Disclaimer: I do not own Detroit: Become Human

Rating: T

Words: 4,549

Warnings: language

Connor Needs Help Because Those Mods Shouldn't Be THAT Attractive

In the wake of the android revolution, many things had changed, to Connor's understanding. His kind had gained autonomy, the right to work, the right to vote, the right to own property (even though there were people that still denied them), and many others that Markus was working hard to obtain for them every day.

Thirium-based foods had risen to popularity incredibly quickly due to companies pouncing on the idea of a new group of people whom they could make a profit. Connor did not complain about this as the idea of eating was fascinating. Because the feeling was not one he was partial in experiencing often, he did not eat to the frequency as other androids were wont to do.

Nines, for example, had discovered he loved eating.

His successor snacked on thirium-based foods almost constantly. Connor found that endearing as he was aware there were not many things in which Nines allowed himself to indulge. It was a rarity when Nine's breath did not smell like whatever food he had been eating, but it was not a bad thing as it was often sweet.

That was not the only thing Connor had discovered about his predecessor, oh no.

There was something even worse.

(Or better, depending whom he asked.)

While thirium foods had boomed post-revolution, modifications were an equally popular rival. Soon, it had become commonplace to see androids with all varieties of mods ranging from hair colors that were not the normal human set (purple and neon blue were the top two most requested), height adjustments, and other cosmetic changes.

As it turned out, Nines jumped on the modding bandwagon quicker than anyone expected.

Connor did not find that out until the DPD Halloween party.

He kind of wished he had found out sooner.

After being forced to take a mandatory week of paid medical leave—because according to Captain Fowler, "being shot in the damn head means at least one week, Connor, and I don't want to hear your whole 'functioning within normal parameters' spiel either" meant that he had been required to stay at home. To his fortune, he had Sumo to keep him company along with Hank when he returned home early from desk duty.

The duty of the damned, if he were to quote him.

As luck would have it—Hank had told him that 'Lady Luck' had a mean vendetta against him for some reason—that one week had turned into a one-month leave.

The injury had caused several unexpected repercussions. The lingering pain had been somewhat expected—although his calculated probability of having little to no pain had been higher than the outcome—but the memory problems and glitches in his jaw and eye had been troubling, to say the least.

Until just last week, his short-term memory files had kept corrupting themselves to the point where he had problems remembering small, though important details. The risk had been too great for Connor to work when the problem had first been discovered, hence the extended medical leave. The injury had grazed a portion to the actuator that controlled his jaw, so he had been left with a jaw the clenched around his words sometimes. He understood, then, how humans could develop tension and stress headaches from constantly clenching their teeth. In addition, the shot to his head had caused a thirium bleed to his optical unit, rendering it useless. Because of his model line and his prototype nature, it had taken a while to procure a replacement as no other units were available for his RK800 model. (Nines had offered his as they were compatible, but Reed had complained that he did not want a pirate for a partner. When Nines had instead offered to just swap optical units, his ice blue for Connor's deadened black and blue one, Reed had just made a disgusted face while Hank had claimed that "swappin' parts like some old computer seems like a sure-fire way to contract an android STD or something.")

Nines's rebuttal that androids could not contract STDs of any form had been ignored.

Needless to say, Connor had gone several weeks without a functioning optical unit.

The android detective was just relieved and happy that he had managed to be repaired enough to even attend this event. Sans the continuing problem with his jaw actuator, still present but on the mend, he was within 96.8% efficiency. This would be Nines and Connor's first time at the department Halloween party, so of course Connor found himself quite excited.

There were numerous decorations strewn throughout the bullpen—black paper bats taped near everyone's desks, a little candy dish by the receptionist desks, and plastic pumpkins dotting themselves in various spots. Someone was streaming a "spooky" soundtrack playlist from their phone into the wireless speakers, and the song that was streaming currently was one that he had heard three times before. Nonetheless, the rhythms of the remixed version of "Spooky Scary Skeletons" was pleasing to his audio processors.

He looked around, happy to see most of his coworkers in good spirits. Detective Reed and Nines, who had arrived earlier, were making conversation with Officer Chen. Hank, despite his grumpiness in coming to the party, was surprisingly behaving himself as he talked with Captain Fowler at his desk. Connor had a high suspicion that the spiked punch—with a low alcohol content of 4.5%—in the Lieutenant's hand had something to do with it. It was the first time in the past few months that Hank allowed himself to have something alcoholic, still on the mend from years of hard alcoholism. Connor was proud of Hank's progress with his recovery.

"Connor!" Officer Chen waved him over to her, Gavin, and Nines's spot at a corner table near the breakroom. Although still in uniform as she had just completed her shift, she had apparently managed to find some time to paint her face and turn herself into what appeared to be a stitched-up Frankenstein—or more correctly, Frankenstein's monster.

Oh, how delightful!

"Good evening, Officer Chen, Detective Reed," he nodded to the two of them with a smile, the good mood of the party being quite infectious. Internally, he sent a ping to Nines along with the projected feelings of joy and excitement. For his humans, who were distinctly lacking compatible internal communication software and hardware, he gave an audible, "Nines."

On the outside, Nines, whose costume of choice was a simple combination of a vest, cape, and painted blue line dripping from the corner of his mouth (a wonderfully simple vampire costume), dipped his head with a tweak of his lips. The ping he sent in return had the expected calmness and happiness, but there was an undercurrent of something less expected.

Was that…mischievousness? From Nines?

As much as the curious RK800 wanted to inquire about it, he came to the conclusion that Nines would tell him when he was ready. Whenever that would be—his predecessor had been slowly growing a devious streak as of recent, wordplay not intended.

Nines handed him a clear plastic cup of an orange liquid. Observing its viscosity as he rolled it around in the cup, Connor took note that it was of a similar level as thirium. Without taking a sample of it, however, he could not say that it was thirium for a fact. (Hank had informed him with great vehemence that it was 1) gross and 2) rude for him to stick his fingers in random things and sample them in front of people.) Now, he enjoyed being contrary with Hank on a good day, but he refrained from sampling in order to behave himself. "What is this? Surely you would not hand me a human drink, so I am assuming this is thirium-based."

"It is dyed thirium," Nines said, taking a sip of his own drink. "The same company that manufactures my preferred gummies has created orange-colored thirium for Halloween. The additive that allows for it to stay orange and not turn brown thickens it, making it more viscous than its original state. It has the same consistency as a milkshake."

"How intriguing," he muttered as he looked at it then sipped it. Louder he said, "Thank you."

"Of course. I was saving it for you, Eights." His nickname was spoken much softer than the rest of what Nines said, and it made something in the advanced systems and biocomponents in Connor's chest skip. That, and the thought of Nines holding on to one drink for him the entire time he was waiting for Connor made a string of warm code flutter through his systems.

(He would not mind hearing his name come from Nines's lips like that again.)

Reed, who was dressed as a werewolf, face paint accentuating the hair on his face and deepening the shadows in the appropriate spots, clicked his tongue as he leveled him an unamused look. "Connor, for the love of fuck, just call me Gavin. You literally got shot in the head last month. I think formality's kinda taken a backseat at this point." The slight slur caused by the plastic fangs attached to his canines, nigh unnoticeable to a human but quite present to an android's sensors, permeated his speech.

It made him sound a note silly, although in Connor's honest opinion, Reed—Gavin—did not need help sounding foolish.

He did that enough on his own.

Officer Chen winced at the mention of Connor's injury and flicked Re—Gavin on the arm before turning her attention back to Connor. "As usual, this idiot has no tact whatsoever," she ignored the tongue that was stuck out at her in order to retaliate and flick the fake dog ears sitting on Gavin's head, "but what he meant to say was that you don't have to be so uptight around us! Just call me Tina."

"Of course, Officer—excuse me, Tina," he corrected. Formality was deeply ingrained his code to the point of being a comfort, but perhaps making an effort to become more causal would benefit his relationships with his coworkers.

[New Mission Objective: Become more causal with coworkers and friends.]

[Mission Objective List—updated]

"Glad to see you could make it!" She beamed at him. She hip-checked Nines, gently as if he did not have a sturdy plastimetal frame, to make room for Connor at the table. Being the tall, built RK900 that he was, Nines more than likely moved of his own accord rather than Tina's jostle, but was more than likely just appeasing her. "I'm pretty surprised that you didn't dress up or anything for this, though. I thought you would've wanted, you know, the full experience and everything for your first Halloween."

In his burnt-orange cardigan, speckled light gray button-up, and black jeans and shoes, he replied, "I had difficulties choosing which costume I would have wanted to wear the most." At least he was dressed in Halloween-themed colors.

Gavin squinted at him. "So you didn't have, like, a million dog-related costumes you were going to pick from?"

He felt heat in his cheeks. He was positive they were flushed blue. "For your information, there were only thirty-seven dog costumes I was stuck between." He paused, only to add sheepishly, "I ended up taxing my processors as I weighed the pros and cons between each individually."

"Why didn't you just have Hank pick one for you? He would have just picked the first one he'd seen just to get it over with."

"Hank said that if I had not picked one within the time limit, I would not come with a costume."

Tina asked, "Time limit? Did it take you the whole month to figure out all you costume choices? And you still couldn't figure out one?"

"…I had until five o'clock today."

Although the laughter fizzed around the table, Connor did not feel laughed at as the butt of a joke. Rather, he felt even more comfortable, a little looser. In his short time as a living being, he was continuously surprised by the fact that he had people around him that wanted him to be in their company. He was not complaining about it, but could not help but notice it, nonetheless.

They continued to make casual conversation, flitting between topics such as favorite Halloween traditions and the general air of the holiday. Gavin recounted that his favorite part of the holiday would always be dressing up. The unexpected remainder of that statement was that he liked to do so in order to entertain children. "Kids love that shit, you know?" was his explanation. "Seeing them all excited and wound-up just 'cause I decided to wear something for Halloween is pretty cool. Especially the little kids that just crack up giggling, it's so fucking adorable."

Connor simply blinked.

[File: Detective Gavin Reed—opened]

[Edit File: Reed has a soft spot for children and enjoys making them happy.]

[File: Detective Gavin Reed—updated]

"Oh, my sweet Jesus, Gavin, you're a sap."

"Shut up, Tina."

Tina then regaled them about all the various wonders of the massive amounts of sweets that were permissible in October. Chocolate and hard fruit candies were a requirement, it seemed. To be more specific, Hershey's and Jolly Ranchers. "I'm not going to lie to you guys—I have a massive sweet tooth. My roommate, bless her with all the graces, is such a sweetie because she knows of my sweet tooth and goes out and buys a ten-pound bag of candy bright and early on October 1st. If I'm lucky and, you know, actually pace myself, I can make it last maaaybe through half the month." Grinning, she poked Nines's shoulder. "I bet you can relate to that, huh, Nines? Don't think I didn't hear about that incident with the thirium cookies and the fridge and the tater tots."

Nines's eyes slid to examine the contents of his cup. "I am afraid I have no idea to what you are referring."

"I think the hospital fee we were charged would say otherwise," Gavin snarked.

Connor hid his amused smile behind his hand as Nines sent Gavin a rather baleful look. It was either the human's willpower (unlikely) or sheer magnitude of assholery (highly probable) that kept him from disintegrating under that look.

"Ignore them, Connor. Gavin was dropped on his head as a baby, which has given him Chronic Dumbass Disease. Since they're living together, I'm sad to say that he's probably gone and infected our favorite Terminator over here by mere proximity," Tina leaned in and faked a stage whisper, making Connor giggle.

It was more a cross between a servo clicking and a huffy of breath, but could be classified as a giggle by human standards.

Eventually the conversation moved from candy and treats to movies.

"I do believe that Nines has watched a few too many Halloween and slasher movies with Hank and I," Connor supplied with a smile, taking a sip of his dyed thirium. "He has taken a particular interest in criticizing the monsters that often appear in such media."

Nines defended himself as he took another sip of his thirium, "I find them fascinating, both the movies themselves and the monsters. It is interesting to see all the kinds of creations and creatures that humans have come up with, only with more creative ones emerging every year." His sneer at Gavin was more of amusement than ridicule. "I suppose that is why I allowed Gavin to leave the apartment in his current state. A werewolf is fascinating, even if one looks like a trash mongoose."

"Trash mongoose?!" Gavin spluttered with indignation as Tina laughed and Connor let loose a snicker of his own. The trash man in question narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger at his roommate, who was polishing off his drink like a satisfied feline. "First off, rude. Second off, I'll have you know I put effort into this costume."

"Five minutes does not an effort make."

Before an argument could start between the two, the advanced model android took it upon himself to remove himself from the situation. If he stayed, he was not sure he could prevent himself from taking a side, no matter how…ergonomic Gavin's costume was. He tapped Tina lightly on the elbow, gesturing his head to their bickering friends. "Would you make sure they do not end up killing one another? If you will excuse me, I think I should check on Hank."

Tina shooed him off. "No worries, go to that grump. If these two haven't killed each other living in the same place, I'm sure Gavin's shoddy costume won't be the cause of a murder."

With permission granted—though as a free deviant, he did not need one's permission to act—he made his way towards Hank's desk. Just before he arrived, he watched as Fowler made a beeline towards the precinct entrance, looking like he had his own mission objective in mind. A thread of concern code shot through his systems. His optics shot to see if Hank shared any of that concern, but from the almost amused look on his face, Connor came to the conclusion that the Captain's departure was nothing to worry. If anything, it only made him more curious.

The sound of a child laughing just by the entrance only confirmed his conclusion. A moment later and the Captain returned, holding Officer Miller's son, Damian, in his arms. The toddler was happily clutching at Fowler's tie, dressed as a bright orange pumpkin complete with a fabric little pumpkin top as a hat. (Connor captured a photo for two reasons: 1) Damian Miller was a delightfully adorable child, and 2) he could send the photo to Officer Miller later as he loved having pictures of his son.) Behind the Captain trailed in Officer Miller—an equally bright pumpkin pin on his uniform shirt—making silly faces at Damien who was giggling at him.

It was nice to know that his strict Captain had a soft spot for children and that Damian Miller was growing to be a happy child.

[File: Captain Jeffrey Fowler—opened]

[Edit File: Fowler enjoys being around children and is endeared to Officer Miller's son in particular.]

[File: Captain Jeffrey Fowler—updated]

Connor perched himself, neat and prim, on Hank's desk, plucking an errant piece of candy from the cracked cup of wrapped treats. Beginning to roll it between his fingers, he smiled at the (semi) annoyed look that Hank shot at him.

"I think you're getting a bit too comfortable using my desk as a seat, Con," Hank said in way of greeting."

"We both know you do not care, Hank."

His friend sighed as leaned back on his chair, peering around Connor to look at the table of three occupants he had just abandoned. He pointed his cup of spiked punch to the them. "Did you get bored of listening to Reed complain about no one appreciating him, or did you come to have me break it up? Wait," he peered more closely, frown starting to appear, "is Reed heckling Nines again? Do I have to go rescue that idiot from being killed by him?"

Connor hoped he projected reassurance with his smile. "No, I do not believe so. To be fair, I think they both enjoy annoying the other from my observations." He followed Hank's gaze in order to watch Nines and Reed.

To an outsider, the smirk on Nines' face would be read as condescending. To Connor, who knew him much better than that, it was of (thinly) veiled mirth. His predecessor looked delighted at Gavin's suffering as he told him what he was researching about werewolves in real time. Connor was glad he had tuned in at just the right moment for his audio processors to pick up Nines telling Gavin about the internet's apparent fascination with werewolf phalluses and knots. (Connor put the research topic of werewolf knots—whatever those were—on his subroutine list.) Nines's processors were much faster than his own. As Connor watched him supply detail after detail with confidence to a quickly reddening Gavin, the urge to preconstruct what Nines's mouth would look like parted instead of that smirk was becoming increasingly more tempting.

Hank tapped his cup of punch on his desk, prompting Connor to snap his attention back to him. Hank did not comment on his staring, thank rA9. "He seems pretty into werewolves."

"I assumed that was quite apparent."

"You know, your sarcasm module could use with some back burner time. Anyway, like I was saying, you think maybe he likes them so much because his, uh, Other traits are kind of like that?"

Connor looked at the Lieutenant for a moment, the question not being one that he was expecting. "Could you be more specific, Hank?" Surprise colored his question.

The older man snorted. "Don't sound so shocked, Con. My brain hasn't given up on me yet. What I mean is that you and Nines got that whole Otherworldly thing going on. You're like an octopus," he ignored that displeased face Connor made, "and Nines is like a hound. Ask Gavin—he'll tell you the same."

Well, he supposed that was a fair point.

Hank continued, "Maybe he took an interest in werewolves because he can relate to them or something? That dog thing with his shadows seems to be close to being werewolf-like. Plus, he growls something that's not quite like a person—you can't tell me you haven't noticed that."

Connor had noticed that.

It often made his audio processors, to use a human description, tingle.

"Statistically, it is safe to say that Halloween might be his favorite holiday so—"

A choked, high-pitch scream broke the calm atmosphere of the party, causing Connor to whip his attention to the source, systems thrown into alertness. What he saw, however, was not what he expected and will be forever burned into his memory banks. Gavin, the source of the piercing scream, was leaning back away from Nines, one hand clenching the table he had been leaning on and the other gripping on the fabric over his heart. Tina seemed to be enthralled and entertained as she was fixed on Nines with a look that was both disbelieving yet overjoyed. This was not what was causing Connor to go into a minor system failure, no.

All the fault settled on Nines.

His predecessor had his lips pulled back in a demonstrative snarl, teeth pointed like a shark and lower jaw unhinged, lined with equally sharp teeth—fangs, more accurately. His optics had shifted from his cool ice blues to something much more unnatural, the irises blazing a Copper (I) Chloride fire-cyan as they were surrounded by the ink-black pools of his sclera. (1) The image of Nines leaning over the table, modded to allow his features to look something less human and more monstrous, was something the poor RK800 had no words for, even with his advanced systems and connection to magnitudes of databases.

Seeing Nines in that deadly display of his caused a distinctly nonhuman—Otherworldly—and powerful feeling of want to course through him. It almost caused his knees to give out under him.

That display—that burning power behind those black-blue optics and the promise of injury lining those fangs—caused Connor to drop the piece of candy that he had been rolling over his fingers. He swallowed deeply. There were at least five notifications on his HUD of his rising temperature, the slight increase of his thirium flow, and the gathering of sterilization fluid (his synthetic saliva) in his mouth. He was aware, from the increased heat radiating from the synthskin of his cheeks, that there was a high probability that they were flushed a dark blue. He swallowed once more. That intense want swelled in him again, and he had to restrain his shadows from reaching out.

All he could think was, Oh, rA9, please help me.

His plea was not answered, no. In fact, it was veritably ignored and thrown in his face because the situation became so much worse.

The reaction from Gavin apparently pleased Nines to the utmost because now he was laughing. It was not his usual huff of air or quiet chuckle. It was a full, loud laugh, one that he had to hide behind his hand and that colored his cheeks a beautifully pale blue. His shoulders were shaking because of how much he was laughing. His optic mods must not have transitioned away fully, because the irises of them were positively glittering with that strong cyan, like light bouncing and diffracting through and off of ice sheets. The skin around was his optics were crinkled with mirth. All of this shattered the picture of a terrifying and intimidating person that Nines liked to create for himself, and all that was left (for Connor) was this freer, softer form of an RK that was becoming more endearing by orders of magnitudes.

(He would do anything to see Nines like this every day for the rest of his given life.)

The laughter began to subside only to be ramped back up when Nines accidently snorted.

Connor felt something sparking in his chest—electric and strong—as he heard a long keening sound coming from somewhere.

Oh, that was himself.

So this is what a regulator-attack feels like.

As he watched the absolute circus that this party was turning into, Hank felt like he should get a promotion in the very least. I swear to God, he thought as he took a very long and measured sip of his punch, quite possibly the only thing keeping him grounded, this was not what I was expecting when I got up this morning. It was like being surrounded by children—which, in all fairness, a lot of the people he worked with were younger than him (sans Jeff).

He took one look at Connor, who was still staring at Nines like some love-struck gal from the classic movies, and just shook his head. Oh, the poor guy had it bad. It was rare to see Connor so stricken and still, but the whole blueberry-impersonation his face was doing reassured Hank that he wasn't malfunctioning—or maybe he was with that broken keening noise—and just, you know, pining.

Around him, the other members of the precinct were in states of both amusement (Tina and Chris) and terror (about ten others). A blonde-haired office that he was not familiar with was staring at the two RKs with something akin to wide-eyed bewilderment and a smidge of fear. "These are the guys that were hired to work here since last year? Oh God, what have we done?"

Ben slotted himself closer to the officer as he gave them a hearty pat on the back. "Eh, just look at it this way. Our approval rates have gone up since Connor and Nines have started working here and the cases solved have gone up, too." He laughed, "We don't really got a choice but to keep 'em!"

Hank took another look at Connor then yet another one at Nines.

He sighed and looked up to the ceiling.

"How is this my life now?"

Published: 5/28/19

(1) Copper (I) Chloride (copper-one chloride) produces a blue fire when burned.

A/N: Thank you all for being patient with me as I wrote this! I know this chapter is two weeks late, so I tried making it a bit longer to compensate. My May-semester class ate up so much of my time because it was accelerated, so I didn't get a chance to finish this up until now.