#riptide writes 🌊

[nevadancitizen]

-> THE BURDEN OF TOMORROW

synopsis: kamski reveals the one thing you know to be true as a lie: your humanity. connor can’t rightly sit idly by as you struggle to re-find yourself.

word count: 4.2k

ships: connor x reader, hank anderson & reader

notes: i’m skipping from fandom to fandom like i’m fucking window shopping huh. anyway connor the pinerrrr. connor the ultimate denier of feelingssssss

related reading: HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

You had been against the idea from the beginning. In your head, you traced the different ways Kamski would turn you, Hank, and Connor down – “I’m too busy to answer some stupid questions,” or “Go away, I’m trying to enjoy being a retired billionaire,” or “I’m Elijah fucking Kamski, and who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

But his android, Chloe, had welcomed all of you. And you couldn’t ignore how Kamski’s face brightened ever-so-slightly when he saw Connor. But it confused you even more when his eyes flitted to you and his expression brightened even more.

He started talking after he got out of his red-granite-lined pool, which didn’t really interest you. Your eyes turn to one of the Chloes that’s standing off to the side, her eyelids fluttering a little as she presumably scans you. When she’s done, her lips tilt upward in a smile and her head cocks to the side a little. It’s like… she knows you, or something. Like she was smiling because she saw an old friend.

Kamski’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Chloe?”

Chloe immediately walks over to Kamski, her bare feet making soft sounds against the tile, then muffled by the carpet. She sinks to her knees when he puts a hand on her shoulder and pushes slightly. 

“What interests me…” Kamski moves so he’s standing next to where Chloe’s kneeling. “… is whether machines are capable of empathy.”

He moves so his back is turned on all three of you, and opens a drawer of a side table near the window. “I call it the “Kamski Test.” It’s very simple, you’ll see.”

Kamski turns with his hands raised. One of them is holding a pistol by the barrel, in a way that it would be impossible to fire. Once he’s established that he’s not a threat, he moves forward and places the grip in Connor’s hand. Connor curls his fingers around it on instinct, his index on the trigger.

“What are you doing?” You interject.

Kamski looks over at you and smiles. It’s like you’re proving something to him. What you’re proving, you don’t know. 

He moves Connor’s arm so that the sights of the gun are trained on Chloe’s head. “It’s up to you to answer that fascinating question, Connor. Destroy this machine, and I’ll tell you all I know. Or…”

Kamski makes a half-circle and stands beside Connor. “Spare it, if you feel it’s alive. But you’ll leave without having learnt anything from me.”

Hank scoffs and rolls his eyes, gently hitting your arm with an air of can you believe this fucking prick? “Okay, I think we’re done here. C’mon, let’s go, both of you. Sorry to get you outta your pool.”

You put your hand on Hank’s arm to still him and stare at Connor. His LED flickers between yellow and red, circling in on itself quickly as he stares down at Chloe. His eyelids flutter slightly as he tries to process everything around him, calculating and sorting every possibility into neat percentages.

“Connor?” You say softly, trying to break him from his trance. “Connor, come on. This is a waste of time – you don’t need to do this. It could mess with your…” you gesture at your forehead vaguely. “… microprocessors or whatever.”

Kamski exhales slightly and smiles. He takes the pistol by the barrel, gently taking it from Connor’s hand. Connor looks at Kamski, then back down at Chloe.

“Amazing,” Kamski breathes out.

“Yeah, amazing, I care about Connor.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s go.”

Connor catches your eye and nods. “I would’ve been okay. Shooting the android wouldn’t have impacted my microprocessors or any of my other biocomponents.”

“The kid’s just worried,” Hank cuts in. “Now, c’mon. We’re leaving.”

“Wait – one last thing.” Kamski brushes past, walking to the far wall. He presses his hand to a biometric scanner on the wall, causing it to let out a sound akin to a hiss as it opens. It creases vertically, then folds back. 

You let out a small sound of disbelief as you take in what Kamski revealed. Lining the walls of the hidden compartment is… information, yes, but not information about deviants. It’s information about you. 

Photos of you as a child, teenager, adult, and projections of what you’d look like as you aged. Reports on how you’ve been performing as a detective. Maps of interrelationships, circles labeled with names and a web of color-coded lines connecting them.

And, on the back wall, are blueprints. You’ve seen these types of schematics before – they’re for androids. 

Kamski turns and smiles when he sees your shocked face. “So it worked. You firmly believed you were human. Am I wrong, Detective?”

You feel a hand on the top of your back, and only barely register Hank shuffling you towards the exit as you stumble. “This is fucked. I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull, Kamski, but we’re out.”

“N-no, Hank, wait –” You dig your heels in, never once looking away from the hidden compartment. “Wait, Kamski, what is this?”

“Just an experiment.” Kamski follows your eyes and looks inside. “A personal pet project.”

“They’re not your goddamn passion project!” Hank snaps, ushering you along with a bit more force. “Now leave the kid alone.”

“Hank, please, I want to see –” You crane your neck, still trying to look. 

“This is damaging to your psyche,” Connor says, taking your arm and helping Hank herd you. “I – we need you operating at full capacity, for the sake of the case.”

“There it is, again!” Kamski laughs. “That beautiful thing, empathy.”

He walks into the room leisurely, like it’s a parlor instead of… whatever it is. “I don’t blame you for being curious. You’re a violent and irrepressible miracle, Detective.”

You struggle against Connor and Hank’s holds as you try to see more of the secret room. “Wh-what do you mean? Hank, let me see! I need to know what’s going on!”

You grab Hank’s arm with your free hand, tugging on his coat. “Hank, I promise I’ll be okay – just five minutes. All I need is five minutes! Please, let me do this. I just need to figure out what this is, then we can go. Just five minutes.”

Hank’s mouth curls into a scowl when he hears the emotion and pleading in your voice, his eyebrows furrowing as he thinks. His eyes fall to the floor, then flick to Connor.

“I highly advise against that,” Connor says evenly, but his worry is betrayed by the way his jaw clenches. His fingers tighten around your upper arm. “Not only will this definitely cause irreversible psychological damage, it could possibly lead to a mental break.”

“Five minutes, Connor.” You look into his eyes. “How much damage can five minutes do?”

“A lot!” Connor says. But after a moment of eye contact, his eyes soften and he relents. He lets go of your arm and takes a step back, his shoes clicking against the tile.

Hank does the same, removing his hand from your back. He sighs and crosses his arms. “Five minutes, kid. That’s all you get.”

You immediately turn on your heel and rush into the room because, knowing Connor, he’d probably set an internal timer already. You hear both Hank and Connor follow you, standing at the edge of the doorway.

You scan the room, then pick out what to look at and what to question Kamski about. 

“This.” You point at a small tablet, showing a muted video of you dancing drunkenly at a crowded party. You’re wearing a hideous necktie like a headband and you get your face right in the camera as soon as you spot it. You can make out the words you’re saying – or, rather, yelling – “What’re you waiting for, man? Let’s party with Miss Page-Three all the way to Disco Ze-e-e-ero-o-o-o!”

You turn to Kamski. “What is this? Why do you have it?”

“Every person moves in a unique way,” Kamski says, shrugging slightly. “Androids already have a specific set of movements. I analyzed the way you moved – the way a human moved.”

“Moved?” You echo back. “What do you mean, moved? Don’t you mean move? Like, the present continuous verb?”

“I didn’t misspeak.” Kamski turns to a paper organizer on a desk and starts to flip through it. 

You exchange a glance with Hank, then Connor. Hank is more obvious with his unease, but you can tell Connor is fretting, too. He just keeps it in his mind, still silently calculating.

Kamski pulls out a manila folder and hands it to you. You turn it over and read what’s on the front. Typed out in neat Courier New is your name, your birth date, and a random date from a few years back – Feb. 21, 2034.

You undo the clasp and dump out the documents on a nearby desk. What’s inside only causes further confusion – there’s a photocopy of a will, a death certificate, an incident report, and photos of a car crash. The death certificate is… it’s yours, but it can’t be. Can it?

You pick up one of the pictures and hold it close to your face. The car is a mangled mess of metal, lit by red and blue police lights. Peeking out from underneath the rubble, limp on the concrete, is a hand. Your hand. And it’s stained with fresh, wet blood.

“Connor.” Your voice comes out weak and strained. You can’t lift your eyes from the photo. “Connor, get over here.”

Connor’s footsteps sound, quick and almost rushed. “Yes, Detective?”

“Scan this.” Your hand shakes as you hold the photo out to Connor. “I-is this…?”

Is this real? You want to ask. Please tell me it’s not, Connor. Connor, please-please-please tell me this is some stupid joke. I’m not afraid of dying, but what if I already have?

Connor leans down a little, his eyelids and LED flickering as he scans it. His face falls as soon as his LED resumes circling normally. “It’s… yes. I found a document containing that picture, but I… I’m not permitted to access it.”

“Okay, but that’s just s-some random wreck, right?” You laugh nervously, trying to ignore the lump growing in your throat. Can androids even cry? “It – it’s not me.”

Connor reaches down and sorts through the documents. When he comes across the death certificate, he freezes. His eyelids flutter as he scans it. He looks over at you, slowly. 

“No,” you whisper. “Connor, it… it can’t be real.”

“It is,” Connor says softly. “Detective, I… I’m so sorry.”

And, just like that, you’re disconnected. You’re outside of your body, stuck in the passenger seat and controlling a video game. There’s a lag to every movement you make. You recall some term you heard in a college psychology course you were required to take – disassociation. You vaguely register that this is what you’re feeling. 

With more effort than it should take, you turn to look at Hank. His expression, shocked and appalled, causes the dam to burst. Your shoulders shake as you cry, hot with misplaced shame. 

Connor wraps an arm around your shoulder, gently pushing you out of the room and towards the exit. Hank pats his shoulder, telling him to “Get them to the car – I’ve got a few choice words I need to exchange with our friend here.”

The car ride was tense, and that atmosphere transferred into Hank’s home. He had asked on the way back if you were okay being by yourself, and you were honest and told him that no, you’re not. He had sat you down and assured you that he wasn’t mad, he didn’t feel betrayed – he just needed time to think and adjust to this new change. 

He had turned in an hour ago, just a little past three in the morning. You know you couldn’t sleep if you tried. That left you and Connor in Hank’s living room. 

You’re laying on the floor with Sumo, his head on your chest and drool staining your shirt. One of your arms is propped behind your head, your other hand absentmindedly combing through Sumo’s fur. 

The silence is only broken by the ceiling fan clicking with every rotation and your breathing – artificial breathing, you suppose.

“Did you go into standby?” You ask softly. 

“No,” Connor answers from his seat on the couch. “Would you like to talk?”

“Maybe.” You trace the pattern of Sumo’s fur, then look over at Connor. “It’s just… I don’t feel like an android. And I have lots of memories. I remember going to Chicken Feed with Hank for the first time. He got me the best goddamn burger in Detroit. I remember finding a Lucky Star bottlecap when I was a kid – the, uh… the ones from that one sarsaparilla? With the blue star on the bottom. Androids don’t have memories like that. Memories from their childhood. Memories that make them feel things.”

Connor stands from the couch, then sits by your side. He puts his hand on Sumo’s head, gently tracing the white streak that cuts through brown fur. The fan continues to click as Connor thinks for a few moments, LED swirling as he does.

“I feel things, sometimes,” he says softly. “But not like how a deviant feels. I have a built-in reward system meant to keep me motivated. But sometimes I’m rewarded even when I do something unrelated to the case.”

“Like what?” You smile up at him. “Petting Sumo?”

Connor smiles softly, glancing away, then back to you. “Yes.”

You laugh softly, your eyes staying on Connor’s face, tracing this new expression. He doesn’t smile a lot, but you’re grateful for every second that he does. 

His brow creases a little, his smile disappearing. “Are you feeling alright? I want to know if you’re… I know this revelation has affected you negatively, but I just want to know of your general mental state.”

You sigh quietly, looking up and following one blade of the fan as it rotates. “I mean, I thought I had it all figured out, y’know? There’s a giant ball, and there’s evil apes. And the evil apes are just… dukin’ it out on the ball. And I’m one of them. It’s basically all just evil apes dukin’ it out on this giant ball.”

Connor tilts his head to the side. “And in this scenario… what are androids?”

“Androids don’t exist in this scenario,” you say. “Androids are too perfect. Like fine porcelain china. They’re for the future. I figured this out when I was young, before androids were everywhere. When there was just a giant ball and evil apes.”

“Hm.” Connor shifts slightly, so that his thigh is just barely pressed against your side. “And what do you feel now?”

“I… I don’t know.” You sigh. “I feel… kinda guilty, I think? Because, yeah, it’s bad. This doesn’t have any upside to it. But it’s not bad for anyone else aside from me, and Hank, to a lesser degree. It’s not death, or war, or – god forbid, pedophilia. It’s just me.”

You go quiet as you watch the fan rotate. Your fingers find the tags on Sumo’s collar, the tag with his name and Hank’s address and number clinking against his rabies vaccination tag.

“Humans are complicated,” Connor eventually says. 

You snort. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I…” he sighs. “I know you didn’t mean to deceive me. But I can’t believe I didn’t know – or at least have an inkling.”

“Shit, I deceived myself.” You laugh humorlessly. “You’re okay, Connor. You don’t need to change to accommodate me.”

“Adaptability to unpredictable human behavior is one of my core features,” he says.

“Am I really unpredictable?” You ask. Your eyebrows furrow as you fidget with Sumo’s tags. “Or, actually – am I really even human?”

Connor’s LED flashes yellow as he looks down at you, his eyelids fluttering as he scans you. He blinks a few times and his LED returns to a calm blue. 

“You’ve fooled my sensors,” Connor says. “And, if I may…”

His hand hovers over yours, which is still fidgeting with Sumo’s tags. You nod as you feel your heart skip a beat. He grabs your hand and lifts it to his solar plexus, right in the middle of his chest. 

“Do you feel that?” Connor asks. “It’s my thirium pump. Biocomponent #8456w.”

Sure enough, you feel a soft thrumming beneath your fingers. It’s not quite like a heartbeat, but a steady hum that fluctuates. Strong, then a steady decline to weak, then back to its strongest. 

You nod again, not trusting your voice at the moment. 

Connor moves your hand so that it’s resting on your own chest, right over your heart. You don’t really make an effort to check your heartbeat but, just like the last time you remember checking, there’s a steady beat. 

“You have a heart,” he says. 

“An artificial one,” you chime.

“Yes,” Connor relents. “But it proves that you’re not like me. Not a full android.”

“For all I know, Kamski cobbled me together in his creepy basement,” you try to joke. “Do you think he has one? Or is he too rich?”

“Detroit is located alongside a river,” Connor says. “The soil contains too much water for basement construction to be feasible.”

You roll your head a little, looking up at him. “You’re too literal. Don’t you have a humor microchip or something?”

Connor smiles slightly. “Unfortunately, no.” 

“Yes, you do!” You laugh and turn your hand over, grabbing his and shaking it gently. “You’re smiling. And you made a joke. A kind-of joke.”

Connor’s smile falters when he looks down at your connected hands. It’s not like you’ve laced fingers with him or anything, but it was still kind of intimate.

You clear your throat and let his hand go, instead carding your fingers through Sumo’s fur again. You can feel a blush creeping across your face. Once more, the room is only filled with the clicking of the fan with every rotation and your breathing. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you eventually sigh out. “I wish I could just wake up and start the day over. But then I open my eyes and the time has still passed and I’m still here. I still have to go through… whatever this is.”

“You don’t have to go through it alone,” Connor says. “Hank would never abandon you, and…” His LED flickers yellow. “Neither would I.”

“You’re weird,” you say softly. “You’re weird for that.”

Connor nods, slowly. “Maybe. But you’re vital to this case, whether you believe it or not.”

“I do,” you say. “Kinda. I just need time. I can see the end, which is whole acceptance, or just not caring. I mean, all the pieces aren’t here, I still need to find them, but still. I get all the pieces, somehow, something else, walla-walla-bing-bang – my android-ness doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“Walla-walla-bing-bang?” Connor echoes, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“I don’t know what it means.” Your eyes flicker to his and you smile at his confusion. “I think I heard it somewhere once. It just felt like the most appropriate thing to say.”

Connor’s face softens and he mirrors your smile. “That does seem like an appropriate thing to say, yes.”

You keep looking up at him for a moment, just looking into his brown doe eyes. You swallow thickly as your thoughts race. There’s a sudden lump in your throat that you try your best to ignore and clear away.

“Connor, I…” You reach for his hand. He meets you halfway, gently holding your hand and resting his thumb on your knuckles. 

“Am I a deviant?”

Are you going to turn me in? You want to ask. Please don’t. Please, Connor. I need you to trust me, just like you’ve trusted me before. I’ll be vigilant. I’ll figure this out. I promise. Please.

“No.” There’s no hesitation or doubt in his voice. “As far as I’ve figured out, you’re designed to act like a human. You’re meant to fool others into thinking you’re really human – because that’s what you were, before. Deviants are androids with mutations in their code. Your code is meant to mimic human emotions and rationale. So you’re just following your instructions.”

“Instructions.” You look down at your joined hands. You shake them a little as your lips draw into a thin line. “That’s what we both come down to, right? Instructions.”

“You…” Connor thinks for a moment. “Yes. But the instructions in you are nuanced, and sometimes contradictory. I’m not calling your code faulty – in fact, it rather reflects human behavior to a tee.”

“So I’m… at least a little human.” You close your eyes, resting your head on your arm that’s propped behind your head. “Human enough.”

“Human enough?” Connor echoes.

“Yeah. My lungs burn when I hold my breath too long. It hurts when I stub my toe and I feel electric when I hit my funny bone. I cry and my tears taste salty instead of tasting like… I don’t know, cleaning fluid.” You open your eyes and look up at Connor, as if asking him to confirm.

“Androids do have optic cleaning fluids, yes,” he says.

You smile and laugh lightly, your gaze returning to the fan blade. “Optic fuckin’ cleaning fluids…”

You sigh softly. “God, Hank was right. This is fucked. An android investigating androids and some… cheap copy of whoever I used to be. And, of course, a Lieutenant who’s slowly killing himself day-by-day.”

“You’re not a cheap copy,” he says. “Typical CyberLife androids cost nine thousand dollars, but custom models could cost more. Personally, my development and production costs total to just over four million, and every new RK800 model costs eight thousand.”

Connor soothes his thumb over your knuckles. “You must’ve cost Kamski a fortune.”

His words immediately go to your heart like you’ve been pierced by a scorpion’s tail. But instead of venom, it’s an injection of sweet feelings and erratic butterflies. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that his whispered words and damn-near reverent tone was intentional. 

“That’s… that sounds kinda romantic,” you say, then remember yourself. “I – I mean, romantic as in, like, the Romantic era? Like, it’s a romantic idea. That Kamski loves his work so much that he couldn’t bear to stop and continued to push the envelope… even if he pushed it a bit too far, with an android replacing a real-life, actually-dead human and whatnot.”

Connor’s LED blinks as he thinks. He stays silent for a while, just looking down at his hand that’s holding yours and thinking.

“You’re starting to act like me, y’know?” You squeeze his hand. “A synthetic human instead of a true android.”

His LED stops flickering and he meets your eyes. “I am not a deviant. I have a rigorous self-testing system to make sure any signs of deviancy don’t go undetected.”

“Okay, okay,” you relent. You glance down to your conjoined hands, then back up into those doe eyes. 

“Did you mean it?” You ask softly. “Earlier. When you said that you’d stay.”

“Of course,” Connor answers quickly. 

“Really?” Your eyebrows crease. “Because it’ll take years. It’ll be depressing. And it’ll be boring. I’ll be worse than Hank. I don’t expect you to reward me or to applaud my every move, because I know that’s how normal people are all the time.”

“But you’re not normal,” Connor says with a smile. “Even before your entire identity was uprooted.”

“Connor!” You laugh and let go of his hand to swat at him, then grasp his hand again. “Alright, alright. I’ll get a bit of the Normal in me. A touch of the Regular. Exactly four grams of Johnny Normalcop.”

“Don’t.” He squeezes your hand. “It would be detrimental to the case if you were to focus on restructuring yourself in a different way. You don’t need to sanitize your personality.”

You smile up at Connor. “So you like me.”

His LED flickers yellow, then returns to blue. “Yes. I enjoy working alongside you as you are. You don’t need to be any amount of Johnny Normalcop.”

You shake your joined hands gently, your smile growing so wide you’re sure you looked a bit stupid. “You’re sweet. You know that?”

“I am somewhat aware.” Connor brings his free hand up to rest on top of your connected hands. 

And, just like that, you know everything would be alright. Nothing would ever be the same, yes, but it would be alright. It won’t be easy, but you just need to move on. Uncertainty is a core tenet of detective work.

When life closes a door, it opens a window. And if the fall is too steep, use the fire exit. Run to the roof, because Connor will be there when you jump to break your fall. The most important thing is to keep moving. Keep dreaming. CyberLife can’t reclaim their lost property if you keep running – very, very fast, from one Earth-shattering revelation to the next. 

[incoure-art]

Gillion gets hurt a lot, and badly. He gets hurt so much that Jay and Chip can see the spatter of scars pressed into his ever-damp skin every time his armor shifted from his biceps.

There are a couple moments, vulnerable moments between big events, where Gillion takes his armor off slowly, piece by piece, and they see the picture fully. Chip could remember touching that patchwork mess of scars once, just barely, below the spot his gills meet the fins across his back, enough to feel the smooth skin turned rough with imperfectly healed wounds.

Gillion had flinched away from the touch, but then settled into it with a breathy apology. Chip hadn’t known why he was the one being apologized to.

Gillion always felt the need to make himself the one who shouldered the world; the blame, the cold steel of a sword aimed against the whole trio, anything and everything he could keep from his co-captains and take into his own torn and mended flesh.

Jay remembered long nights, sitting beside Gillion’s barrel, begging the water not to color with blood from rebroken wounds. She wasn’t sure he even knew, she was quiet enough that she never even noticed him stir from his sleep when she was watching.

She’d told him that he should spend the night after big injuries in a bed, just so they could keep a better eye on him. In case something went wrong, went unsaid. He’d shrugged her off, saying something about the healing properties of sea water, and that was that.

They could both name dozens of accounts of seeing him crumble under blows so heavy they could kill anyone else outright. They knew the color of his blood better than their own, that royal purple tone, somewhere in between their own and the ocean. They knew the aching fear of loss, the twist of panic whenever Gillion’s breath skipped a second after an injury. They knew Gillion Tidestrider, and all the pain he had endured to protect the rest of the world.

Somewhere between red, and blue. Somewhere between land, and sea.

[tigers1o1]

OUGH it’s the way Chip and Gillion’s characters, and their relationship to each other, are sOOOO easy to turn into a TRAGEDY akin to those of Ancient Greece

They’re so “it was never supposed to work out, and it never will, but I’ll hold on as long as possible” coded

[notseaweedbrain]

OK so I know that I’ve shit on both adaptations of the PJO books (cry about it) but I will tell you this… I do it out of love for the series!

This book series literally saved my life. I’m not joking at all. (TW: self-harm mentioned) I promised my therapist that instead of ending my life early… I would read just one more chapter of Percy Jackson. No joke. I still do it to this day.

Excuse me for being extremely passionate about this series so much that I can take the “Rick Riordan hype-train”™️ blinders off and ultimately critique it.

I saw that the show was renewed for a second season. I won’t be watching it. Riordan promised a book accurate adaptation of the series and he ultimately lied to the fanbase. The man was so adamant about it being different from the movies that he forgot what was actually supposed to go on screen.

Every time I think of those books, I think of my happy place, my home.

I tuned into the first episode in a bright orange camp half blood shirt, blue cookies and pizza, (as Percy would) and my room completely decked out in blue lights. I felt safe. I felt like I was going to the one place I felt understood. I had hope for it let me make that clear. I didn’t want to hate it.

I walked away from the first episode, fairly excited about what was to come. I was happy. I re-watched it multiple times. It felt really faithful. I found myself every week after that feeling like I was being killed inside.

I will forever love the books. Every time I travel I bring at least one of the original five with me everywhere I go. I am a passionate fan. I have a Greek mythology tattoo sleeve and Riptide resides all the way down my arm.

Once again, I reiterate, that the Percy Jackson books saved my life and continue to do so. I will always thank Riordan for writing the originals.

There’s my story and my one original post a month

🫶🔱🌊

[thisapplepielife]

Written for a @astrangersummer.

Sink Back Into the Ocean

Week #8 Prompt: Ocean Waves | Word Count: 228 | Rating: T | POV: Billy | Characters: Billy | Pairings: None | CW: S3 Finale | Tags: Canon Compliant, Set During The Battle of Starcourt

He hears fireworks. Sees them, behind his eyes. Smells gunpowder, feels the heat. Senses the inhuman power crawling beneath his skin, tangled along every nerve, pulsing, keeping him under its thumb. 

He's caught in a riptide unlike any other he's ever experienced. 

But beyond that, lapping at the edges, is the ocean. Cool, blue, and reaching far beyond what the eye can see.

The summer breeze, the smell of salt, the grit of sand under his small, bare feet. 

The water, his surfboard, gliding across the ocean. 

Waves, seven feet tall. 

And he's little, and she's still here. Smiling, beautiful. 

There's a hand on his face, and it's not his mother's, but if he closes his eyes, he can pretend. He can let the tears fall, can let them rejoin the salty water flowing endlessly beneath his feet. 

He can run along the surf, can catch a wave, can soak up the warm, summer sun. 

He's back in California. Before.

It's all there, just beneath the surface, lapping at his mind in waves, crashing over him, engulfing him after spending so long buried deep.

He feels love, remembers being loved.

And he has only one thing left to do now, and that's to be the wave that he is, and sink back into the ocean. 

He hears fireworks, seagulls, and his mother calling him home.

And Billy stands.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @astrangersummer and follow along with the fun! 🌊

Notes: I've been obsessed with Container by Fiona Apple since the moment I heard it. I've always wanted to write something for it, to it, about it. It's not a full song, so it's fitting that this isn't a full fic. It's not on Spotify or anything, but you can hear it on YouTube as the theme to The Affair.

[sneeg-snag]

What-is-lore-ranboo-dont-hurt-me -->sneeg-snags

Rip to the funny url :pensive:

Hi! im Roswell, they/them, he/him, end/enders pronouns, and I main JRWI riptide w some dsmp and FNAF: Security breach stuff here and there. Minor so please don't be weird! 

Artists can stay. 

🌊 Current favorites are Chip, Gillion, GR!Freddy, Roxanne, Sneegsnag and Ranboo!

🌊 Reblog spam is encouraged!!! (make sure to reblog and not just like though, it helps circulate things you like!) 

🌊 I have a lot of fics, my best are Tusks and Sleep but you can read the rest on ao3 here!!! the tag for writing that is just on tumblr is #my writing, and art is #my art. My talking tag is #ros talks, and im a bit critical of kinoko kingdom sometimes, so I use #kinoko critical for any posts i make/reblog! 

🌊 Come join my JRWI Riptide based discord server! Its really cool and has a lot of cool people, feel free to DM me for the links or look through my blog, but this one shouldnt expire!

🌊 Feel free to always send asks and/or dm me!!! im always open to talk and chat! I want this to be a safe blog without any politics/discorse/distressing events, so feel free to chill here.  

If you ship any minor/cc who has said theyre not okay with it, please dont follow/unfollow and block me. I do not want any of that touching this. It is an extreme overstep of boundries and wont be tolerated here. 

🌊 Also! if you are a cc who i seem to post about in any amount, please for my sanity don't follow me. I love the stuff you create, but I post silly stuff here. i don't know if i could handle ccs seeing my thoughts.

🌊 Also, if you follow me and you dont have mcyt stuff on your dash or any other fandom im in / have been in and you appear to be an adult, or have no info i can immediatly accsess, I’m not comfortable with that as a minor and might block you. Its because I can’t tell if your a bot or following me for unsavory reasons and i’d rather not run a risk. 

🌊 Remeber, drink water, get some rest, unclench your jaw, and that you are loved. 

[deposit24k]

Forever in my mind sailing ⛵️ through the waves currents riptides 🌊 fly high 🕊 lil bro channel spirits n spread these messages in divine time keep your spirit alive through my life writing stories data kept in mind that articulate this matrix’s design cast tidal waves that open up the mind give blind eyes insight pointing spotlights amongst the moonlight glow vibrant signs that glisten in the midnight sky shimmering silver stars of glitter…we all started blind til we take a moment to peep inside this mind god designed counting blessings puffin clouds of chronic loud holding grip tight this 9mm hellcat stay ready spitten hollows out from by my side sounding off when threats come to life Real eyes Realize Real Lies was reminiscing about the old days when life was simple and care free without worries… never will I forget the memories and bonds created along the way of this journey… miss the goon squad every day God Descended kings started from a dreams vision boutta turn into reality…remember younger days running round finding trouble like it was yesterday caught between the motions… enjoy it while it last they say because I didn’t believe them at first when they said as the age digits climb high the years pass on by and when you blink It runs laps before your eyes stay tuned with these Melodic vibrations that sound a harmonic hum of drums background chimes with tracks cooking heat starting fires & make ripples cast spells that waves my wings catching drift up in the sky wind gusting at the back ship sails I’m floating out my mind wish me well no kiss n tell we wish them well… had to create a slice of heaven while living rooted in the darkness casted amongst the hungry sharks learn to appreciate the simple things when looking out the window of this ride we call life got a long drive ahead… brings comfort knowing you can rest u shed some light in the dark shaded areas of my life as you do for many other humans lives 🌎 🌙 💫 ⏰ 🌌🍄💊🌊🚀🛸 247 well hit you back in a sec. 47 baby nips JW Never forgotten baby brotha I’ll see you all there on the other side when I earn my wings & stripes until then I’ll count up these blessings kick back & watch as the stars align https://www.instagram.com/p/CZEr--RL-EdB4NgdjEtJ0wN2kdlZARBr_fu1Vg0/?utm_medium=tumblr

[nevadancitizen]

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

synopsis: The Soviet Union has been producing robots for a long time based on a miracle compound: polymer. But that was invented in 1941. The current year is 2038, and, due to rising tensions in the Arctic, Americans aren't as kind to Soviets as they once were. It's too bad you're a russki, and it's really too bad that you work in cybersecurity. And honestly, with the case Fowler has put you on, you're at risk of losing your job. It doesn't help that you're stuck with Lieutenant Hank Anderson and some new android apparently called Connor.

A Detroit: Become Human AU with elements from Atomic Heart (2023), in which the international political climate is a bit different and more prominent within the story. The Soviet Union still exists, and she's threatening America by proxy of her invasion of the Arctic.

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

tags: Robot/Human Relationships, Action/Adventure, Action & Romance, Slow Burn, Fluff, Canon-Typical Violence, Gender-neutral Reader, Mutual Pining, Minor Character Death

small note: this fic has russian in it (i mean, obviously). i'll be posting the translations in the comments of the fics, so if you're confused, be sure to check them :)

note, continued: also, the reader in this fic is gender neutral. please do not refer to them with feminine or masculine pronouns. instead, please address them by they/them pronouns. this fic is all-inclusive and not meant to alienate anyone -- it's meant to be written so that everyone can read, no matter their personal pronouns!

CH. 1: A Silent Dog & Still Waters

CH. 2: Like a Mouse in a House Full of Cats

CH. 3: Android Autopsy (Or is it Necropsy?)

CH. 4: Without Torture, There is no Camaraderie

CH. 5: Live For a Century, Learn For a Century

CH. 6: Some Sort of Sick, Self-Inflicted Schadenfreude

CH. 7: Does Every Rabid Dog Get its Tail Docked up to the Ears?

CH. 8: Mind Palaces & Other Shattered Crystalline Dreams

CH. 9: If You Chop From the Shoulder, the Ax Will Find Your Hip

CH. 10: Either Fickle or a Friend (Or a Really Fucking Fickle Friend)

CH. 11: Only Philosophy From the Poor Rings True

CH. 12: Friends & Tobacco are Separate Things (& so are Revolutions)

CH. 13: The Joys of Soviet Technologies (or, Good, Honest Snake Oil – if There is Such a Thing!) (or, Let's Talk Homecoming (the Military Operation, not Prom)) (or, The Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns) (or, Wake up & Smell the Ashes)

CH. 14: No Misfortune is Without Blessing

CH. 15: These are the Moments

EPILOGUE: <currently being written...>

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 1: SOMEWHERE (FAR, FAR) EAST OF THE MOJAVE

synopsis: you wake up in some cabin, half-frozen to death. a man named arthur finds you and decides to have mercy on you, as do his associates.

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: if anyone wants me to start a taglist just lmk <3!! also there's a PROLOGUE before this, please read it before reading this :)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s cold. Above everything else, it’s fucking cold. 

You screw your eyes shut tighter, curling in on yourself. You’re vaguely aware that you’re on your side and in a fetal position. 

There’s a light, faintly, somewhere behind you. You let out a hiss that tapers off into a groan and draw your arms over your head.

“Hey!” A voice shouts. It’s growly and abrasive-sounding. There’s the sound of a revolver’s hammer cocking. “Turn around. Face me.”

You prop your forearm on the floor and push yourself up with more effort than you think would be needed. You pant softly, and your breath mists in front of your mouth. You manage to hold yourself up with both hands on the floor and turn your head to look at the man. 

He’s tall in a way that makes him look down his nose at you. His silhouette is stark against the door – there’s snow outside. You don’t remember it to be… snowing. It’s May in southern California. It doesn’t snow in May in southern California.

The man looks you over, his revolver still pointed at you. His hand is unwavering.

“I’m sorry,” you say. You don’t know why. “Is this your house?”

“No,” the man says simply. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I’m…” You look down at your hands, the way they’re braced against the floor. “I don’t know. I think…” 

Your arms shake, then collapse. Your jaw hits the floor with a dull thud, and your eyes screw shut on instinct.

“Shit,” the man drawls under his breath. 

“W-wait! Wait,” you say quickly. “I’m not on anything. I – I’m stone-cold sober. Like Steve Austin.”

You force a laugh and manage to open your eyes to look at the man. He looks confused – maybe a little disgusted? It’s hard to tell.

“Like, the wrestler?” You say. “Stone Cold Steve Austin?”

The man lowers his revolver, just a little, so that it’s not pointed at your head, but still in your general direction. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, in any capacity. Maybe he won’t shoot you if he thinks you’re insane? (Or maybe that would just give him more of an incentive to kill you.)

“Just – just ignore me,” you say. (Again, you don’t know why. You don’t want to be ignored – you’re very obviously in bad shape.) “I don’t know where I am. I remember being in California, just north of Los Angeles.”

The man scoffs and checks over his shoulder, like he’s checking he’s not being duped. He looks back at you. “California? Really?”

“Yes,” you say softly. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself the best you can with the way that you’re laying. “South. Right near Mexico – Tijuana.”

The man tilts his head and takes a half-step closer. “You’re bleedin’.”

“I am?” You manage to move your arm and see dried brown blood on your jacket laced with redder, fresher blood. “I am.”

“I just…” You shift, curling in on yourself further. Now that he’s pointed it out, you do feel some type of dull pain in your abdomen. “I’ll be okay. Don’t call for a doctor, or an ambulance. Please don’t call an ambulance. I – I’ll get to a hospital on my own.”

The man shifts on his feet. Was it always this cold? It’s… it’s so fucking cold. And no matter how much you curl in on yourself, there’s no warmth. 

The black returns. 

There’s snippets of conversations you can pick up on over the sound of feet shuffling and the sound of wind blowing outside. One woman gives a few demands to others, while another woman announces that “Davey’s dead.”

You can feel yourself being lifted and laid on something that’s hard against your back. You groan and try to open your eyes and sit up, but can’t. 

The voices grow quieter. There’s a man making some sort of speech – you can’t make out the words. 

You know you’re wavering in and out. There’s the warmth of a man’s hand on your shoulder, and a murmuring voice, still fading in and out: “I commend you… your Creator… who formed you from the dust… angels, and all the saints…”

It takes all your strength to lift your hand and grab him – some part of him. You can barely open your eyes and can’t make out a lot. “Not… dead yet. Fucking pr…preacher.”

Black again. There’s a repetitive, stinging pain in your side. 

Awake, again. Somehow. A woman, her face worn but still beautiful, hovers over you. Her wrinkles are stark in the lantern light. 

“Hello?” You say, your voice a bit slurred.

The woman turns and calls another woman over – this one much younger than her. “Miss Jackson, get Dutch. Let him know Arthur’s friend is awake.”

Miss Jackson turns and walks off with a “Yes, Miss Grimshaw.” 

“Arthur?” You interject. “Is that the man who found me?”

Miss Grimshaw turns back to you. “Yes, Arthur’s the one who found you. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot you.”

You wait for her to say something more. She doesn’t.

“Where am I?” You try. “I remember being in California, just outside of the Mojave. But the Mojave doesn’t get snow in May.”

“That’s because you’re not in the Mojave,” Miss Grimshaw says. “We’re in the Grizzlies.”

“Th…the Grizzlies?” You echo. “Like, Appalachia?”

“Somewhere in there, yes,” she says. “You been out a few days now. Reverend read you your last rites a handful of times.”

You try to sit up, but groan and lay back down. She pushes you down as well, a scowl on her face. 

The door opens with a gust of cold wind. A man steps in, then quickly shuts the door behind him. He hurries over, rubbing his gloved hands together. 

He looks you over, then drags a nearby chair over and sits. “What’s your name, friend?”

You give him your name. 

“My name is Dutch,” Dutch says. “Dutch van der Linde. I think you know by now that you’ve caught us at an… inconvenient time. And you’ll forgive us for not trusting you right away.”

“No, I get that,” you say. “I just… I need a map or something. I need to get back home.”

Dutch beckons for Miss Grimshaw to bring over a map. He opens it and holds it out to you. 

You sit up, slowly, making sure not to do anything too sudden. When you’re upright, you take the map from him and look it over. You don’t recognize anything on the map, but one point piques your interest – the date. The year reads 1891.

“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” You point to the year. “This map seems a little out of date.”

“It’s just eight years,” Miss Grimshaw says. “Most everything is the same.”

You glance up at her, then at Dutch, then at the people around the cabin. Your fingers twitch and crumple the map a bit. 

This is a dream! I’m in a coma! Your mind shouts. I’m in a medically-induced coma because I was shot and holy hell – how the fuck did I go from 2024 to 1899?!

“Right, right,” you say instead. “Sorry. I’m just being nitpicky.”

“Where’re you from?” Dutch asks. 

“California. Near the Mojave,” you say. “Out west.”

“And you would leave all that… virgin paradise…” Dutch laughs and gestures vaguely around him. “For this?”

“I don’t know how I got here,” you say. “I’ve been saying that since I woke up. I don’t…” You shake your head.

“Well, I’m sure we can get you back to your home,” Dutch says. “We’re persevering folk. Do you recognize anything – anything at all – on that map?”

You look down at the map again. It’s all unfamiliar. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, my friend,” Dutch says, reaching a hand out like it’s meant to soothe. “You’re a soul in need. I’m sure we can figure something out somehow. Can you at least tell me what your home is like?”

This is a coma, you remind yourself. I can just make something up. I’m not some person that couch-surfed for half my life. I can be whoever.

“I… it’s odd,” you say to buy yourself some time. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s a few tribes that live in Zion Canyon – the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. I was a courier delivering goods to the Dead Horses. There were two men there that convinced me to stay.”

A Black man – broad, intimidating, with long, dark hair – perks up at the mention of tribes. His dark (almost black, honestly) eyes find yours, then he looks down at the floor again.

“None of it rings a bell,” Dutch says. “But, these men – what’re their names?”

It’s in that exact moment that you realize you just prattled off part of the storyline of Fallout: New Vegas. Then you realize that, if this really is 1899, no one here would know what you’re talking about. 

“Joshua Graham and Daniel,” you say. “They’re white – they work with the natives and help them trade. Joshua’s acting as the Dead Horses’ war chief and Daniel is a healer that works with the Sorrows.”

Yes. You’re totally friends with Joshua Graham and Daniel and the Dead Horses and the Sorrows. And from the way Dutch nods solemnly, you think he believes you. 

You hold out the map and he takes it back, folding it neatly. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” you say. “I’ve never even been this far east before.”

“Don’t worry,” Dutch says. “You can stay with us, for the time being. At least until we get to some… some town, or city. Let you rest your feet while you recover. We’re a gang of… violent criminals and degenerates, but we care. I can’t say the same for the rest of America.”

Your hand instinctively goes to your side, where you felt the stinging, repetitive pain earlier. “Right. My side doesn’t feel as bad as before. Thank you for that.”

You look around and slowly swing your feet over the side of the table. A lightning arc of pain shoots down your leg, causing you to gasp and tense. As with everything else, you force through it and stand. 

“I need to get some air,” you say. Dutch just nods. You walk (shamble, really) to the door and open it, slipping outside.

The cold is even worse out here. There’s footpaths in the snow. You stick your hands under your arms and walk one. It leads to a man standing by a fire in front of a cabin, dressed in a winter poncho with a gun in his hands. 

You hold your hands out towards the fire and rub your hands together. It doesn’t replace the warmth you had while you were inside, but it’s still something.

“What’s your name?” The man asks. He shifts the rifle in his hands, but doesn’t move to point it at you. (An improvement, if a small one.)

You give him your name. “What about you?”

“Javier,” Javier says. “Javier Escuella.”

“Where are you from?” You shift your focus to the fire. “Not trying to be rude. It’s just that there’s a few ‘Javier’s where I’m from.”

“Northern Mexico,” Javier says. “You?”

“I’m originally from the South, but I live in the Mojave. I moved to the Frontier to be closer to my sister,” you say. “So I guess we weren’t that far off from each other.”

You look up at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. It’s the man from way earlier – Arthur. You look back at the fire instead.

Arthur nods at Javier and spares a glance at you before entering the cabin. People are talking inside, and you catch a snippet of voices before Arthur closes the door again.

“It’s too cold to be May,” Javier says. You can tell he’s trying to be polite by making conversation. “I’m not designed for this snow.”

“I know, right?” You laugh under your breath. “Neither am I. I’d go back inside, but I don’t want to intrude. Any more than I already have, anyway.”

“It’s below freezing,” he says. “Everyone needs shelter. Come on.”

With that, Javier turns and walks into the cabin, holding the door open behind him for you. You thank him and follow him inside. 

Inside is a group of men and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke. You tense when they all turn to face you. Most of them are, in fact, smoking. You nod politely and tuck yourself into a corner, next to a man with a blond mustache. 

A hefty man is sitting across from the blond man, and a much younger Black man is sitting on a table next to him. Javier is by the door, and you try your best to ignore Arthur’s huge presence beside you. You can see him throw a small log into the woodstove out of the corner of your eye.

The man sort-of across from you looks at you, then returns his gaze to the man sitting beside you. “I guess folks miss them… that fell.”

“Well, when I fall, I don’t want no fuss,” the man beside you says.

“When you fall…” The young man waves his hand, which is holding a lit cigarette. “There’ll be a party.”

“A party!” The hefty man echoes, laughing. “Hah, probably.”

You feel the beginnings of a smile start to cross your face. You don’t know these people, and while they aren’t exactly doing their best to welcome you, they aren’t exactly making you feel unwelcome, either.

The man beside you holds out a bottle to you. You hesitantly take it, even though you’re confused. “I don’t want this.”

He pays you no mind and stands, looking down at the man. “That funny, huh?”

“Sure,” the man says, the remnants of laughter still in his voice.

One man strikes another, and it’s loud, absolute chaos. On instinct, your eyes snap to the door. Unblocked. An exit if needed.

Arthur and the young man are holding the hit man back, and the blond man speaks. “Maybe  I don’t feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two!”

It’s going to escalate. You can get to the door. Dutch was right – this is a gang of violent criminals and degenerates. One you want nothing to do with.

But Dutch bursts in with a gust of cold wind. As soon as he sees what’s going on, his face twists. The men dissipate from their tight proximity and distance themselves from each other.

“Stop it!” He snaps. “You fools punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s needin’ punching – hard! You wanna sit around, waiting for him to come find us?”

Arthur slips out of the door as Dutch continues. “All of you, we got work to do. Come on.”

The men turn and start to file out of the cabin. You can hear Arthur and Dutch talking outside. By the time you’re outside, most of the men are over by the horses or on one of them.

Dutch is talking quietly to Arthur while they’re both mounting up – you couldn’t hear them if you tried. He straightens up on his snow-white horse and shouts. “Mister Matthews, Mister Smith, Mister Pearson, would you please look after the place? There are O’Driscolls about!”

With that, he snaps the reins and his horse darts off. The rest of the men from the cabin, now all on horseback, quickly follow. 

You resign yourself to following another footpath. This one leads to a partly-sheltered, partly-dilapidated garage-type-thing with something like a kitchen inside. There’s a deer hoist against the wall, but it’s empty.

Your eyes dart to some sort of cauldron-looking pot hanging over a fire that’s mostly coals. You walk over and hold your hands out to it, trying to get warm again. 

“You’re new.”

Your head snaps up to see the broad Black man from earlier. He still has that impassive look on his face. 

“Yes, sir, that’s right,” you say. You introduce yourself. “What’s your name?”

“Charles Smith.” Charles walks and stands beside you, mirroring you and putting his hands out towards the fire. “You were talking earlier about tribes.”

“Yeah,” you say. “What about them?”

“I’ve never heard of the ones you were talking about,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth and calm. (You try your best not to latch onto that sense of calmness. You now know how quickly things can turn.)

“The Sorrows and the Dead Horses?” You rub your nose as you try to think of an excuse. “I wouldn’t expect you to. They live in Zion Canyon – in the Mojave. They’re fairly isolated, but they’re good people.”

Charles hums and his eyes return to the fire. You try to think of something to keep the conversation going.

“Who’s Colm O’Driscoll?” You ask. “I’ve heard his name a handful of times.”

“A rival gang leader,” he says. “Runs the O’Driscolls.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You scratch your cheek. “That makes sense.”

A silence settles over the two of you again. Charles must be comfortable with it. Unfortunately, you’re not. 

“Is there anything people need done?” You ask, glancing at him. “I don’t like being idle for too long.”

He looks over at the empty deer hoist. “We need food.”

“I’m no good at hunting.” You look at the fire and rub your hands together again. “Sorry.”

“You apologize a lot,” Charles says. His eyes flick to you. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”

You bite back another apology and force a laugh. Your breath mists in front of your face. “Force of habit.”

Charles hums and his focus returns to the smoldering coals that make up the fire. A nagging thought in the back of your head tells you that you made him mad (even though he’s given literally no indication you’ve done so). 

You follow his lead and look at the fire. There’s nothing else to do in this kind of cold, anyway. 

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 2: CHARLES SMITH, THE MAN THAT YOU ARE 

synopsis: charles makes sure you're getting on okay as you continue to try to evade arthur (poorly, might i add).

word count: 3k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: i almost leaked this to my classmate when sending her a link. nearly shat myself but we're all good this is all still under wraps

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

Charles was right. Even though you want to help, there’s really nothing to do besides hunt – and the good Lord knows you’re useless when it comes to that.

For the last day or so, you’ve just been hanging around the garage-made-kitchen. Even though Javier told you you weren’t intruding (and that “everyone needs shelter”), you feel like you are. It’s not a good feeling. So you stayed outside, in the company of a man who introduced himself as Simon Pearson and the camp cook, Charles, and occasionally Javier when he found the time to swing by. 

A fair few people have introduced themselves as well – Hosea Matthews, Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers, Reverend Orville Swanson, Leopold Strauss (who just oozed sleaze), Miss Karen Jones, Miss Tilly Jackson, Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill, and little Jack alongside his mother, Miss Abigail Roberts. Those who didn’t directly introduce themselves to you were pointed out by Karen and you were given a run-down on them.

So far, these are the people as you know them: Missus Sadie Adler is a grieving, skittish widow. Uncle is a lazy sack of shit. John Marston is better at being wolf food than being a father. Miss Susan Grimshaw is stubborn (but caring – somewhat like how neighborhood mamas care). Miss Molly O’Shea has a stick so far up her ass she spits splinters when she talks. The man tied up in the barn, Kieran Duffy, is an O’Driscoll (or ex-O’Driscoll, if what he insists is true is really true). Oh – and the blond man that punched Bill? That’s Micah Bell: a man with the eye of a viper tasting the air and the nose of a shark waiting for blood in the water. From what you’ve deduced, his general vibe is “I would take sexual relationship advice from Bill Cosby if given the chance.”

All in all, a healthily diverse group of people – even if the traits that make them diverse aren’t all that desirable. (Mostly Micah’s. Especially Micah’s.)

But Charles is nice enough. So you’ve stuck with Charles. Even if you need to hang around Pearson to hang out with him. Pearson isn’t an intrinsically bad guy, just… a little off-putting.

Right now, you’re able to put your hands to use by opening canned vegetables and putting them in the cauldron-looking pot Pearson has for rabbit stew. Across the table, Charles is butchering and deboning a rabbit as best he can with his injured hand. You try your best to keep your eyes on the cans of carrots and celery you’re opening. 

There’s footsteps. You glance up. It’s Arthur. You look back down. 

“I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Pearson gripes to no one in particular. 

You watch Arthur approach the fire and he holds his hands out towards the coals in your peripheral vision. He shakes his head. “Ah, we’re okay.”

“We have a few cans of food and a rabbit. For, what – ten, twelve people?” Pearson gestures over to where you and Charles are working. “Even more with them and that widow.”

Despite yourself, you can feel the tips of your ears start to burn. What do you have to be embarrassed about? Needing to eat? If anything, Pearson should be the one feeling embarrassed for talking about you in front of you. Yeah… that’s it. 

Pearson continues. “When I was in the Navy…”

Arthur immediately interrupts him. “I – I do not wish to hear about what you got up to in the Navy, Mister Pearson.”

And yet, he keeps going despite Arthur’s protest. “We were stranded at sea… for fifty days.”

“And you, unfortunately, survived,” Arthur drawls. 

You glance up at him from underneath your eyelashes and smile. His eye catches yours, and your gaze drops, as does your smile. Instead, you work on getting your finger under the tab of a can of chopped onions – which is hard, considering the thickness of your gloves.

You feel Arthur’s eyes leave you and let out a soft sigh of relief that clouds in front of your face. Charles holds out his knife to you. You tip the top of the can towards him, and he wedges the (bloody – ew) blade of his knife underneath the tab and opens it. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You clench your jaw when you feel Arthur’s eyes on you again – yes, very briefly, but still. You can count the number of times you’ve made eye contact with him on one hand, and you don’t want to add to that total. 

Thankfully, Pearson seems ignorant to your plight and continues complaining. “When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn’t able to get supplies in!”

“Well, when government agents are hunting you down, sometimes shopping trips need to be cut short,” Arthur snaps. “We’ll survive. We always have. And if needs be, we can eat you – you’re the fattest.”

You bite your lip to suppress a laugh and clear your throat to mask any noise you might’ve made. You pour the onions in the pot and glance at the rabbit carcass, now carved up and stripped of meat.

“Damn, there’s nothing left on that thing,” you say. “You’re good at that.”

Charles nods in response. “If you’re done, you can put it on the fire.”

You lift the pot with a grunt – it’s heavier than you expected, but nothing you can’t handle. You move over to the coals and hang the pot on a hook over the fire while Pearson and Arthur continue talking. 

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting, and they found nothing,” Pearson says. 

“Well, Lenny’s more into book learnin’ than huntin’,” Arthur says. You perk up at that. “Bill’s a fool. Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read, ain’t no wonder they haven’t found –”

“Enough of this,” Charles interrupts. Even though his voice is relatively quiet and deep, it still cuts through whatever Arthur was planning on prattling on about. “We’ll go find something. Come on, Arthur.”

“Well, take them.” Arthur gestures vaguely in your direction. “Since they seem so keen on helpin’ out, and all.”

“I, um…” You shake your head. “No, thanks.”

“They don’t even know how to hold a rifle correctly,” Charles says. (His bluntness stings a little, but it’s true. You know how to hold a handgun, but not these old-timey types.) “If they knew how to hunt, we would’ve gone already.”

Arthur sighs and shrugs. “If you insist.”

“Wait a second, hold on.” Pearson hurries over to the table you and Charles had been working at earlier. He pulls out a can from the small pile you had organized and tosses it to Arthur. “You’re gonna need something to eat out there.”

“Hm… “assorted, salted offal”,” Arthur reads off the label. He levels Pearson with a dead stare. “Starving would be preferable.”

You stifle a laugh and, again, clear your throat.

“Come on, let’s go,” Charles says, adjusting the bandage on his hand. 

“You can’t go huntin’,” Arthur says. “Look at your hand.”

“I can’t stay here listening to you two,” Charles says. He gestures to you without looking at you. “The conversation they make is tolerable, but, again, they can’t hunt. Look, if there’s game in those hills, I’ll find it – and you can kill it.”

“You need to rest, Charles,” Arthur insists.

“You think this is rest?” Charles’ face twists into a scowl, then he turns and walks towards his horse with a “Come along.”

Arthur scoffs under his breath and his eyes flick to you. You do your best to suppress the temptation to duck away from his gaze, as piercing as it is. You win, and he looks away, following Charles to the hitching post. They quickly mount up and ride out.

You draw your shoulders up to your ears and shudder. When Pearson shoots you a questioning glance, you excuse it with “What? It’s cold.”

When a few seconds have passed, you roll your shoulders back. You settle down on the chair that’s inside the kitchen, just watching a few late, fat snowflakes fall outside.

After a good ten minutes of watching Pearson and playing with your hands, you figure he’ll be fine on his own and wander out along the footpaths in the snow. You find who you’re looking for quickly. 

Lenny gives you a polite nod as you stand across from him, the fire on the ground separating you two. He has a rifle – the sight of which doesn’t surprise you as much as it first did – and he settles the butt of the gun in the inner corner of his elbow. 

“You’re Lenny, right?” You try. 

“Yeah. And you’re…” Lenny gives your name. You nod in response.

“I just…” You clear your throat and bat away the embarrassment and anxiety that’s creeping up on you – something that always comes with approaching strangers. “Arthur mentioned that you like books. I, uh… I read, too. Sometimes.”

“Really?” Lenny says. “What kinda books have they got out in the Mojave?”

You look down at the fire and think, trying to come up with some excuse and build your backstory. “We don’t have a lot of books – I live in a pretty isolated part of the desert. But there’s traders, and they bring medical books, and a few storybooks. I like the medicine books they bring. You?”

Lenny seems to hesitate for a moment. “Poetry.”

“Poetry?” You hum. “Huh. Poems are nice.”

There’s a lapse in conversation. You don’t know how to fill it. You say the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Micah’s kinda a prick, right?” You blurt out. 

Your eyes snap up to Lenny’s face. He’s surprised, but his face quickly melts into a smile and he laughs. You feel the coil of anxiety in your stomach loosen. 

“Why, I didn’t expect you to come out and say it,” he says. “But your assessment is correct.”

“Yeah, sorry.” You laugh nervously, your eyes falling to the fire again. “I just get bad vibes from the guy.”

“Bad vibes?” Lenny echoes. 

The coil is tight again. You think for a moment. “Uh, yeah. One of the tribes I live with believes in, um… vibrational energy, that kinda thing. When you look at someone and you get a bad feeling without knowing them that well, they give you bad vibes.”

“Hold on,” Lenny says. “Vibrational energy?”

You nod and continue to pull things out of your ass and curse Lenny for being scholarly. “Yeah. Life… um, well. I don’t remember the explanation too well. But I remember White Bird – the Sorrows’ shaman – saying…”

You tilt your head and look to the side and think for a moment.  “He said, “All life is music – all music is rhythmic – all rhythm is life.” And that somehow relates to vibrations. I don’t know, you seem smart. Maybe you can understand what he was talking about.”

“Well, I don’t know what it means, but it sure sounds pretty,” Lenny says. 

“They’re good people,” you say. “Maybe you’d like to meet them someday – if you’re ever so far west you’re in the desert, I mean.”

Why the fuck did I say that?! You curse yourself in your head. They’re not real! The Dead Horses and the Sorrows and Joshua Graham and Daniel are all made up! They’re fictional characters –

“I don’t know, maybe,” Lenny says. “For now, it doesn’t seem like we’ll be goin’ that far.”

You hum and pretend to act disappointed while you fight the urge to crumple in on yourself in relief. “That’s a shame. I’m sure you’d like them. They’re interesting people, especially the Sorrows. Though, Joshua…”

You trail off as you check over your shoulder. Hoofbeats, you’re pretty sure. And you’re right – Arthur and Charles are riding back into camp, a dead, snow-dappled doe on the back of each horse.

“Brought some food back, boys,” Arthur calls.

They both hitch their horses at the post and hoist the limp does onto their shoulders, carrying them over to the kitchen. 

You look back at Lenny and jab a thumb over your shoulder at them. “Should we…?”

“I don’t think so,” Lenny says. “From what I seen, Arthur’s a butcher – a mean one, at that. I don’t think he’ll like it if his work’s disturbed.”

“That’s fair,” you hum. (Secretly, you want to thank Lenny profusely. You already know that Arthur’s a mean man – you don’t want to see him even meaner.)

You check over your shoulder again. From where you’re standing, you can see an old man has taken your seat in the kitchen, and you can hear Arthur giving him hell for whatever reason. What was his name again… Uncle, maybe?

Unfortunately, your staring caught Uncle’s eye. He beckons you over with a wave of his hand. You give Lenny a quiet, polite ��See you later,” and head over, trudging through the thick layer of snow that’s settled on the ground.

“Yeah?” You nod at Uncle as soon as you step into the kitchen. You sidle up to the fire, warming yourself with the smoldering embers. 

“Thought it’d do Arthur some good to see the…” – Uncle waves you up-and-down – “…wonders some modernity will do you.”

“What? Modernity?” You repeat back. You tell yourself to calm down – you haven’t been found out. (Not yet.) “I’m far from modern.”

“Why, you’re perfectly modern!” Uncle says. 

“You don’t even know me.” You scoff and turn away. 

Your eyes catch Arthur wrapping wire around the back ankles of one of the doe corpses. He pulls it taut, then hooks both legs to the deer hoist. He lifts it with a grunt and puts the hoist on the hook sticking out of the wall. You avert your eyes before he turns around. 

“Well, I mean…” You shrug. “I guess I’m… sort of modern? But I don’t see any issue with what Arthur’s doing. He’s just hunting.”

Arthur’s eyes fly to you again when you say his name. You wish that the Spanish Flu had come sooner so you could wear a facemask to hide your pursed lips and clenched jaw. After a moment, he looks away.

“What a surprise,” Arthur drawls, “to find the camp rat loiterin’ around in the kitchen, chargin’ dimes for his thoughts.”

He pulls away from the deer hoist and walks over to the fire. He keeps a healthy distance, but you can still feel some sort of heat coming from him when he stands next to you. You guess a man that tall and broad would be a furnace in cold like this. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Uncle asks. “I feel we haven’t spoken for days.”

“I do my utmost to avoid you,” Arthur retorts.

Charles approaches the fire, standing on your other side. He gives you a small look that says “Ignore them. They can, and will, go on for hours like this.”

Uncle looks over at you and laughs. “He loves me, really. It’s his… sad way of showing affection.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You and Arthur turn to look at each other. You hadn’t meant to speak over him, and from the kind of-surprised look he’s sending your way, you think he didn’t mean to speak over you, either. You nod, gesturing for him to continue.

“It isn’t.” He turns back to face Uncle and waves a hand. “Now shoot, get lost.”

“Well…” Uncle shrugs and stands. “See y’all later.”

Pearson swipes a bottle from Uncle as he steps out. He then looks over at one of the deer. “See you got on just fine.”

Arthur nods toward Charles’ direction. “Charles is a wonder.”

“Have a drink, my friends.” Pearson holds out the bottle across the fire. “Ya earned it.”

Arthur takes the bottle after you wave it away. He takes a swig and sputters, coughing. “Jesus!” His voice cracks. “What is that?”

He passes the bottle to Charles, who sniffs the rim and takes a tentative sip. 

“Navy rum, sir. It’s the only thing – the only thing!” Pearson laughs as Charles hands the bottle back. “Keeps you sane, it does.”

“Yes, seems to have done a treat on you.” Arthur glances at Charles and waves a hand in his general direction. “You go rest that hand, Charles.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” Charles says. 

He makes eye contact with you and nods towards the cabins, indicating for you to follow. You do so while listening to Arthur and Pearson talk about skinning the deer. (And you hide a smile when Arthur asks Pearson if he gets to skin him, too. He’s mean, but at least he’s funny with it.)

“You settling in okay?” Charles asks when you’re in a somewhat secluded area. It’s not all that isolated, but it’s out of earshot for most people.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not being a massive asshole about everything.”

“You’re lost,” he says. (You notice he leaves out the very obvious “and scared” he could’ve tacked on the end.) “And you need help. It would be cruel not to give it to you.”

Yeah, totally! You think to yourself. You’re literally one of the kindest people alive and I’m… what? A scumbag that’s taking advantage of you? Oh, it’s so sweet that you’re ignoring the blatant lies I’m throwing in your face! Thank you, Charles! Thanks a fucking million.

“Still. Thank you,” you say instead. “You could’ve easily kicked me out in the snow and left me to freeze.” 

“We could’ve.” Charles looks out at the horizon. The way he pauses almost makes you think he’s considering it. “But we didn’t.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to reassure you or continue the conversation at all. After a few moments, you awkwardly hook your thumb over your shoulder.

“I’m gonna, uh…” You nod. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later?”

Charles is still looking out at the treeline, looking at the way the snow weighs down the leafless trees and the way even the smallest sound could disrupt everything. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 10: EITHER FICKLE OR A FRIEND (OR A REALLY FUCKING FICKLE FRIEND)

synopsis: connor and you have a conversation. it's not uncomfortable, per se, but it's weird. connor's acting weird.

word count: 2.4k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: me? projecting onto y/n? it's more likely than you think

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400 (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

Connor’s sitting in his unofficially designated chair in the corner of the android autopsy room, and you’re puttering about, stealing glances at him out of the corner of your eye.

Again, the loud and prideful creature in you is baying and yowling like a dog near death. It’s telling you to kick him out – that his kind-of-aggression and kind-of-manipulation is completely unforgivable. It curses at you for your faults, for being weak for him when he feels absolutely nothing for you. 

But you swallow it. You stomp it down and tell it to be quiet for now. 

You pat the autopsy table. It’s surprisingly loud, and startles you a little. “Khm… if you’d like to get started on the memory transfer, you can get up on the table.”

Connor stands and moves over to the autopsy table. He sits on it and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. 

You pull a couple of cables from a drawer in your desk and plug them into the side of one of your computers. When you turn to Connor, you hold up the other ends of them. “I need to plug these into your ports.”

Connor turns his head to the side and presses behind his ear. The plastic of his skin slides back, revealing two small ports. 

“Jacking in. Don’t move.” You grab Connor’s jaw to steady him, then jack in the ports one at a time. 

You pull away and turn to your monitor before you fully register what you just did. You’re so used to doing it out of instinct that you didn’t realize you were holding his face. You feel the tips of your ears start to burn, but clear your throat and try to shake it off. 

“I’m going to sift through your memory banks,” you say without turning to look at him. “Have you had this… well, I usually call it an operation, but it’s not really one. Have you had a query run on your memory before?”

“Not by an external source,” Connor says. “But I do recall the events that happened throughout the day and process them while in standby or rest mode.”

“So you call queries on yourself?” You say. “Huh. Never heard of androids doing that before. But I guess you are a prototype.”

You put your head down and start to type. “Give me temporary access to your systems?”

A pop-up appears on your monitor:

> Android “Connor” (model RK800) giving admin access to Memory Banks. Accept access? Y/N

You click accept and multiple windows appear on your screen. You sort through them and find what you’re looking for. You quickly type:

RK800.memory-banks(location.search);

//=> ‘?Jericho’ {date=11-08-2038} 

A short clip comes up after a few seconds of load time. It starts with a first-person shot of Connor looking at you (god, did you really look that worried?), then takes off and charges the deviant. He connects with the other android, and then you see it: Jericho, painted on a piece of rusty metal, just like how Connor described. Then, Connor is ripped from his connection. The video ends.

“That looks like a…” you mutter to yourself. You don’t finish the sentence. 

“Looks like a what?” Connor pipes up from behind you. 

You rewind the footage from Connor’s memory banks and look at it again. “I was going to say it looks like a boat, but…”

“It’s highly unlikely that the deviants are residing on a boat,” Connor says. “There aren’t many abandoned boats along the Detroit River, and certainly not one big enough to house most of the deviant androids.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” you say. “It’s not like there’s just a freighter floating around for them to take.”

You put your head down again and put in the commands to copy the video to your desktop. After a few seconds, it’s done. 

“Okay.” You pull away from the keyboard and turn to Connor. “I’m done.”

“Actually, Officer?” Connor asks.

Your eyebrows furrow. “Yes?”

He glances away, then back to you. “Do you have the equipment required to run a diagnostic on an android?”

“Uh…” You let out an exhale of air with something between confusion and disbelief. “Yeah? Yeah, I do. Why?”

“Can you run a diagnostic on me?” Connor asks.

“Wh…” Your face twists in confusion. “Why would you want that? I thought you had the operating power to run diagnostics on yourself.”

“I do,” Connor says, and it’s almost like there’s a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “But… I’d just like a second opinion.”

You nod, slowly. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll get that up and running.”

You turn back to the computer and close the running programs to make space for the ones you open. When you’re done, you move over to Connor and remove the cables after warning him. You almost cradle his head as you press your left palm to the port behind his ear, your thumb on his cheek. (The proud creature inside you whines and barks and kicks your liver at that.)

The wires from your glove quickly replace the cables that were just there a moment ago. Connor’s eye twitches once. 

You look over your shoulder at the computer. It’s already automatically running the diagnostic you queued up – way too slow for your liking, might you add.

“Do you have any more books on Russian literature?” Connor asks out of the blue.

You turn back to him. “Yeah. Russians of the past loved to philosophize and think. There wasn’t much else to do when most of the year was spent below freezing for most people. Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious,” Connor says. “I want to know more about you.”

You do your best to hide the bitterness that boils up in your belly. You honestly can’t tell if this is Connor trying to make conversation or another one of his little manipulative tactics. You can do nothing but operate on blind faith.

Connor glances at you out of the corner of his eye, then looks forward. “What is Russian literature about?”

You hem and haw and collect your thoughts before speaking. “It has sobornost, metaphysics, religiosity, intuitionism, positivism, realism… but I like the ones that are more universal. The ones that can apply to everyone.”

“What do you mean?” He says.

“The books about the fear of failure, and the fear of death. How it sucks to be Russian.” You shrug with one arm, trying not to jostle Connor too much. “I mean, all national literatures are – only the name of the nation changes.”

“Hm,” Connor hums and looks down. Looks like you’ve given him something to think about for the time being. 

You look over your shoulder, and the computer screen shows that the diagnostic is nearly done. When it finally finishes, you disengage the wires, the palm of your hand and fingers cool where it touched Connor’s skin. 

You step back and turn to the computer, looking over the diagnostic report. Everything seems normal, and the ALL SYSTEMS NOMINAL! message at the bottom of the page confirms that.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” you say. “Not a hair out of place.”

You turn and lean back against the desk. Connor is looking down at the ground. He stays like that for a second, then looks up at you.

“Do you have books on the history of the USSR?” He asks. You internally note his (maybe unintentional) dismissal of the diagnostic report.

“Yeah.” You open a drawer and pull out the first book you see, then hold it up for Connor. It’s a book that was published in the late 1900’s, named The Reversal of Archduke Franz Ferdinand: How the Death of Agent Ekaterina Nechayeva Prevented the Collapse of the USSR. 

“This one is about the Kollektiv 2.0 Disaster and how the death of Major Sergey Nechayev’s wife inadvertently prevented things from…” You think for a moment. “Well, not from going wrong, but from things getting worse.”

You look down at the book. “It’s the same butterfly effect Archduke Franz Ferdinand created, but in reverse. She saved lives by dying instead of ending them.”

“That’s interesting,” Connor says.

“Somewhat.” You put the book back and shut the drawer, then look back up at Connor. “Kind of like… you. You could’ve died killing that deviant in Stratford Tower – the station android. But you risked that to save human lives.” You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?”

Connor looks at you with those big doe eyes. He blinks and tilts his head to the side. “If the deviant succeeded in its mission of a mass shooting, it would’ve most likely killed Lieutenant Anderson, too. Like I said a few days ago, I need both the Officer and the Lieutenant for maximum efficiency when solving this case.”

“So you put your secondary mission above your first,” you say. “Because hunting deviants is your top objective, yes? So you put the safety of Hank above your primary mission.”

“I…” Connor’s LED turns yellow, then returns to blue. “Yes, I did. Because Lieutenant Anderson’s safety was compromised at that moment.”

You hum and lean back, crossing your arms. You didn’t exactly love putting him in situations like this – ones where he was forced to reflect inwardly, guided by your hand. How you both somehow rounded back to these conversations and topics was almost like a base instinct, spurred on by your primal reptilian hindbrain and his innermost motherboards. 

“Why do you keep doubting my non-deviancy status?” Connor finally asks. 

“I…” You exhale sharply. “I’m just not used to being around androids that are so expressive. I know it’s part of your… social relations program or your interrogation software, but still. Maybe I’m just a fool.”

You tap the front of the drawer you just shut. “Not a fool regarding books or cybernetics or polymer, but a fool regarding relationships.”

Connor looks at you weirdly. “Officer, we’re not… in a relationship.”

“Not like that!” You feel your face grow warm. “We’re two people that have met each other. By definition, we have a relationship.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, what do you think of our relationship?”

“I mean…” You look up at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the outlines of the tiles. “I’ve always had trouble putting people into boxes. My mind seems to blur the lines between stranger, acquaintance, and friend. So most people, even friends, just default to some weird in-between.”

Your eyes return to Connor. “Are we… friends? Because I don’t know if we are. I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just… truly don’t know.”

Connor tilts his head to the side. It kind of reminds you of a puppy looking at something it doesn’t understand. “I believe so.”

You allow yourself to feel just a spark of hope, but you’re careful to not let it ignite into a Californian wildfire. You bite the inside of your lip to keep from smiling too widely. “It would be nice to be friends. But… you have to promise me something.”

“Yes?” He says.

You steel your expression. “You admitted to basically manipulating me to get into my good graces. Please, don’t do that again. I don’t want you to be fake around me. I…” You swallow thickly. The creature of pride in your belly is baying and scratching at the walls of your stomach. “I don’t want the Connor who kisses ass at every opportunity, or the one who worships the dirt I piss on. I want the real Connor. Even if… even if the real Connor is just a machine.”

Connor just stares at you, almost unblinking. His LED is circling in on itself in a steady yellow. You feel your face start to burn hot with shame and you’re just about ready to fall through the ground. Your eyes fall to the floor.

“Uh, never mind, forget I said –”

“No,” Connor cuts you off. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll try my best not to… ‘kiss ass’ in the future.”

You feel a laugh bubble up in your throat and you can’t even stop it before it spills from your lips. It’s so sudden that you have to bring a hand to your mouth to try to silence yourself.

Connor looks at you inquisitively. “Why are you laughing?”

“You…” You giggle, then clear your throat. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you curse. It sounds weird coming from you. Like it’s foreign.”

“I’ve always been able to curse,” Connor says. “I just don’t feel the need to.”

“I know,” you say. “It’s just… odd, is all. I’m not used to it. Like when someone tells you the sky is blue. You have to pause for a moment, then you think, ‘Oh, of course. That’s obvious.’ Not because you didn’t know that the sky is blue, but because you’re not used to people stating the obvious like that.”

“Huh.” Connor looks down at the floor. “You talk a lot. It’s useful for my machine learning algorithms.”

You perk up a little at that. To hear Connor say that he likes when you talk, even in a completely roundabout way, is… weirdly comforting. (You can faintly feel the dry grass around the spark of hope catching fire in your chest. The proud beast stomps out the growing flames and keeps it in check to make sure it stays just that – a small, flickering spark.)

“Well, khm…” you look away and scratch your cheek. “Thank you.”

Connor nods, but doesn’t speak.

You glance at the clock on one of your many monitors. It’s nearing seven in the evening. “I should probably get going. It’s getting late.”

“It is,” Connor says. 

You quickly save everything on your computer and shut off the monitors. You grab your coat from the back of your chair by your desk and shrug it on. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You say. 

“Yes.” Connor’s eyes twitch and his LED flashes yellow for a moment. “Lieutenant Anderson has just alerted me that his request for a meeting with Elijah Kamski has been accepted. It’s set for 11:20 AM tomorrow.”

You nod. “And I’m assuming Hank will swing by to pick me up.”

“Yes,” Connor says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Officer. Have a good night.”

You smile at him, a lightness in your chest. “You too.”

[nevadancitizen]

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

synopsis: After a deal goes wrong, you wake up in an abandoned building with an outlaw-looking man pointing a gun at you. To your surprise (and disbelief), you're in 1899. Much like the rest of your life, you didn't sign up for this. But, like the rest of your life, you'll learn how to deal with it. Maybe you'll even learn how to survive -- maybe even thrive -- in this new... predicament you've found yourself in. (inspired by @heart-of-gold-outlaw )

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

tags: Time Travel, Slow Burn, Found Family, Van der Linde Gang as Family (Red Dead Redemption), POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Modern!Reader, reader is from the year of yahweh 2024

AO3 link, if you prefer to read there

note: reader is a former addict and comes from a family of addicts and deadbeats. it is mentioned sparsely, but is still mentioned. if you're gonna comment on it, please be respectful.

note, continued: also, the reader in this fic is gender neutral. please do not refer to them with feminine or masculine pronouns. instead, please address them by they/them pronouns. this fic is all-inclusive and not meant to alienate anyone -- it's meant to be written so that everyone can read, no matter their personal pronouns!

PROLOGUE

COLTER

CH. 1: Somewhere (Far, Far) East of the Mojave

CH. 2: Charles Smith, the Man That You Are

CH. 3: <currently being written...>

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 5: LIVE FOR A CENTURY, LEARN FOR A CENTURY

synopsis: you get hurt while chasing down another deviant. connor is introduced to your cat.

word count: 3.7k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: i literally got into the most minor car accident ever (like, not even a fender bender. no one got hurt) and i couldn't sleep because i felt so shitty so that's why i'm posting at this ungodly hour (read: 6:30 am) 😭😭

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

The elevator shifts and jolts under your feet as it ascends. You catch yourself and splay a hand out on the wall to keep yourself from falling. 

“Fucking hate this,” you mumble. “Reminds me of the busted-up khrushchyovka I lived in just outside of St. Petersburg.”

“Was it in the ghetto?” Hank asks from the opposite side of the elevator.

“A slum, more like,” you say. “We don’t have ghettos. Not like here.”

You’re surprised Connor didn’t ask anything about the khrushchyovka. Instead, he’s just standing there, his eyes closed and idling.

The elevator dings, and you open the gate, letting you and Hank out. There isn’t a set of footsteps behind you as you walk. 

Hank stops in front of you, looking behind you. You follow Hank’s eyes. Connor’s still idling, his eyes still closed. 

“Hey, Connor!” Hank calls. “You run outta batteries or what?”

Connor’s eyes snap open, then he takes in his surroundings, realizing the elevator ride is over. “I’m sorry. I was making a report to CyberLife.”

“Huh,” Hank hums. Connor continues to idle. 

You smile. “Are you planning on staying in the elevator?”

“No!” He replies, almost indignant. “I’m coming.”

You laugh under your breath and turn to walk down the hall, not missing the look Hank gives you when he hears the emotion in Connor’s voice. 

Hank follows, looking at the chipped paint on the walls and the once-boarded-up windows. “What do we know about this guy?”

“Not much,” Connor says. “Just that a neighbor reported that he heard strange noises coming from this floor. Nobody’s supposed to be living here, but the neighbor said he saw a man hiding an LED under his cap.”

“Oh, Christ,” Hank groans. “If we have to investigate every time someone hears a strange noise, we’re gonna need more cops!”

You come to a stop outside of the door of the suspect’s apartment, double-checking the floor and apartment number. Hank stands beside you, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey, were you really making a report back there in the elevator?” Hank asks. “Just by closing your eyes?”

“Correct,” Connor says. 

“Shit…” Hank mumbles. “Wish I could do that.”

“You could, if you had augmentations,” you say as you look through the peephole. “Not my kind, though. Mine are relatively unintrusive. What I’m talking about is some extreme jack-jaw or port-wrist shit.”

“Whatever.” Hank huffs.

You pull away from the door and sigh. “The peephole’s blocked.”

Connor takes your place and knocks on the door. “Anybody home?”

No response.

He knocks harder, basically banging his fist against the wood. “Open up! Detroit Police!”

There’s sounds from inside. A banging, something falling, frantic footsteps.

Hank immediately takes a step back, drawing his gun. “Stay behind me.”

You backpedal, and Connor holds out an arm to gauge where you are. It brushes against your midsection, like he’s making sure you’re behind him and safe.

Hank hoists a leg and kicks the door down. He points his gun forward as he slowly moves inside, checking corners and doors. 

Connor follows him, and you trail after. Hank busts through the last door, causing a cascade of pigeons to fly out. 

“What the fuck is this?!” Hank shouts. 

You and Connor move after him, entering the apartment. The rank smell of uncleaned bird shit immediately assaults your senses, causing you to cough despite yourself.

“What in the…?” You look around the apartment. Precisely-drawn mazes cover the walls, and pigeons and their mess covers the floor. They hoo and purr amongst themselves, looking at you, Hank, and Connor like you were the ones who didn’t belong here.

“Looks like we came for nothin’,” Hank calls from the other room. “Our man’s gone.”

“Well, we came all this way,” you say. “Let’s at least have a look around.”

You step closer to the wall, looking up at the maze drawn on it. Your eyes trace it – it’s hexagonal, and doesn’t seem to have any exit.

“Any ideas?” Hank says. 

“No,” you say. “But he’s definitely an android. No human is this precise. There’s not even a wiggle in the lines or any stray marks.”

“I’ve found something,” Connor calls from the bathroom. 

You lean into the doorway. “What, did he leave an expensive shampoo or something? I’m running out.”

“No,” Connor says. He moves to the side, revealing the obsessive writing covering the wall. 

“rA9,” he continues. “Written 2471 times. It’s the same sign Ortiz’s android wrote on the shower wall. Why are they obsessed with this sign…?”

“Could be superstition,” you say. “Even if it seems a bit silly. My mother rejected my father’s proposal just because it was on the eighteenth of May – it’s simply bad luck to do any act of romance on the eighteenth of any month. She accepted the next day, just as the clock hit 12:01 AM.”

“Huh. That’s an odd thing to do.” Connor turns to the sink and picks something up. 

“It’s superstition. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense.” You shrug. “What’ve you got there?”

“An LED,” Connor says. “It was deactivated just hours ago.”

“So the suspect could’ve known we were coming,” you say. “Or knew he fucked up somehow.”

“Officer, you keep referring to androids with gendered pronouns,” Connor says. “You do know androids don’t have sexes, right?”

“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to call something that walks, talks, acts like a human an it. It feels… dehumanizing. Even if they’re not human.”

You level with Connor’s almost-unblinking gaze. “I know what you’re thinking. But I’m not a sympathizer,” you lie.

You pull away from the doorway, instead looking across the apartment again. You join Hank in peering around, half-assedly investigating. A poster catches your eye – one for the United Farms of Detroit. It’s a union of some sort, you think. 

“You Soviets love your unions,” Hank says from somewhere behind you.

“After the Great Purge, we couldn’t take any chances.” You sigh, running a finger along the edge of the poster. “Stalin fucked up a lot of the USSR. But we bounced back. We always do.”

The poster flutters in the wake of your touch, and the corner curls in on itself. You gasp softly as a crack in the wall turns out to be a hole. 

You pull the poster off completely, revealing the hole in the wall in its entirety. A journal sits neatly, nestled right next to a small box of .357 Magnum bullets. You flick it open, and inside, is a myriad of jumbles and mirrors of the mazes drawn on the wall. 

“Found something?” Hank asks. 

“Bullets for a revolver,” you say. “And a journal, but… it’s encrypted.”

You feel a brush against your elbow – soft, but far too solid to be ignored. You gasp and turn, only to see Connor.

“Боже!” You put a hand on your chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“I apologize, Officer,” Connor says. “May I see the journal?”

“I, uh… yeah,” you manage to squeak out. You’d take a step back, but your back is basically half a foot away from being flush against the wall.

Connor takes the journal from your hands, flicking through it just as you did. He shows no signs of moving, so you squeeze past him, a nervous hand on his upper arm. 

“Sorry,” you whisper as you move past. You can feel your face warm as your front brushes his side and internally curse yourself for being so easily affected. 

“You’re right,” Connor says. “It doesn’t match any codes I have in my database. This is a unique script.”

He tucks the journal in one of his inner jacket pockets and turns to investigate the apartment further. You watch as his eyes turn to the ceiling. 

“Is that a hole in the ceiling?” You ask. “This place really is falling apart.”

Suddenly, something drops from the hole and sends Connor crashing to the floor. It takes a second to register that it’s a person – or, android, rather. By that time, he’s already run out through the front door. 

Connor immediately books it after the suspect, disappearing around the corner. You immediately take after them despite being slow and human.

“He might have a gun!” You call after Connor.

“It does!” He calls back. 

Sure enough, you can see a revolver in the android’s hand. He points back and takes a blind potshot that misses both of you entirely. 

You count in your mind: five bullets left. 

You run across the roof, through greenhouses and over scaffolding. All the while, you count the gunshots: four – three – two. 

You come to a screeching halt on the edge of a roof, just watching in shock as Connor jumps from a moving train to another roof. “Твою ж мать!”

“That way!” Hank calls from behind you, out of breath and panting. “The right!”

You break for the scaffolding that connects the two buildings, trying to get ahead. You cut through a building, legs burning as you take the stairs. You burst through the roof exit, and –

Another body immediately collides into yours, and you close your arms around it on instinct. They throw their head back, hitting your nose with a sickening crack. You grunt and your eyes water, but you don’t let go. 

What does make you let go is the shocking, electric feeling of something happening to your leg. Your ears ring and you can’t hear your own scream as you collapse, cradling your calf. 

You can feel your lips forming curses, feel your vocal cords vibrate as you sputter and cry out. A hand comes to your back, warm and rough and one you recognize as Hank’s.

You can just barely hear him say “Hands off, hands off!” and pull your hands away from the entry wound. You can only faintly translate his words in your mind, but you know every word that leaves your lips is Russian. Thirium spills out and Hank desperately tries to keep it in. 

Through your blurred vision, you can see Connor turn the corner. You point after where the deviant went, sputtering “Одна пуля! У него только одна пуля!”

He nods and disappears after him in a blur of moving limbs and blue highlights. 

You try to adjust your position to watch him, but a jolt of pain runs up your leg and into your spine. “Блять – Hank!”

“It’s okay, I got you, kid.” He takes a handkerchief from the inside of his jacket, bunching up your pant leg and tying a makeshift tourniquet. 

Another gunshot rings out, and there’s the sound of a body falling to the ground. You grab Hank’s hand, stammering out “Connor! See Connor!”

He understands your kind-of-broken English and moves to the edge of the roof, looking over the edge. “It’s okay. The deviant killed itself, not Connor.”

You slump down, your back hitting the hard concrete. You sigh and close your eyes. “Слава богу.”

Hank kneels by your side and gently jostles your shoulder. “How come you never told me you had a prosthetic?”

You open your eyes and look up at him, slightly delirious from shock. “Ты ж ненавидишь андроидов. You hate androids.”

“Yeah, but I don’t hate you,” Hank says. He pats your hand, then stands. “C’mon. Let’s get you up and movin’.”

You sit up and let him move you, supporting you with an arm around your middle. “You’re real fuckin’ stupid sometimes, y’know that?”

“I know, Lieutenant.”

“Officer, please,” Connor says. “I insist that I at least be present while you repair yourself.”

You reach up into the cabinet and push jars of pickling mushrooms and cucumbers aside to find your spare parts. “Connor, I’ll be okay. I was just in shock earlier, and my nose has already been set.”

You pull your toolbox down and start to lay out what you need on the breakfast table. “Besides, I have a cat. She’s somewhere around the apartment. Don’t you like dogs?”

“I can tolerate cats,” Connor says. 

You lay down a towel on the table, then sit and hoist your calf onto the towel. “Well, she probably won’t tolerate you.”

Connor pulls up a chair next to you, eyeing the damage to your leg. He pulls off his blazer and drapes it on the back of the chair, then rolls up his sleeves. “At least let me supervise the repairs.”

“Fine,” you sigh. “Supervise all you want.”

You pick up a soldering iron and switch on the heating component. You gently pry a piece of metal away from your prosthetic, then cut it loose with the iron.

“Your hands are shaking,” Connor says. 

“No, they’re not,” you snap. Then, you pause and realize that he’s right. “I… okay. What do you want me to do about it?”

“Let me do the repairs.” He leans an elbow on the table and leans closer to you. “I’m an android, so you can trust me to be perfectly precise. If I mess up, I promise I’ll let you take over.”

You sigh and hand over the soldering iron. Connor takes it in one hand and steadies your leg with the other. You breathe out slowly, shakily at the touch. 

To his credit, his movements are smooth and precise. All of his concentration is focused on what he’s doing right now. 

After a few minutes, you quietly ask, “Why are you doing this?”

“It would be…” Connor pauses. “Detrimental if you weren’t able to accompany me and Hank on further cases. Less-than-ideal repairs could possibly cause worse damage than what was there initially.”

“Right,” you say softly. 

“May I ask you a question, Officer?” Connor asks, still concentrating. 

“Yeah,” you say. “What is it?”

“You acted like you were in… pain when your prosthetic got shot,” Connor says. “Why was that?”

“Phantom limb phenomenon,” you say. “Everything happened too quickly. My brain remembered what it should be feeling. So it just replayed the… the memory of…”

You look away, out the window. You swallow thickly, suppressing your words. Connor doesn’t need to know this. “Nevermind.”

“The memory of what, Officer?” Connor prompts. 

“Nothing,” you say. “It’s nothing.”

You can see Connor glance at you out of the corner of your eye. He then looks away, instead focusing on the repairs. 

Your eyes catch a flicker of movement in the hallway. It’s a small head and two pointed ears, peeking out of the doorway to your bedroom. Two green eyes, dilated in the low light, blink slowly at you. 

“Бронислава,” you say softly. Her ears perk up in response to hearing her name.

“Bronislava?” Connor parrots. 

You point down the hall. “My cat. She’s shy.”

Connor lifts the soldering iron and looks over his shoulder. As soon as Bronislava registers his eyes on her, she darts back into the room. 

“She’ll come around,” you say. “She was the same way with Hank.”

Connor turns back to your calf. He’s nearly done with the internal work. 

“How are you so good at that?” You ask. “Have you done this before?”

“No,” Connor says. “I just have an intricate knowledge of android parts and biocomponents.”

“That inspires confidence,” you mumble.

Connor huffs out a laugh. “I heard that.”

You lean back in your chair and adjust yourself, your knee knocking against Connor’s. “No, you didn’t.”

You smile to yourself as you replay the sound of Connor’s under-the-breath laugh in your mind. It was nice, even if it only lasted for a second. A weird feeling settles in your chest, like there’s something wrong with your diaphragm. 

“Are you okay, Officer?” Connor asks. “I detect an elevated heart rate and increased rate of breathing.”

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just excited to get my repairs done, is all. I’ve done this enough times to know you’re almost done with the internals.”

“Hm.” Connor hums, then continues his work. You take the opportunity to take in his bare arms – it’s a rare sight. There really isn’t anything out of the ordinary about his forearms, no scars or blemishes, but you still appreciate it. 

Connor breaks into your line of thought. “May I ask you another question?”

“Yeah?” You say.

“It’s about Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor says. “Why does he hate androids so much?”

You feel your stomach sink. You look away and sigh sharply. “I’m not at liberty to answer that question.”

Connor stays silent this time. You’re kind of thankful for that. 

Bronislava peeks her head out of the doorway again, her eyes on Connor. You smile to yourself as you hear the bell on her collar just barely jingle. “Don’t look now, but Бронислава is looking at you. She’s curious.”

“Why is she curious about me?” Connor asks. 

“I don’t bring a lot of people back to my apartment,” you say. “I try to keep my work life and private life as separate as possible.”

You lean down a little and tap at one of the legs of your chair, then snap your fingers and click your tongue. “Бронислава! Иди сюда, детка.”

She lets out a soft, sort-of meow and rubs her cheek against the doorway. You laugh and coo, snapping your fingers again. “Сюда, девочка!”

“Does she only respond to Russian?” Connor asks. 

“Mostly,” you say. “She just responds better than English. Maybe it’s the way my voice changes when I speak Russian.”

You glance over at Connor. “Do you… know Russian?”

“I have a built-in translator,” Connor says. “But I haven’t spoken Russian before.”

“Try,” you say. “Repeat after me: Бронислава! Сюда, девочка!”

“брани–бранислава,” he tries in a sing-song tone. “Сюда, девочка.”

No, he doesn’t roll his r’s or pronounce the words quite right, but it still sparks a bloom of warmth in your chest. You bite the inside of your lip to keep from smiling.

Bronislava peeks further out, her paws on the hardwood floor instead of the carpet of the bedroom she came from. Her bell sounds, soft and tinkling.

“She might like your voice,” you say. 

When you glance at Connor, he’s smiling. Then, you look down at your leg – he’s nearly done sealing the externals. The white plastic is slowly fading away, replaced by a wave of color matching your skin tone. 

“How much longer?” You ask.

“Twenty-seven seconds,” Connor responds.

You sit back and watch Bronislava tentatively sniff the air as Connor finishes up. Her whiskers twitch and her mouth opens as she takes in Connor’s new, intrusive smell.

Connor smoothes his hand over your leg. “I’m done.”

You shiver slightly at the contact and pull your leg away, instead drawing your knee to your chest and resting your foot on the chair. You take the towel and wipe your leg of spilled Thirium, then hand it to Connor so he can wipe his hands.

“Look at Бронислава,” you say softly. “But don’t make it obvious.”

Connor slowly cranes his neck, looking down the hallway out of the corner of his eye. His face lights up a little when Brotislava comes into his view.

“Ah,” he says. “I see her.”

As soon as Bronislava sees that Connor’s eyes are on her again, she retreats back to the safety of the bedroom. 

“Damn,” you huff. You stand, trying out Connor’s repair. You lean a little on it and put weight on it – it holds. 

You put a hand on Connor’s blazer. “Can I take this? To introduce her to your scent.”

“Go ahead,” Connor says.

You take his blazer and retreat to your bedroom. You find Bronislava under your bed, her eyes so dilated you can’t see her irises. 

“Эй, красотка,” you say softly. You snap your fingers with your free hand. “Это всего лишь я.”

She slowly creeps forward, sniffing the air. She smells the blazer in your hand, which is surprisingly soft despite its stiffness. (You’re tempted to mirror her and smell it, but you immediately mentally slap yourself and call yourself a creep, even though the thought didn’t actualize.)

“Видишь? Всё хорошо,” you say, still with that quiet, docile tone. “Это всего лишь Коннор.”

Bronislava slowly crawls out from underneath your bed, inching towards the exit to the hallway. You follow her, staying on her level.

“Connor!” You whisper-shout once you’re in the hallway, Bronislava by your side. “She’s coming towards you. But don’t look at her.”

“Okay, Officer,” Connor says. Even though he’s facing away from you, you can hear the smile in his voice. “What will she do?”

“She’ll probably sniff you,” you say, watching as she inches along, sticking close to the baseboards. “Don’t move a muscle once she does.”

Bronislava glances back at you. “Давай, детка!” You encourage. She turns around and looks at Connor’s back, then continues crawling forward.

“She’s approaching your six,” you say, your tone faux-serious. “Contact imminent.”

Connor laughs. “Acknowledged.”

Bronislava nervously sniffs at the legs of Connor’s chair, then moves on and sniffs at his ankles. 

“Her whiskers are tickling me,” Connor says. 

“Just don’t move!” You laugh.

Bronislava continues exploring, if with a bit of nervousness. She sniffs at the hem of Connor’s jeans, then bites at a loose string.

Then, Connor moves a fraction of an inch. It sets Bronislava off, and she dashes past you and back into the bedroom. 

You lean in the doorway, watching as she disappears under the bed again. “Ох, моя бедняжка… Всё в порядке.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. “I was just trying to scan her…”

“It’s okay.” You stand, his blazer still in hand. “She usually just hides around new people. I’m proud of her. And she does seem to like you.”

“She likes me?” Connor says, a bit of excitement in his tone. 

“You sound like a teenager.” You laugh and stand up. You walk over to the table and drape Connor’s blazer over the back of his chair. “Thanks for letting me borrow that, by the way.”

“Of course,” Connor says. 

You move to the side and start to pack your spare parts away in your little toolbox, mentally noting the things you need to replace.

“One more thing,” Connor says. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a prosthetic?”

Your hands still. “It…” you sigh. “I don’t like talking about it. That’s it. It didn’t pertain to the investigation, and you didn’t ask about it, so I didn’t mention it.”

Connor’s LED flickers yellow, then returns to a calm blue. “Understood.”

[nevadancitizen]

-> PROLOGUE: THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA

synopsis: you meet with a mysterious woman on an old californian dock.

word count: ~850

ships: Arthur Morgan/modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: inspired by @heart-of-gold-outlaw !! go read their modern reader fic i really like it. also we'll be getting into the actual time travel stuff after this teaser lololol :3

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

It’s a bracing, misty evening – supposed to be spring, but doesn’t feel like it. The waves are choppy and the gulls are huddled on the pylons with their beaks tucked under their wings, their feathers ruffling in the cold wind. 

Three hulking great ships, all freighters, are tied up on the beat-up dock. This isn’t one of those fashionable wharfs with dockworker unions or passenger liners – no pretty girls on their balconies, clinking champagne flutes to celebrate the start of the cruise. Just a couple of red-faced salts in pea jackets tramping by, trailing cigarette smoke, boots crunching on dried-up gull shit.

They spare you glances as they pass by, surely wondering what you were doing here in the early hours of the morning. Were you waiting for someone to get off work? Were you waiting for a drug deal? Or were you just admiring the way the waves spray water onto the dock?

(In reality, it was none of those. You’re waiting on something much worse.)

A woman, sleek and modern in style and rugged and worn in looks, approaches you. She has a quiet intensity about her — something about the way she squints against the ocean spray mixed with the permanent-looking scowl on her face. 

She tilts her head toward you, and you nod. You walk towards her and meet her halfway, leaning in close on her insistence. 

“You’re the one in need?” She asks softly. You just barely hear her over the waves crashing against the dock.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say, just as soft. “It’s my sister’s daughter. My eleven-year-old niece. She’s… she’s in a really bad way.”

“What does she need?” The woman asks. 

“A pancreas,” you say. “She’s got acute recurrent pancreatitis. There aren’t a lot of affordable child-sized organs lying around. God knows I’ve turned not just California, but the entire Mojave upside-down trying to find one. I’ve called hospitals in Arizona, Nevada, even New Mexico. I – I’m not asking you to kill a child! I just… I need the money for the operation. It’ll put her on the waiting list, and… once we show the hospital we have the money, I’m sure she’ll be okay. Somehow.”

The woman narrows her eyes. “Why don’t you just take out a loan? Or take on debt?”

“I can’t,” you say. “None of us can. I foreclosed on my last house. My sister has thousands of dollars in credit card debt, counting all the interest. Please, just trust me when I say I need this money. I don’t think anyone has nearly half a million dollars in their junk drawer. If I did, why would I be here, asking you for it?”

The woman looks you over and tucks her jacket closer around her. The outline of a gun at her hip becomes glaringly obvious – she wants you to notice it.

“Ma’am, I’m begging you.” You clasp your hands together as tight as you can. “I come from a family of deadbeats and addicts. I was an addict myself, and I quit just to save money for her operation, but it’s just not enough. I need this money. I won’t misappropriate these funds – won’t use them to pay off other debts, won’t use them for drugs. Just… please, miss.”

The woman holds up her hand. “Stop groveling.”

What the fuck else am I supposed to do?! You shout in your head. I need money, and you’ve got the money! My niece is going to fucking die if I don’t get it!

Instead, you just nod politely and put your hands behind your back. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies. I’m sure you can understand my desperation.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman hums. “I can get you the money. Just give me your banking details and I can wire it to you.” 

You pull out a pre-prepared index card with your bank information written down. The woman checks that it has your full name, address, account number, and routing number before speaking again.

“Do you have life insurance?” She asks, as if offhandedly.

“Uh, yes?” You say, unsure. “It won’t come out to a lot, so I couldn’t have an “accident” at work. Maybe just under 200,000 dollars? Nowhere near enough to cover her operation.”

The woman hums and tucks the card into her pocket. “I’ll get you the money.”

“Thank you so, so much,” you say. “You have no idea what this means to me – no idea what you’ve done for me and my family.”

“I have some idea.” The woman’s hand lingers at her waist. It takes you a few seconds too long to notice that –

A loud sound. A raging pain. The bullet hit something vital, but doesn’t grant you the mercy of dying in that instant. 

You stagger back, holding yourself. “What…”

“You’re dumber than you look,” the woman says, her voice fading in and out. “I’m just helping your family.”

You inhale shakily and take a step back. There’s a sense of falling, and something cold surrounds you, but you can’t make out much of anything in this condition. 

The last thing you think before the black takes you? It’s May. Who the fuck gets shot in May?

[nevadancitizen]

-> FASCINATION WITH THE ORDINARY

synopsis: your world is vastly different from the nevada native to madness combat. after the main three + 2bdamned get transported to your world, they each find things that fascinate them.

word count: 2.5k

characters: hank, deimos, sanford, 2bdamned, player! reader

trigger warnings: ehh slight yandere/obsession but could also be read as super heavy pining if you're not into that lol

notes: madness combat fandom arise. madness combat fandom come back to me (also set in @/saltymongoose 's self-aware au)

For the sake of consistency, let’s imagine that the Player lives in a big, lonely, woodsy and plain-sy plot of land. There’s little to no outside human interaction, and lots of animals wandering through the area with a river running through it. For the wildlife, I’m basing it on the American South because I’ve lived here my entire life and know how they act.

SUNSETS & SUNRISES

2BDamned would be the most entranced, since he has the most memories from before the fall and before Hank killed the sun. He’s an early riser by nature (since his body has conditioned him so he’s mostly overworked and under-rested, as unhealthy as it is), so he leans more towards the beauty of a sunrise, towards the light that starts to paint the dark sky with hazy orange shades and rosy hues. He likes breathing in the crisp air and the way it almost sends a shock through his lungs.

But the sun stirs a lingering feeling of nostalgia, though, for the way things were before everything fell to madness. Doc tries his best not to let the thoughts get the better of him as you slip through the front door and out onto the front porch, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. 

God, he could imagine staying like this forever: just you, him, a beautiful sunrise, and coffee. Surely the way you pay attention to him, the way you get up extra early to watch the sunrise, the way you doctor his coffee just right – they’re all examples of how you care for him, just as he cares for you. But for now, he’ll just bide his time, blowing the steam off the surface of his coffee and purring, soft and raspy, both at the taste and because of your company.

But that doesn’t stop the others from appreciating the astounding view at dusk, because Sanford and Deimos are more partial to sunsets after long days. They like lounging in the adirondack chairs set up around the fire pit, cracking open a few beers, and simply relaxing with you. (Don’t worry, Sanford will gather firewood and Deimos will set it alight if it’s a little too cold for your taste.)

They’re fresher clones, so they don’t remember the sun well, if at all. They both always go quiet when the sun starts to dip below the horizon. Sanford props his tea sunglasses on top of his head and Deimos sets his cigarette in the ashtray as they both stare at the way the light turns the clouds purple and paints the sky with pink streaks. It stirs something sad in your heart – both of these men are pushing and just over the cusp of thirty, yet they don’t know the simple sweetness of a sunset. 

But as soon as night overtakes the sky, they both turn their attention back to you. Deimos makes some suave comment about your beauty being nothing in the face of a sunset in that rumbling, smooth voice of his, and Sanford gives him a pointed glare. Sanford points out that your beauty and the beauty of nature are two whole different things, but keeps showering you with not-so-inadvertent compliments, leaving you flustered and blushing from both grunt’s words.

Hank is somewhat of an anomaly with this one. All of the grunt’s biological clocks are absolutely porked from their time without a sun, but Hank’s affected the worst by far. (That, and he doesn’t really care for the sun. He literally slaughtered it.) Therefore, he’s more privy to waking up in the middle of the night and dragging you onto the roof to look at the stars. 

He likes laying on his back with you on his chest, pointing out the brightest stars and asking you questions about them. (He doesn’t really care, he just likes hearing your voice.) He loves your vivid descriptions of the constellations and how you describe them in intricate ways. To Hank, they’re just sparkly, unreachable dots in the sky, but it seems like, to you, they’re beautiful: like millions of silver nails driven into a dome of dark blue velvet. 

He savors the moments like these the most, when you’re alone with him. There’s no sound except for the crickets and dog-day cicadas and spring peepers and your voice and Hank’s sputtering purring. Honestly, it’s as it should be – without those other pesky dipshits ruining your time together. (Well, he can tolerate Doc, but that annoying extraction team could go fuck themselves for all he cared.)

ENTERTAINMENT

Sanford hates being lazy. He hates feeling like he’s not doing anything useful, even if he’s being useful by resting. The only real way to make him sit down and stop moving is by trapping him on the couch, laying your head in his lap, and turning on the TV. (Even if, for the first thirty minutes, he’s too focused on you and your body heat and how fast his heart is beating to even consider looking at the TV.)

But the thing he loves watching the most isn’t any sort of movie with amazing cinematography or show with riveting writing – it’s infomercials. Specifically, infomercials from the 90’s to the late 2000’s. He likes seeing what things could’ve been like if there was no madness in Nevada, because things are oddly peaceful (at least, to him) in your world. Billy Mays and Cathy Mitchell make him wonder about domestic life with you (even if the Jupiter Jack and the Xpress Redi-Set-Go are completely obsolete by now), and how these little gadgets would make your life together supposedly go smoother.

He likes combing his claws carefully through your hair as you both watch these people play up how useful these obviously useless inventions are. He tries to avert his eyes and act interested in the TV as you look up at him and point out how the Red Devil Grill was recalled because it got so hot it collapsed and caused fires, but can’t. He just can’t keep his eyes off you when you look up at him so sweetly, and can you blame him? You just make his face so warm and his heart beat so fucking fast…

Deimos has always had a fascination with electronics, but it’s mostly been from a tactical and weaponized standpoint. But he’s discovered (well, really, you introduced him to) video games. He absolutely loves curling up into your side, purring and providing commentary as he watches you play. (Because, despite his trying, he hasn’t really gotten a hang of the controls yet.)

He loves more story-fueled games with characters he can really get attached to. He likes investing himself in things and people that don’t actually affect him, because seeing your favorite character go through dire straits or even die hurts for a little while, but it’s nothing compared to seeing someone get eviscerated right in front of you. And, yeah, he totally cried when Arthur Morgan died (and totally played it up so that you’d comfort him). 

He also likes draping himself over you in the middle of a boss fight, wriggling and nuzzling into your cheek, causing you to giggle, lose focus, and, obviously, die. He strings together half-hearted apologies through his raspy purring, but he’s not really sorry. More deaths means more time spent with him, and internally, he’s completely and honestly unapologetic for his underhanded tactics. 

Due to the nature of his administrative role, Doc spends a lot of time in front of screens. He likes to unplug and unwind by reading, no doubt with a straight-up hazardous amount of coffee by his side. He prefers reading with you with an arm wrapped around your shoulder, whether you’re also reading or working on something else. Though he’s inexperienced (and sometimes even shy) with these types of things, he’s more than happy to ease into affectionate touches and romance that kills his common sense with you. 

His tastes are often cheap, but when he earns enough dough, he likes to splurge on second-hand college anatomy textbooks. No, he’s not planning on going to university, but he wants to know the inner workings of the human system (and, therefore, the inner workings of you). He also likes speculative biology and seeing what humans think about other intelligent species potentially being out there.

He would absolutely be elated (though he tries his best to hide it) if you took his interests seriously and discussed them with him. He tries to keep you in his makeshift office and away from the others so you can continue to spend this precious alone time with him, but that doesn’t stop the red-hot flare of jealousy as one of the others bursts in with a childish ask about something that should be obvious. (Of fucking course you wouldn’t want to go for a walk, Deimos, have you seen the weather out? Leave you and him alone!)

Obviously Hank would love gorefest and splatter film movies because of his all-encompassing and absolute love for carnage, and he’d love them even more if you got scared and hid yourself in his shoulder or chest. It’s clear that he’s your strongest and most capable vessel, so he clearly agrees with your choice to choose him as your protector (even if that choice is based on an instinctive need to hide). 

He also loves WWE and MMA fighting. When given the choice, he opts for MMA because it’s real and bloody and he prefers seeing people push themselves to their absolute limit rather than some predetermined fight that serves a higher storyline. (But, then again, he really likes the clip of Undertaker breaking into Paul Bearer’s house during an interview and throwing a cabinet at him because, what the fuck? He’s never thought of that before! Using things from the environment when out of weapons instead of his fists could be an improvement. Maybe he can learn a thing or two from these fake fighters…)

And, yes, if you give him access to Twitter he will turn your entire timeline into those backyard fight videos and dashcam car crashes. He doesn’t mean to, it just happens.

ANIMALS

Being a natural night owl, Deimos loves keeping a lookout for what critters come out at night. When he’s on the front porch with you, smoking a cigarette and waving away mosquitoes, he makes sure to keep an eye out for weird and unusual wildlife. (While pressed against your side and purring loudly, no doubt.)

He likes watching the whip-poor-wills swoop down and catch the moths that swarm around the overhead porch lights. Yes, he will try to catch one, but backs off when you tell him to. Instead, he opts for digging in the dirt to find beetles and grubs to toss up in the air for the small birds to catch. He will kinda feel bad if the beetles hit the ground but will continue to throw them to the birds when you tell him insects are basically immune to fall damage, so… no harm, no foul.

He’s also absolutely enamored by raccoons. He likes throwing food to them from the safety of the porch and watching them eat with their little grabby hands. He’s very reckless so, despite your warnings, he’ll try to squirrel one away inside the house. (He does this multiple times and, without fail, gets bitten each time. 2B has given him multiple rabies shots after shooing the raccoons out with a broom.)

Speaking of Doc, he enjoys going out in nature and finding decaying things just to see how many buzzards arrive. He excuses it with something about wanting to see if decomposition works the same across both your world and his, but he secretly finds some relation with the birds – something about being deliverers and arbiters and negators of death. (Though the last one really only applies to him.)

He also likes the rare sightings of wild horses. He’ll go out of his way to (carefully, shyly) rouse you from whatever you’re doing to go take a look at the majestic beasts, and he’ll be even more excited if there’s a foal wandering between the stocky legs of the adults. 

He just barely brushes his fingers against yours as you both stand on the edge of the treeline and watch them graze. Seeing the foal break from the herd, kick out and tumble and fall over and immediately get back up sparks… something in his heart. A vision. Just you, just him, linked pinkies, and a future together, with this warm feeling in his chest.

Hank really likes the more dangerous creatures. He gets along well with cottonmouth and other venomous snakes (and “gets along well” really means that they’re mean as can be and strike as often as possible while he just holds them and smiles at you). 

If you don’t keep a close enough eye on him, he’ll wander off and try to provoke larger animals, like bobcats. To him, they’re just tiny little pussycats, even if they pose a real threat and could kill him. Please don’t let him go too far, because if he comes across a bear, he will try to wrestle it, and Doc doesn’t like having to do emergency surgery on the island countertop in your kitchen. 

On multiple occasions, he’s come back to the house after being missing for hours, reeking of skunk spray. He just purrs happily as you tell him to strip and hold still as you spray him down with the hose.

Sanford is way calmer with his interactions with wildlife. He likes sitting on the dock with you and watching the fish swim by (because he’s impressed both by the fish and by the river – he’s never seen water in such great quantity!) Set him up with a hook, lure, and line and he’ll be entertained for hours. Though he struggles a bit with making streamers and fishing knots due to his big hands and claws, he’s more than patient when you teach him (mostly because he gets to spend time with you). 

When he’s fishing, he likes to look around and observe – mostly because fishing is a waiting game. His favorite visitors are herds of whitetail deer, especially when summer is in full swing and the fawns are ready to start exploring. They remind him of his family, mainly because of the way the does don’t really care which fawn is theirs, just that each is getting enough milk. You point at them and discuss them with him in small whispers because you don’t want to spook them. 

Again, it reminds him of his want for a domestic life with you. Just basking in the mottled sun that seeps through the trees, dipping your bare feet in the cool river water as a catfish tugs on the line – it’s all he wants, really. Now if he could just get the rest of the grunts to leave you alone… excluding Deimos, of course.

[nevadancitizen]

-> ATOM BOMB BABY!

synopsis: you're a nomadic survivor in a post-apocalyptic wasteland until you get transported to a strange, new world. these demons were obviously expecting a human that was softer, less spikes-and-thorns and more fluff-and-wool. how will they react and adapt?

word count: 3.3k (~530 each)

characters: lucifer, mammon, leviathan, satan, asmodeus, beelzebub, belphegor, post-apocalyptic! reader

trigger warnings: canon-typical violence, it's implied that the reader has killed before and will kill again lol

notes: new vegas and obey me! have been kicking me in the head repeatedly recently. so there are some allusions/references to new vegas in this one but you don't need to know jack about new vegas to understand this :) also mammon's is longer than everyone else's and he's pining hard for mc because i'm soooo in love with him it's not even funny and IGNORE that there's a lot of holes you could poke in this.. okay? okay <3

It had been a… a miscalculation, really. An embarrassing one. Diavolo had accounted for many things to ensure the success of the Exchange Program, but he failed to account for the most important thing: the fact that, at the end of the day, humans are better at killing than any other living thing. 

Was it wrong for him to assume that things had been the same way they were two hundred years ago? Yes, of course. It was stupid not to check in on the human world, because if he had, he’d find that it was razed by nuclear bombs, the land and water still tainted with the fallout.

So, no, neither he nor the brothers know what to do when you quite literally fall out of the portal. They’re shocked when, instead of being confused and scared and fragile, you’re vile, scarred, spitting threats as if they came naturally. Wait – are you wearing riot armor? And – yeah, that’s a gun. Definitely a gun. A gun you’re currently pointing at them.

-> LUCIFER 

Honestly, this is the last thing Lucifer needed: another fucking headache. He supports Diavolo with all that he is, but he can’t ignore the fact that he’s sometimes so careless that shit like this happens. He’s the one who talks some sense into you and gets you to holster your weapon, as he’s the only one with a level head in the room. (Well, Diavolo would be the other, but he’s… weirdly excited that this human is challenging and has so many thorns you’d think they were born in a briar bush!)

He’ll try his best to accommodate you, even if that means teaching you that yes, you have to shower at least once every two days if you’re to continue living in the House of Lamentation. And no, you cannot hoard food and water in your room. He knows it’s instinct for you at this point, but it causes problems with Beel. 

He basically takes over teaching you how to be a regular, functioning member of polite society, kinda like how he did with Satan. (Really, he thought he’d never see the day where the Devildom was considered part of polite society, but after seeing snippets of the human world through you, he knows that this place is way better than the human world.) He teaches you how to use proper cutlery, how modern plumbing and refrigeration works, and how to solve your problems with words rather than bullets. 

Lucifer is also… oddly patient when it comes to you. As much as he hates to admit it, he sees part of himself in you – the part that had just been cast out of the Celestial Realm, the part that took months to adjust to the world of the Devildom. He knows what it’s like to be subjected to new and confusing ideals – but instead of just a completely different way of life, you’re introduced to the same on top of an legit, organized education system that you’ve never encountered before.

And if that trigger finger of yours ever gets itchy, he’ll take you to go hunting. He’s inexperienced when it comes to hunting with guns instead of claws, but this is the only time he’ll set his pride aside, sit back, and learn. What better hunter to learn from than someone who’s hunted everything, from mutated creatures to fellow man?

If you ever take him to the human world, prepare for him to be silent and observant. He’ll be that way for a while, just looking over the rolling hills and plains that were once green, killed and turned brown by radiation. Then, slowly, softly, unsure if he’s speaking to himself, you, or his Father: “What a splendid world you ruined…”

-> MAMMON

When Mammon comes into the Student Council Room (because he was running late, as per usual) to find you, gun holstered but hackles still raised, his first instinct is to get the fuck out. He’s been in situations like these before, and he knows when to bounce.

But, of course, he’s still assigned as your guardian even though you clearly don’t need one. He thinks that your guns and knives are enough to deter any demon, honest! (Even though that doesn’t deter him from trying to pick your pocket. What really deters him is when you catch his wrist and hit him with the most threatening glare he’s ever seen on a human. Jeez, you honestly look like you’re about to clean his clock…!)

But still, since the Great Mammon was assigned as your guard, he’ll stick around. He doesn’t really mind, because you’re kinda cool anyways – not that he’ll ever say it to your face. But really, with the kinda armor that you’re wearing, plus the grime of the wasteland that doesn’t go away no matter how many times you wash… you’ve got a unique style, and that’s all he has to say, okay? If you really want, he guesses he can hook you up with a modeling gig – but only if you’re with him! Uh – only because he wants to make himself look better in comparison, y’know?

Yeah, even with someone from the wasteland, he’s still absolutely head over heels in puppy love. He’ll show you stuff he got from the Old World (as in, the pre-war human world) because, as much as he denies and deflects, he wants you to have some sense of normalcy. A place that isn’t filled with raiders and ghouls and slavers and someone trying to kill you at every other turn. He’s nice like that.

But he still really wants to know what the New World is like! You can’t get those Old World Blues if he’s just as enthusiastic about New World Hope, right? He asks about your weapons (and takes the spent bullet casings from your guns because they’re shiny), your occupation, your lifestyle – everything, honestly. He wants to know about your family – assuming they’re still alive – and your friends – again, assuming the same. He’s eager to know as much as you’re willing to share, even the more gruesome things you’ve seen or experienced.

He also wants to know about what… ahem, what affection is like. Surely you can’t trust easily when people are willing to kill one another over a sack of rotten vegetables, right? So he’ll be gracious and allow you to playfight and get rough with him, since that’s your weird human way of showing affection! What do you mean that’s not – that’s not how humans show affection now? Humans show affection in the New World the same way they did in the Old World? Well, he just assumed because you hadn’t been showering the Great Mammon in praises and loving touches and – ugh! Just drop it, okay?

Yes, he assumes a lot, mostly based on the apocalypse movies he’s seen. Unless you actually have a sit-down with him and talk about what life is really like in the wasteland, he’ll ride on these weird assumptions. Assumptions like the existence of radiation-riddled zombies, super-mutants and their variants, and other beings that would otherwise be labeled as supranatural if not for the complex and long-winded explanations Mammon comes up with.

If you ever take him to the human world, he’d be delighted to see what remains of Las Vegas – or is it called New Vegas now? Who cares! He’s all-too-excited to bust out whatever human world money he has and get those dice rolling! Sure, he knows that the deck is stacked and the dice are weighted and the games are rigged in every possible way, but it’s about having fun with his human, right? (That’s what he says until he’s forced to fold and cash out. Then it’s “no fun anyway,” and “a waste of time,” and he’s itching to check out the nearby towns and settlements. For something to steal? Hell, probably.)

-> LEVIATHAN

The first thought that crossed Levi’s mind is that you’re obviously cosplaying the main character from It’s a Federal Offense to Mess with the Mail, Man!: Tales of Gunslinging Wastelander Couriers Solving Convoluted Demon Family Drama’s way less popular spinoff, I was Doing Fine Scraping by as a Nomadic Wastelander, but Then I was Transported to Some Strange, New World with Seven Demonic Suitors who are Fighting Over Me as we Speak! Though, if that were the case, where was your convention badge? And that armor doesn’t look fake. It doesn’t really click until he hears the very real sound of you cocking your gun that you’re not playing pretend, nor are you fucking around in any capacity.

He so desperately wants to cement the fact in his mind that you’re a normie, you like doing normie things like cleaning your guns and knives and talking about the politics of the wasteland, which actually reminds him of this game he’s playing and you’d totally love it and –! Oh no. It’s true. You’re cool. Like, really cool. Like, not-a-normie-at-all cool!

Even though you’re not an otaku (and depending on where you’re from and your education, you might’ve never even heard of Japan), Levi will slowly come out of his shell and try to ask you questions about the wasteland. Like Mammon, he has a lot of assumptions based on the games he plays, but they would actually be more accurate. Instead of supranatural things, he thinks about the logistics of the world at large – blame the RPGs he plays. 

But, this leads to him thinking he knows all there is to know about your life and how you live it. Depending on your temper, it may lead you to snap at him, telling him that your life isn’t a video game. This isn’t Grognak & the Ruby Ruins. The wasteland is grueling and cruel and unforgiving. You have seen starvation, debauchery, reignited fascism and misled democracy. You have seen people be crucified for not agreeing with the slavers putting them up on the cross. What you’ve lived through isn’t fun. It’s not a fucking game. You can’t respawn if someone gets a lucky hit. You die. And that’s it.

And of course it causes a blow to his ego, reinforcing the idea that he’s just a “yucky otaku” or some shit like that. You have to reassure him that you have nothing against him personally, it’s just that he was being kinda patronizing and acting as if he’d lived in the wasteland all his life instead of you. After some time alone to sulk, he eventually comes back around and realizes that you’re right, and that you’re really cool, and he wants to be friends with you, so after that brief period he apologizes. 

Good luck trying to drag him to the human world! Levi’s a shut-in, and much prefers experiencing the wasteland through video games than real life. Though if you’re bound and determined, call him up on whatever the equivalent of facetime is on your DDD and talk him through what you’re doing while in the human world, even if you’re just walking along an abandoned highway. He really appreciates your effort and might even work up the confidence to travel the wasteland with you, but sticks to walking the desolate wastes as opposed to going into towns and… ugh, socializing.

-> SATAN

Satan immediately wants to laugh in Lucifer’s face because he fucked up so immensely. Seriously, how could you not know a nuclear war happened? (This is ignoring the fact that he didn’t know, either. He just thought that humans haven’t put out anything worth reading in a little while. He’s a demon, so two hundred years is… not a significant amount of time for him.) 

He’s a hardcore nerd, so he wants to pick your brain about the politics, the logistics – everything about the wasteland. He’s kinda insensitive about it in the beginning, but will eventually turn and not treat the deaths of people close to you like a plot point in a book. He’s unashamed about it, too, and will ask you as soon as the question pops into his mind, lest he forgets it. This leads to weird topics of conversation over dinner, all spurred on by his question of “How many people would you say an average person has killed? Assuming they’re competent enough to kill, of course.”

Your weapons are another point of interest for him. Obviously big gun manufacturers aren’t around anymore, so where do you get your guns? Are there modifications on them? Are the mods homemade, or do you get them from a designated seller? Does the seller need a license, or is it a free-for-all? If it’s a free-for-all, how do you know the quality of the mods they’re selling? And other exhaustive lists of questions that leave you wishing that Mammon would just burst through the door with another stupid money-making scheme on the tip of his tongue. 

He knows how overwhelming school can be, and organized education in the wasteland is sparse to none, so he takes up the title of being your tutor. You’re obviously frustrated with this new thing you don’t have a choice but to partake in, and Satan can sympathize. You’ve never even studied in your life, so he tries his best with trying out different studying techniques to help you form healthy habits that promote a healthy school-life balance. 

If you ever take him to the human world, he’ll be elated. Not because of your trust in him to bring him to the wasteland, but because he can actually do a case study on humans! Not on anything in particular, he’s just curious. He takes soil and water samples to test the levels of residual radiation, talks with locals – both in small settlements and more populated areas – about their life experiences, their political opinions, their religious beliefs… basically everything under the sun, really. He comes back with a new appreciation for humans and a few books that have been published in the New World by doctors and the like. 

-> ASMODEUS 

Ew… what sewer did you crawl out of? Asmo respects people’s kinks and lifestyles and knows that someone’s yuck is someone else’s yum, but he holds the firm belief that it shouldn’t impact other people. And that blood on your boots and the… whatever that’s on your armor is seriously grossing him out. (Though the drop knife strap that’s hugging your thigh is really doing something for him. But that doesn’t make up for the fact you haven’t bathed in a week.)

At first, he distances himself a little because you distance yourself. You don’t want to be judged for something that’s considered normal in the human world. Purified water is a precious commodity, and people don’t want to waste it showering when they could be drinking it. A dip in the river – yes, the ones with the sediment and the radiation and the mutated fish – suffices for most.

Though after a while, he decides that it’s high time he’s bonded with the human that’s living under the same roof as him. Maybe you just need a makeover, then you’ll unleash your full potential as a scarred, gunslinging wastelander hottie? Some demons are into that.

So, with little to no warning, he decided it’s time for a shopping spree. Even though you’re uncomfortable wearing the “high fashion” that’s at Majolish (because it provides literally no protection, armor-wise), he’s able to compromise by getting you some loungewear that you won’t be going out in anyway. While you’re out with him, he drags you to a shop that sells soaps, perfumes, and the like. You’re obviously not used to things that smell good and it’s obviously overstimulating, so Asmo just picks some of his favorites and gets you out before you have a scent-induced breakdown.

Once you’re back at the House of Lamentation, he drops all the shopping bags in your room and drags you to his – it’s time for a makeover, because you’re in dire need of one! He gives you a nice manicure (and adds some nail polish if you’re okay with that) and breaks out the “Doctor Asmo” title to diagnose what kind of skin routine would work for you. If you take issue with the scars you’ve accumulated throughout your life in the wastes, he tries many gels and creams to heal the tissue and reduce the starkness of the scars (even if he thinks that it’s kinda futile because the scars have existed for so long or have been exposed to the sun too much). 

Honestly, Asmo cringes at the thought of going to the human world after having you describe it to him. Even the slightest dosage of radiation that’s above the regular background levels can be really detrimental to your skin, and he doesn’t want to risk radiation poisoning – even at a minor level! Raiders can’t be stopped by his beauty alone, and he doesn’t want to chip his acrylics while handling a gun. Instead, he’ll get the human world in little doses through you. 

-> BEELZEBUB

Not to sound rude, but when you first arrived, you smelled far too rank for Beel to eat. Yeah, he’s eaten inedible things before, but he knows when to suppress his hunger because eating something rancid will hurt more than it’ll help. But don’t worry, after you freshen up and bum some clothes off Mammon (because you didn’t bring any other outfit – obviously), Beel’s appetite is back! Good for you…?

He’s actually really excited to sample some New World food when it’s your turn to cook dinner. Even if you tell him it’s nothing to write home about, he’ll eagerly wait at the kitchen island, not-so-subtly sneaking tastes here and there while you cook. He’s not deterred by the weirder-sounding and even-weirder-looking foods like squirrel stew and coyote steak. If anything, that just makes him more excited!

If Mammon’s not attached to your hip while you’re walking the halls of RAD (and surely yapping your ear off all the while), Beel’s there. He mostly sticks around to see what snacks you can conjure up from things he never thought of eating before, like when you plucked a bug out of the air that was flying around the courtyard and snapped its head off before eating it. He stared at you for a second, just enough for you to start to fluster and get defensive, before doing the same. Protein is protein, after all. 

He also wants to introduce you to fangol! From what you’ve shared, he’s deduced that sports aren’t really a thing in the wasteland – you can’t waste your energy playing when you need it for your continued survival. But you’ve got a lot of energy from being cooped up in the House of Lamentation, so he can help you in a way that benefits both you and Beel: you get rid of your excess energy, and he gets to practice. Practice with someone who’s very inexperienced, yes, but still – it’s practice!

And if you ever itch to get a hint of your old wanderer lifestyle back, he’s all-too-happy to take you on a hike or to go camping with you. Even if it’s purely on a whim with no preparation whatsoever, he’ll grab whatever he can carry from the fridge, stuff it in a backpack, and, after sending a text to Lucifer detailing where you and he are heading, be ready at the front door, all within ten minutes. The food he brought won’t be enough, surely, but he can strip the leaves off a tree like an elephant if needed. 

If you ever take him to the human world, make sure to pack ample food for him because, if pushed, he will strip the nearby towns and settlements of their food supply that was meant to last the next three months. Yes, he’ll pay them for the food, but still – it’s a shock for the wastelanders to see this towering figure push a bunch of money in their hands without even counting it and rattling off what he wants like he’s ordering at a restaurant. 

-> BELPHEGOR

He’s in the attic and a wastelander like you has enough common sense to not trust him. Good ending he stays locked in the attic forever lol goodbye twat