[When Connor was still new, newer than he is now — a perfectly blank slate with perfectly clear directives, every piece of him aligning neatly in sharp, ninety degree angles — the thought of oblivion didn’t faze him. He knew what it was, of course, from a strictly empirical standpoint. Fear, anxiety, a bright and singing self-destruction, human insecurities that controlled their actions depending on how deep it all ran, on how long it lasted. But this oblivion, this dark thing, wouldn’t touch him — couldn’t get past the white sheen of plastic, too smooth and too perfect for it to hook its tendrils into. Simply sluiced off of him and pooled at his feet. All he had to do was step over it.
But months had passed. The low, cold hum of CyberLife walls, a mundane tempo finally shattered by the crescendo of the deviant cases. And after that, becoming a member of Astoria’s ragtag Circle, speaking with those from beyond his home. Bearing different expectations of what he is, what’s he’s capable of doing. Feeling. Being.
And time, slow and possessing a decaying touch, had sent hairline cracks zig-zagging through his perfect wall of plastic, burrowed holes in the armor until that darkness could crawl in and curl up inside, until his eyes were covered with the stuff and he knew those walls were cracking, could feel the pressure building from within. Marred, broken, pieces of him becoming imperfectly embedded with redundant errors.
Reaching towards Hank, reaching to help him, is like putting his hand into a pool of that stuff. Not just letting it come to him, but diving in headfirst into a black hole with nothing on the other side. It swallows him whole, it feels acidic, it feels like he’s going to drown in it, just as if it feels like he’s the one reaching up towards the light. It’s a feedback loop of what he feels and what is being felt, it’s hard to discern where Hank begins and Connor ends. But it tears at him, it laughs at whatever blockades he thought he could build as protection, oozing around them, crashing up and over them like a vicious wave. And Connor feels it, he feels what it’s like to be fine with this abyss, to know that there’s nothing else there, that he’s going to dissolve into it and that’s fine, that’s all it’s ever going to amount to anyway, just go numb and close your eyes and eventually it’ll all just come to an end.
His LED spins red.
But Connor knows there’s something else there. He’s there, and it’s like reaching up to see a mirror of himself, a hand that’s beckoning him to hold on tight no matter what, that there’s an anchor in the dark. That if he can hold on and not fall too deep into the mire, maybe there’s a surface just above his head, maybe there’s light and a breath and a reason to feel okay about not feeling okay. And he reaches out and grabs for it, and he knows that it’s him, he’s the pillar in this sad moment in time, he’s the only glimmer of stability and this sends lightning through him, makes Connor steel himself with desperate determination, and something snaps.
He returns to reality, and he hasn’t pulled his arm away. Cognizance bursts like fireworks, and all he can see is Hank’s expression, horrified, looking at him and no, that’s not what he wants. He doesn’t care about the rest, doesn’t care about what’s just happened to him or the pieces that keep slipping from his fingers no matter how much he tries to cling tightly onto them.]
Hank, Hank— Don’t… don’t worry. I’m fine. [His voice shakes, but his eyes don’t move from the other’s.] I’m fine.
[He won’t move away. He won’t detach himself this time. Blessedly, the light at his temple fades into yellow. He asks the only question that matters.]
i live for this kind of drama
But months had passed. The low, cold hum of CyberLife walls, a mundane tempo finally shattered by the crescendo of the deviant cases. And after that, becoming a member of Astoria’s ragtag Circle, speaking with those from beyond his home. Bearing different expectations of what he is, what’s he’s capable of doing. Feeling. Being.
And time, slow and possessing a decaying touch, had sent hairline cracks zig-zagging through his perfect wall of plastic, burrowed holes in the armor until that darkness could crawl in and curl up inside, until his eyes were covered with the stuff and he knew those walls were cracking, could feel the pressure building from within. Marred, broken, pieces of him becoming imperfectly embedded with redundant errors.
Reaching towards Hank, reaching to help him, is like putting his hand into a pool of that stuff. Not just letting it come to him, but diving in headfirst into a black hole with nothing on the other side. It swallows him whole, it feels acidic, it feels like he’s going to drown in it, just as if it feels like he’s the one reaching up towards the light. It’s a feedback loop of what he feels and what is being felt, it’s hard to discern where Hank begins and Connor ends. But it tears at him, it laughs at whatever blockades he thought he could build as protection, oozing around them, crashing up and over them like a vicious wave. And Connor feels it, he feels what it’s like to be fine with this abyss, to know that there’s nothing else there, that he’s going to dissolve into it and that’s fine, that’s all it’s ever going to amount to anyway, just go numb and close your eyes and eventually it’ll all just come to an end.
His LED spins red.
But Connor knows there’s something else there. He’s there, and it’s like reaching up to see a mirror of himself, a hand that’s beckoning him to hold on tight no matter what, that there’s an anchor in the dark. That if he can hold on and not fall too deep into the mire, maybe there’s a surface just above his head, maybe there’s light and a breath and a reason to feel okay about not feeling okay. And he reaches out and grabs for it, and he knows that it’s him, he’s the pillar in this sad moment in time, he’s the only glimmer of stability and this sends lightning through him, makes Connor steel himself with desperate determination, and something snaps.
He returns to reality, and he hasn’t pulled his arm away. Cognizance bursts like fireworks, and all he can see is Hank’s expression, horrified, looking at him and no, that’s not what he wants. He doesn’t care about the rest, doesn’t care about what’s just happened to him or the pieces that keep slipping from his fingers no matter how much he tries to cling tightly onto them.]
Hank, Hank— Don’t… don’t worry. I’m fine. [His voice shakes, but his eyes don’t move from the other’s.] I’m fine.
[He won’t move away. He won’t detach himself this time. Blessedly, the light at his temple fades into yellow. He asks the only question that matters.]
Are you okay?