#cleaned out my ask box last night when i logged back in....now she is BRIMMING already

[silksworn]

@lvscinvs & @gedwimora are both begging for Iraestra attention I do believe...

[otp-armada]

A Time Capsule

I’ve been lurking across several fandoms spanning a decade now, since my days of reading “Bones” fanfics on fanfiction.net. Before any inkling of Ao3’s existence. Maybe longer, my memory is murky at times.

I’ve never made a splash in any fandom, so to speak. I’ve always been content to stand shrouded in anonymity, residing on the edges of fandom, never an active participant. Perfectly at peace to never have a voice. Never brave enough to want to be heard. It has only been in the last few years that I discovered Tumblr and felt comfortable enough in taking advantage of its anon feature to interact mostly with The 100/Bellarke crowd, “conversing” with one user in particular. In the instances I chose to speak, there was safety in knowing my words never had an identity attached. A safety that lent itself to sending anon asks a fairly common activity until I wrote one recently sharing a remnant of my “The 100” viewing experience. The warm response from the users who read it left me smiling for the rest of the day. Their reply took a direction I didn’t expect. They encouraged me to take credit for my words under my username, which of course, I didn’t have, not being a Tumblr user.

I was flattered by the response, bolstering me to continue the line of conversation with another ask and was met with reiterated sentiments.

In the wise words of one of those awesome people,

“I was the ultimate lurker for a long, long time. I had a Tumblr account for four years before I ever made a single post, and even then I had to be talked into it. And you know what? When I finally starting “talking,” it was so freeing! Even if no one else was listening, even if I was speaking into the void, I was no longer dependent on anyone else to share my thoughts and opinions. I could do that myself.”

I took the compliment but waived the advice. Tumblr is made of communities built upon sharing and I have always been unto myself an island. It goes against my shy, introverted nature to take part in a community. I have no business pretending I have a place there. None at all.

And yet, despite my misgivings, the idea wouldn’t leave me as I believed it would. I started to genuinely ponder the merits of creating a blog.

There are strong reasons to support the affirmative.

First, the utilitarian benefits. In the absence of a blog, I turned to alternative methods of archiving appealing posts. If by some miracle, the item count of my browser reading list hasn’t yet ascended to the thousands mark, it most assuredly rests in the hundreds. My camera roll queue has indubitably reached the thousands count, currently sitting pretty at 3,300. I shudder to think of the sheer number of my bookmarks. One hundred and eighty notes on my phone. The final frontier has been broken, at last, habitually inundating my laptop with screenshots. Long has it been overdue to clean house.

Second, I find writing to be a herculean undertaking I enjoy in the moments it doesn’t drive me to the brink. A slow-going process, but when I’m able to appreciate the fruits of my labor, marvel at the polished product, I often feel quite proud. Writing is a skill I’ve lost touch with over years of disuse but found incrementally returning while expressing my opinions via Tumblr asks. Like any skill, it can be honed with time and practice. Transferring my streams of consciousness onto written medium challenges me to think critically, ask myself if my POV genuinely holds true or falls apart, requiring further reflection. If nothing else, it’s a good way to process thoughts and emotions. I find it easier than and therefore preferable to oral communication. I am a perpetual editor, always amending my statements which can’t really be done as effectively in speech.

Third, if there was ever a time to join the Tumblr fandom I’ve found a home in for the last three years, why not in time for the show’s last ride? The night I signed up for Tumblr coincided the first day of “The 100” cast and crew filming their 100th and poetically final episode. Around the same space of time, we got a release date and the nostalgic goodbyes of a few cast members rolled in. I know when Bellarke crosses the last threshold, I’d want it plastered all over my dash and I’d be able to make it happen.

But where there are pros, the cons inevitably follow.

Do I really need a further distraction from my responsibilities, spending additional hours and expending more energy I should not spare online? The too easy potential for more hours behind a screen when prone to headaches and horrid habits of not regulating my eating and sleeping schedules? The answer is a clear and resounding “No.” Would maintaining a blog be harmful to my mental and emotional health? Remaining anonymous has historically done a fine job of insulating me from general rebuke, which has mitigated the risk of reproach at least. No corner of the internet can be designated as a safe space. I knew I would in all likelihood have to work diligently to curate and be responsible for my experience, leading me to doubt how the effort could possibly be worth it. How could it be worth feeling exposed, self-conscious? Constantly second-guessing myself, debating whether or not my thoughts are best kept within the privacy of my mind to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes? Combating the periodic skepticism that my thoughts possess value worth writing?

There was always the lingering possibility I was overthinking the decision to my detriment, as is my norm. After all, it seemed silly and dramatic to regard one obscure little blog in a sea of hundreds of millions of social media users as momentous. But I know myself better than that. It is a really fucking big deal for me.

I vacillated between both sides of the argument for days before deciding not to follow through with the venture.

And then one night, a single stray observation ran through my mind. One observation became another, became another and before I knew it, I had formed the grounds for an entire meta post. It didn’t end there. More ideas filtered through. I expanded on those ideas. More traction gained. Another meta formed. More jumping off previous points. Before long, I had mentally written the foundations for four metas. And I was so excited and proud of forming these connections to this puzzle without even trying that I wanted to share it. I sat down to write them in my trusty Notes, outlining, trying to jot the main points down before they fizzled away from memory. I saw how long-winded these spiels had gotten sans the full writeup, subsequently rationalizing…well, not blowing up someone’s inbox is just good manners, isn’t it? And terribly inefficient to boot. More to the point, it seemed a disservice to myself to censor my rumination to fit the small confines of a Tumblr ask box.

The part of me that wanted to push forward envisioned what the future of my blogging efforts may look like. That part knows that this blog is for me and only me. What makes me laugh, what makes me cry. Smile. Rage. Flail. Think. Whatever the hell I want. I get to say what I want, however, I want. It’s incredibly nerve-wracking. It’s also exciting, thrilling, and yes, freeing. The notion of carving out a tiny space for me to fill to the endless brim with whatever brings me joy makes me…really damn happy. It’s not an easy feat to accept and harder to retain. I should be ok, so long as I never forget that I get to be in control of what happens here. It’s within my right to block anyone I don’t want to engage or associate with. It’s my full right to not care what anyone else has to say if I don’t want to. Block out anything negative I don’t want to endure with only a few clicks. If I decide I want to walk away, permanently or otherwise, for any reason, it’s within my right to do that too. It’s comforting.

There was a time when I “knew” I would never sign up for an Ao3 account until one of my favorite authors withdrew the majority of her stories from public consumption. I “knew” I was never going to post commentary until I did. I “knew” my username would never be seen by anyone aside from me, never to be affiliated with my commentary until it was.

I did. Each and every time I thought I would never, I did. I broke my own barriers with patience and some courage. Maybe the most intimidating aspect of something new is simply the beginning. I said earlier that I’ve been an island for nearly as long as I can remember. It’s still true, I don’t expect overnight results. It’s probably going to be true for a long time. Perhaps forever. But maybe it’s all the more reason why I should take this step toward peeking out of my self-imposed shell. Do what scares you, or whatever it is they say.

I wish I could say it was enough to reverse my earlier verdict.

Nope, I had to agonize some more.

What can I say? Fear is a damn powerful inhibitor.

Lo and behold, as if the universe took pity on me, I got the chance to communicate directly with the same awesome lady whom I quoted above and she kindly offered some more merciful wisdom to a truly maddeningly indecisive individual:

“When you create a blog, you are STILL anonymous. You have a username, yes, but it doesn’t lead back to you unless you want it to. You still have your personal privacy. Tumblr isn’t Facebook. If you want to disclose personal information, you can, but you certainly don’t have to.

And second, your blog is for you, not for anyone else. It’s for you to express your own opinions. Or create gifs or other visuals. Or just repost what other people create. You can be on every day, or just once a week. It’s also a great way to save stuff you might want to look at again. And then… and then… when brilliance suddenly hits you, you have somewhere to let it hang out! ���”

It was much I had already considered, but it helped immeasurably to have my reasoning reaffirmed from an external source I respect. I logged into Tumblr for the first time the very same night.

After much deliberation, an uncharacteristic burst of bravery and a grueling four hours I owe to technological ineptitude, I have, tentatively and cautiously, opted to give this Tumblr thing a go.

With luck, a day will never arrive when I dust this preamble off for a much-needed pep talk. Instead, it is my hope that one day, this memo-to-me will stand as proof that I don’t always need to be afraid of the unknown. Not all endeavors have to be as frightening as they may appear. And if I can apply this attitude to all else suppressing my personal growth, I might just be peachy someday.

Bearing this in mind…

…here we go.

[chac-ozai]

Side Quest: Slow Dance (Dutch/Micah)

Written for my friends and fans of Micah Bell and Peter Blomquist: Who is a wonderful troll and explains a side mission of Dutch and Micah dancing in the forest. I decided to bring life to that, and wrote it out as a story. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmSBPPcrTlg&t=286s <The Interview

No tags. Maybe slight racist speech. Enjoy!

To most men on this Earth, poison is deadly. Whether it be by snakebite, a festering wound or tainted water, poison is a reviled substance in which any sane man would do his best to avoid. But not Micah, no, the man lived it, breathed it and found each drop in his life merely encouragement to his being. Poison was laced in between the words of every woman who'd ever scorned him, and Micah had let it fuel his fire every day of his life he'd lived rejected.

But tonight, looking at the woman he'd paced around for hours, her rejection of him was too toxic for him to swallow.

“You're not a monster. You're just not that interesting.” Replayed in his head over and over, and Micah had been so kind to think of her all week, steeling up the courage to speak to the girl only to be shot down so quickly. He watched her now through the smoke of a campfire, he himself cast far off from the party that celebrated the return of that goddamn bog-trottin' Irish kid. There she was, miss Mary Beth looking pretty as a peach in the arms of Arthur Morgan, dancing hand in hand. He couldn't look away, neither at her smile or the slug of a man she'd chosen to dance with.

“You're just not that interesting.” Bitch. Fucking bitch. It was almost as if she didn't notice Micah's incessant eyes on her these past months, gazing through the apertures of the tent canvases. He remembered how angry it made him feel inside when he couldn't get the thought of her out of his mind, the way her teeth nibbled on the cap of a pen while she wrote sweet nothings into her journal.

And he wasn't good enough, wasn't he? Arthur seemed just fine, and he'd even turned the girl down at first. Mr. Van Der Linde and Molly had been grazing them all the while, small box steps and twirls that looked easy enough to mimic. He watched and watched, and when it was over, Morgan did this stupid little bow and she laughed at him.

He didn't even realize he was cleaning off his gun, polishing it incessantly as he watched.

“Hey pendejo, get off your ass and come over here.” Javier kicked the chair he was sitting on, and Micah's fingertips twitched instinctively into his pistol. Wait, no..It's just the greaser.

“What do you want.” Micah bemoans his fate, the Mexican was gesturing towards a table where Mr. Williamson poured a round of 3 drinks.

“Just get the hell over here, damn.” Javier walked away, and Micah glanced back at Dutch..

“Fine.” Micah snorts, spitting into the grass before heaving himself out of his solitude. “Let's see if you ladyboys can hold your liquor.”

~

“Again, Dutch, it was a smart decision to come with me. It really put's a man's mind back into the right perspective when you step away from it all and give it a, ahah, a good break.” Micah had led the older man through the thick of the forest, far off the path that'd been beaten by horses to Horseshoe Overlook.

“Well, Mr. Bell, if it means getting away from the..insufferable dissidence I am forced to deal with, even for a few minutes, I'll take it.” Dutch had a tired look about him, yet there he was following Micah further into the woods dressed to the nines. The man was polished to a default, despite him being so desperately bored of his situation.

“A man like you shouldn't have to take that amount of nonsense. You're too good for that. That's why I wanted to bring you out here, and talk business.”

Dutch cut him off, something he often did “Come now Mr. Bell, the last thing I want to do right now is talk business. Let's just walk away from the whole thing and clear our heads.”

Micah's heart dropped. He did everything he could to make sure no one saw them leave, every amount of time he had with Dutch was precious and necessary if he was going to make the man see his way. Still, despite the setback Micah still knew how to a polish an apple any which way. Dutch seemed to have something on his mind that formed a quirk on his lips; he had to stop Micah.

“Now Mr. Bell, I couldn't help but notice last night you asking Miss Mary Beth for a dance.” of course Dutch had heard  him, Dutch hears everything that goes on in that camp. Micah did a double take and seemed to close up, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

“She's quite a woman. Mmmh.” Micah groaned slightly at the distaste in his mouth from the memory, and clearly he was still sore about it.

“I hope you're not too disappointed. She always did have a soft spot for Arthur.”

“You're quite an attentive man, Dutch. It's very impressive.” They entered a clearing in the forest, a beautiful flat patch of grass illuminated by the sun; and around them? Absolutely nothing.

“You speak too much in favor of me. I'm just a man who knows his sons.” Dutch invited himself to sit on a fallen log and invited Micah to have a seat on the one parallel to him, the gentle sun hidden under the brims of their hats. “-And don't go dropping the subject, Micah. I want to know, what excuse did Mary Beth give you?”

Fuck. When Dutch wanted something he certainly would have it, it reminded Micah so much of his father. Micah visibly squirmed in his seat to the question, her voice cropping up in his head as clear as the first time she'd said it.

“You're not that interesting.” Micah repeated it, word for word. He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief- the mere reminder of the rejection was a blow to an ego so damaged Micah couldn't even acknowledge it.

“...That's what she said?” Dutch asked, he was smiling for some reason. It almost looked like he was about to laugh at him-

“I didn't come out here to gossip.” Micah slithered, but again Dutch had some sort of power over him that no one could resist, not even Mr. Matthews.

“Oooh, come on now, maybe she doesn't think you can dance. Can you?”

“C-Can I?” Micah repeated, Dutch was growing ever more amused at the embarrassed look on his face, his upper lip bitten down and hidden under his mustache.  The gang leader found Micah's squirming in discomfort too hilarious to pass up. Micah merely passed a huge sigh, sinking down into his seat with his arms outstretched-

“You know I wasn't really interested in dancing with Mary Beth. Let's be honest here.” Micah admitted, but before he could speak any more, Dutch lept out of his seat looking utterly delighted, clapping his hands together.

“Well, come on then, get up.” He backed away into the clearing, holding out a single hand with a bow.

“Dutch-”

“I won't take no for an answer, get up, Mr. Bell.” Dutch laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkled “If you're going to go for a lovely woman like Mary Beth, you'd best have the confidence to back it up!”

“You asking me to dance with you?!” Micah sunk further into his seat, attempting to glue himself in place. He'd never seen this side of Dutch but the man was so insistent, a huge smile on his face as he took several bouncing steps towards the smaller man and yanking him clean off the log by his wrist. The man was strong as a fucking bear, and Mr. Bell would have tripped over his own pointed boots hadn't it been for the man standing before him.

“Let's go, show me a few moves!” Dutch steadied the man and yanked the man's hat off, Micah's golden hair a mess underneath as he huffed and puffed. So Micah wanted a piece of what Dutch rightfully owned? He was going to have to work for it, some humility could do the boy some good.

“Insistent as a bull, aren't you.” Micah looked up, his eyes where tired but for once non-defiant. He took Dutch's hands in his own, back straight.

“Have some faith in yourself.” Dutch grins, and to Micah's most genuine distress, Dutch broke out into song, taking a first big step

“L'amour est un oiseau rebelle Que nul ne peut apprivoiser, Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle”

Micah was practically a ragdoll in Dutch's bear-like grip, his small feet clambering along the grass desperately trying to keep himself standing. His eyes looked frantically up at Dutch's singing face, the baritone of his voice shaking through Micah's chest- He'd been so distracted Mr. Bell had stepped on Dutch's feet enough to cake his shoes in dust.

“HA!” Dutch stops on a dime, breaking into a laugh “-Do you even know how to do a box step, son?”

“Shit! You're a maniac, Dutch! I know what I'm doing, you think I can dance with you throwing me around like a god damn sack? You're distracting me!” Micah was red from the neck up, Dutch finding it hilarious how angry the man could get, but oh, did Dutch know how to beguile a soul.

“If I'm distracting you, how do you think you'd do with a beauty like Mary Beth in your grasp?” The man had an amazing ability to change the tides of a conversation. Micah felt himself immediately back down, and he could only break into a nervous laugh.

“That's better.” Dutch mistook his anxiety “Now, from the top. It's one, two, one two-” Dutch broke back into song, the entire process repeating itself from the beginning. The leader kept his eyes on the top of Micah's blonde head while the shorter man bowed down to look at Dutch's footsteps. He stepped on his feet over and over, and every time he did Micah would beg “Let me go.” He wasn't brought out here to do this, He thought he had Dutch in his grasp but he found himself quite the opposite.

“You don't seem to be learning, son.” Dutch grins, and for some reason it burned Micah deep down. The smaller man merely narrowed his eyes, silently nodding at Mr. Van Der Linde before taking it from the top. Dutch grabbed Micah's wrists and made him place them around his shoulders, the taller man's hands now pinned to his hips; Dutch had made a damn woman of him.

~

Arthur's skills at tracking had become honed in his time working with Charles; and today he'd put them to good use by tracking a most elusive prey. He had his nose down towards the ground, following every broken twig and flattened patch of early spring grass through the forest.

Micah and Dutch had no business being alone together; Arthur never once trusted him, and as time went on his trust of Dutch waned with it. As Arthur spanned the corners of the camp and vanished into the woods, a sort of ominous chill entered him, it was as if the very world around him grew cold as his thoughts delved further into uncharted areas of distrust.

Five minutes, then ten. The late afternoon was growing as cold as his trail and Arthur assumed he simply was not the tracker Charles so liked to believe he'd made of him. A breeze picked up, the clouds overhead dropped the first bit of evening frost to the point that small specks of white began to drift down from the tree canopies.

“God damn.” Arthur found himself in the middle of nowhere, trail cold and with little hope. Whatever Micah was planning on doing with Dutch might as well have been good and done by now. He was ready to turn back and accept he'd failed, but he heard it; music? It was deep and resonant, and Arthur could recognize it somehow. He drew closer to it and now it was unmistakable; who else would have that voice but Dutch?

Two red dodges of color where stark against the treeline, Arthur hunches down and leans into a tree, peering beyond it and stunned by what he sees. He couldn't believe it, Dutch had Micah in his arms and they where dancing in circles, going as far as to have Micah twirling, Dutch leaning the man over into a dip with their legs tied. The snake's expression was unreadable but his hair was tousled, clearly not a smile on his face.

Arthur chewed on his lip in abject confusion yet he couldn't look away, like some sort of sick nightmare he needed to watch play out. Dutch had a twisted smile on his face, the kind he made when he'd won something..he kissed Micah's wrist and watched as the shorter man rip away from him,going to fetch his white hat and cram it back down onto his head. Arthur covered his eyes and reeled in revulsion..The image was pure poison and he had to get away.

He had to tell someone though..But who? Who would believe him? Everyone would think he was stirring shit again, and Arthur cursed his past actions of antagonizing the camp. No one would believe him.

He doesn't even think he believes himself.

[thenervousmedic]

A coffee a day... (Connor x Reader)

Note: I’m trying, I’m getting better! I think... This one hit 3k words ^.^ I hope it’s not too bad-

Summary: Several armed hostage situations happened almost simultaneously. After interrogating the shooter, Connor visits you in the hospital but struggles with your logic.

A coffee a day- Chapter 3: Questions and leads

Dark clouds gently enveloped the sky in slow dancing swirls, the distant wails of an ambulance trailing its way off into the distance.

“Connor.” An assertive tone jerked the zoned out investigator back to reality, the hazed over look in his optics fading away as Hank places a hand stiffly onto his jacket. He was so out of it right now, a strange problem to have with someone who normally never missed a single detail. He growled, unsure whether to be strict or sarcastic, waving a hand across the scene. “The assailant, think you can reactivate ‘em, get some answers?” With a swift scan, the LED on Connor’s temple blinking yellow as it refined the data, logging the Deviant’s model number and identity. “Maybe-” Registered name : Harvey. An AP700, a very recent model, currently at the front of every good Cyberlife store as the best household assistant available. He was only bought a little over a week ago. The shots you had fired into its chest region had hit his therium pump- effectively cutting off the circulation of the blueblood to the biomechanics within seconds. The holes were pristine, almost perfectly aimed to take out a dangerous target at close range. Had the bullet strayed inches to the left or right it would only have severed the main artery tubes- allowing time for the AP700 to retaliate or flee before deactivating. Though that didn't matter much now. The damage had already been done before you could properly secure the gun. Why would you do that, that was so stupid! It wasn’t fair that you got shot instead of him. He's easily repaired, replaced, he’s expendable. You are not. Connor should have foreseen those events, he should have been better, the thought was… It was exhausting. Red hues bled into his LED, sharp capital letters springing up across the room from his enhanced vision.

[SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^^^]

“Lieutenant Anderson?” Connor’s hands idly wrapped themselves under Harvey's arms, hauling him up off of the floor to be taken to the car- wanting to repair and speak to the android or if possible probe it’s memory. Though this wasn’t where his question to Hank question was headed- “Why would someone experiencing heightened fear do something with such a high probability of drastically increasing the risk to their well being?” the question was flat, curious almost, but not far off sounding vacant and hollow. “Fuck if I know.” Was his response, still crouched beside the poor limp body of a shot victim. “People do dumb things Connor.” Clarity was slow today, but Hank did eventually put two and two together. Why Connor had been acting to strangely, why he was asking this question, it was fairly obvious. Connors nonstop switching from convincing emotional behaviour to his classic rationality had thrown Hank off until now. “This is where you get the coffee…”

His tone was low as he took long strides over to the RK800. Connor looked at him blankly. “Yes. It is.” His voice was as monotone as the vacant look on his face. “Connor?” Something churned in the android's chest, like Hank had suddenly prodded a small locked box somewhere in his code. “Y/N was working here this morning, was she here during-?”

He frowned, adjusting his loose grip on Harvey as he set off for the front door, leaving hank in the Cafe behind him. “Yes, Y/N was the critically wounded hostage we called an ambulance for-” The corrupt tinge of hatred behind that sentence caught Lieutenant Anderson completely off guard, his mouth parting but no reply coming forth.

He shoved his hands into the dirty dark beige coat that sat slack on his frame; watching Connor drag his ‘evidence’ to the car and shove it in the back seat while other officers went about their business writing short reports or going back to their previous posts. This wasn’t the first time Hank had heard of you - quite the contrary. Every morning Connor got coffee for him, he’d mention your name. Something about the enthusiasm he gained on coffee-run mornings would make Hank enjoy the effect it had on Connor more than the drink itself.

So that was you, huh… the one that was shot. Hank let his face scrunch up slightly, huffing out a heavy sigh, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Deviancy has characteristics of a virus, Hank.” Something Connor had told him a few nights before during their nightly review. “I self-test regularly”

..What are the results of those tests Connor. What are they…

--

Hank drive back to the office in silence, Connor sitting as stiff as a plank next to him with his LED a calm unmoving blue. His eyes were closed, which Hank found odd considering Androids don’t need sleep, but he didn’t question it. The office was buzzing, lively, the sound of hard soled shoes hitting a solid linoleum flooring. Unlike this morning when the atmosphere seemed calm and boring it now bustled with people doing their damndest to get things done. Hank and his plastic puppy among them. One call after another came in about rogue deviants at a rather alarming rate. Connor had not missed the correlation between each case- all the affected Deviants were either AP700’s or newer, the whole city was shaken by police sirens and ambulance calls.

“Hank.” Conner put a hand in front of the elder grumbling man’s face, waving it up and down to get his attention while he roared something to someone on the other end of his phone. “I will review the current cases with you later- I am going to go interrogate that Deviant from the coffee shop-” His voice cracked slightly, earning a quick throat-clearing cough from the android despite this being a purely aesthetic feature with no functionality other than helping appear more human.

Hank was too busy being angry at whichever poor soul decided to call him during this crisis to answer properly, just giving Connor an approving nod while just barely listening to their rambling on the other end.

Lights flickered on the containment room’s door lock, a hand shape pulsing in the middle, blue soothing colours along with yellows dotted along the top. As connor’s hand interfaced with it’s systems it let out short crispy beeps like a bird before a sliding glass door shifts open- Harvey's deactivated figure slumped against the seat on the right of the room.

Connor already had the foresight to gather the needed replacement part : luckily therium pumps didn't change very much throughout most models of android- not unless they were built specifically for heavy lifting or athletics work - which luckily the AP700 wasn’t. The slick and almost gelatinous congealed therium made sloppy noises as the investigator reached into replace the broken part, hesitating at the last second with the component barely a hairs length away from its destination. Glaring at Harvey’s frozen expression of surprise - a slight lingering spark of fear to his eyes, not nearly as angry as when he had Y/N locked tightly in his arm.

[SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ^^^]

Harvey gasped for breath as the new therium pump slotted into place, thudding away at the previously dormant pipes of blue blood with staggering speed. His mouth choking up the remaining therium before spitting it out roughly- unable to stand due to a tall lanky figure looming over him. “Several stores were all held at gunpoint simultaneously following your attempt. Why?” He blinked, staring up at Connor is a state of mild panic while trying to look around, was he in… was he in a police station?

The RK800’s hand flew past his head, hitting the wall behind it with a loud boom, making the dazed android yelp and put his hands to his face. Something was… wrong. This couldn’t be the same android that had threatened your life. He was so meek, the green glow to his eyes was stuffed to the brim with terror and bewilderment.

Perhaps a calmer and more supportive questioning would yield better results, Harvey’s stress was far too high for Connor to glean anything important from his speech.

“I’m sorry-” He backed away, letting Harvey look around for a moment, the stopwatch Connor had set in his interface still had plenty of time left in it. “You are safe here, please, try to calm down. My name is Connor… you are Harvey, right?”

“Connor. Y-you know… my name?” He mumbled quietly. The bright whites of the room was painful to look at without squinting at least a little.

If this was an act it was being done very well. Connor couldn’t read anything off of the face of this android - it’s like he had been reset. “Harvey… you held a Cafe at gunpoint today-” He tone was gentle, but it still visibly shook the AP700 to hear those words, “-You Murdered a civilian and a fellow android…. Don’t you remember any of this?”

“N-no I… I wouldn’t-” The LED on Harvey’s head began spiralling out of control- glowing a bright red and blinking rapidly. “I just ran away- I didn’t hurt anyone!” He insisted, receiving a furrowed brow. “D-Dont send me back..  He’ll deactivate me-”

“It's ok.” He gently reassured, checking the remaining time diligently. “I understand that you're scared. I just want some answers, that's all.”

With the Bots stress successfully draining, Connor had too many questions to possibly ask them all in time. Priorities must be answered first.

“Who will deactivate you?”

“....”

--

You mumble incomprehensibly into the cold fabric bedcover. Much to your relief there wasn't anything long and tube-y sticking out of your arm today. Hospitals. You hate them. The unnatural medicinal smell, the murky but clean white walls, and the general sense of discomfort that they bring warded you away on most days.

Sure you would come here if you broke a bone or something; but unless it's serious you tried to avoid being even close to them. Everything about the atmosphere of this place sent something grossly crawling up your back and through your throat.

You had been given painkillers, but that didn't stop the slow burn that was a healing bullet wound in your gut. It had gone through your stomach and grazed the large intestine underneath, much to your luck this was a fairly easy surgery in comparison to other places it could have hit. A few stitches there and there, one removed bullet, and a whole punch of laying still in this bed doing absolutely nothing.

Time to reflect was nice but you’d been here for only a day and a half and it already felt like you’d never get to leave. You were fine, honestly, it was stitched up. You weren't allowed to leave until the end of the week- god that’s like a whole nother two days away. The room wasn’t silent yet no noise stuck out among the continual ‘hospital’ drone that meandered on and on was only interrupted by the occasional caretaker android going past your room.

“Gets kinda lonely in here, huh.” A gruff voice yanked your attention in it’s direction. A drooping strand of H/C hair flopping itself across your nose. It’s easy to get someone’s attention when their most stimulating activity is counting the time between hearing people walk by.

A tired looking man stood just in from the doorway, long scraggly grey hair and dark silvery-blue eyes to match. “L-lieutenant Hank Anderson?” Whoah, he was bigger than you thought- taller than you (Pff, who wasn’t), with heavy clothes that made him larger and slightly intimidating.

What was he doing here?

He nodded, dislodging something between his teeth with a gritted jaw, looking around the room. His hands on his hips and expression hard to read. “We’re questioning witnesses of the hostage situation at your Cafe, mind if I ask you some questions?”

He looked surprised to see you pushing yourself to sit upright, gritting your teeth as you did so, still hunched ever so slightly over as both hands rested daintily on your lap.

“Of course! Fire away.” you gave him a grin, amused by your own stupid pun while aiming a finger gun in his direction. He was obviously not expecting such a relaxed attitude from someone who had just been facing the possibility of their own death less than a day ago. Heh, really shows how little he know about you. “Right.” He didn't look displeased at the attempted humour, but it certainly didn't make him any happier about being here. Something about the way he eyed a turned off heart monitor gave you waves of sympathy. “The android that held up your workplace yesterday, his name was registered as Harvey, did you know him?” you lightly ‘hmm’ed; taking eyes eyes from the officer to look at where your knees were under the sheets and think.

The name wasn’t familiar, nor was his face or clothing- not that you got the best look at it past the tears and lack of focus. Y’know, the whole threat on your life thing. “No, no I don't think so.”

“Do you know anyone who has recently lost their android or seen any suspicious activity in the area?”

“I told you to wait outside, Connor.” A grin forced your head to look back up at Hank. Surely enough Connor stood beside him, a serious as ever, with his hands tightly locked behind his back. Hank, who moved away from his partner with rolling eyes, sat heavily down in a chair on the other side of the room. He was still observing you, just less blatantly than Connor who had his eyes secured on your face.

“No, i’m sorry fellas but It’s been a bit of a slow week.” The apologetic expression you directed at Hank made Connor squint slightly. Following your line of sight to the Lieutenant; who was displaying minute signs of discomfort.

“Lieutenant anderson-” his partners angry glare made Connor pause and retry the beginning of that request. “Hank. If you don't mind I would like to ask some questions alone with the victim.”

As you opened your mouth to protest, ensuring that you don't mind the officers presence in the room, Hank got up a little too quickly to leave. The aura of subdued distress and sorrow from him quietly stopped you, instead just mewling a quick “It was nice to meet you-” As he shut the door on his way out.

The room felt heavy with awkwardness but that didn’t seem to affect Connor. Who was still stood watching you with a curiously distant stare. The silence was thick and suffocating to a degree that made you nervous. Shuffling slightly while glancing around before abruptly turning back to him with your eyes set on checking his arm- The suit was fixed, so you could at the very least assume the damage underneath was gone too. “The damage wasn’t critical.” He interrupted your concerned glare like he had read your mind. “I was repaired shortly after interrogating the assailant.”

“Oh!” your face beamed brightly, like all the warmth from the sun could be seen in your cheeks. “That’s good, I’m sorry you got hurt-”

“-Y/N.” A stern callout quickly cut off your apology. His face was neutral but his eyes betrayed the confusion set behind them. “Androids don’t feel pain.” His words held an unnecessary sting to them. “The situation was well under control. You should not have compromised your safety further by attacking the deviant.”

Your face twitched. Tiny minute changes in the muscles that an everyday human would miss or ignore. It felt like you’d just been scolded by a parent, conflicting emotions arising through a slight power struggle in your head. “...I couldn’t stand still and watch him shoot you.” The broken inflection in your voice, the way your eyes avoided his to look across the room at the floor, it was hard to understand. Yes you could have, there was no logical reason to interfere. At least none that Connor could think of.

“I am a machine, on deactivation my memories are uploaded to cyberlife for a replacement Connor to download, this is not the case for you.” An invisible hand reached for your chest, taking your heart and tugging at its inner workings with malicious intent. Something about that sentence. The flatness to his tone when reiterating his own ability to be effectively killed and brought back to life again. “I would prefer not to delay my mission, Y/N.” The sadness that swam around your eyes made his lips part ever so slightly, as if he was going to speak but couldn’t process the right words.

“Y-yes… yes of course.” The change of subject was appreciated by both of you as Connor grabbed the chair from the wall and put it beside your bed. He sat with the chair itself facing the wrong way, straddling the chair from the front while crossing his arms and resting them atop the backrest. It was an oddly human action- but considering his time spent with Hank it didn’t surprise you too much.

“Does the sequence ‘B10C0D3’ Mean anything to you?” “Biocode?” You parroted back as soon as he had finished asking you. A twinge of disbelief to your faint smirk. “Yeah. Yeah I used to study with someone, he loved using that as his username. Jay, Jayden Summers.” Connor’s LED began to circle, going yellow, as he searched up the name. [Jayden Summers, A former Cyberlife employee fired for irrational behaviour and threats toward fellow personnel. Born 2008. D̛i̢e͝d 2̛0̧35͠.’ ]

Connor was looking straight through you - like you no longer existed in front of him. The light embedded into his head have a split-second flash of red before returning to its natural sky blue color as he blinked and shook his head. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Thank you for your time, Y/N, I should be getting back to the investigation-” He looked almost… alarmed. Standing abruptly as you reached out to grab his arm- only just managing to snag a sleeve. He hesitated. Looking back at you, a tiny smile stretched up his cheek. It was wonky, but sincere, giving warm fuzzy glow to his face. It seems Connor had already noticed the fact you weren't looking forward to being alone again. “Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”

“Yes, yeah, i’d like that.” You let go, covering the excitement in your voice with a quiet quip. “But I can’t have a coffee ready for you this time.”

[readbookywooks]

As Meggie came down the nave with Mo and Elinor, Dustfinger raised his head briefly. Gwin climbed up to his shoulder, baring his tiny teeth, sharp as splinters of glass, as if he had recognised the hatred in Meggie’s eyes as they rested on his master. Now she knew why the marten had horns, and why his twin was shown on the page of a book. She understood it all: why Dustfinger thought the world too fast and too noisy, why he didn’t understand cars and often looked as if he were somewhere else entirely. But she felt none of the sympathy Mo had shown for him. His scarred face only reminded her of the lies he had told to lure her out to him, like the Pied Piper in the story. He had played with her as he played with fire, with his brightly coloured juggler’s balls: come along, Meggie; this way, Meggie; trust me, Meggie. She felt like running up the steps and striking his lying mouth. Dustfinger must have guessed her thoughts, and was avoiding her eyes. Not looking at Mo and Elinor either, he put a hand in his trouser pocket and brought out a matchbox. As if unconscious of what he was doing, he took out a match, lit it, and gazed at the flame, lost in thought as he passed a finger through it almost caressingly until it singed his fingertip. Meggie looked away. She didn’t want to see him; she wanted to forget he was there. To her left, at the foot of the steps, stood two drum-shaped iron braziers, rusty brown, with wood heaped up in them: pale, freshly cut firewood, log upon log. Meggie was just wondering what the wood was for when more steps echoed through the church. Basta was walking down the nave with a petrol can in his hand. Reluctantly, Cockerell and Flatnose gave way as he pushed past them. ‘Ah, so Dustfinger’s playing with his best friend again,’ he sneered as he climbed the shallow steps. Dustfinger lowered the matchstick and straightened up. ‘Here you are,’ said Basta, putting the petrol can down at his feet. ‘Another toy for you. Light us a fire; that’s what you like best.’ Dustfinger threw away the spent match and lit another. ‘So how about you?’ he asked quietly, raising the burning match to Basta’s face. ‘Still afraid of fire, are you?’ Basta knocked the match out of his hand. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t do that!’ said Dustfinger. ‘It means bad luck. You know how quickly fire takes offence.’ For a moment Meggie thought Basta was going to hit him, and she wasn’t the only one. All eyes were turned on the two men. But something seemed to protect Dustfinger. Perhaps it really was the fire. ‘You’re lucky I’ve only just cleaned my knife!’ spat Basta. ‘One more trick like that, though, and I’ll carve a few nice new patterns on your ugly face. And make myself a fur collar out of your marten.’ Gwin uttered a soft, threatening snarl, and wrapped himself around Dustfinger’s neck. Dustfinger bent, picked up the spent matches, and put them back in the matchbox. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’d enjoy that,’ he said, still without looking at Basta. ‘But why would I want to light a fire just now, I wonder?’ ‘Never you mind that, just do it. Then the rest of us can keep it fed. But make sure it’s a large, hungry blaze, not one of the tame little fires you like to play with.’ Dustfinger picked up the petrol can and slowly climbed down the steps. He was standing beside the rusty braziers when the church door opened for the second time. Meggie turned at the sound of the heavy wooden door creaking, and saw Capricorn appear between the red columns. He glanced at his statue, as if to make sure it still gave a flattering enough image of him, then strode quickly down the nave. He was wearing a suit as red as the church walls. Only the shirt beneath it was black, and he had a black feather in his buttonhole. A good half-dozen of his men were following him, like crows following a peacock. Their steps seemed to echo all the way up to the ceiling. Meggie reached for Mo’s hand. ‘Ah, so our guests are here already,’ said Capricorn, stopping in front of them. ‘Did you sleep well, Silvertongue?’ He had curiously soft, curving, almost feminine lips, and as he spoke he kept running his little finger along them as if to retrace them. They were as bloodless as the rest of his face. ‘Wasn’t it kind of me to reunite you with your little girl last night? At first I meant it to be a surprise present for you today, but then I thought: Capricorn, you really owe that child something for bringing you what you’ve wanted so long, and of her own free will too.’ He was holding Inkheart. Meggie saw Mo’s gaze linger on the book. Capricorn was a tall man, but Mo stood a few centimetres taller, which obviously displeased Capricorn. He stood very upright, as if that would make up for the difference. ‘Let Elinor take my daughter home with her,’ said Mo. ‘Let them go and I’ll try to read you back again. I’ll read you anything you like, but let the two of them go first.’ What was he talking about? Meggie looked at him in horror. ‘No!’ she said. ‘No, Mo, I don’t want to go away.’ But no one was paying any attention to her. ‘Let them go?’ Capricorn turned to his men. ‘Hear that? Why would I do such a crazy thing now they’re here?’ The men laughed. But Capricorn turned to Mo again. ‘You know as well as I do that from now on you’ll do whatever I want,’ he said. ‘Now that she’s here, I’m sure you won’t go on denying us a demonstration of your skill.’ Mo squeezed Meggie’s hand so hard her fingers hurt. ‘And as for this book,’ said Capricorn, looking at Inkheart with as much dislike as if it had bitten his pale fingers, ‘this extremely tedious, stupid and extraordinarily long-winded book, I can assure you I have no intention of ever again letting myself be spellbound by its story. All those troublesome creatures, those fluttering fairies with their twittering voices, the swarming, scrabbling stupid beasts everywhere, the smell of fur and dung. All through this book you kept falling over bandy-legged brownies in the market-place, and when you went hunting the giants scared the game away with their huge feet. Talking trees, whispering pools – was there anything in that world that didn’t have the power of speech? And then those endless muddy roads to the nearest town, if town it could be called – that pack of well-born, finely dressed princes in their castles, those stinking peasants, so poor there was nothing to be got out of them, and the vagabonds and beggars with vermin dropping from their hair – oh, how sick I was of them all.’ Capricorn made a sign, and one of his men brought in a large cardboard box. You could see from the way he carried it that it was very heavy. The man put it down on the grey flagstones in front of Capricorn with a sigh of relief. Capricorn handed Cockerell, who was standing beside him, the book that Mo had kept from him so long, and bent to open the box. It was full to the brim with books. ‘It’s been a great deal of trouble finding them all,’ said Capricorn as he reached into the box and took out two books. ‘They may look different, but the contents are the same. The fact that the story has been printed in several languages made the search even more difficult – a particularly useless feature of this world, all those different languages. It was simpler in our own world, wasn’t it, Dustfinger?’ Dustfinger made no answer. He stood there holding the petrol can and staring at the box. Capricorn strolled over to him and threw the two books into one of the braziers.