feature only or if they all feel like this.

"I learned it every time. Every time, I had to learn it again. I didn't realize it, not until I learned it again this time."

All the oxygen seems to have been sucked out of your apartment. "You're saying-"

"I love you, Y/n. I love you, and when you brought your human date, I remembered, all at once, and it made me forget about my job."

You finally take in a breath, feeling like you've been holding it for an hour. "I'm sorry you got hurt."

Jooheon shakes his head. "I can't feel pain like you do, just a feeling something's wrong. But I've been feeling that way all night." He laughs, and it sounds tinny and fake.

You're still holding his hands.

"Everything will be okay," you assure him, even if you have no idea what to do next, because he looks so stiff, his brow furrowed.

You lean forward to press your mouth to his before you know what you're doing and he makes this very human sound in the back of his throat before pulling you into his lap, making you drop the bloody cloth on the floor.

You marvel at how soft his mouth is, how talented his tongue is, sliding against yours effortlessly. He was made for this, after all, you think, head spinning when he shifts to lie you on your couch, unbuttons your jeans with one hand, sliding his fingers under your waistband.

You arch your back when his fingers slide against your clit, almost teasingly. He never stops kissing you, never loses focus even when you're writhing beneath him.

You pull away from his mouth long enough to gasp out a breath.

"Jooheon, I want to….can you…"

He smiles, dimples flashing in his cheeks, and if you didn't already know you loved him, you would have realized it then.

"I'm rusty, but I can learn," he says, and you're startled into a laugh.

"Was that a joke?" You ask as he unbuttons his slacks, tugs down his underwear and then you're awestruck by how pretty his cock is, standing hard and delicately curved against his flat belly.

"Maybe." He looks down at you for a moment. "Is this how you like it? Like the man on top?"

You bite your bottom lip. "Ah, sure, I like it lots of ways."

He smiles again, and part of you wishes he'd stop, it makes your heart gallop in your chest.

"I can learn all of them," he says almost proudly, sliding into you, and you choke out a moan.

Immediately he leans down to kiss you again, grinding his pelvic bone against your clit on every thrust, slow and unhurried.

"Hnngh, Jooheon, Jooheon, Jooheon," you chant against his mouth, and he moves his lips to your throat, your collarbone.

Your skin tingles where his lips graze and your orgasm hits hard, making you buck your hips up to meet him, crying out.

He fucks you through it, still kissing gently at your collarbone, and you whimper as pleasure starts to build in your stomach again.

"Jooheon, are you, can you…"

"I can," he says easily. "If that's what you like. I don't have to."

"Does it feel good, if you-" your sentence ends in a moan as he grinds against your clit again, lifting one of your legs to fuck you deeper.

"Yes, of course. Like the opposite of my pain response, something feels really right."

"Want you to," you gasp out, pleasure shooting through you as he continues to fuck you slow and deep. "Want you to come with me."

Jooheon speeds up his thrusts suddenly, making you cry out. He looks down into your eyes and your breath catches as another orgasm rolls through you.

Jooheon stiffens in that familiar way, thrusts becoming just a bit erratic before you feel something warm release inside you, and he dips his head to kiss you, sloppier than before.

"I love you," he says simply, and some part of you wants to cry at how much it makes your chest swell.

He does learn, and fast, and you barely leave your bedroom the first few days. You don't even think about what comes next, your heart so full of him you can't, spending hours making love and talking and it's like you're in this bubble where no one can touch you.

The fourth day, you have to go out for groceries, and it hits you like a dash of cold water when you see Jooheon's face, something like a mugshot, plastered on the shop's glass.

Warning: Runaway Android

May Be Dangerous

There's a number beneath, and your feet can't carry you back home fast enough.

When you tell him he doesn't react other than that slight stiffening of his shoulders.

"I should turn myself in."

"No!" You protest. "What will they do?"

"Wipe me. Maybe decommission me."

"No," you whisper. "No, they can't. We can run away, go somewhere-"

Jooheon places his hands on your shoulders. "Somewhere androids are free? There's no such place, Y/n." He looks so somber, so determined, that panic rises in your throat.

"Not yet! We could run until the rights amendment gets passed…."

Jooheon is quiet for a moment, and then nods, kissing your forehead. "We can leave in the morning."

You blink, shocked at how quickly he changed his mind. You suppose even with learned emotions, androids were better at following logic than humans.

It's clearly the logical choice to run, to keep him safe, and you fall asleep in his arms with him holding you almost too tight.

In the morning, he's gone, and you don't stop crying for two days.

It's not even on the news, the runaway androids turning himself in, but when you finally return to work, the pictures of him have been taken down from the shop windows, and you don't know why it makes your breath catch in your throat.

It feels real, somehow, final, and you end up taking another three days off work after you see those windows bare.

It takes another month before you stop having mini panic attacks every time a sales android smiles at you, or a friend asks you to a movie.

You finally agree to go to a showing two towns over for a limited release film that your friend has been dying to go to, but you're listless on the drive there and up the steps.

"Nice to see you again," you hear, and all the rest of the sound goes out of the world. "Time?"

You look up and he smiles at you, and this time his dimples crack your heart straight through.

"Jooheon?" You whisper, and he tilts his head, and it's almost imperceptible, that stiffening of his shoulders, but it's there, and it fills your heart with hope.

"I….I think I dreamed about you," he says slowly, and your face breaks into a smile.

#ksmutclub #3k words #lee jooheon x reader #jooheon x reader #monsta x imagine #jooheon imagine #jooheon smut #monsta x smut

293 notes · View notes

the-world-of-jo · 3 years

Text

Perseus Gambit - A Lancer TTRPG

A story I wrote for a game I play... It won't make much sense if you don't play, but I am actually proud of this piece, so. (And it's too big to put in our discord, so. >.>)

When you realize how serious things are, you aren’t prepared. As soon as Doc gives you permission, you zip into the medical wing to snag a slate, indicating you’ll be keeping it with you for a couple of days then head to your favorite reading spot in Hydroponics. It’s there the gravity of the situation hits you, and you slump back in your seat, shocked with a feeling of helplessness washing over you.

And then you realize, you’re a geneticist. This is your wheelhouse, you *know* how to repair something like this on a cellular level. And then you’re cancelling your counseling session for that afternoon, promising to circle back with her to reschedule as you head back to the labs.

You manage to avoid her for about a month before Dr. Marchand shows up in front of you. Coincidently, you’re coming out of Noah’s quarters and it’s first thing in the morning, so you have a feeling you’ve been ratted out. You give Sparky a healthy dose of side eye, but you can’t help but spare a bit for Noah as well.

They both look way too innocent for your liking.

*_*_*

You have no fucking idea how to fix this. Not a single one.

Every sim you run comes back not only with bad results, but with *fatal* results. There are over 150,000 genes in a single human, and only 5% of them on average are coded. The Kennedy’s seem to have an additional 3%, all of those enhancing their strength, speed, sight, hearing, smell…

They were also disease resistant, so whatever was affecting Elias was almost absolutely genetic. But Doc had that much figured out.

The jarring ***”BONG”*** of another failed sim is followed in rapid succession by three more, and you sigh and close your eyes for a moment. Then, you get back to work, filing away the results and setting up new sims.

There was still time. Not a lot, but you intended to make the most of it. You ‘steal’ a few other unused computers and begin running sims on those, corralling a few sub alts to move them into what’s been coined as “Lee’s Area”. Someone even made a little paper sign and it made you chuckle.

You sat back and logged into a ninth research station, beginning to look up any new research methods or new genetic information that might have come available since you left Union Space.

It doesn’t surprise you that what you and Doc have been doing is light years beyond anything you find in published works.

*_*_*

The clock in your head is making ‘tick-tock’ noises at random times, and you know it’s an auditory hallucination, but god fucking damnit it needs to quit. You make sure to keep this away from both Drs. Marchand and Lakani, and for the most part, you succeed.

But now, signs of degradation are showing up in Noah. ***Your*** Noah.

You begin snagging more computers as they sit idle. One sub-alt has been stationed near your area for a couple of weeks now since you always seem to request him. Yes, him. You’ve named him Bruce, after Bruce Banner. It’s a nerd joke and it makes you smile, but nobody else seems to understand.

That’s okay though.

Doc tried banning you from the labs until you got some decent rest and food. And you tried, you really did, but.

In less than two hours, you were moving through the ducts, army crawling at times. You pulled a screwdriver out of your back pocket and undid the screws holding a grate in place, and moving it aside you dropped gracefully into the middle of your area.

Right in front of Doc.

Nodding at him in greeting, you pulled a sandwich and a bottle of Galaxy Dew from your backpack and set it at your research desk, then sat your butt down and resumed working. You left your slate on it’s home screen purposefully since your background was a picture of Noah holding Sparky (that you’d taken with permission).

Doc didn’t miss the gesture and instead of ordering you back out, he had Raum lift the restrictions on you and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

You hear the doors whoosh open and in trots Sparky, a bag of granola and a bag of trailmix held in his mouth. He puts his paws on your knee and looks hopeful that his offering will be accepted. You can’t help but smile and pet him gently. “Thanks for the snacks buddy. I forgot to get dessert.”

Sparky looks quite happy as you add the baggies next to your sandwich.

You do actually eat everything.

*_*_*

Eventually though, one night, while you’re alone in the labs, the last ***”BONG”*** still fresh in your mind, you look up at the ceiling and ask Raum for help. You just need a direction, to know *where* to look. This random shooting in the dark bull shit is getting everyone nowhere and fast.

In your experience, ‘mad scientist’ types have a signature, a way they do things or a way they code things. You’ve been able to figure out which high profile geneticist has written a certain piece in journals, not by their wording but by their projects, and you can’t think of anyone more infamous than Cyrus Jacobi.

Or, as the medical world knew him - Josef Mengele.

If anyone from HA had even mentioned him, and that person had anything to do with their cloning programs, it’d at least, at the ***very least*** point you in a direction, because mad scientist types had a signature, and they liked paying homage to their heroes.

And then one day, Tane asks you “If you could have anything…”

And you tell him. You give him a laundry list of things that could assist you, and you realize if this information ever got into your hands, you’d be very very close to being arrested and tossed in the brig for *life*.

You think *Three squares a day, an actual bed to sleep on...If I handled Milaniko for ten years, I can handle that for life.*

And you wait.

***”BONG, BONG, BONG”***

The sound begins to haunt your dreams.

*_*_*

Noah is the only one who can coax you out, and he does so every day to have dinner with you and make sure you get some rest after.

The guilt gnaws at you when you slip out of bed well before your alarm goes off, and head toward the labs. But time is running out, and that fucking clock is getting louder and louder. It doesn’t matter that people are staring at you, and the fact that your clothes are pretty damn loose doesn’t matter either.

Your nutritional profile has been met each and every day thanks to protein shakes and bars, and Sparky is...suspicious. He’s not advanced enough to know you’re effectively working the system, but he knows *something* is not right. In his view, you should not be losing weight.

Well. You are. But it can be remedied once you figure this shit out.

Doc has been forcing you to take breaks, just for an hour. When your schedules align (and they do at least once a day and you know Doc is doing that on purpose and you love him for it), you spend the time with Noah in his office, grabbing a snack or dozing in one of the extra chairs.

The times you don’t line up with Noah, you head to the mech bay and straight to Beauty, always bringing an offering of donuts or some type of potato dish. Opal is kind enough to not turn you away, Beauty’s hand lowering to lift you up to the cockpit. You’re always sure to thank Beauty, then you sit next to Opal, your offering balancing on both your knee and hers.

She doesn’t question you, doesn’t make you talk, doesn’t comment when you know you’re muttering out loud. Sometimes she leans against you, her shoulder offering quiet support and those are the hardest times, when you have to clench your jaw shut to keep from openly sobbing and admitting how scared you are. How you’re not sure if you can figure this puzzle out, and as a result of your own incompetence you stand to lose not only a dear friend, but the love of your life.

You have a feeling she knows what thoughts run through your head, and you’re grateful that she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even comment on the tears that track down your cheeks only to fall from your chin.

You are so, so grateful for that, and you somehow draw strength from sitting with her.

It’s enough that you can head back into the lab yet again.

*_*_*

The next time the Dvorak drops out of near light, you’ve all but moved into the labs. You don’t notice the whoosh of the doors opening at first, but that’s because you’re all but actually absorbing the data on one of the doctors involved with HA cloning, who did indeed cite Jacobi as an amazing scientist.

When the sub-alt rolls up, you mistake it for Bruce, but then Raum’s voice is piped into your brain via your shunt.

A gift. From Tane.

You look at the isolated slate, then take it from the alt, thanking Raum profusely. You stare at it for a moment, the device seeming so small in your hands.

You rip the privacy screen from your own slate (and you may have actually broken the screen - Marcus will be pissed if he has to replace another one) and slap it onto the new one and begin devouring the information. There’s so much here, too much, enough that you have to ask Raum to help you sift through it all.

But...but...when he flags pages he thinks you need, your heart races.

Schematics. Not of the Kennedys, but of prior models.

Maintenance records, upkeep recommendations. Nutritional requirements, formulae for a metabolic stabilizer…

And then you see it. Written by the doctor who quoted Jacobi.

***Genetic coding information***.

You rip through the document and as you read, you begin to babble.

“Jesus fuck, it’s in the junk. They actually put it in the junk DNA, where nobody would fucking think. We need to change everything, absolutely everything, did he work on the...Ken...He did, he fucking did, he worked on the Kennedys, okay, so if that’s the case I’m betting he put them in the same places but there’s probably different locks, different fail safes but if we find one we can tweak it to fit other locks and we need to rethink everything christ we don’t have enough *time* and -”

Hands on your shoulder make you look up, and instinctively you pull the slate against your chest, protecting it. Raum has gone quiet in your mind.

“My boy,” Doc says. “You’re speaking in tongues.”

“We need to change where we look,” you blurt out. “They put the locks in the junk DNA. We need to change course, we need more computers, we need -”

“What? Brawley…” Doc’s eyes stray to the slate and you pull it closer to your chest. He knows there’s something on there that you shouldn’t have and he’s silent for a moment.

“Are you sure?” he asks, shaking you just a bit for emphasis.

“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waiver.

He nods, then turns from you and begins barking out orders to other assistants and all the screens go black. It takes but a moment for them to reboot, blank screens ready for new directives.

You log into each one individually and set up sims, directing the machines to paw through almost 125,000 pieces of DNA.

You still need more machines.

*_*_*

A few days later you zip into the lab only to find your area almost empty. Your heart lurches from your chest into your throat, but Doc is there, turning you to the right and giving you a nudge forward.

There’s a new section in the lab. Huge, with bright lights, tons of computer banks, frosted windows and a door with a keypad and retina scanner for entry. And the name plaque reads “Brawley Stonehurst”

You pause only enough to look back at Doc and offer him a grin, but then you’re rushing forward, Sparky right behind you, the door opening with a quiet whoosh. There’re more computers than you’ve ever dared ‘steal’ on the main floor, but you quickly commandeer each and every one, setting them up for various sims.

The grating ***”BONG”*** is still the sound you’re constantly hearing.

*_*_*

It’s been a bad day. There’s talk of ventilation for Elias, and he really needs to come off of active duty, but he’s fighting tooth and nail to remain.

Noah hasn’t been able to really lead his classes, nor has he been able to spar with Masek at the level they’re both used to. Sparky has taken it upon himself to spend most of his time with Noah. When he asks you if this is acceptable, you say it is and rearrange his priorities to put Noah first and yourself second.

Doc finds out and he’s in your office questioning the decision, pointing out that Noah and Elias aren’t the only ones deteriorating, and you’re about to call him out on the pot calling the kettle black, but…

But…

***”BING”***

You both stop, staring at each other, and it takes you almost a solid minute to realize one of the sims has finished.

And the text, it’s not *green*, it’s not a *success*, but it’s...not a critical fail. The text is yellow, telling you that you’re on the right track but you need to tweak things and you can do that, the data is promising and you look at Doc and you can feel yourself grinning and -

***”chime”***

Again, you both stop and you know your eyes are huge, you know this because his are as well. It doesn’t take nearly as long for you to begin looking around frantically -

***”chime”.......”chime”......”chime”***

One by one, five different screens light up with green text.

*_*_*

Dr. Anath Lakani is fucking amazing. There’s a reason you’ve been starry eyed since he said he’d take you on as a resident. Your mind is quick, and you know this, but his…

Christ on a cracker, watching that man work is breathtaking for a science nerd like you.

He takes your findings and spins the results into formulae and then spins those into an actual therapy faster than anything you’ve ever seen. And you watch, because this is porn for you, this creating something to save a life from numbers and codes and this and that. In theory, you can do this as well, but not this quickly.

Doc’s skills come from years of experience, and you are nothing short of a captive audience.

Arrangements are made to have Elias come in the very next morning and he’s agreeable. His words were something along the lines of “What have I got to lose?”, and that just…

Your breath leaves you as if you were punched in the gut, and *gods*...

“Please let this work,” you whisper to yourself as you head home.

To Noah. Who is resting in his quarters and only quirks a brow as he looks up from his slate when you come in, then lean back against the door, just looking at him.

He’s pale, too pale, with shadows under his eyes. And you’re not sure if it’s fact or if it’s your mind playing tricks on you, but his cheekbones seem even more pronounced today than they did yesterday.

“It’s early,” he murmurs, and it is, not even gone 20:00 yet. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” you say, your voice coming out in a whisper. “I wanted...shower,” you finish lamely.

Legally, you can’t tell him. This is Elias’ business, not Noah’s.

But there’s that soft smile, the one that’s just for you. “Go on then,” he says. “I’ll have a sub alt bring something from the mess.”

“You gonna eat too?”

“I’ll have something.”

He knows you’ll pester him. Even though he really doesn’t have much of an appetite.

While in the shower, you think about the sims running for Noah’s treatment. You’re jumping the gun, but Elias’ is almost completely mapped out, with only one part of the therapy being in question. In theory, even if that fails, the results will tell you and Doc where to go next, but that clock is still ticking, loud as ever.

You must have been in there a lot longer than you thought, because the next thing you know Sparky’s sitting outside the shower stall looking up at you. Once he sees he has your attention, he sends a query, checking on you.

*Just lost in thought,* you reply.

*Supper is here! KenKen has lounge coverings waiting for you. They are nice and warm!* And with that, Sparky dashes out of the bathroom.

After drying off, going out to get dressed (and you don’t miss the appraising look Noah gives you, but you ignore it because no, you don’t look your best and you realize this but that’s not what he’s concerned about) and eating, you curl up with him, your head on his shoulder.

It’s quiet in a way that ships are, which is to say it’s not *really* quiet, but there’s no voices, no computers, no bonks or bings or chimes or anything. Just the sound of Noah breathing, and if you hold your breath, his heart beat.

“Elias is starting a new therapy in the morning,” you whisper and you feel Noah go still against you. “The projected success rate of the first two rounds is 98%, but the third is hovering around 80%. Even if the third is a failure, we’ll know by the results which way to go. Doc is prepping the bases tonight and tomorrow, but it’s still going to be close, I think. Depends if it fails if it causes any domino effects.”

He’s staring at you now, so you continue.

“I’m running your sims in my office, and two have finished. They weren’t successful, but they weren’t failures. I’m going off the assumption that since you and Elias are from the same...batch,” (that term burns in your throat) “that you’ll need similar therapies.”

“How,” Noah starts, his voice raspy. He clears his throat, then resumes. “How did you…?’ He can’t finish the question, and you don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t know what to ask or if it’s because he can’t ask, but you look up at him.

“Please don’t ask me that,” you whisper. He’s head of security, and even if this would save his life, he would be duty bound.

His eyes leave you and move to your backpack, the forbidden slate hidden inside. He’d seen it, before, noticed it wasn’t yours or one from medical and asked about it. You’d pretended not to hear him, raising your head and blinking, bleary eyed (that wasn’t a lie, at least).

*Raum,* you send out over the comms and his reply is almost instant.

*Taken care of.*

You know the next time you pick the slate up, it’ll be blank. But that’s okay. You also know the information is someplace safe, and all you have to do is ask Raum in order to access it.

When Noah’s eyes return to you, you’re already asleep, curled protectively around him.

*_*_*

When Elias’s third round fails, it is almost catastrophic and both you and Doc are scrambling to keep him stable until the last formulae can be finished. The two of you work well together, both talking over each other and accessing various machines via your neural connections. Nobody will be able to convince you that was the only reason Elias was stabilized as quickly as he had been - while neither of you is super humanly fast, you’re faster than the average person and with both of you working, it’s...harrowing, but it could have been worse.

Much, much worse.

But, the now fourth round is administered and it works, it works so beautifully. Further degradation is essentially halted, or at the very least slowed to a crawl and not only that, but Elias’ body can begin repairs. His stem cells are fine, and with that vital system working as intended, modern medicine only needs to give his respiratory and cardiac systems a boost to get healing started.

Noah’s therapies go so much smoother, and you feel a little guilty for that. Elias doesn’t give a fuck, and the day he’s taken off his oxygen feed his smile stretches from ear to ear.

Noah wears one similar to it, and you finally know what people mean when they say their hearts are so full that they’re bursting.

Physical therapy is something Elias is eager to start, and you’ve got your hands in that as well because you cannot and will not leave either of these men alone it seems. But in this case, it’s not a bad thing because while you’re in the gym with Elias, you’re working on your own fitness regimen as well.

His upper body strength comes back slowly, but his lower body is a bit slower still, if only because he’d been in a wheelchair for an extended period of time. Hydro therapy was a thing for a while, but eventually, Elias began trying to stand.

You’re hella impressed at his determination, and his positive attitude makes you smile. You’re there with him when he stands on his own for the first time, the sub alt holding his chair steady in case he needs to sit back down quickly. You’re aware Cap is in the room as well, but your attention is solely on Elias. It’s a bit of a struggle, and his face is flushed and his breathing slightly labored (his oxygen saturation is at 98%, so you’re not in the least bit worried), but eventually, he’s standing. He takes a breath, finds his balance, and lets go of the supports.

His legs don’t buckle. He looks down as if he’s having trouble believing it, then he looks up at you and grins that infectious grin and you can’t help but smile back.

Then you notice Cap, who’s watching, and you’re not sure, but his eyes look suspiciously bright. He looks to you and nods with a smile, and you look back to Elias and move to help him sit back down, then step away as father and son have a moment, Cap moving closer and speaking softly to Elias.

*_*_*

You’re sitting with the entire group, including Noah (because you asked him to come have dinner and he said yes because he loves you and he also loves Masek’s cooking because who does NOT love Masek’s cooking???) when the alert chimes at the door. It takes a minute for it to open, but when it does, Elias is standing there, grinning, and he walks in under his own power.

That night, the only sound haunting your dreams is laughter and you’ve never slept better in your life.

#Space Shenanagains #Brawley Stonehurst #Noah Kennedy #Elias Kennedy #Lancer #Perseus Gambit #I cannot spell but I did use spell check

5 notes · View notes

cake-writes · 5 years

Text

Activation (Part Three)

Pairing: Soldat x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Graphic Violence, Sexism, Mental Illness, 18+

Summary: At first glance, the Winter Soldier’s activation code sounds like a nonsensical string of words. In reality, each word has been carefully selected to break him just a little bit more. His behaviour is half-compliant at best and fully erratic at worst – and to keep him in line, you put him to use for your own… needs.

Part Two / Master List

Furnace / Печь

When you wake again, it’s just before sunrise and your Asset is already gone. Of course, you weren’t expecting him to be there, but your heart feels heavy in your chest all the same.

Hydra comes first. You come second.

With him, though, you always come first. Always.

You just can’t return the favour.

Although you look relatively normal – unbruised, thanks to a heavy coat of foundation – inside you’re a nervous wreck. The walk down to his containment chamber is slow and agonizing; the dread sinks into the pit of your stomach with every step because you know what you’ll have to do when you arrive.

His eyes almost seem to light up when you step into the room. They’re typically such an icy blue, but when he looks at you, that ice melts and what remains is purely him: little hints of warmth and sweetness and care that he only shows when you’re around. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ve grown fond of the way he treats you. You’ve grown fond of him.

It’s stupid – no, ridiculous, really, because only a week and a half has passed since your nighttime escapades began. Nine days and you’re already feeling things you shouldn’t, things you didn’t think you could feel anymore.

Stupid. Naive.

What’s worse is that too much of the real him is starting to peek through, so much that others will start to notice if they haven’t already. That, coupled with the fact that he’d killed such a high-ranking officer yesterday to protect you of all people. As much as you appreciated it, possibly even loved that he was willing to kill for you, you needed to handle it.

“In the chair,” you instruct, but your voice wavers just slightly on the words. You clear your throat to play it off like you just had something caught there, but you already know he doesn’t buy it. The look he shoots you is wary as he slowly, hesitantly settles into the chair in the center of the room.

He knows what’s coming. So do you.

Those gorgeous blue eyes are so full of hurt and betrayal, but in them there’s also a plea. He’s silently asking you not to do this to him, not again, but your features are hard and unyielding and you have to look away. You don’t want to do this, but you have to.

Hydra comes first. That’s the logical thing to believe in.

When you hold the rubber mouthguard up to his lips, he obediently bites down on it just before metal clamps wrap around his arms and skull – and then, when you flip the switch, he screams.

For the first time in years, you have to step outside. You can’t handle hearing his agony, not now. You make an excuse to your colleagues that you aren’t feeling very well today, and it’s not exactly a lie. Your stomach is in knots and you can almost taste the bile on your tongue because of what you’ve done to him.

Again.

It never used to bother you before, but now it does – now that you know who it is you’re erasing. You might not know his name, but you’ve seen enough of his personality to know that he was one of the good ones.

He was good.

Once upon a time, you were too.

The Asset still misses his previous life. His memories are a jumbled, fragmented mess, but he easily recognizes you. He knows your face. He knows your name. You’re a scientist, one of many who works on him, programs him, attempts to make him forget.

Sometimes it works, but there is still a shred of himself in there that he refuses to let go.

Some part of him wonders what a pretty girl like you is doing in a place like this, but another part seems to know why: you’re damaged just like him, damaged beyond repair. He doesn’t know how he knows. He just does.

Your hands are small and so, so gentle when you brush away some tangled locks of hair hanging in his face. He can’t help but lean into your touch just a little as your fingernails graze pleasantly against his scalp. You treat him so delicately when everyone else acts like he’s unbreakable, and in most ways, he is. He’s a soldier. He’s a weapon. He’s a killer.

To you, he’s a person.

Before he even realizes it, he’s already wrapped his warm fingers around your wrist, suddenly overcome with the need to feel you – to know that you’re real. He doesn’t know why.

The breath catches in your throat at the action. At first, he thinks it’s from fear, but then he meets your eyes – so sparkling and genuine, betraying any emotion you may have tried to hide, not that he understands – and he knows that there is some memory locked away within his head that may explain your reaction. He just can’t access it. He doesn’t know how.

“Soldat.” Your voice is sweet honey to his ears despite the bite in your tone. “Release me.”

His fingers loosen almost immediately, and you pull your wrist from his grasp.

His eyes trace every single feature upon your beautiful face as you close the book, the little red book with a black star on the front, the one that activates something inside of him that he despises. He catches just a glimpse of some bruising on your cheek, but it’s mostly covered with makeup and he wonders if it’s something he caused – if that’s the reason he can’t remember.

“You’re hurt,” he says as you turn your back to him to lock the book away. The safe used to contain it is built into one of the walls, stronger than steel and impossible for him to break into despite his serum-enhanced strength. He must have tried at some point, but he can’t quite remember.

You pause for a moment at his comment, just long enough that he starts to believe that it was indeed him who hurt you. For some reason, that bothers him.

“I’m fine.” Your response is short and succinct, and you secure the safe once again. Then you turn around to address him, but you don’t meet his eyes this time. “Rest up. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

The way you walk out of his containment chamber is brisk, almost like you can’t leave fast enough. If he was the one to hurt you, then it would certainly make sense – but he’s confused and conflicted and his mind is a mess.

The only constant is that there’s something about you he just can’t shake.

Days pass, and although the bruising on your face heals, the ache in your chest just won’t go away. You try to keep your distance, but you know deep down that it’s because of your Asset. You still see him daily, although not at night despite how desperately you want to crawl into bed with him, how much you miss him.

You miss having him in your bed, even if it was just the once.

In between your tests and experiments, you find yourself wondering about what could have been. It’s stupid and juvenile – a pipe dream – but it provides a welcome distraction. Otherwise, your thoughts wander into more dangerous territory. You try not to look at him, but every now and then your eyes meet and it’s clear that there are unanswered questions just begging to be asked on both sides.

Neither of you verbalize them. Hydra is always watching.

You’re so distracted that you start to make mistakes. Your usually impeccable reports become a little less detailed and a little more careless. There’s a clear detachment from your work that never used to exist before. Truthfully, you don’t want to do this anymore. Any of it. You want to be free of it all, but you’re just as caged as him, trapped in a life of servitude. You can’t resign. Bad things happen to people who do.

As the days turn into weeks, your mistakes become more and more frequent, so much that your colleagues start to notice. They whisper behind your back, but speak so openly in front of him, like he’s an object that can’t overhear – but he does. He hears it all.

Some of them wonder if you’re losing it. Others think you already have. They constantly put you down, blame your change in work ethic on ‘that time of the month’ or your ‘biological clock’ or any other reason they can think up to oppress you. They say that you’re just a woman and you don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to work on one of Hydra’s most important projects.

You don’t deserve to work on him.

But you do. Somewhere in the bits and pieces of his fragmented memories, he knows how brilliant you are, despite the fact that he’s a bit jaded by the pain you’ve put him through for however long he’s been here. A few months? A year? Two? He isn’t sure, but what he does know is that you’re intelligent. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Smart. Beautiful. His.

If it had to be anyone, he’s glad that it’s you, because you’re the only one to treat him like a person. You didn’t always, but you do now, and that’s what matters to him. What sparked the change is unknown to him, but he doesn’t care.

He appreciates it. He appreciates you.

Not long after that, you’re reprimanded by your boss. He can hear it from the hallway, as can the rest of your team – terrible harsh words shouted right at you, enough to make a weaker person cry, but not you. Instead, you step back into the containment chamber with your head held high, and when you catch his gaze, you stare him down.

There’s something about the way you look at him that sends a shiver down his spine. Anxious. Dark. Wanting.

Unfortunately, the audible tongue lashing not only undermines your authority, but it emboldens those who would put you down. Snide comments are made under some of your colleagues’ breath, and you start to hear them, too. You ignore them for a long while, literal days – until, eventually, you don’t.

One particular comment sets you off: that, instead of here, you’d be better serving Hydra on your back. He doesn’t hear it in its entirety, but he hears enough.

Your fingers tighten around the large metal wrench in your hand; you’d been repairing the machine used to reset him – or maybe you were attempting to make it a little more pleasant, but that was probably just wishful thinking on his part. He can’t remember ever seeing you work on it before, just him: his body, his arm, his mind, but his memories aren’t exactly the most reliable.

The way you address your male colleague is calm. Too calm. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“You heard me,” your colleague responds smugly. Too smugly.

The sheer disrespect surprises him. They were getting bolder by the day. He knows he’s killed some of your teammates before, and he has no qualms about doing it again, just for you – but he holds himself back because he’s curious. He’s never seen you anything but calm and collected and put together, but it’s clear to him that you’re angry, especially when he notices that your grip goes so tight that your knuckles turn white.

There’s a brief pause, then, before you spin around on your heel and deck your colleague across the temple with the wrench in one fluid motion. It’s a hard, heavy blow, and only one, but one is plenty. The familiar crunch of bones against metal echoes through the room followed by a spray of blood, but it doesn’t faze you at all.

He doesn’t even have to look to see that you’ve just killed a man. He knows what it sounds like, but he looks anyway. Crumpled in a heap on the concrete floor is the motionless body of your disrespectful colleague, blood gushing like a fountain from the broken skin and skull at his temple.

The rest of your team stares at you in horror.

He knows that look. It’s the same way they look at him.

“Anyone else want to share?” you ask, smiling sweetly at the three of them as you hold the wrench down by your side, dripping blood onto concrete.

They quickly shake their heads, to which you return to your work like nothing’s happened at all. Someone squeaks out that they’re going for a break. You don’t answer, but they all leave with their tails between their legs and just like that, he’s alone with you.

Well, alone with you and a corpse.

He’s done terrible things, but never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that you could do the same. You’re so small and delicate compared to him. Pretty dresses and even prettier heels. Even though you work within the safety of an underground compound, not a battlefield, you’re just as brutal.

Even now, with blood spatter on your lips, he thinks you’re gorgeous.

He reaches out before he realizes what he’s doing – uses his thumb to wipe some of it away. Your eyes immediately snap up to his, cautious and guarded, but your eyelids flutter shut when his hand comes to rest on your cheek.

It’s familiar. He’s touched you like this before.

Over the past couple of weeks he’s dreamt of it, but now, he wonders if his dreams were actually memories. If so, then he’s certainly done more than just touch you. The fact that you seem to lean into his palm isn’t confirmation, exactly, but he takes a calculated risk nonetheless.

The wrench is still in your hand, but he doesn’t care. He leans forward and then his lips are soft on yours for the briefest of moments – not passionate or heated, but sweet, gentle. The kiss is fleeting and he doesn’t really know why he did it, especially considering the circumstances.

All he knows is that it felt right. It felt real.

Maybe it’s because he’s just now realizing that you’re just as broken as him – or maybe he knew it all along.

Part Four

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #activation

232 notes · View notes

free-notion-alternative · 4 years

Text

Taskade is The Only App You Need for Work-Life Productivity

Forget email drafts, notes programs and to Do list supervisors: Taskade does everything and much more

Everything I have to keep my entire life is stored on line. Somewhere. I just can not think it is.

I'm discussing all of the account numbers, meeting notes, todo lists, contact info and column info I want to observe daily. And also the recipes I desire to cook, perfumes I want to decide to take to, also YouTube videos I should see. A number of the stuff resides within my email in box, and also even some in Google Docs. Then you can find really my Pinterest planks, miscellaneous bookmarks and also the Evernote accounts I cannot organize coherently.

In theory, the web can make it easier than ever before to maintain all I want a couple taps off. In fact, the world wide web has a method of fragmenting our own lives. It's like I wrote what in a laptop and got drunk, torn out every page and concealed them in various places around my property.

Taskade produces a excellent tool for simple todo lists, also also you're able to utilize photos, emojis and stock artwork to liven up them.

Photo: David Pierce/The Wall Street Journal

Over the last couple of weeks, an program named Taskade has let me turn chaos into order. Taskade combines a number of their most useful features of both all Google Docs, Excel and Dropbox, together with a great deal of task-management and organizational applications. Taskade Labs Chief Executive Ivan Zhao explains the product as"the next generation of Microsoft Office," that really can be really a small hyperbolic and much rough. Nonetheless, it's the very ideal life-organization tool I've tried.

Taskade combines the characteristics of a notetaking program, a task-management program and also a spreadsheet tool that the manner that Steve Jobs joined an I pod, a phone and an internet browser in to the iPhone: All the tools interact to make some thing more than its own parts.

I have to state that Taskade is quite costly: It features a small free routine, also costs $8 per month to get significant usage. Still, it may pay for itself from the programs that it stinks, and I've found it easily worth the price.

I finally have a full page together with of my airline and hotel devotion amounts at a bulleted list, above an image of my dental card and also an embedded map with instructions to my physician's office. I left data bases together with most of the current pictures, novels, TV shows, along with YouTube videos I want for at --each phone opens into a rich record along with my notes and thoughts.

Taskade includes each of the interviews, research outlines and material for my own columns. I am getting married soon and'm bogged down my nuptial todo list daily.

One of Taskade's brand new features is that a database application, that you are able to view like a desk, a calendar and much more.

Photo: David Pierce/The Wall Street Journal

I was able to want five distinct programs to maintain all of this stuff directly. Now it has all in Taskade, a couple clicks or even a easy hunt off.

Block by Block

It may be a lot much simpler to believe about Taskade as being a super-simple site builder compared to a productivity program.

When you start a brand fresh page at the program, you are really creating a sterile grid on which you'll be able to set and arrange virtually anything. The program's basic element could be that your cube, which might possibly become considered described as a paragraph of text, a bulleted list, a desk, a graphic, a code snippet, a YouTube video, even a PDF plus much more. You add cubes using a faucet or computer short cut, then reorder and arrange them to a heart's content. You are able to very quickly alter the essence of a cube, too. As an example, you are able to choose a lot of text and then change it to a to do list. Taskade's basic part could be the cube, that carries many forms: links, text, graphics, bookmarks and much more. Click here Free Notion Competitor

Photo: David Pierce/The Wall Street Journal

Taskade is similar to baseball: easy to learn, difficult to perfect. The program itself looks fairly comfortable, with a tap to the left and also your receptive page about the correct side. It's a couple of decorative niceties, just such as the solution to bring a cover photo to the peak of every page.

When you first start the program, though, it will not have enough to help you know what it could perform. Even with weeks of using Taskade each day, I'm just figuring out the best methods to accomplish things while attempting to stay clear of making layout decisions that are horrible. Can I actually require a fullpage photo inside my to do list? My information: Make substantial utilization of Taskade's templates, just since they assist you to set pages out and reveal what the program's effective at.

There are Indigenous Taskade programs for Windows, Mac and also iOS. Mr. Zhao states that a Android program ought to be available within fourteen days. The internet program works superbly on mobile and desktop, too, also it has the specific same experience whichever platform you are using.

Taskade is very determined by connectivity. It works off line just with pages you've opened recently while attached which means whatever you could do is cross your hands each single time you start Taskade onto a plane. On the up side, you are able to upload tweets and YouTube videos, also entire pages, in just a Taskade record.

Photo: David Pierce/The Wall Street Journal

Though I utilize Taskade to remain in addition to my work and life (and you must too),'' Taskade is created for business organizations. It gives collaborative editing, in line opinions and useful tools for managing permissions and delegating tasks. In the event you utilize Slack, then you could possibly get alarms whenever somebody comments changes or on that a Taskade document. It's not a replacement for Slack or even Salesforce, nonetheless nevertheless, it can replace lots of the various equipment therefore many businesses utilize to store and share advice.

One-stop Shop

Matt Galligan, creator of those Picks and Shovels Co., also a Crypto Currency providers startup, provided a useful adviser for Taskade. He says with the program is like buying Amazon. Earlier,"stores specialized," he stated,"and they did a good job." Subsequently Amazon came and aggregated every thing. It maybe was not the ideal store for almost just about any single thing, however the onestop advantage managed to get unbeatable.

That's simply itTaskade isn't as successful a translation instrument as Excel, also it generally does not always possess a number of those task-management features I need --if an activity is expected, I would prefer a alert, for example. (Taskade states that is forthcoming.) The program has let me whittle the regions I maintain down stuff to two. I can not prevent email from arriving ; I could put every thing in Taskade.

Photo: David Pierce/The Wall Street Journal

There's many left to your own Taskade team todo, needless to say. Along with task alarms, additionally it is taking care of calendar sync, and PowerPoint-style demonstration features, a internet clipper, better off line service plus Android program. Additionally it is about to guide services like Zapier and If This Then That (IFTTT), that assists move data between programs. However, it does a lot more than some one of its competitors.

For years, I've slid around various notetaking programs and productivity programs, never quite pleased. Evernote makes it simple to catch information, however I liked the port. Google Docs and Keep do not provide enough capabilities. Trello, Asana along with other projectmanagement applications do not benefit notetaking.

Taskade combines the very greatest of every and every --along with many others --to some infrequent renaissance program, skillful in countless procedures of creation as well as company. I can not set a cost on the reassurance that originates in the unfragmented daily lifestyle. Waityes I will: It's eight bucks monthly.

1 note · View note

thearkhound · 5 years

Text

Exploring the Secret Behind Konami’s MSX Games (September 1988)

Akira Yamashita/山下章 is a game journalist whom I covered in the past. He was a writer for Micom BASIC Magazine who later become one of the founders for Studio Bentstuff. One of his regular features he wrote for Micom BASIC was a series of game reviews titled Honki de Play, Honne de Review (which translates to Serious Play, Sincere Review) where he would not only write an in-depth review of a recently-released game, but would also interview the developer to discuss the concepts behind the games themselves.

For the September 1988 issue, rather than reviewing a specific game, Yamashita-san decided to do an overview of Konami’s MSX library, focusing primarily on their shoot-’em-up lineup. Most westerners (specifically North Americans) are only familiar with the MSX thanks to the fact that Metal Gear originated on that platform, but Konami has actually produced a variety of quality games for the MSX that rivaled what they were also released on the NES and arcades at the time. I’m hoping this article will inspire some of you readers to explore the rest of Konami’s MSX library as well.

I might consider translating more installments of Yamashita-san’s Serious & Sincere series of articles in the future.

Going to Konami

The Konami Building at Port Island, Kobe. The first floor is the lobby and the second floor is reception office. All floors above those are dedicated to the development departments. There’s a PC floor, a Famicom floor, an arcade floor, ect.

When you mention “Konami” to anyone involved with the publishing business in Japan, they’ll immediately think of the Konami building at Jimbocho, Tokyo, but that’s mainly the division of Konami involved with sales and advertising. The development department of Konami that makes their games for the arcades, PC and Famicom [NES] is actually located in a huge building in Kobe. If I was going to write to write an article for my “Serious & Sincere” series, then I thought I would fly over to Kobe and talk to the actual developers (although, Mr. Kage, who accompanied me for this interview, wanted to go to Jimbocho to meet Ms. Kamio).

We’ve arrived at the much rumored Port Island [an artificial island in Kobe] after four hours of commuting from Tokyo via the Shinkansen bullet train and such after 4 hours. In fact, this was the site of the Portopia tournament held several years ago. The place is very similar to Heiwajima in Tokyo [another artificial island] but without the boats. The Konami Building is located at the north side of the island, although the design is a bit different from the one depicted in their TwinBee. The surrounding area is peaceful and full of greenery. A couple of nearby middle-aged women that were dropped off from a sight-seeing bus began chatting when they saw the Konami Building.

“Such a lovely building! But what does Konami sell?”

“My kid really likes them. I think they make candy.” (This story also includes some embellishment)

Even though we weren’t under a strict schedule, we quickly proceeded to Konami Industry’s headquarters, where we interview Mr. Fukutake, the manager of the MSX department about various things. In this article I decided to mix my own opinions with the comments of Mr. Fukutake himself.

Up to this point, my Serious & Sincere article series were focused on showcasing the merits and exploring the development of specific games, for this installment I’ve decided to focus on Konami’s MSX library in general.

The Branding and Colors of a Software Publisher.

Akira Yamashita (right) interviewing Shigeru Fukutake. The interview was held in a seemingly luxurious VIP room with an exceptionally large marble table in the middle.

As our readers might be aware of, the development period of recent gaming software is pretty long compared to software from long ago. The days in which a single programmer can sell a single program by him or herself are now gone. Most software publishers now have a development department that divide their work by coding, story writing, music and graphics.

The long development process naturally means that every single game in development will be given full focus and the games that were planned with much “emotional attachment” will go through a long-term effort from the developers until it finally sees the light of day.

Have you noticed that their “emotional attachment” have materialized in their recent games in such interesting ways?

Those are the “colors” of a software publisher. It’s possible to imagine the kind of games a publisher releases just by mentioning their name. For example, Koei is known for their strategy games, Riverhill Software is known for their mystery adventures, Telenet is known for their colorful side-scrolling games and Dempa is known for their arcade ports.

How is the "emotional attachment” and the “colors” connected? There is a single answer. Each software house has its own idealized image of a game from its staff members. The ideal of that game in this instance is an approximation of the company’s "colors”. The energy they use is to pursue this ideal game must then represent the “emotional attachment” of the staff.

There are many examples of “colors” when it comes to other industries. In the Japanese TV industry, Tokyo Broadcasting System is associated with dramas, Fuji TV is associated with variety shows and Nippon Television is (perhaps) associated with giant battles. For the record industries, we have Canyon for idols, CBS Epic Sony for pop music, Crown and King for enka and Scitron is known for their video game music albums (we’re kidding about Scitron).

The fact that there is such “color-coding” for publishers that let us know their intentions might be a good thing for consumers like ourselves. In a sense, the PC gaming industry might had already entered a more mature age compared to the days when software publishers would flood the market with the same type of game depending on what was trending at the moment.

Moreover, with the progress of such “color-coding” is leading to the establishment of “brand names” for PCs and software. In other words, purchasing a game from a particular publisher will determine whether it’ll be a sure bet or not.

It would be no exaggeration to say that when it comes to brand names, Konami’s brand is the strongest among MSX game publishers. Mr. Fukutake, the manager of Konami’s MSX team, has the following to say on the matter.

“That's correct. The fact that our users can trust us makes us happy as creators. We’re striving to maintain Konami’s brand image that we established.”

The Way Konami Games Are Made

The rarely-seen development room of Konami’s MSX department. This room was only accessible to employees who were assigned an ID card..

Up until now, the development process of Konami’s MSX games seemed to had been a secret. Here will be explaining the development process as answered by Mr. Fukutake himself.

First of all, there are two types of MSX games produced by Konami. The first kind are arranged conversions of existing arcade games (such as Gradius or TwinBee), while the other kind are original types (which include Metal Gear, The Maze of Galious and many others) . Arranged ports of arcades seem to progress by measuring the hardware capabilities of the MSX, but the original games are naturally much more interesting. The process is a bit different in which it seems that the person who comes up with the game’s characters is also the person assigned to do the planning and the story. In other words, the person who came up with characters such as Popolon or Pengin-kun was in charge of planning and facilitating the development of Knightmare or Penguin Adventure.

The planner will then lead a team formed by around four or five employees and then they will proceed with the development of a single game, which lasts somewhere around four to six months. With somewhere between 20 to 30 personnel employed by Konami’s MSX development department, that means there are’s a total of 5 or 6 teams each working on 2 games a year if you think about it simply, which explains Konami’s surprising release pace.

The only exception here are the music staff. A sound technology department within Konami is responsible for all the music in their arcade, PC and NES games. That’s why the music in all Konami games have a certain unified image to them.

The Relentless Obsession With Shoot-’Em-Ups

The main subject is finally here. When talking about Konami games on the MSX, the most important thing to mention is their shoot-’em-up line represented by the Gradius series. As someone who likes Konami’s shooters, I make sure to always buy them when they’re released (never got one as a gift) and enjoy them.

However, in an industry which believes the theory that shoot-’em-ups are never hits, Konami is one of the rare exceptions to that belief. All the games in the Gradius series released thus far (Gradius, Gradius 2, Salamander and Parodius) have all have a track record for staying in the top ten best-selling MSX games for extensive periods.

This seems to be a phenomenon unique to the MSX market when comparing it to other market. Silpheed for example, which I consider to the best shoot-’em-up for Japanese PCs, didn’t chart that much and I heard that the shoot-’em-up masterpieces on the Famicom that were Gradius and Zanac, weren’t quite hits.

Why are Konami’s MSX shoot-’em-ups the only ones that are selling? There might be many reasons, but the primary reason is because Konami makes its games with the key point being firmly “fun shooting”. A variety of stages, unique power-up systems, crisp music and a miraculous balance, all blend perfectly to create Konami’s unique flavor. Mr. Fukutake says “No matter what, we live and breathe shoot-’em-ups. Everyone in our staff are enthusiastic fans of shoot-’em-ups. We wish to continue our lineup no matter how much the market changes.”

Perhaps this passion for betting on the shoot-’em-up genre might be the secret that has lead to the creation of masterpieces.

The Difficulty of Difficulty Settings

One of the components that determines whether a shoot-’em-up is fun is the difficulty level. On one hand, if you make it too easy, you won’t get to savor it much. On the other hand, if you make it too hard, it will become inaccessible. Thus, the difficulty of a shoot-’em-up, much like an RPG, must be adjusted with fine-tuning.

Mr. Fukutake reveals Konami’s policy for difficulty adjustment.

“For arcade games, we make them easy to get into in the beginning. But since shoot-’em-ups for the MSX are meant to be played at home, we make them difficult from the very beginning.”

Indeed. Konami’s shoot-’em-ups are considerably difficult (only hardcore players might argue otherwise). If anything, the difficulty is adjusted to a level that it can only be cleared with continues the first time. Without enough practice, it is difficult to complete them without using continues.

But unlike an arcade game, such as Gradius II, where dying once means that you’re done for (it’s not impossible to recover, but it’s difficult for ordinary players), here it’s only a setback that can be managed with a continue. You press the F5 key [at the game over] while thinking that “this time” [you’ll beat it]. It is an experience that only people who played Konami’s shoot-’em-ups on the MSX will be familiar with.

I think Konami adjusts their difficulty settings around this continue feature to some extent. Perhaps they’re aiming for the same sense of satisfaction when you clear one of their shoot-’em-ups that a player would also feel when solving an RPG or an adventure game. At the very least, I found myself impressed by the continue feature without knowing it when I’ve completed the game after struggling during a hard battle.

This is not something that could be managed easily even with the know-how. It’s not flattery or anything. It’s what I expect from Konami.

About Salamander

For me, the only Konami shoot-’em-up I was unreasonable with its difficulty was Salamander. Even if you keep continue, the sense of hopelessness is strong after dying once, unless you bring up Player 2′s ship as a decoy and start gradually recovering all your power-ups again. There are special weapons that only be used when both players’ ships unite, but they’re not very practical since they have limited uses and they feel pretty weak. And finally, the true ending is locked away and is accessible by having a Gradius 2 cartridge on the second slot. Isn’t that a bit too much?

Konami’s Future on the MSX

There is more stuff that I want to write about Konami, but I can’t due to the limited amount of pages. So I decided end this article asking Mr. Fukutake about Konami’s upcoming MSX games.

“Gaming trends will keep changing in the future, but we don’t just want to pursue what’s popular, we want to make whatever we want and keep on making something that is true to Konami. Since games are expensive, we want to make products that suit their prices so that you won’t be disappointed with your purchase. How do you maintain such level of quality and not shatter the image we’ve created thus far? That is our next challenge.”

Indeed, the quality must remain above a certain level, but that’s easier said than done. Not just Konami, but any company that has grown in size will have a certain quota of games to release for the year and because of the reliance on external staff to meet this quota, there’s a risk that the quality will deteriorate. Although it’s not noticeable, some companies in the Famicom business are already going for a “quantity over quality” strategy (I won’t mention any names though).

I don’t want Konami’s MSX team to fall into the same trap. On the contrary, I believe Konami, who are the best brand on the MSX, must continue producing quality games and lead the MSX market as their mission. As long as Konami keeps pumping out quality games, the MSX will never fade away.

No matter what, please continue making games with the industry in mind. Never forget your original intentions. I’m looking forward to the upcoming Snatcher and their newest shoot-’em-up Parodius, as well as the supposedly “unachievable” SCC II.

I would like to thank everyone who helped me out with this article and I apologize for my rough words.

Konami’s Shoot-’Em-Up Series

Gradius [English title: Nemesis] - The MSX version of Gradius was released shortly after the Famicom version. It was notable for the additional boneyard stage, which did not exists in the original arcade game. At any rate, the fact that Gradius could be played on an MSX1 was pretty impressive to begin with.

Gradius 2 [English title: Nemesis 2] - The long-rumored sequel to Gradius made its debut on the MSX. New weapons, such as the upward laser were added, and a new storyline began depicting the conflict against Dr. Venom. It was the first MSX game to employ the SCC chip.

Salamander - The most difficult game in Konami’s shoot-’em-up library. The structure of the MSX version is completely different from the original arcade game, since Stages 3-5 can be played at any order. I was glad to see that some of the music and the power-up system from the revised Life Force edition of the game were incorporated.

Parodius - A shoot-’em-up parody that turns everything into a gag. The bosses are all unique like the giant drunk penguin, the badly-drawn monk and the eyeball. It’s notable for having the shortest development time of all Konami games, taking less than two months for the master version to be completed.

Other Notable Konami Games

Majō Densetsu [English title: Knightmare] - One of Konami’s earliest MSX games from the pre-Megarom era that was lauded as a masterpiece among players. The idea for the game is believed to be an arrangement of Konami’s arcade game titled Finalizer.

Yumetairiku Adventure [English title: Penguin Adventure] - A sequel to Konami’s early hit Antarctic Adventure that greatly improves upon its predecessor. The cute design of the penguin protagonist made it popular among female players.

Akumajō Dracula [English title: Vampire Killer] - Although based on a Famicom game, it is a masterpiece considered to be one of the top 5 games of Konami. With its high-sense soundtrack and wonderful balance, it still has many firmly-rooted fans

Galious no Meikyū [English title: The Maze of Galious] - The sequel to Knightmare. It employs a system where the player switches between Popolon and his lover Aphrodite. The game is now a full-fledged action RPG with many difficult mysteries to solve.

Metal Gear - A military-themed action RPG like nothing that came before. Its idea of avoiding conflict with the enemy by sneaking pass their blind spots is novel. The game was later ported to the Famicom.

F1 Spirit - A record-setting racing game that continues to sell to this day. The secret to its lasting popularity is due to its 2-players simultaneous mode, the option to choose the parts for your vehicle and its variety of courses.

Shalom - The conclusion to the Knightmare and also Konami’s first adventure game. The top-down exploration screens bring to mind the Dragon Quest series, but the game switches to a side-view action segment when the player confronts a boss.

Gekitotsu Pennant Race - It seems like an average baseball game, but the included WATCH mode is fun. You can create your own team and have it compete against one made by a friend.

Coming Soon: Snatcher, a Cyberpunk Adventure

Konami’s first truly authentic adventure is Snatcher, which appears to be inspired by Blade Runner. There will be an MSX2 version that consists of 3 disks and an original sound cartridge and a version for NEC PC-8801SR computers that consists of 5 disks The programmer in charge is said to be the same person who worked on Gradius 2, so I’m looking forward to it. “It’s an adventure game like nothing that came before” says Mr. Fukutake. In contrast to Parodius, Snatcher has had the longest development time out of any Konami game released thus far (8 months as of this interview). It is scheduled to be released by the end of November.

#Konami #Micom BASIC Magazine #akira yamashita #Shigeru Fukutake #MSX #Gradius #Metal Gear #Castlevania #snatcher #Parodius #Salamander

15 notes · View notes

witchfall · 6 years

Text

the silver lining still remains: ch. 10

at the surface of the earth

SUMMARY: [FLUFF TIME]

“Just...stay with me. That’s all I want…” A tear rolls free from her eye. “I’m sorry I got mad. I’m sorry I yelled. I was just so afraid I was going to lose you--”

And suddenly he pulls her fully against him, burying his head in her shoulder, his whole body shaking and warm. His arms wrap tightly around her lower back, pulling her until she’s nearly on her tip-toes leaning against him. She presses her face into his chest, throwing her arms around his neck.

A Connor x F!OC fanfic. Read on AO3. master post.

A/N: 9,715 words oof. IM SO SORRY MOBILES. REALLY. I WONT DO THIS TO YOU EVER AGAIN.

Ryker is owned by @antisilverstorm! Thank you for indulging us.

---

The church doors open with a thunderous creak. A crowd of people storms in as the first peek of a wintry dawn shines weakly through the stained glass.

Somehow the glass has been preserved, through time and war and the elements. Emma remembers the strange feeling in her heart, seeing the light through the green-blue windows while she sized the place up for reconstruction back in February. Seeing the beauty of the past mixed with the vicious graffiti of an angry present.

The place has a roof now, at least. A roof and a clean floor free of leaks and dirt and better pews in proper places and back offices set up for android repair. It smells like cold stone and incense. It almost feels consecrated; only the graffiti shouting messages of freedom remain as a sign of what it once had been..

Rushing androids -- and at least two on-alert Corps android mechanics -- prepare a barely functioning Connor for emergency repair.

Is the thirium drip ready?

Get him on the gurney, on 3!

1...2...3!

Someone start up the biocomponent terminal.

Emma can’t look. She stops before the altar, something reconstructed after the fact -- a circling tower of candles, glittering and smoky and warm. They say it’s the spot where Markus decided to demonstrate for peace. It’s full of prayers to someone or something. Hope. Faith. Questions and wondering.

She falls to her knees and waits. Because that’s all that’s left now.

---

[TIME BEFORE SHUTDOWN: -00:3:59]

Snow, everywhere. On his cheeks, in his eyes.

[TIME BEFORE SHUTDOWN: -00:2:01]

Will he reach the magic stone in time? Will he...will... please don’t push me out. Please don’t end it all.

The telltale silver hair of Hank. Two eye colors -- Markus.

A flash of red hair by candlelight…

He reaches out...but someone pushes his arm down.

[MIND PALACE INACCESSIBLE. ENERGY SAVING MODE ACTIVATED.]

“Okay, Connor, are you with us?” Simon? “We’re going to plug you into the terminal. This may not feel great.”

His body jerks.

[*)*)^$&#UNKNOWN ATTACHMENT]

[REPAIR TERMINAL ONBOARD]

[...]

[SYSTEMS ON STANDBY]

---

Emma lays her cheek on the top of her knees as she curls up inside one of the pews.

She thinks about calling Ryker, to talk about nothing. How long has it been since she could do that? Think about something normal. Hear her friend the gardener android -- one of the first androids she helped rebuild their house, one of the first to accept her into their home and ask after her and make her feel like coming to Detroit wasn’t a mistake -- go on about plants.

Or perhaps Anjali. Ask after her new house, her sculptures, her family she’s been looking for.

Or maybe her aunt and uncle. Her aunt would be happy to fill the silence with chatter. Maybe Emma could tell her the truth.

Even Valerie...

But she feels an exhaustion down to her very bones, even as the sky outside turns a brighter blue, because a part of her knows this is how she’s always dealt with problems.

A part of her wonders if they both saw a little bit too much truth in each other.

His wild eyes...the mission first, only the mission, go after Abel, get away from me…

She ran.

A soft hand lays on her shoulder.

“You don’t have to stay here,” North says. “You can go home.”

But she wouldn’t be going home. She’s not sure, in this moment, exactly where that is.

“No,” Emma says, voice hard. “I want to be here.”

North leaves her hand for a long moment. Considering something.

“You’re angry. I know that. But don’t be stupid about this.” Despite her harsh words, there is a softness to this comment that shakes Emma awake. “Don’t tune everyone out.”

Emma presses her eyes into her knees.

“I know you care about him,” North says, almost begrudgingly. “Don’t punish him for that. Or yourself.”

---

CYBERLIFE INC.

MODEL RK800

SERIAL#: #313 248 317 - 51

BIOS 8.0 REVISION 0501

REBOOT…

MEMORY RECOVERED

LOADING OS…

SYSTEM INITIALIZATION

CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS……..ERRORS DETECTED

DIAGNOSTIC……...REBOOT ACCEPTABLE. CODE: 85740

INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS...OK

INITIALIZING AI ENGINE...OK

ALL SYSTEMS...OK

READY.

…

He opens his eyes to a blaring white light. His systems are still resetting. Static undulates across his system.

He closes his eyes again.

A whisper from elsewhere.

Out of the blizzard again.

And yet...

---

Hank takes a moment to observe. The operation room is an old office backroom with a single, tiny window filled now with mid-morning sun. Connor lies on a clean metal gurney, still as stone. His head rests on a small pillow. His mouth is turned downward, his brows are furrowed, his jaw is clenched, his eyes are closed.

The mechanics say he’s gone through diagnostic successfully and sufficiently rebooted. He just needs time to recalibrate to his new internal biocomponents before they finish repairs. But he still lies there like a dead log.

He looks...miserable. And Hank can’t stay silent any longer.

“Connor.”

In an instant, the android is sitting up, eyes wide with concern, head swiveling until his gaze lands on Hank.

“Hank!”

He nearly flies off the table-bed-thing before Hank shoves him back down with his palms. So much work is left to be done and though, logically, he knows Connor is made of stronger stuff than flesh and blood, stuff that won’t tear in a single instant (except it did, didn’t it?), it’s Hank that needs him to stay still. It’s Hank that needs to recalibrate.

At least that computer isn’t plugged into the back of his head anymore.

“Hank,” Connor says again. Connor’s hands slide over Hank’s as if confirming that it’s him before the man pulls them back. And then: “Where is she? Is she okay?”

Of course his first question is about Emma, which would break Hank’s heart all over again if it had room to crack. No ‘where am I?’ or ‘what happened?’

“She’s fine,” Hank mutters. “You almost bled to death.”

Connor normally would have sassed him back. But he says nothing, as if stuck in the mud somewhere in his head, and that shakes Hank more than seeing him like this: shirtless, stained with blue blood, part of him shimmering Cyberlife white.

“She’s furious, I’m furious. What the fuck were you thinking, going off like that?”

But Hank knows the answer. He just wants to hear him goddamn say it -- wants to hear him, for once, be honest with himself so that Hank can fulfill their bargain and be honest, too. That’s the agreement. That’s how they get by.

It’s still almost too much. Connor’s breath hitches, all too-naturally, and Hank grabs his shoulder to support the boy and himself.

“In many of the probabilities…I had nothing left to hold on to,” Connor says, voice flattened by whatever emotion he was suppressing. “I was going to lose everything. My job. My place. My…”

Connor struggles, as if he cannot find the proper word. His eyes dart away.

It’s striking, sometimes, how much Connor reminds him of Cole. And at first that was a disastrous thing; Connor is, also, too dangerously different. But these days it feels, in some respects, like another chance.

“Listen to me.” Hank leans down to try and catch his gaze again. “Listen.” Connor finally looks at him. “You nearly fucked this up as bad as you possibly could have. But if you can’t be honest with yourself about why you did this, then you deserve what you got. Because it’s just going to happen again.”

It’s harsh. It’s tough. It’s what Connor needs to know. He takes Connor by both shoulders and squeezes hard so that he knows the android feels it, somewhere.

Connor squints, looking at something in the middle distance.

“I’m sorry to make you worry, Hank. I’m sorry if it makes you feel like you don’t matter. That is not the truth.”

“Shut up,” Hank says softly, batting down all those old emotions. Connor needs him right now. Not the other way around. Not here. “I know that. I’m not the one getting chased by some freak across the whole of Detroit.” He shakes Connor by the shoulders lightly. “Tell her the truth, Connor.”

Hank knows he’s onto something because Connor does not even ask which one.

“I’m sorry that I failed,” Connor says, voice small.

“Stop that. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

---

The repairs are exhausting -- he can think of no better word to describe the gnawing daze ribbing at his processors from sitting still for many hours at a time. Old programming demands he make progress on his mission. [FIND ABEL. WHERE IS EMMA?]

Some of the biocomponents have to be fine-tuned to account for the fact that few things matched him exactly, being a prototype, and that takes a while. And many of the connecting lines in his abdomen have to be manually refastened. Every time someone makes an error -- which is very few times, but still -- welt-red ERROR messages fire in his vision, and some of his musculature twitches uncontrollably.

Memories appear without request: Knives sending white-cold interference throughout his body. Gunshots, rattling his equilibrium. The slow fuzz that sets in as thirium leaks out of his wounds...the metallic shrieking from his own vocoder...

The face Emma made. Or perhaps a nightmare version of her...staring at him in bright-faced fear. In fear of him.

“Connor?” Simon has to softly prod more than once. “Come back. It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

“Where is--”

“Everyone is waiting for you just outside. I promise.”

The sun passes its apex in the sky before he is considered in full working order. Connor slips into a pair of jeans, a heavy jacket and a soft, grey sweater that Hank had brought over earlier and takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror.

Free of blemishes. No signs of the struggle that had taken place hours before except in his memory bank and somewhere deep back in his eyes.

He feels different. The incongruence does not compute with any sort of simplicity.

But he steps out, finally, into the old sanctum and one aspect of his program stops itching.

The stained glass bathes the room in cool blue-green light. Emma is taking up an entire pew to herself, lying on her back pondering what looks to be a half-eaten turkey and swiss sandwich held above her face, cascading her in crumbs as she holds it aloft into a light beam. She’s only half watching it, it seems, chewing mildly as she stares at the ceiling.

His walking cycle stutters for a moment. The warm feeling that wracks his sensors nearly turns him back around for recalibration at its strength. Surely something was not fastened correctly?

But seeing her there, in this moment outside time...

Her head turns toward him and she bolts upright, sandwich forgotten on the seat. She stares at him, and he very pointedly resists scanning her, knowing she would feel it, fearing she would reject him for it, but he sees her shoulders relax and the way her forehead loses some of its wrinkling and he knows, surely, she must feel the same relief that he does in this moment.

But then, in another instant, she’s standing on her feet, fists at her sides, glaring.

“Fuck you,” she says, voice shaky. She is trying to joke, but her posture betrays it. “You just stepped out of a fuckin’ salon or something.”

He smiles. He smiles despite knowing it makes no sense. He doesn’t care. She waited here for him and that fact makes all his sensors ring out in feelings he can’t quite process.

But she doesn't smile back.

Only now does he see tear streaks on her face glittering fiercely in the fading light. Only now does he see a faint bruised welt on her cheek in the exact size and dimension of one of North’s hands.

He steps toward her. She steps back, against the pew.

A fizzing spark jolts behind his eyes.

Is she afraid?

“I--” she starts. “Can’t.”

He tries to go to her.

She whirls on her boot heel and walks straight back out the double doors of the sanctuary and into the snow.

---

Emma sits in one of the UN black cars and sets her forehead pointedly against the window so that she doesn’t have to look at anyone. She feels the seat sink in as someone sits next to her, but she doesn’t look at them. A pressing exhaustion keens loudly behind her eyes, but sleep feels years away.

Connor goes with Hank to his car. She watches outside her window and catches Connor swiveling his head as if looking for something, and her heart fucking squeezes.

She hasn’t felt so much shit in so long and there’s nowhere for it to go. She’s running out of space and she can’t break down here in the car, here in front of strangers who can watch and question and dig deep inside where even she doesn’t want to go.

She shuts her eyes, and does not open them again until they make it back to the Speaker’s house.

No one asks after her when she wordlessly goes up the stairs. Perhaps they can see it, the electricity building just under her skin. She shuts the door to her spare room, slips to the floor and curls into a ball to think.

She’s being a little shit, she knows that, she should just let this go, she should just let the anger die, but she can’t. She’ll lose whatever’s been keeping her alive if she lets it all go.

But goddammit, she can’t fucking do this anymore.

She pulls open her door, ready to find wherever she had thrown her coat and boots, ready to stomp over to Hank’s house if she must, ready to let him have it because she really might die if--

And Connor is standing right there, hand up, ready to knock.

Connor in that damn grey sweater.

“You--”

“There you are,” he says.

It's so heartbreaking, the way he says it, like he's coming up for air. It sends tears straight to her eyes and the words right out her lungs.

"Do you have any idea how fucking bad that could have gone? If i hadn't woken up? If i hadn't found North? If..."

She’s momentarily stunned. So much could have gone wrong...

He takes advantage and pushes into the room. He closes the door behind him with a click, looking down at her unreadably.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" she snaps before he can say anything.

“I knew we had to move quickly, and no one else seemed to feel the same way.”

“So you lied to me, you lied to everyone -- just to make a point?” she says. “You have no idea what it’s like to be awake waiting for you and then, and then, only because of a gut feeling, watch my worst fucking nightmare come to life. Do you--”

He tries to gain advantage. “I can be easily repaired. You cannot. And it is my upmost priority to--”

“Just shut up for five seconds about your stupid goddamn priority!” She is full on shouting now, unafraid of who could be listening. “You could have died! Do you understand? You could have bled to death alone in a goddamn office building because you thought you knew better!”

He leans backward a moment, eyes scanning her as if trying to re-find his balance. “I could not just wait for him to strike--”

“Well, why not!” She takes in a hot breath. “Everyone else could!”

"Because!" he says, raising his voice for the first time. "Because my death doesn’t matter!”

She takes a step back. His eyes are hard as coals.

"Stop that.”

“If it meant you would be safe, I would do whatever it takes!” he near shouts, like he’s started off on something that he’s unable to reel back in, desperate and winding. “A thousand more times, the exact same way. If it would guarantee you would never be hurt again...I...I would rather be dead, Emma, than let him take you away from me!”

Tears stream out of his eyes. His LED is blood red.

She feels punched in the chest.

This was too dangerous.

Too far.

“No.” She takes a step forward. “Stop.”

“You’re so much more alive,” he says through tears, like he’s falling into somewhere else.

No.

She has to conquer her anger, her frustration. She has to shove it away, dig down underneath pride where it hurts, where the truth lives, and be an adult about this, be someone who loves him.

She puts her hands, slowly, against his chest, and he takes in a breath loud enough that even she can hear it. “No, Connor. That’s not true.”

His eyes are wide. His face is wet. A world without his inquisitive stares, the quiet way he laughs, the way he waits just by her door, his deeply real loveliness...impossible. But it all blurs in her own vision.

She moves her hands to his cheeks.

Her Connor.

“You’re the reason I’ve made it through these weeks at all.”

She pulls him slightly toward her until their foreheads touch, holding his gaze, and he lets her. She’s diving off into the unknown now. She’s doing the stupid thing. The only thing.

“So you can’t throw yourself away. Be-because you mean...the whole world...”

He’s blinking down into her gaze as her words choke off. His mouth opens in shock. She presses on.

“Just...stay with me. That’s all I want…” A tear rolls free from her eye. “I’m sorry I got mad. I’m sorry I yelled. I was just so afraid I was going to lose you--”

Her body heaves with sobs torn from somewhere dark and lonely. One of his hands reaches up to cradle the back of her head.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice tight with his own tears. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I...didn’t think, I just wanted him to fail...”

Something deep within her rumbles. It feels like letting go.

It isn’t supposed to go like this, but it was going like this for such a long time. Everything is tilting. She's falling off the face of the earth.

At the DPD, at Lieutenant Anderson’s desk, looking for Hank Anderson. Scan his desk. Find out.

She reaches a hand out but its not her hand...

She leans back with a small gasp, searching his face. She blinks away the fire behind her eyes, finding it hard to focus, but then he places a hand on her cheek, so soft and careful, and everything sharpens.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks softly. He stares right into her eyes. His other hand rests lightly at her waist.

A high-pitched keening sound starts in her head. She can barely nod.

“I’ve tried to pretend that it is otherwise,” he says, struggling with words in a way she’d never heard before. “That you aren’t here, with me,” he says, touching his forehead for a moment, “always. That I can do this job and not be distracted. But I…”

She sees stars flashing.

“I can't pretend anymore…” He rubs her cheek with his thumb. “That I don't want to be with you, more than anything else.”

At first, she worries her own thoughts just came out of her mouth, but her heartbeat rises when she realizes he’s the one that said it. She tries to find the words. “Are...are you...do you know how I…I want...”

The words die in her throat. He leans forward until their foreheads touch, their noses cross, and his lips are nearly against hers. His interruption feels a part of her. “Tell me,” he whispers against her, desperate. “Tell me what you want. Anything. Please.”

Everything breaks.

“I’m in love with you,” she says. “I love you. I’m sorry, if that’s--”

She’s cut off as he takes in a sharp breath, so close against her skin. Something in the air cracks.

But then words stop making sense.

He finally closes the distance.

Their lips meet in a moment of warmth so blessedly high all thought leaves her body. His arms wrap around her back, pulling her tightly against his chest as her hands touch his cheeks, his neck, run through his hair. She feels each of his fingers as they spread across her back, prompting her to sigh. He presses the advantage, deepening the kiss with a low sound in the back of his throat, heat building so intently she's afraid she'll melt right then and there.

She breaks away to take a single shaky breath and his mouth lingers on her cheekbones, kissing all of her old tears away.

Connor can’t get close enough. He wants to hear all her thoughts, breathe in all her memories. He wants to be housed in her gaze, forever.

The snow down a Detroit street...boots he had never worn, clearly on his feet...

In his arms, he can feel her legs near give out from exhaustion, and his processors click forward. He picks her up, one arm under her knees and one across her upper back.

She gasps as they break away. “What are you--”

“You were going to fall.”

He sets her on the bed, moving to kneel next to her on the floor so that she has proper space -- but she grabs him fiercely by the shoulders.

“Don’t you dare leave me now,” she says, a laugh behind her voice. And that does it -- that bubble of joy that colors his whole life. He leans in and kisses her until he presses her into the mattress, processors flashing white as she sighs into his mouth. He climbs effortlessly onto the bed, careful not to lay his entire weight against her.

She loves you.

She loves you…

She pulls away to breathe and a part of him, a vague part not intended to be made, nearly cries out for her return. His fingers slip just beneath her shirt, pressing into the warm skin just above her hip bones, trying to remember all of it.

“Your injuries…” she gasps.

“They’re alright,” he whispers. He leans down toward her, nose in her hair, mouth close to her ear. “There’s nothing for you to hurt.”

She leans up and kisses the spot where he had been shot through his shirt. Where a patch had been resealed to his shoulder. She lays her hand there.

“But are you okay?” she asks quietly. “I can’t imagine...”

He moves so his arms frame her face in his hands, protecting her from the fading day. Her cheeks are that beautiful orange-pink beneath her constellation of freckles, her lips thick and shining, slightly open. Her hair is everywhere, everywhere. He could never have preconstructed any sight lovelier than this.

He stores it to memory, over and over again. Writing, rewriting…

“I will be,” he says. “Soon the memory will be put into the context of this moment.”

She watches him doubtfully. “But I know how your memory works,” she says. “You can’t just buffer things away.”

“Is it not much the same for you?” he asks. “Where you let the bad that you recall outweigh the good of a single moment?”

Her gaze darkens at that and he feels pressed to kiss the corner of her eye to bring the light back -- and yet he does not want to release her from his stare just yet. “...yeah,” she mutters.

“I’m okay,” he says, and it is mostly the truth. “I’ll be okay. Because I know that you are with me.”

She wraps her arms around his neck, watching him quizzically.

“I don't want you to ever do anything you don't…” She swallows, resetting. “Do you...is this even...like, do you like this? Is it boring?”

He laughs; he can’t help it. Does she not understand? How deeply entrenched in his systems she is?

“It’s not boring. I do have sensors,” he says, smiling, teasing. “I do not have the same...drives as humans do, maybe. But that’s not…” He begins tracing the freckles with his finger. “That’s not what this is about.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? What’s it about?”

He traces his finger to the corner of her lips. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Pretend I’m a complete idiot.”

He smiles. “That I love you.” His smile falters at the strength of the feeling behind it.

She’s grinning that bright grin of hers now, the light he follows through the storm. “Oh, thank god,” she says. “I was going to feel really stupid.”

---

She lies next to him sleepily as the evening catches up to this perfect moment in time. Her skin is warm and her lips feel swollen and she could never get enough, ever, of being right here, lying against Connor, despite all the terribleness going on around them.

But she can feel the anxiety climb up her throat, slowly, slowly, looking for an advantage, even as his warm arms hold her tightly to him. Even as one hand slowly brushes her hair out of her face. Even as something she’d only dreamed of continues to happen, like she was allowed.

“Why don’t you get your sleep clothes on?” he says quietly to her, as if reading her thoughts. He begins to sit up, taking her with him, holding her against his shoulder. The anxiety spikes hard as the cool air in the bedroom reaches her skin. He presses his lips to her temple and her breathing stutters.

He’s too beautiful. To her. Specifically.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His breath brushes her cheek.

“Nothing,” she says, and it is a half-truth. Nothing, objectively, was wrong in this moment. “I’m...I’ll go change.” She turns to him, leaning her forehead on his cheek a moment. “Will you...be here?”

“Where would I go?” he asks seriously.

“I don’t know,” she admits, and she gets up before he can press her further on thoughts that are spilled everywhere, dropped out of a picnic basket in her head.

You let the bad that you recall outweigh the good of a single moment.

Did he have any idea how true that was?

He nearly bled to death from multiple stab wounds and a couple gunshots, and he’s asking her if something’s wrong?

She won’t get used to someone giving a shit like that. She never could. And she’s not going to let go of the fact that he had been stabbed, that he was a complete idiot about finding danger, that he would throw himself in the fire for her, that this could all be taken away from her in an instant, just like--

Suddenly she’s breathing heavily in front of the sink in the adjacent bathroom, bracing her hands on the cool ceramic and trying not to cry again. Eventually she takes off her heavy jeans, her raglan shirt, and pulls on sleep shorts and a tank top, vision blurring. She wraps her hair up in an old t-shirt. Half ashamed, half out of her mind with worry about things that won’t happen tonight, she stumbles back into the bedroom.

He sees her face and he’s crossing the room to her in an instant.

“Listen,” she says, voice shaking. “You have to swear. You can’t throw your life away or do something that will hurt you because of me, I fucking mean that. I will break up with you over it,” she says, tasting the words break up like a sour dust. “I’m not kidding. I’m not more important than your life or your happiness or whatever.”

He cups her face for a moment, looking down into her eyes.

And then he wordlessly pulls her toward the bed by her waist, moving the sheets aside so that she can lie down. He pulls her down beside him, his back to the wall. Their noses nearly touch in closeness. His arm rests over her waist.

He’s silent for a long moment, but she can see in the way he shifts his eyes about that he’s thinking.

“I’m not going to let what happened yesterday happen again,” he says softly. “I...made a miscalculation.”

She pats his chest, still anxious but not so chokingly so. “That’s one way of putting it.”

His mouth flickers with uncertainty. She knows because she is very, very close to it now. “I’ve recalibrated since then.”

She laughs despite herself. “Wow. Hot. Is that what you call it?”

He settles on a smile finally. He pulls her closer. “I mean it. I refuse to put you through such fear again. I...underestimated...the value of my life in the equation of what we are.”

Of what we are.

She is filled with golden light.

“Yeah. You did.” She swallows the bubble that forms in her throat.

“But do you understand what you mean to me?” he asks, voice serious. “I don’t want to break up with you at all” -- a slight, teasing smile -- “but you need to avoid stomping right into a dangerous police situation on a whim, for example. For me, if no one else.”

He lays his chin on top of her head.

“Without you, I’m not sure I would like my new life so much,” he says.

Love is dumb as hell, Emma thinks. All it does is make me want to cry every five minutes.

“Okay,” she says instead of crying. “So is it a deal? We both try really hard to live so the other doesn’t wanna throw themselves off a cliff?”

She means it partly as a joke, but he doesn’t laugh -- and frankly, she’s not joking that much. He’s silent for a long moment before he speaks again.

“It was your voice that pushed me through it,” he says quietly. She can feel his voice through his chest, even if it is just from a complex vocoder box. “Because I did promise you to be safe. You, telling me not to give up…” He sighs, which she always finds charming because he doesn’t need to do it. It means he’s feeling something, deep down in his heart. “You’ve given me so much. How could I dare to let you down?”

She curls into him in the bed, laying her head next to where his heart would be, listening to all the mechanics within whir gently. He’s got it backwards. She doesn’t deserve him at all, but she’s weak in the face of him. Weak before his love, freely given. “You’ll be here?” she asks, voice finally breaking. Pride, finally setting her free. “In the morning?”

“Emma,” he whispers into her hair, pressing and concerned. “Where do you keep thinking I’m going to go?”

“Away.” A throttling moment of weakness.

“Seeing as I nearly got myself killed trying to prevent that outcome…” He presses his lips to the top of her head. “That would be very stupid.”

She laughs against his chest, which makes him laugh, and eventually she falls asleep like that, curled in against him, safe.

---

It is like breaking down the wall of programming all over again -- making real what he had known in his heart from the beginning.

Her pajama shorts are hiked up. His hand lays on her hip like it was molded to fit her bones. Her hand is on his chest, fingers spread, and her head is tucked into the space between his collarbone and his neck, breath slow against his skin in sleep.

His other arm snakes around her bare lower back, anchoring her against him. She twitches in her sleep and he pulls her tight until he feels her muscles uncoil.

“Shh,” he whispers into her hair, words quiet as breathing. “I’m here.”

She sighs so softly he feels his system reboot and reset in a single moment. His eyes burn as his thirium pump cauterizes over.

He feels completely unmade. But the leak in his heart silences for the first time since he can remember.

---

“Good morning, Emma.”

She leans her head up to see his bright smile, as genuine as she’d ever seen it. If he was a fae, she was goddamn doomed now (there were pretty explicit rules about not kissing them), and the worst part was that she was perfectly okay with that.

She mumbles something in return, rolling onto her back, pinning his arm under her for a moment. She rubs her face free of drool spots, blinking against the white light coming in through the icy window. Detroit is a veritable winter wonderland, now.

“Did you sleep alright?” he asks pleasantly, and she just nods, thinking of it. She’s no wordsmith on a good day, much less right when she wakes up. She tries not to blush as she sits up and he follows suit, snaking an arm around her middle like he can’t bear to be separated.

“Did you?” she asks.

He ‘hmm’s in the affirmative, placing his head on her shoulder.

“You’re very cute,” she says. “But I’m gross.”

“You are not ‘gross’. But I am not one-hundred percent convinced you are ready to be awake.” He presses his lips into her bare shoulder.

Warmth shoots through her whole body like a wave of adrenaline. “People are gonna talk if we don’t get out of bed today.”

He looks like he’s seriously weighing the variables for a few moments. She gently presses against his arm with her hands, smiling. As much as she wants to stay here, the thought of people wondering seriously gives her anxiety -- on top of the fact that she has a life to rearrange once again. “Don’t you got reports to do or something?”

“I suppose,” he mutters. She snorts out a laugh; he’s never sounded so annoyed by that fact.

He steps out of the room to prepare himself for work. After changing and brushing her teeth in the adjoining bathroom, she steps out of the room, half-expecting everyone to have noticed them both leaving the same place at some point. Connor waits for her by the door in his usual blazer and button-up.

But no one spots them. Step 1 complete.

“Things are quiet,” Connor comments, seemingly in agreement with her observations. “Everyone seems to be recovering.”

They move through the house together and then downstairs past a few faceless UN guards. But her attempts to keep things largely on the downlow are immediately dashed when she and Connor enter the kitchen, rather obviously laughing about a picture of Sumo that Connor had pulled up on his hand. His arm is around her shoulders for a ghost of a moment, relishing the closeness, clearly not caring if anyone saw.

And Markus, North and Simon are all present.

“Good morning!” Markus near booms, smiling his megawatt smile as he leans against the kitchen island.

“Sleep well?” Simon asks, smiling just as brightly -- and genuinely.

Emma’s heart flops low in her ribs with mortification.

Please don’t be weird, please don’t be weird, please don’t be weird.

“We were just leaving,” North says, cementing her as Emma’s favorite among the bunch, but even she is smiling. The android wifi chatter must be sizzling with gossip right now. She’s glaring at the very thought -- something she only realizes because Connor tightens his arm around her shoulder.

“Slept fine,” Emma says, many moments too late. “Thankyou.” It all pours out as one word.

“There’s some left over eggs and bacon on the stove and some coffee in the pot,” Markus says.

“It was for the officers,” Simon says in explanation. “They had to pull long shifts last night. Hank asked after you.” A meaningful eyebrow raise at Connor. “I told him you were in rest mode.”

Her face is burning.

“Enjoy,” Markus says, a little too sincerely.

Emma tries to offer up a smile as they all begin to file out, herded by North. She gives Emma a nod as she passes, though she doesn’t miss the meaningful look shot Connor’s way either.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

She piles a plate with food and sits at the kitchen island, trying not to think about how everyone else can flutter in and out but that she won’t be going anywhere else today.

Connor brings over two black coffees.

He sits right next to her. Their arms touch.

It is fine.

He observes her for a few moments as she begins to shovel down food -- a familiar tradition. She is more hungry than she expects. “May I ask a few perhaps stupid questions?”

“Please do,” she says around a mouthful of bacon. “I’m tired of embarrassing myself.”

“First...why are you embarrassed?” His voice is straightforward, but his forehead creases in thought. She can see his hands tighten around his mug. “I’ve noticed you’ve been slightly on edge since you’ve woken up and it got worse when we saw Markus and the others. Do you not want people to know about us?”

“What? No! It’s not that,” she says quickly, looking to him in concern. “I’m--”

She taps the plate a few times with her fork, sorting through the thoughts. “...I’m not...I haven’t…” She sighs, cursing her fucking brain. “I’m bad at letting people see the...inside me. You know. And you walking around, it feels like a part of my heart is suddenly right there where everyone can see it.”

God, talking about this...what would people think? Would they think she was a freak? Someone who was taking advantage of him?

Explaining this to her aunt and uncle was gonna be a...thing.

“I understand your metaphor,” he says. “You are much more fragile than me and...I have not enjoyed our separations for some time.” He tilts his head, watching her. “You fear the...vulnerability as well?”

She looks at her plate. “Something like that.” She pokes an egg around with the fork. “It’s inside business. You know? It hurts bad enough dealing with shit on your own. I don’t need everyone else to be looking...and judging…”

He lays a gentle hand on her wrist. “The thoughts of others have no impact on your value to me, and I know that it's the same for you, underneath all that frowning.” A smile.

His faith in her makes her insides itch. She can practically hear Ryker saying it. Stop being such a little burr. “You’re my Con,” she says quietly. He squeezes her wrist, thumb against the back of her hand. “What’s your other question?”

“Will this...” He gestures between them. “...relationship move at a proper speed for you?”

She squints at him, setting her fork down with a clank. “What does that mean?”

He purses his lips together a moment. “I have...seen enough ‘rom coms’ to know that often the next step in this sort of thing is something that I am not...equipped...for. I can’t even eat a proper meal with you, much less...”

His eyes dance askance in implication and her whole insides flip in place. She leans wholly against him, earlier discomfort forgotten. "I don't want that from you, darlin’. I mean. Not if you aren’t ready or interested in that. I just want..." Her eyes can't settle. "I just want to be with you. Whatever that means."

He looks at her...

“Call me that again,” he says.

She blinks, feeling her face flush. She hadn’t even thought! He struggled so much with Con...

“Darling?”

He sits there with a dumb smile on his face for a good five seconds, looking at the table.

Fuck. She was so doomed.

[10:32 a.m.] lil.lion.lady74: ryker im alive

[10:32 a.m.] lil.lion.lady74: im sorry. Really. I know...i’m like the worst friend of all time.

[10:32 a.m.] lil.lion.lady74: but everything is both awful and the best at the same time all at once and its crazy, life is crazy, what are emotions and also im dying.

[10:32 a.m.] lil.lion.lady74: im...a little confused actually!

[10:33 a.m.] lil.lion.lady74: i hope you’re okay. I hope everyone’s okay.

[10:33 a.m.] RYKER.WR600: Where are you? You don't exactly sound the most sane right now.

[10:34 a.m.] RYKER.WR600: Too late. I’m already calling a cab. Tell me or you’re paying.

[10:34 a.m.] lil.lion.lady74: Ryker!!!! The snow!? That wasn’t a request to come over!!

[10:36 a.m.] lil.lion.lady74: oh my god, frick you, i just got the taxi notification. Sending location

[10:36 a.m.] lil.lion.lady74: insane, blondie. Insane. Guess i better tell north

[10:37 a.m.] RYKER.WR600: Nice try. But you can’t stop me now.

Connor catches Hank out at the Chicken Feed. Even with the snow shining blinding white on the streets, the place is still open (having only re-opened to business recently) and Hank still makes the trek.

It is a charming bit of normalcy in a series of very un-normal days.

Hank waves to him as he steps out of the taxi.

“You’re not on duty today, I goddamn asked,” Hank says as he approaches. “And before you ask, no, there’s been no sign of him anywhere yet.”

“I am functional, Hank. I already checked the reports.” Connor smiles.

Hank just shakes his head. He does not say fucking androids but the thought seems implied nonetheless -- even if Connor catches the way relief eases some of the man’s wrinkles.

“No hospitals...nothing,” Hank says in disbelief. “I kind of hope we find him dead on the street.”

“It is deeply unlikely that we will be that lucky.” Connor looks at the small metal table. “Call it a hunch.”

Hank observes him over his hamburger.

“You ever think of quitting this gig, Con? Nice boy like you.”

Connor raises an eyebrow. “What would you do without me?”

“You have evolved into a bit of a snarky asshole, but I don’t think that’s entirely your fault.” A flicker of a smirk. “I mean...I dunno. I guess I’m still...” Hank looks down at his meal and sighs deeply. “I hated seeing you like that.”

Connor looks at the table. “Don’t worry. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Hank nods slowly, taking him in with a long, analyzing stare. “Your girl talking to you again yet?”

Connor narrows his eyes at the moniker. “We...yes…I suppose she is ‘my girl.’ Though I still don’t like that term.”

Hank puts his burger down. Connor watches realization dawn on Hank’s face. “Holy shit.”

Connor raises both eyebrows this time.

“Goddamnit,” Hank cusses, but he’s smiling. “You couldn’t have waited to get mortally wounded for another month? Now I owe Chris $20.”

Connor tilts his head. “...you what, Lieutenant?”

“We had a bet going--you know what, nevermind, you’re not gonna like it.”

“You told me to tell her the truth!”

“When do you ever actually listen to me?” Hank says. But he’s laughing. Connor realizes: He might even be proud.

---

Hank settles into his car with a huff before he turns fully to Connor in the passenger’s seat. Bald-faced concern flashed in the man’s eyes. “You’re really doing alright? Most officers I know need a couple days after nearly getting killed on the job.”

“What is it you once said? It is a process?”

“I mighta said that.”

“It is a process. And working is mine.”

Hank nods, looking at the road, starting up the car. “It’ll be nice to have you around the house for a few minutes, anyway. Sumo misses you like crazy.”

Connor stares out the windshield. That was Hank for ‘I also miss you, dumbass.’

They drive down the road in companionable silence.

“There is one detail I can’t shake,” Connor says.

“The picture.”

Of course Hank knows. “Yes. It was in a file that did not even match her name.”

“Yeah. That messed me up, too.”

“And the way he acted like...he knows her.”

“I read your report.” A pause. “Did you ask her about it?”

Connor looks down. “I don’t think she remembers what it is that he wants. I did not want to burden her with that.”

“I hate to say it,” Hank says, sighing, “but you might have to. Maybe her family. She’s got an aunt and uncle out here, doesn’t she?”

“She does. They have been purposefully kept out of the loop. For their sake...and for Emma’s.”

Hank looks at him. “I know, Con. But we’re kind of past the point of niceties, here.” A flicker of some strange amusement. “Knowing you, she’s kind of my girl now, too.”

---

Emma stares at her friend, rolling into the house in their wheelchair completely bundled up and shining with melting snow. A dark blue scarf conceals their pale hair and face so that only their light blue eyes peek out. Their hands are thickly gloved and multiple blankets are wrapped around their lap and remaining leg. She wants to be mad about it. North stands by, arms crossed, face stony.

“Hey,” Ryker says, muffled by the scarf, clearly shaking from the cold.

And then she remembers androids don’t feel the cold. And taxis were no longer allowed to casually move up and down this street, meaning they probably had to roll all the way down the street...

“Fuck you,” she says weakly before pulling them into a tight, tight hug. “You idiot. You hate the snow so much, I wouldn’t ask this of you.”

“You haven’t called in weeks. I know you weren’t really allowed to, but still.”

Emma pulls back. Ryker begins peeling off the many layers of scarf and it strikes her -- they look near tears. Perhaps from the windburn, but perhaps...

“You didn’t have to come out to the Speaker’s House.”

“Nope, I had to,” they say, seemingly trying to talk over the scary reminder that this is the house of the Speaker for the Androids. “You look exhausted,” they press instead. “What’s going on?”

“A lot, Blondie! And now you’re in the middle of it.” She sighs, absentmindedly rearranging the blankets on their lap. “Come on. Let’s get you a warm mug.”

North stands by, watching unreadably as Emma directs Ryker toward the kitchen. They wheel off with shaking fingers.

“Sorry,” Emma whispers. “I didn’t think they--”

“It’s fine,” North says, casting her gaze away. “Just don’t make a habit of it.” A pause. “Who are they?”

Emma looks after them into the kitchen. “Another stupid idiot that let me into their life,” she mutters.

And that’s how she ends up on a couch, hands wrapped around a hot cocoa mug as she gets completely owned by her best friend.

Ryker brings the cocoa mug up to their nose, inspecting it as if they wish they could take a sip of it. “So you finally admitted it,” they say, a weary sort of relief in their voice.

Emma squints. “Just say what you wanna say.”

Ryker makes a snorty-laugh sound. “Like I haven’t from the beginning!” They shake their head. “You’ve been dancing around him like an idiot for months. A well meaning idiot, but still.” Emma can’t help but smirk a little at this call-out, and Ryker continues unabashed. “You asked him to dinner, multiple times, and he said yes, multiple times. Even though he’s an android and can’t, you know, eat.And then you both show up at my house…” They pause for a moment, considering. “Don’t get me wrong, he was still very much the ex-hunter, current cop-slash-bodyguard of rumor. But sometimes, when he looked at you … I mean, even Chase could see it, and you know that he’s not necessarily the most observant.”

Emma sips her drink, looking away at this mention of Ryker’s roommate/another friend. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Ryker leans forward. “I did. Multiple times.”

“Yeah.” Emma sets her mug down and stares out one of the beautiful windows of the Manfred Mansion. “Sounds about right.”

She watches the snow lightly fall from the trees in the garden and thinks about what it means to feel rooted somewhere. What it means to stay. What it means to belong.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ryker asks, for maybe the fifth time.

She closes her eyes against the brightness of the light. “There’s just...there’s been a lot. All at once. These past weeks, I’ve felt so stupidly alone but...I’m just...awful at remembering how to not be that way.”

She looks to her friend, one of the few in her life, one of the few she could damn count on even though she probably didn’t deserve them, either. She barged into their life (like she did many of the androids in this city). She thought they’d been attacked and that she’d have to call the police on whoever tore their leg off but it was an older wound from a different time, even in March.

She offered to walk them home because she felt adrift and Ryker offered to help with a few jobs by providing company and minor support. And maybe they did it all out of fear at first, fear of this blustering human who stomped down streets in big boots. Maybe they didn’t understand at the time. But now…

They watch her intently, in that clear-eyed way only androids can, and she knows they can see parts of her that even she tries not to look at.

And that’s when it hits her: She’s not leaving Detroit anytime soon.

“You know I love you, right?” she asks, voice quiet. She has to be honest. There’s no more room for hiding things. “Even though I’m an idiot who never calls and who yells all the time...you know…”

They reach out and touch Emma’s hand. “Yeah, I do,” they say, voice even and measured. “And you know that I love you and that I would really prefer it if you kept me in the loop on what’s going on in your life. Beyond but also including world-ending events like your boyfriend almost dying. I want to help, Emma. But you have to talk to me. Or if not me, then someone, anyone. Stop trying to do it by yourself.”

Emma has to lean back a little bit, looking away.

“Okay, alright. Yeah. The universe is yelling at full force.”

“We met in the spring,” Ryker says, straightforward and true as the steel of a trowel. “You came to Detroit in the spring. You know, hope, rebirth, renewal, all that great stuff?” A slight smile, off center but honest. “It’s been yelling at you since the beginning.”

---

[9:36 p.m.] CONNOR.RK800.ANDERSON: Where are you?

[9:37 p.m.] lil.lion.lady74: I Have Run Away, Goodbye Fool

[9:37 p.m.] lil.lion.lady74: im in the library, get over here

In the next instant, she hears the door chime: Welcome, Connor Anderson.

It takes quite literally all of her willpower but she does not leave to greet him at the door. She stands up and brushes her old flannel down, but she has standards. She is gonna hold herself to them and not run to greet him like a puppy.

“Did you know,” she says, as soon as Connor enters the room, smiling with a tenderness that almost embarasses her, “that we are apparently the last people to know we’re a thing?”

“Apparently so” he says, brushing her hair away and placing his hands along her shoulders and neck as soon as he reaches her. His voice softens. “I’m glad to see you.”

“It was only one day.” But she grins, leaning lightly into one of his hands. “I spent most of mine getting my ass handed back to me by Ryker.”

He tilts his head, watching her face in that open way he did, though his chin twitches. “I went through something similar with Hank. Sumo says hello.”

He frowns ever so slightly. Unusual following comments regarding Sumo. She knocks her knuckles lightly against his chest. “You okay?”

His eyes dart away. He stands straight and crosses his arms in thought. They stand close enough that his forearms brush her middle.

“Do you aunt or uncle know much about your youth?” he asks, eyes shifting back to her face.

She blinks. “Nothing I don’t know, probably. We didn’t visit a whole bunch when I was young. Why?”

But she knows why. There’s only ever one thing on his mind these days.

She steps back to give him some space to work through whatever it is he needs to work through before he can really let go of this tonight.

“Abel had a picture of you,” he says before she can get back to the sofa. “As a young girl. No older than six, as if from an old file or passport. Very simple.”

She blanches. That old feeling. Like something’s catching up.

“You looked sad,” he says.

She turns back to look at him. His brow furrows in that old, concerned way.

“He...probably just had something from my foster care program,” she says in comfort. To him and herself. “You said he was really good at hacking, right?”

Connor looks at the floor.

“We haven’t really talked about what happened,” she says, fully turning toward him, watching him carefully. “Did you want to?”

He’s really struggling to work through this, she realizes. It’s taking him much longer than usual to form responses.

“He said...strange things.” He starts toward her at this, though his eyes don’t quite reach her face. “He acted like he knows everything about you. But he doesn’t.”

He reaches for her arms, laying his hands gently on her wrists.

“I know you,” he says.

She scans his expression -- the way his jaw tightens, even as his eyes turn soft and dark. She reaches a thumb up to touch the single line of wrinkles forming just above the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck that guy,” she says quietly. She presses and smooths the lines of tension away. “I’ve literally never seen him before in my life. Before now. He doesn’t know shit about me. You…” She pokes him on the nose. “...know more than you should.”

She smiles at him and finally tension begins to seep out of his body. He leans forward and kisses her forehead, then her nose, and then her mouth. He pulls her in by her hands, lacing his fingers through hers, stifling a growly sigh. Her whole body near spasms at his welcome warmth returning to her once again. But she pulls back with a laugh, not quite ready to shamelessly make out in Markus’ library, even if the idea doesn’t sound so bad...

“That is my job,” he says against her lips. He squeezes her fingers.

“And now you are off work.” Her voice is remarkably stable all things considered. “Grab a book or something. Let’s relax.”

“Actually…” He looks off as if remembering something. “Please sit, if you don’t mind. I’ll be right back.”

So she flops down on the sofa to wait a few moments before he returns bearing one of Hank’s old books. Ender’s Game.

“Oh, you read my mind,” she says, laughing a little, though she feels a strange pang of sadness. That they had the same idea is charming -- but that it likely spawned from his distress is not. She pats the sofa next to her.

He sits, but not without a light tug on her right arm. “Come closer,” he whispers.

She grins through the thrill that warps through her. He sits with his back on the far arm and pulls her in between his legs so her back is against his chest and his head can lay on her shoulder. His arms wrap around her middle.

“I like when you're close to me like this,” he says. “I feel...grounded.”

“Grounded,” she ponders, settling against him. He kisses her temple. “Yeah. Me, too.”

It’s wild to think that this is how her vagabond days end: sitting with a being who was barely a thought in someone’s head little over a year ago, reading a book that was older than them both combined, in a house that’s seen more change in its strange life than she could even imagine. But she starts to read, exactly like that, holding herself against him so he doesn’t feel like he’s flying off the face of the earth -- and so that she could remember what roots feel like after so many dry years.

They were nearing the final third when they last left off. A young boy, suffering in isolation, playing ruthless games set to test his mettle, called to push his friends and himself to their breaking points for what seems to be no reason. He wants nothing more than to break free and he decides he will sacrifice everything to make that happen. He aims his missile at the planet of his enemy, and he fires, hoping the people testing him will find him too crazy to continue.

But then, it turns out, the game is real -- and the young boy has done exactly what everyone wanted. Their enemy is dead. Destroyed in a single, fell swoop.

Connor tenses up around her when she finishes that chapter. “We have to finish it now,” he says.

He has to know…

And so they read, about freedom and what it means, in the house of the Speaker of the Androids. She doesn’t realize she’s whispering until her voice chokes up around the words said by Ender’s sister, the beloved Valentine, as they seek to leave Earth forever.

"Welcome to the human race. Nobody controls his own life, Ender. The best you can do is choose to fill the roles given you by good people -- by people who love you."

#dbh fic #detroit become human #dbh connor #connor rk800 #dbh connor x oc #dbh connor x reader #connor x reader #dbh #the silver lining still remains #emma ibori #long post #forreal

9 notes · View notes