#a reminder that only humans can become wraiths and only under severe circumstances

[bluegiragi]

Hello! I had a question: since Ghost becoming a wraith, do wraiths at all have any weaknesses? Or anything that could be use against them? (Also have a great day/afternoon/night!)

If you drench a wraith in liquid, it slows them down and makes them more compact. They’re less agile when waterlogged, but the extra density means their blows pack even more of a punch.

Like all things, they need air to breathe. If you were able to stick them in an unbreakable room and depressurised it, they’d suffocate and die. Of course in this hypothetical you’d need to find a) an unbreakable room with this capacity and b) manage to get the wraith inside it. Both kinda difficult tasks.

They’d die from a big enough blast if it managed to take them by surprise. But the blast would have to be pretty powerful, instantly vaporisation kinda stuff.

And the tried and true method - if you get them to over exert themself in battle, it makes them volatile. You can get them to essentially go supernova, where they lose control to the point where they explode.

[sol-korolevas]

—𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐨 𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭

pairing: rk900 x gn!reader 

words: 8.2k+

summary: “there you are, the wound. the warning. what am i, then? the breach?” 

warning: super mild violence (for now)

note: gosh writing dbh brings me back to the days where i habitually upload at least one fic to the tag. it’s been several months since my last fic so i’m gonna need to rectify that :3c this work is inspired by a previous fic, but i added more meat into this one. rk900 is such a bastard in my book and i hope i do his bastardness some justice so enjoy!

Never show weakness. 

Weakness can be controlled and manipulated. It leaves you vulnerable to the mercy of the enemy; it’ll kill you. But weakness is also a human facet that’s ingrained into the mind. And it’s a remembrance to humanity’s mistakes and proof of the existence of humanity. 

Someone told you weakness cannot be shed, but you can tether it and guard it with your ferocity. 

And, they said, ferocity is precious. 

Wear it like a crown of fangs. 

Hold it as a gun, heavy and warm on the flesh of your hand.

“What did you do?” 

All of a sudden, you feel the oppressive stare of RK900 pushing down on you. When once you can easily respond in kind, you now feel at a loss. 

Control everything, even your weakest emotions. 

And yet, you still lost control. You pulled the trigger too early, believing that you had won. After the explosion comes reality, the world shatters, bending forward until it's weight pushes you down onto your knees. The gun in your hand slips out and clatters onto the ground beside you - now just a deadweight. The ringing is loud and you’re not sure if it's from the aftermath of the shooting or from your own mind. You cannot block out the noise no matter how close you press your palm to your ears. Suddenly, you have no idea where everything is anymore. All you can think about is the ‘why’s ‘and the ‘how’s’. 

“[Name]!” a familiar voice calls to you and you turn your gaze towards it, eyes watching with a pathetic plea for help. RK900’s icy stare run chills down your spine, even more so when he’s standing tall and looking down upon you like the wraith he is. 

He crouches then, setting his gun beside him, his body blocking away the sight behind him as he takes your chin and tilts it up. The gesture is tender, if not for the blankness of his stare. 

You sometimes forget he’s incapable of the fundamental kindness humans have. Within his barren heart is just the life force that keeps him moving. 

The void in his eyes stare back and you panic, reaching towards his wrist with both of your hands so you can wrap them around it. 

He doesn’t let go. 

“Why did you shoot the hostage, [Name]?” he murmurs, but the venom in his words is clear. “You were supposed to save it and you failed.” When you don’t respond, he squeezes your chin and, out of instinct, you attempt to stand, almost falling to the ground before RK900 grabs your shoulders and pushes you down.

“Don’t move,” he says. “Just answer my question.”

The flicker of emotion in his words terrifies you and it further reminds you of the catastrophe laid out in front. 

“I-I lost control of myself—” you choke out, eyes following RK900’s movement as he stands and walks toward the fallen android. 

Time becomes still. The ocean doesn’t smell like an ocean anymore as the scent of red and blue blood bloats the air. Even the gull birds’ cries have been swept away by the chill of the aftermath. Shadow drapes over the cargos; the area you are in is illuminated by dim lights - the strongest of which is cast over the pile of bodies. 

The only sound left is the click of his pristine shoes and your heart beating through your ear. 

Your body falls forward, elbows keeping you from fully meeting the ground, as you watch him crouch down and take out the thirium pump. There are black wires still connecting it to the android before RK900 rips the pump away. You see the red LED light on the fallen android’s temple blink rapidly until it goes blank. 

“What are you doing?” you ask in horror. 

“Cleaning up the mess you made, [Name],” Rk900 says, throwing you a brief glance over his shoulder. His words quickly silence you, the brevity of it all coming back after the initial shock of seeing RK900 doing this. 

He then takes the kidnapper’s gun and shoots the android in the forehead, before replacing the gun back into the kidnapper’s hand and once more into its chest. The skin on his arm is dissolved - a safety precaution. 

The light of his LED circulates yellow and orange as his skin eventually returns. You watch as RK900 begins to search for something, before finding it - a bullet - and picks it up. 

He’s feeling the weight of it, moving it around in his hold as if studying the shape. “I’ve wiped the cameras and cleared the android’s memory cache, now no one will know what happened.” 

“No, this is wrong,” you quickly say, scrambling up. But before you can move properly, your body tips forward from the fatigue. And RK900 is there to catch you, gripping your waist with one arm. Immediately you rip your gaze away, not wanting him to see you at your most vulnerable anymore. 

But in the end, RK900 wins - he always wins - as you turn your gaze to him. You notice the corner of his mouth twitch as if he’s going to smile. Instead, he says,“ ‘This is wrong’? Would it be better if I tell the command what you did then?” 

The numbness in your mind stops. 

Some sense finally floods in as you disassemble his words. There’s nothing but a grim reality for you if word gets out. If he speaks - if any of you speaks - then the years behind you will truly be lost, forever. And you’ll be marked by the sin you just committed. 

But this is no less criminal than what you just did. 

And despite it all, the naively moral person in you still wouldn’t relent. “Unfix all of this, RK900.” 

“You can’t tell me what to do, [Name],” he says, pressing the hand containing the bullet against yours., “Not when I am saving both of us.” 

There’s no ‘but’s’ and ‘if’s’; no hesitations either. It’s either a shaky road ahead or punishment. 

You must accept this and with acceptance, you slump your shoulders. But the grip on your waist tightens and you squeak, feeling soreness everywhere on your body. 

“So now it’s a secret, and we lie,” you manage to say, forcing yourself to look into RK900’s eyes. But it’s not easy with RK900, despite having a hand in this. The look of superiority so natural to him diminishes all hope of sympathy for your plight. Although you’re not looking for that; you’re now looking for a semblance of peace, more than ever. “Unless—” 

Your breath hitches as he tugs you closer, his pale lips brushing too close to the shell of your ear. 

“Unless you are not doing what we all agreed to,” he tells you, voice calm and collected. This is now personal to RK900, you can hear it by the hush of his words. He sees some kind of chance, some kind of reason to do what he did.

Except, he has no sense of monetary or material value. You know because he always plays by the book - he’s a military and police assistance designed to assist human officers. 

He wants one thing and one thing only. 

“You want me to continue to work as a police detective.” 

You watch as he chuckles, eyes creasing with a hint of pleasure glimmering underneath his stormy gaze. But the brief look of human emotion feels foreign; it’s a mask he wears. Underneath the light, he looks far more like a fiend. 

The thick blocky letters of his name fizzle in and out as you mindlessly cling onto the fabric of his shoulder. 

“Absolutely, but you’ll listen to me without question. No more rebellion, no more excuses- you’ll learn from me and build your profession with my assistance.” 

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing manages to come out. In the past, he had always made it hard for you. You came in late, he scolds you; you forget a deadline, he scolds you; you talk too much with a coworker, he tells Fowler and then returns to mock you. To RK900, you’re too careless and naive - vastly different from the perfection that he is. 

To anyone else, RK900’s condition can be easy - normal even. But you know, underneath his request, is another demand. 

Absolute obedience. 

But now, everything is better than being fired. 

“Think of this as a punishment for you, [Name],” comes RK900’s voice. He still doesn’t release you, knowing that you hate unnecessary contact between himself and you more than anything in this world. You sense a certain kind of twisted pleasure forming in him, from the smugness in his tone to the way he looks at you. “And think of this as a lesson too, on why you should think before you act,” he adds. 

If you have a clearance of mind and of a stronger character, you would’ve argued back and taken control of the situation. Especially since you are his superior in both name and title. And under normal circumstances, you will absolutely rebel against him.  

He’s supposed to be underneath you, not the other way around. 

Sucking in a deep breath, you say, “Okay, I’ll work harder and accept your input.” 

It’s hard to keep sarcasm away usually, but this time you’re serious. 

A part of you still doesn’t feel right. It feels like you’re closer to corruption - the opposite of what you want to be. Your cheeks are heating up and there’s a tremble to your limbs. The ringing in your ears is still present. 

“Very good, I know we can somehow come to a mutual agreement one day.” RK900 finally lets you go before passing a thumb across your cheek. You flinch and move away as far as you can. He knows you hate the agreement as much as he enjoys it. 

When you see him turn his back on you in the distance, you open your hand. The bullet is deformed. There’s a chance that no one will even know this bullet is shot by a different gun. You still have your gun with you. 

RK900 could’ve easily mentioned this and gave you peace of mind. 

And he must’ve transferred the memory cache into himself before wiping it away from the android. 

You’ve always thought he’s trying to work his way above you. 

Now you think he succeeded

“Detroit’s first android ambassador.” Fowler’s words are heavy and thick as he paces around his office. You and RK900 both watch in silence, standing side-by-side in front. The screen behind him flashes the news of what happened two days before. Every once in a while you see the frozen features of the android you shot, looking back at you. There’s no life in those empty-looking eyes. 

Nothing that gives a hint of it being once alive. 

Immediately, you look away. 

In one corner, you notice a small video screen with the leftover remnants of Markus’s rebellion speaking at a podium. It cuts off to Fowler speaking at a press conference, but the words are muted. 

You fucked up, you fucked up so bad and they don’t even know the other half of it. 

“Do you know the name of this android you’re saving, [Last]?” Fowler asks, nodding towards the screen where the android’s face appears. You want to look away, but you know it’ll only force you to dig a deeper grave. Fowler isn’t stupid; he knows all the tics in you from the moment you joined. There’s a reason why he’s here in this position. But Fowler doesn’t wait for an answer, because he says, “RK900, tell [Name] the name of the hostage that was supposed to be saved.” 

“Victor, sir,” RK900 says without hesitation. He doesn’t look at Fowler, instead, he keeps his gaze to the floor with an emotionless look on his face. He seems so passive and subservient; you couldn’t even hear the coldness in his voice. You’re not sure whether you like him like this or if you’re envious of Fowler because of RK900’s difference in demeanor. 

“Victor—” Fowler sits down on his office chair and brings his fingers together, his elbows resting on the desk— “Android-kind’s hope to rectify a long, long period of scorn and hate from the society that built them.” 

He sighs, huffing out a breath. “At least there are still other ambassadors willing to meet us.” 

You look up from your gaze on the floor, noticing the way Fowler’s shoulders sag as he picks up a picture frame. There’s a brief flash of tenderness in his eyes before he sets down the frame and looks back at you. 

“I’ve asked Hank to make sure the other android ambassadors are all safe - put them in witness protection if need be.” 

“That’s a very good plan, sir,” RK900 replies. 

Fowler is still looking pointedly at you, his face unwavering in the seriousness of the situation. You know your face is cracked, splitting between guilt and remorse. To the unknowledgeable outsider, they would think it’s from the failed hostage extraction. 

Silence slowly brews and Fowler is awaiting a response from you. RK900’s knuckles brush against yours in an effort to make you talk without verbalizing his intentions. 

You know you need to speak - you want to speak - but all the words catch in your throat. Even your mind is in chaos; it wants to justify what you did while putting in caution to not let slip of what really happened; it wants to come up with ways to make some kind of amendment, some kind of solution to all this. 

But, none of this can rewind time and bring Victor back. 

“Why did you allow the kidnapper to shoot the hostage?” 

You tense, suddenly hearing the gunshot ring inside your ear again and the painful feeling of your knees hitting the ground. But amidst the chaos, RK900’s footsteps going towards the pile of bodies echoes with clarity. You still remember all the words he said, the promise he made to you, and the promise you made to him. And then, when you finally find yourself coming up with an explanation, you realize you couldn’t. 

Years before you promised yourself not to fall into the depths of corruption - as both a civilian and as police. 

But, oh, how the tables turned. 

“I-I won’t lie, we did fail, and—” you pause just as you feel RK900’s hand bump into the back of yours. It’s a deliberate act; it’s him warning you not to tell. And you look at him - at his face - and see the faint furrow of his dark brows and the set of his jaw. He doesn’t look back, but you can already feel his voice playing against your mind. 

Keep quiet.  

RK900’s hands are now folded behind his back as he takes one step forward. “We tried initiating contact with the kidnapper as diplomatically as possible, but when he saw us, he struck. I believe he meant to kill the hostage anyway; it was merely a game for him.” He spoke with such calmness that Fowler must believe it. 

And Fowler does - you watch him shake his head, his eyes looking to a spot beside your leg. “So it seems as if he’s playing with you - only to end up killing Victor and then himself.” He inhales sharply, before breathing out as he gazes back at you. “And I suppose you were the one who shot the kidnapper?” 

“Yessir,” you say, words slurring a little - a lack of eloquence and professionalism as RK900 would put it. You briefly look away, fingers picking at the fabric of your dress shirt. 

“Captain,  [Name]’s safety was also important - especially when they’re still new to all of this.” 

The words sting more than they should. Most because you know in some way RK900 is hiding his own opinion of you underneath a fake tone of sympathy and concern for you. In the end, he’s still the dominant voice and the dominant mind. 

You can tell Fowler right now about the degree to which RK900 made you obey him and work until he is satisfied. You once thought about lying to Fowler that you suspect RK900’s a deviant - despite being assured he cannot deviate. But you’re neck-deep in a lie right now and you don’t suppose RK900 will let you off this easily. 

And Fowler may not trust androids completely yet but he seems to have full faith in RK900’s responsibilities to assist you as both partner and mentor. Regardless of how many boundaries crossed, Fowler will not be able to regulate that because RK900 isn’t human. 

“For now I can look past your rookie mistake, but if the higher-ups question it, I’ll be forced to bring you back into this office for a thorough investigation. Mark my words, [Name], count your blessings now because I damn hope nothing comes out of it.”

This is the kindest Fowler has ever said to you in your work environment. 

“Thank you for your words, Captain,” you say, straightening your back. 

He nods his head, saying, “I expect a report from you by the end of your shift tonight, [Name].” He then reaches for something, a picture frame, before pausing. “You know, I sense a change in you. You’re not like who you were when you were younger.”

You understand Fowler is expecting an answer from you, but you feel trapped by what he said. A part of you feels confused, wanting him to explain. 

You then take a look at RK900, briefly wondering if he’ll say something. He’s looking at you instead, icy eyes watching you back, that telltale sign of condescension glimmering in his gaze. You immediately look back, staring at the group of picture frames on Fowler’s desk. 

“Yes, I understand,” is your only response, but you know it’s not the answer you nor Fowler wanted. 

You thank Fowler again and leave his office, the burdening feeling of something amiss follows you.

“I work better without someone hovering over me.”

You don’t feel the movement behind you or the heavyweight of RK900’s gaze sliding away. The intensity of his presence continues focusing on you, eventually forcing you to stop typing and push your chair away from your desk. 

“I believe right now would be a perfect time for you to work,” comes his smooth response. He’s standing beside you, stiff and straight. He’s a thoughtless being who’s realistically programmed to act and do a certain way. But now he looks as if he’s hiding away his thoughts as you look at him. You try not to glare at RK900; it’s unprofessional. But your annoyance isn’t well-hidden either as you return your focus back onto the screen. 

The DPD is empty except for you, Fowler, and RK900. Everyone else has their usual schedule of nine-to-five. It’s been such a common occurrence for you personally to be here earlier that you’re now used to it. 

“And within ten minutes the others will arrive,” you say, picking up a pen, “You can’t expect me to finish this report by then, won’t you?” Your attempt to sound less biting fails; if it is any other person speaking you would’ve been kinder. 

At least, you want to believe it so. 

“Do you even know how to write a status report?” His words are sharp and blunt as ever. Much to your abject horror, he’s reading the document. He doesn’t need to physically control it to do so; he can hack. You watch him narrow his gaze, eyes scrutinizing every word you typed. 

Silence folds over you as you pick at your thumb, now childishly put into a corner and unable to speak. You know you hold yourself accountable for your lack of attention to the finer aspects of reporting, but as RK900 begins deleting and re-editing your current progress, you know he’s trying to get underneath your skin. 

“Use what I wrote as a guide,” he finally says, stepping back for you to read, “I assume the police academy never taught you how to write.” There’s a teasing lilt in the last of his words, but it means so much more than that to you. 

Leaning in, you begin to type, using what he wrote as guidance, just as he directed. You’ve written reports before, for your high school classes and some of college. And it’s not that which is hard; it’s him, all him. 

“I understand you loathe my being here, but we agreed to it, [Name].”

You stop typing once more, feeling the familiar ring pulsing in your ear. “I don’t need to be reminded.” 

He never said you have to be formal to him. And in some way, you still want to show him his true place. 

RK900 raises his chin, his arms clasped behind him. He’s really looking down on you in the most literal sense. “I’m also doing what I’m programmed to do.” RK900’s tone is surprisingly soft this time as if his response is intimately between you and him. “And if you can’t write something simple as a report, then I would suggest you take remedial classes somewhere so you can.” 

“I thought you’re going to assist me, RK900.”

“With police work, not writing,” comes his terse response. 

“No more rebellion, no more excuses- you’ll learn from me and build your profession with my assistance.” 

He takes his duty of being your partner and guide to a much higher level than you had anticipated. And you fully understand that RK900 was built like this. 

Except—

The need to hide and destroy evidence wasn’t - no, shouldn’t be - programmed into him. 

Many times you’re not even sure you know what RK900 is. Time and time again something tells you he’s a deviant, but the high collar of his uniform and the promise by Cyberlife attests to something else entirely. And his strict adherence to serving humans far exceeded his capabilities of free-thinking. 

Just the simple thought of his role in that makes you shiver. 

But as you start typing again, you feel the tip of RK900’s fingers settle on the back of your hand and you turn your face towards him, silently asking for a reason. 

“Except for that little bit of rebellion back there, you’re doing wonderful,” he tells you, voice soft. The smugness returns as a vague smirk plays on his lips. You furrow your brows and ignore him, steadily keeping your eyes on the monitor as your fingers resume the typing. 

“Would you like me to tell the rest not to bother you?” 

Before you can respond, you hear footsteps coming into the precinct. 

Swiveling your chair around, you see Gavin first, his hands slipped inside his jeans, followed by Chris in his uniform, and Hank walking behind. And Connor, much to your disappointment, must have finally made his decision to leave the DPD. 

“Why you gotta upstage us again, Rookie?” Gavin says, holding his hands out. 

You are then greeted by Chris and Hank as they take their seats. Except for Gavin, who is still waiting for you to respond. A side of you is relieved he’s here; as annoying as he is, he brightens the place. But, on the other hand, RK900’s still here too. 

And before you can react, RK900 is standing firm beside you. A look of displeasure is on his face, lips thin and eyes pointedly looking at Gavin. “Detective Reed, my partner has a name you should use.” 

You reach for the cuff of RK900’s sleeve and grip it, pulling it against his wrist. “Don’t meddle, please.” 

Despite your attempt to keep your words between you and him, Gavin hears and reacts with a smirk. 

“Yeah, ‘don’t meddle’ you stone-faced robot,” he says, sneering. The look of ill-disguised contempt washes over his face as he crosses his arm. “This conversation is between me and Rookie, yeah?” His last words are directed at you, brown eyes flickering over to you, silently asking for input. 

“It’s—” you look back up to RK900, figuring that in the end, it’s better to placate him than Gavin— “I shouldn’t talk while at work.” Your words suddenly feel foreign and you want to sink into your chair. 

Meanwhile, Gavin stares at you, one eyebrow raising as he places his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Huh, you sound odd today.” He then waves his hand out and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, whatever, you do what you gotta, I guess.” 

You and RK900 both watch as Gavin takes his seat near the entrance. 

Then, RK900 moves until he’s blocking Gavin’s entire desk and figure, a motion that doesn’t go unnoticed by your eyes. 

“Unrefined wretch - his immaturity will cost him his reputation as the face of Detroit.” 

“You have no business judging him,” is your response. You lean back into your chair and cross your legs, partially relieved that the tension has subsided for now between Gavin and RK900. Yet still, another remains, hovering in-between RK900 and you now. Your lips press together, heel rubbing against the tile floors, attempting to strike down the budding irritation in you. 

“RK900—” you turn your chair until you can fully face him— “Why do you hate everyone so much? You respect Captain Fowler but only because of his status, right?” 

Strategically, it’s uncouth of you to ask such a question, especially during work-hours. You aren’t privy to the notion that anyone can hear you discuss this, or that RK900 himself might be displeased with the question. And true to your thought, he is, as his mouth curls into a frown. 

“They are all nobodies to me,” he says, words cool and even. But his eyes are an unbridled storm of hard edges. He lowers himself, bending at one knee as he looks you straight in your eyes. “You may have a good standing with them, but not me - I’m only programmed to work with them.” He presses three fingers on your knee and stands up. 

“Do with it as you will, [Name], but I am your partner.” 

You blink, but silently you acknowledge his response.

RK900 is right, however. He cannot develop relations with others aside from a strict work code. And there is a contrasting clash between him and people like Gavin, whose casual and carefree manner doesn’t adhere to the serious business professionalism of Rk900. Thus, easy enmity flourishes and that in itself surrounds every other individual RK900 meets. 

Hank and Chris now only ever talk to you outside of work. 

You feel just a bit more out of touch with everyone, but it’s not your place to argue when you should be putting those extra time to do your duties. 

RK900 left for maintenance after you finished your report. 

With his absence comes a peace that feels surreal, almost fake. His access to your phone and personal computer means he can send you case files and even message you if he finds it necessary. But knowing he’s going for maintenance means he won’t be able to do any of that for a few hours. 

And hopefully, nothing changes during that time. 

The last thing you need is someone finding the stored memory cache of that night. 

“Don’t think about it,” you tell yourself as you slip on your messenger bag. 

Before you can leave, Chris stops you. “Hey [Name].” 

He looks around, then says, “I was going to tell you this, but RK900 was there and I don’t want to end up like Gavin.” You see a nervous look on his face when he mentions RK900, which you wouldn’t fault him at all for. 

“Don’t worry, RK900’s in CyberLife headquarter now,” you tell him, adjusting the strap of your bag. 

“Oh, that’s a relief!” Chris answers, sighing. “Connor wants to meet you, Hank’s supposed to be the messenger but he got work to do. You can find Conner at the old playground - you’ll know which one.” 

There’s a beat in-between, before he adds, “Best not to mention it to RK900.”

“—and I cannot believe the process of finding an apartment,” Connor says, leaning against the black railing with a smile on his face. “But it’s liberating, there’s so much detail that I can decide for myself. Hank helped too; he argued with the agent and he must’ve worked something out because the next thing I know, he’s handing me the key.” 

He smiles and rubs his hands together. 

“It sounds like you really liked the experience,” you tell him. You watch as his shoulders shake, but he’s not laughing. Smile pulling into a frown, you touch his shoulder and say, “Are you cold?” 

“Yeah, my internal system sometimes gets sensitive during cold weather - I’ve replaced it with older parts.” He doesn’t look at you, instead, he keeps his focus onto the view ahead, where the ocean stretches until it hits the coast. Dark clouds curl from the factory chimneys in the distance, reminding you of the days spent bicycling through the empty streets, wanting to go inside one of those factories where your parents worked. 

And you don’t miss the way Connor’s tone changes when he utters those last words. It’s been a year since he left CyberLife and ever since then, both good and bad changes have come for him. Freedom for the exchange of degradation and a life of half-scorn and half-hope. 

You gleaned some of Connor’s experience from Hank. But you never had the chance to fully understand. 

A part of you doesn’t want to; comforting words isn’t something you can effortlessly gift to someone. 

“You think I can make it through this year?” Connor asks, clasping his hands tightly. He’s looking down, face full of solemnity and a vague sense of defeat. He doesn’t speak much about this kind of worry to anyone, so you are left struck with the realization that he trusts you enough to say this to you. 

You suddenly feel burdened and undeserving of that trust. 

You shake your head, silently gazing at the space between the two chimneys in the distance. The material of your scarf’s able to hide your mouth, but it cannot hide the frown from your face. “Of course you will,” you tell him, placing your hands on the railing, “You won’t break - I promise.” 

The phone in your pocket vibrates and you place a hand over the pocket and hesitates. 

Connor turns to face you and tilts his head. “[Name], is something wrong?” 

The voice in you wants to answer him that yes, something’s wrong. It’s RK900 calling, because it’s always him that cares too much to call you when you’re off work. No matter how much the deafening voice is telling you now to answer and yell at him, you can’t. Connor is here and this moment is for him. 

“Yes, but it’s there’s always a little wrong if you’re me,” you say, chuckling. 

His gaze softens and you don’t miss the way he smiles fondly at you. And despite the problems he’s facing, it’s always easy to see him do that. You’re not certain if he’s just like that or if there’s something you don’t know about it. But this is the Connor you’re most familiar with and you terribly miss having him in the DPD. 

And since he’s here—

“Would you ever think of coming back to the DPD?” 

Surprise appears on his face, taken aback by your abrupt question. He doesn’t respond but the LED blinks rapidly in orange. You don’t want to make it too serious of a question to worry him so you look away and pretend he said no. Connor deserves a break - a long one anyway - and it’s not like there are no androids like him out there who can fill in his space. 

Once upon a time, you thought he would be a good replacement. 

“If you don’t want to, I understand, but—” you stop yourself, taking in a shuddering breath as you attempt to collect your nerves. It’s unsavory - perhaps even pathetic - of you to want Connor back. But it’s the wishful knowledge that you can see his warm smile in the DPD rather than just the cold gray eyes of RK900 is a thought of comfort. 

You feel uneasy and you begin to adjust the strap on your messenger bag. The weight beside you is a welcoming right now. 

“No, I would like that,” Connor says, smiling. And you can see it, the flicker of hope in his honey-brown eyes. “I would love to work with Hank again, and I would love to work with you on a case together,” he adds, placing his arm behind his back. Then the grin on his face settles back as he looks to the ground. 

“But—” 

“But you can’t,” you finish for him, trying to sound as gentle as possible. Both you and Connor know this, that it’s an unspoken rule in DPD that Connor cannot work anymore. He’s ineffective, old, and useless according to his makers and the numerous flaws on his body has rendered him incapable to be on most cases anyway. 

But there’s another truth that overshadows everything else. 

“My presence isn’t particularly well-liked there.” He laughs, but it’s forced and absent of his usual light humor. You know he’s upset about this - it pains him to not be able to do something he truly loves to do. 

“It’s RK900, isn’t it?”

Connor looks back up at you and he frowns. He’s still for a moment, the wind brushing through his dark brown hair. Stray strands linger across his forehead, hiding the LED behind them. “My successor will be the first to have objections. I don’t think Detective Reed would like me back either, considering our last meeting involved my fist to his face.” 

“Fuck RK900,” you say, voice louder. You feel the sole of your boots digging into the thin trace of snow as you step forward. “He doesn’t own you and even I have more jurisdiction than him. Gavin’s long forgotten about that incident and I’m damn sure even he would rather it’s you in there than him.”

The fierceness in your words doesn’t betray the way your hands shake. You know it’s wrong to force Connor to come back. But your own selfishness far outcries the sensibility within you at this moment. 

Connor blinks, taken aback by your sudden response. You feel the creep of warmth through your cheeks the more time passes, especially when you realize he’s assessing you. That is something Connor will never part with, that instinct-like need to observe first.

But before you can talk more, a pair of footsteps, heavy and deliberate, breaks the silence between you. 

Immediately, you feel the warmth that had risen a moment before ebb back into a cold void. In the same moment you attempt to step forth, you decide to step back instead. Cold eyes stare at you, but you couldn’t find the previous energy you had to even look properly. 

“RK900.” And it’s Connor who said the first word, calling to his successor in the same clinical manner Rk900 would speak in towards everyone around him. All of a sudden, the [person] who spoke with tenderness is gone, his entire facade now hardwired into that of a near-emotionless being. 

And RK900, who up until now has been looking at you, turns his gaze toward him. He’s not in the Cyberlife issued white and black uniform but in a black turtleneck sweater and dark fitted jeans and polished black oxfords. Even so, the entirety of his form recalls the usual coldness of his existence. 

You’re aware that the same situation as this morning will happen again. But that was different; the one in front of him had been Gavin. 

This time, it’s Connor and he’s—

“A deviated failure, how quaint,” comes RK900’s venomous words, but it’s only concealing the darker intentions underneath. You’re not sure who to push back or who to tell to stand down. 

But you know who is more likely to act first. 

“RK900, that’s enough; we’re leaving.” In your attempt to break the dangerous tension, you wedge yourself between him and Connor, before pushing yourself against RK900. The uncomfortable closeness only makes you nervous, but the need to separate them far outweighs your own distress. “This is an order!” you add, realizing that RK900’s not moving. 

Neither Connor nor RK900 has said anything about your involvement, although they may be too focused on each other to care. This is dangerous, you know, because if they clash then no one - not even a military-trained soldier - can break them apart. 

The last time someone tried, it broke their arm. 

And that someone was you. 

You’re not certain you want to mentally live another day if something like this happens again. 

Suddenly, you feel a palm on the back of your shoulder. RK900’s glancing down at you and you look up, desperately trying to plead to him to go. 

Don’t make the same mistake, don’t harm him. 

“Is this why [Name] wants me back? Because of you?” 

You freeze, realizing this will never end unless one of them relents. You can still remember the first time, but now is not the time to relish in the past. And now that Connor has spoken, you know RK900 will make sure he gives him an answer. 

Turning your gaze, you see his jaws tense and the glimmer of hunger in RK900’s eyes. A tightness forms in your chest as you change your position and attempt to pull him by his arm. It’s useless; RK900 is as much a stone as he is a war machine. 

“Oh, worry not, we don’t miss you—” he breaks, eyes flitting back to you with a look of heavy disapproval on his face— “And certainly not [Name].” The last of his words are also for you, but well-hidden enough that only you know. 

Connor’s hand curls into a tight fist and no doubt is he thinking of using it like he did with Gavin. You can see it in the tenseness of his jaws, the wrinkle of flesh between his brows, and the narrowing of his eyes. The potent hostility between them only builds and builds despite the time in-between their previous meeting. 

And RK900 sees this, it makes him sneer in a show of dominance. 

“Are you really sure you want to fight me here? In a discarded playground?” The mocking tone in his voice is strong enough that you know it’s meant to enrage Connor. 

It’s working too. The red on Connor’s LED is flashing dangerously underneath the strands of hair covering it. 

As much as you want to see RK900 defeated, you know you cannot let Connor pull the punch first. 

“We’re leaving now, RK900, or I promise you I’ll tell Fowler about this,” you whisper, uncaring now of what happens in the future between you and him. 

“And what then? Don’t make me remind you of your position right now,” is his response. 

You see Connor looking at you, concern written across his face. “What does he mean by that?” 

For a moment, all eyes are on you as you attempt to come up with an answer. Once again you feel like a prey underneath the oppressive eyes of RK900. Still, you stand your ground and keep your hands on his arms. “Nothing, there’s nothing really.” A fake calmness is in your voice, one that you know Connor must’ve seen through. You tug once more at RK900’s arm, uncaring whether or not it’s too harsh of a gesture. 

“[Name]—” But before he can finish his sentence, RK900 has turned, finally allowing you to pull him away. “[Name] wait!” You hear Connor walking forward, attempting to stop you. But you throw him a look, a silent plea for him to not come. 

Not long after, the playground’s out of your line of sight. 

You’re going home, the waning frustration having worn away any semblance of peace in you. But the budding anger feels like fangs gnawing at the back of your mind. You don’t think you’ll get any sleep tonight and be able to wake up tomorrow either. 

But you also cannot go home, because RK900 is following you even though you’ve walked and walked. The feeling of his cold stare is like a knife stabbing at your back. So you stop, having walked into an alleyway that’s a detour to your apartment, and you turn to face him. 

He also stops, standing just a few feet away, eyes settling upon your own. The longer the seconds tick by, the more irate you become and the more nervous you feel. So many times you feel like you’ve been cornered by him. Now that you’re physically cornered, the hair on the back of your neck is slowly standing stiff and a sharp coldness runs down your back. 

“I’m off work.” The calmness in your tone surprises you, but you know that calmness will quickly subside the moment something snaps. The glance you give him is only a warning; hell, it’s a learned reaction from him. But, you’re not finished and the flame within you is blazing stronger and stronger still.“And don’t you think it’s unprofessional of you to try to antagonize an ex-coworker?” 

“I never regretted my decision,” RK900 says, clasping his arms together behind his back. 

“And the first time it happened?” 

“That was a mistake.” 

You almost laugh, knowing all too well the pain that coursed through your arm when it got broken. Everything was so muddled back then, your memory, that is. So you’re not sure who was the one that broke your arm. You want to blame RK900, but you don’t want to bend that low. 

“We all make mistakes, [Name],” RK900 says, sharp gaze stubbornly holding yours, neve letting you go. 

We all make mistakes. 

Right. 

“It’s a bit late now, isn’t it?” you say, words harsh but, in your mind, appropriate. And it’s not like it has a singular meaning. Your own bitterness towards yourself is still there, etched into the very words. Whether or not RK900 notices this is his problem. 

And you’ve run out of patience to wait for him to respond.

You turn and continue making your way out of the alley and into the street, where fluorescent lights decorate each shop. There are only a few civilians out, the distinction between whether or not any of them is an android or not now blurred by their lack of uniforms and LEDs. 

This time, you remain en route to your apartment, wanting nothing but the comfort of your bed. And when the familiar off-white color of the building appears in your line of vision, you walk faster. 

But before you can fish out your keys and unlock the double doors, a hand on your shoulder stops you.

“Why are you following me?” It’s easy now for you to tell apart his hand from others - there’s always a strength to it. You also don’t miss the intrusive warmth behind your back. 

This time, you turn out of your own will. The sun hasn’t set yet and you can see RK900 staring back at you, face blank - almost serene. 

“I have a question for you, and I hope you may answer it,” he says, voice low. 

“A question for me,” you say, sounding out each word slowly. Again, the nagging feeling of wanting to laugh, to scream at him, gnaws at the edge of your brain. You just want to go home and he’s not even giving you that luxury. 

RK900 seems to sense it too because for a moment you notice the way he frowns before he reigns his expression back. “If you had answered my call, I wouldn’t have to chase you down like this.” 

“Thought you were in maintenance.”

“I can still access the phone application installed in me - you should already know that.” 

You press a hand to your face and slide it down hard. You do, you do know he can call you whenever he pleases. It’s not like that was the first time he attempted to do so. 

But sometimes it’s easier to lie. 

“Okay,” you say, fully giving up now. “I’m all ears.” 

You think he’s going to talk about Connor, again. But, no, he doesn’t because you notice there’s no trace of displeasure on his face, yet. Instead, he says, “No matter what, I want to remind you all that I did and am doing is for you, [Name].” He closes in, his body now just inches before you. Thankfully no one’s walking the street right now except for a few passing cars. 

Your hands are up, ready to push him away, but you stop, letting them linger in the air. “You could change, you know. Be nicer, be better.” It’s hesitant, the way you say those words, and perhaps naive in the way you told it. 

“And why should I?” he asks, leaning closer. “Would kindness protect you from the world? Wasn’t it your own kindness that left you injured?” He’s glaring down at you, attempting to trap you in a corner again. You cannot take a step back, the door is right behind you. 

“I know you wanted Connor to replace me, I’ve known since you first met him,” he adds, sensing that you wouldn’t be responding any time sooner. 

He’s right. And although you question how he knew, you realize it’s too late to find out. But do you even care if he knows? It may be better for him to know he’s not all that superior if he’s second at best. 

“That doesn’t mean I won’t honor our agreement,” is your response. “And I only wanted Connor back in the DPD and not as my partner.” You take in a deep breath, mind now burning with the need to stray away from this, all of this. 

Your attempt to sound confident in front of his presence only makes you seem like a trapped animal even more. Yet still, you place your hands on his chest, holding him at a distance. RK900 reacts with a chuckle, much to your relief, as he stays. 

“Even if the broken one comes back, he will never make you a better version of yourself. Remember [Name], your dream? You told me about it when we first met; you said you wanted to become a police lieutenant at least. You want to earn it through hard and honest work. You have a powerful dream, [Name], and I fully intend to see it happen.” 

The conviction in his words shatters you. You know RK900 is incapable of lying, maybe hide facts and manipulate it, but never outright lie. At least, not to you. And you do remember what you told him before. That wide-eyed new member of the DPD, staring at their future android partner and telling it their wish. That was all you. 

But to know he knows of your dream baffles you. He’s efficient, merciless, and stoic - a well-built machine. And to think he remembers something as insignificant as your dream makes you want to believe he’s something more. 

RK900’s hand suddenly drapes over your own, causing your shoulder to stiffen. 

“Kindness is a choice [Name]. ” 

He’s slowly pushing your arms down. 

RK900 then steps back, his focus still lingering on you. “I see it, from time-to-time, but it should be directed elsewhere. If you can use something more efficient, I believe you’ll make it.” 

And he puts his hand up and waves briefly at you. Wordlessly, you wave back. 

“And [Name]–” he stops himself, eyes searching for something on you— “I forgot to mention this, but if you don’t need me anymore, I will be forced to deactivate and taken apart. They will see into my memory cache if it happens; remember that.” 

RK900 doesn’t wait for your response. 

Seconds pass and you feel yourself slumping against the door. 

This is all a ploy, one could even admit to saying it was a selfish act of benevolence. 

But it’s still not right. You want to believe RK900 is still an android, too crude and unrefined to be anything more than what he already is.

He’s only doing this because that’s what he’s programmed to believe in. 

Unconsciously, your fingers touched the back of your hand. 

You can feel the phantom warmth of his hand, urging you to comply. 

Your phone vibrates with an incoming call. It’s Saturday and you’re off, but the chance to be called on-duty is enough for you to rouse yourself. Sluggishly, you lean over and grab your phone. Several empty cups of ramen fall down before you find it. 

Looking at the screen, you notice that it’s not a number in your contacts. 

Surely it belongs to a telemarketer. 

But right after you slide it close, the same number calls you again. 

This time, you answer it. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, [Name].”

You feel your heart drop. “Markus?” 

note: YIKES i hope you guys like this. i’ve never experimented with long chaptered fics before and as a writer in general i’ve been rusty. i don’t fully intend to make this story any longer than 2-part unless i get some neat ideas going. plus, if you haven’t known, i suck at updating multi-chapters ^^;