#co/nnor R/K800

[sherbet-shivers]

A Minor Malfunction Part 1/3

We need to ignore that this is 6 years late ashgdahls (I only just got to play D/etroit: B/ecome H/uman and my love for sweet baby boy Co/nnor is alive)! Also figured snz is still snz, so even if you don’t care for the fandom you might enjoy the main course anyway lol

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs — no need to drag vanillas into this! This is also my first time posting to tumblr at all, so formatting tips are always welcome <3**

Blurb: Connor suffers a little virus (Part 2 here and Part 3 here)

Characters: Co/nnor R/K800 (-centric because he’s babygirl) and H/ank A/nderson

Length: 4k+ words

TW: cursing, minor robot discrimination; no spoilers

“You’re quiet tonight, Connor,” Hank observes between sips of his drink. His name triggers the Android to lift his head and meet his partner’s gaze, which studies him conspicuously.

Connor smiles a bit stiffly. “You usually prefer me quiet, Lieutenant.”

His investigative partner groans. “Yeah, when you’re barking up my ass,” he scoffs, though his voice lacks any hints of malice. The two had been working a handful of Deviant cases together and Hank’s introductory disdain had subtly been reduced to something warmer. Teasing had become their shared language, which was a preferred change of pace from where they’d started; not to mention a great way to lighten the mood between all the rumors of homicide and an Android uprising. Still, in spite of their growing closeness, Connor doubted Hank considered him a true partner, let alone a friend, but at least the two were no longer arguing like they had been a few weeks prior.

“So,” Hank starts again, “what’s going on with you?”

Connor makes a face, even tilting his head a bit before glimpsing side to side. “Nothing, as we’re currently idle in a bar.”

“No shit, smartass. I mean what’s going on, as in why are you acting all funny?”

“Funny?” Connor sifts through his memory, trying to recall a recent instance in which he’d been humorous by Hank’s standards. To no one’s surprise, he comes up empty. “I don’t recall acting funny. Why? Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Wha-? No! Christ, nevermind; just forget I said anything you weirdo,” Hank dismisses.

Connor didn’t mind the rejection (nothing was personal to machines), but he was programmed to follow orders; thus, he re-quiets, following Hank’s lead.

However, just because he’s silent, doesn’t mean he’s inactive. An Android’s life was rarely dull given there was a full 24 hours in day to take advantage of. As much as Hank said he loved naps, Connor couldn’t imagine wasting precious work hours to sleep.

Even now they were technically “freed” of their investigative duties, but Connor still had plenty of personal maintenance to attend to. It was the daily obligation of an RX800 model like himself (all AI models really), and so he promptly runs a survey of his internal diagnostics. Aside from making his masters happy, it was an Android’s priority to ensure that everything about them is up to date and code — ranging from their adaptive software to the state of their hard drive.

At the same time, he decides to trace through the entirety of his memories, still determined to figure out what Hank meant when he said “acting funny”. Funny…the word repeats in Connor’s head. Human emotions and terms were somewhat difficult to diagnose on his own, though Hank’s recent company had introduced Connor to a wide collection of colorful language. So many terms denoted so many different meanings, many of which were subjective and therefore wildly confusing to a purely calculative mind. So when Hank said Connor was “acting funny”, what exactly did that mean? His type of humor was unique (and apt to change given his BAC), so maybe what he found funny wasn’t what Connor had originally filtered for. Or maybe…the term meant something entirely different altogether? But, then what did that mean? Questions like these are what made humans so fascinating and troubling according to Connor’s programming. He could run himself in circles for hours asking the same questions, constantly seeking meaning, searching for answers, decoding Hank’s unusual phrases-

Suddenly, an alarm goes off in Connor’s system, alerting him to some kind of error in his software. It’s honestly startling, catching the Android surprisingly off-guard for once. This…hadn’t ever happened before; at least, not while he was without a suitable guardian or engineer nearby. Thankfully he’s already wired to know exactly how to respond, and thus promptly performs a system-wide scan to diagnose the error in question. Within seconds, his answer is received, though to his misfortune, it’s little more conclusive.

Code: C5Y0091-24BC. Classification: Unauthorized Bio-Component Breach By Unknown Digital Error. Software Virus Suspected. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. CyberLife has been automatically contacted. Expect an update within 24 hours.

A single blink has Connor back in reality, surrounded by the musky odors characteristic of the many bars he and Hank frequently hopped. Hank is muttering something about the game with Jimmy’s bartender, but Connor hardly hears them.

Virus? Malfunction? How could that be possible? Connor had experienced software issues in the past, but many were easily patched or otherwise resolved by his masters, sometimes within seconds! So this was…unusual to say the least. He’d been warned of course to stay vigilant against hackers, obvious glitches, chain mail, pirated sites, FaceBook and other shady threats — it’s why he ran diagnostics multiple times a day. So how could this have happened? How could he have been so negligent to have missed something?

At least CyberLife had been notified, which meant he’d only have to wait a few hours for his orders on how to proceed; but until then, what was he expected to do? He was hesitant to trust himself, especially after being branded by his own system as potentially defective.

Malfunction. The word echoes through his system and encourages Connor to continue searching his recent stored memories. He weaves through the past effortlessly in search of anything that could stand out or explain his current predicament…and that’s when he’s reminded of what Hank said not more than two minutes ago. Funny. Had he really slipped up so poorly even he hadn’t noticed something but Hank did? What did it mean if a trained AI couldn’t catch a mistake while a human so easily could?

Connor chooses not to answer that question as he comes across a particular gap in his memory — one he hadn’t noticed until now. It was short — a blackout lasting no more than four seconds — but that may as well have been an eternity if it meant there was an absence of crucial information. Rewinding prior to the lull in time, Connor revisits a particular scene during he and Hank’s investigation earlier that same day.

The two of them had been assigned to a Deviant case involving an unnamed MJ100. The dog sitter had been out walking two corgis, both belonging to its owner when it was confronted by a group of six human protesters. After being cornered, the Android was jumped, pushed to the ground, and kicked repeatedly, enduring damage to its left ocular component and minor denting targeting its knee attachment on the same side. Its gait was consequently deemed unstable as it tried to pick itself up. As it could not recalculate its balance, it was knocked down a second time; and on its third attempt, the Android had defied its programming and resorted to fighting off its aggressors using heavy handed tactics and a nearby blunt object (presumably one of the protester’s sign boards). It then attempted to flee the scene but made it less than a block away before being tackled and deactivated by a local officer.

Weirdly enough, the next few details are a bit scrambled within Connor’s hard drive. All that is clear is that while investigating the Android’s body and calculating the damage, Connor’s vision goes dark — particularly after coming into direct contact with its bio components. It’s a startling discovery, and his vision only seems to return a few seconds later after Hank snaps at him to answer a question he’d claimed to have repeated once before.

Following that instance, minor things that should’ve caught Connor’s attention had gone completely unnoticed. His temperatures were running high and low interchangeably by several degrees, his system wasn’t adequately flushing out debris causing congestion within his gears, and even his processing speed — which usually ran above peak performance — was barely keeping up with that of a model two series back.

How had he missed all that? Surely he would’ve recalled Hank repeating himself, if not the obvious lull in time and all the issues impairing his components. Why couldn’t he put together a simple sequence of events? Just how damaging was this virus? What happened to him within that lost period?

“Hey!”

Connor glimpses at Hank, who is snapping in his line of sight. The old detective snorts once he realizes Connor has come to.

“Jesus, I guess even robots can be space cadets now, huh?” He muses as he slaps a wadded up stack of bills onto the counter and slides them over to the standing bartender. “I’m heading home to feed my dog. You’d better go back to the station and recharge yourself, Blinky. That fucking disc in your temple is going crazy.”

Without any further pleasantries, Hank takes off towards the door and exits the bar through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Connor meant to pay for his drinks and a ride home, but he supposed that’d have to wait until tomorrow. For now, it was probably best he follow his partner’s commands. After all, he was made to heed directions, and eager to run another diagnostic scan undisturbed.

Going in the opposite direction of his partner, Connor starts his way back to the police station downtown, occupying his walk by fumbling with the trademark silver coin he carries in his pocket. Hopefully all he needed for a fresh start was an overnight rebooting.

…

Connor Model Prototype RX800 — Serial Number: 313 248 317. Functionality: Below Average. Code: C5Y0091-24BC. Classification: Unauthorized Bio-Component Breach By Digital Error 2B9YD77158G. Software Virus Confirmed. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Self-Repairs Update Initialized. Time Remaining: 62 Hours, 58 Minutes, And 23 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife HQ.

The alert rouses him from his sleep mode. It wasn’t the best news to start the day with, but then again, neither was this creeping sensation bothering his nose and tickling his chest. He attempts another scan to source out the cause, but is immediately interrupted by a sudden, involuntary gasp. The reaction quickly proves out of his control; because in spite of trying to fight and diagnose it, his efforts prove futile as his chest inflates, mouth parts, and he’s bent at the waist with an unexpected-

“Ah’HTSHh’iew!” And another? “Iihy’YDTZSH’shH! Hh-?!” And another?? “hK’SCH’uh!”

He shakes his head and sniffles instinctively, more than a little surprised and uneasy following such an aggressive series of outbursts. He didn’t like that one bit, and could only assume that a reflex like that attested to the true extent of his malfunction. Not only that, but the annoying fluttering feeling in his face hadn’t been remotely relieved; if anything, it’d been stirred and hurled through his system like a shock of irritating static. He wasn’t familiar with automatic overrides to his manual settings, and didn’t wish to experience that again if he could help it.

Straightening his back, he ignores the blank gazes from his fellow policing Androids, who are similarly parked in their charging stations in rows running to his left and right.

“Excuse me,” Connor murmurs, not that any of his companions could feel offended by his unusual behavior. He’d only said it out of sheer obligation, though perhaps somewhere deep in his system he was also preventing being viewed as a threat…as unfortunately impaired.

A malfunction.

For the sake of preserving his public image, he would commit himself to being as discreet as possible. He wasn’t a malfunction, and he would set himself to prove it. He just had to get through the next two days without drawing unwanted attention or affording any more hiccups. He could do that.

Right?

…

For the first time since his creation and introduction to the public eye, Connor was experiencing…doubts. The virus he’d contracted was proving to be more difficult to supersede the more hours that went on. The rate of his degradation was…less than optimal, to say the least. For one, his bio-components (as predicted) were suffering unfamiliar glitches all over. His movements were sluggish despite a full night’s charge, and his data processing was running at a measly 73% speed — even slower than last night. His internal temperatures were rising and falling like a seesaw; the balance constantly tipped between too hot and too cold. It was starting to affect his bio regulators, which couldn’t decide if he needed to start letting off steam or shiver through the morning. Thankfully, these ailments weren’t too difficult to hide so long as he was diligent in monitoring them and constantly tracking their progression. As soon as something was apt to change, he was quick to process a solution in order to appear as normal and high functioning as possible.

What he couldn’t predict nor control was the sudden influx of outbursts.

It’d only been a handful of hours since he “woke”, and even less time since the station opened up to its human staff; and already, Connor was slipping up here and there. As an Android, people paid him little attention (which actually worked in his favor), but that didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned over being reported by a fellow Android or a stray, observant human. After all, he’d discovered that no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t do much to prevent-

“Iiy’aASCH’hiEW!”

That. He despised the act itself, and grew frustrated every time it took him by surprise. Why was it so difficult to challenge or prepare for? If he had just a little more notice, he could stop himself or at least attempt to override its command. However, every time he tried, he just couldn’t. He was being outplayed by an infraction, a glitch — a minor one at that! — and that only added to the frustration gnawing at his senses.

As if the lack of control alone wasn’t bad enough, he was also starting to tire of the persistent, crawling itch tracing his nose and teasing at the inner cavity. It was terribly irritating, prompting him to pinch and rub at his face, or sweep a knuckle under the sensitive (and offending) appendage. But doing so often only relit the flame, like a match reigniting a fire so close to dying, but reluctant to fade out. Even now, just as he earns some relief thanks to a series of sniffling and scrubbing, he feels that ember kicking up again; tickling and teasing against his inner sinuses until he’s forced to-

“eE’SHYIU’Uui! ‘dSHH!…ha’hh-! uH’-!”

The final one teases him, so much so he isn’t even certain it’s the last one. He’s aware he must look ridiculous — an Android caught in a hysteric limbo, interrupted by a dysfunction that it’d never succumb to before, let alone conceived. He tries desperately to fight it — to prove he can use sheer logic to overcome his own reflex, but the itch is just too overwhelming, causing his eyes to squint and lips to quiver. So after a few good seconds of rebelling against the inevitable, he hastily pardons himself to the station’s supply closet, locks the door behind him, and surrenders to his system.

In his clumsy haste however, he had managed to knock over a few spare broomsticks, and even rattled a small tower of cardboard boxes. His vision was immediately clouded by a puff of gray, but he didn’t have much time to observe or clean up the mess since he was already too busy-

“ae’ESHHEW’ww! Aa’KSCH’yIEW! T’tdSSH’yiEW!”

Was it getting worse?! Between hitching breaths Connor struggles to perform another scan. He interrupts himself twice, but ultimately the result comes back, reading out in bold text: Environmental Irritant Level: High. Bio-Receptor Reactivity: High. System Override: Automatic. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 57 Hours, 22 Minutes, And 19 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife H-

“HHh’ITSH’hUuii! Ahh…h’ah-! H’-! H’PTzsSH’IEWw!”

They were stumbling out of him in pairs and triples now, every fittish burst triggering glitches in his sight and sending shivers down his core. He tries to keep them quiet by smothering his nose into his palm, but air manages to slip out anyway, making hisses of noise he’s starting to find…embarrassing? Perhaps shameful was a more accurate term, on second thought.

Still caught between sneezing or not sneezing, he squints through bubbling gasps and hones in on his immediate area. His specs focus in on the particles of dust scattered around him; no doubt disturbed by his sudden entrance. His system classifies the debris as a common irritant. Ah. So that’s what was setting him off worse than before.

He shakes his head and scrubs at his nose with a free knuckle. Here he thought he’d finally found some reprieve only to cause himself another problem. He should’ve expected this or pre-calculated the chances of this happening, but of course little was working in his favor with a bugged out tactical unit.

“Hih’PTSHH’ieew! Ah’haaH-…!”

Seriously? How long did this usually last?

“h’H-…! Nnng…oH’H-!…oh…”

Connor lets out an artificial sigh, his nose twitching aggressively and mouth uncurling from a snarl. The itch hasn’t quite dissipated, but at least the urge to sneeze has retreated for the time being. As he scratches at his face and sniffs testily, he makes a mental note-to-self to avoid any more stale or dirty areas over the next two days.

He had to get out of here, before someone noticed he went missing or worse, caught him in the act of hiding. Reluctant to get dragged into another fit but eager to escape, he raises his arm and buries his nose against his sleeve — a courtesy he believes humans are commonly accustomed to when they suffer similar ailments. He then tends to the supplies around him, returning them to their exact state before he’d made a wreck of things. Once adequately tidied (both he and the closet space), Connor tentatively unlocks the closet and exits the shroud of its privacy.

The immediate change in lighting is too fast for his eyes to process, causing a temporary blindness that stings his circuits and scatters pixels across his vision. He grimaces unconsciously as he heads towards his desk, and to his surprise, the commanding officer is waiting for him when he approaches.

“There you are RX800. We’ve got a new report about a Deviant downtown. I want you to pull Hank from wherever the fuck he is and go investigate.”

The chief slips a manilla folder into Connor’s hands then readjusts the belt around his gut. Connor busies himself with downloading the walls of text in his hands, then blinks up at his boss with an automated smile.

“Of course, Chief Fowler. I’ll be sure to retrieve Mr. Anderson, and we will investigate the scene immediately.”

His response is somewhat obvious, but still, the chief approves of his confirmation, nodding as he starts to brush past the bot. Connor glimpses down at the data in his hands again, when suddenly, his captain pauses and waves for his attention. Promptly, Connor swivels on his heel.

“You look different, RX,” the officer acknowledges, more skeptical than worried. “More…,” he ponders for the words, eventually settling on, “blue.”

Blue? Connor couldn’t tell what his commander meant, at least not with his processing unit so slow to react. Did he mean sad — as in the human emotional equivalent of blue? Taking a guess, Connor puts on his best smile in spite of his state and shakes his head.

“I assure you I’m normal, Captain. Fully functioning and eager to follow your directives!”

He hopes his summery tone is enough to dissuade his captain’s lingering stare — which it ultimately does — however, instead of looking appeased, his commander only looks more confused before resuming his strut in the other direction. Connor shuffles uncomfortably where he remains, glimpsing side to side self-consciously in case other people have witnessed his untimely encounter with the chief. Thankfully nobody seems to notice, but in the midst of his search, Connor manages to catch a glimpse at his own reflection against Hank’s black computer screen. He leans a bit closer to get a better look at himself, and what he finds puts his erroneous state into further perspective.

His hair is disheveled, the corners of his eyes tainted with faint webs of static, and his cheeks and nose are dusted a blue color eerily similar to that of his Thirium — his blue blood. That’s probably what Fowler was talking about; and if that wasn’t already damning enough, Connor could only imagine what Hank would say (or think) when he fetched him.

Connor smooths back his hair and pats at his cheeks. He’d have to be extra cautious with Hank if he wanted to dodge his attention. It’d be a difficult task given the detective had already picked up on his mild dysfunction the night prior, but Connor was always committed to giving his best effort. Sure, it may slow down his rate of update, but likely by a negligible amount.

Confident in his ability to disguise his condition, Connor tucks the Chief’s folder under his arm and heads down the nearest hallway towards the station’s south exit. This would work, and it would be worth it.

Anything was worth it if it meant sparing Hank’s judgment.

…

By the time Connor reaches Hank’s house, he’s damp with rainwater. He’d made longer treks in the rain in the past, but this time, he’d failed to take into account how the weather would affect his weakened system. Currently his internal temperature sat at an unusual low of 57 degrees Fahrenheit, and his whole body was shaking to make up for the cold. In the short amount of time that had passed, optimization had dropped to 66%.

The only positive was he’d somehow managed to relieve the blue tint in his face, and the repeated fits of sneezing had died down significantly now that he was surrounded by fresh air. If he was fortunate, that’s how it’d remain for the next several hours.

The Android climbs the front porch, then knocks at Hank’s door (always in threes). As usual, he’s first greeted by Sumo’s barking followed by the muffled sounds of Hank cursing out his unexpected (but still somehow predictable) return visitor.

“Goddammit, not today you walking nuisance!”

At least he knows it’s him.

“Apologies Lieutenant, but I’ve been given direct orders by Chief Fowler to come get you. He wants us to investigate another Deviant case immediately.”

There’s no response. Connor didn’t usually grovel, but he had work to do, and it was starting to get pretty cold out there in the rain.

“P-Please,” Connor pleads, unintentionally stuttering thanks to the shivers wracking his system. “You know I can’t do this without you, Lieutenant.”

There’s another pause of silence, only this time it’s followed by a characteristic groan and the sound of footsteps approaching the porch. Right on cue, Connor takes a step back just as Hank flings open the door and motions him inside.

“Get your ass in here and give me fifteen minutes, huh? I need to change and sober up a bit.”

Connor nods as he follows Hank inside, getting no more than a few feet into the living room before he’s bombarded by Sumo, who licks at his shins and threatens to knock him over given his massive size.

“Sumo down!” Hank orders as he heads towards his bedroom, though the friendly Saint Bernard pays his master no mind.

Connor giggles as he kneels to Sumo’s height and proceeds to pet behind his ears. “Good boy, Sumo,” he consoles. Freeing one hand, Connor fishes in his pockets until he comes across a particular texture, revealing a hidden stash of spare treats he carries solely for occasions like this. He palms the biscuits over for Sumo’s pleasure, and smiles fondly as the hound licks them from his grasp.

“You better not be feeding him again, Connor!” Hank calls from the other room.

“Of course not, sir!” Connor answers, cooing as Sumo’s tongue tickles his fingers. The more he visited Hank’s home, the more he looked forward to seeing Sumo’s goofy smile. He was starting to see why humans adored animals — especially good boys like Sumo.

“Riiiight,” Hank drawls in return. He’s been a detective for over 20 years, so why an Android attempted lying to him about his own dog, he seriously didn’t know. “Hey, Connor!”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Remind me later to tell Fowler to kiss my ass next time he sends me out into the rain. Swear that fucker doesn’t ever need me until the weather is shit,” he adds beneath a grumble.

“Will do,” Connor answers, still mildly distracted by the fluffy lump of love curled by his feet.

After a few more minutes, Hank emerges from his bedroom, dressed in a darkened leather coat, distressed blue jeans, and boots well past their wear. It complimented his grizzled aesthetic, which Connor was starting to find charming the more time they spent together. Hank must catch the way he’s staring, because he furrows his brows and gnaws at his bottom lip; a habit indicating some level of self-consciousness.

“What? I got something on my face?” Hank asks. It wouldn’t be the first time he left the house with pizza stains and booze clinging to his beard.

“No,” Connor replies, frankly. “I like your outfit. You look handsome, Lieutenant.”

Hank looks more perturbed than complimented, but regardless he says nothing but “Christ” under his breath as he brushes past Connor and swipes his house keys off his computer desk. As he does, the faint blush of his cheeks are exposed by the soft glow of his laptop’s LED. Connor smiles, rising to his feet and reaching for the door handle. Swinging it open, he beckons for Hank to lead the way.

Hank obliges the kind offer, but halts midstep just as he’s about to pass the pseudo-doorman.

“What’s on your face?” he asks after glimpsing Connor up and down.

The Android shuffles in place. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” he answers somewhat meekly.

Hank doesn’t believe him for a second, that much was obvious with the way he stiffens his jaw and narrows his eyes. Still, he chooses not to elaborate, and simply relents to looking back at Sumo, who has sidled up against his leg as a goodbye gesture. Hank gives the pup one last parting pat on the head before stepping out into the morose outdoors.

“Hold down the fort, Sumo. This won’t take long,” Hank sighs. “I’m not wasting more than four hours out in this goddamn shit.”

He starts down the front steps while Connor turns to close the door behind them. As the Android does so however, a dreadfully familiar tickle takes him by surprise, gracing him with barely enough time to tuck his nose into his collar — a sloppy and hurried attempt to suppress a mini fit.

“iihH’MFFSH’ui! ih’zZSHH! dtsSH’yiew!”

He sniffles carefully as he rises from his jacket and shakes his head free of the bothersome itch.

“Connor! The Hell are you doing?” Hank calls from the sidewalk.

“Nothing; sorry! I'm coming, Lieutenant!”

Sumo whimpers at the Android and paws at his leg, as though he senses something is wrong with his second best friend. To relieve the dog’s distress, Connor cups Sumo’s chin and scratches it one last time.

“I’m alright, Sumo. Be a good boy, okay? I promise I’ll bring Hank back home soon.”

With that said, Connor closes the door, tugs the handle to make sure it’s locked, then races after his Lieutenant. As he closes in on his side, another alert crowds his interface, reading: Functionality: Moderately Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-39BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Low. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 55 Hours, 50 Minutes, And 50 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife HQ.

He sniffs discreetly and steals a final pinch at his nose. For one of the few times since they’d met, Connor agreed with Hank completely.

Hopefully this is all over soon.

[sherbet-shivers]

A Minor Malfunction Part 2/3

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs — no need to drag vanillas into this! Formatting tips are always welcome <3**

Blurb: Co/nnor is still suffering a little virus (Part 1 here and Part 3 here)

Characters: Co/nnor R/K800 (-centric because he’s babygirl) and H/ank A/nderson

Length: 5k+ words

TW: cursing, human and robot injuries and homicide, fake drugs, some coughing; lightest of spoilers

Since investigations were never quick, Connor really should’ve expected this case to be no exception.

It took roughly half an hour just to reach the crime scene alone, and now that they’d arrived, minutes were accruing like Deviants themselves. The scene wasn’t too unique compared to other similar incidents, but that didn’t mean it was absent surprises either.

For starters, there were multiple human victims — two adult men aged somewhere between thirty and forty years. They were dealers allegedly draining their own androids for their Thirium in order to produce more red ice for local distribution. The Androids were both inactive and found just outside the immediate area given they’d lost a critical amount of blue blood. It was likely they’d shut down since there was no way their bio components could sustain their systems on such minimal fluid. This was the first case in which Connor and Hank had investigated people using their own androids to bolster their personal RI supply, and for some reason, Connor doubted it’d be the last.

The men had been assaulted by the Androids in their kitchen based on the amount of blood smattering the countertops and the overall state of disarray. Chairs were knocked over, the fridge was left open, the stovetops were on when police arrived, and there were broken dishes, toppled pots, and loose silverware scattered everywhere. The men had done a good job remaining inconspicuous in their affairs; even their next door neighbors reported no suspicions of their notorious trade, nor the abuse of their Androids. Connor purported that the tiny apartment was designated for the sole purpose of their operations — not particularly lived in or used for shelter. His theory was based on the fact there was no food in the house, and every single cabinet, cupboard, or similar compartment had been repurposed for RI storage. Not to mention the home was completely battered, obviously lacking much needed maintenance and cleaning. Even the naked human eye could catch the layers of dust and grime coating every flat surface in sight. Hank was the first to say as much after he entered the living quarters and immediately tripped over a bag of old Chinese food containers and syringes.

“Fucking shit!” He had hissed, glaring down at the trash bag like it had personally assaulted him. “I swear if this place is crawling with rats like that damn pigeon house I will shoot those filthy bastards on site!”

Miraculously none of the officers had encountered a single rodent; however less fortunately, Connor’s nose was starting to grow unbearably itchy given all the dust and cobwebs decorating the dry air. Not to mention it was freezing inside — the other investigating officers bundled under several layers and still chattering against the cold. Connor suspected the leaks in the roof and broken windows were to blame for the influx of frigid air, which was starting to really stiffen the cogs in his chest and extremities.

Connor slowly gravitates to Hank’s side, peeking over his shoulder as the senior observes one of the victims.

“More red ice,” he grumbles as he plucks a PVC packet off one of the men’s person. The crystallized drug sparkles like false ruby under the scope of Hank’s flashlight. “Given the toxicology report, it’s a wonder how this guy didn’t overdose before he was murdered.”

Hank passes the packet to Connor, the latter fumbling the substance between his fingers while he examines it more closely.

“The composition isn’t exact to other red ice compounds we’ve seen in the past,” Connor observes. “Perhaps they were developing a hybrid; something inexpensive with a similar effect and appearance.”

Hank scoffs, shaking his head. He pats down the rest of the victim’s body. “A living eye could never catch all that, but I guess that’s why you’re here, right Connor?”

“Correct,” Connor confirms.

“Well,” Hank says, rising from the floor and clapping his hands together to rid them of the dirt caked in the grooves of his skin, “I have my theories, but uh, why don’t you go first while I wash this shit off?”

“Of course,” Connor nods as he watches Hank step over the victim’s body and head for the kitchen sink. He wastes no time pulling up the list of evidence saved to his specs.

“Based on what I’ve gathered and the analysis of my digital reconstruction, Victim A was likely assaulted by Android B first. Victim B was preoccupied with the stovetop while Victim A busied himself with collecting the Androids’ Thirium.”

Hank hums, encouraging Connor to continue while he tries to unstick the sink’s rusty left handle. “Go on.”

“To access the blue blood, the victims would often drain a specific wound afflicting the android’s torso; the area just beneath where a human’s right rib cage would end. The puncture wound was scarcely healed between draining instances, and therefore the most reasonable source of continued drainage. I believe Victim A was attempting to reach Android B’s puncture when the bot suddenly refused his inspection. Thus-“

“SHIT!”

Connor jerks in surprise as Hank yanks his hands from the sink basin to avoid the gush of suspiciously gross water pouring out the faucet.

“Ah that’s just fucking great! Ice cold, filthy fucking water! Matches the house itself, I guess,” Hank curses as he extends his hands away from his body. Even a few of the surrounding officers take steps away from his reach.

“Hang onto that thought. I’m gonna go wash this off in a puddle or something.”

With that, Hank and the remaining officers head outside the home, leaving Connor alone with the still running water. The Android heads over to the sink and promptly halts the flow, which has collected in the basin turning it a muddy, sewage brown. For sanitary reasons, he should really drain the fluid, but something about the discoloration even has him grimacing.

While inspecting the mess, Connor is completely unaware of the steady pool of rainwater collecting just overhead, seeping through the cracks of the ceiling; and just as he’s about to return to his former position, the roof panels give way and unleash their tide. With his reaction time hindered, Connor barely side-steps the planks crashing to his sides. It’s a lucky dodge, but still not quite good enough to avoid the wave of water that crashes him dead on. Within the blink of an eye, he’s become drenched in icy fluid.

He’s thankful he was the brunt of the accident and not Hank or the other human officers, but if he wasn’t already shivering before, he sure was now. That pummeling had put a dent in his defensive barrier, and the large influx of water was starting to sink into his circuits faster than it could be flushed out.

A similar alert blares through his system, only this time it glows red and reads as a warning.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Highly Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-44BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Water Intake: Level 4. Risk Of Shut-Down: Moderate. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 53 Hours, 21 Minutes, And 17 Sec-

“IHT’TDSHY’yiiEW!”

Connor sneezes freely towards the ground, his hands pathetically hugging his shoulders and shaking against his sodden sleeves. Water had definitely infiltrated his cavities, only congesting him further. Get a grip, he mentally commands. Don’t-!

“Hh’PTSHH’huh! ssh’hHIEW!”

Come on! Get a-!

“Connor!”

The Android lifts his head, spotting Hank who's just re-entered the house and is already barreling his way.

“Connor! What happened?!” He asks, examining the android’s body then glancing between the fallen debri and the hole in the ceiling.

“N-Nothing, L-Lieutenant,” Connor stammers, his voice as uneven as autotune. “Th-the ceiling…it must’ve fallen under the p-pressure of the s-storm.”

His voice has taken on a robotic vibration, frying it with digital gravel.

“Jesus…,” Hank murmurs absentmindedly, his gaze returning to Connor himself. “Did it fucking fall on you? Why are you soaked?!”

“I-I’m okay,” Connor reassures, though the constant shivering and sniffling probably doesn’t make him any more convincing. Two other, entering officers are starting to look at him. He didn’t need this extra speculation, so he opts for changing the subject, and fast.

He glances at Hank’s hands.

“D-Did you manage t-to w-wash your hands off?”

Hank stares at Connor like he’s asked him to perform the electric slide. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the smoothest transition out of the spotlight. But even so, he didn’t say something wrong again, did he? Connor smiles through chattering teeth, when suddenly, Hank catches his cheeks in his palms and sternly peers into the Android’s eyes.

“Christ Connor you’re freezing,” he murmurs, an unusual hint of worry seeping through his tone. Connor wasn’t supposed to evoke that tone, so he does his best to console his partner.

“I-I’m okay, Lieutenant,” Connor repeats. “I-I’m just glad n-no one was injured,” he adds, blatantly ignoring the 59% efficiency report blinking in the corner of his sight. “The temperatures m-may slow m-me down, but I assure you I a-am s-still capable of completing my job.”

Hank doesn’t look convinced, far from it actually, but he ultimately chooses to free Connor of his hold, perhaps motivated by the approach of the remaining officers. He clears his throat and nods, averting his eyes to the remainder of the scene. He’d have to clean up the fallen shit, but honestly that was the least of his current concerns. One victim was piled beneath rooftop shambles, and if he knew anything, it was that Fowler would blame him for the tampered scene — whether it was his fault or not.

“Alright,” he grumbles. “But-,” he exclaims, pointing a finger in Connor’s face, “-you’d better tell me if you start bugging out! The last thing we need is you breaking down or glitching or something.”

Connor’s gears tighten. “Of course, Lieutenant. That won’t happen,” he assures.

“Good, ‘cause I’m not filing a broken equipment report after we’re done here,” he mutters, returning to the crime scene. As he does, he huffs under his breath, shaking his head and hiding his expression behind a curtain of loose bangs.

“Fuck, almost actually had me worried there, Con!” He admits. “I seriously almost asked if you wanted a break, or were hurt or feeling okay, but I forgot you don’t really want or feel, well, anything, do you?”

Connor’s hands grip tighter against his arms, leaving scratches across his synthetic skin that are slow to regenerate.

“Correct, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, his LED flashing yellow.

Hank accepts his answer, already having shuffled over to the fallen planks to scoop them out of the way. Connor tries to help him, but Hank intercepts his reach.

“Uh-uh! You keep telling me what you found, then go ahead and re-investigate the bodies, yeah? Or at least, y’know,” he glimpses down at the victim half-buried beneath the rubble, “the ones you can still see.”

…

By the time they’ve managed to clean up the majority of the roof and granted Connor enough leeway to re-inspect the final victim, more than an hour has passed. His metal was freezing cold to the touch, barely above 35 degrees, and his malfunctions were getting worse by the second — only functioning at an even split of 50%.

Still, it looked like their investigation was nearly over. The other cops had long left the area (probably in order to avoid clean-up duty), and Hank was equally ready to go with just the final victim remaining to be studied. For a man who hated his job, he’d rushed to get another look at the body. He was already down on his knees, hovering over Victim A and scouring his wounds with his flashlight.

“So, you’re saying this one attacked the Androids first?”

Connor nods. “Y-Yes. It’s m-most p-probable.”

His stutter was getting worse. So far Hank had been ignoring it, but there was no way he hadn't noticed.

“So run the last part by me again? Y’know, about how the second Android got involved?”

…No response.

That was unusual.

“Connor?” Hank calls.

No response. Again.

What the Hell?

“Connor? Connor??” He repeats, this time glancing back at the Android in question. To his unease, Connor is looking somewhere unseen, as if in a trance. Making a face, Hank claps his hands together, startling the Android out of his daze.

“Goddammit! Connor!!”

Connor blinks twice and immediately looks to his partner.

“Apologies. D-Did you need me?” Connor asks.

“Well I’ve been calling your name four damn times, so yeah,” Hank answers sarcastically. “I thought you said you were fine. The Hell is up with you?”

“N-Nothing, Lieutenant. I’m sorry,” Connor apologizes again. This time though, Hank isn’t letting him slide so easily.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. What’s going on, huh? You’re even loopier than yesterday,” he scoffs. “Y’know I was joking earlier but now I’m not so sure. What is it, huh? You actually malfunctioning or some shit?”

“N-No!” Connor exclaims a bit too hastily, based on the way Hank raises an eyebrow his way. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice so high. It was an impulse he rarely leaned into, but it was difficult given the constant red warning swimming through his ocular piece. “N-No…my operations are functional.”

“Functional?” Hank repeats, placing a hand on his knee. “What happened to optimal?”

For a middle-aged drunkard, Hank was remarkably astute — a quality Connor often admired, just not in this moment.

“I am fine,” Connor breathes, trying to keep his voice as still as possible. “I’ve already ran internal diagnostics. It s-seems that I’ve contracted a small virus that is affecting the r-regulation of my bio-components.”

“What?” Hank exclaims, suddenly up on his feet and fully facing his Android. “Affecting how? For how long??” He asks, bordering concern and curiosity.

“My temperature regulation is h-hindered, resulting in fluctuating internal temps ranging from r-roughly 30 to 120 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“30?!” He knew Connor was cold, just not that cold.

“My ocular c-components are s-similarly impaired, occasionally resulting in low visibility and an inability t-to scan c-certain d-data in the environment. I s-suspect I will not be able to immediately diagnose b-blue blood, as taste receptors are partially numbed.”

Hank honestly didn’t see that as a negative per se, but he wasn’t about to say that aloud.

“And I am experiencing m-mild g-glitching affecting airway c-cavities, though this is, again, a m-mild inconvenience.”

Hank looks Connor up and down, expression unreadable. For the first time, Connor swears he’s sensing something. Something internal outside his usual program, and aside from the errors he’s affected by. This was something new, something strange and unpleasant. Something like…

Anxiety?

He waits for Hank to say something — anything — even if it’s at his own expense, and yet all the detective does is stare at him. Finally, after a few more bated moments, Hank does something unexpected: he laughs. And when he does speak, it’s in the flattest tone Connor’s ever heard out of him — a tone befit an Android.

“So you have a cold.”

Blue rises to Connor’s cheeks. Anxiety was giving way to another unwanted emotion: humiliation.

“…Yes, Lieutenant. The common cold would likely be an equivalent to my condition.”

Hanks laughs again, placing his hands on his hips as he shakes his head in amusement. “Learn something stupid everyday,” he muses. Then, more seriously, he continues: “So what exactly uh, happens when you’re-,” he waves his hands around Connor’s person, gesturing to his entirety,” -like this. Hm? I’m assuming bots don’t get sick leave.”

He was genuinely curious (maybe even a smidge compassionate), and as always, Connor has an answer.

“CyberLife has been notified of my dysfunction, and their report denotes that as a m-model RK800, I am c-capable of both s-self-diagnostics and administering minor self-repairs. A-As such, this inconvenience is nothing I c-cannot h-handle myself. Given approximately-,” his LED hums and glows a faint blue, “-51 hours, 32 minutes and 11 seconds, my s-systems should be rebooted, and myself returned t-to optimal f-functionality. In the meantime, I apologize for any hindrances this may c-cause our investigation, Lieutenant; however, CyberLife has assured that these errors are m-more likely to c-cause self-contained discomfort, and are therefore highly n-negligible to outside company.”

He wiggles in place. “That is why I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m s-sorry for the disturbance, and urge you to ignore my incongruity lest it endanger or c-concern you or others directly.”

“Right…,” Hank nods, still eyeing Connor with skepticism. “But you know it does kind of concern me when you’re all dopey, ignoring my questions and shit.”

“It won’t happen again.”

Hank snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take your word for it, but forgive me if I think you’re full of shit when you say so,” he says, returning to the victim. “So, anything else I should be aware of? Any other surprises?” He chuckles.

Hank awaits an answer, even if it’s meant as a joke, but once again he’s met with silence. He sighs and mutters something unintelligible to himself; something along the lines of “I swear to God kid if you aren’t listening”; but just as he’s about to call Connor again and wake him from whatever tizzy he’s fallen back into, the Android makes a sound he doesn’t recognize.

“H’ih-!”

“Huh?”

Hank waits, but there’s no response again. Was Connor trying to say something and he’d missed it? “Hey! Connor! What did you sa-?”

“Hidt’TZSH’ieEW!”

Hank startles, jerking enough to lose his grip on his flashlight, which tumbles from his hand and rolls across the wood flooring. He swings around fast enough to give someone his age whiplash, still not entirely believing such a human sound was produced by his partner. That is, until he watches him make it again. The android’s shoulders bounce twice, chest inflates with a faux breath, and then-

“Ih’TSHH’Uui! E-Excu’h-! Hhh’idTSHh’iew!”

He somehow catches the final sneeze in an artificial web of fingers. Why he even bothers Hank doesn’t know; after all, it’s not like he could infect anyone. Then again, it was probably just another habit to make him appear more human; though to be honest, Hank almost found it creepy.

When Connor catches his partner staring, he looks utterly embarrassed; the sky-blue blush rushing to his face and discoloring his ski-sloped nose. To regain his composure, he’s quick to readjust his trademark tie and fidget with the cuffs of his sleeve.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Connor offers sheepishly.

“…did you just fucking sneeze?” Hank asks, only the way he says it makes it sound more like an accusation than an inquiry.

Connor nods and rubs his nose. “Forgive me. It’s another side effect of my-,” he pauses, refusing to say malfunction aloud. “-condition. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

“It’s not that I just, didn’t know you things uh, did that,” Hank replies un-eloquently. “Not that I even knew you got sick for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s not common,” Connor answers, his eyes averting shyly. “It’s to vent out my systems. Usually androids don’t need to resort to these processes since they clean themselves manually, but with my bio-components partially corrupted-“

Connor sniffs and pinches his nose, unaware how he seems to be bewildering Hank further.

“-my systems are relying on automatic reflexes. CyberLife did add that they m-may be on high alert for outside disturbances. S’h-?! So given how duh’hsty this area i’hiH-! is…”

Connor glimpses around the abandoned kitchen, wiggling his nose and sniffing in succession, again.

“-I suppose I’m-…I-hH‘m…-?!”

He’s intent on continuing, he really is, but he just can’t. Therefore, he swivels around out of Hank’s sight, and sneezes as quietly as possible into the bed of his palms.

“pP’SHHIi’Eew! ihH’SCH’yuU! ‘chyiieEW!”

Or not quietly at all, really. It was just so hard; especially when his nose was so relentlessly ticklish! Staving off the fit for hours probably didn’t help, but in his defense, he still wasn’t 100% sure fighting it off actually made it worse. Just…99% sure.

“ahH’Ah-! H’ahH-…! HH’ATSCH’hyieEW!”

The water soaked into his systems must be more  agitating than he thought. He sniffles damply and rubs his nose on his sleeve before clearing his throat of the congestion that’s settled there. When he faces Hank again, he isn’t even aware of just how blue he’s turned, or the little curls of hair that've been freed by the exertion of his fit. He coughs into his fist.

“Excuse me. Sorry. I was saying that I’ve become highly sensitive to the changes in the environment. Like the rain and-“, he sniffs, hesitant to even utter the word, “-dust.”

The initial shock of disbelief wearing off, Hank’s expression dissolves into a smirk that teases more at one corner of his mouth than the other. “So first you catch colds and now you get allergies, too?”

Connor swallows.

“Not necessarily,” he defends.

Hank nods, still looking cheeky. “But you are sneezy.”

“A bit…yes,” Connor confirms, scrubbing at his face again. Static is still tickling his nose, and spreading an itch to the rest of his face. Is this how humans felt when they were overreacting?

“I’ll stop it next time. I’m sorry.”

He fears he may have given the wrong answer the way Hank stays silent, but ultimately, his partner must appreciate his courtesy, because his expression softens and he rises to rub Connor’s shoulder in earnest.

“Twenty more minutes and then we get you out of here. I’m starting to freeze my balls off, anyway.”

…

Twenty minutes don’t come fast enough. Thankfully they’ve managed to piece together exactly how the crime went down — from the names of the victims and their Androids, to the means of assault, the murder weapons, and the motives. The cost however was Connor’s comfort, which if not indicated by his breathy sneezing and constant shaking, was evidenced by the 44% efficiency he was operating at. He needed a charge, and maybe just a little time to shut his eyes, which were being swarmed by constant alerts. The walls of text and meaningless numbers were starting to pile up in the corners of his eyes and really impair his sight. He had attempted to blink them away as quickly as they popped up, but at some point he’d given up altogether — doing so was expending crucial battery life he couldn’t afford to spare.

And now even his balance was beginning to suffer, causing him to lean and rock whenever he inched in any direction. To keep himself steady and warm, his hands were permanently grounded to his arms, keeping him enveloped in a hug of his own making.

As he watches Hank wrap up, Connor suddenly remembers that his night was far from over. He still needed to file his case report to CyberLife, and the idea of walking all the way back to the station was no more appealing. As an Android he wasn’t afforded the luxury of catching himself a taxi since it was illegal to spend currency on himself alone. Usually Connor didn’t pay this inequality any real attention, but in his current state, he finds himself fixated on the rule. If he thought on it further, perhaps he would’ve inspired some kind of opinion; ultimately though, he knows there’s nothing he could do but accept it. Thus he turns his attention back to his current priority: Hank, who he needed to return home safely before reporting their findings to CyberLife. He’d made a promise to Sumo, after all.

He may be exhausted, but he still wasn’t ready to deem his performance a total failure just yet.

“Alright, I think we’re just about done here,” Hank sighs, looking and sounding just as relieved as Connor was. “Don’t tell the Chief but uh, based on what we found here-“

Hank peeks at Connor who meets his glance.

“-fuckers probably deserved what they got.”

Connor glimpses at the Android bodies, then that of the human victims. He shrugs, albeit reluctantly. “That is n-not a j-judgment I can m-make,” he answers.

“Sure it isn’t,” Hank sighs. “Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here. Come on.”

Hank leads the way towards the exit, and as usual, Connor is quick to trail him like a puppy chasing its owner. He’s so close to being done and escaping this fortress of death and dust, but of course, fate can’t let him off so easily. The whole day had been work, and apparently his shift wasn’t quite over yet.

He feels it before he fully realizes what’s happening. That prickling burn in his face had returned with a vengeance, syncing with another alert that blinds his view completely.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 54 Hours, 26 Minutes, And 03 Seconds.

Wait, did the time remaining increase?

Connor is too preoccupied with completing his objectives to heed his system’s warnings, and thus dismisses the alarm pounding in his head. With a mighty effort he attempts to trudge forward in Hank’s wake, every step heavy and audibly creaking. His bio components slosh with rainwater, sending chills through every circuit and rendering every movement sluggish and dizzying. The pixels in his view were collecting like a storm and creating clouds of noir fuzz that eat away at his peripheral sight.

And that damn vibration in his chest and nose! It was so fucking distracting! He doesn’t need to alert Hank to his current state any more than he already has, and he definitely doesn’t need to get whisked up in another pathetic fit…but the tactics he’d used so far to abate his reflexes just weren’t providing him any hints of reprieve.

Desperate, he resorts to a new plan of action, quick to secure his nose between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. He’s seen Hank do it before, so maybe if he just…! Connor clamps down hard on the sensitive tip to try and curb the itch that’s nested there, eager to quell the phantom sensation by massaging and kneading strategically. Rain water squeaks against his grip, and the stubborn tickle has him coughing breathily against his control. Please let this work! He can stop this one! He just needs to concentrate. He just needs to try harder! He just…ne’hH’eds…t-t’hHU…!

Abandoning his cause, Connor blindly frees his hand and reaches for Hank’s shoulder. He ends up at his sleeve instead, but honestly that’s close enough given the urgency of his position. He gives the detective’s jacket a little tug, signaling for his attention.

“LieuyY’hH-!…Lieutenant-?!”

Hank peeks at Connor over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“S-Sir-! I-I’hh am…,” Connor trails off, and catching the Android’s desperate gaze, Hank pays him his full attention. The Android shuffles, blinks side to side, then flusteredly exclaims, “g-going to do ih’hIHT-!…a’hh’gain-!”

Hank blinks, and when he finally catches on, he blinks again.

“Connor,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes and gripping the Android’s hand. “You’re a damn-near indestructible supercomputer worth double my yearly salary. Are you seriously telling me you’re about to sneeze again? Like a preschooler?”

“Y-Yes-!” Connor answers seriously between hitching breaths. Hank isn’t surprised he didn’t catch his attempts at teasing, but he’s also unaware of just how mortified Connor is — how he’s feeling. “I understand I — huh-! — f-frightened-“

“I wasn’t scared.”

“-you la’aast time s’so I th’hah-! I thought I’d try to w-warn you’that’I-!”

“Fuck’s sake just shut up and get it over with!” Hank hisses.

Permission granted. To spare his commanding officer the unsightly scene, Connor twists his body and races to cover his mouth with steepled hands. He hiccups two “breaths” (a pattern Hank was beginning to pick up on) against his palms before succumbing to his nightmare.

“Hh’IPTtsSH’IEW! Aah’-! eH’SCH’hh! Iy’hh-! hah-! H’hiHH-! hHYi’DSHH’uU!”

He coughs so hard afterwards, his chest rattles and mouth leaks stale rainwater. It’s the trigger that melts Hank’s bemused expression into one of utter fear, his eyes wide and unblinking. Up until now he’d found this whole thing funny, maybe a bit quirky and unusual, but now? Now this felt serious. Dangerous, even.

“Connor!”

Hank scrambles to Connor’s side. Without seeking permission, he grabs both Connor’s wrists in his hands and forces them away from his face, revealing a tortured expression he should’ve noticed earlier. Connor looked outright uncomfortable. He looked distressed. He looked…

Really sick.

Guilt anchors Hank’s heart to the bottom of his gut, and out of some sort of paternal instinct, he holds the Android steady by pulling him into a hug.

“Connor!” He calls, but the Android is prisoner to a loop of gasping and sputtering. Pressed close together, Hank can hear the faint whistling emitting from the Android’s chest. Paired with the aggressive huffing and whimpers of sound, Connor didn’t sound too much unlike an asthmatic. Hank’s hands are becoming numb the longer they remain locked around the man’s body, and with every violent shiver, his body shakes in chorus.

Connor clutches greedy fistfuls of Hank’s jacket, relying on him entirely for support to stay upright. It’s like he’s clinging for life support, and the impression makes Hank’s own blood turn to ice.

“Connor?! Connor, son!! Are you okay?!”

To his horror, Connor blindly shakes his head. It’s the last hint to compel Hank to action. Desperate to comfort the Android further, Hank cradles a hand to the back of Connor’s head and pillows his face against his chest. The Android wiggles weakly against his grip, but Hank adamantly refuses to budge.

“Relax, kid. I used to be a dad, remember?”

He closes his eyes and traces soothing circles between Connor’s shoulder blades.

“Getting sneezed and coughed on is part of the job; maybe for detectives too. So quit your fighting and just get it over with — I’m here for you now.”

Either his words resonate convincingly enough, or Connor can’t hold out any further. Either way, the result is the same.

“HAH’DZSCHh’hiuUH! h’DTZSH’HUH! ih’KSCHH!”

Connor groans faintly from the bed of Hank’s breast pocket, barely catching another breath before he’s snapping forth again. First coughing, then flung into another sneezing fit.

“EH’DSHH’CHhui! ‘CHiiEeW! ‘SCHH’yyiuh! hHi’tshiiew!”

The last one is barely a sneeze, more like an exhale of empty, fizzled out air. Hank noticed how Connor, even in all his desperation, had refused to sneeze on him; instead letting loose at the last possible moment by pressing his forehead to his chest and aiming each burst towards the floor. Even while at the end of his rope the damn man was too polite — a wholesome and unreasonable characteristic Hank acted like he abhorred, but silently envied.

Relieved to be finished but feeling infinitely worse, Connor lifts his head slowly, already pulling out of Hank’s touch to crush the back of his wrist against his nose. He wasn’t about to look Hank in the eyes, not that he could see clearly to begin with. Errors were swarming his senses like gnats, declaring him critically defective and dangerously malfunctioning — as if he needed a reminder of the obvious.

Rocking on his heels he clutches his head in his hand and surrenders to the glitches tearing up his bio components.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. WARNING!!! Malfunction. Malfunction.

Malfunction.

Malfunction.

“I-…I’m not…”

Malfunction. Shut-Down Sequence Initiated.

N-No. He wasn’t going to shut down. It was a status he couldn’t afford, especially given his type of work, his mission, his expectations, and his model. A malfunction this spiraling…was unbefitting a rumba, let alone an RX800 Android like himself. If he couldn’t pull it together and send back a satisfying report to his creators, then…what could he expect? He’d be forced apart and aptly replaced by a new Connor model. He would be broken down; he’d be expendable once again. He’d lose his purpose. He’d lose his job! He’d lose Hank!! He didn’t want that!!!

“Connor! CONNOR!!!”

He…he didn’t…

“Hank-…I-I…don’t…f-feel…”

DING!Shut-Down Sequence Complete.

[sherbet-shivers]

A Minor Malfunction Part 3/3

Thank you to the handful of you who've been following along and left notes <3 I was scared to post this and am glad knowing some of you are enjoying it! I definitely want to share more stuff soon, but until then, thanks for being so kind - now onto the finale!

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs — no need to drag vanillas into this! Formatting tips are always welcome <3**

Blurb: Co/nnor is STILL suffering a little virus (Part 1 here, Part 2 here)

Characters: Co/nnor R/K800 (-centric because he’s babygirl) and H/ank A/nderson

Length: 3k+ words

TW: cursing, minor android injuries, coughing; light spoilers

“Connor! Oi! Connor! CONNOR! WAKE UP SON! CONNOR!!”

His name echoes faintly as he gradually comes to; blinking away an endless blackness until he’s finally conscious of someone’s repeated shouting. The fuzzy blob of muted color in front of him slowly begins to take shape, eventually resembling that of…of…

“Hank…?”

Blinking again, Connor sees the detective in returning detail; enough to place his arms in both his peer’s hands, which were rattling him like a child’s toy. It didn’t help keep the world from spinning in his eyes, but it did manage to rouse him from his blackout. He’d have to remember to thank him for the assistance. To thank…to thank…?

Connor gasps.

“Hank?!”

How didn’t he recognize him sooner? His beloved Lieutenant is standing right in front of him, panting heavily while he’s got him clutched in a vice grip. Connor doesn’t understand what’s going on, but regardless, he’s thankful to have been broken out of his loop, and back to processing the environment around him. He’s still running on low energy — just 31% of his maximum efficiency — but at least he’s back awake. Looking about, he gathers that together, he and Hank have somehow migrated outside the house and to the victim’s porch where rain engulfs everything visible in sight. Connor’s senses flood with the heavy scent of petrichor and grass, a refreshing contrast to the musty odor of dead bodies and dried Thirium.

“Jesus Connor!” Hank cries, finally letting go of Connor’s sides and doubling over with his hands cupping his knees. 

“S-Sorry, Lieutenant…,” Connor drawls like a drunk. “I didn’tttt…mean to’ignore or upset you. I-“

Without explanation, Hank lunges forward and tugs Connor into a hug, squeezing his sides and enveloping him in a human warmth he wasn’t familiar with. It felt… different than the heat he produced himself. It was gentle…light…kind…

Home?

He wasn’t sure where the thought originated from, or why now of all times, but he hasn’t any time to ponder anyway; not with Hank shouting in his ears.

“I’m not upset you moron! I’m just-! Just-!” Hank hesitates, swallowing before sighing a cloud of smoke into the air. The outdoors were freezing. There’s no way he could’ve been comfortable out in this weather, Connor thinks. How long has he been waiting for him to wake up?

Hank relinquishes his grip and drops his hands to his sides. He tries saying something a few times, but each attempt dies awkwardly at his lips. Instead, he opts for an explanation. “You, uh, weren’t responding after the fall, so…-”, Hank gestures to his left cheek, “-I moved you out here. Thought you might’ve shut off or overloaded or something.”

He’d done this for my sake? Connor shuffles awkwardly where he stands, bowing his head and mirroring Hank’s body language. He raises a hand to the curve of his cheekbone, and to his surprise, a patch of synthetic skin was missing — exposing a layer of pure, reflective, white metal. The “flesh” wasn’t regenerating back, which Connor supposed was normal given such a low status of functionality. Grazing his face, Connor also realizes his nose is bleeding, staining his fingers with the remnants of dried blue blood.

When he looks back up, Hank is holding out a handkerchief for him to take, most likely to clean up the Thirium smeared across his face. Connor accepts the offer politely and proceeds to wipe his nose clean.

“Apologies, Lieutenant,” is all he manages to whisper.

Hank hates seeing Connor mope, and so he deflects by exaggerating another long sigh.

“God, quit it with the puppy dog eyes, Connor. Okay? Nobody’s mad at you.”

“But my defect. My impairment has-!“

“Done nothing. You may have forgotten, but you and I already recorded the last piece of evidence we needed,” Hank reassures, fishing a small notebook from his pocket and flashing it in Connor’s face as proof. “I’ll have you analyze the data later.”

Connor blinks in renewed recognition. “O-Of course! I’d be more than hah’h-…! H’haah’p-py to’hH-!”

Why is it always when he’s speaking? Eyes slipping closed, the corner of Connor’s lips twitch in unison with his nose. He looks confused, even though it’s far from the first time he’s been in this state today — hanging helplessly between a sneeze and an itch attacking his consoles.

The sensation takes its time with him. It skips around his sinuses like it’s performing a ballet; every step baiting him into trembling breaths that climb in octave, while igniting a tickle that evades his pinches and rubs. It’s like the tingling itself was indestructible, and in Connor’s state, there simply was no contest between who was stronger in this situation.

“Excuse’me-!” he gasps, just as he tears to his side. “hH’ZSHh! ehHih…-! ’TSCH’hyieww! ah-! haAh!…ah’TCH-!..ieew…oh…”

The last one he tries stifling, which he immediately regrets. It did nothing to stop the sneeze, and worse, added injury to inconvenience by rocketing an unpleasant shock through his temples. A private alert indicates a sudden increase in cranial pressure as Connor swipes his nose across his sleeve. He reasons he must look terrible, because when he blinks back at Hank, the old man is frowning deeper than before.

“Bless you,” Hank comments sympathetically.

“Thank you,” Connor sighs. “As I was saying, I’d be happy to-“

He reaches for the notebook, but this time instead of interrupting himself, Hank is the one intercepting; shaking his head and clicking his tongue like a parent chiding a child.

“Later,” he repeats, flicking the Android in the forehead with a ting! that leaves him blinking and scrunching his nose. “You can look at it after you’ve pulled yourself together and I’ve had something to drink. I’m fucking starving,” he mutters. “So just consider your mission complete and listen to me for once, alright?”

“Y-Yes, Lieutenant…,” Connor answers. His protocol dictated he file his report immediately, but since it conflicted with the urgency to remove Hank from the cold, he could accept his partner’s request for now.

“I could treat you to a trip to Jimmy’s Bar or Chicken Feed, if you prefer.”

Hank shrugs. “As much as I’d like to take your money, both are closed at this hour,” the detective groans, scrubbing his face with a calloused palm. Connor checks the internet for the location’s hours to confirm, but can’t reach the site on such low battery. It didn’t matter anyway — Hank was never wrong when it came to his food.

“No bother. How about you just use that annoying ass coin of yours to catch us a ride to my place?” He nods at Connor’s left pocket, opposite the one he conceals his dog treats in. “It’ll be out of this shit storm, at least. Plus, there are plenty of microwave dinners there,” Hank suggests.

For the first time since re-awakening, Connor smiles.

“Of course; whatever you want, Lieutenant.”

….

Hank’s kitchen had never been more appealing. As soon as they’d reached the house, Hank had led Connor inside, one hand around his waist to keep him from going limp again. Sumo did his best to assist as well, by securing one of Connor’s pockets in his mouth and tugging him along. Sure it was just as likely he was searching for Connor’s stash of hidden biscuits, but even so, Connor liked to believe in the comforting nature of his best canine pal.

“Good boy, Sumo,” Connor compliments while Hank helps him into a seat at the dining table.

Hank scoffs under his breath. “You talking to me or the dog?”

Connor peeks at his Lieutenant, brandishing a dopey, boyish grin. “You’re a good boy too, Lieutenant.”

“Christ, you’re even weirder when you’re sick, Connor,” Hank huffs, though the sound borders between that and a breathy chuckle. “Didn’t think that was possible, but here we are.”

He helps Connor out of his jacket, shaking it free of rainwater (and loose dog treats) before slumping it over the back of his couch.

“I’ll grab you some dry clothes, but I’m not helping you get dressed, you got it?”

“Got it,” Connor nods, already loosening his tie from his neck. Hank retreats the room before he can see anything more, and by the time he returns, the Android is already stripped down; his clothes abandoned to the floor in perfect folds and the rest of him wrapped up in the living room blanket. That works too, Hank figures, settling his spare clothes onto the couch before joining Connor in the kitchen.

Connor is scratching Sumo’s cheeks while Hank beelines for the fridge, rummaging through the shelves until he locates a plate of leftover pizza. He really should heat it up in the microwave, but he’s so done with the day he doesn’t even bother. Instead, he seats himself across from Connor and his pup, sweeps a handful of wrappers onto the floor to clear up some tablespace, then plops his plate in front of him with a resounding thump! Finally seated, Hank claps his hands to trigger the overhead fluorescent light, which illuminates the immediate space in a flush of jail-cell white. In this lighting, Connor’s blue stained cheeks and nose are more pronounced, as is the damage he’d accumulated thanks to his fall. Hank doesn’t like the look of that injury, but refuses to draw attention to it as he scoops his meat-lover's slice into his hands.

“Sumo gave me the blanket,” Connor says, raising one tucked arm beneath the fabric. “Is he used to tucking you in too, Lieutenant?”

Hank grins, snorting and taking a hearty bite of his slice. That cheese definitely would’ve tasted better warm. “Not usually,” he answers, swallowing then reaching across the table for a half-drained bottle of Jack Daniels. Connor passes it to him mid-reach. “Used to uh…,” he debates whether or not to continue, before adding, “used to tuck Cole in, sometimes.”

He nods towards the blanket draping down Connor’s shoulders. “Same blanket, too.”

Connor’s eyes grow owlish, and he quickly scrambles to remove himself from the fabric. “Oh! I-I’m so sorry I didn’t-!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hank reassures, shaking his head and taking another bite. “I don’t need to see you naked while I’m eating, anyway. No offense,” Hank drawls sarcastically mid-chew.

Connor reluctantly takes his word for it, and clutches the blanket tight around himself again. He starts to say something, hoping to change the subject, when he’s overwhelmed by a familiar, griping gasp. He pinches at his face, but Hank leans across the table and smacks his hand away, startling the Android into retreating his touch.

“Quit that. It’s not like it does you any good anyway.”

 “B’uht-!”

“No buts, Connor. You hear me?”

Connor whines, but nods nontheless.

“Y’yheH-…! Yes, Lieutenant-!”

He hurries to get the formality out before turning to his side and sneezing towards the floor.

“hi’PTSHh’yiEW! isSCH’uUi…! aeSH’Hiew!”

“Bless you.”

Sumo also barks in blessing, and Connor thanks both of them absentmindedly as he straightens in his seat again. 

WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 53 Hours, 45 Minutes, And 12 Seconds

Connor sniffles and blinks away the warning. It wasn’t like it said anything he didn’t already know. Still, his processor felt like it was swimming, and already he was back to tipping in his chair. Luckily Hank is there to help, his hand flying across the table and once again planting on his shoulder. After a few seconds, Connor is able to sit by himself again.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Connor whispers, followed by a chesty cough.

Hank lingers for a moment before leaning back into his seat, though he remains wary even as he resumes eating.

“You Androids always sneeze in three’s?”

“What?”

“Like three’s,” Hank repeats. “You always sneeze in three’s. That normal for your…people?”

“Oh,” Connor says, pinching at his nose. “No. I don’t think so. But-“

He shakes his head and blinks to refresh his vision.

“-like I mentioned earlier, it’s not a natural reaction to begin with. Well, neither is being infected with a virus in general, I mean.”

“Huh,” Hank nods, ripping off a piece of crust, “so this typ’a situation is rare, I’m assuming.”

“Yes,” Connor sniffs. “Very.”

“This is your first time?”

Connor nods.

Hank hums, continuing to pick at his pizza until it’s entirely crust free. Connor watches him in silence, debating whether or not to speak without being asked to. Hank wasn’t a big conversationalist, but Connor knew he disliked quiet just as much sometimes.

“It’s…not ideal,” Connor finally elaborates, eyes glued to Hank’s plate, even as the latter looks towards him. “As an Android designed to prevent failure, it is imperative I am operating at maximum efficiency as often as possible. I was directed by CyberLife to overcome these bugs in my system, as they should never hinder my work or means to reach standard objectives. Otherwise, my lack of perseverance could be qualified as a defect, meaning I am defective.”

Connor grows quiet for a moment, hanging his head low so he’s looking down at his own clasped hands in his lap. From where Hank is sitting, he looks…timid. Afraid; like a child confessing to a bad deed. It unearths the same softness Hank had tried to forget about years ago.

“To have been invaded by a virus means I’ve made some kind of mistake,” Connor sighs. “And I do not wish to be perceived as a mistake…as a malfunction.”

Hank watches his partner carefully, then breathes out a heavy handed exhale.

“Do you know what happened yesterday?”

Connor lifts his head, meeting Hank’s stare. He shakes his head immediately.

“No. I mean, I remember the case, but there are these peculiar gaps in my memory; particularly one four second blackout…why?”

“Ah,” Hank rolls his eyes, sighing as finishes off his meal and unscrews the cap off his liquor. As he pours himself a new glass, he proceeds with his discussion.

“That MJ100 from yesterday; the one with the busted up face and knee? You noticed something was off about her airways when you looked at her; said her chest components were all wonky or something. You were skeptical it may be influencing her behavior.”

He tops off his glass and moves the bottle back to the center of the table. Connor noticed how Hank wasn’t drinking as much these days — an improvement.

“I thought you were full of shit, but then you hypothesized her knee may not have been the sole hindrance to her escape — said you thought the congestion in her cogs may have been slowing her processing speed or some other techno-babble. And since you never listen to me and refused to compromise her functioning, you decided to investigate her innards for yourself — popped her open, fished your hand in her guts, and then-“

“Contracted her virus,” Connor concludes in shock. Hank shrugs, tipping his glass back and inviting that cherished burn back into his throat. It loosens his joints and clears up his senses, invigorating him with heat that soothes his frigid bones.

“That’s my guess. You must’ve gone dark without anyone noticing. Probably corrupted some of the data you had recorded that day. Regardless, you were acting “off” for the rest of the evening; I just couldn’t figure out why.”

Hank chuckles. “Thought you were just being a freak like usual but you live and you learn,” he grumbles, indulging in a second swig. Still, I should’ve known, he thinks.

Connor sits with the newfound information, a few of the final pieces of his memory falling into place. It didn’t change his circumstances any, but at least the mystery he’d been grappling with had been solved. In some ways, even that was a relief in and of itself.

Still, he couldn’t help but be disappointed in his slip-up. He should’ve been more cautious! If he had been, then maybe he wouldn’t have gotten himself into such a ridiculous and avoidable predicament. He could’ve maintained his professionalism today at work and on the case, instead of offloading unnecessary stress onto his partner. He could’ve negated the need for all of today’s warnings! There would’ve been no risk for failure-! For defects-! For-!

“Let me ask you something, Connor.”

Connor lifts his head, meeting his commander’s eyes. Hank’s tone was serious, his expression hardened to match.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

The detective leans forward, hands tapping around his glass.

“Do you feel defective?”

“Do I feel defective?” Connor repeats. Hank nods. “Uh, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand your question.”

Hank rolls his eyes again, though he’s far from exasperated. A third sip of whiskey pools heat into his chest and stings the tip of his tongue the way he likes.

“Y’know Connor,” he starts, “when humans are sick, we — well, most people — don’t consider them defective. That kind of thinking is pretty outdated for the times, anyway.”

He peeks at Connor, who watches him intently as he continues. “So how is it technology like you — a brand fucking new automaton-“

“Model RX8-“

Hank holds up a free hand, quieting his talkative companion so he himself may continue.

“So how can someone as smart as you be stuck in such a stupid, old-school train of logic, huh? And that’s coming from me, a stupid old-school human,” Hank snorts.

Connor stares back innocently at his partner, his LED unwittingly phasing between a blue and yellow light.

“Listen, Con; humans get hurt, or damaged, or sick, and sometimes even occasionally break down — it’s a part of life. And sure, Androids are different and aren’t built to break, but Hell, everything does! Even CyberLife knows that because there’s seventy fucking repair shops for your types all over the state alone! So they can’t blame or punish you when you “malfunction”. Especially not when you still operate better than half the fucking turds walking the streets.”

“Walking…turds?” Connor asks, frowning in confusion. Usually his naivety pissed Hank off, but this time, it only makes the officer laugh.

“What I’m saying is shit happens, Connor. Leisure, work, health; it’s all a balance. Catching a cold or virus or whatever? It doesn’t make you any less a cop…or my partner. Not in my eyes, at least.”

Embarrassed to be admitting as much, Hank averts his eyes to his dog Sumo, who nestles up against his legs beneath the table. In doing so, he misses the smile that stretches across Connor’s face and returns a faint glow behind his eyes.

”So I’ll ask you again,” Hank rephrases, “do you feel defective? How do you feel?” Hank asks as he pets aggressively between Sumo’s ears.

“I…I-…I don’t know. I’m not even sure I know how or what to feel,” Connor answers. Hank’s expression barely changes, but Connor can see him clench his jaw and furrow his brows. “That is,” he continues, “I’m not sure what the human equivalent could ever be, which makes this hard to explain. However, if I had to answer…”

Connor trails off, raising a hand to his chest and truly sensing the turmoil stirring in his body. Aside from the virus, something had been changing within him lately; something new outside of his expected adaptations. It was different…but also something innate that may have always been there. If he didn’t know any better, he’d maybe even think it were something…

Alive?

He shakes his head and coughs lightly against a freed fist.

“I feel…unlike myself. I feel bad. I feel-…unwell,” he confesses, “but-“

The Android smiles a little in spite of himself, relaxing his shoulders and easing into his seat. “I don’t know why…but saying that out loud…I feel better. Better than I’ve been all day.”

Hank grins behind his glass, sipping in satisfaction before letting slip a hiss of pleasure. “Good. And for the record, feeling bad? That’s kinda what being sick is,” Hank nods. “Pretty damn unpleasant, but to be fair, so is being alive.”

That earns him a cheeky little giggle from the pestering Android across the table; one that Hank himself can’t help but return.

“You’ll be okay, though. Hell, you are okay; just feeling-,” he waves his hand, “-unwell.”

“hpTSHH’iew!”

“And-“

“hTDSHHh! ehSCH’hui!”

“…Sneezy,” Hank teases over Connor’s millionth “excuse me” that evening.

“Sorry,” Connor apologizes.

“Bless you. And you don’t have to keep saying that.”

Connor giggles a bit, blinking at Hank as he swipes at his nose.

“Well you don’t have to keep saying that, either.”

“Alright, alright you smartass,” Hank teases, grin stretching. It was good to see Connor being playful again. “But seriously, next time this happens, just be honest with me okay? Don’t need you pushing your processors or whatever it is you have. And uh-,” he pauses, sheepishly tracing the rim of his glass with his pinky, “-I’ll be more attentive to how you’re doing; like, what’s going on with you.”

Connor’s smile grows wider, more genuine. “Of course Lieutenant,” he accepts willfully, sniffling and pawing at his nose again. “And once I am well, I will go right back to doing my best. You have my word, Hank.”

Hank grins from across the table, then, rising to his feet, he walks over to Connor and anchors his hand to his shoulder, where he massages the area in circular strokes. Connor’s LED is stuck on yellow again, and his body felt renewed with that same warmth from earlier.

“You never stopped, kid. Now,” Hank starts out of the kitchen and heads towards his bedroom with Sumo tailing at his side. “I’ll handle the report to CyberLife and return you back to the station tomorrow. For tonight, your last task is taking care of yourself and recharging on the couch. Trust me, nothing beats lying on the couch when you’re sick.”

Connor means to protest, but Hank is a step ahead of him, already interrupting him by flinging a corded charger in his direction. Connor catches the outdated device in both his hands, and when he meets Hank’s parting glance back, he swears he catches a contagious light in the old Lieutenant’s smile.

Home repeats in his head, and returns a smile to his face.

“Alright, Hank. Whatever you say.”

[sherbet-shivers]

Introduction

Hi friends! You can call me Sherbet/Sherbie (25yo, she/her). I write sick!fics (fan and OC) that’re mainly snz-centered or oriented. **Due to the nature of my content, I ask that none of my fics be shared to minor or non-snz/whump k!nk blogs!!!**

I’ll be pinning this post so anyone can feel free to refer to the following section (below the cut) where I detail more about myself and my writing preferences! I’ll also include a fic master-list at the bottom there. Otherwise, thanks for quickly stopping by! I finally have the nerve to share my stuff with the community, so I hope you guys can find something you enjoy! <3

A few personal notes:

I’ve never actually posted to tumblr regularly before (this is my first time sharing fics in general), so please be patient as I learn the ropes! Feedback or formatting advice are always welcome and appreciated!!

I respectfully ask that minors dni with my page, please!! This is a k!nk blog and I do write explicit content sometimes.

I'm a BIG rpg gaming and anime fan (who dabbles in live action series on rare occasions)! Most of my fics feature my favorite characters and series atm. Watch and game recommendations are invited!

I’m EXTREMELY private, thus I’d prefer not to share any PID or other information I haven’t already posted/included in my bio. Messages are welcome, but please be respectful!

This is NOT my main page! So while I won’t be able to like posts, I can follow and reblog! Hopefully this suffices so that I can spread and celebrate the wonderful talents you guys have <3

Fic-relevant notes:

I include: a quick summary (blurb), estimated word count, a feat. character list, and TWs at the start of ALL my fics. Please check them out prior to reading anything of mine in case there’s something icky you don’t vibe with. If you feel like a TW or tag is needed that’s not already there, just dm me!! Smart reading is safe reading <3

Things I write: I typically favor M allergies, but do write F/NB characters, colds, and fevers too (equal snz rights bc snz is snz)! I eat up hurt/comfort, so whump and very minor injury are often applicable to my stories. Again, keep an eye out for the TWs if you have concerns!

Things I DON’T write: I’m NOT an emeto person at all (I’m phobic IRL), but personally won’t turn away if it’s mentioned in a fic. You’ll never see a full fic from me where emeto is central to the story, but it could be mentioned (check TWs to be safe). I am also NOT into writing about real people or making furry content (sorry)! I’m self-conscious about writing OOC, so I don’t typically write characters from series I haven’t seen or am at least vaguely familiar with.

Since I’ve never published my writing before, I have never taken requests, but I do love the thought of receiving recommendations, so feel free to reach out via dm or ask if you have a fic idea! I’d love to give it a try, just please be patient with me!

Fic Masterlist (Title // Fandom // Character(s) // Length // + Hyperlinks):

A Minor Malfunction (D:BH, Co/nnor R/K800 (M), ~12k words total) -> Parts One, Two and Three

Thanks again for checking out my blog guys! Many a snz to all!! <3