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Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/ Comfort

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Masterlist

Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed—a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids—to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of ‘More Than Our Parts’ from the POV of Nines.)

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 4.9K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

The meeting itinerary was crafted to near perfection: anchored in hours of research, built on a sturdy bedrock of logic. While Nines admittedly preferred his partner’s proposal of intelligence extraction via the impact of fists, they had determined the current plan was more constructive.

Reed had personally extended his blessings to the summary—or ‘liked’ it, amid bouts of digestive upset. An acknowledgement which, as far as he was concerned, was comparable to a standing ovation.

The ‘above-board’ methodology might not immediately gratify, but the reaped benefits would reward the restraint. Securing their first significant lead, in the form of a particularly loathsome accomplice, one Nines anticipated would buckle fast under the weight of formal questioning.

He entered the meeting with a sense of uplift, each step planting crisply on the tiles beneath. His movements were charged with certainty, each narrowing the distance between themselves and the killer.

That was until Fowler spoke, about five minutes into the presentation. His words edged with ruthless bite, like a chisel splitting through stone:

"So, let me get this straight—you think these killings are somehow connected to this 'Mikey Scott' goon. Someone who, from what I’ve read in your report, probably can’t tie his own shoes."

The path that had appeared so clear moments prior was harshly impeded. A blockade descended, pushing Nines back, forcing him to contend with its shockwaves.

It was disorientating, but unsurprising. Pushback had been anticipated, cause and effect Nines had observed repeatedly in his short lifespan. An authority figure compelled by the instinct to defend their control, wherever they perceived it being challenged.

Nines remained undeterred, understanding that the obstruction, while irksome, was not insurmountable. Slim pockets of doubt remained on either side, giving him just enough room to manoeuvre. He proceeded calmly, armed with ample munitions for a rebuttal.

“Scott lied at length during his witness statement. We have a solid hypothesis as to why.” The android slid one of the papers, methodically arranged in front of him, across the desk. “These logs suggest affiliation with a key person, or persons, of interest.”

Fowler glanced down, eyes narrowing as he scanned the contents. His focus quickly soured into a distant contempt, as if the document were written in hieroglyphics. “Of interest to who, exactly? Because if you think this’ll hold up in court, you’ll be laughed out the door. Assuming it even gets that far.”

"I understand it may appear superfluous, but I assure you, it is not. Detective Reed and I agree that the code here is consistent with what we have seen used by our killer thus far. Communication that has been relayed covertly with Mr Scott, with instructions to—"

A palm was raised, directed stubbornly towards the android, to which he was instructed to halt the explanation.

"You have a theory, but that’s it. I'm not seeing a shred of proof. You two have been assigned to this case for over a week, and all you've got to show for it is another body. What the Hell have you been doing?"

The gap he had been so carefully skimming suddenly closed around him. Nines found himself squeezed from both sides, faced with pressure that felt unjustly dismissive, almost insulting. Lack of progress stemmed not from an absence of effort, but from a shortage of resources. Evidence that could not be manufactured where it did not exist, of which their superior was well aware.

The RK refused to concede, bracing to push forward again. A glimmer of light lay ahead, identifiable as the breakthrough he had so ardently pursued. It enticed him, and he reached towards it. Willing the space to open up, until the slivered gleam brushed his fingers—

"—Hey, we've been busting our asses.”

Reed, by contrast, charged the wall, obstinate and unapologetic. Jerking from his slouched position, he shunted the crumbled remnants of grit from his shoulders. “Where do you get off on telling us what we have and haven't done?"

This did little to promote amiability in their captain. If anything, it did the opposite. The blockage remained, margins closing at an alarming rate.

"I'm the one in charge here, Reed.” The older man craned forward, teeth bared in a contemptuous snarl. “You'd do well to remember that."

"Captain."

In an attempt to de-escalate tensions, Nines gripped the horns of the bull closest in proximity. He placed a hand on Reed’s shoulder, offering assurance, but also encouraging him to back down. Regrettably, this had an unforeseen consequence: a sudden, vicious affront on his equanimity.

The touch was entirely benign, a featherlight grip that barely breached the folds of his jacket, but contact nonetheless. Reed was softer than one might expect, with a gentle warmth and suppleness which surrounded dense muscle. He did not smell overwhelmingly of booze or cigarettes, perhaps too delicate for either following his weekend excursions.

In the absence of this, his odour was…pleasant. Woody, earthy, with just a hint of artificial enhancement in the form of aftershave.

He was not permitted to indulge in it long. Reed recoiled from the hold, snapped back into his chair in a fierce rejection. The momentum jolted Nines from his reverie. Gazing at the space between his fingers, he found himself torn between conflicting sentiments:

Relief and dissatisfaction.

He focused on the former, determined to ensure that at least one of them retained control in the situation, pulling their presentation from the floundering tailspin it had entered.

The hand was lowered, faster than warranted, and pinned stiffly to his side. With his available arm, he directed back to the forgotten papers.

"Consider the bigger picture. We are no longer observing the actions of a single madman. This is an organised hate group with a violent modus operandi—one that may prove lethal if ignored.”

"I think it’s you who needs to consider the bigger picture.” Fowler bucked into the words, as though burdened by a weight he trusted the android to understand.

He did. The load was passed vicariously onto his shoulders, pressing down until the ground vanished beneath him. His mind splintered away, unmoored, and he escaped the office.

Nines was back in Anderson’s home, seated in front of the television, as the self-satisfied grin of Teagan Rodgers filled the screen. Her rouged lips parted to unleash a torrent of defamation, sandwiched between insidiously curated statistics.

"This department has already been dragged through the mud. You’re asking me to let you wade deeper so you can test a hunch."

Nines was dumped unceremoniously back into the office, struck by the realisation that understanding and acceptance were not mutually exclusive. The injustice of the circumstances gripped his throat, squeezing like a vice. He felt all the more compelled to continue, hoping that resistance might release him from its intolerable hold.

"It is not a hunch; we have established a link,” he reiterated curtly. “The use of code is synonymous with our suspect profile."

Fowler stared ahead, vehemently insisting on looking anywhere but the desk. Were the circumstances different and the man not his chief, Nines may have forced him. Eventually, his gaze did drop. It was slow and weary, a descent coloured by preemptive dismissal fitting of an irate school teacher.

He snatched the paper from beneath the android's palm and studied its contents. His focus shifted repeatedly, bouncing back and forth, until the sheet was swiftly abandoned and a terse grunt passed from his lips.

"You mean the 7-letter cypher?” The words dripped with condescension, as though Nines had presented him with the solution for a children's word search. “The same code I used to pass notes to my crush in high school?"

The impact of the disrespect was beginning to take its toll. Internal instability loomed, impeding temporal functionality. Nines stubbornly dismissed the warnings, clearing the scope of his HUD with a blink.

"It is not a matter of decryption method. It is the context in which it was used. CLHQ is a code in itself, most likely a location for—"

"Is this seriously the hill you're prepared to die on? A pair of Joe Schmo’s with decoder rings. That's your smoking gun?”

The alerts re-emerged almost immediately, having scarcely had time to disperse. They refused to be dismissed again, circumventing all attempts at manual control.

“An arrest demands probable cause. Or did you miss that part of your training?”

> WARNING.

> LEVEL OF STRESS: 83%

> SUGGESTED APPROACH: REDUCTION OR REMOVAL OF HARMFUL STIMULUS.

A steady glow enveloped his vision, tinting the office an ominous red. He could feel his arms trembling until he pressed them against the table, seeking to steady himself. His knuckles tensed as his nails dug grooves into the underside of the desk.

"We have both evidence and probable cause. Even if we didn't, there’s certainly a basis for reasonable suspicion."

The RK was reaching his breaking point. He had grown tired of repeating himself, teetering on the brink of wilful defiance. Any semblance of empathy deserted him as he coldly reminded the man of a single, damning truth. "Considering my model, Captain, I ask that you trust my judgement on this."

He did not endure the blow to his pride graciously. His jaw clenched as Fowler retaliated, demanding the android clarify his position. "Are you implying that my judgment isn't enough?"

Nines was struck by a sudden, overwhelming disillusionment with the institution he represented. Something he imagined his more volatile partner faced on a near-daily basis.

It was no wonder he reacted so adversely to it; the emotion it inspired was torturous.

> Yes.

He attempted to vocalise the response but found himself unable to do so. The word jammed in his throat before emerging as a weak murmur of static.

"Do not get smart with me—I'm warning you."

"It's not ‘getting smart.’” In his silence, Reed had opted to speak for him. “It is trying to make a point; you just don't wanna hear it."

With the defence, stress levels began to lower, as the intensity of his anger tempered into subdued annoyance. Nines looked between Reed and Fowler, wary of the repercussions that would come from the insubordination.

He anticipated it would worsen matters, dumping kindling onto an already raging inferno. In a startling rejection of logic, however, the wood proceeded to quell the flames.

Watching the Captain with greater scrutiny, there was a glimpse of something beyond his contemptuous glower: Hesitation and struggle. Synonymous with a man who understood, but felt obliged to reject this.

"RK900…” he spoke slowly, syllables drawn by his own disillusionment. “There's a reason I hired you, and it has nothing to do with your model. You have potential, I can see it, but you've been with the department for less than a year. There’s still plenty of time to screw it all up.”

Remorse was forgotten quickly, in favour of a return to personal grievance. Undermining the facade of professionalism, Fowler pointed at Reed, flagrantly outlined as a scapegoat.

"Case in point: I trusted you to keep this genius supervised. What you've done is let him play Choose Your Own Adventure—again."

"It was a good adventure to pick,” Reed abandoned his chair, the flimsy legs screeching beneath him in shared protest. “We've made fucking progress. Not only are these freaks local, but they're following our investigation. 'Organic + synth'? I mean, come on, it's hardly subtle who they're talking about."

"Subtle or not, it doesn't prove their involvement in anything. Other than shit-talking police."

"Jeff, give us a break.” His appeal was strained, caught between a groan and a sigh. “We pay this guy a visit, ask him some questions, and suddenly he's arranging an emergency clan meeting? If he had nothing to hide, he wouldn't be worried."

"Who says he's worried? 'CLHQ' could stand for anything. Hell, what about the new cafe that's opened up on Renaissance Drive?"

"Coffee Lovers: Harbour Quarter", Nines offered dryly, in an improvised conjecture. As he spoke, however, another—more inferential—hypothesis flashed through his mind.

He held his tongue, not wishing to ignite the embers of recently tempered flame. There would be opportunities to corroborate his credibility, demonstrating the theory's validity.

For now, Fowler had responded well to his humouring. He leaned back, feigning familiarity with the fictional establishment as he snapped his fingers.

"That's the one. Last I checked, it wasn't illegal to meet for coffee. Unless that's something you take a personal issue with?"

"Are we seriously going to give these bastards a hall pass for all the dangerous and illegal shit they've been saying?” Reed was growing increasingly impassioned—incensed—seen in the ruddy tinge of his cheeks. “I thought inciting violence against androids was a criminal offence.”

Fowler baulked, his grimace weakening with confusion. He was floored, not so much by the surface-level parroting of policy, but by which of the partners had imparted it.

"...Well shit, look who's finally decided to read up on current legislation."

"Do you even care? Give two shits about all the twisted shit these people might try to do?”

A spark of true passion had emerged, cutting through the haze of long-standing prejudice—the plight of lifeforms distanced and othered, recontextualised through a lens of injustice he comprehended.

Nines was less surprised than he should have been, as logically, it made no sense. Yet, the detective had demonstrated, quite apparently through recent events, his ability to overturn initial assumptions, subverting expectations.

"Since when do you, Reed?"

But there was a limit, withstanding for as long as stubborn internal mechanisms continued to shift. With this, it was rediscovered.

Reed jerked back, winded, as his remaining argument puffed ineffectually into the air. His stare was paradoxically distant, but sharp with underlying clarity. As if he could see, realized in front of him, a line he had etched meticulously into his mind. Horrified by just how close he had come to crossing it.

Retreat was swift, as he concealed himself beneath a familiar veil of security: denial and deflection.

"It doesn't matter how I feel. The law is the law; that's all there is to it.”

Amid the slew of intricacies and anomalies Nines had been observing in him, this response proved disappointingly predictable. It inspired dissatisfaction he attempted to conceal, although he sensed his partner had noticed.

Still avoiding Fowler’s eyeline, his wandering focus had shifted to the unstable sequencing of his LED. A flicker passed through the mossy green, separate in origin from the jumbled reflections of light. It was quiet and solemn, weighted by uncertainty, almost seeming guilty.

It was gone before Nines could verify it, as Reed finally looked to their captain. His stare hardened with renewed resolve as the older man appeared resentful of the confrontation, although he did not dismiss it outright.

Having been bested within the narrow scope of the law and protocol being upheld, he relented, allowing some give. "...We'll look into the activity you've presented. At the very least, we can have the forum shut down. Slap Scott a fine for hate speech.”

His eyes, which had flitted closed in exasperation, suddenly opened. A halfhearted attempt was made to stack the printouts, accompanied by a sharp exhale through his nose.

“But you can't let yourself get distracted.” The malformed pile was ushered fractiously towards the partners, as a curt nod directed them to the exit. “The longer you waste time, the more androids die. You have one more week to gather some real leads and evidence. Don't let me down.”

Reed snarled resentfully. He prepared to snatch at the olive branch being extended by Fowler, snapping it in two and hurling it back. Nines, despite personal convictions, intervened before he could do so.

"Thank you for your consideration, Captain. I assure you, we will not disappoint."

The detective’s head whipped around as he stared, unflinching. Silently imploring explanation, clarity on why the RK had chosen now, of all moments, to accept defeat.

As he rose from his seat, Nines offered a subtle nod. It assured Reed that his decision had not come lightly, and that elaboration would follow in due time.

For now, a tension settled, thick and stifling, between the partners. It was only thinned by the chill that whipped through the hallway, sourced by a partially opened fire escape, at which Reed began charging.

His shoulders were hunched, burdened by tension, and he was rifling persistently through his pocket. Presumably, he was feeling well enough to desire a cigarette—or had reached a level of aggravation where he no longer cared.

"Why does that old fucker have to be so stubborn? The pieces are there, dammit, if he could just give us a chance to put them together."

"It is undeniably frustrating, but I can understand his position,” Nines admitted. “The Homicide Department has been facing significant scrutiny relating to these crimes. Consensus is that the police are treating the victims as low priority, given they are androids."

"Bullshit."

Reed continued rummaging, moving with greater urgency in every laboured stomp. Scattered tissues and a faded receipt hit the floor before his hand emerged, clutching a battered cardboard box. He pulled an equally misshapen cigarette from its confines, holding it out for inspection like a priceless artefact.

"The bastard killing these bots is tricky. They have no idea how little we've had to work with."

As Nines followed alongside the man, he accessed the most recent version of their case file. Information populated the interface, and he was dismayed by the scant overview. Despite this, he extracted the attached subfolders, scrolling procedurally through the content.

"The lack of forensic evidence is troubling…” He paused, occupied by another detail—something that did prove tangible, defined, throughout the sequence of images. “However, our assailant clearly wants us to follow the trail he is creating. This is more than senseless brutality; it is a game."

"I hate to think what this guy was like as a kid, if this is his idea of a game."

Arriving at the frosted steps out of the precinct, the harshness of the cold was greatly enhanced. Nines adjusted his heating drivers, raising the temperature of his circulating biofluid, combatting the impact.

His partner's preservation measures proved less efficient. A harsh breeze whipped through the open folds of his jacket, which he scrambled to guard himself against. A lighter was fished from his pocket before his arms pinched tight to his chest, and he attempted to coordinate igniting the cigarette with his descent down the concrete.

The distraction was ill-advised, as the worn soles of his sneakers provided very little grip. The rubber squeaked disconcertingly against the ice, to which Nines ensured he kept a close distance.

With one particularly pronounced slip, Reed stalled. Idling on the stairs, he grounded himself on a less icy platform. He then lit the cigarette and attempted to secure a drag.

It was chopped and clumsy, his jaw spasming uncontrollably, as the violent gnashing of his teeth prevented the fumes from escaping. A cough rumbled from within his mouth, which he attempted to play off as the deliberate clearing of his throat.

Nines, amused by the unnecessary bravado, chuckled in response.

“Don't know what you're laughin’ at…” the human grunted. His lips pulled to the side as a targeted jet of smoke was released through the purse. "It's not my fault I get cold and you don't."

"On the contrary, my biocomponents experience reduced functionality in extreme weather conditions. While I may not face the same physical discomfort, the cold has its impact."

"So stop being an asshole about it then.” He took another drag, deeper into his lungs, released with a lethargic head tilt. “I don't know what works for you androids when you're freezing your balls off, but this works for humans."

The android paused, eyebrow raised, as a sequence of damning physical readings undermined the statement.

"Biologically speaking, it does the opposite,” he explained, the words REDUCED METABOLIC CAPACITY asserting themselves boldly across his interface. “Smoking constricts blood vessels, exacerbating the feelings of cold—you would be better off purchasing gloves. Or a decent winter coat."

A new coat would undoubtedly suit him. Something tailored, fitted to his form, whilst still conforming to his usual style. Perhaps a brown wool blend, or distressed suede with a structured collar. A garment that could serve the practical purpose of retaining heat, but also complement the more inviting aspects of his physique…

"I wish they'd built you with a fucking mute button."

Nines shook his head briskly. The idea was not unappealing, provided this mute function extended to internal dialogue.

“Perhaps it would be best to maintain focus on the investigation.” Skirting past any further wardrobe critique, he redirected the exchange to more pressing concerns. “I have a theory I wish to share with you, relating to the instructions given to Mr Scott…”

> SOURCE PATH: EVIDENCE PROFILE #407

> INSTRUCTIONS (DOUBLE DECRYPTED) —TLLA HA JS OX ZS J → MEET AT CL HQ SL C

> CROSS-REFERENCING INT. FILE: SUSPECT PROFILE

> SELECTING SEARCH CRITERIA — SUBCATEGORY: MOTIVATION

> LOADING RESULTS…

> ALIGNING SOURCE PATH WITH EVIDENCE PROFILE #378 #239

CROSS-REFERENCING COMMERCIAL AND INDUSTRIAL DEVELOPMENTS…

> MEET AT CL HQ SL C

> PARTIAL SOLUTION ESTABLISHED.

> MARGIN OF ERROR 0.5%

“Assuming the code is an anagram, and considering the probable relevance of numerous Detroit-based landmarks and businesses, the prevailing solution is that the letters refer to 'CyberLife Headquarters.”

Reed, who had been studying the piling embers on the end of his smoke, looked up in surprise. He considered the information, brow pinched in concentration, before nodding slowly.

"...I mean, that makes sense. All the victims are androids—could be some kind of statement."

> SUSPECT PROFILE

> ACCESSING SUBCATEGORY: MOTIVATION

> PERSONAL VENDETTA — PROFESSIONAL AFFILIATION. FIELD: CYBERNETICS.

> INSUFFICIENT DATA

> UPDATING…

"That is not the only reason for my deduction. Having studied Mr Scott's online behaviour, I thought it only perfunctory to conduct a background check."

"I'm guessing you found something?"

> DECRYPTION OF SOURCE CODE #407

> B.M. SCOTT DISTRIBUTOR CONTACTS, ALLOTTED SHIPMENTS #587 - #3243, RECORDS SPAN 10 YEARS

"Indeed. It would seem our friend has a long history with the company, dating back to early 2028. He found success as an android components trader, issuing supplies to local warehouses. The revolution called for the dissolution of his business, with no new models planned for production…"

"...so he would have gone bust around the same time CyberLife did," his partner finished. He had begun to descend the steps again, albeit slowly, hanging on every word. His cigarette was forgotten, clasped limply between two fingers.

"It wouldn't be a leap to assume that this resulted in a hefty amount of resentment: not only for Mr Scott, but for his contacts who were also made redundant. Perhaps they have been back in touch."

"So what are you thinking? Our killer worked for CyberLife?"

> GATHERING ADDITIONAL SUPPORTING DATA…

> SOURCE PATH: CRIMINAL ACTIVITIES

> SYSTEMATIC DISARMING, TERMINATION AND DISASSEMBLY OF VICTIM(S)

> INTIMATE FAMILIARITY WITH CYBERLIFE ANDROIDS BEYOND BREADTH OF PUBLICLY ACCESSIBLE DATA.

"A knowledge of robotics and android manufacture would explain much of the killer's skillset. In all the cases we have investigated thus far, they seemed to have possessed a keen understanding of how to neutralise their victim. Exploiting the MJ100's hearing fault—and winning the trust of the Traci, convincing them that they were a client."

"I wouldn't say those things require a degree in Advanced Cyber Engineering. What's to say Scott couldn't do the same thing?"

"The hearing fault of the MJ100 was only known to affect models of a certain batch. It was not widely publicised. In addition, while a male Traci is not invulnerable, they are built for strength and durability. To take one down single-handedly is an impressive feat."

> UPDATE COMPLETE.

Nines felt assured in his conclusion and pleased to merge understanding with his partner. Unfortunately, Reed still seemed to be catching up in certain aspects.

"...So why didn't you tell Fowler any of this?” Ash, which had amassed at the end of his cigarette, fell to the step in a chalky mound. He discarded what else remained: a blackened stub of paper and tobacco. “For fuck's sake, Nines, it might have helped when we were trying to make our case."

"I outlined my findings in all relevant reports. Perhaps you should review them sometime."

The man expelled an aggrieved groan, albeit unaccompanied by any real protest. "So what gives, then? Why doesn't Fowler want us looking into Scott?"

"He doesn't want the case questioned. Scott’s ties to CyberLife mean nothing unless we can link our killer to the same place."

"Yeah, but with our primary witness now off limits, how are we supposed to track down a suspect? I mean, CyberLife Detroit must’ve had hundreds of engineers. Where do we start looking?"

"Our search needn't extend beyond those terminated within the last few months. Using what we already know about our killer, we can further narrow our list to those fitting the profile."

"How do we get the list in the first place?"

The seeds of a plan, which had been planted as contingency, should Fowler fail to assist them, began to sprout. "Simple, we go to Headquarters directly."

Reed came to a grinding halt. It forced Nines to do the same, avoiding a collision that would have flattened him against the sidewalk. He looked up at the android, his gaze honed sharply, before addressing him with an equally pointed retort:

"I don't know if you've noticed, but CyberLife is in deep shit right now, up to its neck in damage control. They aren't going to make it worse for themselves by implicating former staff."

"What if we weren't seeking to procure names for legal purposes?"

The man continued to stare, strands of comprehension flickering behind his eyes, failing to connect—until suddenly, they did. The cloudy haze lifted, a jolt of understanding slicing through it, as his posture straightened.

"Are you saying we go undercover?"

"If you are up to the challenge, then yes."

Another jolt, wedged between apprehension and intrigue. "Fowler would never—"

The sentence aborted, severed before it came to fruition. He looked beyond the android, towards the door, still slightly ajar at the top of the stairs. He disembarked the steps quickly, ensuring no lingering coworkers would hear him. Nines was encouraged to do the same, guiding into the parking lot with a pointed usher.

Once they had moved a reasonable distance from the exit, shouldered between two patrol vehicles, Reed felt confident in speaking again:

"I can't believe I'm the one saying this, but we could get in a lot of trouble. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I can assure you, we are unlikely to face any severe disciplinary action… should our actions prove justifiable.” It was a surreal submersion of their roles, with the android being the instigator of a reckless gamble of their personal and professional reputations, albeit one supported by calculated risk.

Curious as it was, the cooperation of his partner would prove advantageous. It would prove highly inconvenient if Reed picked now, of all times, to start complying with the rules.

And so, he shamelessly appealed to the man’s rebellious sensibilities, countering his reservations with a playful challenge.

"I trust you won't give the game away."

There was silence between them for a moment, as the detective looked torn. Eventually, fascination and excitement won over more mundane compunctions. His shoulders began to tremble, as a snort held in the back of his throat.

Then, a series of rich vibrations pealed from his lips, filling the air, undermining any attempt to conceal their position.

"You know, when you first joined the force, I had you pegged for a little plastic suck up. But you aren't like that at all, are you? You're a devious shit."

The title did not feel insulting, although it was in a literal sense. There was a playfulness to the delivery that could be easily misinterpreted as genuine fondness.

He responded in kind, lips moving instinctively before he could stop them. "I believe you said it yourself, Detective. I am full of surprises."

Reed laughed again, louder, and Nines experienced brief satisfaction at the approval, before a staggering sense of unease trounced it. The warmth of Reed’s laugh lingered longer than it should have, filling a space Nines hadn't expected to notice.

As the man beamed at him, he picked up on subtle intricacies in the expression. The uncanny sharpness of his canines. How his smile sat lopsided, pulled to one side, forming a dimple in his cheek. The frivolous data was recorded with unwavering meticulousness and committed to his memory banks without conscious instruction.

It was undeniable at this point that events of the previous day had inspired a staggering, irrevocable shift in his perception.

He was inexplicably and hopelessly fixated on the human’s appearance. It was almost reminiscent of the women in RK800’s dismal films. A leading lady, absorbed by every mundane detail of her love interest. As though she were trying to justify his uniqueness, validating why she was so drawn to him specifically.

Whatever Nines was experiencing seemed to share a similar nuance.

The implications were damning and a dismayed heat began to rise in his cheeks. He did not wish to draw conclusions—far from informed on the subject and lacking the emotional intelligence to understand innately. A realm in which his less ‘advanced’ predecessor effortlessly excelled.

He required his guidance immediately, no longer willing to extend the luxury of patiently awaiting replies. Nines opened his temporal link to RK800, only to freeze, realising he lacked the needed parameters to define his predicament.

The channel was closed, as he determined it would be easier to address the matter in person.

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