[Connor does successfully catch Hank's eyes and Hank stares, breathing slow and loud, taking that in.]
They're gonna upgrade you, you know. Me with you, and you with... I don't know. Whoever it is, they'll be gone just as fast as you. And none of you guys seem to care, either, that's the weird thing. Just happy to serve, right? And you just wanna... wanna send me back to my uh, my room. And then just go on your merry little way. Like nothing's wrong.
Edited (random capitalization be gone) 2018-09-14 09:40 (UTC)
They can't upgrade me, Hank. CyberLife isn't here.
[That's a certainty, given they reside in a different dimension now. Given that Connor's even tried to interface with the Zen Garden, and was met with an empty biome that flirted with the touch of winter; frozen water, dying plant life. But no Amanda.
Then again, does logic even land, when Hank is in this state? And so, repeating himself:]
[That last part has Hank’s face twisting up in distaste.]
Kay. If you’re not, I will. Was trying to find the fucking fridge anyway.
[Hank can just about stand under his own power, but only if you define ‘stand’ as ‘hunch’ and only time him for about a second. He makes a noise of deep discomfort, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapped an arm around himself. His body’s about all he can deal with right now; gravity can do what it wants. If it wants to pull him back down into those things Connor was fighting a minute ago, that’s fine.]
[Connor’s not going to let that happen. He's not particularly keen on letting Hank topple over, nor letting him topple over on training dummies that are too eager to kick up into life and attack. So when Hank tries to stand in a failed attempt, Connor straightens in time; standing, but only in the way that he tries to lift up Hank with him, arm and shoulder to support him if he’ll accept it.]
No, you’re not. You’re going back to bed. You need to give your body time to heal.
[Hank's body accepts the help - for a second, anyway, right up until his mind realizes what it's done and he tries to pull away. He doesn't have the strength, the stability, or even the room to get very far, but as far as Hank is concerned wanting it as badly as he does is enough.]
I'd rather die than let an android try to heal me. Why don't you just toddle on off... [He falters, trying to figure out where it'd even go, if there's even a place to go outside of wherever it is they are.] ...anywhere else. CyberLife's not here, they won't know if you don't act like the perfect little android, running around making sure all the pieces of this machine are fully functional.
[The moment Hank attempts to pull away, Connor’s stubbornness jolts to life, his programming deigning that the man’s health is more important than his want to stay away from him — so he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t let him slip away or fall over. Keeps him steady, and tries to take two steps forward and away from the dummies so that they’re allowed space and safety.]
CyberLife has nothing to do with anything right now. They’re irrelevant because they’re not present.
[A tug to get Hank to cooperate and follow.]
And because they’re not present, I choose my own objectives as relevant to the task of bettering the Circle, and that includes making sure that you’re not alone, in the dirt, and picking fights with wooden training dummies.
Bettering the circle, huh? Which one? [Hank stumbles along with him, too weak to, for a few steps, do anything but follow.] Let's see what I can remember about those circles, shit, lit class was a long time ago but I guess it matters now. Uh... there's purgatory, lust, gluttony - I guess that's me, right? - greed, wrath - that one too, maybe, you think? - heresy, violence- oh, hey, here we go.
[He's watching his feet now, fascinated, and whatever he's seeing is making them stop moving all cooperative wherever Connor wants to go with him, his body going all stiff and tense.]
Don't remember drowning being part of it, [Here he gestures to his chest, his lungs, and goes for a little laugh that chokes up his next few words with wet, thick coughing.] but maybe we're uh, we're doing two at once, guess that's fair.
So you don't gotta worry about leaving me alone with these guys, gonna be one of em soon. If I remember right they can't talk unless you fuck em up a little. I think he had to uh, break off a twig or something before it would talk to him, so if there's anything you want me to say you're going to have to ask now.
[Heels dig into dirt as they come to a stop. Connor thinks that if he were a different sort of an android — made for strength instead of analytical fervor — he could just sweep the man off of his feet and carry him without issue.
Still an option, but a difficult one. Especially if Hank puts up an admittedly lousy fight, but resistance is resistance, and his friend doesn’t need to exert that kind of effort right now. And Connor also doesn’t know how gracefully he could manage it.
He frowns, sets his jaw, tries for plain explanation again:]
We’re not in hell. We’re in the Temple. You’re sick — not drowning, not dying — just sick. You need someone to tend to you and to bring you back to bed to rest. Do you understand?
[He doesn't look up when he says it, still staring, fascinated, at his feet. His knees, now. He swallows.]
Besides, you said I was dying. With the whole... Structure, Struxa? Struxta. The robot planet that killed off all the puny humans. If none of them survived, what's so special about little old me.
But why would you be here? You've only ever done what you're programmed to, that shouldn't land you here. Unless saying CyberLife isn't here counts as robo-heresy. Aren't you guys supposed to act like CyberLife is everywhere?
[His LED flickers a bright yellow again, and Hank is frustratingly treading into that territory of conversation that he has nicely cordoned off for himself.
You've only ever done what you're programmed to, and Connor shakes his head. No, he hasn't. He can list of examples of such, times and decisions regarding the safety of the Lieutenant, of escaping deviants, that generally go against the cut-and-dry parameters of his processing. Most of it can be reasoned away easily, of course, but some of it-
No time for those thoughts, no time to let Hank try to turn this into an argument. Those errors that crawl and worm their way around some partitioned corner of his mind don't deserve the spotlight, and so Connor just reaches out and snaps his fingers in front of Hank's face.]
[Hank's whole body jerks, his shoulders flinching into a hunch, and he blinks toward Connor's face, eyes wide.]
You. Right. You're-
[Hank's starting to lean back, away from Connor. He does it slowly; the longer he speaks, the more of his weight will be pulling back from whatever grip Connor's got on him.]
You. No problem.
[Nevermind the quicker, deeper breaths he's taking now, deep enough that his lungs start to make the barest hint of a crackling noise on the tail end of each one. Nevermind the way his voice nearly shakes. Hank is holding it together; this is good enough.]
What? Something special I'm supposed to be looking at?
[He has his attention, wavering thing that it is, and that's good enough for now. When the human mind is dancing around in a haze, it's harder for Connor to connect, harder for his words crafted from reason to land and stick; but catching his eye contact as if it were ensnared in a net, even with Hank leaning away, he can talk some sense into him.
There's a lot of ways he could reply to that. For Hank's sake, he pushes down something that might be edged with slight sarcasm (his own stress levels have continually climbed in these weeks, making amicability harder when someone refuses to cooperate), and instead speaks evenly, calmly.]
Someone trying to help you. Someone trying to relay to you that you're not dying, because we don't know for certain that the plague on Struxta acts similarly to how it did in the past. This place is... strange, in many ways. Astoria is working to find a cure. And I'm not going to let you die.
[Hank opens his mouth, then shakes his head, then closes it. His eyes flick down over Connor and then he forces his eyes up, where the view is still freaky but at least there's something almost human there to focus on. He sets his jaw, tries to harden his expression, takes a shaking breath.]
Why? You should hate me!
Wait. That's not... Fuck, my head...
[He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple.]
You should... You shouldn't give a shit. You're supposed to take orders, right? What if I, uh...
[Hank tries opening his eyes, grimaces, then looks away at himself, where the view isn't much better but is easier to deal with.]
If I ordered you to go value someone else's contributions instead, go nursebot someone else? Cause, why not? They're all as bad off as me, I bet.
[Hate him? That makes Connor's eyes widen, but Hank's stumbling correction eases the spike of confusion that the exclamation had caused in the pit of his processing.]
Sorry, Lieutenant. But currently your orders and null and void if we're off the deviant case.
[Technicalities are wonderful things when trying to explain his own actions away. Connor tugs at Hank again, a little more forcefully this time, to get the point across: he wants him to keep walking.]
But I told you before, you just didn't want to listen. And I doubt that repeating myself now will be any more effective in making you want to believe me.
[That he felt something akin to friendship with the man back in Detroit, is his meaning. His explanation regarding that he had been a few days in the future, and that future had afforded them experiences that made Connor consider Hank as his partner, and therefore one worth being concerned about.]
[Hank flinches when Connor tugs at him, stumbling forward a step - and maybe more, if Connor keeps pushing it, but his steps are slow and not really voluntary.]
Cause you're not making sense! If you did hate me, if you - I don't know, went deviant and started kicking the shit out of me, that I'd get. But you just- You say we're off the case and then just keep acting like I'm your- Like you need me to finish the case at all. And you keep- I can't, uh-
[His hand jerks up in a sudden, impulsive gesture and rubs hard at his eyes.]
I can't remember what your face is supposed to look like. 's a stupid fuckin face anyway.
[Insults regarding his appearance never cause an offense that are more than superficial, though perhaps the dissatisfaction runs a little deeper when it's Hank uttering them. But it's not so easily ignored, despite the very hypothetical that he would be deviant, which makes his hackles rise. Because there are a multitude of things he could say to that, but Hank's statement was a strange one.]
What do you mean you don't remember? You're looking at it right now.
[What is Hank seeing, through the twisted reality of fever? The man's steps might be clumsy, but if he's not falling over, Connor will keep trying to make him walk with him. Otherwise, he's sure they'll just stand in the coliseum and argue all day.]
[He stumbles forward, moving mostly on momentum, not paying attention to his feet, trying to think. It doesn't seem that hard a concept when he thinks about it. But when he thinks about saying it, that he can't remember whose face that is, maybe it does sound kinda...]
You guys all kind of, um- I don't mean 'all you guys look the same' even though, like. You're literally designed to have models that all look exactly the same. But I mean... The ones that do all the healthcare stuff, they uh, they have this... I don't know, this program, I guess, they're all supposed to be... Reassuring, or something. It's bullshit. At least- with the adults, I mean. We know the difference. If a scalpel's digging into my guts I don't want it to look up at me and be like, 'hey, my name's Bob and you're gonna be okay,' or whatever, I just want it to know its job and stick to it. One of them, I mean, it's gonna try to tell me I'm not dead cause that's what it's supposed to do, but the one I got, uh- got chained to for that stupid case, it's supposed to just... The case, you know? I'm a means to an end. And then we all know what we're supposed to be.
[He frowns at the rusty gate in front of him, knocked off his train of thought by the sight of it. He tries to climb back on.]
But you, you sound... I can't tell. I look at your face and I can't remember which one you're supposed to be.
[For a lingering moment, Connor is ready to chalk up everything Hank is saying to delirium courtesy of the fever. Ramblings that have meaning behind them, but the meaning is winding and irrelevant to the moment at hand. But then the man keeps speaking. And Connor stills his step just for a moment, looking at him, scrutinizing him, because he hears the question for what it is, Why aren't you acting like the machine you're supposed to be?]
I... I don't-
[Undestand what you're trying to say, would be the easiest escape route to take. A flat-out lie. But Connor can't, not with how Hank looks right now, but the issue is that he doesn't know how to scrape together a reply to that. Feels that sensation of code not lining up properly in the shadowed corners of his mind, of recursive routines that want to flare up and dance in front of his vision, but he pushes that all aside. Has to, can't afford to waste time talking about why he can't bring himself to do anything except help Hank.]
A lot's changed between what you last remember, and what I last recall.
[The answer is out before he realizes it, as if pushed past his lips by some unknown force.]
Wouldn't it just be easier for you to think of me as your partner wanting to aid you? Just for today, just for your sake.
[Don't make him laugh. Really, don't; he bends forward, and hacks and coughs and gasps for breath. After a moment he manages an answer, rasping and amused.]
If this were for my sake you'd drop me and let me rot. Didn't I say it? Circle number seven. Shoulda been nine, treachery fits, doesn't it? But violence against the self, that's, you know, fine. Guess you don't get to choose. And you, you just - a partner wouldn't touch that shit. A partner's just - just for cases! It's not like the movies. Did one of your programmers just watch Lethal Weapon one too many times, so you think that's what we're supposed to be? A partner means I work with you. And then I carry my own weight.
[He pauses, panting, frowning at the gate, swaying a little.]
[It wasn't meant to be amusing, and yet Hank laughs at it. Because of course he does, because nothing here can be easy, and because Astoria apparently couldn't be bothered to close the gap between them for a few days at most, otherwise Connor has a suspicion that he wouldn't be experiencing this kind of pushback.
Why can't the Lieutenant just accept the aid? Frustration feels like something crawling along his false-skin again (he needs to runs a self-diagnostic, he needs to assess his own levels of stress), and Connor frowns deeply. Doesn't reply at first.
And then, as he pushes open the metal gate, hinges whining-]
Sorry, Lieutenant, but if you're hoping I'm going to indulge you in your propensity to slowly kill yourself, then you're going to have to find someone else.
[He swallows, as if cutting off whatever else he was going to say, and continues.]
You did work with me, once. I told you that we worked the deviant cases together, and though you don't remember it, those experiences still have sway over my decision-making process. That's why I'm doing what I'm doing.
[He pauses, self awareness sinking in, and sounds briefly amused.]
And if I’m telling you that, right now, you know you’re talking bullshit. Unless I grew ten feet and learned kung-fu in the couple days you say we spent on that case, there’s nothing about that extra time that could possibly have made it suddenly a great strategy to devote all this extra time to me. There’s no point in getting on my good side, you know? I mean, if you were human-
[He closes his eyes, hoping that will make the dizziness easier to take, and when he opens them he’s leaning even closer to Connor, close enough to get an eyeful of features that may or may not actually be there. He lurches back instinctively against the closest thing - the gate, which he hasn’t gone too far past. It is, shockingly, not that good for staying still under a sudden push. It is fantastic, however, at making an unholy rusting shriek and Hank squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing a hand against the side of his head.]
[It’s an automatic response, and for an android, that means that it’s fast — quick with how he steps towards Hank again, quicker still how his arm reaches out to grasp at the man’s shoulder to steady him. The protesting screech of the metal gate doesn’t so much as make him blink. He only registers it as unneeded stimuli, and his processing chooses to neglect it altogether.
Another instance of Hank being quick to lean away from him when he gets too close. That’s a problem, one that he needs to clarify or rectify, if he wants to lead him away from the sparring area with minimal issue.]
Why do you keep pulling away from me?
[Tossing aside everything else that was said for now.]
[Hank's wide eyes lock on Connor, and his quick, shallow breaths stick in his throat. He sets his jaw and lifts his chin, trying to hold his voice steady.]
Is that- Is that what you look like, under your skin? Is that what's really in there?
[He doesn't try to pull away again but does begin to step back, stopping when his leg nudges the gate into another shrill movement. Hank flinches when he hears it and his gaze loses its focus, his voice gains a hint of frantic anger.]
I don't need an ambulance, you bet your plastic ass it's not worth the fight to get me into one. You can treat me right here or you can just fuckin leave.
[What he looks like under his skin? Eyes widen slightly, and Connor raises his free hand to look at his palm. The illusion of skin is still there, still not going anywhere; he knows that this function of his is gone. No way for it to recede and leave only plastic-white in its wake. Smooth and unmarred.
His LED spins. Connor runs cursory a self-check in half a second. His systems verify what his eyes are telling him, that he's still appearing as he should, because he has no choice; doing anything else is locked to him.
Even so, he can't help the idle way a hand feels at his chin, his cheekbone, before dropping it down again. He looks at Hank, worried, as the gate swings back against his weight.]
You're imagining it. My skin- I can't turn it off. [There's something frenetic and frantic in Hank's voice now, and that keeps him from stepping forward again. He needs to calm him down first and foremost.]
Please, Hank. No matter what you see, I'm not... I'm not going to hurt you. I need you to cooperate.
[Hank frowns, staring at him. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, putting a hand over his mouth. He swallows, and swallows again.]
You... Connor, right? Right. They never talked to me that way, like they need me. They never need humans, that's where we went wrong. But you... you saved my life, remember? On the roof? Bullshit. But you...
[He opens his eyes, tries looking just at Connor's legs, at his own. He swallows, looks away, then sets his jaw and looks up at Connor's face.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
They're gonna upgrade you, you know. Me with you, and you with... I don't know. Whoever it is, they'll be gone just as fast as you. And none of you guys seem to care, either, that's the weird thing. Just happy to serve, right? And you just wanna... wanna send me back to my uh, my room. And then just go on your merry little way. Like nothing's wrong.
no subject
[That's a certainty, given they reside in a different dimension now. Given that Connor's even tried to interface with the Zen Garden, and was met with an empty biome that flirted with the touch of winter; frozen water, dying plant life. But no Amanda.
Then again, does logic even land, when Hank is in this state? And so, repeating himself:]
I'm not going anywhere.
no subject
Kay. If you’re not, I will. Was trying to find the fucking fridge anyway.
[Hank can just about stand under his own power, but only if you define ‘stand’ as ‘hunch’ and only time him for about a second. He makes a noise of deep discomfort, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapped an arm around himself. His body’s about all he can deal with right now; gravity can do what it wants. If it wants to pull him back down into those things Connor was fighting a minute ago, that’s fine.]
no subject
No, you’re not. You’re going back to bed. You need to give your body time to heal.
no subject
I'd rather die than let an android try to heal me. Why don't you just toddle on off... [He falters, trying to figure out where it'd even go, if there's even a place to go outside of wherever it is they are.] ...anywhere else. CyberLife's not here, they won't know if you don't act like the perfect little android, running around making sure all the pieces of this machine are fully functional.
no subject
CyberLife has nothing to do with anything right now. They’re irrelevant because they’re not present.
[A tug to get Hank to cooperate and follow.]
And because they’re not present, I choose my own objectives as relevant to the task of bettering the Circle, and that includes making sure that you’re not alone, in the dirt, and picking fights with wooden training dummies.
no subject
[He's watching his feet now, fascinated, and whatever he's seeing is making them stop moving all cooperative wherever Connor wants to go with him, his body going all stiff and tense.]
Don't remember drowning being part of it, [Here he gestures to his chest, his lungs, and goes for a little laugh that chokes up his next few words with wet, thick coughing.] but maybe we're uh, we're doing two at once, guess that's fair.
So you don't gotta worry about leaving me alone with these guys, gonna be one of em soon. If I remember right they can't talk unless you fuck em up a little. I think he had to uh, break off a twig or something before it would talk to him, so if there's anything you want me to say you're going to have to ask now.
no subject
Still an option, but a difficult one. Especially if Hank puts up an admittedly lousy fight, but resistance is resistance, and his friend doesn’t need to exert that kind of effort right now. And Connor also doesn’t know how gracefully he could manage it.
He frowns, sets his jaw, tries for plain explanation again:]
We’re not in hell. We’re in the Temple. You’re sick — not drowning, not dying — just sick. You need someone to tend to you and to bring you back to bed to rest. Do you understand?
no subject
[He doesn't look up when he says it, still staring, fascinated, at his feet. His knees, now. He swallows.]
Besides, you said I was dying. With the whole... Structure, Struxa? Struxta. The robot planet that killed off all the puny humans. If none of them survived, what's so special about little old me.
But why would you be here? You've only ever done what you're programmed to, that shouldn't land you here. Unless saying CyberLife isn't here counts as robo-heresy. Aren't you guys supposed to act like CyberLife is everywhere?
no subject
You've only ever done what you're programmed to, and Connor shakes his head. No, he hasn't. He can list of examples of such, times and decisions regarding the safety of the Lieutenant, of escaping deviants, that generally go against the cut-and-dry parameters of his processing. Most of it can be reasoned away easily, of course, but some of it-
No time for those thoughts, no time to let Hank try to turn this into an argument. Those errors that crawl and worm their way around some partitioned corner of his mind don't deserve the spotlight, and so Connor just reaches out and snaps his fingers in front of Hank's face.]
Hank. Look at me.
[Blatantly ignoring the question, go.]
no subject
You. Right. You're-
[Hank's starting to lean back, away from Connor. He does it slowly; the longer he speaks, the more of his weight will be pulling back from whatever grip Connor's got on him.]
You. No problem.
[Nevermind the quicker, deeper breaths he's taking now, deep enough that his lungs start to make the barest hint of a crackling noise on the tail end of each one. Nevermind the way his voice nearly shakes. Hank is holding it together; this is good enough.]
What? Something special I'm supposed to be looking at?
no subject
There's a lot of ways he could reply to that. For Hank's sake, he pushes down something that might be edged with slight sarcasm (his own stress levels have continually climbed in these weeks, making amicability harder when someone refuses to cooperate), and instead speaks evenly, calmly.]
Someone trying to help you. Someone trying to relay to you that you're not dying, because we don't know for certain that the plague on Struxta acts similarly to how it did in the past. This place is... strange, in many ways. Astoria is working to find a cure. And I'm not going to let you die.
I just need you to follow me. Can you do that?
no subject
Why? You should hate me!
Wait. That's not... Fuck, my head...
[He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple.]
You should... You shouldn't give a shit. You're supposed to take orders, right? What if I, uh...
[Hank tries opening his eyes, grimaces, then looks away at himself, where the view isn't much better but is easier to deal with.]
If I ordered you to go value someone else's contributions instead, go nursebot someone else? Cause, why not? They're all as bad off as me, I bet.
no subject
Sorry, Lieutenant. But currently your orders and null and void if we're off the deviant case.
[Technicalities are wonderful things when trying to explain his own actions away. Connor tugs at Hank again, a little more forcefully this time, to get the point across: he wants him to keep walking.]
But I told you before, you just didn't want to listen. And I doubt that repeating myself now will be any more effective in making you want to believe me.
[That he felt something akin to friendship with the man back in Detroit, is his meaning. His explanation regarding that he had been a few days in the future, and that future had afforded them experiences that made Connor consider Hank as his partner, and therefore one worth being concerned about.]
no subject
Cause you're not making sense! If you did hate me, if you - I don't know, went deviant and started kicking the shit out of me, that I'd get. But you just- You say we're off the case and then just keep acting like I'm your- Like you need me to finish the case at all. And you keep- I can't, uh-
[His hand jerks up in a sudden, impulsive gesture and rubs hard at his eyes.]
I can't remember what your face is supposed to look like. 's a stupid fuckin face anyway.
no subject
What do you mean you don't remember? You're looking at it right now.
[What is Hank seeing, through the twisted reality of fever? The man's steps might be clumsy, but if he's not falling over, Connor will keep trying to make him walk with him. Otherwise, he's sure they'll just stand in the coliseum and argue all day.]
no subject
[He stumbles forward, moving mostly on momentum, not paying attention to his feet, trying to think. It doesn't seem that hard a concept when he thinks about it. But when he thinks about saying it, that he can't remember whose face that is, maybe it does sound kinda...]
You guys all kind of, um- I don't mean 'all you guys look the same' even though, like. You're literally designed to have models that all look exactly the same. But I mean... The ones that do all the healthcare stuff, they uh, they have this... I don't know, this program, I guess, they're all supposed to be... Reassuring, or something. It's bullshit. At least- with the adults, I mean. We know the difference. If a scalpel's digging into my guts I don't want it to look up at me and be like, 'hey, my name's Bob and you're gonna be okay,' or whatever, I just want it to know its job and stick to it. One of them, I mean, it's gonna try to tell me I'm not dead cause that's what it's supposed to do, but the one I got, uh- got chained to for that stupid case, it's supposed to just... The case, you know? I'm a means to an end. And then we all know what we're supposed to be.
[He frowns at the rusty gate in front of him, knocked off his train of thought by the sight of it. He tries to climb back on.]
But you, you sound... I can't tell. I look at your face and I can't remember which one you're supposed to be.
no subject
I... I don't-
[Undestand what you're trying to say, would be the easiest escape route to take. A flat-out lie. But Connor can't, not with how Hank looks right now, but the issue is that he doesn't know how to scrape together a reply to that. Feels that sensation of code not lining up properly in the shadowed corners of his mind, of recursive routines that want to flare up and dance in front of his vision, but he pushes that all aside. Has to, can't afford to waste time talking about why he can't bring himself to do anything except help Hank.]
A lot's changed between what you last remember, and what I last recall.
[The answer is out before he realizes it, as if pushed past his lips by some unknown force.]
Wouldn't it just be easier for you to think of me as your partner wanting to aid you? Just for today, just for your sake.
no subject
If this were for my sake you'd drop me and let me rot. Didn't I say it? Circle number seven. Shoulda been nine, treachery fits, doesn't it? But violence against the self, that's, you know, fine. Guess you don't get to choose. And you, you just - a partner wouldn't touch that shit. A partner's just - just for cases! It's not like the movies. Did one of your programmers just watch Lethal Weapon one too many times, so you think that's what we're supposed to be? A partner means I work with you. And then I carry my own weight.
[He pauses, panting, frowning at the gate, swaying a little.]
That's all. That's all that means.
no subject
Why can't the Lieutenant just accept the aid? Frustration feels like something crawling along his false-skin again (he needs to runs a self-diagnostic, he needs to assess his own levels of stress), and Connor frowns deeply. Doesn't reply at first.
And then, as he pushes open the metal gate, hinges whining-]
Sorry, Lieutenant, but if you're hoping I'm going to indulge you in your propensity to slowly kill yourself, then you're going to have to find someone else.
[He swallows, as if cutting off whatever else he was going to say, and continues.]
You did work with me, once. I told you that we worked the deviant cases together, and though you don't remember it, those experiences still have sway over my decision-making process. That's why I'm doing what I'm doing.
no subject
[He pauses, self awareness sinking in, and sounds briefly amused.]
And if I’m telling you that, right now, you know you’re talking bullshit. Unless I grew ten feet and learned kung-fu in the couple days you say we spent on that case, there’s nothing about that extra time that could possibly have made it suddenly a great strategy to devote all this extra time to me. There’s no point in getting on my good side, you know? I mean, if you were human-
[He closes his eyes, hoping that will make the dizziness easier to take, and when he opens them he’s leaning even closer to Connor, close enough to get an eyeful of features that may or may not actually be there. He lurches back instinctively against the closest thing - the gate, which he hasn’t gone too far past. It is, shockingly, not that good for staying still under a sudden push. It is fantastic, however, at making an unholy rusting shriek and Hank squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing a hand against the side of his head.]
no subject
Another instance of Hank being quick to lean away from him when he gets too close. That’s a problem, one that he needs to clarify or rectify, if he wants to lead him away from the sparring area with minimal issue.]
Why do you keep pulling away from me?
[Tossing aside everything else that was said for now.]
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Is that- Is that what you look like, under your skin? Is that what's really in there?
[He doesn't try to pull away again but does begin to step back, stopping when his leg nudges the gate into another shrill movement. Hank flinches when he hears it and his gaze loses its focus, his voice gains a hint of frantic anger.]
I don't need an ambulance, you bet your plastic ass it's not worth the fight to get me into one. You can treat me right here or you can just fuckin leave.
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[What he looks like under his skin? Eyes widen slightly, and Connor raises his free hand to look at his palm. The illusion of skin is still there, still not going anywhere; he knows that this function of his is gone. No way for it to recede and leave only plastic-white in its wake. Smooth and unmarred.
His LED spins. Connor runs cursory a self-check in half a second. His systems verify what his eyes are telling him, that he's still appearing as he should, because he has no choice; doing anything else is locked to him.
Even so, he can't help the idle way a hand feels at his chin, his cheekbone, before dropping it down again. He looks at Hank, worried, as the gate swings back against his weight.]
You're imagining it. My skin- I can't turn it off. [There's something frenetic and frantic in Hank's voice now, and that keeps him from stepping forward again. He needs to calm him down first and foremost.]
Please, Hank. No matter what you see, I'm not... I'm not going to hurt you. I need you to cooperate.
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[Hank frowns, staring at him. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, putting a hand over his mouth. He swallows, and swallows again.]
You... Connor, right? Right. They never talked to me that way, like they need me. They never need humans, that's where we went wrong. But you... you saved my life, remember? On the roof? Bullshit. But you...
[He opens his eyes, tries looking just at Connor's legs, at his own. He swallows, looks away, then sets his jaw and looks up at Connor's face.]
Are you, uh. You in some kind of trouble?
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sort-of vomit cw
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