Disclaimer: I do not own Detroit: Become Human
Words: 1172
Warnings: slurs and android hate speech.
(liketolaugh inspired me to write this with their as from tumblr. They're a cool author, so check them out!) I did not expect that this would me my first DBH fic, but here it is! Hope you all enjoy it! I am very weak for complex, soft Nines. He is an interesting character to explore.
I'm also pretty shocked that Nines (Upgraded Connor | RK900) isn't a character choice! What the heck? I'm so used to AO3, omg.
The Spilled Feelings of a Metal Man
Nines stumbles across at videos thanks to one of the officers of the DPD. It was an officer he does not see often, but the video they had shared stuck in his mind. He finds himself interested? It catches him by surprise. At first, all he can think about is, "How could this possibly be art?" but then leads him to wondering, "Why is this considered art?" Because everything he looks up gives him conflicting results, he decides to figure out the answer himself, pragmatic as ever.
He decides to try art for himself.
He tries painting as a first step. After all, it is rather self-explanatory to simply use pigments to recreate what he sees in front of him. That is art, is it not? The painting in front of him is a perfect replica of the bowl of fruit he had set up. A classic subject to use as a still-life, he had discovered in his research.
He shows Connor, truly, the only being he feels comfortable showing something he created with his own two hands, and his predecessor smiles and compliments him, saying how the replica looks amazing, but it has no feeling. Nines is totally confused. How could art have feeling? Is it not just recreating what he sees?
The answer he receives is, "Not quite. Try creating something that evokes an emotion from you, Nines."
Nines, in typical Nines-fashion, doubles down on his efforts. He tries paper crafts, wire working, pottery, clay sculptures, and more, yet nothing seems right. Nothing seems to evoke the "emotional" response he wants.
His frustration grows after each failed attempt, and it is starting to bleed through to his job. He is just a little too short with a suspect one day which–he still tries to process how in the world it had even happened–leads to a riot of six different men exploding in anger. Slurs and profanities are thrown in his direction, hissing words and profane phrases like "plastic freak" and "unfeeling walking metal trash heap" are shouted; worse things he wishes not to repeat. Professional as ever, he does not let the words affect him visually on the outside, much preferring to keep it to himself (as awful as it made him feel). But, this leads to murmurs floating in the DPD when he stepped back in.
"Do you see that?" they say.
"It's like nothing phased him," they whisper.
"Maybe he just doesn't feel after all," they conclude.
Nines pretends that doesn't hurt him as much as it does.
But it does.
When he goes home, he looks at all his failed creations with contempt. Failed tries at art, to be expected of a being that was just a machine. Absentmindedly, he heaves himself into a chair at the table and begins to pick apart a soda can that Gavin left behind earlier that day. He doesn't stop ripping tiny pieces of metal from the can until there is not can left in his hand. He blinks, looks down, and sees a small pile of red, silver, and black pieces of thin metal on his table.
His preconstruction software itches to boot up, but he flicks it away. With no plan in mind–which was so unlike him–he begins to arrange the pieces, one by one, into something….well, into something. The memories of the rioting men surge to the forefront of his processor, bringing along the sour feelings that accompany them.
"Unfeeling machine!" one man had yelled.
He is not a machine. He pinches a silver piece into a fold in the middle.
"Plastic abomination!" had been a favorite.
He is not an abomination–he is a living being. He places several black pieces in a trailing pattern, one after the other.
"Soulless thing."
He is 99.9% positive he has a soul, or at least the android-equivalent of a soul. There is saline-thirium solution that is pricking at his optical units, but he ignores the prompt to release it even though he wishes to just sit there and cry.
All the metal pieces are used up, and to his utter surprise, he has created something…beautiful. There is a miniature being standing on his table, a man made of silver and garbed in a jacket of red Coca-Cola metal. The black pieces had been formed to depict weeping eyes and a whimpering mouth, one black metal flake representing a falling tear. The rest of the black pieces are clustered in the center of the little metal man, gathering in its–his–chest like a tarred flowering bud. The chest weeps its own secretion, all of black metal, while the silver hands cover it as they try to hold everything in.
Nines does not realize he is clutching his own chest with his hands. Does not realize that there is fluid leaking from his own eyes.
He goes to see Connor the next day.
This time, Connor's smile is both one of empathy and pride. He hugs his successor gently in his arms, rubs his hands up and down the other's white blazer–not property of Cyberlife. "I am truly sorry that you were so upset Nines. Hearing terrible phrases like that are not easy, I know. I know all too well." He pulls away from the embrace and holds Nines's creation in his hands. "But despite a bad situation, look at this work of art that you have created. It's amazing and beautiful and it represents what you were feeling. You've created such an emotional piece of art, Nines. You did a wonderful job."
Metalworking is his calling, Nines realizes, especially creating metal sculptures.
He evolves from soda cans to assembled sculptures made of found metal scraps around the city. He feels a sort of kinship to the metal he works with. Such hard and rough materials–most people would stay away from the often rusty and broken shards of pointy and sharp scraps, but not Nines. No, Nines likens himself to the metal he works with: metal is traditionally thought of as unfeeling, unrelenting, and unforgiving. Nothing like the soft, colorful, and vibrant mediums like paint or pastels. Metal, like himself, is assumed not to feel. Yet, people do not realize that all of these assumptions are incorrect.
This thought is at the forefront of his processor, several months later, when he debuts his first piece in a public gallery with Markus's help.
(Connor had encouraged Nines to display his work publicly, much to the RK900′s friction. He had relented after much prodding–how could he say no to Connor's doe-brown eyes?)
The Spilled Feelings of a Metal Man wins top marks and even better offers of money as it stands ten feet above him, clutching its chest like its prototype had in his kitchen all those months ago. Many android-positive groups and newspapers praise him for his thought- and emotion-provoking piece.
I may be metal, Nines thinks as he reaches to his creation, the mirror of his own struggles, but I am alive and here.
Published: 3/17/19
A/N: Drop a review and let me know what you think. I hope you all enjoyed this! I actually have an upcoming fic series centered around Nines and Connor that I will be writing soon, so stay tuned for that as well!