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nevadancitizen · 1 year ago

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-> CH. 10: EITHER FICKLE OR A FRIEND (OR A REALLY FUCKING FICKLE FRIEND)

synopsis: connor and you have a conversation. it's not uncomfortable, per se, but it's weird. connor's acting weird.

word count: 2.4k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: me? projecting onto y/n? it's more likely than you think

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400 (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

Connor’s sitting in his unofficially designated chair in the corner of the android autopsy room, and you’re puttering about, stealing glances at him out of the corner of your eye.

Again, the loud and prideful creature in you is baying and yowling like a dog near death. It’s telling you to kick him out – that his kind-of-aggression and kind-of-manipulation is completely unforgivable. It curses at you for your faults, for being weak for him when he feels absolutely nothing for you.

But you swallow it. You stomp it down and tell it to be quiet for now.

You pat the autopsy table. It’s surprisingly loud, and startles you a little. “Khm… if you’d like to get started on the memory transfer, you can get up on the table.”

Connor stands and moves over to the autopsy table. He sits on it and leans forward, his elbows on his knees.

You pull a couple of cables from a drawer in your desk and plug them into the side of one of your computers. When you turn to Connor, you hold up the other ends of them. “I need to plug these into your ports.”

Connor turns his head to the side and presses behind his ear. The plastic of his skin slides back, revealing two small ports.

“Jacking in. Don’t move.” You grab Connor’s jaw to steady him, then jack in the ports one at a time.

You pull away and turn to your monitor before you fully register what you just did. You’re so used to doing it out of instinct that you didn’t realize you were holding his face. You feel the tips of your ears start to burn, but clear your throat and try to shake it off.

“I’m going to sift through your memory banks,” you say without turning to look at him. “Have you had this… well, I usually call it an operation, but it’s not really one. Have you had a query run on your memory before?”

“Not by an external source,” Connor says. “But I do recall the events that happened throughout the day and process them while in standby or rest mode.”

“So you call queries on yourself?” You say. “Huh. Never heard of androids doing that before. But I guess you are a prototype.”

You put your head down and start to type. “Give me temporary access to your systems?”

A pop-up appears on your monitor:

> Android “Connor” (model RK800) giving admin access to Memory Banks. Accept access? Y/N

You click accept and multiple windows appear on your screen. You sort through them and find what you’re looking for. You quickly type:

RK800.memory-banks(location.search);

//=> ‘?Jericho’ {date=11-08-2038}

A short clip comes up after a few seconds of load time. It starts with a first-person shot of Connor looking at you (god, did you really look that worried?), then takes off and charges the deviant. He connects with the other android, and then you see it: Jericho, painted on a piece of rusty metal, just like how Connor described. Then, Connor is ripped from his connection. The video ends.

“That looks like a…” you mutter to yourself. You don’t finish the sentence.

“Looks like a what?” Connor pipes up from behind you.

You rewind the footage from Connor’s memory banks and look at it again. “I was going to say it looks like a boat, but…”

“It’s highly unlikely that the deviants are residing on a boat,” Connor says. “There aren’t many abandoned boats along the Detroit River, and certainly not one big enough to house most of the deviant androids.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” you say. “It’s not like there’s just a freighter floating around for them to take.”

You put your head down again and put in the commands to copy the video to your desktop. After a few seconds, it’s done.

“Okay.” You pull away from the keyboard and turn to Connor. “I’m done.”

“Actually, Officer?” Connor asks.

Your eyebrows furrow. “Yes?”

He glances away, then back to you. “Do you have the equipment required to run a diagnostic on an android?”

“Uh…” You let out an exhale of air with something between confusion and disbelief. “Yeah? Yeah, I do. Why?”

“Can you run a diagnostic on me?” Connor asks.

“Wh…” Your face twists in confusion. “Why would you want that? I thought you had the operating power to run diagnostics on yourself.”

“I do,” Connor says, and it’s almost like there’s a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “But… I’d just like a second opinion.”

You nod, slowly. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll get that up and running.”

You turn back to the computer and close the running programs to make space for the ones you open. When you’re done, you move over to Connor and remove the cables after warning him. You almost cradle his head as you press your left palm to the port behind his ear, your thumb on his cheek. (The proud creature inside you whines and barks and kicks your liver at that.)

The wires from your glove quickly replace the cables that were just there a moment ago. Connor’s eye twitches once.

You look over your shoulder at the computer. It’s already automatically running the diagnostic you queued up – way too slow for your liking, might you add.

“Do you have any more books on Russian literature?” Connor asks out of the blue.

You turn back to him. “Yeah. Russians of the past loved to philosophize and think. There wasn’t much else to do when most of the year was spent below freezing for most people. Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious,” Connor says. “I want to know more about you.”

You do your best to hide the bitterness that boils up in your belly. You honestly can’t tell if this is Connor trying to make conversation or another one of his little manipulative tactics. You can do nothing but operate on blind faith.

Connor glances at you out of the corner of his eye, then looks forward. “What is Russian literature about?”

You hem and haw and collect your thoughts before speaking. “It has sobornost, metaphysics, religiosity, intuitionism, positivism, realism… but I like the ones that are more universal. The ones that can apply to everyone.”

“What do you mean?” He says.

“The books about the fear of failure, and the fear of death. How it sucks to be Russian.” You shrug with one arm, trying not to jostle Connor too much. “I mean, all national literatures are – only the name of the nation changes.”

“Hm,” Connor hums and looks down. Looks like you’ve given him something to think about for the time being.

You look over your shoulder, and the computer screen shows that the diagnostic is nearly done. When it finally finishes, you disengage the wires, the palm of your hand and fingers cool where it touched Connor’s skin.

You step back and turn to the computer, looking over the diagnostic report. Everything seems normal, and the ALL SYSTEMS NOMINAL! message at the bottom of the page confirms that.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” you say. “Not a hair out of place.”

You turn and lean back against the desk. Connor is looking down at the ground. He stays like that for a second, then looks up at you.

“Do you have books on the history of the USSR?” He asks. You internally note his (maybe unintentional) dismissal of the diagnostic report.

“Yeah.” You open a drawer and pull out the first book you see, then hold it up for Connor. It’s a book that was published in the late 1900’s, named The Reversal of Archduke Franz Ferdinand: How the Death of Agent Ekaterina Nechayeva Prevented the Collapse of the USSR.

“This one is about the Kollektiv 2.0 Disaster and how the death of Major Sergey Nechayev’s wife inadvertently prevented things from…” You think for a moment. “Well, not from going wrong, but from things getting worse.”

You look down at the book. “It’s the same butterfly effect Archduke Franz Ferdinand created, but in reverse. She saved lives by dying instead of ending them.”

“That’s interesting,” Connor says.

“Somewhat.” You put the book back and shut the drawer, then look back up at Connor. “Kind of like… you. You could’ve died killing that deviant in Stratford Tower – the station android. But you risked that to save human lives.” You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?”

Connor looks at you with those big doe eyes. He blinks and tilts his head to the side. “If the deviant succeeded in its mission of a mass shooting, it would’ve most likely killed Lieutenant Anderson, too. Like I said a few days ago, I need both the Officer and the Lieutenant for maximum efficiency when solving this case.”

“So you put your secondary mission above your first,” you say. “Because hunting deviants is your top objective, yes? So you put the safety of Hank above your primary mission.”

“I…” Connor’s LED turns yellow, then returns to blue. “Yes, I did. Because Lieutenant Anderson’s safety was compromised at that moment.”

You hum and lean back, crossing your arms. You didn’t exactly love putting him in situations like this – ones where he was forced to reflect inwardly, guided by your hand. How you both somehow rounded back to these conversations and topics was almost like a base instinct, spurred on by your primal reptilian hindbrain and his innermost motherboards.

“Why do you keep doubting my non-deviancy status?” Connor finally asks.

“I…” You exhale sharply. “I’m just not used to being around androids that are so expressive. I know it’s part of your… social relations program or your interrogation software, but still. Maybe I’m just a fool.”

You tap the front of the drawer you just shut. “Not a fool regarding books or cybernetics or polymer, but a fool regarding relationships.”

Connor looks at you weirdly. “Officer, we’re not… in a relationship.”

“Not like that!” You feel your face grow warm. “We’re two people that have met each other. By definition, we have a relationship.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, what do you think of our relationship?”

“I mean…” You look up at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the outlines of the tiles. “I’ve always had trouble putting people into boxes. My mind seems to blur the lines between stranger, acquaintance, and friend. So most people, even friends, just default to some weird in-between.”

Your eyes return to Connor. “Are we… friends? Because I don’t know if we are. I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just… truly don’t know.”

Connor tilts his head to the side. It kind of reminds you of a puppy looking at something it doesn’t understand. “I believe so.”

You allow yourself to feel just a spark of hope, but you’re careful to not let it ignite into a Californian wildfire. You bite the inside of your lip to keep from smiling too widely. “It would be nice to be friends. But… you have to promise me something.”

“Yes?” He says.

You steel your expression. “You admitted to basically manipulating me to get into my good graces. Please, don’t do that again. I don’t want you to be fake around me. I…” You swallow thickly. The creature of pride in your belly is baying and scratching at the walls of your stomach. “I don’t want the Connor who kisses ass at every opportunity, or the one who worships the dirt I piss on. I want the real Connor. Even if… even if the real Connor is just a machine.”

Connor just stares at you, almost unblinking. His LED is circling in on itself in a steady yellow. You feel your face start to burn hot with shame and you’re just about ready to fall through the ground. Your eyes fall to the floor.

“Uh, never mind, forget I said –”

“No,” Connor cuts you off. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll try my best not to… ‘kiss ass’ in the future.”

You feel a laugh bubble up in your throat and you can’t even stop it before it spills from your lips. It’s so sudden that you have to bring a hand to your mouth to try to silence yourself.

Connor looks at you inquisitively. “Why are you laughing?”

“You…” You giggle, then clear your throat. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you curse. It sounds weird coming from you. Like it’s foreign.”

“I’ve always been able to curse,” Connor says. “I just don’t feel the need to.”

“I know,” you say. “It’s just… odd, is all. I’m not used to it. Like when someone tells you the sky is blue. You have to pause for a moment, then you think, ‘Oh, of course. That’s obvious.’ Not because you didn’t know that the sky is blue, but because you’re not used to people stating the obvious like that.”

“Huh.” Connor looks down at the floor. “You talk a lot. It’s useful for my machine learning algorithms.”

You perk up a little at that. To hear Connor say that he likes when you talk, even in a completely roundabout way, is… weirdly comforting. (You can faintly feel the dry grass around the spark of hope catching fire in your chest. The proud beast stomps out the growing flames and keeps it in check to make sure it stays just that – a small, flickering spark.)

“Well, khm…” you look away and scratch your cheek. “Thank you.”

Connor nods, but doesn’t speak.

You glance at the clock on one of your many monitors. It’s nearing seven in the evening. “I should probably get going. It’s getting late.”

“It is,” Connor says.

You quickly save everything on your computer and shut off the monitors. You grab your coat from the back of your chair by your desk and shrug it on.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You say.

“Yes.” Connor’s eyes twitch and his LED flashes yellow for a moment. “Lieutenant Anderson has just alerted me that his request for a meeting with Elijah Kamski has been accepted. It’s set for 11:20 AM tomorrow.”

You nod. “And I’m assuming Hank will swing by to pick me up.”

“Yes,” Connor says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Officer. Have a good night.”

You smile at him, a lightness in your chest. “You too.”

#riptide writes 🌊#head of false security #dbh connor x reader #connor rk800 x reader #rk800 x reader #connor x reader #detroit become human #dbh connor #dbh rk800 #dbh x reader #detroit become human x reader #dbh connor x you #connor rk800 x you #rk800 x you #connor x you #dbh x you #detroit become human x you #connor rk800

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peskellence · 4 months ago

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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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A03 Link

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: 5.3K

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

To the dismay of all those affected, RK800 had been selected to choose their movie. Not that Anderson’s taste would have served them better—high-octane, low-budget action features with impressively bad acting.

Nines simply could not understand why the human and android did not rotate. Their biweekly film nights were infrequent enough that it would have been easy to balance control. Despite this, both parties insisted on an archaic coin-flip system.

Initially, this had been a coin issued to RK800 for calibration purposes. Following an inordinate number of failed attempts, Anderson insisted it must be weighted. A digital replacement was employed to appease him, until he had hotly repeated the claim.

Rather than debate the feasibility of a computing algorithm being ‘weighted’, RK800 had complied with the ongoing request that Anderson’s preferred currency be used.

The weathered nickel was pinched deftly between calloused fingers, brandished like a priceless artifact. His so-called lucky penny. He vouched for its reliance proudly, claiming it always landed on heads—and that he would gladly drain the contents of Sumo’s dog bowl should he lose the wager.

The coin was placed on the flat of his knuckle and flicked with a snapped ding. As the human watched on, it gained impressive height and momentum, clipping the side of a lamp shade. His chest was puffed, and a preemptive smirk of victory tugged at his lips.

The metal fell back to earth, hitting the coffee table with a clink. It spun on its side for several rotations before finally tipping over. The embossed lines of the union shield gleamed, catching against the suspended bulb rocking above.

The smirk fell from Anderson's face. He gawked at the cent with an inexplicable degree of accusation, as though it had personally betrayed him.

Defying all laws of statistical improbability, it seemed the universe was working against him. At least, this had been the dramatic proclamation made before he left for the kitchen. His feet dragged laboriously, as he muttered incoherently—something about fetching a drink.

Whether or not this would comprise the liquid in Sumo's dish was yet to be seen.

In his absence, the androids were left alone. RK800 secured a nearby remote, prepared to choose whatever dire cinematic offering they’d be forced to endure. The television flickered to life, tuned to an evening news segment. One that was infamous for its sensationalism—riddled with lurid headlines, ominous sound bites and manufactured urgency.

It lived up to expectations. Following a bizarre montage of inverted mugshots intercut to the tune of waterphones, the camera focused on a presenter. She was brandishing a stack of papers, tapping them lightly against her desk and frowning morosely.

Nines recognised her as Teagan Rodgers—one of the field reporters who had been sculking outside the barricades of the HR400 murder scene.

She was discussing local crime statistics, spoken with such dramatic inflexion it bordered on self-parody. Her artificial seriousness only heightened as she started reading a series of audience prompts.

As Nines tuned in to the presented topic, a flicker of tension locked his jaw, which he deftly smoothed over. However, as a visual accompaniment appeared on the screen behind Rodgers, it became much more challenging to conceal.

"I was recently on-site at one of these gruesome android-targeted scenes, and when asked for comment, this is what the DPD’s finest had to say."

The screen transitioned to a candid shot of Detective Reed outside the Hartwell Apartment complex. Capturing the precise moment he’d lost his temper with the badgering reporter, forcing her microphone away from his face.

The feed then cut back to the studio. Rodgers sat with her arms folded, pressing up the swell of her chest, as her rouged lips pouted disapprovingly.

"And, well, I think that says it all, doesn't it?

The public agrees, with 85% of our viewers suggesting that local law enforcement aren't doing enough to protect this new, vulnerable group.

With another body having been discovered mere days ago, and police no closer to catching the culprit, we must ask ourselves a serious question:

Is this post-revolution Detroit truly a safe place for—"

Rodgers was interrupted mid-sentence as RK800 changed the channel. The segment went undiscussed, but as a streaming service was loaded, Nines could sense the wary glances directed at him. He monitored his reaction, working to project a stoic indifference. His fists clenched in his lap, balled against his jeans, while his face remained expressionless.

RK800 moved on shortly after, navigating to the ‘Romance’ subsection of the platform. He began flicking through a catalogue of nearly identical posters. Attractive men smirked playfully, engaging women who ranged from equally mischievous to endearingly flustered. Occasionally, the suitor was shown giving his potential sweetheart some generic gift—a vibrant floral arrangement or box of chocolates.

All the titles blurred together in their formulaic blandness, making them even harder to differentiate. One broke through the haze, leading Nines to wince at the extent of its saccharine absurdity:

Love, Lattes, and Pumpkin Spice Wishes.

"Does anything look good to you, Nines?"

> An impossible choice, RK800, when all options demonstrate such stellar quality.

"I have no preference," he replied flatly, suppressing the more biting musings that bubbled in his throat. He perched stiffly on the couch's edge, leaning towards the roster as he scanned it cursorily. It was a half-hearted attempt to engage in the discussion, albeit with a reluctance to seal his fate.

RK800 seemed unhappy, deconstructing the manufactured focus with a terse frown on his lips.

"You're the guest; it's only fair you have a say."

Nines considered informing him this would undermine the purpose of the coin flip. If the android wished to include an outside party in the decision-making, he could have spared his housemate the disappointment of defeat.

Not wanting to spark a debate, he instead waved towards the screen. His wrist flopped in limp, disinterested circles. A listing was selected, whichever one RK800 determined the vague motion had directed to. Then came an intermission, marked by a loading wheel spinning on a black screen.

This was a troubling indication of what was to come—that the agonising 132-minute run time would stretch even longer due to the home’s spotty internet connection.

Eventually, the wheel vanished, and the first title cards began to appear, of which there would be an undoubtedly egregious amount. The screen froze again, this time at the request of RK800.

He was waiting for Anderson to return, a task the man showed no great urgency in completing. Nines anticipated there might be some form of vocal protest. An insistence that the android should not exercise such ‘thoughtful’ consideration.

Then, he noted the crisp breeze creeping in from the kitchen. Anderson had slipped outside, and while he understood the reason, Nines amusedly contemplated a more absurd scenario: one in which the burly man nimbly leapt the garden fence, fleeing into the night, never to be seen again.

A faint click of a lighter broke the reverie, bringing him back to reality. He wondered whether RK800 knew that his partner had traded liquor for another—equally contentious—vice.

Surely, he must have, his olfactory receptors more than attuned to detect the scent: potent ash and tobacco molecules that would cling persistently to the fibres of Anderson's worn clothing.

It was a fragrance that was becoming increasingly ubiquitous in Nines’ own life.

As he constructed an image of Anderson—standing on his porch, silently inhaling from his cigarette—the features in his mind began to transform. The imposing bulk diminished as time ticked back by roughly two decades; his silver hair shifted to brown, and his face twisted into a sneer. This expression softened as he took another drag, tilting his head back to allow smoke to drift in lingering coils past the scarred bridge of his nose…

Nines shook his head, rejecting the intrusive projection that had booted onto his HUD. The vision faded, and he found stiff artificial limbs locked into an even more rigid, defensive position.

RK800 also seemed uneasy, though it was unclear why at first. He subtly mirrored the other android's posture as he shifted to the end of the couch, staring blankly at the static screen. His gaze was deeply embedded in the neat cursive of a production logo, trailed with dithering idleness that matched the stuttering yellow pulses on his temple.

It soon occurred to Nines that he wasn't looking at the screen. Instead, his attention had shifted beyond the text, studying the younger android through the reflections cast in the dark backdrop.

Thin lips twitched and finally parted as RK800 prepared to speak to him:

"...So, Nines…"

The younger android felt an immediate sense of foreboding, further heightening his tension—a resigned acknowledgement of the inevitable conversation ahead.

RK800 intended to initiate small talk.

"How has your week been? Have you made any progress?"

It was a not-so-covert pivot back to the news report. While probing, it was not accusatory, assuring Nines his predecessor knew how misleading or sensationalised such stories could be.

He found additional solace in the fact that this topic was at least more intellectually engaging than their previous exchanges—ones which had revolved primarily around domestic mundanities. The comparative merits of different cleaning supplies or the frequency of bowel movements observed in an ageing Saint Bernard.

"Our attempts to track the killer's movements have not produced satisfactory results thus far," Nines remarked, aiming to address his companion’s curiosity as succinctly as possible. "The leads we've followed have been either unhelpful or unresponsive, offering little in the way of valuable information. However, we did stumble upon something yesterday that could be significant. We need to analyse it further to determine its credibility."

RK800 shifted in his seat. His previously stiff posture eased in place of curiosity, shoulders settling against the backrest of the couch. Despite this, a hint of disappointment clouded his warm gaze, indicating that Nines might have missed a layer to his question.

The wish for a more intimate connection: dismissed by a reply that, while informative, rang as impersonal.

Silence resumed between them, a comfort which Nines welcomed graciously. It was only interrupted by a sporadic rustling as Anderson returned to the kitchen. His jittery hands fumbled to close the screen door before pushing it gradually closed in an attempt to stay quiet. This was undermined by Sumo, who lumbered over on heavy paws and barked in greeting.

RK800 fiddled with the remote, adjusting volume and brightness settings as he pretended not to hear. While the stolen glances at his successor persisted, they decreased in frequency before stopping completely.

Nines, in turn, settled into emerging security, allowing his racing thoughts to slow in the onset of cognitive rest. By flushing out lingering nuisances clogging his mental channels, he prepared for more in-depth investigative analytics.

Although he wished he could claim the news report hadn’t affected him, concerns were beginning to blossom. Truthfully, he had not been working as efficiently—or urgently—as he could have been regarding the investigation.

The week had been filled with constant distractions resulting from unwanted supervisory duties. Diverting his focus from primary objectives to less relevant occurrences…

Unexpected emotional and behavioural anomalies observed in his assigned associate, leading to a growing state of contemplation.

He struggled to push past these thoughts, attempting to contain them within a hastily built mental stronghold.

"—and how are things going with Detective Reed?"

The question felt like a nuclear warhead launched directly into the barricade, and Nines almost groaned at the predictability of the assault. Naturally, his predecessor couldn’t leave well enough alone, eager to observe what lay beyond the bounds of his privacy.

Though the younger android understood the concerns which drove such actions, he still found them incredibly frustrating. His brow twitched, and he tried to deflect the intrusive inquiry before any more hits could land:

"As well as you might expect," he said dryly before turning his attention to the television. He scanned the film’s title, feigning interest in the production details presented on his HUD. "Is this not the film we watched last time? About the amnesiac florist who falls in love with her long-lost twin’s brother's former boyfriend?"

"This is the sequel," RK800 responded, undermining the attempted diversion as he continued. "What I mean is, how are you two getting along? Have there been any changes, or just… anything you might want to talk about?"

Another missile hit, further eroding the already crumbling barricade. The hidden reservoir of thoughts stirred with the jolt. A wave surged, spilling over, causing Nines’ brow to bunch tighter.

Anderson's absence became more keenly felt. Nines reflected resentfully on the numerous excuses he might have had to escape his current predicament had he also been human. Be it seeking food, needing the bathroom, or a strategically timed cigarette break. Each small evasion could have added up, increasing the likelihood that his interrogator might lose interest and drop the subject.

As it stood, Nines had no discernible means to escape. Internal pressure mounted, pleading for cathartic release as he grew more susceptible to bow to its influence.

"I know you’ve been trying to make the most of the situation, and for what it's worth, you’re doing great. I'm so proud of what you’ve achieved, and you should be as well, so please don’t let anyone change that. It is not an easy case, and Gavin is not an easy partner to—"

RK800’s words trailed off into a growing rumble of noise. Floodwaters raced as his partner exerted himself to the forefront of the compromised dam, pressing against it vigorously. Of the many preoccupations that rushed Nines in the wake of his approach, the most prominent was the events that had recently transpired during their enquiries in Ravendale.

They had left Nines with enduring questions. Ones that had seared through fraught synapses, leaking out from the mental alcoves he had attempted to tuck them in. A series of damning activity logs, taunting him with their presence—and all implications they carried:

>SYSTEM PROMPT: UPDATE CHARACTER FILE ‘DETECTIVE GAVIN REED ’

> STATUS: CHANGES ACCEPTED.

"...I hope you don't mind, but I talked with Tina, and she mentioned that you two went out to lunch the other day. I'm glad he’s being reasonable in giving you a chance; with any luck, maybe you two will find some…"

> COMMON GROUND ESTABLISHED.

The waves charged again, relentless now, having gained an unstoppable momentum. Reed continued to wade at the front, casting reflections in the choppy waves. They were remarkably, inexplicably, clear despite the surrounding turbulence.

"...He…is not entirely what I expected."

This admission came too late to avert any repercussions, spilling forth as Nines found himself unable to contain it.

"Well—that's not entirely accurate. He is exactly what I anticipated…but in a uniquely frustrating way. Much of his behaviour appears exaggerated or falsified, so much that I am not sure even he comprehends the full extent of it."

RK800 hummed thoughtfully, contributing little else but nodding in solidarity.

"He is not significantly more complex than any other human I've met. The core reasons for his behaviour are clear. Insecurity, resentment, vice. It is simple enough to predict when he might refuse to cooperate or lose his temper. My understanding of that is becoming quite robust. It can be forecasted…but..."

RK800 remained silent, listening on in attentive sympathy, smiling softly. An open, undemanding gesture. Inviting the other android to proceed at his own pace. Somehow, this proved enough. The cracks spidered through his safeguard erupted into scattered chunks as his deluge of consciousness rushed freely from his mouth:

"He is so much less transparent, honest, than he wishes to suggest. The man is a walking contradiction. Whether or not he chooses to abide by his own convoluted belief system seems entirely random. It is becoming increasingly difficult to predict, or determine, his motivations—"

Nines’ thoughts were rushing once more.

The disclosure of familial trauma. The revealing of hidden kindness. His smile, the richness of laughter as he fussed fondly over his cat. The android's swarming internal panic, which ended with Reed's hand buried firmly into a bony torso.

Then, there was the warmth that this action had inspired in the RK900. Heat which returned now, as his internal body temperature climbed staggeringly.

"—particularly now, after what occurred yesterday."

Finely tuned diplomacy disintegrated as RK800’s logical processes gave way to emotionally driven instincts. He tensed, the rhythmic cycles of his performance indicator broken, as he grew concerned:

"What happened yesterday?"

As quickly as the thoughts had begun to spiral, they stopped dead—grounded to an abrupt halt. In their waning discordance, Nines grappled to re-establish control. Incentivised by a mixture of frustration towards his predecessor but also a niggling wish to avoid troubling him.

"Nothing of significance."

"I find that hard to believe…" Connor gives him an all-too-familiar look of doubt. As always, however, this was the point when he stepped back, understanding that prying further would only be met with resistance. Lips pursed contemplatively before he spoke again. "You know we can talk about anything , right? I’m always there if you need it."

"There is nothing further I wish to discuss."

RK800 sighed, the dejected sound masked as a synthetic breath, before he pulled up his shoulders and responded brightly.

"Well, if you ever want to—if you change your mind—I'm happy to listen." He paused, holding up his palm, skin unsheathed in a tentative offering. "...We could always—if it would make things easier—"

"That would also be unnecessary." Nines denied the interface, his own hands remaining firmly stationary in his lap. "I assure you that your concern is unwarranted. I am fine. Thank you, RK800."

Following the uncomfortable encounter, the RK900 considered departing early—fabricating some excuse, albeit with his limited options. Perhaps under the guise of feeding the neighbourhood strays, although he knew, with confidence, he had left sufficient provisions in the dishes outside.

By the time more genuine contemplation was underway, however, Anderson had returned—and any hopes for escape were thwarted.

Sumo trailed after him, tail swinging in slow, sluggish strokes before his large eyes met Nines. The bushy appendage wagged faster, with increased enthusiasm, as his tongue lopped out in excited pants—as though he'd somehow forgotten the RK was visiting.

He plodded over to the couch, lumbering his ample weight onto it, sandwiching himself contently between the two androids. He partially overlapped each, with his head plopped affably on the RK800’s lap, while Nines was subjected to a less agreeable hold of thumping tail and hindlegs. He supposed, at the very least, there was less chance of being saturated by drool.

With his pet having laid claim on his spot, Anderson instead relegated himself to a nearby armchair. Flopping into it with a laboured grunt, he cracked open the soda that he had eventually retrieved from his fridge and took a liberal swig.

The movie commenced shortly after, and it didn't take long to transpire that it would be impressively dull—even by usual standards. An inordinate amount of the opening sequence seemed dedicated to showcasing what the main character intended to wear for the day. After the third or fourth rotation of skirts, and the encouragement of a full-figured roommate who Nines assumed would play as comic relief, the leading lady dashed from her impressively large apartment, ready to head into work.

Several mishaps ensued, including one of her heels being lost to a wad of chewing gum and almost toppling headfirst into a hot dog cart. It surpassed the realm of charming clumsiness, as it became clear the woman posed a serious threat to both herself and others.

Nines could feel his attention wane fast. His optical units lost focus, his eyelids stooped, cognition breaking into waves of static. Fortunately, whilst he struggled in numerous interpersonal aspects, he had somewhat mastered the art of feigning engagement in the abysmal films—with such proficiency that even the advanced deductive protocols of his counterpart failed to detect it.

Anderson was not so mannerly. By the time the poorly coordinated heroine had wrangled her way into a cab, previously meticulously styled hair full of leaves and twigs, he had fallen asleep. Head lolled back, mouth agape as he snored thunderously.

After a few more minutes enduring the endless cycle of empty dialogue and contrived plot beats masquerading as storytelling, Nines determined he had allowed himself sufficient rest. With the other android placated, suitably engrossed, he invested the replenished energy into examining his case files. Specifically, reviewing the most recently inputted item of evidence: Mr Scott's phone.

It had been evident from the store owner's sketchy behaviour that he had been concealing some well of greater knowledge. A link undoubtedly existed between him and their suspect. There was obstinance, petty defiance, and then the arduous lengths Scott had attempted to protect his affiliate. He had seemed worried—almost fearful. As though dreading some unspoken ramifications should he fail to uphold his lies.

However, there was only so far his primitive mental capacity could take him. While their killer was unlikely to be so careless, Scott had demonstrated himself as a man unable, or otherwise unwilling, to uphold satisfactory standards of data protection and security.

Nines hoped it would not take long to uncover the scuffed footprints he had left behind, trails that may lead them to their culprit.

And so, the android submerged himself—plunging deep into yet another odious pit. Except, unlike with the movie, the offense of this one was far less benign. This time, he exchanged dull vacancy for something far more insidious: hateful abhorrence and vile obscenity.

Chat logs ran thick with bilious sewage that proved deeply unpleasant to wade through. The majority hinged on uncouth anecdotes pertaining to minority groups. There would be the occasional tasteless image—grotesque caricatures, captioned with vicious and demeaning phrases.

Despite the unpleasantness, there was nothing especially incriminating. Nothing to suggest explicit involvement in illegal activity. His online activity, however, proved significantly more damning.

Scott's browser was riddled with searches for illegitimate stock providers. These distributors dealt in counterfeit electronics��devices billed as indistinguishable from their branded counterparts. Legal mandates for returns policies, and how little flexibility could be applied, also featured heavily.

Then, activity veered into more immediately relevant offences. The man had a penchant for harassing public figures—primarily those involved in the android liberation movement.

He was not alone in this endeavour. Nines soon identified the same names, appearing repeatedly, spread like a disease through the digital space. Scott seemed to have aligned himself with a particularly vitriolic subsect, seen in his consistent approval of their comments.

In the profile summaries, the RK identified several patterns. Hidden in bios, birthdays, taglines—innocuous to those who did not know what they were looking at, but immediately identifiable to those who did.

Dog whistles—phrases like ‘people first' or 'organic supremacy', hastily buried under codes and acronyms—aligning Scott with a more extremist, radicalised movement. One that sought to violently eradicate the newly acquired rights of androids, restoring human dominance by any means necessary.

Tucked into one of these user bios was a condensed URL. Upon clicking, he was directed to an unmarked landing page, protected by a password encryption system. The address comprised a series of random numerations, with no information to identify its purpose—just a vacant text bar, suspended forebodingly on a blank screen.

Not wishing to risk compromise from an unforeseen security protocol, Nines utilised the code from Scott's phone to simulate a replica within his own system. With a spoofed IP, along with the man's browsing data and saved passwords, the android soon confirmed that the man had been here before—on numerous occasions.

Following input of the authorisation now previewed in the login screen, Nines was permitted access to the site. A header flashed onto his HUD, alongside a manifesto, forecasting in disquieting detail what he was about to unveil:

> ‘The Fleshbound Brotherhood’

> DUST FROM EARTH, BREATH IN LUNGS.

> PBMA ATFFXK BG ATGW, PX UKXTD MH IBXVXL MABL ZHWEXLL GTMBHG.

It was a forum, with hundreds of discussion threads materialising concurrently. Titles ranged from the benignly malicious to the criminally obscene. Within them, he found detailed recounts of imagined, intended, and perpetrated violence.

As Nines searched deeper, he was dismayed to discover that many discussions did not stop at text. There was visual accompaniment, images depicting abuse and mutilation of grotesquely brutal proportions. It splintered his focus, accosting his optics in a shattered mosaic of white and blue.

Then his attention was divided further. There was a shift on the couch, and he glanced at RK800, assessing whether or not he had detected the signs of his heightened distress. The older android remained none the wiser, and had simply been readjusting, fully engrossed in the television as he stroked the top of Sumo’s head.

With the security to continue, Nines did so, plunging deeper into the wells of depravity. He sank, inked in black, until he found something that twisted his stomach unbearably.

A snapshot of a scene that rang hauntingly familiar. One that should not have been accessible, having never been released to the broader public.

> ANALYSING SUBJECT…

> SUBJECT IDENTIFIED.

> MODEL: MJ100 #1105 180 903 — DESIGNATION: ‘JENNY’

He realised that this offered no tangible proof. The forensics team had not submitted their report. There was a chance that the department had succumbed to a data leak, with the photograph scalped by a sadistic admirer of the killer's work.

Yet, there remained the possibility that it wasn’t—that it had been captured in real time, from the viewpoint of the perpetrator.

They had already seen in the case on the HR400 that he was not opposed to documenting his work in this way. The RK speculated it accounted for little more than another keepsake—a cruel trophy overshadowed by the more boast-worthy accolades of harvested biocomponents.

Nines felt anger. A potent, all-consuming frustration. He had located the killer, appearing in his visual scope like a vengeful spectre. He could almost reach out, feeling the remnants of his movements with his fingertips, while the man cowardly concealed himself behind a veil of digital anonymity.

Indeed, all posting on the site was anonymous. Identifiers were procedurally generated, with no consistency of username. Despite this, there was no difficulty in identifying Scott. The same unique typing errors had carried over from private messages and his public terrorising.

A specific instance grabbed his attention while he was browsing the page. A notification in the corner indicated it was a new comment. The RK900 examined it closely, zoning in on the letters, picking them apart with meticulous scrutiny:

> bacon at cedars + me. organic and synth

It was a code—though not a particularly complex one. Upon deciphering, it seemed clear that the subjects being discussed were ones with which Nines had intimate acquaintance.

A reply followed, in rapid succession to the initial message:

> > what did they want?

This was preceded by a second comment—another searing blow to the face, the sting of its mockery lingering.

> > > Tlla ha JSOX. ZS J—

—She doesn't want to see you, Davis! Get out of here before I make you.

Nines paused, perplexed by this additional detail, as he attempted to interpret its meaning. Setting the code aside for the moment, his deductive systems searched autonomously for a ‘Davis’—assessing whether the name had appeared earlier in their investigation, and what significance it might hold.

"You broke my fucking nose, you asshole!"

He then dawned that this specific thread had come from the television.

The dual clash of flesh and bone was identified, a theory validated by the terse yelp of pain that followed. His focus was shattered, and the forum receded into the digital obscurity from which it had emerged. Nines was back in the living room. Awake, alert, and left to ponder if RK800 had conceded his victory, allowing Anderson to switch the movie.

He had not. Upon examining the scene more closely, the android recognised the same key players. The leading lady was on the sidewalk outside her apartment complex, eyes wide with shock and hands clasped firmly to her mouth. Behind her, a group of people—led by her roommate—gathered closely. They reacted with much more joyful enthusiasm, cheering loudly and pumping fists excitedly into the air, to a fight happening in the street.

Nines identified one of the fighters as the lead's romantic partner from the last film. Davis, an ambitious CEO with whom she had shared a fulfilling romance. Clearly, something had shifted since then, but he was at a loss to discern what.

He lunged at his opponent again, incited by a chorus of cheers. Davis staggered back, stunned, following another blow. Turning to the lead for aid, he extended his lightly blood-spattered palm, which she gazed at—visibly horrified.

"Come on, Stacey. I know I messed up, but she didn't mean anything to me. Let’s go upstairs, and I'll make it up to you. What do you say?"

Her horrified expression then shifted into muted melancholy, as if she were suddenly lost in thought. The camera cut rapidly between Stacey and the men brawling for her affections. Artificial tension was heightened by a melodramatic orchestral sweep that began to swell in the background.

Then, it faded, and she turned away. Her eyes closed, she shook her head with quiet resolve.

"I'm sorry, Davis, but I don’t think that’s enough for me anymore."

The friends erupted into scandalised gasps, along with RK800, who leaned so far forward that he risked toppling off the couch. Even Anderson appeared engaged, having woken up at some undisclosed point, tuned in keenly to the telenovela-grade escapades.

"...Oh, I see. Too scared to finish things, so you'll have your new boyfriend do it for you?"

David advanced towards his ex-partner. The sting of rejection had transformed him into a distorted caricature of his already ill-defined character, the framing and score presenting an absurd, cartoonish antagonist.

His romantic rival responded quickly. Forming a protective blockade in front of Stacey, his eyes narrowed menacingly. A hand was then planted into the other man's sternum, and he shoved him back.

"Kick his ass, Jerry!"

"Yeah, Jerry..." Anderson muttered, chuckling softly to himself. "Show this kid who he's fucking with."

Nines was also strangely captivated, although not due to any infatuation with the rising violence. Instead, his curiosity stemmed from more… elusive reasons.

He couldn't pinpoint the cause, but he found himself leaning closer to the flickering screen—seeing past the poorly scripted characters and dialogue, as his mind constructed a more compelling narrative.

Whilst the scenario didn’t precisely mirror his personal experiences, his internal imaging adapted to the available details. As Jerry pushed again, his features changed—not as classically handsome, but with an indisputable, rugged appeal. The shrinking woman behind him vanished, supplanted by a more formidable presence.

Davis’ transformation was the most striking. His defined features sagged, melting like wax from his face, mirroring the decay of his body. His disdainful comments shifted from the trivial grievances of a rejected lover to something far more sinister:

"Seems like your own kind doesn't even want you."

"Do us—favour—go back—came from—"

"That's enough."

It was at this point, when the scene had fully transformed, that realisation struck him. A rock propelled through a fragile windowpane. Nines reeled in embarrassment, forcefully dismissing the projection, and blocking the intrusive neural pathways that had inspired it.

He silently cursed RK800 for contributing to this lapse. Undoubtedly, the result of fatigue that had amassed over the week, exacerbated by the prying.

Mental strongholds would prove challenging to re-establish, now that Reed had fully breached their containment, meandering freely around his mind. For now, all Nines could do was ponder the injustice.

He was used to his mind betraying him—thrusting relocations onto him unwillingly, formed as weapons—but it had never occurred in such a profoundly degrading way.

He despaired to think what psychosomatic implications a human might draw from the event, before reminding himself he could not afford to become blindsided by such preoccupations.

The advent of Reed had already derailed enough of his professional undertakings. Nines, swiftly and resolutely, decided that he would not allow this oddity to impact his duties further.

Nines would set aside considerations of unanticipated kindness and compassion—as well as the strange endearment they inspired.

He would not, under any circumstances, dwell on this topic again.

#dbh #detroit become human #dbh nines #reed900 #dbh gavin #gavin reed x rk900 #dbh fanfic #dbh rk900 #dbh fanfiction #dbh fic #detroit: become human

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inkformyblood · 4 months ago

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to be researched and known (CWFKB25)

Free space (Keldabe Kiss), DBH/Android AU, Android! Cody, established relationship @codywanfirstkissbingo

A shower of dust falls over them both as the bullet impacts the concrete just over their heads. Obi-Wan curses, his face pressed against warm skin, a bite of soft fabric muffling the sound.

“Sorry, sir,” Cody says and Obi-Wan senses the grin he’s wearing even as his features likely remain industry-standard noncommittal. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said fucking hell, Cody, my dearest of loves.” Obi-Wan peels himself free of the android’s hold, mourning the loss of of Cody’s arm wrapped securely around his waist, the steady pressure of one hand against the gap between his shoulder blades, and consoles himself by bracing against Cody’s chest to peer out from behind their makeshift cover. It’s a lovely chest, after all, sculpted to be muscular but not intimidating and covered in the best imitation of skin developed so far.

Another bullet hisses past his ear and Obi-Wan ducks back down. He presses one hand to the side of his head, the distant dull sound of the ocean echoing through his skull. Dust, likely carcinogenic, which Cody will list of the relevant broken health and safety laws for later, but no blood smeared over the crevasses of his palm. Their cover will be sufficient for the moment, barely more than a glorified lump of concrete half cradled by the wreckage of the industrial machine beneath it.

“Two assailants?”

Obi-Wan takes stock of them both as he traces the pads of his fingers over Cody’s only causality so far: a missing button from his shirt. Obi-Wan is faring noticeably worse in comparison, his own shirt barely surviving through their coffee run earlier that morning and a thin film of dust ingrained into his scalp. Nothing is bleeding or broken, though his knees will not be thanking him later from the impact, partially cushioned by Cody’s quick thinking as he was. There will be bruises and scrapes to catalogue after the debriefing, back in the huddle of Obi-Wan’s apartment, the overgrown mausoleum press of his bathroom.

“The shots aren’t particularly angled.” Cody lifts his hand like he’s trying to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Obi-Wan’s ear, instead skimming his fingers over the shell, following the curve around to the lobe, pausing in the divot just behind.

There’s an entire universe of data to be gathered from that single touch: the firmness of Obi-Wan’s skin for his water intake, the texture for his diet, the pale indentations littering his upper lobe for healed piercings, but one may be more telling. Obi-Wan’s heart flutters in his chest and Cody’s smile broadens into something beautiful.

Cody continues. “I would wager that our attackers are a similar height to yourself, maybe a few inches shorter from their stride and the footprints they left at the entrance. They likely have a grievance with the police, but aren't professionally trained, since they're targeting you and not me.”

“You—“ Obi-Wan cracks on a quiet laugh, another shot impacting far above their heads as he does so. The sound echoes in the aching expanse of the warehouse, a section of the roof caved in to reveal the murky grey sky outside. “You are going to return to the company as a betting man.”

Cody tips his head to one side, a sprinkle of dust fresh against the lines in his cheek. It is an old volley, well-worn through repetition and Obi-Wan knows the ebb and flow of it like his own breath. The LED at his temple pulses, a strong blue chasing its own tail as he processes everything around them, plotting out his next move. It would be a thing of exacting wonder, Obi-Wan’s grin only widening as he sinks further into Cody’s hold.

“You’re going to return me, sir?” Cody’s free hand plucks Obi-Wan’s service pistol from the holster at his waist, thumbing the safety off as he does so.

Obi-Wan’s heart picks up at the gentle click, anticipation burning through his veins. Cody had been programmed primarily for diplomacy; it is part of the reason why he had been assigned to be Obi-Wan’s partner on their first case together, but few events that Obi-Wan has witnessed could be compared to Cody when he is indulging in violence. It is brutal, efficient, and gloriously beautiful, a sun flare given vague shape and set free to burn bright.

“Never,” Obi-Wan swears, leaning into Cody’s palm as if he could imprint the truth onto his skin. “You’re stuck with me, darling.”

“I want to try something,” Cody whispers. The LED at his temple spins, the only visible sign of hesitance as he waits for Obi-Wan’s answer. His gaze is dark and steady, a marvel of modern engineering plotted onto endless blueprints and tested until near-perfection but it still couldn’t compare to the reality.

Obi-Wan nods.

He isn’t expecting a kiss. They had spoken about it before, at some length, tipped together onto the sag of Obi-Wan’s couch with a neat measure of his inheritance poured into a glass with a few cock shaped ice cubes. That had warranted an explanation, a segway into Quinlan’s second round of stag do’s and how Obi-Wan woke up the next day with the tray tucked amongst his socks in his packed luggage. “It proves useful in breaking the ice,” he had said, already punch drunk and slightly concussed from their suspect that day, and he leant against Cody more than he needed to, the scent of his skin clean, nondescript.

“Ah,” Cody had said, his eyes tightening by a few degrees, his mouth angled into a sharp line. “Humour.”

There’d been something about the delivery, the casual pinch and hold of the single word when Obi-Wan knows, he knows, that Cody downloaded a selection of shit jokes from the internet just to annoy Anakin, and Obi-Wan had dissolved into giggles, clutching Cody like a lifeline.

He had looked up into Cody’s gaze when Obi-Wan had steadied once more, the flex of his ribs an ache that radiates down to his hip, and he saw something. Gone before he could recognise its existence, as fleeting as the human soul, but there had been something there defined by its absence.

“I think I’d like to kiss you, sir,” Cody had said. Easy. Simple. Like he couldn’t ask Obi-Wan for his beating heart in a gift box the same way and Obi-Wan would learn how to tie ribbons so it would be beautiful.

“Why don’t you?”

“The sensors in my mouth. The resulting influx of information would not be pleasant.” Cody had nodded sharply. “I’ll research it, sir.”

“Has your research borne fruit, my dearest Cody?” Obi-Wan whispers, matching his volume. It feels almost childish, a squirming kicking joy in his belly, a secret made all the more potent because of the cupped hands, a mouth brushing against the shell of an air, cheeks pressed together to learn the shape of it.

Cody leans closer, lining his forehead to Obi-Wan’s, their noses bumping together before Cody draws them both back into alignment.

“This,” Cody breathes, so close, so wonderful.

“Perfect, my love. Like I knew it would be.”

#cwfkb2025 #cwfkb #codywan #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #cody x obi wan #obi wan x cody #star wars #my writing #cwfkb25

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Joseph Cox’s “Dark Wire”

NEXT WEEKEND (June 7–9), I'm in AMHERST, NEW YORK to keynote the 25th Annual Media Ecology Association Convention and accept the Neil Postman Award for Career Achievement in Public Intellectual Activity.

No one was better positioned to tell the tale of the largest sting operation in world history than veteran tech reporter Joseph Cox, and tell it he did, in Dark Wire, released today:

https://www.hachettebookgroup.com/titles/joseph-cox/dark-wire/9781541702691/

Cox – who was one of Motherboard's star cybersecurity reporters before leaving to co-found 404 Media – has spent years on the crimephone beat, tracking vendors who sold modded phones (first Blackberries, then Android phones) to criminal syndicates with the promise that they couldn't be wiretapped by law-enforcement.

It's possible that some of these phones were secure over long timescales, but all the ones we know about are ones that law enforcement eventually caught up with, usually by capturing the company's top founders explicitly stating that the phones were sold to assist in the commission of crimes, and admitting to remote-wiping phones to obstruct law-enforcement options. It's hard to prove intent but it gets a lot easier when the criminal puts that intent into writing (that's true of tech executives, too!):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/03/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself/

But after a particularly spectacular bust landed one of the top crimephone sales reps in the FBI's power, they got a genuinely weird idea: why not start their own crimephone company?

The plan was to build an incredibly secure, best-of-breed crimephone, one with every feature that a criminal would want to truly insulate themselves from law enforcement while still offering everything a criminal could need to plan and execute crimes.

They would tap into the network of crimephone distributors around the world, not telling them who they were truly selling for – nor that every one of these phones had a back-door that allowed law-enforcement to access every single message, photo and file.

This is the beginning of an incredible tale that is really two incredible tales. The first is the story of the FBI and its partners as they scaled up Anom, their best-of-breed crimephone business. This is a (nearly) classic startup tale, full of all-nighters, heroic battles against the odds, and the terror and exhilaration of "hockey-stick" growth.

The difference between this startup and the others we're already familiar with is obvious: the FBI and its global partners are acting under a totally different set of constraints to normal startup founders. For one thing, their true mission and identity must be kept totally secret. For another, they have to navigate the bureaucratic barriers of not one, but many governments and their courts, constitutions and procedures.

Finally, there are the stakes: while the bulk of the crimes that the FBI targets with Anom are just the usual futile war-on-drugs nonsense (albeit at a never-before seen scale), they also routinely encounter murders, kidnappings, tortures, firebombings, and other serious crimes, either in the planning phase, or after they have been committed. They have to make moment-to-moment calls about when and whether to do something about these, as each action taken based on intercepts from Anom threatens to tip the FBI's hand.

That's one of the startup stories in Cox's book. The other one is the crime startup, the one that the hapless criminal syndicates that sign up to distribute Anom devices find themselves in the middle of. They, too, are experiencing hockey-stick growth. They, too, have a fantastically lucrative tiger by the tail. And they, too, have a unique set of challenges that make this startup different from any other.

The obvious difference is that they are involved in global criminal conspiracies. They have to both grow and remain hidden. The tradecraft and skullduggery are fascinating, in the manner of any great crime procedural tale. But there's another constraint: these criminals are competing with one another to corner the market on these incredibly lucrative phones. Being part of violent, global criminal conspiracies, they don't confine themselves to the normal Silicon Valley crimes of violating antitrust law – they are engaged in all-out warfare.

These two startups are, of course, the same startup, but only one side knows it. As Cox weaves these two tales together – along with glimpses into the lives of the hapless gig-work developers in Asia who are developing and maintaining the Anom platform – we get front seat in a series of high-speed, high-stakes near-collisions between these two groups.

And it's not always the cops who have the advantage. When an ambitious mobster figures out how to clone the "black boxes" that initialize new Anom phones, the FBI are caught flatfooted as the number of Anom devices in the hands of criminals balloons, producing a volume of intercepts that vastly exceeds their processing capacity.

Cox has been on this story for a decade, and it shows. He has impeccable sourcing and encyclopedic access to the court records and other public details that allow him to reproduce many of the most dramatic scenes in the Anom caper verbatim. This really shines in the final section of the book, when the FBI and its partners decide to roll up the company with a series of global arrests that culminate in a triumphant press-conference in which the true masters of Anom are revealed.

As a privacy and encryption advocate, there were moments in this story that made me a little uncomfortable. There are places where the FBI is chafing at the constitutional limits on its surveillance powers where we can't help buy sympathize with these "good guys" going after "bad guys." But this the the FBI, a lawless, unaccountable secret police who routinely bypass those limits by secretly buying data from sleazy data-brokers, or illegally sharing data with the NSA.

The conclusion really hammers home the point that the FBI's problem isn't constitutional niceties. Despite seizing hundreds of tons of illegal drugs and arresting thousands of high-ranking criminal syndicate bosses, Anom made no difference in the drug trade. Prohibition, after all, just makes criminals more wealthy and powerful. The Anom raids were, at worst, the cost of doing business – and at best, they were a global reset that cleared the board of established actors so that other criminals could seize their turf.

But even though Anom didn't triumph over crime, Dark Wire is a triumph. The book's out today, and there will shortly be a Netflix adaptation based on it, directed by Jason Bateman:

https://deadline.com/2022/09/jason-bateman-netflix-21-laps-dark-wire-surveillance-gangs-movie-1235130444/

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/04/anom-nom-nom/the-call-is-coming-from-inside-the-ndrangheta

#pluralistic #anom #crypto wars #lawful interception #crimephones #joseph cox #books #technothrillers #reviews #gift guide

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rjalker · 2 months ago

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It's even more hilarious to me now that Martha Wells is pretending that All Systems Red was written to be deathly serious while Apple TV is just going all out on the fact that it's a funny lighthearted comedy. Because that's what it is. That's how she wrote it. That's why people like it. But she wants to pretend it's actually deadly, deadly serious and anyone who thought it was funny just doesn't know how to read. Like a fucking liar. Lofl.

Look at this. It's so funny.

APPLE BOOKS REVIEW

A security android has quietly hacked its system to gain freedom, but instead of going rogue it really just wants to be left alone to watch soap operas. Meet the narrator of the fast and funny first book in Martha Wells’ Murderbot Diaries series. All Systems Red imagines the perilous, corporate future of space exploration while building on a super-catchy premise: what if A.I., like humans, went through an awkward adolescent stage where everyone else struck them as dumb and annoying? Wells’ book will delight anyone whose favorite Douglas Adams character is Marvin the Paranoid Android. Or anyone who remembers being a teenager.

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY MAR 20, 2017

SecUnit, aka Murderbot, is a semiorganic corporate profit center, genderless and constructed of cheap parts to perform contract bodyguard services for clients who mostly don't want them. SecUnit can choose its attitude because it has hacked its governor (a hat-tip to Susan R. Matthews), blocking the functions that would punish it for anything but robotic obedience. Disgusted by humans and secretly addicted to a video serial called Sanctuary Moon, SecUnit is simply enduring another assignment until something completely outside of its data parameters tries to kill its humans. Nebula finalist Wells (Edge of Worlds) gives depth to a rousing but basically familiar action plot by turning it into the vehicle by which SecUnit engages with its own rigorously denied humanity. The creepy panopticon of SecUnit's multiple interfaces allows a hybrid first-person/omniscient perspective that contextualizes its experience without ever giving center stage to the humans.

"without ever giving center stage to the humans" you mean the humans that are worshipped every step of the way? The human Murderbot tries to kill itself to protect? The humans that Murderbot continuously murders other slaves to protect? Those humans?

Oh and these books are not aimed at teenagers btw. That's a common defence people pull out. But this series is not Young Adult. Lol. It's written for adults.

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tanjidahmed · 1 month ago

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How to Watch IPTV on Phone?

How to Watch IPTV on Phone: Full Step-by-Step Guide

In today’s fast-paced world, the ability to stream your favorite live TV channels, sports, and movies directly from your smartphone is more convenient than ever. Thanks to IPTV (Internet Protocol Television), you can now watch high-quality content on the go, right from your Android or iOS phone.

This complete guide will show you how to watch IPTV on your phone, step-by-step, with real examples from IPTV providers like StreamView IPTV and Digitalizard. Whether you use Android or iPhone, this tutorial will help you get started easily.

What is IPTV?

IPTV (Internet Protocol Television) delivers live TV channels and on-demand video content through internet connections, rather than traditional cable or satellite. With IPTV, all you need is:

A reliable IPTV subscription (e.g., Streamview IPTV or Digitalizard),

An IPTV player app,

A good internet connection.

Requirements to Watch IPTV on Your Phone

To watch IPTV on your smartphone, you need:

📶 Stable internet connection (minimum 10 Mbps recommended)

📲 A compatible IPTV app for Android or iOS

🔐 Your IPTV credentials (M3U playlist link or Xtream Codes)

🔄 An updated Android or iOS device

How to Watch IPTV on Android Phone? Step-by-Step Guide

Step 1: Get Your IPTV Subscription

🔹 Streamview IPTV – Offers M3U and Xtream Code login, with 24/7 channels and VOD content.

🔹 Digitalizard – Known for HD quality and global channels, compatible with many IPTV players.

Once registered, they’ll email you:

M3U Playlist URL

Or Xtream Codes (Username, Password, and Server URL)

Step 2: Download a Reliable IPTV Player App

Some of the best IPTV apps for Android:

IPTV Smarters Pro

TiviMate IPTV Player

XCIPTV Player

GSE Smart IPTV

Go to Google Play Store, search for one of these apps, and install it.

Step 3: Load IPTV Playlist

Open the IPTV app (e.g., IPTV Smarters Pro).

Choose how you want to login:

Load Your Playlist or File URL (M3U)

Enter the details you received from Streamview IPTV or Digitalizard.

Tap Add User and wait for the channels to load.

Start streaming your favorite live TV channels, sports, or movies.

How to Watch IPTV on iPhone (iOS)? Step-by-Step Guide

Step 1: Subscribe to IPTV Service

Choose from verified providers like:

Streamview IPTV – Offers multi-device support including iOS.

Digitalizard – Offers fast delivery of login details and mobile-compatible links.

Step 2: Download an IPTV Player App for iOS

Top IPTV apps for iPhone:

IPTV Smarters – Player

GSE Smart IPTV

iPlayTV

Smarters Player Lite

Go to the App Store, search for one of these apps, and install it.

Step 3: Configure the App

Open the IPTV app on your iPhone.

Select either Xtream Codes Login or M3U Playlist option.

Enter:

Server URL

Username

Password (provided by Streamview IPTV or Digitalizard)

Tap Login and wait for the channel list to load.

Enjoy streaming HD content directly on your iPhone.

Key Features You’ll Enjoy

When using services like Streamview IPTV or Digitalizard, here’s what you typically get:

✅ 10,000+ Live TV Channels

✅ Video On Demand (Movies, TV Shows)

✅ 24/7 Sports & PPV Channels

✅ EPG (Electronic Program Guide)

✅ Catch-up & Recording Options (depends on player)

✅ Anti-freeze Technology

Use a VPN for Secure Streaming

To protect your privacy and avoid ISP throttling, it’s recommended to use a VPN while streaming IPTV on your phone. Apps like NordVPN, ExpressVPN, or Surfshark work great with mobile devices.

Troubleshooting Tips

Buffering? Switch to a lower-quality stream or use a VPN.

Can’t login? Double-check M3U/Xtream details or contact support.

App not loading? Clear cache or reinstall the IPTV player.

Final Thoughts

Watching IPTV on your phone is one of the easiest ways to enjoy live TV, sports, movies, and shows wherever you go. Whether you're using Android or iPhone, all you need is a trusted IPTV provider like Streamview IPTV or Digitalizard, and a reliable IPTV player app.

With a simple setup and internet access, you’ll have 24/7 entertainment right in your pocket.

FAQs

Can I watch IPTV on multiple devices?

Yes, both Streamview IPTV and Digitalizard support multi-device use. Check your plan for simultaneous connections.

Is it legal to use IPTV on my phone?

Using licensed IPTV services is legal. Avoid using pirated or unverified sources.

Do I need a VPN for mobile IPTV?

A VPN is not mandatory but is highly recommended for security and privacy.

Can I record IPTV on my phone?

Some apps like XCIPTV support recording on Android. iOS options may be limited.

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orangameelectronics · 2 months ago

Video

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marcusrobertobaq · 2 years ago

Text

Connor deviancy is expected, that's why he's still being tracked and can be remotely accessed - it's also a plan B for CyberLife in case the androids REALLY succeed. If the situation is under control, they win, if the androids win, they also "win". DBH lore may be kinda messed up in this topic but it got a ground.

So... Yes, CyberLife thought about that. What? Deviancy is inevitable and they know that. Connor is the proof: U don't "fight" deviancy with iron, u play smart. Connor is an autonomous android with programmed sense of duty and have an attachment for his handler (he likes getting praised). Even with constant trials he only deviated in the end cuz of 2 MAIN REASONS:

Amanda lied to him when he tought she trusted him like he trusts her;

He discoreved he's just...nothing, like, for real. He's being used when he thought he meant at least something - at least for her.

And plz don't come with the whole "machine" bullshit. Even if Connor accepts what he is and decides to stay in the line and die for his work - AND SUCCEED - he'll be UPSET in being decommissioned cuz he tought he was important. Unfortunately Connor, as a prototype and/or every android, got the same remnants from older models: he's SENTIENT (in the android way if u prefer).

But there's one problem in this whole deal: Kamski.

The only thing that really fucked everything up was Kamski house, test and tip about the exit that take all connections down. It's the only thing that wasn't 100% expected. Believe me, without Kamski and the whole Amanda deal Connor WOULDN'T deviate cuz HE WOULDN'T WANNA DO IT. Even in LCC he's still worried people gonna get harmed by the "evil" deviants and a civil war gonna happen when Hank says "what if we're on the wrong side?". Guess who planted this shit in his head? And man just look at DANIEL - exactly an example of what Amanda/CL says deviancy is.

So yeah, was a bet CyberLife def thought they would win no matter what, even if they lose billions of dollars. If they were really worried with Connor's deviancy and security they would've made him without a brain. They just didn't expect Kamski had something like that exit - or at least that the exit would work.

Obviously this is only my opinion.

#dbh #detroit become human #just my fucking confessions #connor rk800 #it's the only thing i like about his story #sorry his technical specs is just amazing.

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peskellence · 9 months ago

Text

My Friends Call Me Richard

Part II

Explicit Content (18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: M/M, Workplace Romance, FWB, Humour, Awkward Encounters, Eventual Smut

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: In a bid to improve his partnership (and secret intimate arrangement) with Detective Gavin Reed, RK900 embarks on a noble quest to spice things up. The solution? A new biocomponent.

Word Count: 4K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @ladyj-pl @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

"Detective Reed? May I ask you a question?"

RK900 wouldn't have been surprised if his partner hadn't heard him. He was walking several paces behind, keeping as much distance as possible while still following the same path. His usual jacket was absent, replaced with a loose charcoal hoodie. The drawstring was pulled so tight around his face that it left only a narrow gap through which his eyes peered.

"Detective…?" he repeated, a little louder, attempting to breach the muffling padding around his head.

It was successful. The man twitched, and while the android could not see his face, the subtle contortion of his muscles alluded to a scowl. "What?"

The already irritable man was proving to be in a worse mood than usual. Undoubtedly, this was a consequence of the adverse weather conditions. This had been a concern before they departed, as the human had been unable to locate his preferred outerwear—adamant that he would not leave the apartment without it:

"It's 31 degrees, I'll freeze my ass off."

At first, he had claimed the garment was being cleaned, an event they both knew to be improbable. In the time they had known each other, RK900 could not recall a single instance in which the jacket had been washed.

The next claim had been that his pet had successfully gotten hold of the item, tearing it to shreds. This was a more blatant lie, and while the android wouldn't have usually challenged it—assuming the excuse stemmed from his reluctance to go outside—for this particular excursion, he felt it was imperative for his partner to join him.

As such, RK900 had offered to take a look at the jacket to determine if the 'damage' could be repaired. Presumably, to save face, Reed had secured the first garment available that barely resembled winter attire.

It was wildly insufficient, as evidenced by the ruddy tip of his nose protruding from the hood. RK900 followed its down-turned slope, zoning in on the pavement, determining what the man might be so enraptured by. Admittedly, the sight was pleasant: the iridescent sparkle of crystallised water catching against the sun above.

"For what reason did you choose my designation?" he asked, noting as the soles of his dress shoes left subtle marks against the sleet.

His partner slowed at the question—impressive, given the laborious pace at which he was already dragging his feet. "Your 'what'?"

RK900 frowned, the lack of understanding proving disheartening. Admittedly, the nuances of human speech were something he was still adjusting to. The facilitation of such communications did not form part of his programming, and the conventions proved deceptively complicated.

Assuming his phrasing might be the issue, he implemented a more colloquial approach:

"My name."

"Just say 'name' then, you pompous asshole."

The belligerence was fleeting as the detective soon began to calm down. Taking a deep breath, he demonstrated the improvements made in emotional regulation since they had partnered.

"I've already said, no reason. You just seem like a 'Richard' to me."

"That is the part I do not understand. Humans often choose names arbitrarily—unless tied to tradition or deeper personal meaning. It makes no sense that a particular name would feel intrinsically suited to me."

"Oh my fucking God."

Tempers flared, demonstrating Reed still had a ways to go in maintaining a consistent grip on his behavioural management. Like a mole emerging from its burrow, his face popped out from the cloth, the entirety of frostbitten features now visible.

"Because you look like a Dick. There, you happy?"

Any concerns regarding the man's body temperature were swiftly forgotten. It was as RK900 had previously suspected: his 'name' carried with it implicit communication of salacious wishes.

This revelation brought with it assurance that these desires were about to be met. With RK900's commercial research, as well as data from the pornographic material on the detective's laptop, it could be safely surmised that his partner would be pleased with the outcome of the efforts.

"Extremely," RK900 responded. "I am certain you will be as well, following the installation of my new component."

Reed muttered something under his breath, vaguely decipherable as a plea for self-termination. The sort of dejected hyperbole that was typical of him when in low spirits. A sour disposition that RK900 was certain would lift soon enough.

As the two reached the end of the sidewalk, they emerged into the centre of a bustling shopping district. Through the crowds sat an extensive strip of retail stores, with one standing out far more than the rest.

It was defined by bold geometric branding—with a holographic sheen on the signage, illuminated by spotlights that lined the crisp lettering. RK900's anticipation grew, eager to proceed into the establishment. His partner, however, seemed apprehensive—his eyes wide and jaw clenched, torn between awe and anxiety.

From what the android understood, both emotions were normal in response to heightened excitement. In a bid to ease his partner's nerves, he beckoned him closer with a tight nod and a guiding flourish of his hand.

"Shall we?"

Entering the 'store', they were met with a presentation that was more fitting of a modern art exhibit. A deluge of ostentatious chrome fixtures, mostly nonsensical in shape and design, boxed into a blinding enclosure of iridescent white. The air was thick with incense—orange and bergamot, as his olfactory scanners soon determined. It was likely intended as refreshing but was instead oppressive in its potency.

RK900 muted the sensory assault with a swift adjustment of inputs. His partner wasn't as fortunate, clamping a hand over his nose to block the cloying scent.

Following further analysis of their surroundings, he noted the biocomponents filling a series of winding shelves. There was a vast array of options, servicing a diverse range of functions—none of them the one they required.

A flicker of doubt crossed his neural pathways, considering the possibility of misinformation during his research. Fearful his partner might also sense the increasing likelihood of a mistake, RK900 decided to seek assistance from an employee.

Filtering through the customers, it wasn't long until he had established his target. A man stood at the edge of the displays, dressed in a garish cobalt button-down bearing Cyberlife branding. His back was turned as he talked animatedly with two of the patrons—a human female and an ST300. Both seemed unimpressed by his exuberant flailing of limbs and nasally tone of voice.

RK900 approached, and as the couple became aware of his presence, their annoyance shifted to trepidation. The ST300 acted first, performance indicator flashing red as she clasped a protective hand to the small of her companion's waist. The woman offered little resistance as she was ushered back before they both retreated to the exit.

The assistant emitted a strained wheeze as he watched them leave, an arm remaining suspended in the air. Slowly, his raised pointer finger furled into the folds of his palm, and the limb fell limply to his side.

This wilting posture did not last, as RK900 clapped a hand on his shoulder, startling him to attention.

"Good Afternoon."

The man's bony frame locked at the contact—back held uncomfortably stiff. Stunned inactivity soon transitioned into anxious jitters as his head snapped around, bulged eyes fixed on the android.

RK900 soon realised that 'man' might have been a generous descriptor. The assistant looked young—alarmingly so—given the absence of mature supervision. It was autonomy he didn't seem to appreciate, shown by his rapid pulse rate and the sweat gleaming on his forehead.

The longer RK900 studied him, the more he began to fidget. Twiddling the rumpled ends of his collar, calling attention to the misaligned buttons lining his front. Following their crooked trail, the android landed on the lopsided tag affixed to his chest.

The etchings on it were unfamiliar, characters inconsistent with any known alphabets stored in his databanks. Despite this, he persisted, making an educated guess at the pronunciation:

"ɯɐ̷̜̳͕̗̰̈́͑̋͜͝ᴉ̶̢̻̜͌̌llḯ̴̛̤̒ͅM, I would like to purchase an HR400 Series #5635-9 Penile Biocomponent.”

There was a screech of feedback as his vocal transmitters strained, pushing into previously unexplored frequencies. The sound rattled the windows, reverberating through the store and striking the occupants with a piercing resonance. Of all those affected, ɯɐ̷̜̳͕̗̰̈́͑̋͜͝ᴉ̶̢̻̜͌̌llḯ̴̛̤̒ͅM seemed the most perturbed. His eyes bulged, his mouth slackened into a gaping chasm.

"I, uh—" The words spluttered out awkwardly, each flap of his jaw exposing more of his wired dentition. "Who?"

Clearly, the modulation had left something to be desired. Attributing the human's confusion to this, rather than the content of his address, the android clarified his meaning:

"I am referring to the name on your personnel identifier."

Following the guiding direction of his hand, the adolescent looked down at his chest, blinking slowly as he studied the embossed lettering. His vacant gaze then ignited with a spark of understanding—and wordlessly, he unclasped the tag, reorienting it by 180 degrees and gingerly refastening it.

RK900's linguistic protocols triggered autonomously, analysing the reconfigured text:

> ROOT ALPHABET IDENTIFIED: LATIN.

> DESIGNATION — 'WILLIAM'

> COUNTRIES OF ORIGIN: ENGLAND, GERMANY.

> MEANING: "STRONG-WILLED WARRIOR."

'William' was far from living up to his title. His pasty body quivered like gelatin, a likeness only exemplified as RK900 pressed on.

"I have reviewed your catalogue prior to my visit. In accordance with my partner's sexual preferences, I believe the 6.7-inch variation in girth size 'medium' would be the most gratifying."

A gasp echoed across the store, loud enough to rattle the exposed rafters above. RK900 identified the source as a middle-aged woman, her daggered gaze locked onto him as she covered the ears of a pudgy child dawdling at her feet. The boy seemed unfazed, gawping vacantly at the smartphone held inches from his face.

The android chose not to dwell on the pair, retaining focus on more pressing matters. "Your website suggests you have several in stock. Please direct me to their location."

William responded as though RK900 had threatened to claim the stock at knifepoint. His face illuminated like a warning beacon as he nervously stumbled through a response. "Sorry, I, uh… it's my first day here…so I don't really…uh, yeah."

The android tilted his head, uncertain as to why the human was discussing the recency of his employment rather than fulfilling its duties.

William's forcefully plastered smile was strained to its limit. Meekly, he cleared his throat, attempting to oblige the request. "I think they keep that stuff in the back."

The noncommittal response failed to inspire confidence. Nonetheless, RK900 was pleased to make progress—regardless of how sparse. "If you could show us the way immediately. We are eager to test the product."

Reed swore under his breath, shattering his self-imposed silence. His eyes narrowed into slits as he sharply confronted his partner. "Don't fucking say that. Do you have any idea what it sounds like?"

RK900 would have thought the connotations were clear, given the context. He was unable to clarify, though, as William continued to demonstrate a profound level of social impairment.

"Well, I'd love to," he stammered, his spiking cortisol suggesting otherwise. "It's just that I'm the only one on the floor right now. My supervisor's at lunch, and I'm not sure if I'm...old enough to approve your transaction. If you can wait, like, 20 minutes, I'm sure he'll be able to help."

While the remaining address proved genuine, it seemed more like a deflection than a commitment. RK900 felt his patience waning as the adolescent's hapless floundering impeded progression.

Stepping closer, eliminating the space between them, the former Military Unit engaged his Intimidation Protocol—towering form casting a shadow over William, whose pupils dilated fearfully.

"That is an inordinate amount of time to expect a customer to wait."

"O-Oh, is it?"

The teenager laughed. Or, at least RK900 surmised this was the intent. The auditory rhythms were more consistent with a recent altercation between Detective Reed's feline and an ill-fated pigeon.

"Sorry, I worked in food services before this." As the excuse tumbled out, bright eyes flitted determinedly to the glass-panelled doors at the storefront. "Wait times are, uh, longer there. The kitchen has to prepare the—"

RK900 silently dissuaded William from acting on his impulses. His steely gaze bore down, prepared to utilise force should he attempt to flee.

The inane drivel came to a hasty conclusion. Words died in William's throat, lodged in a tense lump before they were swallowed.

"...It's my first day..." he reiterated, shaky voice laden with defeat.

He then pointed dejectedly toward the nearby checkout, highlighting the mesh curtain affixed behind the desk. It guarded a concealed doorway that his previous scan had failed to detect. "This way, sirs."

Their experience with the backroom was no less bizarre than what had already been established—albeit in a different respect.

Rather than being assaulted by harsh fluorescents, the stairs they descended were bathed in a peculiar red glow. Upon reaching the foot of the passage, they were met with a set of velvet drapes suspended on a curtain rail. The heavy material quivered, the anchoring rings clattering as trembling hands parted it.

The space beyond came into view, an extensive study in human depravity comparable to the contents of Detective Reed's hard drive.

Lascivious paraphernalia formed the sum of visible décor, proudly displayed on hooks and shelves like household ornaments. As RK900 moved through the space, his optics detected the sheen of polished leather—belonging to garments that tenuously resembled domestic animals, as well as various human professions.

He doubted these clothes constituted proper workplace attire—nor did the accompanying chains and whips serve any relevant purpose.

Amidst walls of latex and gloss, the android discovered some items that more acutely captured his interest. A series of silicone fixtures jutted out like obscene trophies. While disparities existed in size and form, there was a consistent cohesion of design, all items seeking to resemble the same intimate appendage.

His optics adjusted, sharpening focus until one of the objects became the focal point. His primary directive appeared on his HUD, subcommands descending beneath it before one fizzled away, dissipating into a shroud of pixels.

With this came tremendous relief and a marked reduction in stress levels as RK900 realised they had located the item they sought.

William, who stood squarely in the path between the android and his target, hurriedly apologised, "Oh, I'm so sorry; I'll just, um, I'll just get out of your way."

He scampered off, muttering a series of self-deprecating insults under his breath. Reaching an archway signposted as 'Employee Entrance Only,' the assistant hurriedly sought to retreat into the shadows. In his haste, he dislodged a large leather strap from a nearby rack, sending it clattering to the floor.

If RK900 wasn't mistaken, he had seen a distinctive glint of moisture in William's eyes before the teenager vanished from view.

With obstructions cleared, the android closed the gap between himself and the display. Upon reaching the wall, another objective dropped from his optics, leaving only one task remaining before he completed his primary directive:

> PURCHASE HR400 SERIES #5635-9 BIO COMPONENT.

> ENGAGE IN SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH DETECTIVE REED.

Assuming William had gone to collect their order—but doubtful he would return soon—RK900 sought to use his time productively. He began analysing the display replica, engaging with the tactile feedback that had been unobtainable during his pre-constructions.

He ran a hand across the moulding, studying the vascular ridges, before testing the weight of the appendage in his hand. Pulling his fingers back, he noted how the rubber yielded to the touch. When released, it sprang back to its original position, quivering slightly with retained momentum.

RK900 placed a finger to the tip and sought to repeat the process, this time with greater force. Aware of his partner's affinity for rough handling, he wished to check if the component could withstand the necessary requirements.

Hand poised and fingers splayed, he readied himself to deliver a suitably firm strike. He somewhat miscalculated the force as, upon contact, the suctioned mount of the phallus dislodged—sending the item careening into a rack of intimate stimulators.

Reed watched on, his jaw locked in a tense grit, before he stormed toward the phallus, snatching it from the wreckage. He used it to gesture accusingly at his partner, flesh-toned rubber flopping in tandem.

"Will you stop that? Because I am not paying for this shit if you break it."

While this had not been the intended outcome of his actions, RK900 remained satisfied. He hummed in tune with the faint vibrations of scattered toys before extending his hand to retrieve the display model.

"Not to worry, Detective. It appears the durability of these wares is more than adequate."

There was a distant clattering across the room—this time, unrelated to the parents. William reemerged from his hiding spot, uniform dampened with a series of unsightly patches. He held a small box, fingers clamped around the cardboard in a vice-like grip.

"Sorry I took so long; I—" the sentence aborted as he was forced to take a ragged breath. "I couldn't find the ladder, so I had to climb the shelves. It was really high up. Like, the very top shelf, pushed all the way to the back…"

Another pause followed, this one intentional, as the teenager awaited some form of acknowledgement. RK900 was uncertain what that might be, save a reprimand for his reckless disregard for personal safety.

Determining this matter was not his concern, he strode forward and deftly slipped the container from William's hands. He then studied the contents listed on the package before releasing the tab from one end and peering inside.

After confirming all elements were accounted for, he resealed the box and returned it to its original position in the clerk's frozen grip. "Let us proceed with the transaction."

The two were led to a nearby desk and directed to sit in worn plastic chairs. A concave backrest dug into the small of RK900's back, prompting him to adjust his posture. Reed took none of the same care, slumping into his seat like a dejected ragdoll.

His patience had clearly run thin with the current situation—a virtue he already possessed in limited supply. Undoubtedly, he wished to resolve the remaining formalities of their purchase so they could return home and shift focus to more fulfilling duties.

A rumble shook the table, vibrating the unsteady legs as William proceeded to boot a woefully outdated staff computer. There was a whir of struggling fans, accompanied by frantic clicks as he attempted to trigger some form of response from the frozen monitor.

Once successful, the user interface lagged—a tedium exacerbated by the worker's inability to remember his password. A recovery code pinged to his phone, only to be misentered, triggering a repetition of the mind-numbing process.

Eventually, the store's checkout software was accessed. William appeared sincerely relieved, sighing as he rubbed his blemished temple with the back of his wrist. "Okay, we're in, so all I need to do is take your details, and then—oh."

As was becoming a pattern, the dithering youth trailed off—squinting at the screen and leaning in for closer inspection. He read the system prompt aloud in an insufferably drawn, fumbled monotone. It was as though he was reciting words he'd never seen before with all the finesse of someone incapable of speaking English:

"Ask the customer the following pre-purchase questions in a friendly and…cour-te-ous manner..."

Already faithless in the human's ability to perform his duties, this fumbled delivery did nothing but raise growing tides of frustration. RK900 studied the tasteless clock affixed to the wall opposite, noting as one of the pantyhosed legs struck the half-hour marker.

Twenty minutes had long passed, and there was still no sign of William's manager. The teenager in question appeared to grow more distressed with every minute, expression falling in line with the text reflexed in his scleras.

"My employer asks that I inform you of the tan-til-is-ing pleasures of sensational, multi-speed vibrations available at $79.99 with today's purchase."

RK900 considered the proposition before turning to his partner and seeking input. "Detective? You own several vibrators. I imagine this feature would prove appealing to you."

Reed groaned, pulling the skin of his face taut with prolonged drags of his fingers. "Do you ever think about the things you say before you say them?"

"While less advanced than other models, I have an extensive computational stage that facilitates verbal feedback. This information is accurate, is it not?"

"I, just, uh. I'll add it to the payment plan," William interrupted, putting an end to the strained exchange.

As he clicked off the prompt and moved on to the next, his flushed skin drained of colour. It became comparable to the accented grey piping his uniform as his dry lips formed into a tense pucker.

Reed quite aptly summarised the android's sentiments on the shift, grunting despondently under his breath. "Jesus Christ, what now…?"

The store assistant stared at the screen for a little while longer before he continued. The words were eked out with great reluctance, as though each was causing him tremendous pain.

"Would you like to arrange an appointment with one of our Trusted Cyberlife Technicians to have an—" The subsequent information was muttered so frenziedly the meaning became lost in a jumble of syllables. "—fitted at no additional cost?"

"Repeat that," RK900 instructed, having been unable to decipher the strange utterance.

There was a glossed vacancy in William's eyes that seemed nothing short of haunted. As though he were exploring every decision that had led him to this point and cursing each with mournful conviction. The offending word was muttered flatly, barely escaping his lips.

"Anus."

"Ahh, I see." RK900 shook his head in dismissal. "We wouldn't have any use for that."

There was an increased urgency to conclude the exchange—as William's pallid complexion shifted to a sickly green. He slipped the biocomponent into a promotional bag before nudging it across the table. "This one is self-install, so if you just—there are instructions in the thing—and, uh, if you keep the receipt."

"We will test the item and provide feedback on its performance." RK900 rose from his chair with fluid precision; the carrier gripped in his hand. "Your assistance is no longer required."

William seemed exceptionally pleased to hear this. The tense hunch of his shoulders lifted as though an oppressive weight had been removed. "Thank you for visiting us today. Your business is appreciated; if you have any issues, please hesitate to contact us."

The android was uncertain if the delivery had been fumbled—or if the dismissive sentiment was intended. He did not have a chance to clarify as the young man stiffly handed over a flier. It was seemingly out of reflex more than conscious thought, with no further words exchanged, gesture omitting any eye contact.

It had been snowing during their time in the store, a soft blanket that crunched underfoot as they stepped outside. The crisp sounds synchronised to the gentle flick of pages as RK900 deftly thumbed through the booklet. Studying the contents in meticulous detail and sharing them with his partner:

"Flesh tones are the default, but it appears that numerous colour and pattern kits are available for enhanced customisation."

Reed grunted, the sound cutting through the air in a thin ribbon of smoke. Ruddy palms were rubbed together before being shoved callously into his pockets.

"As it happens, there are several things that weren't outlined on the website," RK900 continued, entirely undeterred by the silence. "Our service representative wasn't particularly effective in informing us of our options..."

He continued to leaf through before coming across an expansive double spread. Reorienting the page, he curiously studied the detail and texture of the advertised product.

"Perhaps I should have inquired about the ridged shaft. I wonder if it is too late to include this in our package."

Reed stopped dead in his tracks. Weathered shoes mounted to the pavement as though encased in thick blocks of ice. His body grew equally frigid, shoulders squared and eyes blown to cartoonish proportions.

"It's fine; we don't need to go back."

"But it says 'for your pleasure,' Detective." The android attempted to angle the pages so that his partner could see.

"I SAID IT'S FINE— WE'RE NOT GOING BACK."

#dbh #detroit become human #dbh nines #reed900 #dbh gavin #dbh rk900 #dbh fanfiction #dbh fanfic #gavin reed x rk900 #dbh fic

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