#and how much he really hopes Silvermane will reconsider by Not Doing The Thing

[phoenix-flamed]

Thank you, @stingslikeabee , for showing me that Reddit post about the Northern Territories lore, because it enabled me to finally wordvomit this brainworm that's been sitting in my drafts.

The roses were in bloom back home. The castle gardens were no doubt bursting with color now that the seasons had shifted and the veil of snow had melted away, but it was always the roses that Elwin inevitably thought back to on his campaigns. They reminded him of Anabella, and of Clive, and now of little Joshua as well -- of the unbridled love he felt for all three of them, and of his ever-present desire to return home to them, that he might gaze upon the roses with them once more.

By now, and across the many summers since his youthful days at his father's side, he had witnessed the various seasons of the northern territories. He had trudged through sometimes knee-deep, sometimes waist-deep layers of snow, shuddered from the biting, unforgiving winds of the coldest months that seemed to stretch on into eternity; he had basked in the sunlight on its warmer days, where children from the local settlements played just near enough to the former Duke's temporary encampments, that his eldest son was able to watch them -- and sometimes join in their merriment for a little while. He had mused over the earlier arrival of snow flurries compared to back at Rosalith, and he had found the crunching and cracking of what few dead leaves remained to be a comforting sound in the otherwise stillness and quietness of their surroundings. It was as if the land itself had nestled into slumber to await the next coming of spring. And of course, he had gazed upon the growing patches of green as they emerged from their sleep beneath the snow and ice, and with their rousing did they bring along colorful little buds that would soon enough bloom once more, undeterred by the fighting that waged on around them, or the blood that seeped into the soil in place of water, or the clashing of ideals that rang as hauntingly loud as the clashing of steel.

Unbothered, even, by the looming threat of the Blight as it crept closer and closer towards them. Like a cold and merciless death, a finality so vastly different than the temporary sleep brought on by the winter months.

Conflicts and skirmishes with their northern neighbors were nothing new. But this was something different, something more; this was, simply put, war. What had prompted the assault by Silvermane and his men was inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things. They had chosen to march upon Rosaria's door to trade blows, and so Rosaria would do what it must do -- and so too would Elwin Rosfield. The fight for Kanver's independence was, for the time being, a distant memory in his mind, frozen and encased in the ice of the Northern Territories, buried between blankets of snow.

The campfire was almost dead; its embers would soon flicker out entirely, but the Archduke seemed not to mind, or maybe he didn't notice. His attention seemed focused elsewhere, somewhere in the distance but beneath the horizon that was barely discernible through the sea of trees and the melting stalactites that dangled from their branches. Elwin was no longer the youth he had been, and though his years didn't number overly many, those years since his father's passing had most assuredly taken their toll. The natural furrow to his brow was all that much heavier now, as the weight of his experiences sat heavy on his countenance. Lines and wrinkles, like cracks in a once flawless mask, allowed his sorrows and worries to seep through just as much as it allowed his determination and resolve to display in full. The callouses on his hands had hardened all the more from combat, and the scars upon his equally as roughened form had only multiplied with each battle, regardless of its outcome. But the latter of these things were concealed oh so carefully beneath chainmail and leather, and topped with that familiar red hue that was a staple of the ducal royal line's garments.

Even his surcoat, sewn and stitched with such extensive care and pride to mirror the ones worn by the rulers before him, was somewhat worn and faded. The vibrancy of its color had dulled from both age and stress, and one could argue that the same could be said of Elwin's ocean-green eyes as well.

Unlike those who came before him, he sought at every turn for a more peaceable solution to conflicts. The knowledge that in a few short bells, the fighting against Silvermane's men would resume in force, left him wondering if he was fit to wear this outfit, just as it left him wondering if he was fit to occupy the throne -- even as a mere placeholder ruler. So many questions flitted through the brunette's mind; what could he have done to prevent this? What happened? Why did it come to this? And why now, of all times? (Though he suspected he understood the answer to the last question, it was nonetheless difficult to swallow.) Geir Warrick, though not in control of every settlement of people across his lands, had always proven to be an honorable, sensible man during the times that his father had treated with him. And while the silver-haired ruler's strength and prowess as a fighter was nothing short of impressive, giving credence to the meaning of his given name, the aspect of him that Elwin respected the most had always been his dedication. Because while Geir was relentless in combat, he was also relentless in doing what was best or right for his people. If that meant staying his hand, then he would stay his hand; if it meant fighting, then he would take up his spear and press on without hesitation or regret. In that regard, he did remind Elwin of his own father.

The Northern Territories and Rosaria had never been friendly, no -- at least not in recent history. But to outright declare war on the duchy again? Unlike the king, and unlike his father before him, the reigning Archduke was not so eager to march onward with this war. Not with a second war waging in the south, even if he did know that Anabella was more than capable of handling the ongoing political concerns and disputes back in Rosalith, as well as the diplomatic relations regarding the trundling Kanver situation, while he contended with this situation in the North.

Eyes dropped to half-closed. A deep sigh was exhaled, reminding him of just how cold the temperature had dropped during this night, and he finally withdrew his attention from the particular patch of greenery that he'd been so fixated on 'til then. The buds of flowers had begun to sprout, and it wouldn't be long until they, too, blossomed across these lands. While Elwin had outgrown the days of making wishes to Metia in hopes that they might be delivered to the moon, if there was one last wish he longed to have placed at the moon's feet so that she might carry it to the heavens... It was that Geir, too, had a garden of roses that would be blooming soon, that he too might gaze upon their blooms with his queen and daughter, and his heart be swayed by their love.

[silvensei]

In This Mad Machinery

A human and an android swap bodies, resulting in identity crises, existentialism, philosophy with the boys, and fun!

Detroit: Become Human | gen | 20k | rated T | introspective comedy/sci-fi

Chapter 5 (2k words) | [AO3 link] | [first] | < prev | next >

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Once he pulled into their usual parking spot at the DPD, Connor let out a sigh of relief. He didn't realize he was holding the wheel in a death grip until he had to pry his hands off to kill the ignition.

It wasn't the driving itself. He knew how to drive. He drove better than Hank. But that was when he was an android. He could run his driving program while also holding a conversation with Hank and texting three others simultaneously. He obviously knew that he didn't have his programming to multi-task like that today, but he underestimated just how difficult it would be to focus only on one task. He didn't normally rely on multi-tasking that much, did he?

On the drive over, he would be focused on the road, then notice that the girl waiting to cross the street had a very nice dog, then he'd wonder what kind of dog it was, then he'd lament humans' inability to search the internet without a phone, then he'd considered taking out his phone—Hank's phone—to search it, then the fact that he hadn't payed attention to the road in a bunch of seconds slapped him in the face. Following that, he was glad Hank wasn't there to see his faux pas, reconsidered to think Hank might actually keep him on track, noticed the radio was playing one of Hank's least favorite songs, and screeched to a halt at a red light he hadn't seen. Or his eyes saw it, but the memo was in line behind all the other thoughts waiting to pass through his one-track human brain. It was... It'll take some getting used to.

No matter now. He's safe and sound and unmoving.

He took a deep breath. The cool air filled his chest, and it made him feel physically refreshed. There was no system-measured value of how it affected internal cooling regulation. Just a sense of lightness.

Too many senses to keep track of in his current head. He could go crazy trying.

Connor stepped out of the car. His hand automatically tried to adjust his tie like he did every morning before work, but it caught the collar of his T-shirt instead. He tsk-ed at his habit, locked the car, and zipped his hoodie halfway as he walked. His calves felt warm and uncomfortable under pressure; again, he admitted it wasn't his brightest idea to have the whole household sprint around the neighborhood a half hour before trading in his metal body for one just chock-full of pain receptors.

The next thought in line made him slow his pace: This wasn't his body, but Hank's. Therefore, not only should he try to talk like Hank, he should act like him, too, gait, posture, and all. Connor tried to pull up a memory of the lieutenant as reference, but it was so vague and unfocused that he couldn't make out every detail. Or even many details. In a way, he was watching a recording of an event, same as ever, but in every other way, he absolutely was not.

Instead, he resorted to adjectives. Keep it loose, yet confident. Lazy, yet deliberate. The lieutenant was an old pro at what he did but still dedicated to his purpose. Connor rolled his neck, loosening up his shoulders. Walk like you own the place.

He dug his hands into his sweatshirt pockets and strolled through the front door, hoping he had affixed the correct 'ready for bad news' almost-scowl and 'seen some shit' gaze to his expression. The woman at the front desk looked up. "Oh, Lieutenant!" she said, buzzing him in. "You're not usually here on Saturdays."

"Hopefully it won’t be too long."

“Shall I be expecting Connor to join you?”

“Shouldn’t think so.”

“Unusual.” Connor paused before the turnstile, hoping she didn’t suspect anything. He couldn’t see her LED, but she went back to work without comment. He let out a quiet sigh of relief before continuing through to the bullpen.

As a calm weekend in Detroit, there weren’t nearly as many people around as he was used to: Only two officers were at their desks, with a third wandering to the break room. The door to one of the conference rooms was closed, so more might be hidden away in a meeting. He would have been able to look up the room bookings for today if today were a normal day. Alas, he’d have to settle for mere conjecture.

Captain Fowler was in his office, leaning back in his chair, arms stretched overhead, looking for all the world bored out of his mind. He didn’t notice Connor approach until he was nearing the open doorway. “Well, shit,” he called. “Honestly, this is an hour or three earlier than I expected.”

Connor shrugged and closed the door behind him, if only to buy him another second to think. “I was out and about anyway, so might as well swing by and get this over with.”

“Is this proactivity I see?” Fowler smirked before leaning forward to get to business. He passed Connor a tablet lit up with forms. “I know the thirium meth case was only a few days ago, but the suits have been on my ass for the reports all day. You don’t have to finish it all right now; god, I wouldn’t put you through all that. Just get through the rest of the prelims so I have something to give ‘em and do the rest with Connor on Monday.”

He skimmed through the first partially-completed form. It was all basic facts: brief, location(s), culprit(s), suspect(s), victim(s), motive, DPD personnel involved, contact info, et cetera. “Yeah, alright, I’ll try to get through it quick,” he said, pulling out a chair to get settled and get started.

Fowler nodded. “Alright.” He turned back to his desktop, but not before Connor caught him giving him an odd look. “Where is the kid anyway?”

“Visiting a friend.”

He barked a laugh. “Really? Glad to know he’s not a perpetual stick in the mud anymore. Next thing you know, he’ll be at a rager, beer just staining his shirt.”

Connor blinked, caught off-guard. “At four in the afternoon?” was all he could say.

“You never know. I’m sure we wandered into one this early at some point or another.”

“…Heh. Yeah, probably.”

Fortunately, Fowler didn’t continue down that tangent. Connor leaned back and rested the tablet on his legs, selecting the first field Hank hadn’t already filled. His finger depressed on the screen, his skin squishing as he typed. It was something so slight, and yet it was so different than what he was used to. It was like he barely had to touch the keys for the screen to recognize it.

Focus, detective. Personnel on scene (in order of arrival). It was him and Hank first, then Allen and his team, then Wilson, Cao, and Silverman….

…It was simple, yes, but how he wished he could run this in autopilot and do something else instead. The amount of focus needed to stay on track doing something so mundane was unexpected. And not really all that fun.

Man, humans really have to run on sheer willpower, huh?

Much of the preliminary paperwork was already filled out, and many fields were repeated and could be autofilled, but it still took maybe fifteen or twenty minutes to get to the last form. It requested information of the person filling out report, which wasn’t exactly him at the moment. He didn’t know Hank’s badge number off the top of his head, and he couldn’t check his memory archives….

His back was beginning to feel stiff and uncomfortable; he tried shifting his position. He straightened up, hearing and feeling his spine pop twice, immediately making him grimace.

“What’s up with you today?”

“Hm?” Connor looked up.

Fowler had his arms crossed on his desk and his eyes on him. “I know it’s a Saturday, but you’re really out of it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like that! Who the hell says that?”

Connor held his breath. Of course Fowler would notice his friend was different. And he did need to get some details from Hank anyway…. “Well,” he started, “to answer your rhetorical question literally, Connor would.”

Fowler stared at him. Connor had seen the man during some late nights at the office before. He was starting to look just as tired now. “The hell does that mean?” he sighed.

“Hank and I are assisting CyberLife with some research, so I am inhabiting his body for today, and he’s in mine.”

“…uh-huh.”

“Sorry for not informing you earlier, Captain.”

Fowler rubbed his eyes. “God damn it, Hank would never say that. Why is it always you two doing something crazy.”

“It’s only tempor—”

“I don’t want to know.”

“It’s been quite successful—”

“Don’t wanna know. Done with that paperwork?”

“I’m on the last form, but I need to ask Hank for some specifics.”

“Whatever. You’ve probably plagiarized it all already, but go ahead, call him up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fantastic.” Fowler pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something as Connor found Hank’s phone. “The one time I get any respect from Hank fucking Anderson, it’s because it’s Freaky Friday, of all things.”

Connor was about to correct him on the day as his phone rang before he remembered Hank had said the same thing that morning. Was it a reference to something? The call connected, and his own voice asked, “What’s up, something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Lieutenant. I’m just filling out some paperwork for Captain Fowler and need some details. What’s your badge number? And dates of employment at the DPD?”

“0309—Isn’t that technically plagiarism?”

“You and Captain Fowler have been saying many of the same things today.”

Hank snickered. “Should I call a cab and come over or…?”

“No need; this is the last form.” Connor entered Hank Anderson, Lt., #0309 in the first field. “Employment date?”

As Hank supplied him with the missing figures, Fowler leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed over his chest. His behavior supported Connor’s earlier theory that humans must be uncomfortable with separating psyche from physique, although this is a much different reaction than Hank’s. Connor considered leaving him be, but he would be leaving the office once he’s done anyway.

It only took a minute or two to finish. He thanked Hank for his assistance, told him he’d be by in fifteen minutes, and hung up. He slid the tablet onto the desk. “Is that all for now?” he asked.

Fowler continued looking at the ceiling. “Yeah, that’s fine. You’re free to go.”

Connor rose and returned the chair to its original position. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Captain.”

He zipped his hoodie and was reaching for the door when he heard, “Hey, Connor?”

“Sir?”

Fowler sat up to collect the tablet, glancing over at his subordinate. “This’ll all be back to normal by Monday, right?”

“Yes, of course. It only lasts a couple hours.”

He paused. “What’s it like?”

Hm. What was it like? Once again, a hundred half-thoughts ran through his head, interrupting and overlapping each other. It was oversensitive—overstimulating—single-minded—emotional—overtly acute yet insufficient at the same time. The physical rush of emotions he felt in the first ten minutes came to mind. Various aches and soreness at random times. The brush of sunlight on his skin. The following prickling of radiation. Fabric rubbing on his skin at all times. Just how tactile his skin was—and taste and everything about it—and how he just took a breath—and how long it was taking to come up with an answer—

In summary: “It’s slow.”

Admittedly, his memory was compromised at the moment, but for perhaps the first time ever, Fowler laughed, a low, hearty guffaw. Startled and worried that it came off as a joke, he quickly added, “No offense intended, sir!” which only made him laugh harder.

After his initial shock, something about it seemed contagious. It lightened the room and made him relax. Were all humans susceptible to emotional contagions? “It’s a different take on a world I thought I already knew,” Connor continued. “There’s just…so much to notice, and yet the human brain has much less processing power than I’m used to working with.”

“Holy shit. Processing power.” Fowler devolved into a brief fit of coughs before he waved Connor away. “Alright, then, go live it up, kid. And tell Hank he ain’t off the hook, either.”

Connor pushed open the door, fishing his keys from his pocket. “Off the hook for what?”

“Oh, he’ll know.”

[next >]