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hederasgarden · 2 years

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Interlinked - Part 2

Summary: Stepping in to help K is instinct, but what comes after is a choice, one that’s easy to make. Pairing: Officer K x F!Reader W/C: 3.9K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Violence, angst, loss of virginity and sexual situations. A/N: Thank you N and my Gosling discord girls for their help (@sashayazie, @ninjathrowingstork and @elusivewildflower)

Part 1

It starts slow, with dinners here and there and small gifts exchanged. Cakes and sweets for artificial flowers, until soon enough you have a whole arrangement of them in a small vase on your bedside table. Eventually, K’s over almost every night and in time you’re able to coax him into talking more. You learn about his job as a Blade Runner, reading into the things he doesn’t say. It’s a hard job and more often than not he comes home banged up.

Like tonight. K shows up at your door freshly showered with a nasty purpling bruise on his jaw that extends up into his hairline. He lets you touch his cheek and fuss over him, jokingly promising it's worse than it looks. You offer him a frozen bag from your freezer that you kept for such an occasion, which he presses to his face while leaning against the counter to watch you cook. You tell him about your day and catch him watching you with that little half smile he’s taken to wearing around you.

“How was your day?” You ask him once you sit down.

“It was a day,” he replies evenly, pushing around the rice on his plate.

You know then he doesn’t want to talk about it and you switch to discussing a humorous incident today regarding one of the children of your employers. After dinner you split the lone cupcake you were allowed to take home, enjoying how his eyes close and he sighs as he savors the buttercream frosting. The cake itself is a little stale but it’s still sweet and rich on your tongue.

“I never had real sugar before I met you,” he says, licking the wrapper.

“I sneak tastes at work all the time,” you admit, grinning. “Quality control.”

“Just doing your job,” he agrees, leaning back and resting his hands on his stomach.

Joking with you is a recent development and you love it. He always looks so relaxed, almost boyish when he does. Handsome too, another voice reminds you. You shake off the thought and move to take the plates as he follows you into the kitchen. These odd feelings have been happening more and more and you know what they mean, even if you try to ignore them. K is your friend- nothing more. You’re probably the only person who treats him like a human.

You clean up together, conversation stalling though he doesn’t seem bothered by it. At the door you hug goodbye, savoring how tightly he holds you. The first time this happened he’d been so stiff and awkward you were sure you’d crossed some boundary but then, hesitantly, he brought his arms up. His hold was gentle, almost like he was afraid if he squeezed too hard you might disappear. Now it’s routine and more often than not he’s the one to pull you to him. As much you tell yourself it’s for K, you know you need it too. Before him, you could go weeks without touching someone else.

“I hope tomorrow is better,” you say as a goodbye.

He shrugs, one shoulder lifting as he steps into the hallway. Another smile for you and then he turns back to his door. Before he can make it there, one of your other neighbors, a big dark-haired man bumps into him purposefully.

“Fuck off skinjob,” he growls, sparing you a disgusted look.

He’s off down the hall before you can respond. K’s jaw tenses but he doesn’t say anything, disappearing into his apartment. It’s been happening more and more, people have noticed you’re spending time with him and they have a lot to say about it. Some of the warnings are gentle and shared with you out of real concern, while others are meant to intimidate or scare you. You ignore them all.

–

It’s Friday evening and clumps of snow float through the air as you trudge through the dirty streets. You’ve got real meat in your bag, ground chicken and some leftover sliced ham with a handful of potatoes and even a coveted batch of strawberries you’re excited for K to try. They’re a little mushy but still sweet on your tongue. You don’t see the man until it’s too late. He throws you up against the wall, hard enough to knock the wind from your lungs. You sputter and cough, the bag slipping from your fingers and falling to the wet ground.

“Stay away from the skinjob,” he warns you. He stinks, old beer and something rotten that makes your stomach curdle. “Humans and replicants shouldn’t mix.”

His grip on your jaw is painful and tears leak from the corner of your eyes. A second later the pressure is gone when the man is thrown on the floor hard enough that he coughs up a little blood and groans. K stands over him.

“Stay down,” he warns the other man, turning to face you. His hand hovers beside your cheek and you blink rapidly to clear the wetness from your eyes. At your nod he touches you, rough fingertips skating over your jaw and up to your temple. “Are you okay?” He asks quietly.

You make a small sound, tapping your chest. “Just took my breath,” you whisper, seeing the way his hand shakes. “I’m okay,” you promise him. “Really.”

Behind K, the man gets to his feet, swaying and spitting blood. “I’m going to report you,” he slurs. “Get your ass retired.”

“Penal code 12, section 14B says I’m allowed to intervene between two humans when one is in danger,” K replies automatically, tone devoid of any emotion. “I am also allowed to use lethal force. Remember that next time.”

The man grimaces and sways, anger twisting his face as he stumbles back to the street, muttering. You sag against the wall and K steps closer. His breath is warm over your skin as he leans in. The unnaturally quick way his eyes dart over your face and chest as he searches for any visible wounds is a reminder of what he really is, but you push that thought down and let him turn you around and inspect the back of your head. Even though it throbs, he assures you there’s no blood.

“It’s cold. We should go inside,” he says.

You acquiesce and let him hold your canvas bag. He keeps a firm grip on your arm as you slowly make your way up the steps of the building. People watch you pass but you ignore them, tired and in pain. No one bothers you at least, and when you glance over at K you understand why. His normally blank expression is hard, meeting the eyes of anyone who looks at you with a challenging stare you’ve not seen before. In your apartment he helps you out of your coat and puts away your treasured groceries. After, he stands there, hands at his side.

“Has this happened before?”

“No,” you promise him. “I think that man was just drunk and angry, looking for someone to take his frustration out on.” The blank expression on K’s face concerns you. You know what his next words are going to be so you speak before he can, moving the conversation to something less difficult. “I got some strawberries for you to try. Can you get them?”

A painfully long moment passes before he finally concedes and moves to the kitchen to retrieve the small metal container. He also brings a glass of water and two pain pills. You pop a strawberry into your mouth, savoring the sweet burst of flavor as he cautiously eats one as well. His eyes widen in surprise and he chews slowly.

“Good, right?”

“Yes,” he agrees, accepting the second one you offer.

You take the pills with the water and talk about the blackberries you snuck a taste of at work, how surprisingly tart it was. K continues to listen as you split the last of the strawberries and by the time you’re done you can see some of the tension in his body is gone. He’s leaning back against the couch beside you, legs spread and hands resting on his thighs. That night you let him cook dinner after he insists you rest. You supervise from the couch, noting how the back of his neck turns pink with each compliment you give him.

–

The next week passes quietly and without incident until K fails to show up for dinner on Friday. That in itself is not unusual, his time isn’t his own and he’s often called into the station at the last minute, but he does always let you know. Hours pass without any word and your worry grows when you knock on his apartment and get no answer. Finally, nearing midnight, a message from him arrives. It’s short, just an apology and the promise to join you for dinner tomorrow. You know you should leave him alone but there’s a lingering, persistent worry that has you pulling on a sweater over your pjs and slipping into your shoes.

You peek outside. The hallway is empty this time of night, and you shuffle across to his door, knocking lightly. Eventually it opens but only a crack. K’s bloodied face greets you. He looks worse than the first time you saw him on the stairs and you can’t help the little sound of horror you make. He sighs your name and tells you to go home, but your hand shoots out to stop him from shutting the door.

“What happened?” You ask, alarmed.

“Nothing. Just a nexus 8 that got the drop on me. I’m fine.”

“You're not fine, K. Let me help,” you urge. “Please.”

Several seconds drag by before he finally opens the door and you step inside. The bright lights of his apartment illuminating every scratch and bruise on his face. He never lets you see him like this, always patching himself up before he comes over. This is also the first time you are in his apartment and it’s hard to see how plain and spartan it is, completely devoid of any life.

K shows you where the first aid kit is and you set to work to clean him as he sits on the only chair he owns. You end up standing between his legs, tilting his head back to get a closer look at the wounds. He doesn’t react as you disinfect the shallow scrapes nor when you glue together the split skin on the side of his cheek. There’s more dirt and grime he’ll need to wash off on his own in the shower but for the most part you’ve cleaned and tended to his wounds.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” You question.

He shakes his head, looking up at you. There is something in his gaze, some vulnerability you’ve never seen before that has you settling a hand on his shoulder to offer comfort instinctively. He exhales sharply and his hands come to rest on your hips. The skin of your chest tingles. You hold your breath when he leans forward and gently rests his head against your stomach. For a moment you’re frozen, feeling his body tremble against yours. Hesitantly, you touch the crown of his head, running your fingers through his short hair.

K makes a soft sound and rubs his cheek against your shirt. You repeat the action, feeling his hands slide around your back until he’s hugging you tightly, urging you closer to him. He smells of blood and sweat but underneath is a scent your brain identifies as simply him. It calms you and you stay like that, rubbing circles across his shoulders and scratching his scalp as he holds you close.

When he eventually pulls back to look at you, you stare down at him uncertainly. You’ve hugged him goodbye before and even taken hold of his arm when you’ve been out together, but this is something different. Intimate.

“K…”

“Stay with me tonight,” he says so quietly you’re almost sure you’ve imagined it. “Please.”

“Okay,” you agree, the words slipping from your mouth before you’ve even processed them. You’d give him anything he asked for, you realize.

“I need a shower first.”

You clear your throat and step away, watching him disappear into the bathroom. K’s quick, returning to you with damp hair and clean skin in a matter of minutes. You move back to let him pull down the bed, wrapping an arm over your stomach as you watch the muscles of his arm flex. There are a few more bruises and cuts that were hidden by his long shirt and you reach out to run your fingers over them.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “It looks worse than it is,” he assures you.

You nod, unsure what exactly he wants. So little of K’s life is up to him that you’re always careful to make space for him to decide things. What to eat, when to touch and even what to watch on the evenings you sit in front of the tv with him. When you look up, K is watching you with those steady blue eyes.

“If you don’t want to stay…”

“No,” you promise him, stepping closer. “I… wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

“Just lay down with me. Sleep.” He says, climbing onto the bed and extending his hand. You let him pull you down with him, fitting his body closely behind yours. His breath is warm over the back of your neck and you feel his hand settle on your hip. “Is this okay?” He asks.

“Yes,” you whisper, blinking back the sudden wetness in your eyes.

It feels good to be held like this, to have another’s warmth wrap around you. You’re not even sure when the last time someone touched you like this was. Surely your parents must have, when you were little, but the harder you try to remember, the quicker it slips away. You’ve been alone for so long, working hard to make a better life for yourself that you’d forgotten how much you needed to be touched like this. You close your eyes when K tugs you even closer, his loose grip turning firm and you inhale deeply, letting the smell of him settle inside you as you commit this feeling to your memory.

“You’re so warm, soft,” he mumbles.

Tentatively, you reach for the hand at your hip, linking your fingers with his. You wait for any sign he doesn’t want your touch as you slowly draw his hand up towards your chest. You rest both your hands near your collarbone and relax when you feel his nose bump against the back of your neck as he pushes himself closer to you. K exhales and his fingertips stroke the soft skin of your chest.

“Lights off,” he says quietly, darkness flooding the room.

The only light comes from outside his window, hazy neons and dingy yellows. It’s cool in the room but his body chases away the chill and you settle more firmly into him. Sleep comes surprisingly easily, pulling you under with each drag of K’s breath behind you.

–

The cold predawn light wakes you. It’s still mostly dark in the apartment but as you blink the sleep from your eyes you realize you’re facing K. He’s still holding onto you tightly but sometime in the night you must have turned towards him. He looks so peaceful, the lines of his face relaxed in sleep. This close to him you can see the fine wrinkles around his mouth and the dark circles under his eyes. Your hand hovers over his jaw, wondering how his scruff there would feel. Would it be soft like his hair or something rougher against your fingertips?

You withdraw your hand and bring it back against your chest, continuing to watch K. His pale pink lips part and the hand on your hip twitches, a brief warning before suddenly his bright blue eyes are watching you. He looks confused for a second before a faint smile pulls at his lips. You return it, your heart suddenly picking up at his proximity.

“Morning,” you offer quietly.

K watches you, but the look on his face is difficult to place. It’s almost blank, though you can see something building behind his eyes, some of the emotion he feels escaping. The hand at your hip rises to your face to stroke your cheek and down the side of your neck. You swallow heavily and his fingers press against your throat, feeling the movement. When he grasps your chin, thumb ghosting over your bottom lip, you shudder and he does it again.

Your eyes rise to meet his, seeing the rapid way they move over your face, taking in every reaction. When they drop to your lips you know what he wants and oh, you want it too even if you’re scared. Of things changing between you or getting this only to lose if he decides this isn't what he wants. K shifts forward and his thumb pulls your lower lip down. You feel paralyzed, scared but full of so much desire too. You tilt your head up and he leans forward, your lips touching.

It’s so soft, featherlight pressure but it surges through your body all the same. You reach between the two of you to grasp his t-shirt, anchoring yourself to him. Even though you want more, your body trembling with need, you wait. K groans and that new sound from him makes your skin tingle. You whisper his name against his lips and then he’s really kissing you. There isn’t an inch of space between your bodies, your chest pressing against his. The kiss is intense and you lean back, letting him take control and pry your lips apart. He sucks your tongue and his hand slides down to cup your ass.

You moan and that seems to spur him on. He shifts you effortlessly onto your back, the weight of him pressing you into the bed. An unfamiliar ache blooms between your thighs and your legs fall open to welcome him closer. Your hips lift of their own accord, seeking out something you’re not even fully aware you want. All you can think is you never want K to stop, the feelings his hands and mouth pull from you are exquisite…

When K draws away you chase his mouth. He brushes the hair back from your face and stares down at you in wonder. “You’re the first person I’ve wanted to do this with,” he tells you and oh, there’s so much in that he doesn’t say and your heart breaks for him. You rub his bicep and you blink up at him, your gaze unfocused.

“I want you too,” you confess. “But… I’ve never-’ you start, the words dying in your throat. You’re embarrassed but he cups your jaw and watches you with a soft expression. Just like always, he seems to read what you don’t say.

“That’s okay,” he promises you. “I know how to make you feel good. Do you want me to?”

You’re about to cross a line with him, one you know you can’t come back from. This isn’t just seeking pleasure and comfort, it’s something deeper. A commitment. “Yes,” you admit, lifting your head to kiss him again. He moans and squeezes your sides before crawling down your body. He pushes your loose sleep shirt up to reveal your stomach, trailing his lips over the soft skin he finds there before continuing further south.

"I think about you all the time," he admits, kissing your thigh. "When I'm at work. When I'm at home. Even in my dreams," he continues, looking up at you through his golden lashes.

“I think about you too,” you confess, brushing your fingers over his head.

You expect some fear or maybe anxiety but all you feel is safe and comforted when he encourages you to lift your hips and pulls down your underwear and pants. Your shirt and sleep bra comes next until you’re laid bare before him. He stares at you, brows raise with a look of awe on his face. He cups your breasts and then smoothes his hands down your flank. He pulls his own shirt off and your mouth goes dry at the sight of his toned body. His skin is littered with scars and bruises but he’s beautiful. You reach out for him, running your fingers along the line of his shoulder, feeling him shiver.

K dips his head, the touch of his mouth to your most intimate part beyond what you ever could have imagined. He draws pleasure from you as easily as you draw breath. You sigh and gasp, tugging on the short strands of his hair as he learns your body. You feel almost dizzy when the dam breaks and joy washes under your skin. He doesn’t stop until he has wrung every last drop and you fall back against the bed, breathless. He crawls up to kiss you, mouth warm and sure, anchoring you to him and this moment.

It’s easy to open yourself up to him, to let him pour himself into you over and over again. Pain comes and fades out, each kiss and whispered promise makes your body soft and pliant for him. You draw him close, his jaw warm and firm as you map his face with your hands. Dawn breaks over the city, flooding the room with golden hues and K looks like an angel above you, haloed by light.

You stare into his blue eyes as you climb higher and higher together. You don’t need words here, just him and the way he moves above you and inside you. He almost looks anguished as he strains and pants, pressing his forehead to yours. You hold tightly to him, eyes sliding closed as something beautiful unfurls inside and everything goes quiet.

You come back to yourself slowly, encouraged by the soft drag of K’s hands along your sides. He stares down at you, the open concern on his face a surprise. “I’m okay,” you promise him, feeling his body relax at your words.

He draws away only to lay down beside you and rest his head on your naked chest. Just like last night, he rubs his cheek against your skin and you curl an arm around his shoulder, feeling a tremor pass through your body. Physically you feel calm and relaxed but your mind buzzes with a hundred different emotions and feelings.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you begin, gathering the courage to say what you want. "But, I love you.” The words have lived inside you for a while and you know this is the time to speak them. It could be your only chance and you need him to know what he means to you. “You don’t have to say anything back… just know that I do.”

K shifts against you but he doesn’t speak. You squeeze your eyes closed and draw in a breath as your fingers continue to stroke his bare back. When you turn your head to look out the apartment window you see the dust particles caught up in the streams of morning light. You watch them float and fall, realizing K may never feel the same for you. Deep down, as much as it hurts, you think you can live with that. As long he knows he’s more than just a blade runner -or a thing- to you. He’s as human as any other man you know.

You close your eyes and soak up his warmth and closeness. Even though you woke not long ago you're tired all over again, on the edge of sleep. You’re barely aware of the outside world, concentrating only on the feeling of K's fingers brushing over your hips.

"I love you too,” he whispers.

♡

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#ryan gosling #officer k x reader #officer k imagine #officer k #blade runner 2049 #blade runner fanfic

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drivinmeinsane · 3 months

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{ Eyes Always Seeking }

1/3 ※ Officer K (BR 2049) x Sierra Six (The Gray Man) ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

next chapter -»

※ Summary: Unpleasantly, K feels the return of the drowning sensation he had felt earlier. It is almost as though someone had placed a mirror in front of him in a dream. The reflection is him, but distinctly not. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Canon-typical violence, Descriptions of a Crime Scene, Eye Horror, Descriptions of Injury, Frottage, Handjobs, Implied Reoccurring Sexual Abuse by a Supervisor, Emotional Hurt, Identity Issues, References to Greek Mythology, Hand Holding ※ Word count: 4,789 ※ Status: Chapter 1 / Complete ※ Author's note: I would have had this chapter up and ready to go sooner but the Saw franchise came into my life like a brick through a window. 😔 K and Six are close to being my Roman empire alongside Driver and Ken. I hope ya'll enjoy this pairing as much as I do. ※ Song inspiration: Like Real People Do - Hozier

Rice today. Not steaming, just cold and forming a congealing lump in the corner. There had been some sort of sad attempt at vegetables to go with it, but those had long since been further pulverized between K’s teeth and swallowed down. Currently on his fork is the last chunk of grub protein. It had been textured and flavored to look and taste like chicken. The replicant can’t vouch for the authenticity of it. Real poultry was something only the wealthy could dream of.

The tines of the metal fork are barely between his parted lips when Joi glitches to a halt, frozen mid sentence. She is “sitting” on window ledge, in the midst of prattling on about the breeds of chickens she might like to keep if they had the space. Privately, K thinks he might like to keep bees in another life.

A telltale chime of an incoming call seems to come from Joi’s open mouth, eking out past her teeth. It’s his madam. He knows it before the popup flashes to life to the left of his pretend wife’s face. There’s no one that would call him other than Lieutenant Joshi. He lets his fork clatter into the container, bite untaken.

“Accept call,” he addresses the projection.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your night. I’m sure you have plans.” Joshi’s voice sounds wrong, insincere, coming from Joi’s frozen figure. He averts his eyes, stares at the table so he doesn’t have to look at the mockery.

“Of course not, Madam.” K shoves down the ball of emotions that want to burst out of his chest like a living, breathing creature and keeps his tone free of anything resembling bitterness. She knows that she’s not interrupting anything. Even if she were, it wouldn’t make any difference. He’s always at her disposal for any whim. She owns his time. Owns him.

“I’m having you meet up with another officer. I’ll send over the coordinates. An informant tipped us off to a possible meeting place for some of the skinjobs we’ve been searching for. I need you to go sniffing around out there. See what you find. Might be nothing, might be a whole lot of something.

“Yes, Madam,” he agrees, getting to his feet. His body is thoughtlessly obeying.

“And, K? The officer.” He reflexively looks up at the sound of his name. “He’s one of your kind,” his madam says, ending the call. K stands beside his vacated chair, stunned. He accidentally ignores his pretend wife when she tries to resume their playacting like she hadn’t been stalled. Joi is talking, flitting around him with buzzing touches of her slender hands, but it feels as though he’s under water.

He tells himself that the details don’t matter, that who, or rather what, he works with is of no consequence. A job is a job. The officer forces his mind to compartmentalize as he goes through the motions of readying himself for night ahead. He is proficient at digging in the earth of his mind and laying thoughts in shallow graves. It keeps him out of retirement.

Mind carefully blank, he sets the remnants of his dinner inside the small refrigeration unit. His stomach needs to be as empty as it can be for this. If K had had more warning, he simply would not have eaten yet.

Once in the main room again, he “kisses” Joi goodbye before turning off the console responsible for her. The hard line unit that crosses the ceiling shrinks back into a neutral position like a kenneled animal. There’s no emulator to take her with him. Not yet. Soon. He’s only a few more payouts away.

K moves further down the hall that makes up the entryway. With slightly unsteady fingers, he pulls his long coat off of the peg and shrugs the reassuring weight of it over his shoulders. He checks the firearm in his holster. It’s firmly tucked into the synthetic leather, nothing amiss. He hadn’t bothered to take his equipment off before dinner, having had an uneasy feeling. Intuition had evidently been working behind the scenes. He’s already wearing his boots, usually is unless he’s in bed or in a rare state of undress. K prefers to avoid the feeling of cold tile against the bottoms of his feet. Satisfied that he is as prepared as as he is going to get, the replicant slides the door open and exits his apartment unit.

The stairs are as treacherous as always. They are perpetually overcrowded and K is resigned to knowing that the milling throng is on the cusp of a riot every time they are reminded that yes, he does exist and, yes he lives in this building alongside them. Conditions are not much better once he steps out in the neon lit glow of the night. He flips his collar up and fastens it shut against the smog and the near constant freezing rain. It’s a short walk to the parking garage where he keeps his spinner. It, like the apartment and his firearm, had been provided as a courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.

He presses his fingertip to onto the door lock for the spinner. It beeps in acknowledgment, releasing the latch and letting the door swing upwards. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before shoving himself into the pilot’s seat and slamming it closed. The replicant’s tumultuous emotions are not so suppressed that they don’t bleed out into his actions. He’s never been paired with another of his kind before. He was made to go solo. Organics don’t trust groups of them, not since the rebellion, the riots. Pack hunters would be too dangerous even with the compulsion for obedience woven into their assembled DNA. There’s a part of him that’s almost excited, being on the same side for once.

The spinner’s systems light up with the touch of a button. As soon as the computer screen comes online, K checks his messages to find that his madam did send over the coordinates as promised. It only takes a few taps of his fingers to get the GPS running. He straps himself in, harness material digging uncomfortably across his chest, and manually steers the vehicle out of the garage and off of the pavement. Once he reaches cruising altitude, he sets it on autopilot. The spinner can handle itself until he reaches his destination.

During the flight, Officer K studies the provided aerial photos of the location. Nothing of note to see, he memorizes the layout all the same. It never works out to be surprised. He makes notes of where the other officer parked, and unable to help himself, he looks for details on the replicant. His efforts only muster up a number, no photo. A Nexus 9, but so is K and most other police controlled replicants these days. They needed to be stronger, faster; more capable than the older models. Bred for compliance. No mistakes. No abnormalities. Never a state of life too late to cull.

A beeping sound draws him from his contemplation, the spinner has delivered him. He flips off the autopilot and puts his hands on the wheel. He puts the machine down next to the other officer’s on a patch of broken up concrete. It was an old parking lot for what his implicit tells him was a store. It’s nothing but a shell now, roof blown off and the walls crumbling in the acidic elements. Despite the ruin, it still serves to hide them from the more intact warehouse behind it. He ducks out of the spinner into the open air the moment the door lock releases. He pauses for a moment to lean back into the vehicle to deploy his parrotfish. Having it in the air provides a sense of relief. It ensures less work and more security if things go sideways outdoors.

He straightens up and casts a critical look at his surroundings. There is no one else around that he can see. The other spinner is unoccupied, but something catches his attention. There is something written in the growing flakes on top of the other officer’s vehicle. Closer examination reveals that it’s a crudely done map, clearly traced out with a fingertip. It depicts two rectangles and a triangle. There are dashed lined leading from the triangle to the closer of the two rectangles. At the end of the line is an X. Presumably, the map is saying that the other replicant left the spinner and looped around the side of the defunct store and will be waiting at the corner of that building to have a line of sight to the warehouse they are charged with investigating. K feels thankful. This will save him hassle in locating his assigned companion.

A faint shadow passes over K and the map he’s still staring at. He looks up to see that the parrotfish from the spinner is doing lazy circles. His has joined in on the motion. The effect is of two vultures circling a carcass. It would be a bad omen for someone superstitious. Good thing he wasn't made to be.

K follows the barely visible trail in the slush. Deep boot tracks, likely from a male judging from the size of the footwear and the length of the stride. They match his own in a way that makes his stomach roll. Before long, he registers a figure leaning against the wall right where the map had indicated. The other replicant’s head is turned in the direction of the warehouse. Snow has settled over the shoulders of the jacket in a similar thickness to the spinner’s dusting.

There is no reaction from the replicant, even though K knows that the other officer has to be aware of his prescience. He had not been making any effort to mask the sucking sounds of his boots in the slush.

“KS6-2.8.” K’s tone is neutral. It’s not a polite greeting. There is no need for one. They’re here on business and neither is superior to the other. Both came from an artificially constructed womb.

The other replicant turns.

Unpleasantly, K feels the return of the drowning sensation he had felt earlier. It is almost as though someone had placed a mirror in front of him in a dream. The reflection is him, but distinctly not. His mirror image has neatly trimmed facial hair where K has nothing but thick stubble. There are faint crow’s feet by his eyes that K hasn’t aged into yet. If he even gets the opportunity. More startling is a glaring similarity, one that he never would’ve expected. They have the same misalignment of their eyes, the same sagging eyelid. Their genetic source must have had the same flaw.

“KD6-3.7. You’ve been briefed?” The other '9 asks. Nothing is given away on his face. If he’s surprised to see himself looking back into his eyes, he doesn’t show it.

“Yes.” K feels his lips twist up in a smile that seems friendly enough if you don’t look too close. The other officer raises an eyebrow. He’s not fooled. K drops the smile, his eyes harden. His companion’s jaw is working, he’s chewing on something. Tobacco? Gum? Seems like he’s not without his own vices. K supposes that they all must do something to feel a little more human, a little more real.

“You ready? The lead’s not going to get any fresher,” K says as a follow-up when the silence drags on longer than he would like.

KS6-2.8 only nods. The other replicant pushes off the wall and trudges through the ankle deep snow, leading the way. It’s disconcerting watching him. K gets the uneasy sensation he’s watching his own body walk away from him. The hair is longer and the muscles are bulkier, but all the same…

The only sounds to accompany them are the sloppy crunch of their footfalls and the crackling flapping of plastic sheeting somewhere in the distance. They reach the front of the warehouse only to realize that it’s completely blocked off with layers upon layers of chain link. It must have been taken from the building’s product cages. There are no windows.

A low grumble gets K’s attention drawn back to his fellow officer. The other replicant signals him to follow with a crook of his gloved fingers. He’s taking the lead and K knows he should probably find issue with that, but he doesn’t. He is willing to be obedient, for now. It must be the novelty of working alongside someone who doesn’t have the room to maintain a moral high ground.

Once around the corner and at the back of the warehouse, the replicants split up. K briskly angles himself at the loading docks while his assigned partner checks the back door to see if it can be pried open from the outside. He spots a slightly raised loading door. It’s likely wedged fast, but there should be enough clearance for at least him to slide under. With any luck, the additional bulk of his fellow Nexus 9 shouldn’t prohibit him from getting through as well.

No ladder. K quietly whistles to get KS6-2.8’s notice. The response is immediate.

“Got something?” The other replicant asks, moving to stand alongside him. There is a yawning cavern of space between them. It doesn’t feel right.

“Open door.” K responds, a jerk of his head at the sheet metal in question.

With nothing more than a quiet grunt, KS6-2.8 drops into a crouch and offers his cupped hands to him. K accepts the boost, as foreign as the assistance is. Once on the platform, he offers his hand and hauls the other replicant up. There is something comforting about their interlocked hands. K drops it as soon as the other officer is settled and scrambles under the door. The rubber seal catches on the back of his coat. His partner joins him shortly.

The loading area is unlit. Dark. Without the moon’s light bouncing off the snow, K can make out the faint, golden glow of KS6-2.8’s pupils. There are still are still traces of the older generations in them both. If K were sentimental, he would say that his predecessors were something like family. Good thing he wasn't made for that either.

K’s boot catches on something and he stumbles. The concrete floor is littered with old, torn scraps of nylon rope and shreds of plastic wrap. The wood pallets that would have filled this place are long gone. Used for firewood most likely. There’s nothing of apparent value left.

They push their way through into the main part of the warehouse. The shelving has been moved to form corridors. It’s a maze, one with a high possibility of some entity stalking them in these enclosed paths. There is a faint glow accompanied by an odor that makes the hair on the back of K’s neck stand up. Without saying anything, both replicants work their way in that direction. It's slow going. They have to inch sideways in some areas, their shoulders too broad otherwise. K irrationally imagines unraveling a ball of yarn to mark their way out.

The smell is getting worse the closer they get to the light. Bile threatens to rise in his throat alongside the bites of dinner he had swallowed down not even a handful of hours ago. No amount of jobs will ever desensitize him to this. K does not have the stomach for this career. Not that it matters. He was made not to protest.

It’s as though they hit a wall of heat and rot when they breach the center of the maze. Both officers can only stand shoulder to shoulder and take it all in. Bodies circle a gasoline heater, tucked into makeshift beds on the floor. They’ve all been dead for a while. The decomposition appears to be consistent among them all. Mass killing? Suicide? They are all naked.

There is a lit lantern sitting on top of the heater. K can’t believe that the place hasn’t blown. Realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning.

“CO2 poisoning, you think?” asks the replicant at his side, echoing his silent epiphany.

“Probably.”

As one, they spread out into the room. While K turns off the heater, cutting the supply of carbon monoxide being pumped into the warehouse, KS6-2.8 checks each decomposing face. K watches as he holds open the right eyelids of each body to make sure they all still have the eye necessary for their investigation. For each replicant he checks, the other officer reads off numbers taken from one of the files that had been provided to them. There’s no data pad in sight, he might have memorized each face’s corresponding numerical designation.

K knows that they will still have to take the eyes in order for Joshi to be satisfied. Anyone can change their face with enough money and the decomposition is too advanced for their field scanners to read the slowly deflating eyeballs here at the scene. K is mostly just thankful they have eyes left at all. It makes things easier. Replicants rarely receive dental care. The chances of identifying them by their teeth are slim to none.

While he is in the midst of pulling out a roll of evidence bags from an inside pocket, he catches a glimpse of his partner suddenly going stiff and standing up from his crouch beside one of the bodies. He doesn't have the time to question the other replicant. There is a sudden, crushing pain in his side and the edges of his vision go dark. He crumples to the grimy floor and tries to struggle to his feet as his assailant is knocked away by KS6-2.8. His head is ringing. The image of a glowing, white fountain materializes in his scrambled vision. Bile clouds his throat before he realizes that it's only the lantern.

K stands, shakier than he would like, and gets his breathing under control. The scene unfolding before him is disconcerting. KS6-2.8 is wrestling with their attacker, clearly another replicant judging by the way he’s managing to hold out even slightly against K’s fellow officer. K reckons that he must be an older generation given that he’s gradually losing ground. He’s missing the final edge to make it a truly even fight. Despite the disadvantage, the replicant manages to shove KS6-2.8 hard enough that the officer’s foot goes straight through the chest cavity of one of the rotting replicants. Their would-be killer lets out a howl that drowns out any protest from K’s partner, as violent and earsplitting as if it had been his chest that was caved in. K’s fellow ‘9 is forced to let himself fall backwards into the soupy embrace of another corpse as the assailant takes wild swings at his face with a sharp piece of metal produced from a pocket of his ragged jacket. A rudimentary knife.

Still disoriented, K doesn’t think before he pulls his gun out of his shoulder holster and shoots. A red mist signals that the bullet found its mark. The attacking replicant is still alive, even as he falls to his knees and slumps over KS6-2.8. K didn’t shoot to kill. He has questions.

A few strides has him standing over the two replicants. He fists his hand in the back of the assailant's jacket and pulls him off of his companion. His gun is re-holstered and he’s not gentle when he hauls the replicant to his feet. Blood pulses hotly from the wound that K inflicted, soaking through a scarf that is tightly wrapped around his neck. He’s bleeding out. Rapidly. The bullet had nicked a carotid.

KS6-2.8 gets to his own feet with a groan, the back of his jacket soaked through with whatever liquids the dead replicant still had pooling in their body. He hooks his hand under the older gen.’s arm and together he and K shove him up against one of the shelving units forming the room. K holds their attacker steady as his partner slams the hand holding the scrap metal over and over into a shelf post until the replicant is forced to let it fall from his grasp with a clatter onto the concrete.

As soon as the makeshift weapon is out of the equation, K starts his questioning. “What are you doing here?”

Nothing, just a rasping breath. The replicant is wild eyed and frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal K had heard described in a decades old report. It had been from a time when there were still enough real, organic animals around to carry and spread the disease.

“What happened to the others?” He tries again.

That gets a response. “I saved them.”

“Saved them how?” K questions.

“I could have saved you too. But you wouldn’t let me. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams. Sweet dreams. Sweet… dreams…” The pinned replicant laughs and laughs and laughs, eyes wide and gleaming with a feverish shine.

Suddenly, he lunges at K, tearing out of his and KS6-2.8’s shared grip. The open maw reaches to snap closed on his nose, strings of saliva shining obscenely in the lantern light. His contact is stopped short by a bullet blazing through his left eye, blowing the back of his head open in a nightmarish spread. It’s over. Done. KS6-2.8 saw to that. K can taste the blood in his mouth. His hair is plastered flat with another one of his kind’s brain matter. They had encountered the beast in the maze, their very own Minotaur, and they had slaughtered it.

KS6-2.8 holsters his gun, trading it for a small knife taken from his pocket. He pries the eye out with steady fingers, severs the optic nerve. They let the dead replicant slump down against the shelf. He’s a warden over the eternally slumbering bodies. K retrieves the roll of bags he had dropped in the scuffle. He opens one and lets KS6-2.8 drop the severed eye inside before sealing it. He fills out information panel printed on the thin plastic with a pen that had been stashed inside his pants pocket.

Together, silently, they approach the nearest body in the circle. It is the one with the caved in chest cavity. They both crouch. K steadies the head while the other officer removes the leathery eye. He offers another bag. His partner drops it in. They repeat this same procedure three times before the silence is broken.

“Six.”

K looks up from the face he’s holding. The other replicant is looking at him, blue eyes unflinching. Blood is pooling in the hollow of the collarbone K can just barely see. A question is forming on his lips, but before K can bring it to life, the officer speaks again.

“KS6-2.8. Six.”

Oh. Warmth floods him. They are the same. Interlinked.

“K,” he responds. Something forbidden is clawing at him.

The other replicant, no, Six smiles. His teeth are a dazzling white in the gloom. Predatory. His canines are noticeably sharp compared to the rest of his teeth. They are like his. Would they feel the same as K’s own underneath his tongue? He shakes the thought off, buries it with hundreds of others, and they finish collecting the eyes.

While Six is occupied with a final survey of the rotting scene, K approaches the recently retired replicant. He kneels beside him for a moment, as though he’s paying graveside respects, before he reaches out and unwinds the blood soaked scarf from around his neck. If he still had his eyes instead of one taken and one shot out… well, K isn’t sure how he’d be looking at him. The fabric of the scarf is wet and gritty underneath his fingers, packed with old, infertile soil. He rolls it up and slips it into an inside pocket of his coat. It won’t be missed. He legitimizes his presence at the replicant’s side by picking up the makeshift knife off the floor and depositing it into an evidence bag.

Nothing else comes out of the darkness. There’s old trash strewn on the floors. They don’t find any more bodies, only the drag marks of old blood. It looks as though not all of them had gone peacefully in their sleep from the high concentration of carbon monoxide. Their attacker had gone mad in the dark. They find his ramblings on the walls. Some of it is carved into the material, some of it is painted on with substances they don’t want to address. It’s a manifesto of sorts. It seems like this might have been a splinter of a larger movement.

A team will have to be called in to photograph the scene. K will pour over the evidence later, put the pieces together. He’s going to be spending more time in the bullpen than anyone wants.

They leave the way they came, following an imaginary string. Their pockets are laden down with bags of stolen eyes. The weight of what they had experienced together is a heavier burden.

K slides under first the door first again. He doesn’t need to assist the other officer into standing but he does. Six’s hand is a comfort after what they had just done. The other officer holds on long enough to assist with K’s journey off the loading dock before letting go to drop down beside him.

They walk side by side, close enough that their bloody knuckles brush. K wants to take the other replicant’s hand, feel him finger to finger. He doesn’t dare, not under the open night sky.

“You okay?” Six asks.

“He cared about them.”

His partner’s stride doesn’t falter. He merely makes a noise. Agreement? Placation? K can’t tell. Neither of them can say anything more without tipping their hand and potentially revealing more than is safe.

“Are you?” K asks, biting down the rising tide of things he wants to say instead.

“It’s just another Thursday.”

K nods. He can relate to the sentiment.

They reach the spinners, K unlocks his and drops into the driver’s seat. Six leans against of the side of the vehicle while K powers it on. The LAPD logo appears on the screen. “Madam, please.” he tells the unit. It dials her. She picks up on the second ring.

“You’re a mess.” her tone is curt. Her eyes flick to where she can barely see the other replicant in the frame. Her severe expression deepens to a frown. “Report?”

“There was one survivor. He took the others to the retirement home. Weeks ago from the look of things.”

“Those his brains?” She asks.

“Yes, Madam.”

She makes a considering noise, “You or him?” she asks with a jerk of her head to the other officer.

“Both,” Six cuts in before K can answer. It gets a sigh from Lieutenant Joshi. She is going to have to make sure they both get a bonus. One that, by rights, should be solely Six’s since he was the one who put the final bullet in the old gen. K feels appreciation curl in his gut.

“We have all the eyes, Madam. Should we turn them into evidence or bring them to you directly?” K asks politely, seeking to soothe Joshi’s ire. He does not want a correctional visit from her. He vaguely wonders if the gore spattered vision of him will linger in the back of her mind and keep her at bay for a while. Will she imagine the squish of brain matter between her fingers when thinking about pushing his head down?

“Drop them off. I’ll send a team out for the rest. Come on back for your baselines.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Joshi ends the call, forehead creased with agitation. K recalls his parrotfish. A quick rap of the knuckles on the hood of the spinner and a nod is all the goodbye he gets from Six before the other replicant gets settled in his own spinner and goes through the necessary motions.

They take off, roughly in sync with one another. They are both going back to the LAPD headquarters.

His mind races with the passing city, alight with more curiosity than he should be feeling. Six is not what he expected. He knows that it nearly unheard of to come across another law enforcement owned Nexus with a shared face. The police departments don’t like their skinners to have matches. It complicates things. Their genetic code is engineered to result in different features, even from the same source DNA. They are meant to feel alone, to feel dreadfully distinct.

next chapter -»

#blade runner 2049 #br2049 #blade runner #blade runner 2049 fanfiction #officer k #kd6-3.7 #officer k fanfiction #the gray man #the gray man (2022)#sierra six #sierra six fanfiction #the gray man fanfiction #officer k x sierra six #ryan gosling #ryan gosling fanfiction #.my work #.my posts

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siryouarebeingmocked · 6 months

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Me: Boy, I sure enjoy this long form video about Blade Runner 2049. Me: I sure hope nothing goes wrong.

Video: Now, let's talk about gender. Lindsay "The Nostalgia Chick" Ellis—

Me: And there it is. The video guy talked about the straight men and gay women who Joi is supposedly meant to appeal to. He forgot bisexuals. Ironic for someone who leans progressive.

And it's possible there are Jois who are just supposed to be platonic technoparasocial friends and companions. There's probably male versions too. Incidentally, Tvtropes says people complained that 2049 had a lot of "male gaze" and fanservice. You know, the movie whose main protagonist is angsty Ryan Gosling in a cool coat. Who five different women hit on during the movie*. And the most famously "fanservicey" scene is actually

*Including his boss. Which would be considered a tad unethical by modern standards, but we've already seen that 2049's LAPD doesn't care much about employee harassment. Or maybe 'skinjobs' like Kay don't get the same protection.

#blade runner #cyberpunk #stupid #youtube

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ninjathrowingstork · 5 months

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Bitter Water: Prologue

SO HERE IT IS. I've been planning this whole thing for over a year now on the Goose Babes discord, and what started as a prologue introducing a few characters and plotlines turned into a whole novella.

Anyway.

Before that dusty farm and the tree, before the wooden horse and the questions that would tear his world apart, before Rick and Ana and Joi and the dream of being real and being loved, KD6-3.7 began his life as a Blade Runner alone. Caught between the programming coded into his cells and the other officers in the Department, he was alone and aware of how expendable his life was, until one other human in the LAPD stepped in, showing the replicant that maybe, maybe he could learn to find a way to live in the harsh world where he'd been placed.

_______________________________________________

Chapter 1.

He’d heard about the tall sergeant before that day, of course. He’d known enough about the station workings by then to stay unseen in the locker room, so the group of human officers didn’t see him.

“Flint? Yeah I was here when she joined, tall bony strip of a girl with hair that looked like it’d been hacked off with a bread knife. Walked in one day, demanded a job right there.”

“And they just-”

“‘Course they weren’t gonna, then a perp broke loose and I swear she didn’t blink clotheslining the sunovabitch and slamming him to the floor. Sarge at the time was impressed enough to recommend her to the academy and. . .” a pause K assumed the man was gesturing to make a point, “she’s been here since.”

“Damn. Really a nomad like they say?”

“That’s her story, and the getup she was in looked rough enough.”

“The test-”

“Oh they ran her through the old VK test sure enough, I got to watch for that one. Face as cold as that, anyone’d think she’s a skinner. Girl strides into the room like she’s hunting something, spins the chair around and slides down. Stared at the chief with this look like she’s seeing straight through him. Remember clear as day when they got to the question about eating a dog, and, I shit you not, kid’s got this expression that’s serious as a heart attack, and goes ‘if you’re down to eatin’ dog meat, you sure as fuck ain’t callin’ it a feast or sharin’ more ‘n you hafta.’ Think she scared the chief we had then, he didn’t run the test too far after that.”

There was. . . something, something uncomfortable about this story of the woman he saw commanding the dispatch desk at the precinct nearly every day having to prove her own humanity, and the rawness of her reply and all its implications. Before he could be discovered, KD6-3.7 slipped away.

He’d been new in the station then. He’d still been new, period, despite what his memories tried to tell him. It was a strange paradox, being new to the world and to oneself, with full knowledge of what that world held and that, in fact, he wasn’t his own, and barely a self. Having the memories of a childhood and a life, but knowing they were all, in fact, a lie. He’d been new, but not so new he didn’t know all too well what it meant to be a replicant in this world. What it meant when the eyes of the human members of the force lingered on him a little too long or sneering smiles curved a little too suggestively despite the muttered “skinjob” thrown at him. He’d known that he shouldn’t - couldn’t - fight back when rough hands dragged him into a closet or storeroom or empty corner. And he’d known that, no matter what they did to him, the only thing that mattered was if he could still do the work he’d been purchased for. All that mattered was to work the cases given to him, pass the tests they made him take in the little white room, and somehow make it back to the safety of the tiny, barren apartment he’d been given with the words of the mechanical voice still buzzing in his head.

Another day, another case wrapped up with him somehow still alive. Which, of course, meant another replicant was dead, and he was still breathing. It didn’t- couldn’t bother him. They were both just things, after all. Designed and created for a purpose and between the two of them, he was still following orders and was still alive because of that. The Lieutenant was happy about this and the marginally larger bonus he’d collected reflected that. It still wasn’t much, but added to his regular stipend it did slightly increase the small luxuries he might afford, like some real fruit or eggs or-

“Hey skinjob, where you going?”

Fuck. He was so close to escaping safely. Picking up speed he kept his eyes down and tried to make it to the doors out to the street.

“Slow down, just wanna have a chat with you for a minute.”

No good, Walters was making a beeline to cut him off and no one would look up or interfere as he was dragged back off into the station and he could still feel the man’s hands on his body and breath on his neck and the sting of the slap on his face and he couldn’t do this again, not today, not when he was still sore from the last time and the new layer of bruises from the fight today and the man was about to reach him no matter how fast he walked and no-one would look at them or meet his eyes because he barely ranked above a piece of gear to them and did they even know and-

“Officer K, a moment?”

The new voice snapped his attention off the door and his approaching ambusher, over to the dispatch desk and the tall redheaded woman. Off to his other side, across the lobby, Walters stopped, freezing under the cool gaze of the desk sergeant. With the slightest tilt of her head, she summoned him over and KD6.3-7 obeyed. Whatever she wanted from him had to be better than the other man’s intentions.

“Sergeant. . .Flint?”

“Officer, if you-”

“Heeey, Sarge!” The loud voice and beefy hand clapped on his shoulder would have made a human jump in surprise, instead K only winced internally. “My buddy here and I were just gonna have a word so if you don’t-”

“Actually, Officer Walters, I do mind. Officer K, If you wouldn’t mind waiting a minute, I just need to wrap up here and grab my coat, then I can join you as we’d planned. ”

As they’d planned? But they hadn’t-

The cool, flat gaze intensified with some meaning as her eyes found and held his and-

Oh. That she was helping him registered a heartbeat later, and there was a twinge as something behind his sternum twisted at the revelation. “I- I can wait. Thank you.”

“Over here,” another jerk of her head, the deep orange of her hair catching the fluorescent lights as she indicated the corner behind the desk, by the door to a small office. Wordlessly, he slipped from under the heavy grip on his shoulder, circling the desk to stand well out of the other man’s reach. The tall woman didn’t move, staring down Walters, challenging him to follow. For a long, tense moment, it seemed the larger man would push the subject, would try to drag him off again, but finally he backed down. He tried playing it off as a joke, but there was still a promise in his eyes before turning to leave. The tall sergeant beside him followed Walters out with her eyes, staring silently as he left. Then, with only a curt “wait here”, turned to duck into the small corner office. He was grateful she’d waited until the other man had left the room before stepping away, but said nothing as the woman returned, slipping on her long uniform-blue coat, shutting down the computer terminal with a few quick taps of the screen, then gesturing with her head for him to follow as she led the way out into the damp evening.

Silently, they wove through the busy city streets. He realized, numbly, that this might be the first time he’d ever made this walk with someone, though with hands shoved deep into pockets of a coat he’d have bet cost far more than his, considering the pay of a human and a sergeant, and a set to her chin, head high as she strode through the crowds as smoothly as a ship sliding through the waves, there was very little inviting or friendly about the stone-faced woman. Flint, he remembered . And she did live up to her name.

Her name. It hadn’t technically been her name before arriving here, he remembered. After that day in the lockers, he’d been curious about this woman, barely more than a girl when she’d walked in from the vast, dusty wilderness, who’d been so alien when she’d arrived, so different from the other recruits her age with her cold eyes and blank history that they’d thought she might be a replicant like him. He’d looked up the recordings of those interviews from when she’d arrived, scarcely a dozen years after the blackout. They showed the wiry girl with roughly cut hair falling choppily around her chin, the sharp angles of her face still reddened with windburn sitting in the stiff metal chair like she owned it. While the other officer had said she’d stared right through the old chief, had sounded like the young woman with mismatched, mended clothes and dirty boots, mouth set in a grim line had scared him, K only saw the defiant set of her chin and squared shoulders, and what had been described as empty eyes staring back at her interviewers he read as shuttered . Something nameless carefully hidden behind the set jaw and expressionless gaze as the interview began.

“So would you begin by stating your name?”

“Tamsin. Tam.” Her words were clipped.

“But do you have a last name? A family name?”

The ragged orange hair slid as she shifted on the chair. “Family name? Never had one, nor much of a family anymore, but my clan got called the Flints on account of our keepin’ to that area. . . so guess you can say my name’s Flint.”

He’d watched in curiosity as she just chose and had a name, like that.

“The Flints? Where might that be?”

“You know where Elephant Knees is?”

“Can’t say that I-”

“Then you won’t know where the Flints is will you?”

In the recording, the man across from her wrote something down, before reaching over and switching on the machine sitting between them on the desk. By now he knew what the old test was for - who it was for.

The young woman looked almost bored as the questions began.

“Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind. . . about your mother.”

The woman in the recording leaned back. “My Ma’s dead.”

“And is that a good thing?”

“She went down fightin’, so I guess it’s a good death. Saved my Da and a whole bunch’a others.”

“That’s not-”

“So ‘brave’ and ‘dead’, that good enough?”

The next question was about the dog, and the interview, again, ended soon after. By the time the recording ended, though, he’d put a name to whatever it was she’d shut away

Anger.

Only eyes that could read the most fractional second of expression would have seen it, that seething well of rage smoothed over by the mask as stoney as her chosen name.

That trace of anger was back now, still masked by the proud lift of her head and straight back as she led him through the dark, damp streets and post-work crowds.

But was she angry at him, or at Walters? Having her angry at him for having to help, to keep him from being damaged while not on duty was bad, but he’d take whatever the grim woman might be planning over what he knew would have awaited without her intervention. There was no choice either way; he’d do whatever she ordered regardless of any personal opinions or feelings regarding the commands (he wasn’t a person, and his makers had seen fit to not allow him feelings either, after all)

They walked in silence for several blocks, sliding through the evening crowds and the damp and the ambient glow of the holo-signs projected into the air. Walking with her was different, he was beginning to notice; where before he’d be at best ignored and at worst stared at or harassed in the streets, the throng of people unconsciously parted for her, and as they entered the market street a few even glanced over at her, nodding in recognition.

She’d been around for a long time and she must get recognized a lot around here. She was distinctive, standing scarcely a few inches shorter than his own height, and despite the severe twist holding back her hair, the coppery red was a vivid contrast against the dreary streets.

“You hungry?”

He nearly missed the question, between the noisy dinnertime foot traffic and his own thoughts. “Hungry? I’m-”

“Never mind, I don’t expect you to have to answer that much. C’mon” Twisting on one boot heel, she turned suddenly, ducking into a corner restaurant as he took a quick step to catch up. Restaurant was an exaggeration, since the place was barely more than a space out of the rain to stand and order food from the counter, but it was still a step up from his usual automat meals. K silently eyed the menu, calculating how much of his last bonus a meal here would leave him with or how to tell his rescuer this was more than he could spend on one meal, with what his normal stipend was before bonuses for cases closed when the sergeant leaned in as she ordered at the counter in perfect Japanese. That hadn’t been in her file. The moment of surprise distracted him just long enough to miss what she’d actually said and he was prepared to make his excuses from ordering when she turned back a moment later, holding two paper containers of teriyaki chicken over fried rice.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but I-I cant-”

“Hey, just shut up and take this” and he reflexively accepted the shallow tray shoved in his direction.

“Thank you, but I can’t pay-”

“Already paid, it’s on me.”

Before he could argue, she strode out the door, leaving him to follow in the wake of her coat hem.Outside, they stopped at a recently-vacated standing table tucked in the corner under an awning. He felt that strange sensation behind his sternum as before; he felt like he’d been hit, except not. . . As Flint dug into her food, he waited a moment, expecting her to say something, wondering if he was supposed to, then the smell of the synth-chicken made up his mind and he dug in as well.

Officer Kd6-3.7 couldn’t remember when- or if- he’d ever had food so good

Together, they ate in silence, and the whole time he waited for the woman to get to the point, to finally say why she’d intervened and stood up to protect him, to protect a skinjob when no one had before. He waited for the other shoe to drop, for her to say what she wanted from him, but the food was warm and for once he wasn’t alone and if she’d said she planned to take him home, take him somewhere private and use him like all the others had, for once, he might actually enjoy it. With the dinner she’d bought him, it might feel like a real date (He might feel like a real person).

But she said nothing, and still in silence they finished their meals and disposed of the containers, and in silence she led him back into the swirl of the crowds. They walked, still in silence, but something between them had shifted; the angry tension she’d carried before had vanished, and instead she walked alongside him, hands shoved into her coat pockets. She was careful not to touch him, he noted; even back in the restaurant she’d pulled her hand back from his before their fingers could brush, and now with hands buried in her pockets she kept a careful distance from him so even their elbows couldn’t brush, and he wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or disappointed.

At last, she led him up onto a bridge over a sunken road, elevated above the street around it. It wasn’t much of a bridge but just the smallest break in the press of the city around them. Silently, she stopped them, leaning back against the old, pillared railing.

“I come up here in the evenings sometimes, when I just need a minute with my thoughts.”

It was the most casually she’d spoken, and the casual tone caught him off guard. He waited for the sergeant to continue, but she only gazed out over the opposite bridge railing. Carefully, he tried read her expression in the glow of the streetlights and neon signs, but while she was more relaxed than he’d ever seen, her face was a still, angular mask.

“Why’d you help me, back there?” It was more direct and bold than he’d been with any human that he could remember, but he needed to know.

She stared off at the gleaming, dirty buildings, the lights reflecting on the hazy night sky, and for a moment he thought she might not answer.

“I’m. . . not,” it was slow and each word considered, “not from here, didn’t grow up in this city either.” It was right, he hadn’t grown up really, unless you went by his synthetic, false childhood.

Her speech had slid back into the rougher drawl of the girl in the recording as she spoke. “There were times in my early years here when assholes tried’t corner me also, and my jus’ bein’ a wild nomad from the badlands weren’t enough to keep ‘em away. Didn’t know shit about me, just that I was alone, with’n no folks or connections to protect me. Then I had to fight, threaten to break bones a few times ‘afore they wised up and backed off.” At last, she pulled her gaze off the distant sky, looking sideways at him. “But I know that ain’t gonna be an option for you, can’t raise a hand against another officer or defy orders from a superior. Some shit in your programming, conditioned obedience and that.”

That wasn’t it, really, but he wasn’t about to correct her.

“Not like that bastard wouldn’t play it up if you could fight back, say how you went psycho on him or something, get you ‘retired’ and try it all again on your replacement.” Her voice had dropped, low and even as she stared straight out over the busy market.

Maybe, he realized, she did understand. But knowing and being able to do more than buy him dinner were different.

“Point is, you’re on the force to do a specific job and that’s not whatever their sick power trip fantasy is.

There was more to it, some deeper motivation in her kindness, his detective skills, so tightly coded and honed in a far-off lab and specifically engineered into him were screaming, but she was human and he had no call to press the question. It was enough for tonight that he’d gotten out of the station safely, and the company, her protection, were enough that he wasn’t going to push too far into her motives. She might still lead him off somewhere, maybe a rented room, but after her story that seemed less likely.

Belatedly, he realized he’d been silent too long. “Thank you.” His own voice still felt strange and too-quiet sometimes.

“Jus’ doing the right thing.”

A hand landing lightly on his shoulder nearly made him twitch away from the contact, but the fingers didn’t dig in or try to shove him to his knees, she merely rested her hand on the shoulder of his thick coat, his barrier against the world.

“You don’t deserve havin’ to just let them do that to you. Don’t deserve that shit, and don’t deserve not bein’ able to fight back or say no.”

She was wrong, he knew. He let his gaze slide down to his hands, resting on the grime-covered concrete of the railing. He wasn’t really a person, after all, only an alphanumeric designation for a tool that came with preprogrammed limiters and safety features to keep him from going crazy like older models and turning all his carefully designed skills against his owner, the LA Police Department and any of its officers. Not a person at all.

Still, the warmth of her hand was seeping through the fabric of his coat, and it was an effort to not lean into the touch as they stood together in silence.

Eventually, again in silence, she led him off the bridge and back into the press of bodies on the darkened streets. The light misting of rain when they’d left the station picked up, and together, he pulled up the high, warm collar of his coat, and she, the deep hood on hers. The silence between them had changed again, the earlier tension gone and they walked close enough for elbows to almost, but not quite brush. He still questioned why she was even bothering to look at him, much less feed him and be kind to him . The things she’d said on the bridge, things he’d never been told much less could even allow himself to believe (he’d known what he was since the hour his gestational sac had been slit opened, and learned what all came with that life in the disorienting, terrifying days that followed), he knew he didn’t want the way the world treated him, but he also knew it mattered very little what he really wanted. Still, as they walked through the rainy night, it seemed that he might not have to worry too much what someone wanted from him, judging by how the evening had gone so far.

If his reflexes had been any slower, he’d have stumbled over her as they stopped beside a doorway, and, he realized in surprise, she’d led him to his own building. Of course she’d known where he lived, he realized. This has to be it, she’s decided where she wants me. The little apartment was his refuge, where he let himself finally relax and maybe feel safe for once in his facsimile of a life, but if she wanted to take him back to his home and use him there, he’d go and tell himself it was just a normal date like normal people do and she’d bought him dinner and been kind if she wanted the fantasy of going home with someone else then who was he to object?

“Officer, I believe this is your building?”

Her question took him aback. “My. . .? Yes, this is it.”

“Ok, then this is where our paths split.” And with that, she half-turned to leave.

Just like that? “You don’t-” the words were out before he could second-guess them.

Half turning back, she gazed at him questioningly, the dark of her hood showing little more than her eyes. “I can walk you to your door, that is, if you don’t think you’ll be safe?”

Safe? He could have laughed, if he’d known how. He never was really safe, but it was also grimly ironic that he, a blade runner, might actually need someone else’s protection in his own building. But still. . . “I- I thought you might. . . after tonight. . .” It sounded foolish, saying what he’d thought she’d intended after how she’d treated him.

“Officer,” and there was a new warmth in her voice, “whatever you’re thinking I want from you, I promise all this was to make sure you made it out of the station and home in one piece. Now are you gonna be ok getting up to your place from here?”

He thought of the jeers and sidelong looks, of the writing scrawled on his door most nights. Still, they’d never gone beyond that. “I’ll. . . I’ll be alright from here, thank you, sergeant.”

For a moment as she looked back, there was something complicated and unreadable in her eyes, then she nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching in the approximation of a smile. “Then good night, officer.” And she was turning again, her shape soon lost in the dark and the rain.

She’d said it was only getting him home safely, but as the door to the small, bare apartment slid shut behind him and he allowed himself to finally relax as he started his usual, solitary evening routing, he couldn’t shake the thought that it had meant so, so much more.

#blade runner #blade runner 2049 #officer K #officer kd6-3.7 #kd6 3.7 #cyberpunk

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chimpanzeedotcom · 1 year

Note

“Baked beans fish and chips” yeeh you’re a proper skinjob innit

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juicifrost · 7 months

Text

I really want to eat the chunks.

I played about three hours of Starfield yesterday (which is to say I played it up until it CTD'd on me and then I went to bed). I did the first "dungeon," an abandoned research lab overtaken by space bandits, got to the first city, and then walked around and explored it for the rest of the evening. Which is to say I did not play very much of Starfield, mostly of my own accord. Skyrim trained me to play videogames wrong, as a joke. Sarah told me we were about to advance the plot, and I responded, "No the fuck we're not."

This game sure has some Bethesda-ass NPCs. I went into a coffee shop and found a guy who was just absolutely heartbroken that someone he knew had stolen a priceless gem from him, and he told me all the fuck about it. It was a relic from earth, he's obsessed with earth relics, and he had a plate from earth he was willing to part with if the thief would trade it for his gem. When he mentioned this plate, I pictured maybe a nice piece of china, or maybe some kind of plastic novelty plate with a sports team or Spiderman on it, or maybe he was misusing "plate" to mean like the panel of a car or something. But no, it was a generic-ass orangey-yellow dinner plate.

Bethesda NPCs have always been a little janky, a little awkwardly animated, but Starfield has taken that to truly upsetting extremes. Everyone moves like a Chuck-e-Cheese animatronic. It's deeply uncanny, and the level of graphical fidelity doesn't help. When Skyrim's animations looked bad, they looked cartoonish and robotic, like the Honda Asimo -- clearly inhuman, but charming in its attempt to create the facsimile of humanity. When Starfield's NPCs look bad, it's like watching your coworker drop the masquerade and reveal his identity as a skinjob.

Kris Wolfheart made a remark on Twitter not too long ago about people who play videogames to "knock over apples and then stare at them." I think Bethesda's games practically invite you to do that with them, and it doesn't do them any favors. (I don't want to dwell on this specific topic too much; I haven't played enough of the game to critique it along this specific vector.) When you open up your inventory, you're treated to a full-screen render of each item in it, a nice big close-up so you can look at all the details of the fuckin'… empty vape or Capri Sun or rifle you just picked up. The spiders in my brain want to dig onto every residence and shopfront and office and abandoned research outpost and shit I find, look at how their clutter is laid out and just nitpick the shit out of it from an aesthetic and narrative standpoint. Like I said, I don't want to harp on this point too much, but Skyrim and especially Morrowind have taught me some bad habits, and I worry their (read: morrowind's) attention to detail and worldspace design have written a check that Starfield can't cash.

#starfield #i want to know what they feel like in the mouth #like it's all synthetic space food so how badly do they fuck up the textures of the foods they're trying to emulate #the cake one is probably fine #but the steak one? the chunk of wine? that shit is fucked and there's no way it's not

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mlmxreader · 2 years

Text

If You Don't Shut Your Mouth... | Officer K x m!reader

Anonymous asked: Officer K x male!reader. Just pure dom K "Don't be a mouthy prick this time, yeah?" "Sit down. Shut up." 🏎

summary: K likes putting you in your place, he enjoys it, but he never plays fair.

tws: Dom/Sub, swearing, choking

MINORS DNI

Oh, K hated it. He hated it when you would go on your rants and about and swear and not give a single fuck who you were talking to; but then again, he only hated it because he knew how much trouble it could get you in - especially when he was still employed as a blade runner. Still, he didn't say anything about it and he didn't do anything about it despite his colleagues demanding him to, "put your boyfriend in his fucking place, skinjob" was a common comment and K often said he would talk to you about it but never actually would outside of telling you what was said. He only hated it because you were putting yourself in the line for trouble - if it was some random guy in the street, though, K often found himself smiling a little and even trying not to laugh at how they would back up; usually that was reserved for the idiots on street corners who talked lowly and insultingly about replicants. They always shut up when a human squared up to them, and K saw that every time you started mouthing off.

But there was a difference between you going off like a gun at some cunt who deserved it, and you getting bratty towards K; it wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, and K was quite happy to put you in your place when need be. In fact, when you were being a brat and you were running your mouth, he was actually overjoyed at being able to put you in your place; his own boyfriend, suddenly so apologetic and promising to behave, if only K would kiss him. The little game was played well, and played often - although it was hardly ever fair.

Some old metal songs were playing throughout the little flat, the likes of Slipknot and Judas Priest and Sabaton and Cradle Of Filth and Cannibal Corpse, and although K was trying to get things done - namely the cooking and the cleaning - you were insistent on being an absolute brat; you would beg for his attention, you would break rules that the two of you had agreed on a long time ago, you would talk back to him. The talking back was what got him going, when he told you to shut up, you would spit back something else and he was getting closer and closer to snapping at you and to actually putting you in your fucking place.

"Go fucking sit over there."

"I ain't fucking going anywhere," you grinned. "You'll have to make me."

Enhanced strength was an ally and a blessing, and K didn't need to think twice as he grabbed you; hoisting you over one shoulder and carrying you over to the bed before sitting you down at the edge of it, his glare so fucking burning that for a split second you wondered if he was human like you.

You smiled, licking your lips.

"Sit down. Shut up." He growled.

"It's always sit down, shut up," you started, moving to lie down with your back against the pillows as you cocked a brow and put on that fucking cocky attitude you knew got him going better than anything. "Sit down, shut up. It's always the same shit. You can't make me do anything, K. You can't make me do fuck all."

Clenching his jaw, K shook his head as he dared to make his way over, straddling your waist and putting one hand at the base of your throat, the other against the wall to steady himself as he dropped his voice to merely a low growl. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said, you can't make me do fuck all," you told him, one hand at the back of his neck, the other gripping his shirt as you tilted your head to the side. "You can't even make me shut up."

Rolling his eyes, K dared to move his hand up a little, letting it rest directly on your throat, his fingertips able to feel your steady pulse as he looked down at your lips for a split second; he didn't need to think, diving in and kissing you so harshly that you immediately kissed him back and tugged at his shirt to get him closer. Fuck, he made you dizzy. The harshness and quickness of the kiss had your head spinning, and when he gently applied some pressure to your throat, you couldn't bite back the moan that escaped you; letting him slip his tongue between your lips as you let him overwhelm you. Overpower you. Dominate you. Turn you into a needy mess for him.

He pulled away, biting at your bottom lip. "I have things to do. Let me do them, and don't be a mouthy prick this time, yeah?"

You nodded slowly. "Can I have another kiss, please?"

"No." He broke away completely.

"Oh, fuck you!" You huffed, and at the sound of his laughter, you shook your head. "You don't play fair, Officer."

"And you're a mouthy brat," he pointed out. "What? Do you want me to put you in your place properly?"

"I'd actually quite like that," you admitted. "I'm not gonna promise good behaviour. But I'd like that."

K grumbled. "I'll think about it. Just watch your mouth, or else."

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; spam likers WILL be blocked. as will blogs that refuse to reblog or to give feedback. if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG

#mlem writes #officer k imagine #officer k x reader #officer k #blade runner fanfiction #blade runner fanfic #blade runner 2049 #blade runner #ryan gosling #ryan gosling imagine #ryan gosling x reader

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squaunch · 1 month

Audio

Anhören/Kaufen: Skinjob von Hatred Surge

#bandcamp

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noodleblade · 11 months

Text

Chance and Unlikely Circumstance 4/6

(chapter centered around the episode The Human Factor)

Previous Part AO3 Link

Smokescreen watched the slow, steady tick of his chronometer in absolute silence. At night, along the dusty stretch of highway, there was not a single sound save for the occasional gust of wind kicking up the arid sand. It hissed as it dragged along his frame, leaving microscopic scratches in his finish.

“Premium grade liquid wax would help sustain the integrity of your finish; the skinjobs have mastered that, at least. You could do with a buff or two. Maybe a repaint. White is awfully boring. Have you considered orange? Maybe just continue on with the blue.”

Smokescreen let out a heavy exvent as the words echoed in his processor.

Three nights had passed since K.O.’s abrupt departure. There had been no sign of the other mech since. In truth, not an exorbitant amount of time had passed, but after meeting up every night cycle for nearly an entire Earth month, the sudden break in their routine was…jolting.

As much as Smokescreen had thought he’d prepare himself for K.O.’s eventual farewell, it did little to soften the blow of his absence. Perhaps he had fooled himself into thinking their arrangement could last forever. Perhaps he had grown too reliant on the easy, comfortable friendship that had formed. Perhaps he had been mistaken in thinking the feeling was mutual.

Smokescreen pushed those thoughts away forcefully. He shouldn’t let doubt sully their friendship. All those races and each and every conversation were not for nothing . He had to have some faith that those meant as much to K.O. as they did to him. He couldn’t let his own downward spiraling thoughts take him down that road when K.O.’s absence might be something simple and inconsequential and have nothing to do with Smokescreen.

Maybe K.O. had to deal with something important and it was just taking time. Maybe K.O. needed to stay low for a while and couldn’t risk meeting again. Maybe K.O.’s elusive partner returned. If it were any of those options, Smokescreen hoped it was the latter. K.O. did promise they could meet once his partner returned.

Well, okay. Maybe not promise , but he didn’t seem opposed when Smokescreen had suggested it! If anything, there had been interest and hope in K.O.’s field that one day that could be a possibility.

Smokescreen decided that must be the reason. K.O. was too busy being reunited with his partner. He attempted to picture the unnamed mech, but K.O. had been pretty lax on the details, only calling him bulky. Whatever he looked like, Smokescreen hoped they were both barreling down a long stretch of highway together. The very thought of it lightened his spark greatly.

A gentle ping came from his HUD and Smokescreen immediately felt his tanks drop at Ratchet’s designation. It was never a good sign when he was called in the midst of patrol.

::Smokescreen, where are you? Return to base, ASAP. We got a situation.::

Perhaps it was for the best K.O. and his partner were together tonight. Afterall, a “situation” almost certainly meant Decepticons and Smokescreen was itching for the chance to kick some aft.

A heavy energy hung over the Autobots.

Smokescreen felt antsy, his wheels aching to spin and his doorwings twitching. After the night they just had, he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to recharge peacefully for quite some time, despite Ratchet’s insistence that he get some rest. Adrenaline still pulsed through his circuits, his processor still trying to understand what he had witnessed.

He waited until the base grew quiet, waited for the flurry of activity to settle and everyone separated. Bee was quick to volunteer to go out for patrol, Acree disappeared to watch over the Darby residence, and Ratchet and Optimus had excused themselves into a private hab for a meeting. Only Bulkhead remained; his optics staring off into the distance, unfocused and deep in thought.

Quietly, Smokescreen saddled up to the larger mech. He perched himself on a crate beside him and tentatively let his field brush against his. A weak, barely there flicker was returned and Smokescreen took that as good as any sign that his presence was welcomed. Since their fight with the human-mech monstrosity, Bulkhead had been quiet. Smokescreen was still trying to wrap his processor around it but at least he hadn’t known the bot personally. Not like Bulkhead did.

“Were you friends?”

He asked the question softly, simply letting the words hang in the air. He didn’t want to press or bother Bulkhead, but curiosity was killing him.

Bulkhead swiveled his helm, almost surprised to see Smokescreen beside him. His field pressed back against Smokescreen’s purposefully, awareness and familiarity mingling in the space between. A heavy exvent left the mech’s intake, his frame sagging in exhaustion, almost painfully so.

“Once. Long time ago.”

Bulkhead scrubbed at his optics with the heel of his servo as he returned his gaze straight ahead. Smokescreen followed his example and kept his optics focused on the wall before them.

After a lengthy silence, Smokescreen hesitantly asked, “What happened?”

“When you pick different sides, it tends to ruin friendships. Like I said, it was a long time ago. Probably knew him longer as an enemy and a ‘con than a friend. He…made a lot of mistakes, did some things I can never really forgive but…doesn’t really matter, still ain’t right what happened to him.” A moment of heavy silence hung between them. The air around them was heavy, pressing against his helm. Smokescreen barely caught the muttering of, “I wonder if his partner knows.”

Dread seeped into Smokescreen’s lines as he tried not to react to that word.

Partner .

He couldn’t help but think of the red speedster along the dusty stretch of road, alone and his missing partner, field awash in anger, grief, desperation. Smokescreen wanted to chalk it up as a coincidence, that there are two pairs of mechs missing their partners. Surely it was fluke, surely what he experienced tonight had nothing to do with K.O.

“Partner?” Smokescreen asked quietly. Maybe if he whispered, then Bulkhead wouldn’t hear him and then he wouldn’t have to hear an answer and maybe he’d never have to find out-

“Flashy, red speedster.” Bulkhead spat each word out in anger, each word piercing Smokescreen’s spark. “Breakdown was smitten with him from the moment he laid eyes on him. I told him a mech like that was only going to get him in trouble. But he was stubborn as Pits and scrap at listening.” Bulkhead covered his optics with his servo and leaned back. Another heavy exvent rattled his frame before he continued, the anger absent from his words and replaced with solemn resignation. “Guess they were happy for a while. I didn’t think a mech like Knock Out would stick around long term but from what I gathered they never parted since. I’d almost feel bad if he weren’t a ‘con.”

Knock Out…K.O.

There was no more convincing himself of this being purely coincidence. Not anymore. There were too many points of connection, too much evidence stacking up. Smokescreen wasn’t sure what was worse: unknowingly, unwittingly befriending a Decepticon this whole time or feeling the painful grief in his spark knowing the loss K.O. was experiencing.

Befriending.

They probably were never friends. The Decepticon probably knew who he was the whole time and was just playing him like a fool. Probably was hoping Smokescreen would be dumb enough to drop some key intel. Who knows! Maybe he would have too, a couple more races there, a few more sentimental conversations there. Smokescreen probably would have played right into his servo like the bumbling fool he was.

“See kid, too trusting. It’s going to bite you in the aft one day, just you wait.”

K.O.- Knock Out - had even warned him. Smokescreen wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. Strangely enough, neither option felt particularly worthwhile.

He wanted to feel worse about it. He wanted to be angry; he wanted to be hurt; he wanted to feel the acidic sting betrayal…but all Smokescreen felt was sympathy and sorrow. Even if Knock Out was playing him this whole time, the mech still lost his partner. Smokescreen could still remember the pain in his field, the ire, the isolation, the loneliness. Knock Out may have fabricated his relationship with Smokescreen, but his feelings for his partner, for Breakdown , had been real and earnest.

“You think he knows?” Smokescreen finally asked. Last time they had talked, Knock Out didn't know where his partner was at all. No one else had seemed to even care.

“You know what’s funny? You are the first one to offer, to even ask.”

“If Knock Out didn’t before, he is most definitely aware now,” Bulkhead grimaced. “I’m sure the ‘cons are dealing with it as we speak.”

“At least, he can give him funeral rites.”

Smokescreen remembered reading about them all. Each city had its own traditions from the flypasts of Vos to ceremonial recordings of Iacon. Whatever the city, they all boiled down to the same thing: a time for mourning and remembrance. Surely, Decepticons would still uphold those values. Especially in regards to fallen partners.

Bulkhead laughed, surprisingly jovial despite the grotesque monstrosity they had witnessed. “I’m sure Knock Out will give Silas and Breakdown what they deserve.” Upon seeing Smokescreen’s confusion, Bulkhead leaned in. “Knock Out is a possessive, controlling, selfish glitch. If anyone was going to give Silas righteous punishment, then it’ll be that horrible, violent chop-shop medic.”

Smokescreen grimaced. He tried to imagine Knock Out as an evil surgeon, saw in servo and manic glee in his optics. Instead, all he saw was a lonely mech, crushed with a loss Smokescreen hoped he would never understand.

“You think it’ll help him?”

Bulkhead raised an optic ridge, meeting Smokescreen’s gaze for the first time since this conversation began. “Should we care?”

It was a pointed question, asking something deeper than the words stated. Smokescreen simply shrugged, ducking his helm.

“Doesn’t make what happened right.”

Bulkhead’s field softened. A heavy servo made its way to Smokescreen’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly.

“No, it doesn’t. Breakdown was a lot of things but he never deserved that. No one does. And as horrible as Knock Out is, they were close.” Bulkhead gave his shoulder another squeeze. “Ain’t much we can do about it. At least, despite everything Knock Out is, he’ll put Breakdown to rest. I have got no doubts about that.”

Smokescreen nodded his helm as silence came once more. His spark still hurt. He could hear Knock Out’s words echoing in his helm.

“He’s not dead.”

Knock Out had been so sure, so furious at even the mere suggestion. He must be devastated.

Smokescreen wished there was a way he could contact Knock Out. Even if they were to never meet again, to just let him know he was sorry for everything. He knew his words were meaningless.

“I don’t need your sympathies .”

Nothing he could say would make things right. Nothing he could do would turn back time. Nothing he had to offer would fix what was beyond repair. And even if he had the chance to see Knock Out again, Smokescreen had the sinking suspicion the red speedster would be on the other side of enemy lines.

Rage could only carry him for so long. Knock Out peered down at the parasite living in the husk with his partner with complete and utter disgust.

Oh, he had been more than tempted to cut the infestation away. The buzzing urge beneath his plating to take the rotary saw and cut and cut and cut until it was all removed. He considered disposal by fire, burning away any lasting attempts the disease may have to survive. The airlock was also tempting. Rumor had it the flesh bags didn’t dwell too well in the cold grasp of space.

Revenge, however, kept his servos at bay. If the human got to see what the inner components of a Cybertronian really were, it was only fair Knock Out was allowed reciprocal exploration of the organic frame and there were many, many tests to run.

What was the earthly saying? “What’s yours is mine, body and soul.” Well, the soul was the human’s spark and Breakdown’s was long gone and snatched away. But Knock Out still had ownership of the body and all it possessed. A stale kindness from Megatron after accepting this gruesome nightmare into their fold.

The very thought of it burned in Knock Out’s spark chamber. Megatron had allowed this festering sickness into their rank, welcomed it with open arms while it puppeteered Breakdown’s corpse in a sick and twisted mimicry of life. Megatron had left Breakdown for dead before, and hadn't even been concerned when he had gone missing again. No one had. No one had even spared him a second thought. Only Knock Out.

“Want to look for him? I could help! I know the area pretty good and two mechs are better than one.”

And a lone, foolish Autobot.

Knock Out could still feel Smokescreen’s field, too honest and earnest in his emotions. He can’t help but wonder if he took the kid up on his offer if things may have been different. Emphatically, he knew that was not true. The human’s integration into the Cybertronian form was weeks old. By the time Smokescreen had offered, Breakdown was already gone. He would have been too late either way, but at least then he would have had agency. He wouldn’t have had to watch the corpse of his partner ambulate and move. He could have ripped out the pathetic, weak flesh and blood spark right then and there and then-

And then.

Knock Out felt a full body tremor rake through his frame, his plating shuddering. He was alone either way.

“You have me too.”

The overly optimistic and earnest image of Smokescreen centered in his processor. He’d only see the naive little Autobot in his root mode once, but he could picture it well enough. Classic Paxian frame with every idealistic Autobot propaganda drenched in his processor.

According to Silas, Smokescreen had aided good Ol’ Bulkhead in sending him to his defeat. Knock Out wondered if the kid had realized who he was yet. For all his naivety, Smokescreen was smarter than he gave himself credit for. Foolish and perhaps a tad too excitable, sure, but once he took a moment to think, Smokescreen would piece it all together and then…well, he definitely couldn’t continue meeting with the kid now.

If he turned up now, he’d surely find Arcee or Bulkhead waiting for him instead. Or worse, Smokescreen would be waiting with yet another offer to join the Autobots. He could hear him now, feel his warm field of genuine sympathy. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Knock Out let out a hollow, empty laugh.

It echoed in his lonely medbay. Knock Out had temporarily gotten used to the still quiet during Breakdown’s disappearance, but now that Breakdown’s absence was permanent , the silence was unbearable. Gone was the deep rumble of a warm, familiar engine; absent were the deep laughs and the gruff words, the whispered jokes and the murmuring of sweet nothings. Nothing remained of his partner, except his shell, tainted and destroyed at the hands of meddling skinjobs.

They should have never landed on his vile planet, just ignored Starscream’s call and continued gallivanting across the stars. Breakdown had suggested it once, a quiet midnight musing about maybe taking off on their own and fending for themselves. Knock Out had waved it away instantly. The protection and security of the Decepticons was too great an offer to pass out. How foolish he had been to put trust into that.

“That naivety of yours is going to get you killed.”

He should have heeded his own advice. Instead of getting himself killed, it-

Knock Out stopped that train of thought immediately, shuttering his optics and forcing air to cycle through his vents.

It didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing did.

#smokescreen #knock out #lots of mention of kobd but breakdown's fate in the show will remain the same:c sorry #tfp #maccadam #transformers #my fics #chance and unlikely circumstance #platonic friendship #instead of sleeping i wrote and edited this so thanks insomnia i guess

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