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drivinmeinsane · 9 months ago

Text

{ Eyes Always Seeking }

2/3 ※ Officer K (BR 2049) x Sierra Six (The Gray Man) ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

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※ 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, Slow burn ※ Word count: 3,551 ※ Status: Chapter 2 / Complete ※ Author's note: This chapter and I bitterly fought. I'm not sure who won, but here it is all the same. Eyes Always Searching has expanded beyond the word count I set out to write and there will be a third and final chapter because of that. K's really going through it, but we'll get there, folks. Hands WILL be held. ※ Song inspiration: The Ghost on the Shore - Lord Huron

It’s considerably later in the night when the spinners containing the matching set of replicant officers finally touch down on the roof of the Los Angeles Police Department's towering building. The impact of the tires on the ground is enough to rattle K’s already overstimulated body. The inevitable test hangs over his head like the fist of another replicant primed to swing at his skull. He is not confident that he is going to look like himself inside, not tonight. He’s swimming in the ocean, head going under, fighting for breath, miles away from solid ground of his baseline. Odysseus on the boat, not yet to the shore of the Cyclops’s island.

One of his implanted memories is a lesson for him to stay out of water. Keep your feet touching the bottom. Don’t drift too far. If you do, you won’t come back. Seems like he didn’t learn from that lesson or maybe he was pushed into the depths. He didn’t choose this life.

He gets out of his spinner. The plastic bags rustle and shift inside his pockets. That sensation, at least, is something familiar in the turbulent waters of tonight.

Six meets him at the midpoint between the two spinners and, together, they walk to the door that opens into the rooftop entry point. The other replicant mentions for him to walk ahead, needing him to take the lead in an unfamiliar building. K bypasses the elevator entirely. They descend the stairs like two men being led to the gallows as he takes them down past the level that houses Lieutenant Joshi’s office. He learned early on in his inception not bring pending work with him when visiting her, only results.

The muscles in his thighs burn, going numb from the constant use. Elevators are not safe, not for their kind. Their privacy allow for intimacies, liberties that cannot be easily refused. They are nothing but slow-moving cages. As they descend into the bowels of the building, he wonders at the lack of protest from his fellow officer at taking the stairs. Had Six also found himself cornered in his own precinct? Likely.

K pushes open the stairwell door on the floor that contains collection and processing and they step out into the populated hallway. They do not go unnoticed. Both replicants are too bloody and rank to escape attention. Their condition is enough to provoke most of the other occupants into pressing against the walls. An unnatural silence falls. K had expected a greater uproar than usual due to his new shadow, but it seems like the presence of the other replicant at his back is having the opposite effect on his usual hecklers.

Wide eyed stares at the matching set the two of them make K tuck his chin into the lining of his jacket. He’s shying away from the scrutiny and closer to his fellow officer. Six, for his part, doesn’t waver. The other replicant is a steadying presence, unbothered and enduring as the seawall.

Making a sudden left, K abruptly ducks into the evidence intake room. Six doesn’t miss a step and adjusts course accordingly. K would be relieved that there is an available processor if it didn’t mean that their baselines are coming up that much sooner. It’s slow here this time of night. The late hours bring a differing type of crime, pertaining more to perpetrators and enforcement rather than victims and deduction.

“Evidence turn in,” he says to the man seated behind the counter. K’s pretty sure the employee is an organic. He’s likely one of the folks that haven’t had the money or the latent qualities to make it off-world. There were more than a few of them left behind.

“Badge,” the processor says, disinterested. Faint moans are coming from a personal phone resting on his desk. Two female doxies grope each other on the visible sliver of screen. K buries the thought that he might as well be them and they might as well be him. They are spared the veil of secrecy at least.

K slides his badge under the plexiglass barrier. The man doesn’t bother to pause the video before checking the engraved number and pulling K’s file up on the computer screen. When he glances over at him to do a facial match to record’s photo, he does a double take. K gets to see him blanch, blood drains out of his face at the sight of Six hovering just at K’s shoulder. He quickly adverts his eyes. Like the organics in the hallway, he is clearly unsettled by the sight of a matched set.

His badge gets shoved back at him unceremoniously. He tucks it away. The seated man gives him a hard look, his lips are pursed like he is about to say something unpleasant. In response, K keeps his head lowered and his shoulders curled in. It’s a submissive display, nonthreatening, he’s a good dog showing his belly. Some of the tension bleeds from the employee at the show, although he still eyes Six warily.

“Slide whatever you have under.”

There’s open disgust on the seated employee’s face as both he and Six pull bags of eyeballs from their pockets and begin piling them on the laminated counter. Over a dozen hues stare blindly in all directions, lidded by thin plastic instead of flesh. The piece of metal that had slashed K’s temporary partner’s face open gets tossed unceremoniously alongside them in its own bag. It reflects the dazzling blue of one of their own eyes. K’s own or Six’s? Does it make a difference?

K does not produce the scarf they had taken from their personal Minotaur that they left slain and discarded in the heart of the maze. It is for him to keep, just like the coat that he tucks himself inside every day. Perhaps, when he is gone, his retiring officer will carry a piece of him with them, a reminder that he had existed in the endless list of serial numbers. He wishes sometimes that his own collection was smaller.

His partner gestures him aside and K obediently takes a step back, watching on as Six pushes the pile through the opening in the barrier. The sight of a tattoo on the other replicant’s hand makes the air seize in his chest. He just took on another lungful of water.

He knows he’s staring. His fellow officer had been wearing a pair of gloves earlier, hiding the pale flesh of his hands, but now they exposed in a way that distorts his reality. The moaning of the recorded doxies, the bare skin. Those hands on him, wringing noises from his own throat. It blurs together. He forces his eyes to look somewhere left of the processing employee’s ear.

The presence of the shakily etched palm tree in front of a sun on the joint of the other replicant’s thumb is troubling. K is perpetually lost in the ocean. That memory was implanted in him so deeply that he can taste the brine of saltwater every time he thinks of that day. Why should a replicant be here, wearing his face, and baring a mark representing the shore that was his salvation, just out of reach. The single palm tree in the sand just on the horizon... He never makes it.

The employee types loudly as he enters in the information. The crinkling of the plastic as he picks up each eye to press it against the scanner is as loud as a gunshot in the near silent space. More often than not, there’s an error. Just as K had suspected, the eyes are too decomposed for a regular scanner. Hitting the limit of his patience, the seated man finally throws the entire lot of them into a bin to be taken for more in-depth processing. Chances are that Coco is going to be saddled with it. He’s good at his job. He is also K’s favorite coworker. He at least apologizes when he insults him. The others don’t bother.

“You can go.” The employee says, irritated. As they take their leave he loudly says “Skinners!” to their backs. K twitches, wounded. Six tightens his jaw and his hand jerks ever so slightly towards K. Their knuckles brush, bare skin on bare skin. He might as well have punched him for the way the impact of that light touch radiates through his body.

The initial shock of them has worn off by the time they step back into the hallway. Muttered insults greet them as they carve a path back to the stairwell. They descend deeper into the precinct where the more unsavory things have a home.

Their hands do not touch again.

K pushes open the door onto a floor several levels below. It’s empty. No one but the cleaning crew and his kind have a purpose down here. His reflection meets his eyes in the polished floor. He doesn’t have to imagine company for once. One has become two has become four. Who will be coming back?

The overhead light buzzes, popping like broken bones under his hands. He can’t hold back the future. It’s inevitable.

Their footsteps echo. The slight squeak of the rubber of the sole of K’s left boot is insistent. The rustling of Six’s jacket accompanies it like an old friend. If he fools himself, he could imagine- No. Bury it. Bury it on the shore and enter the cave. It’s his fate.

They reach the room they need. There are no chairs.

It was once a waiting room with a desk, years before K came along. Now, instead of an employee, there is a screen mounted on the surface. He scans his fingers and then leans down and holds his eyelids open with those same fingers. Eyes up and to the left like a good boy. He steps back and lets the replicant at his side do the same.

In what feels like an act of cruelty, Six gets called back for his baseline first by a voice projected through a speaker in the corner of the room. Neither of them speak as he walks into the connecting room. K is left to wait, anxious. He has never had cause to be worried about another one of his kind before, not in this way. The similarities between them are too many. He has to trust that his fellow officer isn’t defective like him. Surely he isn’t. He seems less affected by the unpleasant aspects of their job. The vitriol of the organics around them hadn’t appeared to be as crushing. Their passing touches were likely not as remarkable to the other replicant as they were to K.

For his end of things, K knows all too well how easy it is to feel beyond what is safe. There has been days when the exhaustion has been bone deep. Days when he’s felt almost too tired to shove down his flaws. The wrongness of him bleeds to the surface, bubbles up through the dirt he buries the aspects of himself in. Pressure never staunches the wound for long.

He strains himself to hear anything behind the sealed door. There is nothing but the whoosh of the vents and his own body operating. Would he hear the killing blow?

Six returns after several achingly long minutes. His face doesn’t reveal anything when he steps out of the room. His jacket is folded over his arm. The dark material of his shirt hides the blood from his cheek injury. It looks worse than K had remembered. He’s suddenly too aware of the brain matter drying in his own hair.

The disembodied voice calls for K before the door even shuts behind Six. He nods at K and steps aside to let him pass. Irrationally, he has an urge to tell the other replicant goodbye.

There is a patch of missed blood in the room. The tile is stained pink around it. Someone had felt too much and paid the price. He shrugs his coat off. K tries not to look at the vibrant smear as he takes his seat on the stool. He keeps his eyes focused on the camera’s singular eye. A Cyclops. The Cyclops. He must outwit it.

“Subject: Officer KD6-3.7. Let’s begin. Ready?” comes the detached voice.

He imagines himself trapped in a cave. He loosens his fists. Pictures the scene in his mind, sinks into it. “Yes, sir.”

The camera whirs loudly. Locking onto him.

“Recite your baseline.”

“And blood-black nothingness began to spin. A system of cells interlinked within. Cells interlinked within cells interlinked. Within one stem.”

The rest of the questions follow. The camera clicks with each response, capturing any sign that he needs to be culled. With each reply, the story unfolds in his mind. The Cyclops is fooled, left drunk and unaware of his plans and innermost thoughts. His pulse beats steadily in his throat. He does not swallow excessively. He is calm, compliant.

“Do they teach you how to feel finger to finger? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.” He says automatically, before he can stop it, a flash of Six’s gloved hand in his bare one. It had been warm through the synthetic leather both times they had grasped hands.

“Do you long for having your heart interlinked? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.” Looking into Six’s eyes, thinking of the way the other officer asked him if he was okay. The way they had fought to keep each other alive mere hours ago.

“Do you feel that there's a part of you that's missing? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.” Yes, but he found it. He found it. He fights the jump in his throat, the way he wants to look away from the piercing eye in shame.

He recites the words that are expected of him. Gives all the correct responses, fights any trace of humanity within himself. He reminds himself that there isn’t any. He is defective. He is irredeemably defective.

“Say that three times. Within cells interlinked.”

“Within cells interlinked. Within cells interlinked. Within cells interlinked.”

Machinery powers down. There is silence after K says the final word. His heart is hammering in his ears. His vision blurs, the camera turns into a wavering white fountain.

How long will Six wait for him? Will they tell the other replicant what happened here, or will he be left to draw his own conclusions. He should have held onto his hand. He should have felt Six’s bare skin with his own in the hallways, should have allowed himself that final luxury. But… maybe if he had, he would have tainted Six and it would be his blood in the corner. Yes, it was better this way. K can retire alone with his shame.

Finally.

“We’re done. Constant K. You can go.”

K locks eyes with the camera’s eye. He pictures himself driving a fiery wooden stake through it, desperation burning up the edges of himself. “Thank you, Sir.”

He stands up and puts his back to the camera as he moves to exit. He wonders if they put a bullet in the replicants from behind after telling them they can go or if they make them sit still and look ahead for their retirement. His shoulders are stiff. He reaches the door, imagining himself clinging to a sheep on the way out of the Cyclops's cave, hoping against hope the Cyclops won’t notice. His fingers are buried in the faux fur lining of his jacket, furthering the illusion.

Six is standing patiently for him in the main room. Hands clasped. Head lowered. Coat back on. Settled in like he would wait a lifetime. He nods upon seeing K and K nods back, neither of them speak. There is always someone listening.

They take the stairs to Joshi’s office. Once again, neither of them indicate for the elevator even despite the long climb. K ignores the burning of his lungs and the ache in his side. There is relief to be found in its presence. It hurts of victory, of his continued survival.

The bullpen outside of his madam’s office falls silent the moment their presence is registered by its occupants. No whistles and lewd commentary accompany their journey. Hushed murmuring and the dry rustling noises small insects might make when they skitter away from a bright light take the place of it instead. People stand up to look at them, the matched set. K thinks about the pile of endlessly staring eyeballs they had left behind. It’s difficult not to draw comparisons between them and the eyes of his coworkers.

He is the one to knock on his madam’s door.

“Come.”

A twist of the doorknob and then they’re stepping over the threshold. Predictably, the crowd waiting with bated breath behind them explodes into the conversation. Six closes the door, shutting away the leering remarks.

“Madam.” K greets, submissive nod of his head. Six does not follow suit. Joshi frowns at the lack of subservience.

“Took you long enough.”

“Apologies, Madam.”

She scans over them both with a critical eye. K has long since learned to not squirm under the weight of her scrutiny. Doing so only serves to displease her.

“I’m not paying for that,” she says abruptly.

K flinches, thinking she’s referring to him. He mentally catalogs every possible injury he might have. There is nothing that she should be able to see. He’s hiding his soreness. His pulse ticks up. His mouth dries.

“Of course,” comes Six’s steady voice. It’s his fellow officer’s cheek that had captured her notice.

The flippant answer seems to upset the woman seated behind her desk even more.

“What did you find.” She’s addressing him now, impatient.

“Thirteen bodies plus the one we retired. Fourteen. Looks like the tipster might have been right. There was some things written on the walls that seemed to suggest it. The entire place was set up like a maze.”

“What got to them?”

“Carbon Monoxide poisoning. It put some of them down in their sleep and riled up the one we dealt with today enough to finish off the rest long before we arrived on scene.”

“Your kind just can’t help themselves, can they?” Joshi says, a knowing gleam in her eye. He is aware of how she thinks of them.

“I suppose not, Madam.” K agrees placidly. There’s a spark of satisfaction on her face at his acquiescence, like they’re both in on the same joke.

“I’m a little surprised that you two haven’t torn each other to pieces yet. Didn’t think you newer models got along all that well. The reps over at Wallace warned me that there might be some conflict, like two starving dogs in a cage. Unless you were the one who put that cut on his face.”

K silently shakes his head. He doesn’t trust himself to react more than that. His madam’s assumptions rankle at him. The urges he is having are wrong, but they’re not violent. It would be better if they were. That would be forgivable. Despite himself, he can imagine the two of them clashing, but he would not draw blood. He would be toothless, hands soft, body yielding. He thinks he might let Six retire him if it came to it. Hopes it would be him and not anyone else.

“I’ll have a forensics team go out in the morning to canvas the place and find what you missed. I need you both back here in the morning. Let’s say… 0600. Go home, K. Get cleaned up, you look like shit.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Her attention redirects to the replicant at his side. “Anything to add…” she squints at her screen, “KS6-2.8?”

“No.”

“Lieutenant Fitzroy sure gave me a charmer when he sent you over. Are you usually this surly with your superiors or is it special treatment just for me?”

Six is silent. Joshi is looking like she might stand up and backhand him. K feels a sweat break out across his back. Suddenly, his coat seems stifling. “Well?”

“Whichever makes you feel better.” His tone is dripping with politeness. The crease deepens between the woman’s eyebrows.

Joshi stands up, one hand on her desk. She visibly takes a breath, holds it, lets it go. Her ire barely relents.

“Get out.”

Six inclines his head and pivots. K is careful to shut the door gently behind them.

K follows Six out of the door and up the stairs. He feels shaken, off balance. He would have never dared to needle his madam like Six had just done. It would have meant the hose, the metal grate, and the unforgiving tile. Standing, shivering in the refrigeration unit for minutes, for hours, for as long as it took for him to learn his lesson. They can’t disobey directly, the compulsion to bend a knee is too strong, but they are capable of other infractions.

“My place?” K asks, before Six pushes on roof access door. He feels a curl of desperation. He doesn’t want to see him leave. They haven’t talked. K needs more. He always needs more. One day he will pay for that need, but not tonight.

“Sure. My spinner?” Six responds easily, holding the door open for him. If he’s feeling nervous, he’s not showing it.

“Sure,” he echos.

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