#genericconnor

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor / markus is dead.

New Jericho didn't know. Nobody here did; he hadn't told them. There had been chatter about Markus' disappearance for days, people knew that he was missing, but they didn't know that he was gone. Connor would, likely, be the one to communicate that finding. He had not done it yet.

He arrived today only to pass through the building into Markus' office, which he had not realised was what he was beelining for until he arrived there. This, too, was highly unusual for him. He usually knew exactly where he was going and why. He opened the door to Markus' office with a sort of finality, with the knowledge he was breaking something that was never going to be 'the office as Markus left it' again because he had broken-and-entered (opened the door), expecting...

Something horrible twisted in his chest. It smelt like him. For a moment Connor wondered if he might --

"Detective?"

Peppermint. Peppermint was a journalist and, regardless of Connor's telling him or not, would be able to see it in how Connor responded. They, the people who had been in Cyberlife the way they had, had always known grief. It was-

"Markus is dead." Trying to hide it was not going to work. He did not even particularly want to hide it. He just did not want it taken and published and thrown around the media's circles like it was a good news day instead of... but Peppermint would not do that, anyway. Connor leveled himself out, took a breath (LED processing) and turned to face his colleague, still framed by the office door belonging to a man who would never return to it. "I haven't figured out how to tell New Jericho." Bare honesty, actually. He was open to - he was seeking - suggestions.

[jericholeader]

1. And 16. 👀

Meme for Roleplay Muns!

1. What is your favorite trope to rp?

Ooh, it is... hard to pick a favorite. I did do some poking at ‘trope’ lists, but honestly I’m not sure if traditional tropes are really something I write. However.

Hurt/Comfort is... a very favorite genre that can encompass a great deal of my favorites (I... like... well-done whump and angst, especially with characters like Markus, who will Always Try and who will keep trying to escape, and who will... gosh, who will Reach for someone else even if they are Both in the situation OR whump with my partner’s character where Markus can be involved in rescue and/or medical help/comfort). 

I have. A. Thing for characters being wrongly accused (especially if.. They were the ones hurt, I mean. O.O). And for them fighting/advocating for themselves tirelessly, but also. For someone believing them. And advocating for them.

Slow. Burn. Is that a trope? But that kind of slow-burn where there is attraction, because they notice each other and they’re friends and then their attracted and then their in love. (You can say RK1K Becccaaa...)

I’m. Not as much a fan of straight up enemies-to-lovers. I like ‘opposite side of the line/government/movement but both Good people who See each other to lovers’. 

Time-loops? Time loops. Listen. Time loops as angst or as a narrative choice just. Time loops are cool. 

[detectiveconnor]

"I am no longer unhappy about not being you." The words come easily, unbidden, suddenly. Five-One turns to observe his friend, to catch his expression. His LED flutters for a moment, then he smiles, delicate, and sure. "I thought you'd like to know."

Hm.

He did like to know. It felt... maybe performative, but he turned to assess Five-One and found that he was only providing the information. Meant it only as a passing comment, the way one might comment on the weather.

Connor inclined his head just slightly, LED cycling, thoughtful but unflickering. It flashed once. He let go of the thought that had been circling, and traded it for something else, leaning mildly into Five-One's space:

"I guess I'll miss the admiration."

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor​​ sent:  "Will you come check on me before you leave for work?" (from PMC. It was from a random sentence.)

“No.” This was plainly honest. Connor said it, because he did not intend to ‘come to check’ on Peppermint; he was not a pot plant. Connor met his eye. He did not mean this as a form of scolding, for having asked.  Peppermint returned the look. 

Connor’s eyebrows lifted, and he offered instead, “I’m working at New Jericho, today. You could come. We always need an extra pair of hands.” 

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor​ sent:  "Talk to me." From Peppermint. // noticing trauma sentence starters (accepting, send me them!)

“I don’t want you here.” 

It was not said to be mean, though it was maybe a touch dismissive. Connor sat with his hands clasped loosely in his lap, elbows on his knees as he leant forward to think, by the lake. The light at his temple was dark (dull), and blue, though it flickered slivers of something brighter. 

He did not expect Peppermint to leave, necessarily, but for the record: Connor did not want him there. 

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor sent:  Send 👀 for my muse to compliment yours (for PM. Even if it is a lie.) | meme 

“You look happy.” Not a lie at all. The overalls were awful. His hair was red. Connor would not comment on the colour of his shirt. But Connor had some distinctly different tastes, to Peppermint, and this was an honest compliment: Peppermint had been going to group therapy for several months, now. 

He looked happy. Connor said it aloud, in case Peppermint had not noticed it himself, as they walked through New Jericho’s hall together. They often found each other like this, on Thursday mornings. At the end of the hall Connor turned right, and Peppermint, left, but they shared a hallway, when Connor came in.  Peppermint looked happy. Connor was happy for him. 

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor​ sent:  "Do you think... that there is anything wrong with me?" Peppermint Connor asked, quietly; an under the breath sort of confession. He appreciated the way that Det. Connor would not accept blame, nor carry the guilt of Cyberlife's misdeeds, carried out with his hands or not. It was something Peppermint could not yet relate to, but he wanted to. Logically, it made sense, but... "I can't shake this feeling, like I could have tried harder, or done more."

“You’re probably right,” Connor said.  It was offhand, and casual. His LED remained a disinterested blue. He did not look up, except when the silence stretched a while and Peppermint still had not said anything. When he did make eye contact, it was mostly to tilt his head, eyebrows pushing up: a dare. Connor was calling a bluff. Peppermint did not think that (he might have been trying the idea on for size, but it was ill-fitting), and Peppermint wouldn’t care even if Connor’s answer had been ‘yes’.  So yes, Peppermint was probably right. There was something wrong with him. Connor put his pen down and folded his hands in front of him, waiting: he would have a conversation about this, if Peppermint wanted to have one. He could walk Peppermint through where the fabric of this didn’t sit right, on Peppermint’s shoulders. Didn’t fit even though he pulled it. But did he need to? Connor really didn’t think so. 

[jericholeader]

Favorite and least favorite tropes? (Don't remember which of these I already asked so-)

Meme for Roleplay Muns!

13. Is there one trope you can’t stand? (or basically least favorites!)

I... Hm. There are definitely some overall literary tropes I do not enjoy.

Teenage/child saviour tropes are not my favorite (I enjoy exploring my characters lives when they are younger! just. this particular Hollywood fascination isn't for me.)

Hyper-masculine cowboy (old or young)/superhero/man commits excessively violent actions/is Mean and is considered. Good??

Angels and demons. Not my cup of tea.

These are quite general, but there are. A few. I'm not sure if I'd call them tropes, but generalizations involving Markus that I am not as much a fan of.

Markus being very aggressive, either as a personality trait or sexually or both. I. See Markus as a kind man. Kind does not exclude strength and tenacity and steady and his tendency to Keep Going, and it. Doesn't mean things can't get consensually rough, but. Markus Being Aggressive is.... not for me.

Markus. 'Deviating'. Connor.

Markus disliking North. ..... I see them as friends who know each other well. That is where I stand.

[detectiveconnor]

"Do you think that there is anything wrong with the way I was made?" Peppermint asked, curious, but detached. (I have no idea - circumstances or- but he suddenly wanted to ask.)

"No." Connor did not look up as he said it, nor did he lose so much as a beat to the question. He did not think there was something wrong with the way that any Android was made; it was why his LED still glowed at his temple. Currently it was a calm blue, untroubled by what could have been a challenging query, if he had had preconceptions of being 'better', or more. Connor was not more than anyone else, though he... would agree he had a lot of talents. When he did eventually glance up from his work Peppermint was still watching him, so Connor clarified, "Aside from the obvious." Amanda; the fact his own, and Peppermint's, existence was predicated on the deaths of at least 39 real people, and in Connor's case, 51; the fact they were designed with hurting people in mind. But he asked, with a pointedness that crossed into being a dare (Connor believed the answer was no, Peppermint didn't), "Do you?"

[jericholeader]

Intertwined

@generic-connor​​ || plotted starter

“You are lonely.”

Markus blinked, brow unfurling as he turned from the book he’d been studying, mismatched eyes (green and blue) narrowing slightly, toward his father. The king had found him alone (as usual), and Markus hesitated a beat long enough that his father might allow that his answer was not knee-jerk. His mouth opened, “I am fine, Father.”

“Markus. We both know.” King Carlisle murmured, reaching with a weathered hand for Markus’. Markus gave his, immediately. There was a length of silence between them, with Markus’ thumb making a fond pass over the back of his father’s hand. 

“... We have talked about you telling me how I feel.” Was Markus’ murmur, a moment later. Said any other way than gentle, with the slightest curl of a knowing smile, and it might have sounded snappish. It wasn’t.

His father looked away, hiding his own amusement. They had, talked about it. And Markus was right, as he often was.

But it didn’t mean the king wasn’t. Markus looked away, toward the west facing window that let mid-afternoon light into the room.

It must have seemed... odd. The palace around him thrummed with life, like a minstrels lute singing the quite pulse of ‘alive’. The court never slept. There was always people; (rarely) ever silence. But all the voices of strangers couldn’t replace what Markus knew his father was getting to.

There were times Markus felt isolated. His father’s company helped. Chess in the sun in the Great Hall. A debate over policy across a table in the library. But in the worst of it, it felt like pain, in the center of his chest. He was not making friends here, out of the courtiers his age. And he and Leo sometimes went days without speaking, except at meals, and even then-

Markus hadn’t meant to let it take so certain a hold. He’d thought it might ease as he came of age, out of the hours of tutoring stripping away everything from before his adoption. It hadn’t. If anything, it seemed only to become more suffocating.  He’d seen their world for what it was long before he’d had the means to do more than claw against it with adolescent hands. He had ideals, ideas, he wanted so much more for their people-

“Sit with me.” Carl encouraged and Markus set his book aside and followed his father to the window seat.

“.... Perhaps you should reconsider sending for a companion.”

Markus’ gaze came back, sharp, “Father, you know how I feel about this. Those who serve in those positions are born into what our society considers their place. They do not choose their servitude.”

Carl nodded, “I do, and I support your ideals, Markus. You know that. All I am asking is for you to listen, and consider what I am saying.” 

Markus knew his father was waiting for him to agree. He finally dipped his head in a nod. 

“I understand why you do not wish to participate in this custom. But simply refusing is not immediately improving any ones life, and it is making you more alone.” Carl had been king for years, long enough to know when it was better to concede and when to stand ground. Markus watched him, listening, “And think, you have the chance to improve two people’s lives if you were to change your mind: yours, and the life of the person who would come to be at your side.” 

That was-... a point Markus had not considered. 

“And I am worried about you, Markus.” Carl breathed, his voice a low rumble, husky slightly with a twist of emotion. Markus reached to take his father’s hand again and squeeze it, gently. “Loneliness is pain, and if I had my way, nothing in this life would hurt you.”

Markus’ lips parted in a quiet whisper of his father’s name, his eyes stinging. 

Carl smiled, and patted the back of Markus’ hand, “Just-... think about it, Markus. Please.” 

They sat for awhile longer, comfortable in the silence as the sun waned. The king stood, after some time. “There’s much to do.” He said and turned to leave, but paused before the wide, oak doors, turning back, “You know... There is always time to learn before you decide the best way to change the world."

The corner of Markus’ mouth curled up, “Yes Father.” He answered, and listened to the heavy settling of the wood as his father left. The quiet closed down, and Markus got up, legs restless as his heart. He had so many plans. He spread his hands, over the books he had laid out. His eyes caught in the half-empty ink-well. So much he wanted to change... 

You have the chance to improve two people’s lives. 

He tugged at a parchment he’d used as a place to jot down his thoughts. It was heavily set with ink.

He’d been too busy pushing against the injustices to even consider this path. Still, some part of it felt like giving in or giving up. 

There is always time to learn... 

Markus felt almost nervous. He wasn’t one to be nervous. Guilt still settled uneasily in his gut, but he’d reasoned out his choice to himself at least five times before making it. 

This wasn’t a grandiose affair. The Great Hall was bustling with separate pockets of activity, the mingling courtiers and staff making the silence a din of indistinguishable voices. The Crown prince waited at the head of the room, on the short stairs leading to the throne. There was no outward indication of the thoughts he’d been sparring with all morning. If there was one thing Markus was, it was held together. 

His mismatched eyes scanned the hall and the faces of people he recognized by reputation or title. He was certain he knew far more about them than they’d know about him. 

The doors at the other end gave way, and his attention refocused. The young man who would be his companion came with an escort at his elbow, one that stepped aside when they were near. The correspondence he’d received had indicated his name was Connor. Markus had every intention to let him introduce himself. Connor dropped to a knee before him. 

“Rise, please.” Markus said, stepping down. He looked past Connor’s shoulder, to the escort,

“You are dismissed.” He indicated, allowing for them to be alone as the court would allow. 

The escort receded, and Markus looked back, to Connor. “Hello.” He greeted, offering a smile that tipped the corner of his mouth, “Welcome to Manfred Castle.” Markus did not see a need to stand on metaphorical ceremony, not least of all because (if things worked out as intended) they would be spending a considerable amount of time together, “I am certain they've told you how to address me, but I would like it very much if you'd call me Markus.”

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor​​ sent:  "What do you like about Markus? I think he's impressive, especially in how he cares. I can tell; you love him," Peppermint Connor offered the question, sprinkled with his own ideas. He was just a curious android with no sense of shame, but he understood that there was a level of secrecy involved in private information. This wasn't something he would have brought up, if they hadn't been alone. | @jericholeader​​

About Markus?  Connor’s LED flashed white-blue; his eyes found again the space where he had last seen Markus in the doorway, here, headed off to do good work, to help people, to keep going. He inclined his head. Not cautious, but careful. A confirmation that might not have been afforded to anyone who asked.  It took him a second, thinking. Connor could list the ways he loved Markus Manfred. The reasons why. 

He said instead, “... I once told him I was worried he would ask me to stop my work,” because this was something Peppermint would understand; despite not having the same dedication to the job, Connor was sure Peppermint would know what it (he) meant when he said, “He said he would never. Because I am a Detective.” Connor’s eyes were still on the door. His LED was a smooth, thinking blue, circling through different thoughts, the warmth that rose in his chest (this, too, was something he loved) when he thought about his reasons - plural - for loving him. Was there a way to crystallise that thought?  The way he could smile, and mean it. The way he listened for and to and with the people he spoke with. The way they had happened into friendship on a balcony somewhere, and then into something more, not by design (if either one of them had not been who they were, they might not have both lived to meet there), but because Markus had said good evening, four nights in a row, until Connor had started a conversation. (The stubble, when Connor kissed him. His eyes. The way his hands were careful, always, to want but not to take. The warmth of him. His beating heart, beneath him.)  What did he like about Markus? 

“I like that his brow furrows, when he’s thinking,” Connor shared, thoughtful, with his own eyebrows pushing upward a little, “it makes him easier to read.” Unavoidably alive. So much of him was unavoidably, vibrantly, meet-your-eye Alive.  There were edges he had found, or was beginning to find, in places, and Connor loved those, too. Knowing them. Seeing them. Seeing him. 

All of these things, he could have been saying out loud, but he pulled his eyes away from the door at last and turned to face Peppermint to agree, “I love him,” because that was the best way to tell the truth. “We sleep together, some nights.” The reason why, when Peppermint had been living with them, Connor had not always come home.  “He’s warm.” 

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor from here

Fear.

Connor knew the feeling too well not to recognize it instantly. His own LED spun bright yellow, in unison with his companion’s. He watched, waiting for the other Connor to tell him how to proceed. It wasn’t that Peppermint (a name he had taken to distinguish himself from RK800 models 51 and 52) didn’t trust his own judgement, it was just- That was the way of things. Detective Connor was Very Good, and much more experienced than himself, so it only made sense that he should take the lead.

As competent as his counterpart truly was, there were always chances for errors to occur. It appeared that the situation was not as well in hand as he would have thought. Something wasn’t right. The familiar dread of potential dangers pulled like a weight on his thirium pump. It all happened very quickly. He took off his seatbelt.

[Don’t Panic]

A loud crack-

[Do Something]

A window would have to go. Connor gave his twin a pointed look. “Come On,” he said. He braced himself, knowing it was going to hurt. “I’m breaking the glass,” he warned, confident in his friend’s ability to put the plan together. If he was fast enough, they could get out before the car was fully submerged, but they didn’t have a lot of time.

When his elbow collided with the glass, there was a terrible crack, accompanied by the crackling of electricity. Two more blows, aimed with expert precision, and the glass was shattered, as well as his arm. He pulled himself out, when they were only just above the icy surface, plunging into the freezing water. He was so sure that Detective Connor would be right behind him, fully confident in his ability to free himself.

The relief he felt on seeing Connor pull himself up onto the snow covered ice, was as real as his confidence had been before. Now, he was observing a rather bleak scenario. “It doesn’t look good,” he managed, just as his body began to shake and tremor. No, it wasn’t quite shivering; it was the way his body jolted from the misfiring of electricity. Red error messages alerted him to the status of his arm (not good.)

He was out of ideas.

Cold.  Connor dragged himself up onto the ice and then, further, off the ice - if it broke again and they went back under he was not sure if he would get himself back out. They turned out into the snow in wet clothing, white snow staining blue with Thirium that bled from Peppermint’s arm the longer they stayed there. Connor’s LED was red. He was shivering, violently - the cold.  It doesn’t look good. He swallowed something awful and struggled out of his leather jacket, peeling it away from his shaking chassis so he could wrap up Peppermint’s splintered arm. The act of tying it up was as much of a break as Connor could afford himself. They were still in the snow, Peppermint was still bleeding, they were soaked through and cold and going to freeze. It was simply not an option, here, to turn himself out into the snow and catch air that was warmer than the freezing in his chassis. If the car’s hijacking had been intentional - and he could not fathom a hijacking like this that could have not been intentional - then they stood a chance of their would-be assassin coming to check the job was done. Peppermint was looking for next steps. Connor would have to find them.  Instead of dropping in the snow, Connor reached out, hands shaking, to help to drag Peppermint to his feet. “Come on.” They had to move. His processor was waterlogged with ice; it took him a moment (his LED flashed) to try calling someone, again, now that they were out of range of the vehicle. “I’m calling the DPD. We should take cover away from the lake until then -” he helped Peppermint into the snow behind a tree, back facing the lake. They couldn’t have gotten much further than this, anyway.  He reached into his holster for his weapon - it should still work, despite the water - and dropped the knife from the sheath at his ankle into the snow: available to Peppermint. Connor did not pass it to him, and he did not suggest he take it. But he made it available to him. “They might come to check. Is your system stable until -?”  The thrum of an approaching car cut him off. Connor fell silent, though he glanced to Peppermint for his answer (a nod, or a shake of the head; Connor had verbalised enough of the question to warrant a response), and he peeked out at the snowy road. His LED (solid red; it had been red since before the car fully submerged in the water) flashed as he recognised the plates.  “That’s one of New Jericho’s cars.” 

[jericholeader]

@generic-connor​​ |  Meme for Roleplay Muns! (asked here and I forgot, xD)

16. Do you prefer long or short replies and why?

I tend to gravitate toward lengthy replies just because I... can’t keep it short. LOL. I enjoy movement and character observation and description and also dashing in what my character is feeling. I’ve always written on the long-side and it isn’t because I feel obligated to words, it is because I enjoy what I am doing and I love my character and it ends up long.

But also! I’ve always had a preference for multi-para or para-based threads, because it is often those where my partners and I engage in extended plots or ideas we are Quite excited for. They also allow for that movement I mentioned - moving the characters, movement of the plots, parallel roleplaying (character in different places as part of the plot), and time skips!

I’ve had super fun short-things replies too, and sometimes that works best for the style or that is where paras start so. Having fun is the key.

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor​  asked: “ “ you can stay with me tonight. ” (from -51)” | miscellaneous prompts (always accepting) 

He’d been arrested at the airport. 

Connor hadn’t actually done anything besides want to catch a flight home; he had an hour’s layover here in Chicago and had been trying to check in to his onward flight, except the plane had overbooked its seating. “So you’ll be in the cargo hold, and -” had not gotten them particularly far (the freezing-cold cargo hold - aside from being literally named a ‘cargo’ ‘hold’ with separate quotations for each of those words - was not a convenient extra-space alternative), but the man who wanted to take Connor’s seat had been very impassioned about the fact Connor was ‘just a fucking Android’ and ‘it doesn’t even matter’. Connor had endeavoured to flatly ignore him. Instead, he’d had to side-step a fist that came at him from behind (Mr Keenan had yelled his forewarning), and airport security - understandably enough - had reacted very strongly to a fist-fight in an airport.  Connor had only narrowly avoided being tased. He’d been forced to his knees (he in fact made a show of it, for the security camera; if they shot him there could be no mistaking this), and arrested. Mr Keenan had been removed from the airport, and let off with a warning.  All this to say, Connor would not be catching his flight home tonight, and had thus far met seven people in this precinct who had mistaken Connor for his counterpart - except his badge said the wrong city’s police department. Connor sat, handcuffed, in the back of a holding cell and worked through red tape while he waited for -51 to find him. He was sure that he would. They, each of them, did good work.  The door beeped, compliant, as it slid open.  “You can stay with me, tonight.”   Connor offered... a half-smile. His LED flickered. Warm. “It’s nice to see you.” 

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor​ / starter call 

Common ground.  It’s what they were both looking for (he thought - though it was difficult to tell, even knowing... himself, as he thought he did). Despite a face, a portion of their history, and a general wish not to die in common, they sat shoulder-by-shoulder in relative silence. Connor’s LED pulsed and faded, a twist of blue at his temple, and then -  he reached into his coat’s pocket, produced his coin, and flicked it over to his left hand, solely so that he might offer it to his counterpart. The recently-restored Connor-51. There was no trick, nor any word aloud. Connor made the invitation by gesture alone. They’d be waiting for a while, yet; did Connor (his counterpart) intend to calibrate? 

[detectiveconnor]

@generic-connor for 51 <3 there was a starter call for this at some point? but i don’t know where it is and i am not accepting new likes, so meh 

He didn’t have a better shot. 

That was what it boiled down to. Connor had a fraction of a second to act in (he ran calculations while his hand reached for his weapon; unholstered it; lifted it to take aim; unlatched the safety -), and he could not believe he had missed this threat for as long as he had. The evening was buzzing with people in fancy dress and flutes of champagne. Soon they would drop - tables would be overturned (Connor had knocked his own over, in his hurry to stand) - there was less than a second to decide in and it really could have been anyone standing in his way, but after the fact, Connor thought to be glad that it was -51. 

He took aim at his target and he fired, so the bullet tore through the back of -51′s chassis (a delicate spot - Connor did not miss), a through-and-through shot that stuttered a little on its way but nonetheless continued through him, to the man now cursing violently with a bullet lodged in his left arm and struggling to free the weapon he had been intending to - 

Someone jumped him from his left side. Connor could not get another good shot (’good’ was relative, he supposed), and some senator who thought she was being heroic had just tackled him, wrestling him for a gun he - Connor kept her off it, only because he did not trust she would not use it, “Red hair, blue jacket!”