dualislogs | Midnight, not a sound from the pavement

Midnight, not a sound from the pavement

WHO: All residents of Dualis + special guest stars
WHAT: Strap in, kiddos, it’s a ~memshare~
WHERE: In your head. Or, you know. Everywhere you go to escape that.
WHEN: August 15-24
WARNINGS: Don’t forget these if they’re applicable!

It’s been a few months, Dualis, how are you settling in? New arrivals, we know it’s sudden, but we hope you’re making new friends already and settling in well! You’re all gonna fit in juuuust fine around here.

Things have calmed down after the supposed terrorist attacks during the Dualis Days celebration, and there’s still no news about that strange network broadcast. But maybe that’s for the best, right? See, the Head really does have everything under control.

But speaking of heads…

Over the course of these next few days, yours might be feeling a little funny. Maybe you just aren’t quite feeling like yourself. Or there’s an ache that just won’t quite go away. Or maybe you’re perfectly fine! Which is completely optimal, honestly.

Except--that memory you suddenly have. Is that really yours? And what about those fainting spells that seem to come with premonitions...or are you perhaps remembering something you repressed long ago? You’d probably remember something like this, though, wouldn’t you?

It’s perfectly natural to be concerned. However, if you approach your friendly neighborhood MedBot or clinician, they’re going to be pretty stumped. It appears there's nothing really wrong with you, but hey, here's some mild painkillers if you want them. And if you try and consult the Head, all it’ll be able to do is give you it’s most sincere condolences. It seems that there may have been some complications with the transfer process, but these should definitely wear off soon! In the meantime, why not visit your local clinic for a sedative and some painkillers?

Good luck, denizens. Looks like you’re in for a bumpy week or two...

[[As a reminder, these memory shares can happen at any point in time during the span of the event, not just when your characters are sleeping! You're also welcome to have them experience no side effects at all, all the way up to fainting spells and headaches a la Cordelia circa season 2 of Angel. Feel free to reach out to your friendly neighborhood mods if you have any questions!]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"So, this... bat man," and Connor clearly says this in the tone of someone assuming this is a descriptive term for a 'man who is a bat', "is a fictional character...but you just saw a memory from somebody who knows this person."

Connor has spent these past few days turning into a person who just repeats things back at Hank. But it's all insane, so he considers it all warranted.

"I was--he was putting on a disguise. It was pretty impressive when he was done," he says, not at all noticing Hank's awkwardness. His own brief foray into disguising himself was nowhere near that thorough.

He pulls Hank to his feet with very little effort.

"I only saw a creature--a person who wasn't human--suffering from it," he says, frowning as he remembers. "His skin was grey, I don't think it was supposed to be. He was covered in sores. Body parts - his wings, he had wings - were starting to rot.

"I think he had started to rot from the inside as well," he sounds more troubled as they emerge from the bathroom. He automatically beelines for the break room. "He got agitated at one point and he coughed up... Blood, maybe. The lining of his lungs. Whatever it was, it was black, like it was rotting. The same fluid was starting to drain from his ears as well. I think he eventually drowned on that liquid."

It doesn't occur to him to spare the details with someone who's just thrown up.

Edited 2019-08-18 17:00 (UTC)

Luckily Hank was a homicide detective. He could walk through a house with a two week old rotten body and keep it together, so why not listen to descriptions of the disease. Though when they get to the break room, he abandons the conversation (for now), his glances around the station wary ones.

"Tell me when we get back to our place. I'll write it down." The tie around Hank's wrist is moved again, this time to put his hair back (what will go) into that lazy containment.

Had he seen Connor's disguise, he would have badgered him about looking like he'd escaped from 8-Mile.

"Huh. Not many men can pull off a dress. Some women, too. I worked with a few that you put 'em in a skirt and you might as well be sending an ostrich out. Nobody was gonna buy that awkward shit. Not that they were ugly, just didn't fuckin' look even remotely comfortable. You know? Made me give right up on using cops posing as prostitutes. That was before they started using androids in sex clubs..."

He has abandoned what was left of his cup of water on the floor where he'd been sat, so when he gets to the breakroom he beelines for the coffee machine. The conversation about how he'd used undercover officers disguised as homeless people in various parts of the city where overdoses were the highest in a series of successful sting operations leaves his mind, replaced by something else. He freezes in the middle of pouring it. Just for a beat. Enough that he winces when hot coffee hits his fingers and he hisses back to reality. He turns to look at Connor, switching hands for his cup and slinging the other to get air against the mildly burned skin.

"You really thought I wouldn't think you did the right thing?"

Then he shakes off the words with a physical jostle of his head.

"Fuck it. Fuck it, that's not mine." That memory is Connor's. He shouldn't have it. He shouldn't look at himself through someone else's eyes. He doesn't like what he sees.

"Got it." He'll probably end up writing it down himself and it'll be much faster. But for now, they leave the topic.

"I was programmed to go undercover if I needed to, but they didn't plan on testing that out with me," he says, remarkably straight faced given he's talking about what would probably have been his successor, after he would have been deactivated and dismantled.

But the memory's interesting partially just because he recognised the face in the mirror - Nida, the guy from the cat cafe who he'd talked to about a topic still heavy on his mind: what exactly he's supposed to do with the rest of his life. Because it doesn't have to be this if he doesn't want it to be.

Hank wanted this life. Connor? He was created for it. Now he has to choose whether he wants it.

He's about to comment that now the androids have all awakened - or they're about to - things might go back to how Hank remembers them, right down to undercover prostitutes, but Hank freezes in the middle of pouring a coffee.

And his words when he turns make Connor freeze.

"What?" he says, knowing what, but just not exactly. His memories are floating around out there. Other people can see the things he's done. Hank knows most of it - but being there and knowing what Connor truly was thinking - or not thinking - is different.

"What did you see?" and he can hear dread in his voice.

Edited 2019-08-19 06:23 (UTC)

"I saw that girl on her knees in front of you and felt you goin' through the whole... thing. Whatever that was. And then we left you were worried I'd be mad at you again. Which is my own damn fault..."

He looks down into his cup, at his own reflection frowning back up at him unpleasantly. No, Connor shouldn't be the one looking guilty. When did he make Connor feel safe around him? Perhaps not until he threw a punch on his behalf.

"Sorry. I was uh... I was really happy you did that. Happier than I let on." But it seems like there might be another officer listening, so he decides to drink his coffee more quickly than he should. A hard swig and an exhale to try and get the heat out of his throat.

"You didn't fail shit as far as I'm concerned."

His expression looking at Hank is stricken. Hank seeing this memory isn't so bad, maybe. Hank knows what he did and didn't do - but the idea of anyone else doing it makes something inside him want to curl up in a ball and hide, a feeling he doesn't understand.

"Everything in my programming was telling me to shoot her," he says, voice even only with an effort. "I didn't."

Hank knows that. But did Hank know just what it took from him to do it?

"I knew you didn't want me to. But the last time I spared deviants you were angry. I know now what..." He trails off. For one thing, Hank doesn't know yet: Connor saw why Hank was angry at the park. He knows the reason. For another, a terrible thought just occurred to him--

"I wonder where she is now?" He looks at Hank. "Chloe."

Were those women ever awakened? Or are they all in Elijah Kamski's mansion this very moment, enslaved, their lives object lessons the very next time he needs to make a point?

Hank does now. He didn't before, but he does now. Because he felt it.

Stupidly he doesn't consider why Connor might know how he felt on that bridge, that in those hard moments he wasn't angry at Connor's failure but demanding life out of him, and a reason to live himself. He wanted to find love in the world.

"I know... I know. I'll explain that later. I fucked up. I know. But when I was telling you to leave, I didn't want you to shoot that woman..." But, right? Were they still with Kamski? Those girls? Still obediently serving him?

"If we're lucky maybe the one you spared will realize what you did for her and trigger a change. I bet it'd be a hell of a legal battle to get him to recognize their personhood."

He says it casually but is wandering close to Connor to keep their conversation low. He can still feel the ache in his head from these memories being shoved in.

"There's going to be a lot of legal battles," he says, the rueful tone as much because it's not going to be as cut-and-dry as one peaceful resolution as because he won't be there to help Markus and the Jericho group navigate it all. He's not programmed as a lawyer by any means, but he understands the system better than any of them.

"And you don't need to explain the bridge. I know." His jaw moves a little. "That's how I worked out these were memories we were seeing - when I saw myself on the bridge."

Holding a gun to his own head. He still thinks of the moment he realised he was afraid - trying desperately to rationalise it as a self-preservation tactic programmed into him but knowing the truth, very deep down.

"Oh yeah, I fuckin' figure. It'll take a lot of humans speaking out on behalf of androids." He idly says, before the color nigh on drains from his face. He holds his cup of coffee awkwardly, realizes he's just frozen, and then downs the scalding liquid even more awkward. The face he makes a wince far harder than when he drinks whiskey, a dragonish huff of air to follow.

"Yeah."

That's all he says at first. That one word just confirming what Connor's already seen, what he damn well knows. What Connor doesn't know, though, is the feeling that came after.

"I'm sorry for that. I really am. At the time I was almost convinced I was threatening a toaster, but I uh.... I know better now. Would you stop fuckin' lookin' over here!"

He looks around Connor to grumble at the guy that keeps watching them. He continues to stare before lifting up one hand and making a circle between his fingers, and poking the index finger of his other hand through. Hank flips him off. It's a dance of workplace communication through well-meant sign language.

Hank goes pale so quickly Connor can see it happening on his face, and he doesn't need to wonder why. It's the same reaction he had just a moment ago. The same one he had earlier, too, realising people might well be able to see Connor's own memories.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know if Hank would rather just sweep this under the carpet and pretend it never happened. Connor doesn't want to do that, he'd rather put it out in the open and get it out of the way - they both know exactly how the other felt, they might as well acknowledge it - but before he can structure that in words, Hank speaks instead.

At the word 'toaster', Connor's mouth twists in the tiniest movement. But--

He turns from the waist so he can see behind him where one of the beat cops is staring over. The guy makes a hand gesture of some kind - it's not military sign language or an insulting gesture he's seen before, so it's beyond him - and when he turns back to Hank, he's frowning.

"What's with him - do you know him?"

"That's just Niles. He's a dick. Not a Gavin Reed dick. Just your average kinda okay dick. I think he's second-generation or somethin'." Hank waves it off, not telling Connor what it means. "Ignore him."

Then as ungainly as only a big awkward guy used to being utterly certain of himself can manage, he says, "So am I gonna have to grovel or is me realizing how badly I fucked up enough?" He knows he can't completely sweep it under the carpet. He can, however, try to file down the edges with humor at his own expense, a tired smile.

As he says that, he wads up his paper cup to toss to the trash.

There's so much else that they've seen now. This AI overlord and its memories, the disease they've been warned about. But right now they feel like the more important situation. Despite the fact he knows that they have a half-ass audience occasionally paying attention to them.

Connor's eyebrow flickers up for a moment at the mention of Reed, and he won't say anything else about Niles because the most interesting thing about this average-kinda-okay-dick is the "second-generation" bit - but, "Speaking of Reed, did you hear anything about him before you left?"

Not that Connor injured anything except the guy's pride, but it's still nice to check. ...And maybe he wants to know if Hank found out what happened.

"Hm?" He frowns up at Hank for an instant, then it clears. "For--No, it's fine." He grins with a one-shoulder shrug. "You can grovel if you want to, though, I'm not going to stop you."

"No. I went home and then that fuckin' lookalike showed up tellin' me that you really needed me. Then I went with him and next thing I know? Gun to my head."

He might still be bitter.

"I'll grovel later. It'll hurt my knees on this floor. What about Reed?"

Because he'd like to know, considering how sick he was of that punk's fuckin' shitty behavior.

Oh yeah, he can hear bitter.

"I'll make a note - carpet works better," he says dryly, trying to make it crystal clear he doesn't actually care about an apology. Hank apologised, he doesn't think Connor's a 'toaster' anymore, and people can change. Connor definitely did.

Niles is staring - it's weird, but Connor can tell without being able to even see him. So he beckons to Hank and leaves the room without a second glance at the other cop. Only when they're back out in the bullpen and Connor's leaning his forearms on one of the standing-height tables for quick meetings - he doesn't have his own desk - that he says anything else.

"I went to the evidence room - after you--distracted Perkins." He's not even going to conceal a grin - he definitely stayed a minute longer than he should have to watch - Fowler was doing the same thing anyway. "And Reed followed me. I thought I convinced him to leave, but he came back a minute or two later and tried to shoot me. I'm afraid I had to use force."

Connor - the very picture of remorse.

"I just wanted to make sure I didn't injure him too badly. That would be, uh..." He makes a face like he's thinking of the word. "Regretful?"

As Hank follows Connor out, it's very possible that he might overhear him whispering a- "I'm going to pour coffee on you," at their voyeur. Which surely everyone knows he wouldn't actually do except to people that he hated, but the threat is there as he trails after Connor until they get to the bullpen.

Not the break room, so he can at least pretend he's checking the maps.

"I distracted him pretty good," Hank chuckles, too. And somehow this fifty-three year old son-of-a-bitch manages to make that grin look a little impish. It's likely that tiny toothgap. That grin grows a little wider, even admiring, as he hears how he had to defend himself against Gavin Reed.

"I'm going to tell you a little department secret, Connor. The reason I got away with pulling shit on Reed as often as I did was that he was real good at turning off his body camera and had a keen eye for raised cell-phones. So maybe giving him a good lesson in appropriate force dispensed in a perfectly logical way is exactly what he needed. And what I needed, that's the best thing I've heard all day."

He grabs the sides of Connor's face and pulls him closer, gently touching foreheads long enough to go, "Give me that memory. I want that one. No? Goddammit."

He lets go then with feigned disappointment. Sometimes even grumpy old fucks have their playful moments.

There's something he's not getting, but whatever it is, it isn't that important.

He automatically grins back when Hank does, eyes crinkling, the motion lighting up his face. There's even teeth - genuinely this time, not the sarcastic half-snarl he offered Reed himself the last time the two of them met.

"Then I take it back. I don't regret anything."

But then Hank pulls their heads together - and for an alarming second Connor has the distinct image of one of the memories he saw earlier in the day: the face of the Patrinot, cast in yellow, leaning in for their mouths to touch - the feeling of warm lips on his own, and the moment when Tommy, returned from wherever he had been, pulls away from him.

But Hank just makes a joke and withdraws, leaving Connor to blink away that sudden association.

"If you see it, let me know," he's in the middle of telling Hank when Niles passes them, and he distinctly hears the words, "get a room".

Connor opens his mouth immediately. Reconsiders. Closes it until nobody can overhear them.

"He isn't talking about being roommates, is he?" Because that's exactly what Connor was so very close to saying. And maybe a week or two ago, he just would have automatically.

Not that he expected any less, but holy shit, Connor has perfect teeth. His smile is also a little lop-sided, and he can't tell if that's intentional to make him acutely roguishly charming in design, if it's a deviant inspired tick, or if Hank's fuckin' increasingly rose-tinted glasses are making his goofy shit look cute. Either way, when Niles passes by with his throwaway comment Hank has a quick 'Fuck off' waiting for him.

And once he's passed, Hank just shakes his head and checks his routes one more time. "No, he doesn't mean roommates," idly, like a passing confirmation, before tacking on a, "Speaking of which, I'm thinking about getting a pet of some kind."

Just to give him a little something extra. Something. He doesn't know what.

"I'd get something that I could successfully rehome if we can't bring it home with us when it's time. You have any problems with that?"

Which is easier to talk about than the tension that just passed. Or what feels like tension. He's probably imagining shit.

He's about to ask for details, but he's successfully distracted for the moment with the mention of a pet. Not that he's going to forget this.

"What were you thinking about getting?" he asks, flipping through a brochure for some construction project left on the table - a new combination housing project and shopping centre, all bright colours and smiling people handling construction equipment and pretending to be experts. He's not actually paying attention, he's just giving his hands something to do.

Although it brings his attention to the little LED display at the head of the table showing the day's date. That does pull his attention for a second. His internal clock's still set to November - he's hesitated in changing it, so he just had an extraordinarily human moment of having forgotten the date.

"I dunno. Not a fuckin' giant roach or anything." His standards are easy. "No birds." That goes without saying. "Somethin' calm, I guess."

There are a few things that Hank's been enjoying about Connor being a deviant. It's little things, really. He's never seen an android do a double-take, but that's exactly what Connor just does. Not for reasons he understands, but the gesture is great nontheless. I makes another smile creep in, if closed-lipped and more muted than the previous one.

Hank's probably smiled more today than he has in a fuckin' year and that's annoying because he keeps remembering shit he shouldn't. Even some tragic shit. Even a-

His smile becomes a thin line.

Some guy building a light-saber??? He jostles his head. Alright, what???

"A cat?" he suggests, slowly putting the brochure down and dragging his gaze from the clock. "I think I've already been adopted by one of the cats in that cafe."

Yes, he's been back there since just to sit with his phone or people-watch with his two-tailed, blind little shadow trying to make him pay attention to it all the while. No, he doesn't care about your judgement, Hank.

"Or there's always..." He trails off, frowning at Hank. "What's wrong?"

He can guess what it is, though.

He regains his thoughts roughly.

"Fuckin'... Another memory. Another one that doesn't make fuckin' sense." Fake stuff again, hard to wrap his head around. These 'fake' thoughts are going to be the death of him. But he switches gears. Cat. Right.

"So one of the cats really like you, huh?" Hank doesn't hold it against him. He picked up a big forest cat and rubbed his face on it. He petted a giant naked bald cat that creepily could tell if people were lying. He doesn't sound judgemental, he sounds interested. "I wouldn't be upset with a cat."

Though he does hate when they try kneading through his pants. That's why he's always been a 'pet a cat at a friend's house' guy and not a 'keep a cat' guy. That and litterboxes.

"A lot of them don't," Connor says quietly. He goes to say something else, but reconsiders it. It's probably too heavy right now to talk about how he's feeling pain for the first time in some of these, and it's a pretty terrible experience all round.

He doesn't ask. If Hank wants to tell him about it, he will.

"I don't mind what kind of animal," he says more normally. "I'd like anything - even a giant roach. You choose."

Otherwise Connor might bring back something Hank wouldn't forgive him for.

"I just updated my internal clock," he says then. "Back to the 15th of August." Rubbing his hands together, he adds on thoughtfully, "That was the date I was activated in Detroit."

"Your first birthday three months later, huh?" Fuckin' time being fucked up. He hates it. "Well, I can get you a cake and candles if you want it. But uh... don't think you'd appreciate it."

His birthday is on the sixth of next month. As it's only been a short while since that birthday, and he doesn't celebrate them anymore, and Connor already should know the damn thing, he decides to just let it slide.

"I'll pick something. And if you decide you want that cat? We can get that, too... if you change the litterbox." Hard rule there. He's not going to do an archeological expedition for catshit.

Edited 2019-08-31 09:11 (UTC)

"If I get a cat, I'll look after it," he says, though... It's a strange thought - an android looking after a living creature. It's not a new idea to him: deviants were known for liking animals. Rupert had his birds and even Connor felt drawn to them long before he really deviated. Keeping one alive, though, is a big responsibility. Hank's there to help him, but could he do something like that? He's not sure.

"If you buy a cake, it's just for you," he points out. "And it'd be less than half a candle."

A quarter of one almost exactly. That also reminds him Hank's birthday's less than a month later - information he got just from having Hank's public record.

"Do you want to go somewhere after work?" he finds himself saying out of nowhere. "Just a bar or something, nothing big."

It might not really be his, but it's either this or change the date to what works out to June 9th - 365 days after his activation, counting the three months and one day. Then he'd have to recalculate when he goes back based on how much time had passed at home, and... No, he's going to do this the simple way. After spending way too much time thinking about the complicated way.

"Yeah," Hank says, without even a beat of thought. That same sort of earnestness with him replying to Connor's questions at the Chicken Feed. "I think I know a good place."

The same bar where he'd been getting information from, yeah. But the bar has live shows, and the options for decent booze (for him), and honestly he wants to help Connor have as many 'normal' experiences as possible. As normal as anyone can get in a fucking cyberpunk dystopia. He owes him that. He owes androids that.

But mostly Connor.

"I think I could spare you a whole candle, though." He winks subtly. Then pulls back.

"Meet me down at the boardwalk." He gives him an address. "Change out of your uniform before you get there. I'm getting out a little earlier than you, so I'll go save a seat at the bar." And there he could listen to music in its truest, most unpredictable form.

"One whole candle," he says, the grin back on his face. "I'm touched."

He takes the address - he's walked down there before already, so he knows the area a little - and, as they go their separate ways back to work, it's several more hours before he can clock out and get back to their dorm room at all, let alone to the boardwalk. But he's...looking forward to it. A lot. His favourite parts of the time he's been here so far has actually been the normal stuff - the extraordinary stuff keeps everything interesting, sure, but the really normal, human things like having a bank account and living in his own space and having a job are all things he'll ultimately probably deal with back home, whenever he goes back.

And now he's going to a bar after work with a friend. That's pretty damn normal.

He's down at the boardwalk about as soon as he can get there, and having kept his expectations low - at around the Jimmy's Bar level - means that when he walks in, he's probably going to be pleasantly surprised.

And he did listen to Hank and change out of his uniform; it's basic - light-coloured pants and blazer over a t-shirt - but the assistant pretty much insisted he have everything tailored when he went shopping and... Sure. The lines of it look better that way, though he can't exactly say how.

Midnight, not a sound from the pavement

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)