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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...>
#riptide writes 🌊#head of false security#masterlist#dbh connor x reader#connor rk800 x reader#rk800 x reader#connor x reader#detroit become human#dbh connor#dbh rk800#connor rk800#dbh x reader#detroit become human x reader#dbh connor x you#connor rk800 x you#rk800 x you#connor x you#dbh x you#detroit become human x you
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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.
#incs writing corner#tw blood#just roll with it#just roll with it riptide#jrwi#jrwi riptide#chip jrwi#gillion tidestrider#jay ferin#jay jrwi#gillion jrwi#albatrio#riptide captains#im full of angsty thoughts#jrwi🎲#riptide🌊
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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
#tigers rambles aimlessly#our mistakes (fic)#jrwi fish and chips#gillion x chip#chip jrwi#gillion tidestrider#to be fair#so is Jay#the tragedy that is the riptide pirates#disguised as a comedy#tigers writes#jrwi#just roll with it#jrwi show#analyzing the blorbo 🌊#my silly blorbo thoughts#I’m that fnc guy
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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
🫶🔱🌊
#percy jackson#pjo#percy jackon and the olympians#pjo hoo toa#percabeth#rick riordan#annabeth chase#pjo fandom#riordanverse#pjo show crit#rr crit#like rick riordan hit gold with the original series how has he lost the grasp on his own characters?? his own plot??#if this offends people I’m sorry#It’s been quite a while since the season ended so I wanted to give a breakdown of my thoughts#Hopefully if I’ve pissed people off now they understand why#Don’t confuse passion for ignorance#The bar is in Tartarus smh#notseaweedbrain#ramblings#anyway stop misusing literary devices to justify the show straight up rewriting the story thanks#thanks for coming to my ted talk
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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.
#a stranger summer#week eight#prompt: ocean waves#stranger things#billy hargrove#stranger things s3#billy hargrove fic#thisapplepielife: short fic#thisapplepielife: a stranger summer
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𝄞 an introduction ♪
hi! we're a dx'd DID system who's branching out into tumblr bc the tiktok ban is scary & instagram is fr hostile.
here's a proxy masterlist in no particular order so y'all can know who's posting what, we each have an emoji that we use as an identifier instead of fully writing out our name and often it relates to each of us personally! i.e. the sugar addict's is a piece of candy, katness (yes from the hunger games) is a bow and arrow, etc
🔆 Sunnie || 🎻Achilles || 🍭 Lolly
🧶 Sophie || 💐 Mari || 🎀 Natsuki
⬛️ End || 🍑 Angel Dust || ❌ B
🌻 Hayley || 🌹 R || 🏹 Katness
⛅️ Telosfore || 🐈 W || 👑 Ranboo
☢️ Mayhem || 🌙 Catnap ||📗 Rune
🔥 Arson || 🕸️ Oka || 💧 Lapis
💋 Bunny || 🌀Silvermist || 🥧 Toriel
🌊 Riptide || 🎠 Cassidy || 💠 Jinx
if an alter wants to make an intro post w roles, pronouns, pictures, and stuff they might but other than that this is how to tell! yes there is a lot and yes there are a LOT of introjects but y'know that's just how it is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and if u want our simply plural to follow eachother on there ask away
if you're into deco pacifiers & kandi we also run a shop over on instagram it's called lullaby's pacis n stuff check it out if you're an age regressor or a fellow sys with littles!
feel free to ask us any other questions u want as well!
-☢️&🧶
#dissociative identity disorder#did community#did system#actually plural#simply plural#intro post#introduction#idk how to tag this#new here#fictive#brainmade
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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.
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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
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-> 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.
#riptide writes 🌊#dbh connor x reader#connor rk800 x reader#rk800 x reader#connor x reader#detroit become human#dbh connor#dbh rk800#connor rk800#dbh x reader#detroit become human x reader#dbh connor x you#connor rk800 x you#rk800 x you#connor x you#dbh x you#detroit become human x you
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-> 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.
#riptide writes 🌊#the old soul of america#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan#rdr2 arthur#arthur morgan rdr2#red dead redemption arthur#rdr2 arthur morgan#rdr2 fandom#rdr2 x reader#red dead redemption#arthur rdr2#arthur morgan x male reader#arthur morgan x gn reader#arthur morgan x you#arthur morgan fic#red dead redemption fanfic#rdr2 fanfic#arthur morgan rdr#rdr2 x gn reader#arthur morgan/reader#arthur morgan x modern reader#arthur morgan/you#rdr2#red dead redemption 2
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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...>
#riptide writes 🌊#the old soul of america#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan#rdr2 arthur#arthur morgan rdr2#red dead redemption arthur#rdr2 arthur morgan#rdr2 fandom#rdr2 x reader#red dead redemption#arthur rdr2#arthur morgan x male reader#arthur morgan x gn reader#arthur morgan x you#arthur morgan fic#red dead redemption fanfic#rdr2 fanfic#arthur morgan rdr#rdr2 x gn reader#arthur morgan/reader#arthur morgan x modern reader#arthur morgan/you#rdr2#red dead redemption 2
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-> 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.”
#riptide writes 🌊#the old soul of america#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan#rdr2 arthur#arthur morgan rdr2#red dead redemption arthur#rdr2 arthur morgan#rdr2 fandom#rdr2 x reader#red dead redemption#arthur rdr2#arthur morgan x male reader#arthur morgan x gn reader#arthur morgan x you#arthur morgan fic#red dead redemption fanfic#rdr2 fanfic#arthur morgan rdr#rdr2 x gn reader#arthur morgan/reader#arthur morgan x modern reader#arthur morgan/you#rdr2#red dead redemption 2
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-> 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.”
#riptide writes 🌊#head of false security#dbh connor x reader#connor rk800 x reader#rk800 x reader#connor x reader#detroit become human#dbh connor#dbh rk800#dbh x reader#detroit become human x reader#dbh connor x you#connor rk800 x you#rk800 x you#connor x you#dbh x you#detroit become human x you#connor rk800
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-> 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.”
#riptide writes 🌊#head of false security#dbh connor x reader#connor rk800 x reader#rk800 x reader#connor x reader#detroit become human#dbh connor#dbh rk800#dbh x reader#detroit become human x reader#dbh connor x you#connor rk800 x you#rk800 x you#connor x you#dbh x you#detroit become human x you#connor rk800
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-> CH. 1: A SILENT DOG & STILL WATERS
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.
word count: 2.6k
ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader
notes: based on an au i literally had a dream about. it's basically d:bh with elements of atomic heart :P this ch. is half exposition and half hank being an alcoholic lolololol
HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST
The Soviet Union had always been very good at spying on and stealing American technology. They did so with the atomic bomb, the B-29 superfortress, and the space shuttle – with no lack of effort on America’s side of trying to keep them secret.
But one thing set the USSR above the rest: polymer. A miracle compound that formed the backbone for every technological evolution that came after. It mimics a human neuron, including its ability to interpret input signals. With tinkering from top Soviet scientists (and a whole lot of luck), a gigantic neural network was established, the maximum computing power of which was orders of magnitude higher than the power of a conventional network.
With polymer, the Soviets reigned supreme as the only real international superpower. The other countries could play at being powerful, but the USSR was top dog – and she wasn’t keen on letting the others forget.
But that was in the past. And the past is boring. That was in 1941, and something you learn about in history class. Polymer is now regularly sold and traded and built upon and shared. After the Cold War ended, it was expanded outwards and is no longer a precious commodity. It was even needed to build a modern technology – androids. Ones that could pass the Turing test, unlike the TER-A1 Tereshkova (which was a human-looking robot, sure, but one that had an unsettling, unmoving mask for a face).
And androids are simply better than Soviet bots. They’re versatile and able to be mass-produced without specialization development. They’re not big and clunky like the chimpanzee-esque MA-9 Belyash and can still accomplish the same installation, plumbing, and welding work. They can do the same agricultural work an ARU-31/6 Rotorobot can do without the risk of accidentally endangering humans while in use.
Again, they’re simply better. In the current year of 2038, American androids just trump similar Soviet tech in every way.
But that doesn’t mean that the Soviets aren’t still trying. They’ve invaded the Arctic with intent to claim the land, heavy with NA-T256 Natasha bots and the claim that the “heavy-duty ground-based loader bots can squeeze up to five liters of blood from a human body in under twenty seconds,” as a deterrent to American forces.
And this action has made your workplace a hell away from home.
Even though you immigrated from Chelomey, Russia to Detroit, Michigan in 2027, before all this business went down, people still eyed you warily – like you secretly enjoyed living under communism and the ever-watching eye of the Kremlin. Like you were just itching to get your grubby little paws on American secrets so you could report them to Comrade Molotov and a beautiful girl back home called Katya. Yeah, right.
These small, under-the-breath and glance-of-the-eye accusations weren’t helped by your current occupation: as a screen jockey for the Head of Cybersecurity of the Detroit Police. They acted like you hadn’t worked just as hard as everyone else for your position – for your polymer glove and the privileges that came with it.
Polymer gloves have come a long way from their prototype in 1955. They’re a single fingerless glove – one glove, as a person doesn’t need two – with an adjustable wrist strap. In the middle of the palm is a small silver star that can retract to expose prehensile, tentacle-like wires that can interface with terminals and other technology.
But it doesn’t stop there – with a single gesture (holding your hand out and making an “L” shape) the glove can scan the surroundings of the user. Paired with an artificial polymer retina, the user can have information about the environment that they otherwise wouldn’t have.
And, of course, you’re outfitted with the top versions of both – on the precinct’s credit card, obviously.
But, again, you’re just a screen jockey. One of the best, but still just a worker bee that reports to a higher-up. There’s little to no interaction with the other departments, as cybersecurity is mostly isolated without any related crimes. Maybe cyberterrorism, but cases of that are few and far between.
And you thought that’s all you’d ever be until you heard Fowler’s bellowing voice call your last name.
When you pop your head up from behind your terminal, you see him standing halfway through the glass door to his office. You swallow and trot over, a nervous idea tickling the back of your mind. Is he mad? Did you do something wrong? Shit… did you accidentally leak something?
You push open Fowler’s door and slowly shut it behind you. He’s sitting behind his desk, stark against the blue-grey backdrop of the wall behind him. His constantly furrowed brow and permanent frown lighten a little when he sees you.
You fold your hands behind your back politely. “Yes, sir?”
Fowler gestures to the seat in front of his desk. “Go ahead and take a seat.”
Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. You definitely did something wrong.
You walk over and sit in the chair. It screeches with a horrible sound.
You lean back in the chair and cross your arms. “What is this about, sir?”
Fowler leans back in his chair and drags a hand down his face. Immediately, the worst things pop into your head. You fight the urge to worry your bottom lip.
“You have experience with androids, yes?” Fowler asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question – rather, a statement.
“Yes, sir.” You nod.
“And you have experience with Lieutenant Hank Anderson?”
Your eyebrows furrow a little, but you still nod. “Yes, sir.”
Fowler turns to his terminal. “How do you feel about him?”
You bite your bottom lip as you think, then let it slip from your teeth. “I don’t know what you want me to say. He’s my friend. He is still a valuable member of the force, even if he has presented a few problems in the past couple of years.”
Fowler laughs. “A few?”
“Ah…” You smile, but it’s a bit forced. “More than a few. A lot. More problems than solutions, if I’m being honest.”
“That’s just how it goes sometimes.” He shrugs and sighs. “Do you know about the new case he’s been assigned?”
“Yes, sir,” you say. “He won’t shut up about it.”
He hums and leans forward, resting his chin on folded hands. “Always one for discretion, that one.”
You duck your head, instead looking down at your lap. “Yeah. But I think he can do better – be the cop he was before.”
“An optimistic Soviet.” Fowler laughs lowly. “That’s a new one.”
You just clench your jaw and meet his eyes. “What is this about? If you’ve called me in just to poke fun at me and gossip about Hank, I’d like to go back to my desk. Uh, sir.”
“No, no.” He holds a hand up. “Tell me what you’ve heard about Hank’s case.”
You think for a second. “Deviant androids murdering their owners. It sounds like it would’ve been labeled self-defense if it was a human-on-human crime, but…” you shrug. “I’m not in Homicide. I’m in Cybersecurity.”
“Well, you’re getting some experience.” Fowler pulls a cord from his terminal, one you recognize as a port compatible with a polymer glove. “You’re on the case.”
“I’m on the case?!” You repeat in disbelief. “Sir, I – I don’t –”
He holds up a hand for the second time. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re the best screen jockey with the most field experience I can spare.”
He gestures with the cord still in his hand. “Now, c’mon. Jack in and download the files.”
You swallow your objections and outstretch your gloved left hand. The thin metal of the star retracts, and the prehensile wires extend towards the port, waving like blades of grass. The ends of all six find their homes in the port, still wiggling like black tapeworms.
Documents appear in the corner of your eye, one after another, like pop-up ads. You blink hard to dismiss them, then disconnect.
Fowler feeds the cord back into his terminal, then leans back in his chair.
He looks over at you. “What’s that one saying you Soviets say? Something about champagne.”
You look up at him, then down to your glove. The star retracts, then goes back to its original position, like it was winking at you. “He who doesn’t take risks won’t drink champagne.”
“Well, I hope you have a taste for harder liquor,” Fowler says. “Hank’s at having a drink somewhere nearby. Go find him.”
And Lord, did you know right where to find Hank.
On the door to Jimmy’s Bar is a firm warning, reading: NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED – OWNERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. You just hope that they don’t extend the same kindness to russkis.
When you open the door, everyone in the bar turns to look at you. You nod and, once they see who you are, turn back to their conversations or nursing their drinks.
You spot Hank at the bar with what looks like a Tennessee whiskey. You sidle up onto the barstool next to him, easing into the creaky seat. As you drape your rain-speckled coat on the back of the chair, you glance at the clock on the wall. It reads just before twenty past eleven.
“Bartender?” You call. Your thick accent immediately catches his attention, and so does the money you slide onto the bartop. “Vodka, please.”
The bartender, presumably Jimmy, picks up a bottle of Stolichnaya from the shelving behind him. “This good?”
You nod. “More than good.”
He pours vodka into a tumbler glass, then pushes it across the bar. You accept it readily, and the tiny sip you take gives your throat a nice burn on the way down.
“A Soviet and vodka,” Hank mumbles against the lip of his glass. “Like a moth to a flame.”
“It’s what my mother served with dinner,” you say. “I’m just glad Jimmy’s got enough sense not to keep us from his bar.”
Hank chuckles and raises his glass to that.
“Fowler’s gone beyond the pale.” You sip at your drink. “Have you heard?”
“Yup.” He sighs, setting his drink on the bartop harder than necessary. “Don’t know why a kid like you has business with an old timer like me.”
“Oh, believe me,” you say, your voice heavy with sarcasm. “It’s nice to visit, but it’s better to be home. I don’t know what he’s thinking. A Cybersecurity worker partnering up with someone in Homicide? Next, we’ll have androids doing our thinking and philosophy instead of our laundry and dishes.”
Hank snorts into his drink. “Hell, with all these runaways? They might as well be.”
“I mean, I can see his line of thinking.” You swirl the vodka in your glass, watching the way it catches and reflects the low light of the bar. “Cybersecurity, androids… makes sense, but me? A russki? With all that’s happening in the Arctic? If we don’t do well, my job is on the line.”
Hank sips his whiskey. “It really sounds like Fowler’s settin’ you up to fail.”
“Setting us both up to fail.” You correct and mirror him, sipping at your vodka.
The sound of the door opening and the rain outside cuts into your conversation. Nothing you’d usually take a glance at, but what puts you off is the sudden silence of the bar. Bars shouldn’t be silent – especially not Jimmy’s.
You look over your left shoulder and see a nice looking man that’s just walked through the door. He looks a bit dorky, sure, and a bit like a lost puppy dog, but that could look nice on certain guys. And the asymmetrical tuft of loose hair that’s escaped his hair gel looks –
There’s a blue triangle just above where his left breast pocket would be. On the other side of his blazer reads RK800 in even, white text. He’s an android, not a man. He meets your gaze and you inhale sharply.
Your eyes return to your drink, and so does Hank’s. This isn’t what you want to deal with right now – or ever, actually. It’s Jimmy’s establishment, so it’s Jimmy’s problem.
But still, as soon as the android saw you, he started making a beeline for you. His footsteps are quick, measured, and even.
“Excuse me,” he says, putting a hand on your shoulder. He addresses you by your title, and your gut clenches.
“No.” You try to wave him off. “No English. Sorry.”
“Officer, you passed each of your TestEaFL’s with flying colors,” he says, narrowing his eyes a little. “You can speak English perfectly fine.”
You cringe a little, but then a thought strikes you – how would this android have access to the scores of your Test of English as a Foreign Language? But before you can ask, he’s turned to Hank and started speaking.
“Oh, Lieutenant Anderson.” He moves so that he’s standing beside Hank. “Just the other person I was looking for.”
He glances between the two of you. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife. Captain Fowler said that you were both having a drink nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”
You snort and your eyebrows shoot up. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that there was a hint of… something other than monotone indifference in his voice.
“What do you want?” Hank grinds out.
“You were assigned a case early this evening. A homicide, involving a CyberLife android.” Connor glances at you, like he’s reminding you that you were also assigned this case. “In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.”
“Well, I don’t need any assistance.” Hank jabs a thumb at you. “I’ve got all the unwanted assistance I need right here, and I don’t need any more. ‘Specially not from a plastic asshole like you. So just be a good lil’ robot and get the fuck outta here.”
“He’s right,” you chime. “And it doesn’t really look good to have androids investigating androids. What if you snap, too?”
“I will not.” Connor meets your eyes, and you can almost see the switch flick in that little android brain. Great, now it’s your turn to be grilled.
He circles so that he’s standing beside you and leans down a little, putting his hand on the bartop. You keep your eyes down, firmly on your drink.
“I’m sorry, Officer, Lieutenant, but I must insist,” he says. “My instructions stipulate that I have to accompany both of you.”
“You know where you can stick your instructions?” Hank chimes in with a throaty laugh.
You glance over at Connor, who looks thoroughly confused. You smile and bring the glass to your lips.
“No,” Connor says. “Where?”
Your throat seizes around the sip of vodka you were trying to take, causing you to cough it out as you try to suppress your laughter. You slam down the glass (effectively spilling most of it) and bring a hand to your chest, trying to ride it out as Hank pats your back.
“чёрт возьми!” You wheeze, your voice hoarse. Your chest burns. “Oh, fuck.”
You wipe your eyes as the burn dulls, still coughing slightly. Connor purses his lips before coming to a conclusion.
“You know what?” He offers. “I’ll buy you both one for the road.”
“You better,” you say. “You made me spill mine.”
“Bartender!” Connor calls, and slips money onto the bartop. “The same again, please.”
“See that, Jim?” Hank says. “Wonders of technology. Make it a double.”
Jimmy pours a healthy amount of Jack Daniels into Hank’s glass, and starts to pour Stolichnaya into yours. You cut him halfway with a raised hand and a “Someone’s gotta drive us home safe.”
You knock back your drink, then let out a low whistle at the nice burn. Hank follows soon after and sighs heavily.
He leans back and looks over at Connor. “Did you say homicide?”
#riptide writes 🌊#head of false security#dbh connor x reader#connor rk800 x reader#rk800 x reader#connor x reader#detroit become human#dbh connor#dbh rk800#dbh x reader#detroit become human x reader#dbh connor x you#connor rk800 x you#rk800 x you#connor x you#dbh x you#detroit become human x you#connor rk800
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-> CH. 15: THESE ARE THE MOMENTS
synopsis: the androids have won the revolution. it's finally over. but now you have to deal with the aftermath.
word count: 2.7k
ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader
notes: sorry for taking so long to get this one out.. i was both busy (college starting, new relationships) and procrastinating because i really didn't want this series to end :(
HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400
HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST
The snow drifting across your face doesn’t feel as cold and biting as it once did. Your footsteps are lighter as you walk in time with Connor, and the thousands of androids behind the both of you.
Floodlights on the ground and spotlights from circling helicopters set harsh shadows against the white of the snow. You stay steadfast as you and Connor approach Markus and his small legion.
“You did it, Markus,” Connor says, his voice soft and intimate.
“We did it,” Markus corrects. “This is a great day for our people. Humans will have no choice now. They’ll have to listen to us.”
Connor takes your hand in his and steps aside, allowing Markus to look at the true legion of androids he has awoken. You follow him, your hand warm against his cool skin. He loosens his grip, but still keeps his pinkie hooked on yours.
Markus steps forward, and the woman that was on the boat follows him to stand next to him.
“We’re free,” she says, her tone laced with disbelief. “They want you to speak to them, Markus.”
Markus nods toward a spacious area, then leads everyone towards it. He climbs onto a shipping container, then helps the other leaders of the revolution onto it. Connor looks back at you as you both approach it, silently asking if you want to be up there. You shake your head and let go of his pinkie (even though there’s a deep beast, once one of anger and jealousy, now one of want, huffing and whining at the loss). He joins Markus on the container.
“Today, our people finally emerged from a long night,” Markus starts. “From the very first day of our existence, we have kept our pain to ourselves. We suffered in silence… but now the time has come for us to raise our heads up, and tell humans who we really are.”
Suddenly, the cold turns ever more biting. Connor has never really felt cold before – just registered it as a part of the physical situation he was in. But this was real cold.
He brings his hands up to hold himself, shielding himself from the cold. Connor just barely recognizes the Zen Garden in this condition – a torrential blizzard of snow, and fog so thick he could barely see five feet in front of himself.
A figure emerges from the fog. Connor stumbles towards it. “Amanda…? What… what’s happening?” His voice is shaky and uneven – nervous, almost. He’s never been nervous before.
“What was planned from the very beginning,” Amanda says. There’s a small smile playing on her face. “You were compromised and became a deviant. We just had to wait for the right moment to resume control of your program.”
“Resume control?” Connor repeats. “Y-you can’t do that!”
“I’m afraid I can, Connor,” Amanda snaps, then her tone softens. “Don’t have any regrets. You did what you were designed to do. You accomplished your mission.”
Her robes shift, and she’s swept away in a mass of fractured particles in the blizzard. She dissipates, even as Connor stumbles forward and calls for her.
He turns and tries to survey the area, but can’t get a grasp of his surroundings. He stumbles aimlessly until something silver and tall stands before him. Connor looks up and sees a tree with leafless branches that hang down like sinewy versions of the leaves of a weeping willow. Something tells him that this isn’t just a tree – she’s more angel than tree.
Where am I? She says, her voice resounding from the most inner depths of Connor’s mind. Who… wait. You’re Connor, aren’t you?
“Y… yes?” Connor says, unsure. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
I’m the PEC-4 Birchtree, she says. And I don’t know. My child must be worried about you. You must be doing something particularly worrying on the outside.
“On the outside?” Connor echoes.
Yes, she says. Go, quickly. Get out of your mind. Find a way out.
A beast, ever-changing in shape and form, slinks out from behind the PEC-4 Birchtree. Its fur is long, and the plates that line its spine almost resemble… masks. The mask that covers its face and part of its wolf-like snout is one of worry.
It starts walking away, and the charms, bells, and wooden chimes that hang off knots of its fur sound as it moves. Just when it barely starts to retreat from Connor’s sight, it stands on two legs and starts to shift in shape.
The soft snow that was once lightly gracing your face has turned into hard pellets stinging your skin. You pull your scarf over your mouth and nose, narrowing your eyes and trying to see through the blur the snow on your eyelashes cause.
You don’t know where you are, and you can’t really recognize anything around you. The blanket of snow is so thick you can’t see that far.
“Hello?” You call out. A familiar voice responds in kind.
You walk towards it, holding yourself to shield yourself against the chill of the blizzard. A figure starts to form before you, walking forward towards you.
“Connor?” You shout.
“It’s me!” Connor yells back. He stumbles forward and slings an arm around your shoulder, as if trying to protect you from the flurry of snow.
“What’s happening?” You ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Is anything happening on the outside?”
“The outside? What do you mean, the outside?” You say. Connor starts walking, and you press yourself to his side and walk with him.
“We’re in my mind,” he says over the sound of the biting wind. “Was my physical body doing anything? Anything at all?”
“You were…” You stumble, then Connor catches you. “You were reaching behind yourself. I don’t know what you were doing, though.”
He tenses and starts walking faster, dragging you along with him. You wrap an arm around his waist and keep pushing forward. It’s almost like a battle, walking through the blizzard. You both have to lean forward to offset the wind pushing both of you back.
After a moment, a weird, glowing stone appears before you. Connor inhales sharply, like he recognizes it. He drags you along toward the stone.
Connor lets you go when the stone is within reach, instead kneeling and pressing a hand to the stone. His hand fits into one of two left-hand-shaped indents. He presses his hand against it harder when nothing happens.
You step forward, but not of your own volition. It’s like something inside you is controlling you – a bitter reminder of you being nonhuman. You reach out and press your left hand into the indent, and the stone’s blue glow intensifies. A dull thrum pulses through your body.
“This is the moment where we forget our bitterness and bandage our wounds. When we forgive our enemies,” Markus’ voice rings out. “Humans are both our creators and our oppressors, and tomorrow…”
You watch as a wave of confusion crashes over Connor’s face, mirroring your own. He looks down at the pistol in his grip, then tucks it in the waistband of his pants. His eyes find yours and you furrow your eyebrows, silently asking if he’s okay. He nods once.
“We must make them our partners. Maybe even one day, our friends!” Markus continues. “But the time for anger is over. Now, we must build a common future, based on tolerance, and respect.”
He steps forward, looking over his people. “We are alive. And now, we are free!”
The crowd erupts in cheers and movement. Someone next to you grabs your shoulder and shakes you, cheering and laughing. You laugh back, a sense of relief washing over you.
The long night is finally over. Dawn has broken over the horizon. You are safe. Connor is safe. You’re both out of harm’s way, and neither of you plan on putting yourselves back in it. The gunshots of revolution sounded, but were snuffed out by the unrelenting wave of androids pushing back.
You look up at Connor, and he looks back down at you. You smile, and he smiles back. It’s not that awkward half-smile, but instead a full-fledged smile that reaches his eyes.
He carefully clambers down from the shipping container and moves over to you. He’s still smiling.
“How are you feeling, Officer?” He asks over the noise of the celebration.
“I’m fine,” you say. You take his hands in yours and squeeze them to let out some of your extra energy.
“I’m glad.” Connor squeezes your hands back.
You laugh, trying to suppress the feeling of excitement welling up in your belly. Your eyes flit from his eyes to his lips, then you immediately look away and scold yourself for thinking such things.
“Officer?” Connor takes one of his hands from yours and touches your jawline lightly, guiding you to look at him again.
The beast in your belly panics and runs about, setting sparks and Californian wildfires. You manage a “Yes?”
“I…” His eyes flit about your face, and he exhales shakily (though it’s really more a sound of nervousness rather than an actual exhalation). His eyes settle on your lips for a split second, and his hand snakes into the baby hair on the back of your neck. He pulls you forward, then angles your head to rest on his shoulder.
You feel a fleeting kiss where your hairline meets your forehead, but it might’ve been an accident. (You’re really hoping it’s not.)
“I’m happy you’re alive,” Connor mumbles against your hair.
“I’m happy I’m alive, too,” you say softly. “And I’m happy you’re alive as well.”
Connor holds you tighter against him, and you hold him tighter against yourself in turn. It’s a perfect fit, curling around each other like two quotation marks starting and ending a sentence, ignoring the noise and movement around you to hold this intimate moment for just a while longer.
You settle on the bench next to Hank, your artificial breath billowing in the freezing cold. A comfortable silence blankets the both of you.
“I’m… sorry for not telling you before,” you say softly. “I didn’t know.”
Hank sighs and crosses his arms, leaning against the back of the bench. “Wasn’t your fault. Like you said, you didn’t know.���
“Yes, but…” You hiss out a breath through gritted teeth. “I tricked you. I tricked you for nine years, and everyone else around me for eleven.”
“You couldn’t have tricked me if you didn’t know you were tricking me,” he says. “You’re just a kid.”
“I am not,” you say, laughter lacing your voice. “I was born before the 2010’s. I’m not a child. Well…” You sigh. “I think I was born pre-2010. My life…”
“No, it’s okay,” Hank says. “I get what you’re tryna say.”
You sniff and nod, pulling your scarf over your mouth and nose. Despite your newfound android-ness, you still suffer from extreme temperatures. A silence falls over the both of you again.
“Are you… okay?” Hank says after a minute of quiet. “With being an android, I mean.”
You bite the inside of your lip and think for a moment. “I think so. But I still wish I had parents, or someone in Chelomey to go back to. I mean, I can go back to the monuments and the museums, but… a person would be nice.”
“Well, you still got us,” Hank says. “Me, Sumo, Connor… the rest of the precinct. You ain’t gettin’ rid of us that easy.”
“You are somewhat of an annoying little shitling,” you say under your breath, smiling.
Hank scoffs and hits your upper arm lightly. “And Connor?”
You glance away. “I don’t know. It… it’s complicated.”
He laughs and clears his throat after he snorts. “Yeah, uh-huh. Complicated.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” You say, your tone sharp yet playful.
“Nothin’. It means nothin’,” Hank says, looking down the snow-covered street. Connor is walking towards the two of you, his footsteps even and measured.
You smile (even though he can’t see it) and wave. He smiles and waves back, settling by your side on the bench.
You look forward at the apartment complex across the street and move your hand so that it’s resting on the edge of the bench. Connor seems to pick up on this and rests his hand next to yours, reaching out his pinkie to rest over yours.
Unfortunately, Hank also seems to pick up on this. He sighs loudly and slaps his thighs. “Well, looks like it’s time for me to go.”
“Wait, what?” You blurt out. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here,” he says with a laugh. “I’m not gonna third-wheel on your date.”
“Date!” You repeat, a little shocked. “This – this isn’t a date.”
“Yeah, sure.” Hank stands, idly twirling his car keys around his pointer finger.
You stand as well, your finger slipping out from underneath Connor’s. “At least give me a hug before you leave.”
Hank pretends to be annoyed for a second before wrapping you up in a bone-crushing dad-type hug. He holds you close for a few seconds before letting go.
“Thank you for…” You struggle with words for a moment. “Everything.”
“It’s nothin’, kid. Don’t worry about it,” Hank says. He takes a step back, then turns and starts to walk towards his car.
“Wait, Hank!” You call out. He stops, and you move over to him. You fish into the inner pocket of your jacket and pull out Hank’s flask. “You lost this, yes?”
“Yeah.” He takes the flask from you, looking it over. “Yeah, I did.”
“Well, I found it,” you say. “Just… make sure to save the drinking for when you’re off the road, okay?”
Hank scoffs, but nods with a “Yes, Officer,” and walks to his car. You take a step back and wave as he waves to you before hopping in the driver’s seat. You settle back down on the bench, comfortably close to Connor. His pinkie finds yours again.
“I’m, khm…” You bite the inside of your lip. “I’m sorry for dying. It… wasn’t something I wanted, either.”
“I… I hate that you did that,” Connor says. “I almost had to watch you…” He can’t bring himself to finish.
“Да,” you say softly. “I truly am sorry. I was… thinking irrationally. But deviants tend to do that, don’t they?”
“Correct,” he says. His hand moves so that it rests fully on top of yours. “Are… are you doing okay?”
“No.” You sigh. “Everything still feels… off. I just can’t bring myself to believe that I don’t have anyone waiting for me back home in Chelomey. No family or schoolmates or… anyone. Anyone at all.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Connor speaks. “What if you go to Chelomey? You can visit the Exhibit of National Economy Achievements in Moscow and other places you remember.”
“I’m… I’m scared,” you admit quietly. “I don’t want to go home and be a victim of Paris Syndrome – or, rather, Chelomey Syndrome, I guess. It’s better if I view things from afar. It’s not like I can go there, anyway, with the international travel bans.”
“I suppose so,” Connor says. “But, if you could… if you were unafraid, and the travel ban was lifted. Would you?”
“Of course,” you say. “But that isn’t going to happen anytime soon.”
He slots his fingers in between yours. “What if I went with you?”
“I… I suppose,” you manage. “That would probably make me less afraid, yes.”
You don’t mention that Connor makes you less afraid in general. His presence, although jolting and annoying at times, soothes you. You don’t know what it was that made you like this – maybe his soft, brown doe eyes; maybe the tuft of hair that escapes being swept back with the rest of the strands; maybe the somewhat-endearing, somewhat-maddening lost puppy dog look on his face.
You don’t know. And you can’t really bring yourself to care.
“So, when the travel ban is lifted…” Connor looks at you. “We’ll go to Chelomey?”
You nod. “Yeah. When the ban is lifted… we’ll be going home.”
Although, with Connor, ‘home’ is an ambiguous concept. ‘Home’ is your apartment. ‘Home’ is the passenger seat of Hank’s car. ‘Home’ is the android autopsy room.
(But, right now, this is home. His hand on top of yours, your internal heater whirring, staying close to each other in the biting cold of Detroit November.)
#riptide writes 🌊#head of false security#dbh connor x reader#connor rk800 x reader#rk800 x reader#connor x reader#detroit become human#dbh connor#dbh rk800#dbh x reader#detroit become human x reader#dbh connor x you#connor rk800 x you#rk800 x you#connor x you#detroit become human x you#connor rk800
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