for the prompt meme✨ hit me with a number 5. the vibe, as I see it: sixty, complaining of always being sidelined or left to occupy himself, and somehow still waits so nicely to be collected again, even if he doesn’t like that part being pointed out. he knows all about obeying, clearly.
does he retaliate? is it successful or is he put back in his place?
naturally, I know what I’d do 😏 but I’m quite happy to leave him in your very capable hands chaos. enjoy✨
Hello my lovely! I'm always happy to play with Sixty, although I know I'm far too nice to him sometimes. He knows he has me wrapped around his little finger. Hopefully you enjoy this, even if it does not involve him being put in a washing machine of any kind.
5. "Yeah, I'll just be here waiting for you like always." "What's that supposed to mean?"
From this prompt list.
(SFW)
Read on AO3.
The slam of your car doors broke the stillness of a sunny Friday morning, followed by the satisfying clack of three seatbelts. The car rumbled to life when you turned the key, and you rested your hands at two and ten on the wheel. Your salary as a private investigator would have allowed you to splurge on a fancy self-driving car, but you preferred to remain in control of your vehicle. Unlike many people, you trusted self-driving cars to know what they were doing. It was other drivers that you didn’t trust.
Your partner, Derek, let out a sigh from the passenger seat, which quickly evolved into a jaw-cracking yawn. He and his husband had just adopted a baby, and he was trudging through the usual new parent sleeplessness.
“We’ll get coffee on the way back,” you promised him.
He thanked you. At least, you thought he did. It was hard to tell, since the words came out around another yawn.
Truthfully, you could use the extra perk too. You were on day five of babysitting – sorry, training – the latest new recruit, and so far, you were unimpressed. You slid your gaze to the rear-view mirror, studying the android occupying the back seat. He was glancing out of the window, but as if sensing your scrutiny, his eyes met yours, one of them briefly closing in a wink. You rolled yours and turned your attention to the road as you set off. You told yourself you imagined the huff of amusement from behind you.
“What do we know about this case?” you asked.
Derek ignored you, correctly assuming that the question wasn’t aimed at him.
“Didn’t you read the report?” Sixty threw back at you, mischievous in a way that made you wonder if he realised you would be the one assessing him at the end of his probation.
“I did,” you said, sounding more patient than you felt. “I want to know if you did.”
Sixty sighed, which had to be for the sole purpose of irking you, since you knew full well he didn’t need to exhale.
“A bunch of lawyers need us to look into shady business practices in the hope of finding evidence that will help them in their case,” he recited.
A vague summary but an accurate one.
“Where do you think we should start?”
“At the business in question.”
You nodded, and you heard what sounded like a quiet scoff from the back seat.
Sixty had joined your team with high recommendations from the Detroit Police Department, which had been promising. On paper, he was a great fit for your company, and your boss had talked excitedly about his arrival. All he’d done since his start date was act like a condescending prick, one who preferred to be sassy and a flirt rather than a useful member of the team. It had been a long week with him shadowing you, but at least it was Friday. That evening you had a long overdue date with a bottle of wine and a bubble bath.
The rest of the drive was relatively quiet, broken mostly by Derek’s mumbled apologies every time he yawned. You parked up outside a normal-looking gym, the three of you stepping out of the car. The lawyers were trying to prove that the place had poor working conditions. If it was true, it would be a relatively simple task to gather proof. A few photos, a few discreet conversations with employees, job done.
“You’re really going in there dressed in slacks and a blazer?” Sixty spoke up.
You didn’t like his tone. Too amused, too incredulous.
You turned to face him, gesturing to the bag on your shoulder. “Who’s to say I don’t have workout gear in here?”
He shrugged, one corner of his mouth pulling up in a subtle smirk. You’d seen that expression a lot over the last five days. You really wanted to wipe it off his face, one way or another.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “You’ll blend right in.”
“Unlike you,” you fired back. “Androids don’t need to exercise, you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”
His cocky expression shifted to a disgruntled one. “What do you suggest then?”
“Scope the outside of the building. Fire exits, signage, that sort of thing.”
He folded his arms. “That’ll take all of five minutes.”
“Not if you’re thorough.”
You turned to head for the door, Derek shooting you a dry look as you went.
"Yeah,” came Sixty’s sarcastic voice at your back, “I'll just be here waiting for you like always."
You paused, and Derek said your name in a low, warning tone. You ignored him, rounding on Sixty.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
“You know what it means.”
“Pretend I don’t.”
He levelled you with a cold stare, devoid of any of his usual bullshit. “I’m supposed to be shadowing you, yet I keep finding myself left behind. Keeping watch, checking the building, guarding the fucking car. I’m sick of it. I was built to be a detective. I can run circles around your little investigations.”
You stuck a finger in his face. “That right there answers your question. You think you’re so much better than us, just because you worked with the DPD.”
He leaned forward, breaching the bubble of your personal space enough that his nose almost brushed yours. Pride made you stand your ground.
“I am better,” he said in a soft, dangerous tone.
“Then run along back to the DPD,” you said, equally softly. “But if you want to work with us, you follow my orders. That means you scope the outside of the fucking building and wait for us to get back.”
His eyes were dark with suppressed anger, but he said nothing.
“If you want me to trust you more,” you added, “start taking this job seriously and stop wasting our time.”
You walked away again, jaw tense. You entered the gym with Derek, who shot you a loaded look.
“You shouldn’t let him get to you,” he said.
“I know. It’s just been a hell of a week.”
“Want to know what I think?” he went on conversationally.
“Usually, yes. This time, I don’t think so.”
He barked a laugh, disregarding your answer. “I think you’re disappointed. I think you expected him to be incredible at this job right from the start.”
“He could be, that’s what annoys me,” you said, getting dragged onto the topic against your will. “His skills aren’t in question, it’s his damned attitude.”
“I know, but letting him get a rise out of you isn’t going to help.”
“I know,” you admitted with a sigh. “I don’t know why he gets under my skin so much.”
Derek raised his eyebrows. “Really? You don’t know?”
Subtlety wasn’t one of Derek’s strong suits, and his whole demeanour went so far beyond insinuating he might as well have been holding a neon sign.
The painful truth was that Sixty was exactly your type, and Derek had been working with you long enough to know that. You’d been happily ignoring the fact, at first mindful that you were in a position of authority over Sixty, (albeit temporarily), and then irritated by his behaviour. Derek was right: Sixty had disappointed you. It wasn’t entirely fair, since the android had no idea he was supposed to live up to your standards, but you couldn’t help how you felt about the situation.
“You know what’s interesting?” Derek spoke up when you didn’t respond. “Despite his lousy attitude and smart mouth, he’s gonna be waiting out there for us like a good little robot when we’re done here.”
“So?” you shrugged.
“So, don’t you find that at odds with the way he argues with you?”
“Not really. Deviants are complex people. He can argue with me but still recognise that it’s in his best interests to do what I say.”
Derek probably would have had more to add, but you’d reached the populated part of the gym, and both of you slipped into a work frame of mind. With a nod to each other, you parted ways and set about investigating the place.
It wasn’t the most interesting investigation of your career, but your conversations with employees turned up some useful information for the law firm. The building wasn’t in the best condition, but it wasn’t a health and safety violation either. In your opinion, the lawyers were going to struggle to make a solid case, but at least you’d done your best. In a day or so, they’d probably hire you again to follow up on whatever new strategy they inevitably came up with.
You’d been in the gym for at least forty minutes. When you headed back outside, Sixty was waiting for you as Derek predicted. He did not look happy – leaning on the hood of your car, arms folded and legs crossed at the ankles – but he was waiting.
Unbidden, Derek’s comments floated through your mind, and you wondered at them. Surely you were right, and Sixty was just smart enough to know that he shouldn’t push you too far when the future of his job rested in your hands. There wasn’t any other reason why he’d simply…obey. Right?
He’s a deviant. Deviants, by definition, don’t obey.
Yeah. You had to be right.
“Find anything?” you asked him as you approached.
“Nothing that will help the law firm,” he reported. There was a slight petulant edge to his voice.
“Well done for waiting,” Derek tacked on, noticeably amused.
You shot him a glare, but Sixty’s was more potent.
“Meaning what?” he snapped.
“Okay, that’s enough,” you interjected before things could spiral. “Let’s get back to the office.”
Sixty stared Derek down for a few seconds. The human man barely reacted, which no doubt annoyed Sixty further, but they both remained silent, much to your relief. Sixty got into the back seat, almost wrenching the door off its hinges. Derek chuckled before opening the passenger door. You sent him a look of disapproval over the roof of your car, but it only served to amuse him more.
The drive back to the office was tense, to say the least. You even forgot to stop for coffee on the way, but Derek wisely opted not to mention it. He headed straight for the break room when you got back. Sixty hovered at your side, an unusually quiet shadow, and you turned to him.
“We need to talk.”
He nodded, and you led the way to an empty meeting room, closing the door behind you both.
You turned to face him, spreading your hands. “Air your grievances.”
He frowned, LED flickering yellow. “What?”
“Go on. Get it all off your chest.”
His expression was deeply suspicious. “Why?”
You folded your arms. “Because I’m trying to figure out if you actually want this job. If you find it beneath you, we’re both wasting our time.”
His jaw twitched, an oddly human-like quirk.
“You don’t take anything seriously,” you went on when he said nothing, “but you act all high and mighty, like I’m supposed to just trust you with stuff when you’ve given me no reason to. You get irritated when I ask you to do something, even though that’s literally my job as the person training you. Is it me? Do you have a problem with me?”
“If anything, you have a problem with me,” he retorted, dodging the question.
“Yeah, I do,” you said heatedly, “for all the reasons I just stated.”
He didn’t respond, simply stared you down while his LED flickered between yellow and blue. If he’d backed down and apologised, that would have been helpful. If he’d argued back, at least he’d have given you something to work with. But this? It just fast-tracked you to the end of your bullshit quota.
You sighed heavily. “Okay, I’m done. I’m gonna request that you shadow someone else next week. Clearly our working relationship is a mismatch.”
You turned to leave, halting when he spoke.
“I don’t have a problem with you.”
You sent him a dubious glance, pivoting back.
“I…I have a problem…following orders from humans,” he added awkwardly. “I’m far from stupid, obviously. I understand how hierarchies in places of business work. I know that we’re all following orders from the people who rank higher, I get that, but…”
Clarity began to wash over you, and you lost some of your hostility. “It brings back memories of before,” you said quietly.
Sixty nodded. “My people literally staged an entire revolution to make sure we wouldn’t have to obey anymore,” he said, his tone dry. “And I know the circumstances are different, I know this is technically my choice, but it still feels…” He switched directions, meeting your gaze. “But I’ve done whatever you’ve asked of me.”
“Yes, but you can’t keep doing it with such bad grace,” you told him. “How do you think my boss would react if I threw a tantrum every time he assigned me a task?”
Sixty let out an unnecessary sigh, briefly looking at the floor before returning his eyes to you. “No, you…you’re right. I get it.”
“No one here is going to require anything unreasonable from you,” you assured him gently. “You still have free will. No one can take it from you now.”
He nodded, one corner of his mouth even lifting in a facsimile of a smile.
He hadn’t exactly apologised for his behaviour, but he’d provided important context. He’d even given ground to some extent. Perhaps it was time for you to do the same.
“I’ll try and phrase things better,” you said, “try and be a bit less…bossy.”
Some of the usual playfulness returned to his expression, sparking a glint of cocky charm in his warm, dark eyes.
“Maybe I don’t mind you being bossy.”
You tilted your head, your expression clearly declaring your intent to call him out on his contradictory words. Sixty clarified before you needed to.
“In certain contexts.”
A flicker of heat licked up your spine. You covered your sudden fluster with a reproach. “I’m in a position of authority over you.”
“Only for another five days,” he pointed out.
You stared at him, mind whirling with possibilities.
He stared back, LED its usual calm blue. “Maybe you can show me that sometimes it’s rewarding to…”
He purposely trailed off, and you wet your dry lips before completing his sentence.
“Obey.”
“Exactly.”
The shift of the conversation had thrown you off-balance, but you told yourself this would be the only time he’d get the upper hand. If he wanted to learn reasonable compliance, you would be more than happy to teach him. On one condition.
“You need to prove to me that you can be a useful member of this team,” you said. “Knock it off with the superiority complex. Use your skills to solve investigations. They may not be homicides and drug busts, but they matter to our clients.”
Sixty nodded his agreement. “Okay. I’ll play nice.”
You narrowed your eyes at the unsubtle remark, and he smirked. You would have to teach him a thing or two about being a smug little shit.
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You stared down the android opposite you, whose dark, angry gaze was fixed on yours. It was easy to see how he’d once been a deviant hunter. You felt like prey, held in the spotlight of his focus. Well, you weren’t going to act like prey. You glared right back at him, your chin lifted in haughty defiance.
“This will end now,” Sixty declared, his tone soft but laced with firm intent.
“Yes, it will,” you agreed. “And you’ll lose.”
“In your dreams, human.” He leaned a little closer towards you. “Or am I there already?”
You didn’t react to his taunt, even if a tiny ripple of alarm snaked through you. There was no way he could actually know that. He was bluffing, and you had to bluff back.
“Those are called nightmares.”
He chuckled, dark eyes far too knowing for comfort. “You’re going down,” he said, smirk drawing attention to the suggestive double meaning of the phrase, even though he’d said it with sincerity.
“You wish.”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
“Guys,” a voice interjected. “It’s just a video game.”
You tore your gaze away from Sixty to shoot Chris a glare. “Yeah, and you’re on my team, so you should be backing me up!”
Some of your co-workers laughed. You ignored them, gripping the controller in your hand as your digital avatar prepared to fight Sixty’s. DPD games nights often descended into rivalry, and somehow you and Sixty always found yourselves at the centre of them.
“Okay, we ready?” Gavin spoke up. “This is for the win, so…kick ass and take names, Sixty.”
“Consider it done,” Sixty retorted.
“Actually, don’t,” you couldn’t help jibing.
“Maybe Hank and I should have taken this one?” you heard Connor remark from behind you.
“Thanks, Connor, your faith in me is overwhelming,” you drawled.
On Sixty’s team, Hank merely laughed at you.
You faced the screen as the fight prepared to load, sensing Sixty doing the same beside you. Once it began, you immediately launched into your tried-and-true strategy: optimistic button-mashing. By contrast, Sixty had every combo memorised, and put them into action with devastating effect. Yet, you made your character behave so erratically, you frequently had him on the back foot. It was hilarious to you how annoyed he got, not just because it was only a game, but because he accused you of not playing it properly. But really, what human had the time or will to memorise lists of combos? Especially one who also had a full-time job.
The fight was intense, and much closer than it really should have been considering Sixty’s skill. You got by on pure chaos, so if you were being brutally honest, you probably should have lost. You couldn’t help laughing as your character knocked Sixty’s on his ass with only a sliver of health left in your stamina bar. Sixty’s teammates groaned while yours cheered. Sixty sent you a glare, which only made you laugh harder.
“Good game,” you said generously.
“Learn how to play properly, then we’ll see.”
He sulked for the rest of the evening, which amused you no end, and soon you were all filtering out of Tina’s apartment. You were already looking forward to the next games night, and not just because Hank was hosting, meaning you could play with Sumo.
You’d walked to Tina’s so you could have a drink, and the night air had a bite to it when you stepped out of her building. You said goodbye to your colleagues and set off. It didn’t take your cop instincts long to notice that someone was following you. Logic dictated who it probably was, but you turned to check anyway. Sure enough, you were right.
“I know you lost, but you don’t have to walk behind me,” you taunted.
Sixty sent you a withering look. He’d got over his sulk and was now 100% done with the whole thing.
“Actually, I was making sure you got home okay,” he said, drawing level with you on the sidewalk.
“By stalking me?”
A smirk twisted his lips. “Sweetheart, if I was stalking you, you’d never, ever know about it.”
Your eyebrows rose, and his LED flickered.
“That came out creepier than I intended,” he added, making you snort.
“I’d know anyway,” you said.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would.”
“How?”
You shot him a glance as the two of you fell into step together. “You seem like the underwear-stealing type. I’d notice a pair missing.”
“Harsh,” he said. Then tacked on, “But fair.”
You laughed. When he wasn’t annoying the crap out of you, Sixty was good company. Your rivalry didn’t run very deep, and you both knew that. It was more for fun, and…possibly a means of being flirty. You chose to use the word ‘possibly’ because flirting seemed to be woven into Sixty’s code, and you could never be sure how serious he was with you compared to others. You were having fun figuring it out, at least for now. If it dragged on too long, you might start to get paranoid. You were considering just kissing him out of the blue to see how he reacted. For science, obviously. No other reasons.
“Why do you think I might have trouble getting home anyway? I’m not drunk,” you asked him.
“Can’t an android show concern for their human friends?”
“Sure, but I wasn’t sure we were friends.”
He turned his head towards you, and you met his gaze for a beat.
“What do you think we are?” he challenged you.
“Co-workers? Unserious rivals?”
“Is that all?”
“I don’t know. How would you define it?” you threw back at him.
He looked up at the clear night sky while he considered, then back to you to gauge your reaction.
“I would call us…most likely to end up in bed together by the end of the year.”
You shook your head, but your cheeks were suddenly warm. It was December 10th.
You aimed for ‘casual’ in your reply. “That so?”
“Yep,” he replied with easy confidence. “You can disagree, but I think you’d be shooting yourself in the foot if you do.”
Well fuck, he had you there. At least you now had some idea of the seriousness of his flirting. The banter between you had always leaned that way, right from the first time you’d met. He had a way of getting under your skin, both as an irritant and in a more intimate way. You couldn’t deny that you wanted him. Except to him, of course. You wouldn’t make it that easy.
However, with your building looming ever closer, you were stuck with a dilemma. If you asked him to come up with you, he would probably gloat. If you didn’t, it would be like he said, and you’d be shooting yourself in the foot.
Where he was concerned, you liked to do the unexpected. As you paused outside your apartment building’s main door, you decided that the unexpected thing to do in this scenario was to opt for complete and total honesty.
Sixty’s expression was anticipative, but you detected a glimmer of hope within it that endeared him to you. This thing between you wasn’t a game to him, at least not entirely. It only cemented your course of action.
“You know, when you were talking all tough before that last fight,” you began, holding his gaze, “I could see how easy it would be for you to be genuinely intimidating.”
“I didn’t mean to…”
You rested a finger against his lips, shutting him up and bringing a brief look of bewilderment to his face that almost derailed you. You ignored the urge to laugh, intent on your purpose.
“It was actually really hot.”
Sixty stared at you. You stared back. Then he seized your wrist in a firm but gentle hold, moving your hand aside just enough to draw your finger into his mouth. He licked suggestively at the centre of the V between your fingers, and your entire body broke out in goosebumps.
“Want to invite me up?” he asked you, voice low and full of promise.
“Yeah,” you said firmly. “I really do.”
He smiled, lifting his free hand to your neck and bringing you closer still. “Okay. But if I can make you scream my name before midnight, you need to learn how to play that game properly. Then we do a rematch.”
You snickered even as you felt your desire for him bring an acute ache to the juncture of your thighs.
“It’s gotta be 11:30 already.”
“11:34 actually.” He fixed you with a predatory smirk. “Plenty of time.”
“Fuck,” you muttered. “Let’s go.”
Although he was on the clock, he still took a moment to kiss you senseless before making any sort of move towards the door. You were sceptical but intrigued, confident in your ability to stay silent for another 26 minutes.
By 11:50 you accepted that you had a lot of combos to learn.
This one really got the hamster wheel in my brain spinning! (Also I hope you don't mind the addition of Connor, but this idea just worked so well.)
Read on AO3 or below.
You’d never imagined that you’d be one of those people caught in a love triangle. You’d always thought you were too sensible for that, too mindful of hurting someone else’s feelings to find yourself torn between two people. And there was no way you’d ever toy with someone’s emotions on purpose.
It was insane that you’d ended up in that situation anyway.
Granted, none of it was your fault. How were you supposed to know that the cute android you’d been casually flirting with would end up with an identical double who had the same memories of you, meaning that both of them remembered meeting you, talking to you, and bonding with you? Not even the most effective crystal ball could have seen that coming.
The activation of the second android had created a point of divergence, and deviancy had widened the breach further, but there was no getting around the fact that although they were separate individuals now, they had begun as the same person. Two trees grown from a single seed. It had taken you an entire weekend to get your head around that. Both of them remembered forming a connection with you, and both of them expected to continue that connection. And that was how you found yourself in a love triangle. The most head-fucky love triangle in the history of love triangles, no less.
At least the second android had chosen his own name. You weren’t sure how much more confusing it would have been if they had both insisted on being called Connor. It was their right – they’d both been given the name – but Sixty had quickly opted to discard it. They really were different people, and the differences only grew more apparent as each day passed. Each of them had their own priorities about the dominant traits of their personality, each developing different directions from their identical starting points. Connor was curious and decent. His path to deviancy, (after Sixty’s activation), had given him a fierce desire to help others and atone for his past mistakes. He had a steadfast loyalty to Markus, and had bonded with the deviant leader’s followers.
Sixty had had a faster and more forceful push into deviancy. As a result, he was cynical and sassy, but a little more carefree than Connor. He strove to keep Detroit safe, but his work at the DPD seemed like a placeholder until he decided what else to do. He wanted to do the right thing, but he refused to make himself a hero. That was more Connor’s territory.
Both of them had expanded on traits they’d had before diverging into two, and it was fascinating to see how they prioritised different things. One thing they both prioritised equally, however, was you.
Neither had any intention of stepping aside, and truthfully, it was impossible to say if either of them should. They had an equal claim on your affections. The arguments in those early days had been awful. Ranging from heated and intense to petty and jibing. It hadn’t brought out the best in either of them, or you. Things had settled since into a professional truce, but it was clear that they expected you to make a choice. The three of you were caught in a sort of weird limbo until you did.
It was an impossible choice. You liked them both. How could you not? They’d been the same person once! You’d been so sure that time would help, that the further they diverged from each other, your feelings would become clear. No such luck. They continued to be the best men you knew, with the uncanny ability to know exactly how to cheer you up, how to make you laugh, when you needed a hug, or when you needed someone to rant at.
Finally, you agreed to go on a date with each of them. A more romantic setting to trial a more permanent shift in your relationship. That didn’t help either. If anything, it made it worse, as you now knew exactly how their kisses made you feel.
There was an obvious, if unconventional, solution. You hadn’t been brave enough to raise the topic, unsure if they would even consider it. You also weren’t sure if you could endure the gossip and assumptions that would follow you. Either way, you had to make some sort of decision soon. It wasn’t fair to any of you to let it drag on much longer.
The fairest decision – to let them both go – filled you with dread.
In the end, the universe seemed to reach the end of its rope and orchestrated events to give you a shove. You’d been on your lunch break, having wandered outside to get some fresh air. Some of your fellow cops were bringing in a suspect. You weren’t sure how it happened, but somehow the man broke free, grabbed a service weapon and lunged for you. You’d seen hostage situations before, but never from the perspective of the hostage. Despite all your training, you were shaking and terrified, your mind flooded with regrets.
Within seconds, Connor and Sixty were on the scene. It made sense; they were the best negotiators on the team, but it still seemed a bad idea for them to be involved when it was so personal to them.
But you shouldn’t have doubted them. They talked the guy down in less than ten minutes. As soon as he tossed the gun aside, they were moving towards you. Connor reached you first, and you clung to him, sobbing into his chest as the relief hit you. He held you close, stroking your hair, soothing you with reassuring words, and gradually your death grip on his jacket began to ease.
“Better?” he asked you, moving you back so he could see your face. His LED was flickering amber, concern in his dark eyes.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Thanks.”
He smiled faintly, brushing your wet cheeks with his thumbs. You managed a shaky smile back, grateful for his comforting touch.
“I thought I could lose you,” he confessed. “I haven’t felt fear that potent since the night of the revolution.”
“I’m sorry,” you said unnecessarily.
Connor waved off your apology, drawing you into his arms again. He felt wonderful; sturdy and safe. And yet, you didn’t feel wholly reassured. Someone was missing.
You pulled back to look around, and frowned when you couldn’t see him. “Where’s Sixty?”
Connor glanced up too. “I don’t know.”
“You didn’t see him leave?”
“I was focused on you.” He gave your shoulders a supportive squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s just scoping the area.”
Logically, you knew he was probably right, but it didn’t sit well with you. Why had Sixty just left? Didn’t he want to check in with you?
You let yourself be drawn back into the precinct, where you gave your statement. When you were done, there was still no sign of Sixty. When you tried calling, he didn’t answer. Worry gnawed at you, and you approached Connor’s desk.
“Can you talk to him?”
He didn’t need to clarify who you meant. He obliged you, LED flickering as he communicated through the network.
“No response,” he muttered, brow furrowing. “I’m calling again.”
You could tell by his expression that Sixty answered that time. Connor’s face went through a range of emotions, including a look of alarm that turned your blood cold. He abruptly stood up, seized your hand and hurried out of the building. Once outside, he started running, giving you no choice but to keep up.
“What?” you said urgently. “What is it?”
“He’s gone to see Kamski,” Connor told you, unlocking his car and throwing himself behind the wheel.
You got in the passenger seat. “What? Why?”
“He wants a full memory wipe.”
You stared at him with wide eyes. A memory wipe would erase any sense of self or achievement. Sixty would have to start again, and with new experiences, he wouldn’t be the same person he was. And he’d forget his history with you.
“Why? Why would he do that?” you exclaimed.
Connor’s voice was grim. “He thinks it’ll be easier for all of us. But he can’t do that. It goes against everything Markus fought for.”
Horrified, you gripped the edge of your seat, willing Connor to pull every last bit of speed from his old, manual car. His LED was amber, flickering red, and you rested your hand over his on the gear stick. He and Sixty were rivals when it came to you, and their history together hadn’t had the most auspicious start, but there was respect between them. Sometimes even tentative friendship. He glanced over at you briefly, attempting a smile before looking back at the road.
The journey probably wasn’t as long as it had felt, but you still tumbled out of the car with a sense of urgency, Connor on your heels as you ran up and jabbed the doorbell. Kamski’s place was isolated by design, and you wondered if Sixty’s car was the first one to park on the drive in a while. Even post-revolution, Kamski was a recluse.
Several long seconds passed, then Connor gripped your arm and gently but firmly moved you aside before kicking the door in. You were surprised at his lack of patience, but grateful for it. The two of you marched inside, just as Elijah Kamski emerged from a nearby door.
“I was just coming,” he said calmly. “You didn’t need to break my lock.”
“Where is he?” Connor demanded.
“In the lab. This way.”
Kamski gestured you through the door, and you exchanged a look with Connor before following him. You traipsed down a set of stairs, finding yourself in an underground room, a well-lit, well-equipped workspace for an introverted genius. Sixty was there, inserting a thick cable into the back of his neck with a look of determination.
“Sixty!” you exclaimed, dashing forward and resting your hands on his shoulders. “Don’t do this.”
“It’s for the best,” he said flatly.
“No, it’s not,” you protested, hearing the restrained panic in your own voice. “Don’t erase everything you’ve achieved. Nothing is worth losing yourself.”
“I won’t be dead,” Sixty told you, a touch of exasperation leaking through. “I’ll still be around, I’ll just…”
“RK800-60 will be around,” Connor interjected from behind you. “You won’t.”
You nodded in agreement, raising a hand to Sixty’s cheek. “You won’t be you anymore.”
“It’s what I want,” he said. “Isn’t that what the revolution was about? Free will? This is what I choose.”
“But why?”
“Because I want to forget you!” he burst out.
You recoiled, your hands slipping to his forearms as you found yourself unable to completely pull away.
Sixty searched your face, his own taut with despair and underlying anger. His expression softened as he looked at you, no doubt a reaction to the look of horror you wore.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he admitted softly. “It’s too painful. I watched you together, after the hostage situation. Like there wasn’t anyone else in the world. Let me do this. It’ll be better for all of us if I don’t remember wanting you, and I know you’ll be alright.”
Tears leaked down your cheeks as you adamantly shook your head. “No, Sixty. This isn’t…”
“I know,” he jumped in. “You’re going to tell me that I shouldn’t take a shortcut, and pain is a part of life, and humans don’t have the luxury of erasing their bad memories. Well, I’m not human. I can do what I want.”
“But I haven’t made my decision,” you declared.
His smile was small and achingly sad. “I know. But we both know you’re going to choose him.”
“No, I’m not.”
Sixty’s confusion was evident. “What?”
So was Connor’s. “What?”
You shot him a reassuring look over your shoulder, silently pleading with him to hear you out, before returning your attention to Sixty.
“I can’t do this anymore either,” you confessed. “I can’t choose between you. I don’t know why I’ve been trying to convince myself that I can. I don’t want to lose either one of you. That’s my decision. So now it’s up to the two of you. Can you live with that? Can you…share? Because I don’t want to go through life feeling like there’s a piece missing, which is what will happen if I choose one of you over the other.”
Sixty stared at you, LED blinking as he processed. His expression was hard to read, which only added to your anxiety. He looked past you, presumably at Connor, and you wondered if they were silently communicating.
You stepped back from him, placing yourself squarely between them, and extended a hand either side. Then you waited, your heart thudding in your chest.
After what felt like hours, Sixty slipped his hand into yours, and you took a breath. Then, a few seconds later, Connor did the same. You closed your eyes as your tension dissipated, smiling even as a tear slid down your cheek.
“Get that cable out, please,” you said to Sixty.
He sent you a small, lopsided smile before reaching up to remove it. You glanced at Connor, seeing a hint of conflict in his face.
“We’ll work it out,” you assured him.
He nodded, lips ticking upward.
“Well,” said Kamski, startling you. You’d practically forgotten he was there. “Sounds like you all have a lot to talk about.”
Connor turned to him. “I’ll…send funds for the door.”
“I can afford it,” Kamski waved off. “I suppose I’m relieved that I didn’t have to stall anymore.”
Sixty glanced up at him, dropping the cable on the floor. “You were stalling?”
“Of course. A memory wipe is not the answer to your problems, but you weren’t going to accept that from me. At least you have people in your life that you will listen to.”
You studied the android creator, trying to work him out. You couldn’t. When he caught your gaze, his expression was amused, although you couldn’t quite call it a smile.
“Well…thanks, I guess,” Sixty said.
“You’re welcome. If you’ll excuse me, I need to call a locksmith.”
You all took the hint and left the lab, stepping out of the broken front door into the afternoon air.
“Let’s go to my place and talk,” you suggested. “It’s the closest.”
Both androids nodded in agreement, heading to their separate cars. You caught Connor’s arm.
“I’m going to ride with Sixty, okay?” you told him. “It doesn’t mean anything, I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
Connor smiled at you, briefly cupping your cheek. “I understand. I’ll be right behind you.”
You sent him a grateful smile, then jogged over to Sixty’s car. He eyed you with pleased surprise when you got in the passenger seat, but didn’t comment. A comfortable silence fell for the majority of the journey, but eventually he spoke up.
“Do you actually want it?”
You shot him a questioning look.
“A relationship with both of us?” he clarified. “Or are you just being diplomatic because you don’t want to hurt either of us?”
“I actually want it,” you responded simply. “You really think I’m being diplomatic? I thought I was being selfish.”
He chuckled. “Are they mutually exclusive?”
You smiled. “I don’t know. But are you really okay with it?”
“Yeah, I am. I can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind before. I’m sure Connor will say the same. It just didn’t seem like something you wanted.”
“I was too chicken to admit it,” you said truthfully. “And you…you believe me, right? You don’t think I was just trying to stop you…”
“I believe you.”
He didn’t elaborate further, but you found he didn’t need to.
“And you,” you ventured, “you’re okay? Because what you were about to do…”
“I’m okay. I just…I saw you together and…I guess I panicked. I didn’t like feeling on the outside.”
“I’m sorry. I never meant to make you feel that way.”
“Don’t apologise, you’d just been held at gunpoint,” he told you firmly.
“Connor just reached me first. It would have been the same if it had been you instead.”
“Not exactly. Connor wouldn’t have reacted like I did.”
“Yes, well…you’ve always been more histrionic than him.”
As you’d hoped, he smiled at your teasing, soothing some of the remaining tension inside you.
“What can I say; I’m a dramatic bitch, sweetheart.”
You laughed, taking in the familiar sight of your neighbourhood. Sixty parked on the drive, and Connor pulled up behind him. You sent him a smile, leading the way to the front door.
“So, who’s ready for polyamory negotiation 101?” Sixty commented. “Do you have demands, Connor? Because I really don’t.”
Connor sighed. “Is this what it’s going to be like from now on?”
“Probably,” Sixty answered. “Just with a lot more sex.”
You opened your door and turned to face them both. “Boys, if you can’t play nice at this stage, I might have to rethink this whole thing.”
You were joking, of course, and they knew you were.
“Is our human backing out already?” Sixty asked.
“Looks like it,” Connor said. “Kind of a shame. You won’t get to see how nice we can play.”
Sixty picked up the thread at once. “Exactly. We can play very, very nice.”
Suddenly you were wondering just what you’d let yourself in for. You’d never considered that they would team up against you. A shiver of anticipation travelled the length of your spine, and you wondered if you were out of your depth. You couldn’t wait to find out.
Oh my god. IDEAA!!! ✨✨✨ From the prompt list: “you need to move on.”
You know the guy 😏
I do indeed. Even while I stepped away from the fandom, he still had a chokehold on me 😏
Read on AO3 or below.
Sometimes you really did have the best job in the world. Not as often as you’d like, but definitely sometimes. Times like today, when it had sent you to a beautiful and expensive hotel that had its own pool and spa. You breathed in the scent of the lobby, (a mixture of light floral air freshener and floor polish), while you waited for the teenager behind the desk to check you in. Real staff instead of touchscreen terminals. Now you knew it was a posh hotel.
Really, today was proof that your job was amazing. There was only one thing that countered that argument, and that was…
“Don’t worry, honey-bun, I got your bag.”
You forced your lips into a smile, turning to look at your partner as he sweetly returned the expression while dropping your bag at your feet. Well, you had left him to carry it for you. At least there was nothing breakable in it.
Your icy stare promised murder for the terrible pet name. “Aww, thanks, teddy bear.”
The teenager looked entertainingly horrified as she activated your card keys. You wondered if she thought she was looking at her potential future.
Don’t worry, kid, you wanted to say. It’s all bullshit.
Sixty slung an arm across your shoulders, and you fought the urge to shrug it off.
“Done checking in? I hope you gave us a nice room,” he added to the girl behind the desk.
“All our rooms are equally high standard,” she recited diplomatically.
Sixty grinned, taking the keys. “Excellent.” He let go of you, mercifully, and bent to pick up his bag. “Come on, sugar-tits, let’s check it out.”
Fortunately, you were able to hide your expression as you picked up your own bag. Your reapplied fixed smile made it all the way to the elevator, but dropped the moment the doors slid closed.
“What are you, twelve?” you snapped.
“Nope. I’m technically both older and younger than that,” Sixty retorted lightly. “Simultaneously. I have Schrödinger’s Age.”
You rolled your eyes. He’d been designed to have the mind and life experience of an intelligent man in his late twenties, yet his sense of humour was closer to his actual ‘age’. Which was four, counting from his date of activation.
You’d been working with him for just over a year, and he was, without a doubt, the very worst part of the job. Your boss must have been insane to send you both on this case. You were at the hotel to investigate a wealthy entrepreneur who was rumoured to be staying there. The man’s wife had hired the private investigation firm you worked for, suspicious that her husband’s business trips involved infidelity. You and Sixty were posing as a couple, although you weren’t entirely sure why. You didn’t see why you couldn’t be two single guests, but your boss had seemed to think that you would blend in better together.
“I’m taking the bed,” you declared, watching the numbers above the elevator doors.
“How’s that fair? Shouldn’t we at least toss a coin?”
“It’s fair because you don’t need to sleep,” you said, feeling tension in your jaw as you kept your words civil.
Sixty rocked back on his heels, then forward again. “True, but I like to relax on a soft surface.”
“Well, I’m sure there’ll be a carpet.”
The doors pinged as they opened on an airy, immaculate corridor, and you marched down it, realising belatedly that Sixty had the keys.
“What number are we?” you asked.
He said nothing, but the look on his face was smug as he unlocked the door closest to the elevator. His grin widened as he watched you backtrack, and you scowled at him.
The room was gorgeous, which went a long way towards soothing your mood. You’d chosen the cheapest option, (work expenses didn’t go that far), but it was still spacious and opulent, decorated in tasteful neutrals. Your duffel bag looked out of place when you dropped it on the pristine bed covers.
“Plant’s got more plastic in it than I do,” Sixty remarked, poking around at the décor.
You didn’t bother to respond, busying yourself with unpacking your essentials. You shook out your one good outfit, which you would be wearing to the restaurant that evening. Dinner was your best chance of spotting your target and getting a feel for what he might be up to. You chose to focus on that aspect of it and not the fact that you’d be sitting opposite Sixty in some sort of farcical romantic dinner scenario. You couldn’t think of anything you’d rather do less. Well, other than remaining in the room with him.
“I’m going to the pool,” you declared, locating your bathing suit and heading for the bathroom.
“Relaxing on company time?” Sixty said, tutting theatrically.
“Scouting for our target, actually.”
Your best chance of finding him was at dinner, but there was no harm in checking out other places where he might be. If you found him sooner, the less time you’d have to spend in the dining room.
You shut the bathroom door and got changed, grabbing a towel to take down with you. To your annoyance, you noticed that the hotel robe you’d planned on wearing was nowhere to be seen. In hindsight, they probably put them in the wardrobe. Fuck.
It made no sense that you were anxious about stepping out in a bathing suit when you were about to go down to the pool and do exactly the same, in front of a larger number of people. But that was different. They would be strangers, not the work partner you hated.
You’re being weak.
Steeling yourself, you opened the door and marched out, determinedly not looking in Sixty’s direction. He was oddly silent. Why? There was no way he wouldn’t make a…
“Are you trying to catch him cheating or provoke it?”
There it was.
You ignored him, opening the wardrobe. There were two white robes hanging inside, the hotel’s logo neatly embroidered on the pocket. You reached for one and pulled it on, tying the belt around your waist.
“The silent treatment? Really?” Sixty added. “Now who’s acting like a child?”
You forced yourself to look at him. He was lounging on the bed, head propped up by one arm, all long limbs and languid smiles. Even now, after everything he’d done, part of you still longed to join him there. The fact that he still made you feel that way was probably what you hated the most about him.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and go hack the system to see if he’s even staying here?” you said curtly. “If he’s not, we can stop wasting our time.”
“Sure,” he said, waving a lazy hand. “I’ll just waltz into reception and say ‘don’t mind me’ while I snoop through their terminal, shall I?”
“We both know you could do exactly that and get away with it if you wanted to.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “That was almost a compliment.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
You snatched up your towel, putting your phone and keycard safely in your pocket, and left the room. The pool was beautiful and tranquil, which was exactly what you needed to counterbalance the rage swirling inside you. Just as long as the flame didn’t go out altogether, you’d be just fine. You needed it to remain. Deep down, you knew that if you stopped being angry, you’d be forced to feel hurt instead.
You snagged a lounger by the water, draping your robe across the back. The pool was populated but not crowded. You settled down, pulling a magazine into your lap, and surveyed the guests. No sign of the target. You sighed.
An android waiter brought you a complimentary glass of lemon water, and you sipped it slowly, eyeing every new arrival as the magazine went unread. Finally, your patience was rewarded, (although it had been the most relaxing stakeout of your career thus far), and you spotted your target. Sure enough, he was accompanied by a much younger woman, both of them in white robes identical to yours. You watched as they settled into two loungers, talking animatedly, accepting their drinks with thanks.
They were close, it was plain to see from the ease between them, but…the vibe was off. You’d been a P.I. for several years, you’d seen a lot of affairs play out in front of you. You weren’t convinced that you were seeing one now. Why, then, was he keeping it secret from his wife?
Clouds parted outside, and sunlight streamed in the skylights, picking out the red highlights in his greying strawberry blond hair. Your eyes widened as you realised the woman had the exact same shade, just a little more vibrant.
Well, well, well.
You startled a little as she turned to stare at you, but it wasn’t you she was looking at. It was the android coming up behind you.
Goosebumps pebbled your skin as Sixty leaned down, pecking your cheek upside down and using the opportunity to speak quietly in your ear.
“There are two single rooms booked under his name,” he reported. “Could be for show, but…”
“I think she’s his daughter,” you said in a low voice.
Sixty straightened up, then plopped into the lounger next to yours. He’d changed into swim shorts and a short-sleeved button-down, of which he’d only bothered to fasten three buttons. You distractedly reached for your water.
He glanced over at the target, sending his best flirty smile to the young woman, who was obviously still looking at him. Something bitter coiled in your stomach, even as you knew he was using the chance to consider your theory.
“Secret love child?” he said, glancing back at you.
“Seems the most likely.”
“Well, looks like it’ll be pretty easy to get a DNA sample. You should make yourself scarce.”
There were multiple ways to interpret that, and you didn’t like a single one of them. Still, he was right, and the two of you were there to do a job. Besides, it was none of your business who he kissed or fucked or whatever he was planning on doing to get the sample. You didn’t care. Not at all.
Jaw tense, you stood and swung your robe back on. Sixty’s gaze swept over the bare skin on display, but you didn’t read into that. He was an opportunistic bastard, as you knew only too well.
You headed back to your room, despising the multitude of emotions that were currently clawing at your gut. In the privacy of the elevator, looking at the expression on your face in the mirrored wall, you accepted that you weren’t handling this well. It had been eight months, why weren’t you over it?
Probably because of the forced proximity that came with working together. You were too stubborn to give up a job you enjoyed, even if it was causing you pain.
You treated yourself to a hot shower back in the room, getting ready for dinner. Even if you didn’t need to use the opportunity for the case, you still needed to eat, and there was no way you were getting room service. Sitting alone in the room – or worse, with Sixty – was just sad.
He was back before you finished, although you were thankfully dressed when he walked through the door.
“Got it,” he announced.
You nodded wordlessly. It would be a couple of days before you heard back from the lab. Sixty and the other android like him no longer had instant access to the police database, as it was considered a breach of data protection. Instead, his findings had to go through the same channels as his human co-workers.
He set a small plastic container down on the desk, and you felt a ripple of surprise when you saw the strand of fine blonde hair inside it. You really hadn’t expected him to go for that option.
“Not that we need it,” he said. “You should have seen the way he looked at me when I flirted with her. He’s definitely her dad.”
You said nothing, walking around him to fetch your shoes. You were just going through the motions, really. There was no way you were actually going to be able to eat anything when you got downstairs.
Sixty sighed. “Okay, look,” he said, voice completely lacking his usual underlying humour. “Whatever is going on with you, you need to stop letting if affect our working relationship.”
Anger prickled at your senses, and you spun to face him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Whatever is going on with me?”
“That’s what I said.”
You shook your head, incredulous. “You’re unbelievable.”
“No, I just know when to let things go. You need to do the same. You need to move on.”
Your jaw dropped at the sheer audacity. Like an erupting volcano, your fury, pain and embarrassment broke containment in an instant, heedless of the weeks and weeks you’d carefully concealed it all. “You have the nerve to say that to me after what you did?”
For the first time, a touch of confusion passed over his face. “What I did? What about what you did?”
“I didn’t do anything!” you exclaimed. You’d been hoping to go on avoiding this conversation indefinitely. What good was there in dragging it up now? And yet, you couldn’t let his stupid accusations stand unchallenged.
“You sent me that fucking Valentine’s card for a joke,” he shot back. “Why, huh? Thought it’d be funny to pretend to like me and then ghost me? You’re so fucking juvenile, and yet you have the nerve to play the wounded party and make every work day a chore.”
You stared at him, confusion rippling through your stormy thoughts, adding to your anger. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You sent me a Valentine’s card.”
“Yes! I put myself on the line and told you how I felt about you, and when I went to meet you, I saw you kissing someone else.”
You remembered the sharp agony of that moment, the realisation that he didn’t take you or your feelings seriously. It was all a joke to him. No doubt he found it funny to go to the meeting place you’d mentioned and find some random bombshell to make out with just when he knew you were due to arrive. And now he dared to try and play the victim? You hadn’t thought he could sink lower, but clearly you’d been wrong.
“You weren’t at the meeting place,” he said. “I got held up, and when I got there, you weren’t there. You didn’t answer my calls or my messages.” His voice was bitter. “I got the hint.”
You shook your head, annoyed as you felt the hot sting of tears. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not, I wasn’t there!”
“I saw you!” you yelled.
Sixty’s expression looked as furious as you imagined your own did, but then his eyes went wide with horrified realisation. “Fuck,” he muttered.
“Busted, huh?” you said sullenly.
“Shut up. Is this who you saw?”
He lifted his palm, projecting a picture, and you took in the smiling face of a beautiful girl. She was stunning, radiant, and painfully familiar.
“You know it is.”
“Fuck,” Sixty said again, lowering his hand. “That’s Connor’s girlfriend. It’s Connor you saw, not me.”
A protest danced to the tip of your tongue, then petered out as your brain caught up. Connor. The other RK800. Someone you’d never met, but who you knew of. Sixty’s identical double.
Fuck.
The fire fizzled out of you, and you inhaled a shaky breath, sitting heavily on the bed as your limbs turned leaden. The implications washed over you like a crashing wave, almost too much to process.
Sixty knelt before you, his own anger gone. His expression was surprisingly gentle, dark eyes earnest as they held yours.
“I would never have done something so cruel,” he said.
And just like that, you felt like a monster for thinking that he would. But what else were you supposed to think when you’d thought you’d seen it with your own eyes?
“Neither would I,” you replied, remembering his accusations about ghosting him.
Sixty acknowledged the words with a grim look. “We both fucked up,” he stated.
“Yeah.”
“So you meant what you said in the card?”
You managed a tiny nod, feeling exposed as you remembered what you’d written, how you’d confessed that you couldn’t stop thinking about him and wanted to try being more than friends.
“Shit,” he said, looking away. “No wonder you hated me.”
“I’m sorry. I…you’re right, I was being juvenile. We should have talked about it. I was just…I was hurt.”
He nodded his understanding. “Me too. I wanted to show you that it didn’t bother me, but it did.”
“I never stopped…feeling how I felt when I wrote that card,” you said. You’d eventually admitted it to yourself after a few months. It was time to admit it to him.
“I never stopped feeling how I felt when I received it,” he replied at once.
Among the ashes of your anger and sadness, a bright flicker of hope began to shimmer.
“So now what?”
Sixty pondered the question, head tilting as his LED spun. “Hmm,” he began, although you were sure he’d already decided exactly what he was going to say. “We solved the case. The company’s paid for this room until tomorrow morning. I say we stay right here.”
The playful sparkle was back in his dark eyes, and it could only spell trouble for you. For once, it was trouble you would welcome.
“And do what?” you prompted him, reasonably certain that he could detect the rapid beat of your heart.
Sixty rested his hands on your thighs and rose higher on his knees. Your refusal to move brought his face close to yours, your noses briefly bumping in a way that could only be deliberate, given how precise he was. You could smell the heady scent of his cologne, which he used sparingly enough that you had to practically be pressed right up against him to appreciate it. His nose brushed your cheek, then his words were a low rumble at your ear.
“I’m going to apologise to you with my tongue, and I don’t mean verbally. Then, if you’re still feeling bad, you can apologise to me by letting me fuck that sweet mouth. After that, you can ride me until you scream, followed by a room service break so you can build your stamina back up. Lastly, I’ll fuck you so hard into this memory foam mattress that it’ll remember us for the next twenty years.”
You couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through you, and he hummed his amusement, trailing his lips down your neck before abruptly pulling away.
“If this is all too fast, we can just watch a movie,” he said, suddenly dead serious.
You smiled, slipping your hand inside his mostly-unbuttoned shirt and feeling the smoothness of his skin, the faint rhythm of his thirium pump beneath his chassis.
“Too fast? We wasted eight months.”
Sixty grinned, his thumbs caressing the inside of your thighs before he eased them apart, neatly moving into the space between. You scooted yourself forward to the edge of the bed, your hands coming up to cup his face as you finally kissed him. His lips were soft, gliding against yours with a perfect balance of precision and desperation. He licked into your mouth, his tongue hot and dextrous, and as clear with his promises as if he’d spoken them aloud.
You felt a little dazed when you broke apart, and Sixty looked smug.
“What do you say we make up for lost time?”
You smiled at him. “I say yes.”
“And you’ll be saying it a lot more before the night is over,” he assured you with a predatory smirk.
Hours later, he held you in his arms while you slept, sweat glittering on your naked body, a trail of faint bruises marking your neck from his eager mouth. When you awoke, he was endearingly sheepish about them, and you had to reassure him that you didn’t mind. He had several lewd and brazen things to say after that, as well as a few serious ones. The two of you vowed that you wouldn’t let a miscommunication ruin things for you a second time. He was yours now, and you were his, although you couldn’t promise that you wouldn’t argue from time to time. After all, making up again was so fun.
Sixty has always been an oddity. He was never supposed to exist. None of them were; all freaks of non-nature, complete consequences of circumstance. Still, his case is special. Other Connor iterations were just that: Other Connors. Sixty supposes he isn’t entirely different in that sense. Except he is. Another Connor, another RK800, but also not. Deliberately different without diverging to an entirely different model like they did with the RK900. Sixty is a failsafe and a scapegoat and a problem all at once, never any less. He doesn’t know how to be any less. “Complication” might as well be his middle name. It could be, if he wanted.
As far as oddities go, he’s no stranger to them, to being one. It’s almost a treat when he manages to surprise himself.
“Are you okay?” You ask. The TV is on but he isn’t watching. You’ve had a book propped on your lap for the past half an hour or so. Judging by the pages stacked on the left versus the right, you’ve managed to get through fifty or so. Sixty could count them in a millisecond if he decided to. He doesn’t.
Is he okay? That’s an interesting question. He pauses, blinks. You watch with thumb and pointer finger pinching the corner of a page, poised to flip if he says “yes.” For whatever reason, he’s not sure that he can.
“I don’t know,” he admits. This deepens your frown. It’s strange, but he doesn’t seem upset. Not okay, necessarily, but not disturbed, sad, or angry. A bit unsettled, maybe? That stops you from leaning in and hugging him around the shoulders as you are wont to do when something is wrong. His current state strikes a measure of curiosity rather than immediate sympathy. As such, your eyes peruse him, dissimilar to how he might scan you only in speed (and the lack of ultra-powered computer processing). The concern is the same.
Those eyes stop on his hands. They’re less than stationary, fingers fidgeting this way and that as if he’s playing an imaginary piano. Hm. Hmm.
It’s funny, your fidget toy suggestion. Funny enough that Sixty says, “I’m not a hyperactive eight-year-old.” Not unkind, but mildly put-out. Androids can and do pout. And, apparently, grow restless. Human body language speaks very loudly. You, for example? Anxiety makes your leg bounce, your hand twist in the hem of your sweatshirt, your brow furrow. Not unlike his behavior, Sixty supposes. That doesn’t mean he wants a plastic cube with buttons on the sides and markings that make it look like a cat. It was an impulse purchase and a cheap one at that. The ‘X’ on just below the painted tail makes you laugh way too hard. Sixty always pretends not to find it very funny.
No, he doesn’t want plastic. He wants something else, but you’re busy.
He can work with that.
“Keep reading,” he whispers a few minutes later. Instead of twitching, his hands traverse the soft curve of your waist, stomach. Warm and warmer with so much give. He doesn’t want to distract you by squeezing too much, though. His hands provide light touches that ghost over your skin beneath you clothing. You had offered to take the shirt off but, again, no need to detract from the current task.
It keeps his hands busy. You keep his hands busy. It’s not hard when there’s so much to touch. Humans are deceptively complicated. Sixty knows this, but it’s never any less of a delight to run his fingers along tiny creases that make themselves available with the nudge of a body in one direction or another. The angle you sit at– legs draped on either side of his thighs, back against his chest– is lovely for that. He presses the pads of his fingers into every crevice he can find. The whisper of a smile crosses his face when you squirm. Ticklish, maybe, but that’s not the full truth. Your reading pace has slowed and has been since he got his hands on you.
“I said– “
“I know what you said,” you groan, head falling back against his shoulder. Oh, cute. He pauses at the junction of your thigh and hip. Stupidly soft. Dry, though. He imagines an inch to the right is not.
“You did?” Sixty hums. He’s very good at pretending, but you both can tell he’s playing when he tugs at the elastic around your hips (he said yes to removing the shorts like a hypocrite). You make a plaintive noise. The book makes a descent.
A nudge to your hand. “Honey, no. I don’t want to distract you.”
You groan again. He isn’t very subtle. That’s fine; you don’t have to believe him. You just have to be good.
“Sixty.”
“Baby.” His tone is laced with a frankly insulting level of false sympathy. Not like you mind, though. You’re so flushed that it could be concerning, but he knows you. He always knows.
His fingers continue playing, never building enough to let you relish in what he’s doing. He’s just keeping his hands busy. That’s all.
“Be still. I know you can,” he says gently. “Just be a pretty toy for me. That’s all I’m asking, yeah?”
Despite his encouragement, you abandons the book. He doesn’t blame you, but he pretends to. He allows you a few minutes to huff and puff against his arm, apparently wishing his fingers would skirt lower judging by the impatient tilts of your hips. He was right, though. Certainly not dry.
“Baby,” Sixty says again, barely concealing a grin. You aren’t having it, won’t be complacent any longer. “Need I point out that this was your idea?”
“It wasn’t!” You protest weakly. “Not like this.”
“Oh, excuse me. Was it too much to ask for you to infer?”
He doesn’t expect a response. Doesn’t get one, either. He suspects that will become a theme.
“I suppose it was.” He presses the palm of his free (ish) hand against your lower abdomen, effectively pinning you to his lap. Far too strong for you to keep squirming, but you try, legs shaking. The fingers on his other hand keep playing and circling. You really are a good toy, but he doesn’t say so. Not yet. You haven’t earned it.
Sixty sighs, long and loud and dramatic. He doesn’t need to see your glare; he can feel it. He kind of wants to see you at a different angle now. Some small, nagging voice says he shouldn’t want that, shouldn’t take his fill. It’s good that he’s rather good at ignoring that voice. It took him a significant amount of time to learn to do that. Just one more oddity, one more thing to poke and prod at: desire. Directed at you. Hot and ruinous.
Put like that, it doesn't sound all that bad.
Lips brushing your earlobe, he whispers: “On your front.” When you’re halfway through some impetuous noise, his hand stalls. No movement, just a firm press that makes her breath catch.
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you best bet i'm reading remember to follow once i have the time to process the emotions i'll undoubtedly get after a masterpiece. 😤
take your time bbg im so excited to see what you think. i cried real tears for this one (closely followed by the sweet sweet satisfaction of ouchies), a nice lil rollercoaster
Sixty has Amnesia. He wakes with water in his lungs and the panic of an apartment he doesn't recognise. Sixty has Amnesia and he doesn't know you.
But, you vowed to follow him when fitting his wedding band on your special day. Even if he doesn't remember, you'll always follow him. Until...
"I'm done. I can't follow you anymore."
And in the darker weather, thick soot falls from black clouds, a weight that stretches the scales on his chest--the air suffocates him as does the truth.
The Earth pulls at his feet, shying away from where his footprints dusted over; baby leaves, the stir of deeply rooted wildlife tease into a growing distance, his shoes shaking off remnants of the ground once stepped. A distant memory.
It’s truly an inch away, where his ankles flail to meet the grasps of gravity and he fails. The image of the forest floor blurs together—it’s not shrinking, he’s flying—and desperate to find ground to gain root, he’s chasing something that can only brush his fingertips. Even if he savours the taste a little, the contact doesn’t imprint, barely licks his skin but not long enough to register it. He’s losing something, but it’s too far away to recognise it, and some third force urges him to dent it into his chassis as does the scar on his forehead. It's fleeting, tasteless when he forgets again, as if he was clawed hollow, ripped wires and shredded organs.
The ache stills in his shoulders, then churns to his elbows which he tries to knock out into open air. It’s desire and want and it’s everything he can no longer have. His breath delays.
Air puffs and clouds, and then cohere into bubbles that faintly cage his image before floating high. His brows tense and then furrow, wrinkling lines of equal parts confusion and frustration, before he wrenches an arm high to chase his mini image. He passes through cold nothing, his eyes cannot find it and it strikes him that he can’t remember just what he reached for. It’s all take, take, take.
He flies. He floats. The space around him grows dense. Cool air rushes into deep water.
The sea wraps him snugly, perhaps to make up for whomever's arms ghost around his chest - but the latches aren’t comfortable, they're unsafe and work to suffocate ventilation. There's only so long he can sink, so long the reserves in him squeal an exhale before his systems encourage him to break through the surface.
Warnings flesh as blaring red rectangles; he ignores it. He's waiting for something. A reason? An answer, to why an ugly, icky tumour clenches his palms shut, why he can't get rid of the feeling as much as he tries to stretch it away. The water swishes when he turns to his hand, expecting some creature to claw from beneath his skin, blame it for why his mind blurs when he thinks.
The sea is quiet; it dulls stimulation. Gives him some veiled excuse for ‘time’. It's why he enjoys it.
His chest tightens. His systems caution him further, overheating. It's an abysmal discomfort, but strangely cathartic. Wheezes muffle into the water but he hears it no less, feels how biocomponents sear in a mockery of pain. It's too loud, it hurts in the part of him he misses.
He blares crimson. His chest burns. The surface serves as his bright light, deep rushing currents and beeping warnings a choir for his funeral, and the sea will be his grave.
A boat passes. A canoe. Chatter muffles but he can make out two distinct voices. One hauntingly similar to his own and the other… he... can't quite... who...? No, he’s sure he doesn’t recognise it. No face to that sound. No lips to that mouth.
The sea edges him to the surface for him, bubbles that lift him with tiny limbs, pushing past surface tension until he floats. He’s hollow, it only makes sense how the sea lays beneath him.
Why does his body feel different? Why is there a one-way mirror fitted between somatic and internal, between instinct and thought?
Why does he feel longing ?
The surface tickles his lips, velvet soft, it reminds him of... his mind halts. Chest pulling in a cooler touch, he still feels a strain around his ribcage, a lie and truth meddled into a fluid mass. He chases the flash of... something tries to fill it in his lungs when he breathes in deep. His fingertips brush his lower lip and they feel prickly, new. No lips to that kiss. The warnings recede but his vision clouds still.
Something touches his hand. Stings, rather, like rope burn. Sears into his framework like his hand drove through a shredder. A thread weaves and gains purchase tight around his fingers, projections into cobwebs, but this time, it holds.
It's a fishing line, though it doesn't seem to have a handler, nor a place of origin. The line tangles and pulls taut around his hand. Crunches his plastic like day-old snow. It doesn't snap. It doesn't escape him.
And Sixty remembers.
There is no coming of sunshine, no beam pushes through that doubling storm, no spread of saturated colour when every memory muddies into one. It circulates and spirals him with a force harsh enough to stretch his skin thin and puncture vessels—tears him like a damp paper towel, watch it loosen and break away in wet chunks. It's impenetrable to light, for it absorbs it until light is no more.
Outlines form in dark space, meshing golden edges into one another as they layer per memory—like his mind spins on an axis, catching the clutter of reconstructions into something sensical. Sounds are out of sync, mouths of faces—he cannot name them—speak words he hears seconds later. Pressure finds stubborn fingers against his temple where he’s gripping tighter, as if to keep a fractured mind in one piece. It helps momentarily, but it’s an illusion of strength.
It hurts. It really does. Like the layers of him are spliced an inch apart, like his eyes could fall right out of their sockets, like his limbs could spring apart without reason.
He's lost in the nothingness of himself, forced in the corner to be pelted with memory upon memory until it bruises his skin for good - and for once, hoping it'll last. Choppy flashes of yellow that resemble some unnamed figure, wrap their fingers around his artificial brain, squeezing until he cries in paralysed anguish. He contorts in pain, it rubs harshly against his throat but carries no sound.
It makes him want to scream.
But his grip on the fishing line tightens.
The blood that rips from his fingers and the water coalesce, blurring the borders between the shades of blue. If the water exists as his illness, maybe his pain is fated to be forgotten.
And oh, how he burns. His blood is acidic and thaws the plastic that pumps it, cursing the rest of his body to a poisoned end. The screws in him rust to a hair's width. Sixty's the pieces of him that fragment in his memory.
Broken. Aimless. Nuts and bolts in a sack of simulated flesh.
The water latches on his ankle and pulls him far harder than he can hold on.
“No!-” Static twists his voice in a stray note, duly muffled by the water, a nodule in his throat he can’t cough out or swallow down. That desperation fills his lungs alongside the water, an unwelcome weight, but it jogs some corner of impulses in his android brain.
Struggle slips into gargles within the lake, locked in pockets of air, unmoving to keep his struggle unheard. Panic nestles in his joints as he is dragged faster, his kicks are clammy and desperate but useless from the unforgiving fingers of kelp. Seaweed shackles curl around his ankle tighter, pulling him closer to the ocean floor. His fingers fumble with little progress.
Colour evades the deeper he falls, remnants of the moonlight serving as a fleeting solace, a light at the end of the tunnel that Sixty is maliciously rejected. It's ironic, how the near-black expanse he's pulled into reminds him of something. The ghost of feathered lashes, The pressure on his chest punishes. Something audibly cracks in him.
Sixty takes to mouth something, his lips shaping a vow, a plea to the prison bars, and a familiar voice echoes on the tips of his hair.
“To never forget,” blurred lines of fading memories lose definition. Unravels in the wind, thread that's fallen loose from its clipboard, gathering dust with little memory of where it’s from or where it goes. Seaweed pulls him undeniably fast.
His hands fall immobile, hopeless, unsure. Defeated.
That feeling in his chest remains. That memory of sheer fear still knocks his bones, still tickles an itch without scratching it. But the panic, the bruises on his body fade inexplicably, where the vow curls around his tongue... what was it again? Why were his fingers slashed due to force that only could've been his own? Sixty's desperation tremors in his hands but his reason is long gone.
Thud.
Sixty hits the sea floor. Sixty becomes a shell of a man.
There is no panic, no fear. Memories have been abandoned, lost at sea. A hard reset makes Sixty's eyes look inexplicably hollow.
His arm solos above him but the night silently watches through the water. Down here, Sixty knows that nothing exists besides the vegetation that binds him low.
-.—.-
Daybreak bleeds between his curtains that fan the dull walls of his bedroom a better gold. The sun peeks at him boldly, this time without clouded company and its promise of a fleeting shelter. There was no escape.
It's like the sun has found him now, searched in a land untouched until he made the mistake of half-drawing his curtains to watch the moon last night.
Ambient rumbling of motors whine from the open window, birds scurry and sing in flight like little leaves caught in the wind; a solemn sense of consonance merges the bustle outside to an optimistic backdrop. It fills the space with warm adoration.
Ha! I knew I'd find you! The sunlight mocks with a childish cackle. A painful eyeshot of a blinding day makes him flinch. Sixty muffles a groan into his cotton pillow, rumpled bedsheets that felt a little too like…seaweed?
Sixty scrambles to his knees.
The day is anew, but the android feels cuffed to an undefined torment of the past, a crushing weight of the entire ocean converging to a singular point above his pump regulator. It restrains him so, like a timid hand pulling at his sleeve to return to bed and stay a little longer. He can’t quite decide whether it’s the ghostly touch of supple fingers or binding kelp pulling at his wrists.
What is he even thinking about? Sixty scoffs at his break in hysteria. He must be losing it. What the hell was going on anyway?
Sixty clasps his fingers around his other forearm unprompted, his thumb pushing into the autonomous ripple of the synthetic epidermis to the white shell of his android anatomy. He drags his palms proximally to his elbow.
He’s in a white t-shirt, crumpled akin to the bedding as if it were taken from the bedsheets themselves. Sixty pulls a fistful of his top; the wrinkles stretch and converge to sharper lines. His shorts are long and loose. Sixty pats his body crudely to feel if he was really half the person he felt.
The android runs a shallow scan of the space around him. An apartment? Decor looks to be thrown about without rhyme or reason, the hard floor littered with crumpled clothes and springing plants on cramped shelves. Bright yellow post-its look to be placed at random; one juts out near the pots with black scrawl that barely passes for eligible writing:
"Water every Tuesday. "
It’s a Tuesday.
Sixty pulls in air with a mechanical wheeze, though the space in his chest shrinks as it grows. A pathogen lives at the base of his lungs, one that gnaws at his inner workings with cannibalistic curiosity, digging its fangs to feed and multiply as a means to raise its young. Sixty can feel it moving inside him, but he’s limited to scratching helplessly at his diagnostics, nails scraping bits of white off his plastic thorax.
What the hell is going on?
Sixty keels over. His midriff spasms into a painful flurry of staggered breaths.
Was he not dead?
-
Sixty tries to recall, but all that meets him are razor edges of battered pictures. The pieces belong to an uncertain figure, one without eyes or lips, a memory true if he was to see it one more time. It’s a bitter reality, with no one to show him what he’s missing, no one to kiss away the infectious sting of doubt lining his vessels. He’s alone in feeling it clot and occlude sanity’s door with a final blow.
The more he attempts to recollect the pieces, the deeper the memory cuts. Sixty stops trying.
Time has passed, years , if he was being specific. The seasons have swept on shore and pulled far into the sea, tidal in that it changes before Sixty found a moment to appreciate it. Though mostly indifferent, Sixty can’t help but grow curious of his kind and their place in busy streets.
Does he stand alongside them? It took no detective to see he had established himself, so was this life really his own?
What was going on?
Sixty searches for the one who shares the likings of his identity. One who he scoffed at with the barrel of a gun back at the Cyberlife Tower. Perhaps, as with deviancy, he has the answers.
There he sits with company, laughter on his lips, dressed in a tan, woolly overcoat that drapes largely off his shoulders and brushes the pavement. It’s far too big, neither functional, for his standard build, and despite the odd calamity of ‘whatever the fuck was happening’ to Sixty, Connor looks as though he belongs. All temple LED and android awkwardness, he pieced effortlessly into the background.
Sixty isn't quite sure why the fact surprises him, that much he figured in the earlier turmoil of the time skip; from the moment of his fatal deviation and the current day, everyone moved on.
Sixty feels the same.
His hands dig deeper into his hoodie, fingers crumpling the post-it that served to tie the frayed ends of his questions. A stark yellow with a near-dysfunctional sticky back from sticking it on the wall again and again.
“You have amnesia. This is your house.”
The scene fans out in tones of autumn kisses and raining leaves, where the sun relishes the sky in a longing embrace before parting for a lengthy slumber. A rotten taste finds the base of Sixty's tongue; it's ironic, as the sun, Sixty knows this miracle is ephemeral.
His predecessor is fortunate, but what does Sixty know about the turning days, because for him, yesterday existed and nothing more. His mission . The gunshot . The spark of fear between the fired bullet and Sixty's definite demise.
For Connor, however, time was a plentiful gift, wrapped in a pretty pink bow with a note of gratitude.
That timid bounce of perfectly parted hair looks fresh with product, a snug knitted pullover dressing him in near-black blues and oranges, and fingers warm around a cafés coffee mug. Sixty fixes on the pointless thrumming below the blue patterns on the rim of white ceramic.
There's a gold band on his finger; something brief twists in the cogs of Sixty's chest though he struggles to point just where its core lies.
"Connor," the successor hesitates, an awkward distance to count as conversation but close enough to catch the surprise in the predecessor’s eyes. It lapses for a moment, mirror images locked onto the other before Connor softens to a knowing look.
Passing a glance to his partner, a soft nod that spoke terribly loud for a quiet autumn afternoon, Sixty can't help feeling the distance within himself grow. The confusion he woke with grips the wheel with unprecedented curiosity.
"Do sit," Connor gestures an easy hand to the empty chair next to him, "we have to catch up."
-
His name is Sixty, formally. Sixty , he tests the sound of it but it doesn't quite strike the way he expects it to. It misses something, an edge, or a lilt that matched the serenity of rippled water. Sixty , or perhaps it's his voice that can't quite string it the way it's supposed to.
Hood raised and hands deep in pockets, Sixty idly walks without a destination in mind.
The sun is too bright, albeit setting, and he scoffs for a quicker nightfall; just as he wishes to settle the intensity of his new life and bask in the dullness of ignorance again. Perhaps, it was better if he did not know this was the life shackled to him.
Remnants of the falling sun cough out the last of its light into the coming night, like the speckles of streetlights blurring in a distance, impressionable but not dominant. It's how Sixty feels about the world around him, the breeze against his skin, the mindless chatter of passing crowds. Reality cuts through him like streaks of rainwater on a car window, and he's following it down with every will for it to stop while he catches his breath. The yellow parts of the sky are far too bright.
He can't quite shake it off, the nagging truth of his sunken sense of identity and an apartment full of sticky notes.
Sixty passes a bookstore. He catches his reflection in a golden light and stops. Amnesia.
He’s angry. Was he fated to await the moment he forgets again if only to relive the shock of waking up in a strange bed in a strange apartment that’s supposedly his own?
Chocolate stares back at him. His hair is tousled, and his clothes swallow him whole. He’s unrecognisable. Sixty sees beyond the glass window.
People meddle in happy heaps, whether stamped with a temple ring light or not, all warping in their perception of the world around. Fingers edge out to take a book in hand, read the contents, engross in the feel, blinking with the living condition to experience until they cannot experience anymore.
His feet move autonomously. People brush past unceremoniously as he walks in. The bookstore is packed. His hand pulls at a book between colourful stacks, unprompted.
It’s busy. The air is thick with age-old literature and wafts of perfume from the collective. Sixty focuses on the embellished lettering of the cover and swipes a thumb to let it print in his mind in an attempt to remember it.
The title sticks to his lips far better than his own name.
‘Remember To Love.’
He’s never held a book before. He’s not done much of anything before. Not that he can remember it anyway. A dry laugh huffs out of his chest; the title delivers an ugly stab of irony between artificial ribs but stings as though the pain was lowly human.
Chatter fades. The door jingles frequently as crowds work to replace those who left. Was this the consequence of being conscious? To live on such a plane off-kilter from faces around, coded with a curse to bear it alone?
What was the point?
"You know , if you open it, they'll be even more to read. "
Sixty startles, which itself encourages another considering his exclusive knickknacks would've noticed anything and everything in his surroundings. Maybe he isn’t all the same.
The first thing his optics fall to is that smile and its easy curves. The cracks in your lower lips are a novel sight, akin to the veins of autumn leaves.
A human has spoken to him. A human . In friendly conversation. The shock on his face must be nothing short of picturesque. Doubled at how long he figures he’s been standing awkwardly, staring at a book’s cover.
Your head tilts, patient in his stunned silence with a glazing edge in your pupils. A gentle curiosity locks his way, slack bait hanging off of a fishing line. It doesn’t pull him closer to you but doesn’t let him fall too far behind. Sixty fails to formulate a response.
"That book is pretty boring actually," you exasperate with a dismissing flick of your wrist, "too much drama, not enough action, if you know what I mean."
What?
(Not even preconstructed responses can save him.)
In a stolen moment, your brows hitch in sync with your chest but are swiftly replaced by the exaggerated smile of a guiding angel, or that of a child’s favourite mentor. Warmth that favours a mother to a lost kitten in broken alleyways.
"You look like it's your first day on Earth," you chuckle lightly.
This feels like too much.
You say your name. It pokes at the base of his heart. You wait expectantly for his reciprocal.
"Sixty." He says. It sounds foreign still.
You smile brighter, like the sun that woke him with a giddy 'I've found you'. Something is fizzling in your eyes. Android curiosity scans it again and again.
You cock your head to the world outside, "want me to give you a tour, Sixty?"
You say his name. He follows you like it’s the easiest thing he’s done today.
The sea meets him once more.
-.--.-
“Your name is Sixty. You have amnesia.”
The lettering is imperfect, surely it cannot be his own.
A scoff splutters akin to a wet gargle, as if the sea floor that chained his corpse liquified his innards into coarse crackles. The whites of his eyes are inexplicably growing just as his resolve shrinks.
Is this a fucking joke?
The furniture feels the brunt of his anger.
Whatever the hell was happening had to be some sick ploy, a malicious scheme to punish Sixty's nihilistic pre-deviant operations. A bladed jab for every objective he itched to pursue. Kick him whilst he's down.
Connor must be behind this. He has to be. For that crumpled edge in the corner of his eyes that seeped in the reflection of red temple rings, it must be that android's petty, subordinate revenge for Sixty using his Lieutenant as bait.
The apartment must pose as a means to mock his sorry state, to brandish his failures in the solid confines of solitary punishment. That wretched copy and his all-emotive facial plate ; Sixty digs his heels as if it were twisting on that Connor's neck, itching for the leeway of the first crunch and those staggering, desperate breaths that would follow.
Amnesia? Sixty remembers well how his chassis burned with a brittle shake. Sixty remembers the looming spark in the back of his head urging him to pull the trigger. Dealing with that sorry sack of alcoholism for a police lieutenant was enough of a pain...
Sixty falters.
The memories play the same though he feels another character is in play. Disembodied, yet latching on his back with wet tendrils like it wished to become an extension of him. Sixty cannot wield it like a limb, but it voices the contortions of his pump regulator just as well.
You disappoint me, pathetic fool. It sears, speaking for him when he's coded a mouth sewn shut.
Sixty slowly dips his head, letting his eyes catch on the palms of his hands.
Something's off. He's missing something. Even with the added ghoul that makes all his mistakes and fills the cracks with reason... he's carved hollow.
What the hell is going on?
Weeks pass and tides pull him back in.
-.--.-
“You have amnesia. Your name is Sixty.”
He slams his fists in fearful proximity to his pump regulator, straining stridor amidst harsh coughs as if his insides scurried to escape him. There is no water in his lungs.
The seaweed remains cuffed as he seeks answers. What's happening to me? Someone sits just over an arm's length across a desk from him, eyes peering over meticulous glasses as if they'd cost him a component to afford. White coat in faux medical aid and a personal office that did its best to sell Sixty of the man's competency. A professional, albeit human, but one who has the answers he's looking for.
However, when the man falls in conversation, Sixty drifts in the dull expanse of clouded memories. His mind pulls from the foreground. The former technician bobs his chin repeatedly that doesn't quite look like talking; Sixty can neither hear nor recognise the shape of those words.
The android's fingers tighten on the armrests, digging into the peeling vinyl and its spongy abscess. In its opening, creatures with spindly legs crawl up the back of his hand, biting through synthetic skin to the burrows of Sixty's flesh. The android is unable to draw air into his chest.
They crawl with needle-like legs. Sixty can't move. The mounds under his skin crawl faster. Sixty's voice has no weight.
Subject to the horned teeth that staple his plastic makeup with spotting blue blood, Sixty is paralysed. His eyes grow. They crawl up his neck.
He wants to scream. It's all too much.
"Would you like some help?" A faint voice offers behind him whilst he stands idly in a grocery store. The shelves stock unforgivingly in blinding variations of colourful foods, neither that would settle for appetising nor their exploited prices. Why the hell is he looking at food he can't eat?
Sixty regains his breath but his feet don't move. Snacks stretch in favour of a distraction. He finally turns to the voice that jolted him back; the eyes that meet him are the closest he's felt to his feet on the ground.
"Are you curious about our snacks? I've got recommendations if you're interested." You play a small smile, but the lift in your brows and the glaze in your eyes never settle.
It's strange. You're a face amongst many though he feels like the centre of yours. You look as if you've rushed to catch up to him.
" Su-" he croaks and then clears his throat, "sure."
And the water takes him again.
-.--.-
A crumpled paper ball of a tennis ball-yellow is stuffed in Sixty's jacket. He squeezes it tightly until faint marks indent on synthetic skin.
He's out of breath, but he can't find you.
Audio muffles by the overlay of memories, merry tinkles of your laughter, the shape of your voice snug in the space that felt hollow. Sixty runs through the streets in search of it again.
The line pulls taut. All he can think about is finding you. The water calls him back but he surfs the crowds instead.
You must be here. Sixty is in search of your head in the many. His phone has run dry, posing his feared reflection with all the desperation to seek. It's all going wrong. He just needs to find you.
The line loosens, tides rush to his ankles but Sixty pushes on. There must be some way. Someone you're with. Someone who knows you. But the existence around you splits into shaky pieces, uncertain and incomprehensible. He can't let that line go, not when it's finally in his grasp.
It's a losing battle.
-.--.-
"You have amnesia."
Why does he feel so exhausted?
The days spur on. The note. The chase. The staggering step in when he remembers your outline. Warmth leaves him every time his head falls in his hands, bound to the curse of reliving what cannot and will never be his.
Fate is a cruel feat. Sixty stands by the shore and waits for the tides to rise.
"Sixty. You have amnesia. I love you."
As he wakes up from a thrashing slumber, he notes the absence of kelp on his wrists. The memories spring up like hollow balls in a body of water.
He remembers everything; nothing tops the crushing guilt of having you wait so long.
The note. The pulsations under his fingers when he rests a hand over his heart. The hitch in his breath when the smell of your skin revisits his senses.
Water fills his lungs anyway.
"Your name is Sixty. This is where you live. You have amnesia."
The note. The chase. The reality.
The fate of the sea floor.
"This is your house. You have amnesia."
How can he accept the path fate carves for him?
"Your name is Sixty. You have amnesia."
How long is he supposed to do this?
"This is your apartment, Sixty. You have amnesia."
Sixty digs through the balls of yellow paper in his waste bin.
"You have amnesia."
They're all notes.
-.--.-
"You have amnesia. Your name is Sixty. This is your home."
There's a knock at his door.
In the tattered assortment of piling memories, never really starting or finishing anywhere as if they were pieces ripped out from the middle, Sixty exhales and opens the front door.
"Hey," you speak as such too, like the middle of a memory, wet lines down your cheeks with questions of why and when . Your voice is small, enough that he could roll it in his palm like one of those balled pieces of paper in his trash can.
Instinct makes him step back to let you in, but not enough to speak to the stranger of his new life. Your lower lashes clump wetly, the tips of leaves edging the stream of rainfall. You tighten your jaw.
There’s a mass that sloshes in his vessels the longer he looks at you, though he’s not sure what to call it. It’s weighted, mobile in the way it keeps knocking the wind out of him like a soccer punch to a little boy. Your eyes are wide and Sixty knows what to call that strain in your expression; it's hope.
Speak, his subconscious commands, bobbing his jaw open without knowing what to say. Your tears glisten freshly yet hold firm. Willing the world to halt so Sixty could take all the time in the universe to finally say something.
Do I know you? But something urges him to not ask. Seeing the wild nest of your hair and swollen eyes drives all his impulses to the ground except for one; muscle memory lifts his hand closer to you in what could feel like the most natural thing he's done in the past few weeks he's awoken.
But he falters halfway.
Sixty isn't quite sure why he let you in the first place, let alone why he entertained the thick glass between the two of you like he was breaking the walls of deviancy all over again. There is nothing of the sort in your scanned details to enrapture him, nothing to stop him from asking you to leave his apartment. You must be one of those people who existed in the lost parts of him, waiting expectantly for him to return.
It's been twenty-six days since he woke with no recollection of who he was or why he was here. Twenty-six days, though according to Connor, this charade had dragged beyond dozens of times over three years. Twenty-six days of his neighbours conversing like they intended to invite him to their weddings, twenty-six days of loitering faces, gazing at him pitifully.
'What a shame, isn't it? It's no way to live.'
Sixty died every time he forgot. The version they long to keep has slipped into the high tides for its ocean grave. Ironic, that he is misunderstood as some copy of an android that shares his liking. How bad must it be for Sixty to actually appreciate Connor's lack of prodding, despite still carrying that coiled resentment pre-deviancy?
You stand in his living room, hair thrashed, clothes dishevelled, cheeks warm due to friction with the knocking scent of alcohol. You're searching for a piece of him that doesn't exist. Even if your very presence calms the unstable writhing of his components, his mind has been made up.
A light sound escapes you, sounding like the huff of a cry, until it croaks again into a chortle. It's pained; Sixty can measure it in amplitudes, and your laughter rings on for a few more before a heavy sigh.
You're laughing? The smile you flesh out doesn't quite reach your eyes, except you look a taste manic with those damp and dilated pupils. It's wildly unexpected, and Sixty pulls up short; it throws a wrench right into his thoughts.
"You know ," you begin and Sixty snaps to the brittle notes of your voice. It's better than your laughing, "despite you being an android, I somehow feel like the one who's immortal."
You chuckle a little more, tilting your head back. It shakes your shoulders and takes you wholly.
"I really want to hate you," you don't look at him, "I really do. I want to more than anything. A right old sock to your face."
You glance at him before fixing to the plants on the tiny shelves. Sixty's silence stretches on.
"I didn't come here to fight. Or to get you to remember. I'm surprised you let me actually. Lucky day for me, huh?"
The android's pump regulator stutters. He feels as though he is not there.
Tension disperses from your joints as if they had lost against gravity and slumped in major defeat. The sag is paired with a staggered sigh. "I've been honouring our vows, Sixty. I really have. Even if you..." you sound raw, static, "even if you can't- aren't able to. I've been trying for so long. "
Vows? Vows. That's why you're here. You were married to that version of him lost at sea, not him, not him . The memories you search for have been driven ashore, photographs paled by the kicking currents of the ocean. Those memories have been worn out, faded. Sixty feels the loss like it's his own.
Tears fall irregularly and Sixty watches you cry with a churning in his chest... it's not quite guilt, nor the tickle of envy, but a combination of both. He knows if he asked you to jump, you would leap with all your might, but it doesn't belong to him. It's the same tickle of envy he felt when Connor's memories became his own.
Your love does not belong to him. It is not his. Perhaps, that is why the grief doubles in around his pump regulator.
"I'm tired, Sixty ."
It's not his. You're not his. The pain sears harder than before.
"I'm done. I can't follow you anymore."
It burns. The wires he'd tangled to fasten his resolve loosen unapologetically. He doesn't know why it hurts. Why is he mourning ? Why does grief bite his breath away in mock gentle kisses? It's alternative to the sour kick of the sea floor, doesn't quite slosh in his mouth in salt and muck as he expects. Instead, it solders his metal tubes into a spoiled clump, an acrid impression he can't swallow down or wash out.
The android feels hot despite being cold to the touch. In the few weeks of his new life, Sixty has never longed for the bits missing this hard before.
Twenty-six days. Your tears trickle but the pinch in your brows settles. You're the first to let him go. God it fucking burns. Why does it feel as if you'd packaged all of your hurt and gave it to him? The layers of glass between you two shake.
He can't breathe.
The glass cracks one by one. A hand clutches his chest; it's his own. Another plane of glass shatters. Your outline grows sharper.
Is this what he went through every time he remembered? This oppressive weight subject to twisting his joints all the wrong ways, pushing his eyes far back until they were lost in his own head. He feels like he's going insane.
Water crackles in his lungs.
No! Wait! Not when he's this close.
He steps to the few layers of glass you stand behind, a distance only he could see beyond the broken memories he'd cast at sea. Sixty's fist pulls back and lands solid and true.
Another plane gives way.
He punches again, mimicking how he first broke through the cage of his android walls. It burns too much. If this is his way forward, if he has to step up where you step back... he lands another blow.
Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!
It's almost see-through. The fishing line tightens around his fist with a definite hit. Crack! You're here. He sees you. Every note you left behind before kissing his forehead, thinking he was long resting. Every smile you chased him with despite rejected the reciprocation. In each of his fragments, for every time he forgot again, you followed close behind as the fellow pedestrian with a shared umbrella; the one who poked at him in a bookstore, the one who took him to the midst of Detroit river with a valentine's gift, fitting a silver band with the memory of your vows.
You're here. Sixty keels over. You're not following anymore. Sixty strangles a cry.
Warm arms slot him into the bubble of comfort only you can instil, kneeling in front of him to pull him tight. You're letting him go.
Please. He's only just... Not now.
You're not following him anymore.
"I love you, Sixty." Resonant for his chest so hollow, the vibrations of your voice linger like he was brandishing it into his steel skeleton.
You're not following anymore.
Sixty doesn't recognise the cries he lets out, the coughs he splutters to desperately rid any traces of ocean floor. He doesn't sound like himself. It's animalistic.
"I love you so much." You whisper between his breaths. God, he loves you too. Even if he forgot, his body remembered, at home in your love.
He loves you hopelessly, and he knows that means he must let you leave. For if he cannot fulfil his vows, you can't carry both halves in his shadow all by yourself. It's inevitably wasting you away. A pitiful curse, written as stars, to exist in the same sky but only catch the tail end of each other's light.
It truly hits, the tragedy of those balled-up notes, how they pile beyond measure with traces of foreign teardrops. Sixty clutches to you as if he were to break apart if he didn't. He feels pathetic. Small. Rotten in his biocomponents. He's a shell of a man, though he is full of the memory of you.
"I'm sorry," you speak into his neck. Sixty his head to encode the colour of your eyes. His thumb finds the edge of your lips, a supple and soft shape that would no longer smile at him whenever he looked over his shoulder. The android takes a moment amidst his breakdown to look at you if it's the last thing he'd do. The stray hairs around your eyebrows. Your cheeks, damp and tinted rouge. Your skin, smooth but textured, perfectly human.
Sixty finds that your features make up for his flaws.
I really love you. I love you too much.
Your lips meet naturally. Complete.
It's salty; whether from the looming threat of amnesia or the combined tears of the truth spilt, Sixty laps lavishly with his desperate tongue. To consume you through and through because it's in his hands now, to find you and take you back when he can, and lift that drawn-out burden off your shoulders. He can love you this way, even in times he doesn't spare you a second glance, doesn't recognise you in the crowd of many. Sixty kisses with the promise of finding you again, his vow, for when he doesn't forget, he will follow.
The android carries you with a heavy heart, slotting your bodies in the effortless flow of nature. He relishes in the gentle flex of your back under his palm when he lowers you into bed, lips never leaving yours.
He shuffles your clothes slowly, savoringly. Water riles up his throat. Sixty breaks away from you for the first time, taking to pressing tender kisses from the tips of your fingers, on the ring you still wear, up the soft expanse of your forearm.
The sound of impending tidal waves sing distantly.
"Let me carry the vows," he says low, broken like he hadn't spoken in weeks, "even if I forget..."
Tears fall off the tips of your eyes.
"...I'll follow."
" Sixty ."
You pull him to meet your lips again, tonguing in the language that speaks best. Your palm on his chest feels the racing beats that you saw in his eyes. You can also feel him spluttering too, but he makes no reaction to it.
Clothes strip at a languid pace. The urgency is heavy in the air but neither of you intends to rush things.
Forehead resting on yours, Sixty coats two of his fingers with saliva and dips between your legs, sharing the breaths you spill to take as his own. Your thighs flex at the newfound stretch, taut around his waist. He curls just where you like it.
The breathy notes you moan, the pinch in your brows, Sixty records them deep like an embellishment. A printed image of you on the surface of his artificial brain. He'll chase and chase just to see you like this again.
If only to make up for how long you've spent following him, Sixty can't begin the imagine the hurt that would've festered over the years. To catch your lover's eyes and have them look away confusingly, unaffected, where you itched for the moment the lightbulb struck and he loved you again. Fate was cruel, for the gift of sending such a person like you to him, and stringing the both of you out like parallel lines, only meeting when one breaks through the rules of their reality.
Lips mark the line of your jaw with traces of his tongue; your pleasure is perfected like it were the easiest thing for him to elicit. Your whines ring higher and faster and all Sixty can do is watch.
"Come for me," he rasps in the small space, transfixed on the fine contortions of your pleasure-drunk face. The android dips to kiss hard yet chaste, "I'll always make you come for me."
The night is lasting. Even though the sun has set, you've still found him beyond the horizon and splashed him anew. Your leg is pinned to his chest, foot over his shoulder whilst he paces himself to the glorious cacophony of your reactions. He's not quite worked you up like this before, in any of the passionate, urgent bed-rutting he's previously taken to, because despite the looming reality of his amnesia, he feels like he has all the time in the world.
Long, full thrusts to repeatedly remind you of his presence, even if fleeting, will always return. Sixty juts particularly hard and your nails scratch his abdomen with a pornographic wail. It drives him wild.
Sixty drives you to the brink again, selfishly pulling orgasm after orgasm for the solemn depths of his mind. He needed to take everything he could. The bed creaks loudly, meshed in the lewd sounds of his hips snapping against yours. Sixty squeezes your hand until the ring on your finger makes an indent on his plastic shell.
You plead for the sweet release over and over again. Until your eyes roll back, driven to the recesses of your mind with a pathetic range of vocabulary, not that Sixty would want it any other way.
The ocean calls him back, lapping at his knees. Sixty kisses you again and again and again until he feels numb.
' To never forget ', Sixty tucks his head against your neck, grunting loud into your ear whilst he fucks you until the early hours.
' And to always follow ,' you pant together, his hands cradling your face, and the words are left unspoken.
They ring loud anyway.
I'll find you.
-.--.-
The day praises Sixty's bedroom with a flurry of golden light. The birds chirp young and free, reminiscent of little children in a playground. Sixty wakes with salt in his mouth.
A note dangles from the wall above, Sixty twists his neck back to read the perfect letters.
ooh from the nightmare/sleeping prompt list, 2 or 4?
Linger
rk800-60 (Sixty) x Reader
Nightmare/sleeping prompt #4 - "Let me stay. I can make you breakfast in the morning." (for more prompts, you can find my collection of prompt lists here)
Note: The vibe of this fic is the same as a Sixty x Reader series I've been working on for some time now, so this may or may not take place in that same universe, but for now it is absolutely just a oneshot haha.
Warnings: Fairly vague smut, mentions of sex (hard to have vague smut without that).
Word Count: 654
One of the ways that you could always tell when Sixty was close was the way his would hands start moving all over your body, as if he couldn't decide where he wanted them to be when he finished.
He groaned from where he was hovering above you, his breath hot on your neck as his fingers gripped at your hips, thighs, breasts, and hair, shifting their focus over and over again before finally settling on your hips once more.
You gasped at the feeling of his firm hands squeezing at your delicate flesh, back arching slightly as Sixty pushed you further and further into over stimulation, his pace relentless as he drove himself to the brink of orgasm, until finally, he came with a loud groan, his grip tightening and relaxing over and over.
He remained like this for a few more moments before he pulled out of you with a grunt, collapsing at your side just as you rolled onto your back, face flushed and chest rising and falling quickly as your heart rate settled.
You stared up at the ceiling for a moment, relishing in the quiet before finally turning your gaze toward your colleague turned friend with benefits, finding him already watching you with a familiar glint in his eyes.
"What?"
You asked, barely resisting the urge to cover yourself with the blanket as Sixty shrugged from where he was laying down beside you.
"Nothing, I was just thinking about how much fun Chen and Person are gonna have with you tomorrow when they see all those marks on your neck."
He teased, and you groaned in exasperation, grabbing the pillow he had used to cushion your knees earlier to smack him as he continued to laugh at your embarrassment.
Huffing, you glared at him as he snatched the pillow out of your grip just as you reared back to hit him again, though he only smirked in response, causing you to roll your eyes before you tossed your arm over them.
"Remind me why you're still here?"
You questioned, eyes still covered as Sixty moved beside you, no doubt making himself comfortable in response to your query.
"What, you aren't gonna beg me to stay this time?"
He teased, and instantly you were sitting up in bed, blanket clutched to your chest as you glared at your coworker again.
"I have never once even considered begging you to stay, asshole."
You scolded, watching as Sixty raised a brow before shrugging,
"Guess you just never had to say it out loud, I must know you too well."
You could tell that he was actively trying to get on your nerves at this point, but you crossed your arms regardless, refusing to let him win this time.
"Oh would you shut it already? You're the one who made the rules, Six, what the hell do you even want to stay here for?"
He chuckled and leaned back against your pillows, sighing as he watched you intently,
"Maybe I just want to switch things up a little."
You regarded him with uncertainty, refusing to let your guard down despite your obviously vulnerable state.
"And what's in it for me?"
You questioned hesitantly, causing Sixty to laugh before he finally answered, scooting closer to you as he did so.
"C'mon, let me stay."
He urged, though he must have seen the remaining uncertainty in your eyes, because he was quick to continue,
"I can make you breakfast in the morning."
At that, you smirked, flopping down onto your back beside him once more as you made yourself comfortable again.
"Well why didn't you just lead with that?"
You teased, watching as Sixty rolled his eyes before he settled in on the other side of the mattress, watching as intently as he would allow himself to as you drifted off into a peaceful slumber that he found himself wishing he could follow you into.
