connir you cant proce wat ur sayin is real hy sqying u remember wat ur sating being real thats mot how logic woerks. udbthinkbi wld come up wba herrer story than that
["connir"..... god, Hank, you really don't need to drink any more.]
How is it fair that I have to bear the burden of proof in this instance?
[Except Connor knows that since he's the one making the claim, it does lie squarely on his shoulders to produce evidence. That's the difficult part; how does one prove that time has gone all wobbly and that he's experienced things that Hank hasn't?]
Can't you just trust me when I say that you were fine?
bc im a spexial kind of moron who st ps into the same ttrapsbtwice andbthe sexond time i definitely knew berrer thats the whole reason imbhere
hey what do you think would happen if i did hace that gin with me do u thinkbthat wold make eferything stop fasrer or would all this tirn into somethinf weireder and worse
trapped in this owl creek bridfge shit riding alonf with you until my brain rins our of gas. why do you want to knowbdobyou want to investigate something oh part ner of mine
[His room is private - when the door’s not open to let Sumo in and out, anyway - and it’s where he keeps his shit. He wouldn’t be anywhere else.
At the moment it’s not open, so it is private, and Sumo’s plopped in front of it, having come back some time after Hank shut himself in.]
assume whatefer you wanr i xant fuckinf srop yiu i cant stop anythinf in this fuxking place
[If Connor does try to come in the door is unlocked. Hank will be on the bed slumped against the wall, doodling on said wall in the ash from the end of the stick he’d been dragging along the halls in his video earlier.]
[Connor doesn’t reply to this text, deciding instead to make his way directly to Hank’s room. When he arrives, he finds the door shut and Sumo plopped on the ground against it, in that way animals do when they clearly want in somewhere but are barred by a closed door and lack of opposable thumbs.]
Hey Sumo. [He says lightly and — ignoring decorum, because what’s the point of knocking when Hank is like this? — he opens the door. Eyes peer in, but first he lets Sumo through, if the canine is so inclined.]
[Sumo perks up and makes his way in and Hank doesn't look over at either of them, just keeps tracing over the older lines of ash on the wall next to him. He doesn't need hand-eye coordination to do this - he's been here long enough that he's redrawn this shit plenty of times by now.]
You really think it still means anything, or do you just like saying it?
[Connor follows just behind Sumo, but his eyes never pull away from Hank on his bed, who’s tracing something into the wall with ash.]
Because you’re a Lieutenant. Do you think that changes just because we’re no longer in Detroit? Am I no longer an investigative android, by that logic?
[But Connor’s voice has lost a small degree of its usual emphatic delivery. The rhetoric is a little quieter, tossing out a scan over Hank without saying as much, to check his status.
Said scan blossoms past the man and to the drawings on the wall, too, by their very nature. And Connor pulls his gaze away to see what he’s sketching.]
[Connor can probably figure the status of a number of things in this room, even without a real thorough scan. Sumo’s status: over at his food bowl, eating. Hank’s status: drunk as fuck. Of course. The bottle’s status: in its usual spot, on the gap on the floor between the bed and the wall. The wall’s status: currently being redecorated with a series of shapes that look vaguely like a little cat hanging off a branch and the caption, in all caps, HANG IN THERE. Ha ha.]
Maybe that’s why you’re so set on all this... all this fuckin... this stuff. When you’re not investigating any more you’ll be... I don’t know. Junk, right? Go into retirement as a mannequin, you got the face for it already, and the stick figure legs. People aren’t like that, Connor. We’re not... not what we’re for, like you. Its not like that for us.
[Connor’s fingers curl in on themselves, close to his palms, before he forcibly relaxes them. Eyes cast themselves over the faux motivational poster of a cat being drawn on the wall, which means nothing to him in terms of irony or experience.
He purposefully avoids one branch of the conversation, the one that centers around his fate when he’s no longer fulfilling the purpose sequestered to him. Junk, or delegated to perpetual standby, collecting a fine sheen of dust while he stands in a storage unit somewhere.
No, this isn’t about him, and he won’t allow Hank to bend the subject in his direction.]
Humans require a sense of purpose too, Hank. Androids are simply pre-installed with one.
[Connor crouches down and grips the bottle on the floor, holding it up to see if there’s even a small remainder of liquid at the bottom. Tips it over at an angle to let a droplet fall onto his finger, then presses said finger to his tongue. Real-time analysis routines kick up into life — what are you drinking, Hank? What’s the proof of this alcohol?]
[The hand holding the stick sinks down to Hank’s lap and he leans his head against the wall, frowning, to watch Connor.]
Sorry Connor, this pity party’s only for poor schmucks who had their purpose uninstalled. But if you really wanna see if you can get drunk I bet this shit could do the trick. Could go get more, long’s you don’t blame me when it strips all your little screws and gears or whatever the hell it is you got in there.
[He doesn’t respond immediately, pulling his finger away and looking at it — as if the answers are there. And in his mind’s eye, they do crop up with expected efficiency. Connor frowns.]
160 proof. [what the heck hank] Who’s providing this to you? The alcohol content is inordinately high.
[Unless bootlegging is one of Hank’s secret skill, Connor doesn’t think he’s tossing together moonshine on his own. He gives the man a look wrapped up in both assessment and vague concern.]
[Hank’s voice is soft, thoughtful, and then half his lips twist up. When he looks from the bottle to Connor his gaze isn’t clear, but it’s closer to it than it’s got any right to be.]
Why, you thinkin maybe I don’t need that gun after all? You gonna go track down my dealer, kick his ass?
[If there’s an edge to those words when he says it, eyes snapping up to meet Hank’s, it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. Connor sets the bottle down with a small clink as it settles onto the ground.]
You can’t keep doing this to yourself just because of the circumstances that we currently find ourselves in. I know this isn’t our home, and sometimes things are... difficult to understand, but it isn’t the hopeless situation you seem to be making it out to be.
Nah, not hopeless, Connor. Hopeless is kinda... I don't know.
[He shifts against the wall, looking down, his hair falling over his face.]
It's stupid, I know it is, but I can't- I can't handle this like you can. I told you that. Even the stupid shit, when they tell me this shit and I, I just can't- If this felt more like I was dreaming I think I could handle it. But it- the whole-
[Talking about it's harder when Connor's right here, looking at him. Connor knows about it, says he found him passed out on the floor afterward, even, but it's still hard.]
It'd make it make sense, you know? If I was just done, that'd make all this make sense. I don't know why you're tryin so hard to prove me wrong but- fuck, does it matter? I'll remember how to get my ass up and perform tomorrow, and the day after that, and whenever you wanna make bff bracelets and investigate shit I'll be there and, shit, does it really matter what I'm thinkin while I'm doin it?
[Connor's yet to straighten from his crouching position, trying to catch Hank's expression from under that veil of hair, as if while under deep scrutiny he could unearth a solution to this problem. To Hank's constant, deep-seated dysphoria, as if it were something he could reach out and wrest away from him if he tried hard enough.
He can't, he knows.]
Of course it does. [A simple reply, at least, because it's an easy enough question to answer.] Do you think I don't take your mental and emotional state into account? Are you under the impression that I only care if it affects your performance in day-to-day activities?
[More importantly-] Is there anything I can do to make... any of this easier for you?
[Hank lets out a long, slow breath. Then he slouches a little more, shoulders hunching. After what feels like a long couple seconds Hank shakes his head, not looking up. After a couple more seconds, he actually has an answer.]
You could promise you're not gonna give the guy who makes this one hundred-sixty proof paint thinner any shit. I know it's- I know... I know what I am, Connor. But. It helps. I guess you wouldn't know but just- letting all the shit float to the top, just letting it- It's good, sometimes. I know it doesn't look like it, but it helps. I know you don't get that, but can you take my word for it, that you're just- I don't know. I don't know what you are. I don't know what I'm trying to say. Maybe you oughta ask me when I'm sober.
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connir you cant proce wat ur sayin is real hy sqying u remember wat ur sating being real thats mot how logic woerks. udbthinkbi wld come up wba herrer story than that
fick i think i juwst ran out atain
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How is it fair that I have to bear the burden of proof in this instance?
[Except Connor knows that since he's the one making the claim, it does lie squarely on his shoulders to produce evidence. That's the difficult part; how does one prove that time has gone all wobbly and that he's experienced things that Hank hasn't?]
Can't you just trust me when I say that you were fine?
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askin meb2 trust u is hilaeious on multiple lefela lefela
l e v e l s fuck it
hey logizc bot was hink u can logic out whixh 1s
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[The rest of Hank's almost indecipherable texting is ignored for this question.]
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chrjst drinkinf this much is suppised 2 stip me feelinf guilty u fuxj
i nefer said i didnt trust u gode u can stop with the face. whatefer face ur makinf srop ir
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You just wrote that asking you to trust me is humorous. It shouldn't be.
I wouldn't lie about any of this.
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no kid ur sense od humoe rlly is fucked isnt it. its notbdunny cause me trustinf YOU it’s funny bc ME trusting u its finny cause im a
this whole place is hist rlly goddamn funny all a ound
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Because you're a what?
cw discussion of suicide
bc im a spexial kind of moron who st ps into the same ttrapsbtwice andbthe sexond time i definitely knew berrer thats the whole reason imbhere
hey what do you think would happen if i did hace that gin with me do u thinkbthat wold make eferything stop fasrer or would all this tirn into somethinf weireder and worse
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That's not a hypothetical that I'm willing to even entertain, much less discuss. Where are you right now?
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trapped in this owl creek bridfge shit riding alonf with you until my brain rins our of gas. why do you want to knowbdobyou want to investigate something oh part ner of mineno subject
You’re in your room, I assume?
[It’s likely. It’s where Hank is fond of retreating to drink, he’s noted.]
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At the moment it’s not open, so it is private, and Sumo’s plopped in front of it, having come back some time after Hank shut himself in.]
assume whatefer you wanr i xant fuckinf srop yiu i cant stop anythinf in this fuxking place[If Connor does try to come in the door is unlocked. Hank will be on the bed slumped against the wall, doodling on said wall in the ash from the end of the stick he’d been dragging along the halls in his video earlier.]
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Hey Sumo. [He says lightly and — ignoring decorum, because what’s the point of knocking when Hank is like this? — he opens the door. Eyes peer in, but first he lets Sumo through, if the canine is so inclined.]
Lieutenant?
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[Sumo perks up and makes his way in and Hank doesn't look over at either of them, just keeps tracing over the older lines of ash on the wall next to him. He doesn't need hand-eye coordination to do this - he's been here long enough that he's redrawn this shit plenty of times by now.]
You really think it still means anything, or do you just like saying it?
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Because you’re a Lieutenant. Do you think that changes just because we’re no longer in Detroit? Am I no longer an investigative android, by that logic?
[But Connor’s voice has lost a small degree of its usual emphatic delivery. The rhetoric is a little quieter, tossing out a scan over Hank without saying as much, to check his status.
Said scan blossoms past the man and to the drawings on the wall, too, by their very nature. And Connor pulls his gaze away to see what he’s sketching.]
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[Connor can probably figure the status of a number of things in this room, even without a real thorough scan. Sumo’s status: over at his food bowl, eating. Hank’s status: drunk as fuck. Of course. The bottle’s status: in its usual spot, on the gap on the floor between the bed and the wall. The wall’s status: currently being redecorated with a series of shapes that look vaguely like a little cat hanging off a branch and the caption, in all caps, HANG IN THERE. Ha ha.]
Maybe that’s why you’re so set on all this... all this fuckin... this stuff. When you’re not investigating any more you’ll be... I don’t know. Junk, right? Go into retirement as a mannequin, you got the face for it already, and the stick figure legs. People aren’t like that, Connor. We’re not... not what we’re for, like you. Its not like that for us.
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He purposefully avoids one branch of the conversation, the one that centers around his fate when he’s no longer fulfilling the purpose sequestered to him. Junk, or delegated to perpetual standby, collecting a fine sheen of dust while he stands in a storage unit somewhere.
No, this isn’t about him, and he won’t allow Hank to bend the subject in his direction.]
Humans require a sense of purpose too, Hank. Androids are simply pre-installed with one.
[Connor crouches down and grips the bottle on the floor, holding it up to see if there’s even a small remainder of liquid at the bottom. Tips it over at an angle to let a droplet fall onto his finger, then presses said finger to his tongue. Real-time analysis routines kick up into life — what are you drinking, Hank? What’s the proof of this alcohol?]
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[The hand holding the stick sinks down to Hank’s lap and he leans his head against the wall, frowning, to watch Connor.]
Sorry Connor, this pity party’s only for poor schmucks who had their purpose uninstalled. But if you really wanna see if you can get drunk I bet this shit could do the trick. Could go get more, long’s you don’t blame me when it strips all your little screws and gears or whatever the hell it is you got in there.
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160 proof. [what the heck hank] Who’s providing this to you? The alcohol content is inordinately high.
[Unless bootlegging is one of Hank’s secret skill, Connor doesn’t think he’s tossing together moonshine on his own. He gives the man a look wrapped up in both assessment and vague concern.]
cw mention of suicide
[Hank’s voice is soft, thoughtful, and then half his lips twist up. When he looks from the bottle to Connor his gaze isn’t clear, but it’s closer to it than it’s got any right to be.]
Why, you thinkin maybe I don’t need that gun after all? You gonna go track down my dealer, kick his ass?
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[If there’s an edge to those words when he says it, eyes snapping up to meet Hank’s, it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. Connor sets the bottle down with a small clink as it settles onto the ground.]
You can’t keep doing this to yourself just because of the circumstances that we currently find ourselves in. I know this isn’t our home, and sometimes things are... difficult to understand, but it isn’t the hopeless situation you seem to be making it out to be.
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[He shifts against the wall, looking down, his hair falling over his face.]
It's stupid, I know it is, but I can't- I can't handle this like you can. I told you that. Even the stupid shit, when they tell me this shit and I, I just can't- If this felt more like I was dreaming I think I could handle it. But it- the whole-
[Talking about it's harder when Connor's right here, looking at him. Connor knows about it, says he found him passed out on the floor afterward, even, but it's still hard.]
It'd make it make sense, you know? If I was just done, that'd make all this make sense. I don't know why you're tryin so hard to prove me wrong but- fuck, does it matter? I'll remember how to get my ass up and perform tomorrow, and the day after that, and whenever you wanna make bff bracelets and investigate shit I'll be there and, shit, does it really matter what I'm thinkin while I'm doin it?
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He can't, he knows.]
Of course it does. [A simple reply, at least, because it's an easy enough question to answer.] Do you think I don't take your mental and emotional state into account? Are you under the impression that I only care if it affects your performance in day-to-day activities?
[More importantly-] Is there anything I can do to make... any of this easier for you?
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You could promise you're not gonna give the guy who makes this one hundred-sixty proof paint thinner any shit. I know it's- I know... I know what I am, Connor. But. It helps. I guess you wouldn't know but just- letting all the shit float to the top, just letting it- It's good, sometimes. I know it doesn't look like it, but it helps. I know you don't get that, but can you take my word for it, that you're just- I don't know. I don't know what you are. I don't know what I'm trying to say. Maybe you oughta ask me when I'm sober.
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cw for suicidal thoughts. also melodrama alert?
i live for this kind of drama
same
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