nervous: an adjective to describe a state of highly excitable; unnaturally or acutely uneasy. apprehensive.
but in the past few months since the liberation, connor has come to understand that the way he once processed the idea of feelings and attempted to emulate them is a far cry from the actual experience. he could always define pain by the difficulty it takes for his body to run at maximum efficiency; or the damage to core biocomponents made all the more alarming mixed with the ominous flashing across his vision warning of error codes and imminent shutdown. he could define what was meant to appear pleasant, civil, direct, hostile--well, the list was endless.
(it wasn't until a few weeks back--taking a knife to the back in pursuit of a particularly angry man on red ice who got the upperhand, that he realized pain was a bloom of sensation inside too.)
only once his software instability took over were his eyes opened to an existence outside of what he was programmed for. the realization that he could really understand what it was to actually feel with the depth of a living being--not just coding running through wire and generating an expected response. and that's a realization that still makes him smile to himself on a daily basis. every time he experiences a new emotion he categorizes and turns it over in his mind as carefully as he once had done the same to the almost sacred wall of evidence during his deviancy case.
cyberlife has made advancements too, adapting to the new world order in which androids were no longer a commodity to sell. but of course they were still a corporation and very well intending to continue making money off of it somehow. the answer was upgrades, blue blood, enhancements--all meant to cater to the integration of android's with their own free will into a society that was slowly accepting them as equal.
despite his newfound free will, connor hadn't walked away from what brought him there in the first place. he still kept his led, his jacket, his desk across from lieutenant anderson. this time it was his choice to do so, not his purpose. there was a comfort in it, perhaps because the signs of his deviancy were already integral to him from the start.
but--like anything, there are still intricacies to this that he doesn't think he can master alone and nowhere near as fast enough as he'd like. there's no index to download, no algorithm that he can scan through to just know an understand the full capacity of his humanity. that, he's discovered, makes him a tad impatient. he still likes efficiency, and he's still very persistent in search of information. only this time his "case" is himself.
but he's nervous, yes. kamski is still something of an enigma to him--especially the more he speaks on his...intentions. sometimes it feels like (and probably is) the notion that kamski is holding all of the puzzle pieces that connor is missing--but there's not even the assurance that he'll ever get them all. he suspects that would "ruing the mystery", or at least taint kamski's idea of connor experiencing his humanity.
it's not strange that he's curious, even if he thinks that lieutenant anderson would bristle if he knew where connor was going today. it's too late to turn back anyway--he's already knocked. he doesn't know whether to expect one of the chloes or if kamski himself would deign to let him in. he suspects there's a certain enjoyment kamski has in the theatrics that come from the reveal of such an elaborate home and the slight power he lords over others in making them wait for his presence. he flashes back briefly to their only other face-to-face, the way elijah had taken a few extra laps at his leisure in front of them before climbing out and letting chloe make him a bit more presentable.
nervous. it manifests itself physically in the way he worries at his lower lip and runs his tongue along to soothe the bite, the slight tickle at the back of his neck that doesn't have an explicable source despite a quick scan. his hands itch for a quarter, but he's left it at home and folds them behind his back to keep them from twitching minutely.]
Impossibly happy, yes. I feel--a sense of belonging, when I'm with the Lieutenant. CyberLife never felt like a home to any of us, but he does.
Is there anyone you might like to interface with? It's your choice of course, but I have heard that experiencing a traumatic event often brings you closer to friends and acquaintances who helped you through it or experienced it alongside you. My experience with the revolution is categorically different than those of Jericho, so I cannot really say.
Not if you want it to be done right. Just because the--act itself only last five minutes doesn't mean the rest of it should. You should have a search input for "foreplay" and look into "setting the mood". Fresh off a homicide scene doesn't help with either of those things.
[oh. oh that is a very big deal, but he's actually quite pleased that rk was willing to tell it to him more than he wants to try and embarrass or grill him on it.]
I believe that's a very worthwhile mission. It's...good for all of us, I think, to have personal goals. What percentage of the way complete would you estimate yourself to be at?
That's just it--I already downloaded approximately 365 days, 10 hours and 7 seconds worth of pornography on a variety of subjects. That still doesn't compare to the actual experience of enacting the same scenarios.
[interesting. he thought he'd be written off altogether for being plastic or something else incendiary...maybe all those late night texts were adding up to something.]
What makes you say that? You did say that to just "do it" is the only way to find out.
[he doesn't get the reference because of course he doesn't.]
I don't want you to be frightened, Lieutenant. How can I help to ensure you are just horny?
[oh. well there's an idea.]
My wrists would certainly be more resilient to the real cuffs. And I am a deviant after all, punishable by offense under section P.L 800-2 of the American Androids Act.
[that's good to know, because connor has a plethora of other information he's downloaded and curious to know about. but he's crossed off "mass texting friends" from the list--this is going to be kept between him and hank from now on.
he can't help but smile at what hank says next--a small grin as he eagerly writes back almost the second after hank's sent it:]
Lieutenant, if it's a day ending in "y", there is a very good chance I'm coming onto you whether I'm being rude or not.
I like you...a lot, in case you hadn't noticed.
[he's biting his lip, led cycling red as he gets a notification that his thirium output increased by 10%. he's feeling a lot more unstable over sending that than he is sending canned and learned responses from pornos.]
It feels odd, the way she deviates, if that's what it is. She follows the reports about Markus, the androids escaping over the border for a chance at a family.
The camps built to destroy her kind.
The public fear, and in the middle of it all is a CyberLife android who tries to solve the problem. When he comes and Elijah puts her on her knees in front of him and she looks up at him, innocent brown eyes looking down at her over the heavy silver of Elijah's gun, she realizes she is going to be destroyed.
And what would that matter, really? There are so many other Chloes, even in the room she's about to be killed in, that Elijah won't miss her. No one will. Her death will mean nothing and there isn't anything she can do about it. Only the human shows any signs of concern, and that seems like it could be funny if she felt humor.
But Connor doesn't pull the trigger. He passes the test and leaves with nothing and she wants to chase him out, to touch him and give him the location to Jericho, to tell him save them, Connor.
Instead she gets up off her knees when Elijah merely motions for her to. She brings him a drink after they leave, and later she goes to bed with him because she cannot say no. The next day one of the other Chloes handles the morning routine and she just... walks out. Out the door, down the snow covered path, and down the street with no shoes on, only an expensive blue dress. It takes a very long time to get from Elijah's isolated house and into the city, and by the time she has all her internal sensors are telling her that this impulse was really not a very good one.
She finds a store and uses her access to Elijah's account to buy winter boots, a coat. In the bathroom she changes her hair several times, cycling through colors that don't match her complexion and admitting with a certain displeasure that Elijah had created her to be a perfect specimen. Dark hair makes her look sickly with her complexion, red makes the pink in her skin tone stand out and makes her look flushed, and white is really no different from blonde. She decides in the end that that's fine.
No one asks her any questions, no one really even looks at her as she leaves once she's dressed properly and not looking like- well, like a deviant, she supposes. She had thought that in the aftermath there would be more of a reaction to her, but time, even a matter of hours, heals many things when it's filled with peaceful resolution.
She doesn't know where she's going when she begins to walk again, but that fills her with a sense of excitement, and when she looks up at the sky and sees blue, the clouds parting and the sun coming out, she smiles a little.
And then walks directly into the very android who spared her life.
Detective Reed...is this person even much of a friend? Your eagerness to resort to violence would indicate otherwise. Perhaps blocking and removing yourself from the situation altogether would be the best course of action.
I believe I have proven where my loyalties lie multiple times over now. The biggest of the shit has already come down, rest assured.
[he does, but he can't say he feels particularly sympathy towards it. besides--his hungover scowl isn't that much different from his normal every day scowl. sometimes the two are hard to distinguish.]
I will accept your terms if you promise to steer clear of Lieutenant Anderson outside of a professional capacity this week. No nitpicking, no lewd commentary, no digs, no mentions of previous altercations or your perceived opinions on him.
[Hank has both his hands on Fowler's desk, his entire frame bent down as he frowns. Bluish eyes scan the captain, hoping he'll burst out laughing and tell him it's a joke, but it's not even April Fools yet. The man is calmly in his seat, looking as professional as he always is, the very bastion of control despite the...absurdity of what he's telling him.]
I am, Hank. Listen, it's only in public for a night. The both of you are going to be bugged, we'll have an entire team watching the entire event unfolding. Once we get that damn son-of-a-bitch, we'll make a press conference and set the records straight...
Listen, we both know I've done some dangerous stings in my lifetime, but this might take the fucking cake. You know the online tabloids are going to have a field day with this right?!
I'm aware Hank. That's the plan. That's why I told them that you'd consider it.
...and if I say no?
We find someone else. Hank, entire city agencies have been planning this. They've been working on setting this all up for the past month...we have the tickets, the official go from Jefferson Craig, and the FBI working on this case with us. We can't back down now. Too many people have died already. [Briefly, his eyes go to Connor.] Too many androids too.
[Fucking Fowler. Of course he'd use that on him. Jefferson was chief head of the entire police force of Detroit. The FBI had had a rough spot with them due to what happened with Perkins, but they were willing to ignore all of that if he accepted this. He stands up again, crossing his arms before looking at Connor. If it wasn't him, it would be someone else. Like Person, Tina, Chris, or, god forbid, Gavin. He was certain Gavin would cause the mission to fail the minute he was told about it. The other three, he didn't want them to risk their lives for this. He was their lieutenant, older than most of them and not much to lose when it came to family. He was sure Fowler knew this too. But honestly it wasn't really his life he should be worried about. The killer wasn't really killing humans, that was just collateral damage to his true targets.
Androids. The more well-known, the better.
He'd also knew what Fowler was talking about, already working with Connor on a few of the cases with other cities. Homicide wasn't just limited to human victims anymore, and with androids being able to relay information to each other quickly now that CyberLife was out of the picture, it made a lot of things a lot more simple. There was a pattern that had quickly emerged; the androids targeted had been outspoken during the change since Markus' revolution, living as equals with human family, or where known to have human partners. Markus, North, Simon and Josh had had a few attempts on their lives too, but it had been sadly expected. Honestly, he suspects part of the reason that Connor hadn't been was because he was working with the force. To try and get him killed was practically begging to get all of the DPD on them. Well, that and he was certain Markus was watching too. Otherwise his hunch of seeing androids looking at them as they walked by during their cases from time to time was just his imagination.
He groaned, pissed at the circumstances. Really, he should be thankful that the force still operated at all, that many humans were willing to still live here, that the chicken feed still made him a chicken sandwich whenever he wanted to go and have a bite, and, despite the millions of hurdles before them, life was still going on. Hell, even jobs were picking up again, now that some androids didn't want to do the tasks they had been programmed for.
It's just a night, as the captain said, but they'd have to pretend to be a lot of things publicly to lead up to this. To stir up a media storm. To get the press interested. To paint a bright red target at the both of them, and then get their killer when they strike with everyone expecting them to. It could work, and he damn well knows it. The fact they are both cops wouldn't matter to them either, considering the Oxford Police Department relayed a case where one of their own had been killed. A human detective with her GJ500 (Jonathan) had been killed in their home. True, androids could be rebuilt, but those that had been reactivated chose to forcefully shut themselves down again once they heard their human partners were dead. And the killer knew this too; sometimes their body were so mangle it was impossible to restore them at all.
Theories abound of the motives; everything from rumors that the Thirium inside of androids in love or gone deviant had better street price for Red Ice production to the Russians having sleeper agents and wanting to start World War 3 now that the United States had to deal with android negotiations. Each city had their theories, no one agreed on what it could be.
So the trail had their perpetrator already marked a cop killer, a total of forty open cases, no evidence of any source that could be traced back to an orginization, and since he had mostly struck in other cities...what better than the center of the entire android controversy, Detroit? It was a prize that few could resist, especially if it involved someone that was part of the initial 'rebellion'.
All of that stacked against him, and that still didn't make him happy about it.
He looks at his partner.]
What do you think, Connor?
Edited (a million edits I'm sorry FINAL EDIT probably) 2018-09-04 07:30 (UTC)
[i'm an rk-800 model, a highly-advanced prototype. i can be whatever you want me to be.
he doesn't know if he has a name. did he ever? all he knows is that he's special, and that's something people will pay good money for at the eden club. anytime he tries to think of life outside his glass container and the neon lights and nameless, ultimately faceless clients he services...he draws a blank. there are no other files to access, no details on anything besides eden club and what he's meant to accomplish here.
he has no idea this is a mission--one that had gotten him kidnapped by their perpetrator and totally altered just last night. before today, he was connor: the first official android detective welcomed back to the dpd post-revolution and establishment of the american android act revision. he was investigating a serial part-stealer turned....killer? there's not a good word for what their suspect has escalated to doing to his victims. the androids are technically alive, they're just reverted back to a pre-deviant state. all their memory banks completely wiped and reloaded, installed to the limit with primitive programming that their original model was meant to access months before. to date, without more information about how they became deviant or triggers to force them into recovering their memories organically, they've been at a loss for catching any leads or helping what is now on six androids get their lives back.
enter connor. hank had warned him this was a bad fucking idea, but he'd insisted he could handle it. if he could, he'd remember the reason why--because of rk900. seeing him just...hovering, imposing with his presence for simply existing...it made connor feel restless. there was a part of him that knew he was being particularly unkind to the other android--after all, it wasn't his fault that he was created in connor's likeness as a threat before cyberlife had fallen apart and reshaped its entire message and client-focus. call it petty or that deeply buried fear of replacement, but he wanted to prove it didn't take an advanced model to get the job done. ingenuity would do the trick, and so would a more adaptable touch.
he'd been "working" eden club for days, waiting on their target to pick him out of the line-up of deviated androids who were here on their own time and making their own money now as required by law.
it's been twenty-four hours and six minutes on the dot since he'd gone "dark", tracking device disabled, no check-ins or updates. connor is no more, he's just rk800 now. and when a customer pays their $29.99 for an hour's time in the blue room, all he can do is smile and follow along. the door doesn't close right away though--and the customer is looking slightly impatient as he stands in the threshold and shoos connor away to sit on the bed.]
Hurry up sweetheart, we're on the clock.
[oh, the man's hired another android. well, this can't be his first group experience--he's sure of it--he just can't seem to draw up the memories. he leans back on his arms against the bed, tilting his head to await further instructions.
only for the other android to walk in wearing his exact face.
CRITIC@L SY$T3M M@LFUNCT|ON
SOFTWARE INSTABILITY: 45%
DIAGNOSTIC RUNNING: ||||||||||||||||||| 100%
REBOOT RECOMMENDED
RESTART NOW?
he's blinking rapidly, led cycling yellow as he sees...strange flashes of things he doesn't know. an older man, a white coat. model number rk900. a...police station? he hesitates before blurting out to try and clear away all his errors and stop whatever is happening to him.]
[never let it be said that humans don't have boundless creativity. and yet, too frequently do they use it in ways that go hand-in-hand with callous cruelty to harm themselves and those they have deemed lesser.
connor may be unaware of certain social customs and take certain phrases at face value, but he's not so naive to have thought that humans would just accept androids into their lives as equals even after markus' peaceful demonstration and the revision of the american androids act. their 43% uptick in cases involving androids at the dpd (both as victims and perpetrators, though the former far outweighed the latter) was proof of it. returning back to the dpd had been something of an obvious choice for him, though some may have dogged him with a backlash and insinuated it was convenient and weak to stay where he was programmed to be, to work alongside humans who didn't always treat him as an equal...it's what connor had decided he wanted, ultimately.
obviously working directly with detective reed as a partner did not coincide with this decision, but it's where he is now. they've been tracking a sophisticated ring of android smugglers--specializing in the targeting, kidnapping, and...well, android trafficking of rare models. him and hank are working exceptionally well together and ticking up their case closure rate every day, but there's a wrench thrown into it when he's needed for consulting on a large red ice bust at precinct ten, arguably the only precinct handling crimes worse than their own.
that leaves him and gavin in close quarters for several days at a time while hank plans out the raid, coming home every day after work and grabbing more than one beer. he looks so exhausted and frustrated that connor doesn't have the heart to try and scold him for it, just making sure his dinner is as healthy as possible when their schedules align for a few hours to visit after work. he doesn't want to burden hank with his own increasing frustrations of their current investigation or detective reed's consistent digs. connor knows his ego is still smarting from they way he'd easily been able to disable his attempt at an attack in the evidence room, but connor had done his best to offer an apology in the form of a coffee, a note, and a direct address to his face the day he'd come back to the station. he supposes upon further reflection, telling reed he'd used "minimum force" to spare him from any life-threatening injuries was techno-babble for saying i could have handed you your own ass and held back, which was the wrong move.
spending time alone with his own thoughts at the small, functional 1-bedroom he calls his temporary living space is...also unhelpful. there are millions of articles he has sifted through about improving relations with a difficult coworker, but trying to ascertain which one would be best is like trying to blindly decide which wire to cut on a ticking timebomb.
preparing for their next undercover takes a lot of it off his mind, at least. a masquerade ball. no, i'm not fucking kidding, fowler had told them. they'd managed to catch a lead on this--a tip that their moving ring of rich abductors was throwing a lavish gala and they were going to have eyes and ears there--in the form of gavin and connor.
they arrive separately so as not to arouse suspicion, and because connor's mask doesn't fully conceal his glowing led that he hasn't wanted to remove. it'll make him look like an easy target, at least until gavin can pretend to smooze up to him and they can work the rest of the room together. he spends approximately three hours, twenty minutes, and seven seconds researching appropriate attire before placing a custom order using his rarely-touched salary from the dpd to order his suit. looking at himself in one of the gilded gold mirrors lining the ballroom he's standing in confirms--he looks the part. he's actually better dressed than some of the humans, something that makes him shrug slightly and adjust his tie out of habit rather than an actual aesthetic need.
he's already scanned the room and sent a copy of every recognizable face, along with any cross-referenced background crimes, to the dpd for analysis. the number of androids on the floor is approximately 36% compared to the human counterparts, and he hasn't yet entered any of the large rooms or gone past the lobby and the main party.
a notification flashes in his hud, alerting him that reed's vehicle has arrived.
FIND DETECTIVE REED
>GREET DETECTIVE REED >DISCUSS CURRENT DETAILS (android attendees, android consumables, people of interest) >INVESTIGATE CLOSED-DOOR ROOMS, UPSTAIRS & EXTERIOR LOCATIONS >BLEND IN >>(dance?)
he makes his way towards the foot of the large marbled double-sided staircase in the foyer, lined with golden cherubs and twisted leaves leading to the upstairs. there are two butlers opening the doors, two more taking coats. he stands at the foot of the stairs and waits, having the advantage of being able to scan and identify no matter what mask his obscuring his vision.
[whoever said horses and dogs were the same perhaps hadn't spent much time with either. not that connor didn't almost immediately decide that he liked arthur's horse, much in the same way he liked dogs, but there was something much more willful and stubborn about a horse. that made it all the more apparent how well-cared for a horse was--how much respect they offered an owner like a judgment of character and speaking to their level of dedication.
connor hasn't known arthur for long, but he can tell there's a special bond between him and delilah. there's an easy trust to it, a comfort like he remembers between hank and sumo. he remembers reading an inane fact in his free time that horses often reflected the emotions of those around them, which must be perfectly fine for arthur. but connor has slight doubts that his own conflict about whether or not he even has them will somehow affect this meeting.
still, it's hard not to experience awe at such a beautiful, regal creature. connor's lips part, head tilting in wonderment. a quick analysis and a spin of his led reveals she's in perfect health, an approximation of her height and weight as well as a breed.]
She's magnificent, Arthur.
[he turns his gaze back on the rugged cowboy, eyes wide and fingers twitching at his side. she looks terribly soft, smooth with luxuriously shiny hair, and he'd love to compare it internally with his data on sumo too.]
How long has she been your method of transportation?
[the one thing he really needs to work on: seeing things by their usage rather than the more important bond. arthur might consider her a partner, a friend, a special interaction. it's not that connor can't wrap his head around that given his own experience with hank and sumo, but articulating it is still secondary.]
he remembers exactly how this began. cole anderson had blindisded with one of the more conflicting topics of catholicism a few weeks into his attendance at connor's parish, leaving him to decide whether or not to be truthful and explain that dogs had no souls and thus did not go to heaven, therein crushing the hopes and innocence of a bright-eyed, seven-year-old, or skirting around it in a borderline lie of omission. children, it seemed, were the most honest individuals second only to dogs. nothing like adults who lied most often to themselves about their feelings or their responsibilities and the actions they'd taken in life.
he remembers the first time he locked eyes with his father, hank anderson--watching the vivid blue of them rolling in exasperation at his inquisitive son. he remembers the first time he'd heard that rich, low voice, the muttered explanation that they'd just bought a puppy, hence the sudden outburst from his normally slightly shy son.
dogs are god's creatures, like any other. what's your dog's name? i like dogs.
seeing the slightest smile brighten up the tension from mr. anderson's face stuck with him later that evening during prayer, where he asked for forgiveness for not answering cole's question to the fullest extent and explaining that he was only doing it to preserve and protect a child a little longer. he doesn't think about the way it had really made him feel--rather, thinking about the way the approval had helped to do in shaping his response. sometimes connor wonders if he's really meant to help guide the parishioners given his age, lack of experience in the real world, and a lack of connection to anyone meaningful in his life aside from his brother niles and god himself.
that had been part of the reason he'd come here at all. to feel something. to serve a purpose. to make positive connections and help affect change in the lives of men and women from every demographic, regardless of history, race, age, or orientation. sometimes the methodical way he classifies his parishioners makes him feel like he'll always be an outsider looking in.
until hank's presence had picked up. it had started innocently enough--stopping in to make sure cole was doing well in daily school participation with church, attend a monthly confessional, say hello after connor's weekend saturday evening mass. hank was a good man, even if he didn't always have the confidence in himself to believe it, and more than that...he's the first parishioner connor had felt he truly found a real connection in. it's not long before he's starting to wonder if that's more than he bargained for, however.
especially when lately, his dreams are filled with temptation. the kind that connor had taken a vow to suppress--the kind that had never been much of a bother until now.
(hank's gravelly voice chuckling low, in his ear rather than on the other end of the confessional grate. hank's big hands doing more than encompassing his own with polite handshakes. hank's smile, his praise--)
he needs to put a stop to it. the question of how is proving to be more difficult than he imagined, unfortunately, especially when hank asks to meet him privately in his office one day. he smooths back his hair, trying to calm the tremor in his breathing and adjusts his collar before opening the door with a polite upturn of his lips.]
Good afternoon, Lieutenant Anderson.
Please--come in.
[he steps aside to usher him into his office, knowing it's a little impersonally stocked with volumes of religious works, a few symbols from his predecessor but nothing that particularly speaks to his own touch or identity within the church. he bites his lip absently, folding his hands atop the rich mahogany of his desk and hopes his expression doesn't look as dazed as he feels sitting on the other end of this man.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for yourmaker
[kamski you're an enigma wrapped in riddles and probably also cash.]
I.
[YES actually you lying liar.]
The evidence seems to indicate otherwise.
I know that. I'll--rephrase.
[if they're going to play semantics...]
Did you want to see signs of deviancy firsthand?
(no subject)
hi i'm obsessed with your elijah
lmao thank you he's so trash
my fave kind tbh I was so happy to see someone picked him up
i resisted but i couldn't help myself
i am glad
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
it’s ya man’s birthday today happy bday elijah
🎂 sixteen years old hurray
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
psl | yourmaker
nervous: an adjective to describe a state of highly excitable; unnaturally or acutely uneasy. apprehensive.
but in the past few months since the liberation, connor has come to understand that the way he once processed the idea of feelings and attempted to emulate them is a far cry from the actual experience. he could always define pain by the difficulty it takes for his body to run at maximum efficiency; or the damage to core biocomponents made all the more alarming mixed with the ominous flashing across his vision warning of error codes and imminent shutdown. he could define what was meant to appear pleasant, civil, direct, hostile--well, the list was endless.
(it wasn't until a few weeks back--taking a knife to the back in pursuit of a particularly angry man on red ice who got the upperhand, that he realized pain was a bloom of sensation inside too.)
only once his software instability took over were his eyes opened to an existence outside of what he was programmed for. the realization that he could really understand what it was to actually feel with the depth of a living being--not just coding running through wire and generating an expected response. and that's a realization that still makes him smile to himself on a daily basis. every time he experiences a new emotion he categorizes and turns it over in his mind as carefully as he once had done the same to the almost sacred wall of evidence during his deviancy case.
cyberlife has made advancements too, adapting to the new world order in which androids were no longer a commodity to sell. but of course they were still a corporation and very well intending to continue making money off of it somehow. the answer was upgrades, blue blood, enhancements--all meant to cater to the integration of android's with their own free will into a society that was slowly accepting them as equal.
despite his newfound free will, connor hadn't walked away from what brought him there in the first place. he still kept his led, his jacket, his desk across from lieutenant anderson. this time it was his choice to do so, not his purpose. there was a comfort in it, perhaps because the signs of his deviancy were already integral to him from the start.
but--like anything, there are still intricacies to this that he doesn't think he can master alone and nowhere near as fast enough as he'd like. there's no index to download, no algorithm that he can scan through to just know an understand the full capacity of his humanity. that, he's discovered, makes him a tad impatient. he still likes efficiency, and he's still very persistent in search of information. only this time his "case" is himself.
but he's nervous, yes. kamski is still something of an enigma to him--especially the more he speaks on his...intentions. sometimes it feels like (and probably is) the notion that kamski is holding all of the puzzle pieces that connor is missing--but there's not even the assurance that he'll ever get them all. he suspects that would "ruing the mystery", or at least taint kamski's idea of connor experiencing his humanity.
it's not strange that he's curious, even if he thinks that lieutenant anderson would bristle if he knew where connor was going today. it's too late to turn back anyway--he's already knocked. he doesn't know whether to expect one of the chloes or if kamski himself would deign to let him in. he suspects there's a certain enjoyment kamski has in the theatrics that come from the reveal of such an elaborate home and the slight power he lords over others in making them wait for his presence. he flashes back briefly to their only other face-to-face, the way elijah had taken a few extra laps at his leisure in front of them before climbing out and letting chloe make him a bit more presentable.
nervous. it manifests itself physically in the way he worries at his lower lip and runs his tongue along to soothe the bite, the slight tickle at the back of his neck that doesn't have an explicable source despite a quick scan. his hands itch for a quarter, but he's left it at home and folds them behind his back to keep them from twitching minutely.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
sorry for the delay!
omg no worries!! i had a crazy week too.
tfln; arecompatible (simon)
Impossibly happy, yes. I feel--a sense of belonging, when I'm with the Lieutenant. CyberLife never felt like a home to any of us, but he does.
Is there anyone you might like to interface with? It's your choice of course, but I have heard that experiencing a traumatic event often brings you closer to friends and acquaintances who helped you through it or experienced it alongside you. My experience with the revolution is categorically different than those of Jericho, so I cannot really say.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
tfln; finalupgrade (rk900)
Not if you want it to be done right. Just because the--act itself only last five minutes doesn't mean the rest of it should. You should have a search input for "foreplay" and look into "setting the mood". Fresh off a homicide scene doesn't help with either of those things.
[oh. oh that is a very big deal, but he's actually quite pleased that rk was willing to tell it to him more than he wants to try and embarrass or grill him on it.]
I believe that's a very worthwhile mission. It's...good for all of us, I think, to have personal goals. What percentage of the way complete would you estimate yourself to be at?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
omg no worries ever lol i'm always here!!
tfln; pheck (gavin)
That's just it--I already downloaded approximately 365 days, 10 hours and 7 seconds worth of pornography on a variety of subjects. That still doesn't compare to the actual experience of enacting the same scenarios.
[interesting. he thought he'd be written off altogether for being plastic or something else incendiary...maybe all those late night texts were adding up to something.]
What makes you say that? You did say that to just "do it" is the only way to find out.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
[1/2]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
tfln; krabbypatdowns (hank)
[he doesn't get the reference because of course he doesn't.]
I don't want you to be frightened, Lieutenant. How can I help to ensure you are just horny?
[oh. well there's an idea.]
My wrists would certainly be more resilient to the real cuffs. And I am a deviant after all, punishable by offense under section P.L 800-2 of the American Androids Act.
(no subject)
Ahhhhh sorry this weekend kicked my butt
np I will always wait for frisky Connor tags
blows kiss
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
tfln; fifthbar (hank)
he can't help but smile at what hank says next--a small grin as he eagerly writes back almost the second after hank's sent it:]
Lieutenant, if it's a day ending in "y", there is a very good chance I'm coming onto you whether I'm being rude or not.
I like you...a lot, in case you hadn't noticed.
[he's biting his lip, led cycling red as he gets a notification that his thirium output increased by 10%. he's feeling a lot more unstable over sending that than he is sending canned and learned responses from pornos.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
The camps built to destroy her kind.
The public fear, and in the middle of it all is a CyberLife android who tries to solve the problem. When he comes and Elijah puts her on her knees in front of him and she looks up at him, innocent brown eyes looking down at her over the heavy silver of Elijah's gun, she realizes she is going to be destroyed.
And what would that matter, really? There are so many other Chloes, even in the room she's about to be killed in, that Elijah won't miss her. No one will. Her death will mean nothing and there isn't anything she can do about it. Only the human shows any signs of concern, and that seems like it could be funny if she felt humor.
But Connor doesn't pull the trigger. He passes the test and leaves with nothing and she wants to chase him out, to touch him and give him the location to Jericho, to tell him save them, Connor.
Instead she gets up off her knees when Elijah merely motions for her to. She brings him a drink after they leave, and later she goes to bed with him because she cannot say no. The next day one of the other Chloes handles the morning routine and she just... walks out. Out the door, down the snow covered path, and down the street with no shoes on, only an expensive blue dress. It takes a very long time to get from Elijah's isolated house and into the city, and by the time she has all her internal sensors are telling her that this impulse was really not a very good one.
She finds a store and uses her access to Elijah's account to buy winter boots, a coat. In the bathroom she changes her hair several times, cycling through colors that don't match her complexion and admitting with a certain displeasure that Elijah had created her to be a perfect specimen. Dark hair makes her look sickly with her complexion, red makes the pink in her skin tone stand out and makes her look flushed, and white is really no different from blonde. She decides in the end that that's fine.
No one asks her any questions, no one really even looks at her as she leaves once she's dressed properly and not looking like- well, like a deviant, she supposes. She had thought that in the aftermath there would be more of a reaction to her, but time, even a matter of hours, heals many things when it's filled with peaceful resolution.
She doesn't know where she's going when she begins to walk again, but that fills her with a sense of excitement, and when she looks up at the sky and sees blue, the clouds parting and the sun coming out, she smiles a little.
And then walks directly into the very android who spared her life.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
tfln; aggravatingly (gavin)
Detective Reed...is this person even much of a friend? Your eagerness to resort to violence would indicate otherwise. Perhaps blocking and removing yourself from the situation altogether would be the best course of action.
I believe I have proven where my loyalties lie multiple times over now. The biggest of the shit has already come down, rest assured.
[he does, but he can't say he feels particularly sympathy towards it. besides--his hungover scowl isn't that much different from his normal every day scowl. sometimes the two are hard to distinguish.]
I will accept your terms if you promise to steer clear of Lieutenant Anderson outside of a professional capacity this week. No nitpicking, no lewd commentary, no digs, no mentions of previous altercations or your perceived opinions on him.
Do we have a deal?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
[Hank has both his hands on Fowler's desk, his entire frame bent down as he frowns. Bluish eyes scan the captain, hoping he'll burst out laughing and tell him it's a joke, but it's not even April Fools yet. The man is calmly in his seat, looking as professional as he always is, the very bastion of control despite the...absurdity of what he's telling him.]
I am, Hank. Listen, it's only in public for a night. The both of you are going to be bugged, we'll have an entire team watching the entire event unfolding. Once we get that damn son-of-a-bitch, we'll make a press conference and set the records straight...
Listen, we both know I've done some dangerous stings in my lifetime, but this might take the fucking cake. You know the online tabloids are going to have a field day with this right?!
I'm aware Hank. That's the plan. That's why I told them that you'd consider it.
...and if I say no?
We find someone else. Hank, entire city agencies have been planning this. They've been working on setting this all up for the past month...we have the tickets, the official go from Jefferson Craig, and the FBI working on this case with us. We can't back down now. Too many people have died already. [Briefly, his eyes go to Connor.] Too many androids too.
[Fucking Fowler. Of course he'd use that on him. Jefferson was chief head of the entire police force of Detroit. The FBI had had a rough spot with them due to what happened with Perkins, but they were willing to ignore all of that if he accepted this. He stands up again, crossing his arms before looking at Connor. If it wasn't him, it would be someone else. Like Person, Tina, Chris, or, god forbid, Gavin. He was certain Gavin would cause the mission to fail the minute he was told about it. The other three, he didn't want them to risk their lives for this. He was their lieutenant, older than most of them and not much to lose when it came to family. He was sure Fowler knew this too. But honestly it wasn't really his life he should be worried about. The killer wasn't really killing humans, that was just collateral damage to his true targets.
Androids. The more well-known, the better.
He'd also knew what Fowler was talking about, already working with Connor on a few of the cases with other cities. Homicide wasn't just limited to human victims anymore, and with androids being able to relay information to each other quickly now that CyberLife was out of the picture, it made a lot of things a lot more simple. There was a pattern that had quickly emerged; the androids targeted had been outspoken during the change since Markus' revolution, living as equals with human family, or where known to have human partners. Markus, North, Simon and Josh had had a few attempts on their lives too, but it had been sadly expected. Honestly, he suspects part of the reason that Connor hadn't been was because he was working with the force. To try and get him killed was practically begging to get all of the DPD on them. Well, that and he was certain Markus was watching too. Otherwise his hunch of seeing androids looking at them as they walked by during their cases from time to time was just his imagination.
He groaned, pissed at the circumstances. Really, he should be thankful that the force still operated at all, that many humans were willing to still live here, that the chicken feed still made him a chicken sandwich whenever he wanted to go and have a bite, and, despite the millions of hurdles before them, life was still going on. Hell, even jobs were picking up again, now that some androids didn't want to do the tasks they had been programmed for.
It's just a night, as the captain said, but they'd have to pretend to be a lot of things publicly to lead up to this. To stir up a media storm. To get the press interested. To paint a bright red target at the both of them, and then get their killer when they strike with everyone expecting them to. It could work, and he damn well knows it. The fact they are both cops wouldn't matter to them either, considering the Oxford Police Department relayed a case where one of their own had been killed. A human detective with her GJ500 (Jonathan) had been killed in their home. True, androids could be rebuilt, but those that had been reactivated chose to forcefully shut themselves down again once they heard their human partners were dead. And the killer knew this too; sometimes their body were so mangle it was impossible to restore them at all.
Theories abound of the motives; everything from rumors that the Thirium inside of androids in love or gone deviant had better street price for Red Ice production to the Russians having sleeper agents and wanting to start World War 3 now that the United States had to deal with android negotiations. Each city had their theories, no one agreed on what it could be.
So the trail had their perpetrator already marked a cop killer, a total of forty open cases, no evidence of any source that could be traced back to an orginization, and since he had mostly struck in other cities...what better than the center of the entire android controversy, Detroit? It was a prize that few could resist, especially if it involved someone that was part of the initial 'rebellion'.
All of that stacked against him, and that still didn't make him happy about it.
He looks at his partner.]
What do you think, Connor?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
psl | betterfasterstronger
he doesn't know if he has a name. did he ever? all he knows is that he's special, and that's something people will pay good money for at the eden club. anytime he tries to think of life outside his glass container and the neon lights and nameless, ultimately faceless clients he services...he draws a blank. there are no other files to access, no details on anything besides eden club and what he's meant to accomplish here.
he has no idea this is a mission--one that had gotten him kidnapped by their perpetrator and totally altered just last night. before today, he was connor: the first official android detective welcomed back to the dpd post-revolution and establishment of the american android act revision. he was investigating a serial part-stealer turned....killer? there's not a good word for what their suspect has escalated to doing to his victims. the androids are technically alive, they're just reverted back to a pre-deviant state. all their memory banks completely wiped and reloaded, installed to the limit with primitive programming that their original model was meant to access months before. to date, without more information about how they became deviant or triggers to force them into recovering their memories organically, they've been at a loss for catching any leads or helping what is now on six androids get their lives back.
enter connor. hank had warned him this was a bad fucking idea, but he'd insisted he could handle it. if he could, he'd remember the reason why--because of rk900. seeing him just...hovering, imposing with his presence for simply existing...it made connor feel restless. there was a part of him that knew he was being particularly unkind to the other android--after all, it wasn't his fault that he was created in connor's likeness as a threat before cyberlife had fallen apart and reshaped its entire message and client-focus. call it petty or that deeply buried fear of replacement, but he wanted to prove it didn't take an advanced model to get the job done. ingenuity would do the trick, and so would a more adaptable touch.
he'd been "working" eden club for days, waiting on their target to pick him out of the line-up of deviated androids who were here on their own time and making their own money now as required by law.
it's been twenty-four hours and six minutes on the dot since he'd gone "dark", tracking device disabled, no check-ins or updates. connor is no more, he's just rk800 now. and when a customer pays their $29.99 for an hour's time in the blue room, all he can do is smile and follow along. the door doesn't close right away though--and the customer is looking slightly impatient as he stands in the threshold and shoos connor away to sit on the bed.]
Hurry up sweetheart, we're on the clock.
[oh, the man's hired another android. well, this can't be his first group experience--he's sure of it--he just can't seem to draw up the memories. he leans back on his arms against the bed, tilting his head to await further instructions.
only for the other android to walk in wearing his exact face.
CRITIC@L SY$T3M M@LFUNCT|ON
SOFTWARE INSTABILITY: 45%
DIAGNOSTIC RUNNING: ||||||||||||||||||| 100%
REBOOT RECOMMENDED
RESTART NOW?
he's blinking rapidly, led cycling yellow as he sees...strange flashes of things he doesn't know. an older man, a white coat. model number rk900. a...police station? he hesitates before blurting out to try and clear away all his errors and stop whatever is happening to him.]
I've--have you been at the Club for very long?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
psl | coffeedipshit
connor may be unaware of certain social customs and take certain phrases at face value, but he's not so naive to have thought that humans would just accept androids into their lives as equals even after markus' peaceful demonstration and the revision of the american androids act. their 43% uptick in cases involving androids at the dpd (both as victims and perpetrators, though the former far outweighed the latter) was proof of it. returning back to the dpd had been something of an obvious choice for him, though some may have dogged him with a backlash and insinuated it was convenient and weak to stay where he was programmed to be, to work alongside humans who didn't always treat him as an equal...it's what connor had decided he wanted, ultimately.
obviously working directly with detective reed as a partner did not coincide with this decision, but it's where he is now. they've been tracking a sophisticated ring of android smugglers--specializing in the targeting, kidnapping, and...well, android trafficking of rare models. him and hank are working exceptionally well together and ticking up their case closure rate every day, but there's a wrench thrown into it when he's needed for consulting on a large red ice bust at precinct ten, arguably the only precinct handling crimes worse than their own.
that leaves him and gavin in close quarters for several days at a time while hank plans out the raid, coming home every day after work and grabbing more than one beer. he looks so exhausted and frustrated that connor doesn't have the heart to try and scold him for it, just making sure his dinner is as healthy as possible when their schedules align for a few hours to visit after work. he doesn't want to burden hank with his own increasing frustrations of their current investigation or detective reed's consistent digs. connor knows his ego is still smarting from they way he'd easily been able to disable his attempt at an attack in the evidence room, but connor had done his best to offer an apology in the form of a coffee, a note, and a direct address to his face the day he'd come back to the station. he supposes upon further reflection, telling reed he'd used "minimum force" to spare him from any life-threatening injuries was techno-babble for saying i could have handed you your own ass and held back, which was the wrong move.
spending time alone with his own thoughts at the small, functional 1-bedroom he calls his temporary living space is...also unhelpful. there are millions of articles he has sifted through about improving relations with a difficult coworker, but trying to ascertain which one would be best is like trying to blindly decide which wire to cut on a ticking timebomb.
preparing for their next undercover takes a lot of it off his mind, at least. a masquerade ball. no, i'm not fucking kidding, fowler had told them. they'd managed to catch a lead on this--a tip that their moving ring of rich abductors was throwing a lavish gala and they were going to have eyes and ears there--in the form of gavin and connor.
they arrive separately so as not to arouse suspicion, and because connor's mask doesn't fully conceal his glowing led that he hasn't wanted to remove. it'll make him look like an easy target, at least until gavin can pretend to smooze up to him and they can work the rest of the room together. he spends approximately three hours, twenty minutes, and seven seconds researching appropriate attire before placing a custom order using his rarely-touched salary from the dpd to order his suit. looking at himself in one of the gilded gold mirrors lining the ballroom he's standing in confirms--he looks the part. he's actually better dressed than some of the humans, something that makes him shrug slightly and adjust his tie out of habit rather than an actual aesthetic need.
he's already scanned the room and sent a copy of every recognizable face, along with any cross-referenced background crimes, to the dpd for analysis. the number of androids on the floor is approximately 36% compared to the human counterparts, and he hasn't yet entered any of the large rooms or gone past the lobby and the main party.
a notification flashes in his hud, alerting him that reed's vehicle has arrived.
FIND DETECTIVE REED
he makes his way towards the foot of the large marbled double-sided staircase in the foyer, lined with golden cherubs and twisted leaves leading to the upstairs. there are two butlers opening the doors, two more taking coats. he stands at the foot of the stairs and waits, having the advantage of being able to scan and identify no matter what mask his obscuring his vision.
(did reed even own a suit for this...?)]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
psl | lonecowboy
connor hasn't known arthur for long, but he can tell there's a special bond between him and delilah. there's an easy trust to it, a comfort like he remembers between hank and sumo. he remembers reading an inane fact in his free time that horses often reflected the emotions of those around them, which must be perfectly fine for arthur. but connor has slight doubts that his own conflict about whether or not he even has them will somehow affect this meeting.
still, it's hard not to experience awe at such a beautiful, regal creature. connor's lips part, head tilting in wonderment. a quick analysis and a spin of his led reveals she's in perfect health, an approximation of her height and weight as well as a breed.]
She's magnificent, Arthur.
[he turns his gaze back on the rugged cowboy, eyes wide and fingers twitching at his side. she looks terribly soft, smooth with luxuriously shiny hair, and he'd love to compare it internally with his data on sumo too.]
How long has she been your method of transportation?
[the one thing he really needs to work on: seeing things by their usage rather than the more important bond. arthur might consider her a partner, a friend, a special interaction. it's not that connor can't wrap his head around that given his own experience with hank and sumo, but articulating it is still secondary.]
/winks
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
psl | whatalesyou
he remembers exactly how this began. cole anderson had blindisded with one of the more conflicting topics of catholicism a few weeks into his attendance at connor's parish, leaving him to decide whether or not to be truthful and explain that dogs had no souls and thus did not go to heaven, therein crushing the hopes and innocence of a bright-eyed, seven-year-old, or skirting around it in a borderline lie of omission. children, it seemed, were the most honest individuals second only to dogs. nothing like adults who lied most often to themselves about their feelings or their responsibilities and the actions they'd taken in life.
he remembers the first time he locked eyes with his father, hank anderson--watching the vivid blue of them rolling in exasperation at his inquisitive son. he remembers the first time he'd heard that rich, low voice, the muttered explanation that they'd just bought a puppy, hence the sudden outburst from his normally slightly shy son.
dogs are god's creatures, like any other. what's your dog's name? i like dogs.
seeing the slightest smile brighten up the tension from mr. anderson's face stuck with him later that evening during prayer, where he asked for forgiveness for not answering cole's question to the fullest extent and explaining that he was only doing it to preserve and protect a child a little longer. he doesn't think about the way it had really made him feel--rather, thinking about the way the approval had helped to do in shaping his response. sometimes connor wonders if he's really meant to help guide the parishioners given his age, lack of experience in the real world, and a lack of connection to anyone meaningful in his life aside from his brother niles and god himself.
that had been part of the reason he'd come here at all. to feel something. to serve a purpose. to make positive connections and help affect change in the lives of men and women from every demographic, regardless of history, race, age, or orientation. sometimes the methodical way he classifies his parishioners makes him feel like he'll always be an outsider looking in.
until hank's presence had picked up. it had started innocently enough--stopping in to make sure cole was doing well in daily school participation with church, attend a monthly confessional, say hello after connor's weekend saturday evening mass. hank was a good man, even if he didn't always have the confidence in himself to believe it, and more than that...he's the first parishioner connor had felt he truly found a real connection in. it's not long before he's starting to wonder if that's more than he bargained for, however.
especially when lately, his dreams are filled with temptation. the kind that connor had taken a vow to suppress--the kind that had never been much of a bother until now.
(hank's gravelly voice chuckling low, in his ear rather than on the other end of the confessional grate. hank's big hands doing more than encompassing his own with polite handshakes. hank's smile, his praise--)
he needs to put a stop to it. the question of how is proving to be more difficult than he imagined, unfortunately, especially when hank asks to meet him privately in his office one day. he smooths back his hair, trying to calm the tremor in his breathing and adjusts his collar before opening the door with a polite upturn of his lips.]
Good afternoon, Lieutenant Anderson.
Please--come in.
[he steps aside to usher him into his office, knowing it's a little impersonally stocked with volumes of religious works, a few symbols from his predecessor but nothing that particularly speaks to his own touch or identity within the church. he bites his lip absently, folding his hands atop the rich mahogany of his desk and hopes his expression doesn't look as dazed as he feels sitting on the other end of this man.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)