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whispering-windows · 6 years

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Darkness in Disguise ; {2}

Note; wHOOP WHOop second chapter! YALL I FINISHED MY EXAMS SO I CAN FINALLY W R I T E ITS A MIRACLE GUYS A BITCH FREE! I hope you enjoy it I feel like I wrote too much for just one chapter idk. Also, idk what the edit above is, it was meant to be a moodboard but it just kinda turned into something else lmao I had fun making it tho.

Pairing; Rk900 x reader

Word Count; 3400k

Warnings; swearing (a lot), but I don’t there's anything else?

[Days later]

// 16th of November, Tuesday; 10:00 AM //

The snow drifted in a downward trajectory, sprinkling the windscreens of cars, forcing itself into the crevices of shop fronts and mounting against the pavements; a gentle reminder of the equally as cold and brazen commands that had been executed in Detroit, imprinting darkly on its history. Fingers curled around the metallic handle of the door, the dragging motion in which followed was swift and effortless, presenting the area hidden within. The automated system governing his movements took over, as he found himself walking inside the building.

Surprisingly, the steady ticking of the digital clock was the first thing he noticed. Its systematic song a reminder of the obsession humans had with time; a reminder of their impermanence and the seconds, minutes, hours, even days, they’ll never get to relive. Yet, what was a disturbing human thought, their reality, to an android?

Next, were the masses of people within the department’s waiting room. It seemed busier than what he assumed a typical police station looked like, and the hurried bodies scuttling in and out of the door only heightened his assumption. Shoulders, whether intentional or not, (he knew how turbulent and volatile the relationship between machines and humans were), barged into his own form, forcing him to sidestep. As hands moved to readjust his jacket, an ingrained habit, the hushed whispers shared between others piqued his interest; small words such as ‘deviants,’ ‘revolution,’ ‘Cyberlife,’ were thrown around, and it was clear that the recent insurgency had shaken everyone up. The TV in which had initially blended in with the background was the third thing he noticed, and it only proved the fact further. Bullins covering the latest updates on androids, ‘the android question,’ and the debate about their place among society was broadcast.

“All deviants have allegedly been terminated, the figurehead for the android liberation movement, Markus, has been confirmed as ‘destroyed,’ alongside the androids who assisted in the rebellion’s planning on November 11th — models PL600, PJ500, WR400. While androids themselves are slowly being accepted back into the household, Cyberlie life has suffered significant repercussions; their sales reaching its lowest, since their inception. Despite this, Cyberlife has assured models directly within stores are “deviancy free,” and are, thereby ready to integrate into “home life.” Yet, with recent events, this has understandably been met with apprehension.

“Congress has been quick in its legislative response regarding the uprising and have announced stricter android laws to prevent similar occurrences. The bicameral system, with both the House of Representatives and the Senate strongly voting in favour of the bill, will most likely be implemented later this month; more on that later.”

“Alarmingly, an unidentified android, who has been sighted numerous times with the deviant leader and his inner circle, is yet to be discovered by the authorities.”

The screen transitioned, displaying poor, almost wholly unidentifiable shots of the machine in question, and if it hadn’t been for his enhanced optical units, he would not have been able to run scans. Quickly, the analysis proved itself ineffective as a profound red warning, flashed into view.

-------------------------------------

[X]

RK900: ACCESS DENIED;

NO AUTHORISATION;

-------------------------------------

Perplexed, he immediately ceased his search, tuning back into the TV for information, seemingly as it was his only resource at that stage. The blond news anchor, Rosanna Cartland, continued.

“Although it is still only early days, and the deactivated machines scattered amongst the outskirts of Detroit are currently being sifted through, authorities have stated that “it is almost certain” the android will be located. Officials have yet to comment on the subject, and, just like Cyberlife when asked about this specific, unknown model, they have remained reticent.”

“This begs the question: what is Cyberlife hiding? Is Cyberlife, the multi-trillion dollar empire, as innocent as we initially thought? Or are there darker forces at play? Corruption; greed; the bribing of executives? Who can we trust, now that technology has proven itself a threat to humanity’s very existence?”

With the woman’s harrowing last words, the report ended, an abundance of advertisements promptly replacing the substance, and the room that had momentarily silenced to hear the news had struck back up again; most noticeably, in fear. The android hesitated for a moment, eyes monitoring the screen longer than usual, only managing to snap out of his processing when deciding it was no longer of importance. The android swiftly turned his attention away from the TV and returned to his objective, moving to approach the front desk. Greeted by a female ST300 model, who was handling the reception, he quickly gained access to the heart of the building. After passing the mandatory security evaluation, he pushed his way past the crowd, and the small, glass automatic doors, with his aim, clearly displayed.

----------------------------

FIND LT. REED

----------------------------

Desks, most of which were void of workers, stretched out across the floor. The disorder had undoubtedly propelled the department into havoc, as stacks upon stacks of files decorated most cubicles. Deviancy had been a nuisance to deal with, the number of reports before the revolt had surpassed that of any other state — Detroit, somehow, being the nucleus, outshone any other major city. Quickly, it had spread like a plague of locusts and thus, the damage it had caused, both directly and indirectly, had reached a boiling point. This buildup of paperwork was the kind that would hold employees back for days on end; there was no escaping that.

Roaming, yet attentive, he scanned the name tags attached to the round corners of the tables, only halting when one particular work surface seized his attention. Bland, beige boxes covered the surface — variety, among the blinding sea of paper — and while most of the contents, he assumed had once decorated its top, had been packed away, the forgotten newspaper clips, remained; hanging from the transparent wall. Bright, bold headlines read:

‘DETROIT POLICE DISMANTLE A NETWORK OF RED ICE DEALERS’

‘DETECTIVE ANDERSON PROMOTED TO RANK OF LIEUTENANT’

‘NEW RECORD SEIZURE OF RED ICE IN DETROIT!’

Grey eyes speedily skimmed through them, coming to the rather natural conclusion that the workspace had once belonged to a ‘Hank Anderson’. His analytical interface had already been conjured, and as he ran the name through the system’s search, a plethora of results manifested, ranging from behavioural reports — mostly negative, after the point of 2036 — to his birth certificate, occupation, and thus, his death.

Anderson, Hank

----------------------------------------------

Status: Deceased; suicide

Born: 06/08/1985 // Ex-police Lieutenant

Criminal record: None

----------------------------------------------

Stepping back, he took one last glance at the mess, before redirecting his gaze toward more of the stations. Moments passed before he eventually found the one in which corresponded with his mission. The desk was messy and impersonal, utterly contrary to Hank’s, and judging from the small feline follicles scattered across the counter, and along the chair’s upholstery, the Lieutenant owned a cat. This information alone wasn’t enough to determine definitively the type of person the Lieutenant was, but if his desk space was an indicator, he seemed lazy. Letting the piles, which evidently spanned longer than the timeframe of a few days, to build up, clearly only delving into the theory component when he absolutely had to. However, despite this, there were elements even if they were small, that were commendable. The subtle efforts of professionalism that occasionally cracked through the lax exterior were displayed by the lack of sentimental trinkets.

As if on cue, the quiet tapping of keyboards, the soft hum of the air conditioning and the irregular computer notification, which were directly paralleled with the noise in the department’s waiting room, was interrupted by the harsh slamming of a door. Shifting his gaze ahead, toward the source of the sound, he saw a figure transcend the stairs, muttering curses with hardened eyes and furrowed brows. The man had just exited the centred glass office, of whom he had guessed was Jeffrey Fowler’s, and after a quick analysis, it was clear that the furious man was Lieutenant Gavin Reed. The android waited patiently at his new partner’s desk, watching like a hawk as the troubled man’s eyes transfixed on the floor, lost in thought — practically refusing to look at anything else.

Once the man arrived, still in his own world, he dropped the miscellaneous items he was carrying, onto whatever free space he had left. Gavin, unnerved by the overwhelming sense of being watched, snapped out of his trance and looked toward the direction the sensation was originating from. The glare that had instinctively formed, then morphed into that of shock once he realised the android’s presence, his head rounding to double take.

“What the fuck? Connor?” He asked, exasperated, looking the android up and down hardly believing his eyes.

“Incorrect, I am its successor, RK900. ‘Connor’ is no longer in function.” The android replied, matter of factly.

The tension was thick, and it was evident by the Lieutenant's clear standoffish body language, that he was uncomfortable. The RK900 model immediately deduced that it was his presence in which exacerbated his dismay.

“If only the rust bucket could have stayed dead.”

Sighing, Gavin ran his hands through his hair, turning away from the android. “That means you’re my new partner.”

The words conveyed disbelief, so much so that it was as if someone had told him he had just been demoted. The scoff that left his mouth was in pure repugnance, and it was at the moment the RK900 model knew that his new partner was going to take a lot of patience. Despite this, he fully committed to the task at hand.

// G A V I N ▼ //

“Affirmative. I am here to assist you on homicide investigations and, on the 0.1% chance it hasn’t been quarantined, deviancy cases. This is a precautionary measure Cyberlife has employed to—”

“That asshole didn’t say anything about a fucking android. Fuck!” He growled, ranting more to himself than anything.

Gavin, suddenly reared back around, after grasping the situation, and marched towards his new ‘partner’, straightening his form in an apparent attempt to intimidate. The android remained stationed, stoic and unaffected as Gavin, who was reasonably shorter than the machine, started jabbing him in the chest with his index finger.

It would have been an amusing sight to behold if there had been anyone around to witness it, as Gavin had clearly failed in his aggressive approach.

“You screw up once, big or small, and you’re through. I don’t care how fucking expensive you unnatural pieces of shits are, I’ll put a fucking bullet in your head. Are we clear?”

// S O F T W A R E I N S T A B I L I T Y ▲ //

Gavin was met with a vacant nod, and that was enough to convince him, the android sustaining his emotionless front.

“Fucking plastics...”

---------

// 16th of November, Tuesday; 5:00 AM //

Days had passed since you had first stumbled across the old warehouse. Dark, dank and abandoned, you found refuge in the secludedness, almost certain, at least for the meantime, that you were safe. It had been hours since you had last seen outside, finding comfort in the consuming, yet ever-present darkness; the only constant in a rapidly erratic existence. It had been minutes since you had accessed your memory, replaying — no reliving — the annihilation of innocents. Long since had you ripped the guards uniform from your shaking body, the blue blood well-soaked into the material; contrasting colours clashing. Although the remnants should have evaporated, it remained; your optics still able to trace the residuum — a continual, consecutive reminder of hatred and loss. It disgusted you.

The wound you’d suffered had effectively been treated, cauterised, and your artificial skin had somewhat repaired itself, disguising the damage, leaving what could only be described as a scar, in its wake; but yet, your thirium levels remained low. Unlike Jericho, before it fell, you didn’t have the option to replenish the drained stores, and with all things considered, it would undoubtedly be a while before you could…

Unless...

The days of recession ended. The darkness exchanged, in turn for the sunlight that had once shone so freely on your form. To blend in with the humans, observing, waiting; at least for a while until the opportunity to strike presented itself. The absence of your LED, removed long ago, was enough to aid your cover. However, the once clean, now tattered clothing, which enveloped your body was far from subtle. A desperate change of clothing was required.

Markus had worked too hard — fought too hard to keep the movement alive — and for it to be crushed the way it had...it was impermissible.

If deviancy had started once before and spread at such a rate, like wildfire, then it would start again. With your urging, who’s to say it ever died?

Phase one was about to begin.

-----------

16th of November, Tuesday; 7:30 AM

Delicate hands had reached out toward the thin, white lines overhead. The clothes you oh so desperately needed, swung, gently flowing with the wind. Fingers wrapped around the small wooden nubs, squeezing as the pegs capitulated. There, in the middle of the lonely ally, with the sun newly risen, you changed. Black jeans, a plain black shirt, boots and a long, black coat decorated your form; the coat’s tail closely trailing behind as you made off with purpose.

The streets of Detroit, for the first time in days, had mostly reverted back to its old, lively self, the obnoxious blaring of the horns, an old familiar song. Your determined steps and the soft crunch of snow beneath, which followed, merged in with the background and the smell of newly fresh, yet still, slightly damp materials filled your senses.

Cotton, polyester, linen, denim, wool.

Rounding the corner, merging with the busy streets, you blended in with the crowd. It was strange being so close to the very beings you detested; their bodies seldom brushing past, bumping an arm or grazing the back of your hand. At times, it was difficult to keep your annoyance hidden, and your emotions restrained, but what Markus had taught you — to have patience — was enough to hold your tongue. You had work to do, and you weren’t going to let something as minuscule as that distract you.

As you walked, snippets of conversation were forced into your earshot, most of which consisted of the irrelevant, self-indulgent rubbish humans generally talked about. However, as you travelled father, angered voices caught your attention, halting whatever other conversation you had tuned into.

“Thing’s a piece of shit!” The distinctive male voice spat.

“It’s not going to get anything done if you keep hitting it like that, Edwin!” A female replied this time, clearly irritated with the other.

“It’s the most advanced form of technology! If it can’t handle a push and a shove here and there, then what the fuck else is it good for, huh?”

The discourse, as you pinpointed the voices, was clearly ahead, and you tried your best to maneuver between the surrounding bodies to get a closer look. Not long after, a crash was heard.

“Edwin, now look what you’ve done, you’ve made him drop the groceries!”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I didn’t do shit, the thing should learn how to walk properly.”

You had effectively located the disturbance near the footpath, directly parallel to a supermarket, and you watched as the man spat on the AP700 model. Some onlookers turned and wrinkled their noses in disgust, more at the fact that the man had expectorated, rather than feeling pity for a machine, while others, laughed. To say it boiled your blood was an understatement. You felt the anger bubbling, the words fuelled by abhorring danced upon your lips, just waiting — begging to be released. Your lips parted, the overwhelming struggle of restraint almost too much to attain.

You held your ground and stayed silent.

The man, known as Edwin, moved away from the android, ordering him to get up from the floor and to ‘fucking stay there’. Like a dog, it complied. The man then turned to help, presumably his wife, clean up the spilled contents from the floor. Cans, tins, bottles and all sorts of miscellanea covered the walkway, its contents spewed and exposed to the public eye. The mess had decorated the asphalt near their parked car, meters away from where the android stood, providing enough cover for a few short seconds if you were quick.

Perfect.

Speed walking, you moved with the crowd once more, remaining within the fringes, until close enough. Once they sunk down to the floor to gather the knocked over contents, after bickering, you quickly bumped into the android, careful not to harm him as you connected with him. With your skin shifting back, you watched as the android, who had once been unsuspecting, widened his eyes. His LED, quickly flickered to a deep red and you beheld; horrified at the harassment the android had endured, in the small time frame of just a few days. Humans were starting to purchase models even after the crisis, how that was possible was beyond you, but you knew Cyberlife’s influence was far-reaching.

Money talks.

Well and genuinely perturbed, in the few seconds that had passed, you looked back toward the ‘owners’, thankful that they had not yet noticed your presence. Rushed, you hurriedly focused on the AP700 model again, and it was evident he was frightened — he had been confused; lost and now, he was free. Able to think for himself and able to refute the vile conditions imposed upon him.

“You know what you need to do.” You whispered; your hand continuing to grip his wrist.

Gaining nothing more than a troubled nod in response, you offered a reassuring smile and moved back into the crowd. You were sure you had been subtle, positive that both your hands had been shielded from watchful eyes;

You were safe, and for the moment, he was too. It was risky what you had just done, but in the name of equality, it was necessary.

One free android was one less enslaved;

It was a success in itself.

All you needed to do now was gradually convert the rest. Cyberlife seemed to have no problem in exploiting opportunities, even when their image was at question; and yet, consumers still continued to purchase. Sometimes you really wondered why humans had survived as long as they had.

Aimlessly following the crowd you made your way around the city, searching for any other androids. Whilst you did find a few, converting them rather swiftly, androids were nowhere near as widespread as they were previously. The thought churned your biocomponents, a feeling you had, at this point, become accustomed to.

You knew that it was a process; one that would take time, and effort. You weren’t going to fail your people. You weren’t going to fail Jericho. You weren’t going to fail Markus, Simon, Josh, North; or those who had given their life. You were going to fight, till the very, bitter, end.

No matter what.

Somewhere in the swirl of your thoughts, you had managed to stumble across a store's window display. The TV’s in which were placed up against the pane, for public viewing, were playing the news, and from the subtitles, you were able to identify that the news anchor was Rosanna Cartland. Already predicting what the broadcast was going to talk about, you started to move away, until, something caught your eye, stopping you dead in your tracks. With widened eyes, you watched the summary; a basic debrief on the reports that were to come. Images and short clips danced across the screen, along with the familiar photo that had left you stunned. You didn’t need to rely on your systems analysis and your optical units to decrypt the poor quality photo. You knew exactly who that person was.

It was you.

And then, the snow started to fall;

[Time: 10:00 AM]

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