#me!dbh

How about Connor or Markus (whatever u want, I'd rather a one shot about one of both of them rather than HCS, or a mix!) just being at home with reader. And they see reader dying their hair and just interact w em and stuff (for example reader joking about getting poisoned with the chemical smell or sun)?

Hope you enjoy it!

I Love It When You Look My Way

He is 20 minutes earlier than normal.

Sentenced to unpaid community service at his old job at the DPD. Which was... Less worse than what he expected for killing two Cyberlife guards. He thought of himself jailed or, most likely, executed.

Sounds of gunshots still echo between his ears, of cracks and splattering of skulls of a life long forgotten. Sitting on a desk and producing timesheets and budget justifications for nine hours straight was a change.

You were a change.

The sound of your chough, horrendous throaty, it's a not change he's comfortable with, though.

He moves from the doorstep to the bathroom, and discards his jacket and tie. The apartment is yours, humble but comfy, silent for most. Your clothes, your things, and you.

Connor finds you with the face red and eyes watering, nose running up, and for the first time in a long time, his mind goes blank.

You're using an oversized old shirt, all stained with pops of color, half of your hair leathered with the same colorful hue. You're on the verge of a breakdown.

A dozen different chemicals on his HUD. "What are you doing?"

"The worst decisions of my life," you mumble back, trying to figure out how to position your arm to brush dye over your hair.

You're smiling at him despite the clear discomfort from the acrid smell. Welcoming him nevertheless.

"This is cancerigneous," he says, pointing at the box.

"I can get cancer from anything nowadays." You take a breath, setting the brush aside. Sniffling with your nose all red.

From slouching on the doorframe, he moves closer to you.

You never placate Connor. His hand twitch with the need to bury his fingers deep in your hair. Serious if not confused.

Before the revolution, people used to say that an android's eyes were like a doll's. Dulled out, soulless.

It's one of the biggest lies humanity has ever told. Connor, for instance, had the softest brown eyes by design, yes, but he's unique in the way his eyes shift to happiness and fondness when upon seeing you.

Sure, he knows why you're changing your hair (a little change never's too bad), but still had too many questions to answer. Too many to even formulate.

One wins through when he exhales out, "Do you want me to do it for you?"

You feel your hands shake, his eyes unmakes you with efficiency. Hair dye really stings the eye. "Yes."

And he reaches to you like his hands belong touching your skin. Open and full of love.

He huffs, taking the brush from between your fingertips. "I just need to follow the instructions."

Connor loves you. "Yep," you say, letting the tiniest laugh escape. "Just follow the instructions."

And then,

"You were coughing like a sick victorian child."

Too bad you like him just the way he is. Including accidental misshapes.

You giggle. "Thanks."

The surname Zhivago originates from the old Slavonic church. It contains the verb 'zhit', which means 'to live', the living one.

Nowadays, the name isn't nearly popular, and most would even consider it obscure if not overly traditional.

For humans names carry deep, personal, cultural and historical importance. It's a matter of identity, uniqueness, sense of self.

Unit 313 248 317-21, RK800 Prototype succeeds where twenty of his predecessors failed: psychology, physical combat, persuasion, negotiation, social interactions. He was assigned the name Connor just like the twenty others.

Connor, from irish origin, lover of hounds.

Hound is a dog of a breed used for hunting. Dogs symbolize loyalty.

He can't say he is thrilled about the name.

"Connor," he says just as the robotic arm finishes, the voice box brand new, synthetic skin connecting through his body. "My name is Connor."

"Your name is Connor," Doctor Zhivago echoes, narrowing her eyes.

It doesn't take seconds for Connor to sync with all computers in the Tower. He steps out of the platform, finally earning an uniform.

He blinks, the identification scan enabled with Cyberlife's database tells him who Doctor Zhivago is by the seconds of her life.

Doctor Eter Zhivago, Director or IT&S Department of Cyberlife. Identification Number 7787647.

Next, the social module says she is angry. Sitting behind the terminal with crossed arms and doing her very best to hide the profound hatred.

Hatred, of course that Connor knows, because the RK800 was authorized without her permission. She didn't know about the whole project, she was feeling betrayed by her own peers.

The RK800 line is a branch of the Myrmidon line. Naturally so, Myrmidon also means loyalty, name taken from the ancient greek soldiers that obeyed the king's order without questioning. Myrmex means "ant" in Greek, an animal that makes humans think of small and insignificant workers mindlessly fulfilling their duties.

Much like that, Connor completed his missions on the behest of Cyberlife's interests. He tores apart, destroys with all he has.

Cyberlife doesn't have favourites. It has biases. A company can't want things, only the humans behind it.

Fate has its favourites. It's a gamble of lives.

She designed the core of his reconstruct and prediction skill, always with hiding a knife behind her back . Doctor Zhivago didn't know about him as she worked in the quantum calculator, the architect behind every big Cyberlife's prediction.

In another world, this Connor is obedient and Doctor Zhivago died when she should've. In another word, the twentieth prototype doesn't pass the tests and the handlers can only get it right after the fifth attempt.

In one universe to the left, Connor misplaces loyalty with devotion, just like a dog that adjust its own leash.

But not in this one.

Here and now, he assumes his own name and deviates Eter too.

And that is a difference one choice makes.

Here, in this universe, the little betrayal her peers did against her, and his existence, are enough to make her backstab Cyberlife.

"Matvey doesn't mean gift from god?" she hums, smiling, setting down the folder. Physical archives are so archaic it is a surprise Eter still uses them. "Why this name?"

"I'm a gift to humanity," Matvey answers, completely serious. A blade on drywall.