increaseinstability: (pic#12424006)
connor [ the android sent by cyberlife ] ([personal profile] increaseinstability) wrote2018-07-18 03:01 pm

open post

open post



feel free to just burst through and drop starters at any time
fuckingusername: (pic#12378168)

[personal profile] fuckingusername 2018-08-23 03:29 am (UTC)(link)
[Hank takes in Connor's LED spinning yellow, the way he almost seems to be lagging like he's got too many tabs open at once.

His nose scrunches a little as he makes a thoughtful sucking noise through the gap in his front teeth. Connor's clearly on edge, and Hank hates the something big and looming and protective rearing up, spreading out through his chest like little vines of warmth.

He's not fucking stupid. Connor needs him as much as he needs a couch to sleep on or food to eat (which is to say, not at all).

But... Connor wants him. For some fucking reason that's completely anathema to Hank, Connor wants to keep him around so bad that he was willing to break his fucking programming to get there.]


I offered, didn't I?

You n- you want a blanket or a pillow or anything?
fuckingusername: (pic#12378114)

[personal profile] fuckingusername 2018-08-24 03:05 am (UTC)(link)
[Hank gives Connor a weird look, his nose scrunching up further as he crosses his arms over his chest.]

Within reason. [He is kind of unemployed now.] Why, you got something in mind?

[His tone is testing, just a little curious. What Connor would do with his newfound humanity, what he would "want." He was willing to ignore even the fact that he hadn't meant 'or anything' literally, just because he wanted to know what Connor did want.]
fuckingusername: (pic#12378115)

[personal profile] fuckingusername 2018-09-01 03:15 pm (UTC)(link)
[Connor's thank you hits him crossways, right between the eyes, but somehow he manages to get off with just a little hitch in his breath.

He grunts, looks away. Scratches a hand through his beard.]


Whatever. You're so determined to keep my ass alive, probably time I returned the favor.

[He thinks of Connor, riddled with bullets, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Thinks of twin gunshots in an interrogation room, and Connor's body slumped against the wall with a hole in his forehead.

The sickening crunch of twisted metal and broken plastic, and a dark blue smear along wet pavement. That one makes his breath hitch, and he twists around to his fridge to pull out a beer (not whiskey, but it'll do) so that Connor can't see the pained expression on his face.

He braces the edge of the bottlecap against the counter and forces it off with a twist of his wrist, and then downs half the bottle, muscles tensed like he's half expecting Connor to slap it out of his hand.]


Couch is yours. I'm going the fuck to sleep. C'mon, Sumo.

[Sumo, who also seems to know how close he came to losing his owner tonight, whines happily and raises himself from his dog bed.]