albinomilksnake | DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

You— [He scoffs, disgust boiling hot across his features, weight rocking back onto his heels as he turns to scan the DPD’s central office— blue eyes darting from corner to corner in an effort to find the root cause of this joke. Because it is a fucking joke.

Until it isn’t.

No one, not a single officer on or off the clock, is watching to witness the punchline. Which makes this not a punchline. Which—

Crooked features sour instantly, attention snapping back towards the plastic toy standing dutifully beside his desk. Connor. That was its name— as if androids need names. Hardware, same as the shitty computer on his desk that hasn’t run searches right in four months. He doesn’t notice the difference in model numbers, the grey of its eyes. Frankly, he doesn’t care. ]

Get fucked. I didn’t sign up to adopt you.

[Reed shoves himself forward. Thrusts his hands down into his pockets, aiming to roughly shoulder-check Anderson’s ex-pet on his way to the break room.]

[Tips his head in a bit, staring down at Gavin. He doesn't budge when he's shoulder-checked, Gavin might as well be bumping against the wall. Definitely built more solid than any normal android.]

I'm afraid your cooperation is not optional. I will be accompanying you on your cases from now on.

[He falls into step behind Gavin.]

[Between the two of them, only Reed moves on impact— tripping over his own heels, his shoulder stinging with a dense, sudden ache. It flexes the muscle in his jaw, the way he shows his teeth in a sidelong scowl angled sharply at his newly minted partner. Partner.

Fuck. This.

Trajectory changing in an instant, Gavin makes an acute turn down the precinct’s primary corridor, storming past the security glass— the electronic sensors and reception queues (staffed by humans in the wake of the recent chaos), stopping only when he climbs in his patrol car, slamming the drivers’ side door shut. Clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth in a rush to manually shift the car into reverse.

Nine in the morning. No immediate orders from Fowler. They can bitch about it later, he’ll work this case on his own.]

Edited 2018-07-14 08:14 (UTC)

[Apparently he is also faster than any normal android. He's already opening the passenger side door as Gavin grabs the shift. He seats himself neatly, knees together, hands on his lap, steely gaze fixed on Gavin.]

This behavior is unnecessary, Detective Reed. I understand my predecessor, the RK800 model Connor android, has made you uncomfortable. However, I am the RK900 version. Rest assured, the entire production line for the RK800 series has been halted and deactivated. As the newer model, my program for working harmoniously with humans is an upgraded version.

Edited 2018-07-14 12:41 (UTC)

[Uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, it says.

Car tires stutter in their tracks, stopping barely a handful of inches outside of the parking space; they’re not in the precinct building anymore, there aren't witnesses around to stop him when Gavin rushes for the gun at his hip, unlatching it and aiming it directly at the android’s face.

(He still remembers cold hands on his shoulders before he’d blacked out in the evidence room, and it’s enough that he’s as hateful as he is wary.)

He doesn’t pull the trigger. Not because he’s exercising restraint in the privacy of his own squad car, where he could dump this tin can’s body out, wash the seats and claim the thing went defective. But because he’s afraid of what will happen in the fraction of a second before he squeezes out a shot.

Fuck, his shoulder still hurts.]

'Harmonious' means you obey. But you don’t— listen. [The whole damn country’s still pulling back from machines not yielding to their owners, and this is what the DPD thinks they need?]

That depends on what you say. And I will take orders from you if they don't conflict with other priorities, such as the success of our missions.

[The RK900 quietly lifts his hand and pushes the gun from his face with the backs of his fingers so it aims to the side, his expression flatly uncaring, as if he's shooing away an insect.]

I would advise you not destroy me, Detective. I would come right back in another body, but I am very expensive.

[The engine idles, rumbling softly beneath them. And he doesn't realize it until that moment, the fact that the knuckles he'd left wrapped around that manual steering wheel are pressed bone-white as if braced for impact; the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiffly upright.

But it pushes aside his threat, this model that looks like Connor (and yet supposedly isn't) and Gavin doesn't know what to make of it— the nauseating mix of relief and contempt and resentment that drops heavy into the pit of his stomach.

Half a minute passes in silence, (Reed tucking his handgun back into place, watching the machine settled beside him out of the corner of his eyes) before he bothers to speak up again:]

Get out of my car.

[There's no apparent anger in it. More than anything, he sounds— curious, hesitantly testing the limits of his freshly given control.]

I will get out of the car when we arrive at the scene of the crime.

[He lowers his hand back to his lap. But he still watches Gavin closely, observing his movements, curious in his own way.]

I'm not driving off, I just want a cup of coffee before we go. You know, to replace the one I didn't get because Fowler mail-ordered me my very own plastic asshole.

So. If you want to tag along with me while I do my job— [Pursing his lips in a substitute for a shrug, Gavin reaches up to deselect the ignition key, letting the car sputter to a halt. Which, if that's not enough, he lets his hand drift lazily over the way someone directs a dog towards its kennel, gesturing for his new best friend to leave.] —fetch.

Otherwise I can sit here all fuckin' day.

[He blinks at Reed for a moment, running a scan on him.]

I don't think so, Detective. You appear to be lying in an attempt to leave me behind, even though doing so would put your job in serious jeopardy. Perhaps after we've built a more trusting partnership, but for now, there's at least one coffee shop situated very close to the crime scene I could stop in for you. I'll even buy you one myself. What do you say?

The only thing putting my job in jeopardy is you. [He says it through his teeth where they're already clenched tight, lips peeled back, looking too much like a cornered animal: bristling in its movements to bite at anything that gets too close.

And then his features pinch. He runs a hand over his face, deflating— but no less irritated for it.]

Fine. [A sharp glare, eyes flicked over as he kicks the engine on (fucking androids.), dragging the car back into reverse.]

Fine—

[There is, in reality, a coffee shop not five blocks up from where they need to be. No parking spaces left (it’s a busy side street, and Gavin isn’t about to pull around the block to try and track down what he doesn’t need) instead sliding in behind a pair of automated taxis, sitting too close to their rear viewports.

The doors unlock.]

What are you waiting for? Get a move on.

Go.

[The RK900 fixes him with a long look, before patiently exiting the car, without asking him what type of coffee he wants.]

I will meet you at the crime scene shortly.

[He straightens his jacket collar and strides into the coffee shop.]

[Reed pulls a face at its response, tongue clicking against the back of his teeth (of course it knows).

Fifteen minutes later at the crime scene's general location, having already scoped out a prime place to park, he's set himself up across the broad hood of his car, one leg propped up, hand across his knee. It's obvious— or it should be, at least to a machine of painfully expensive proportions— that he's taken up position here to wait for his partner, rather than moving ahead with his investigation.

The question is: is it fear driving him, a new found sense of obligation— or something else entirely?]

Over here.

[The RK900 holds out to him a tall coffee, made the way Gavin prefers, somehow.]

It's good that I didn't have to chase you down this time. Your coffee would have gone cold.

[His tone is extra flat. Almost like... he's being deadpan on purpose in some sort of subtle attempt at humor.]

Oh yeah, [Reed tugs the cup out from between the android's fingers, held just under the lip of its lid so that he can pop off the spill-guard, gauging those dense wisps of steam as they curl and rise into the open air. Black coffee. No sugar, no cream (like so much else, it's a visible marker for how hard he thinks he is— or tries to be) just a dense, dark roast. Exactly like the one he always picks up for himself, strangely enough.] would've been a real shame.

[Said into the mouth of the cup as he pulls a long sip— and subsequently reaches over to pour the rest directly down across the pristine white front of the RK900's jacket, directly over its holographic nameplate. ]

Wouldn't have wanted you to miss out, partner.

[No one's around to witness it. The grin he flashes— all eye teeth, mouth pulling up crooked at the corner— isn't for show: this, this is payback for a shit morning carried by a messenger he never asked for. Hazing, equlibrium, assertion, it doesn't matter what it's called, he feels better for having done it.

The empty cup he turns over, shoves it so soundly against the android's chest that it flattens, easily, punctuated by a thin scoff.]

[He watches stoically, not flinching, as scalding coffee soaks the front of his clothes.]

Do you feel better now?

[His fingers wrap around Gavin's wrist, pressing hard enough to be uncomfortable, as he pulls Gavin's hand away from his chest.]

If my friendlier approach is distracting you too much from doing your job, I can switch to a more firm way of handling you.

[He's still holding his wrist like a vice.]

Edited 2018-07-16 16:26 (UTC)

[He used to take shop class. Middle school, later grades, right at the age where kids started to think they knew just about everything and also were officially allowed to handle sharp objects on their own. His teacher— Mr. Whisson— was missing every ounce of flesh from the middle finger back to the start of his wrist, always telling the same tired story about how he lost it fooling around with a bandsaw. Most of the other kids bought it— Gavin, on the other hand, had seen the old deployment photos on his desk. Hand in one. Half a hand in the others.

Unless bandsaws were in use out in the desert, he was full of shit.

Eventually. One day, working on a bread box (of all fucking things), Gavin got lazy. Slipped and let his sleeve get tangled up in the feed, and the mechanical pressure that pulled on his arm was enough to have him wailing in tears. He didn’t break anything, didn’t lose anything, but after that day? Some part of his brain found it easier to buy into the bulk of Mr. Whisson’s anecdote.

His mind goes there again, at that inhuman pressure on his wrist under industrial fingers, and Reed instinctively chokes out a sound that’s all high tension, fury bleeding into his features. He pulls back. Reaches high to try and wrench its fingers loose, paper cup tumbling to the ground.]

What the sh— get off me!

I don’t need a goddamn handler!

[With Anderson gone and his robot pet destroyed and deactivated, did that make him the Police Commissioner’s new problem child? Is that what this is really about?

—No. No. He was always good at his job. Better than anyone else on their team. And bullshit that this thing thinks it can gauge his workflow process. That a handful of minutes spent establishing exactly which one of them is in charge is wasting time.

He tells himself, next chance he gets, he’s pushing this thing out in front of a moving car.]

[RK900 looks perplexed for a moment, watching Gavin struggle, and he runs a quick scan.]

[He abruptly releases his wrist. It's while Gavin is pulling hard, which means he's going to be toppling backwards, but strong android hands quickly catch behind his back and balance him to upright on his feet. His hands stay there for the moment, spread flat and steadying him.]

Your panic response is abnormally high. You need to calm down.

Edited 2018-07-17 13:41 (UTC)

[He’s still— angry. Still flush with it, all sharp angles from his brow line down, but it’s not the knee jerk response from having his wrist in a vice lock that has his pulse rate running jagged in his chest. No, that comes after the fact. Low hands at his spine like a brace, solid and grounding—

There’s a delay. He doesn’t know how long, but he compensates by shoving harder when he pulls back (when it lets go first, making everything he does after the fact seem more excessive than it already is).]

I said get off.

[Does he sound calmer when he says it? He can’t tell.

Lifts up the front of his coat with the edge of his hand and— great. Now they both stink of coffee.]

Fucking prick.

[Muttered under his breath just before he turns on his heel, resetting. Not smoothly, not exactly cleanly, either, but seeing as how he's out of options for putting this new piece of hardware under his heel, and that it seems closer to pushing back than playing along, and that it's ten in the morning now and he still hasn't had a drop of caffeine (a literal nose-to-spite-your-face scenario) just...fuck it.

His hands dip into his pockets. He starts a long march up towards a gated complex, keying in a specific access code.]

Case is a break in, technically. Open apartment near the top floor. Nobody currently renting the place, so it was empty when this guy set up shop. [Information he combs over as the buzzer clears them, leaving a free path towards a nearby set of elevators that look like they've seen better days. He isn't spitting it out for the android's benefit: it's a mnemonic device. Gives him a clearer picture in his head.] Landlord went in to do some overdue maintenance work after a couple of complaints from other tenants, said the guy lunged at him in the dark. High as shit on Red Ice— no surprises there— broke the back window when he bolted a couple of minutes later.

[Ding clicks the elevator, slowing to a steady stop as it reaches the eighth floor, jolting just before the doors open. Unnerving as shit.]

Description matches the guy we've been chasing for weeks. Five murders, two assaults. Most of them nearby.

We narrow down the field, we find him, easy.

DETROIT BECOME HUMAN OPEN RP POST

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