[ α l ι ν ε ]

          The doorbell was just out of reach.  It rested a mere two inches above where his fingers could stretch, the android leaning forward out of his wheelchair to no avail.  He almost took it as a sign, a hint that he shouldn’t bother the house’s intuitive resident and just turn around and leave.  After all, he had no good reason to be here.  Maybe it was nothing more than an almost morbid curiosity that drove the ill-functioning RK800 here.  But he was still here.  Turning back now would mean a wasted trip, and thoughts unanswered.  If he dared, anyway.

          Connor could ill imagine what Elijah Kamski’s reaction would be to seeing one of his creations in such a broken state, let alone the most advanced model up to CyberLife’s surrender of android manufacturing facilities.  After all, broken androids were customarily seen as little more than garbage to be discarded.  Things may have been different after the revolution, but that didn’t stop Connor’s thoughts from demeaning himself after such preconceptions.  He still struggled at times with the concept of being alive, with the idea that even broken he was still a person.  It made him very doubtful that anyone else, especially Kamski, would have any opinions much different than his own negative view.

          And yet, despite his fears, he pushes out of his chair slowly to reach the doorbell, one hand tightly gripping the arm of his seat to keep himself steady as index finger presses firmly, and he settled back down carefully.  There’s an uncomfortable wiggle in his chest of the loose biocomponent as he moves down, but he ignores the discomfort it causes and merely waits.

Poetry Starters (Trigger Warning)

                             “I know…  I’m sorry.”

         A major case has been occupying all of the android’s time for the past week, leaving him little room to spend time with his beloved brother.  It hurt like hell, too, being alone and isolated and so focused on work when all he wanted was to be with Con.  He was throwing everything he had at this case to get it finished faster, so he could get back to his sleepless nights with Con, to staying up too late watching television, to splitting up the job of cooking Hank’s breakfast every morning.

         Connor had been stuck at the DPD almost nonstop for the past week, and he was tired of it.  The case itself wasn’t cooperating with him, and he wanted it solved and done with, both for the sake of those involved and for his own brother’s.  Connor cared about his job, but if he was truthful, he cared about Con more.