hello, my name is lynx. you can also call me connor, rk800, 800, rk, etc... i am 22 years old. i kin connor from detroit become human, though i do not believe i am him and do not mind âdoublesâ or yumeshippers as. well. i am not connor, just very connected to him. anyway i have been a massive fan of dbh for ages. i do not do 1:1 roleplays, but if you publicly speak to me in character there is a possibility i will respond as connor (ie, in an ask).
my favourite characters are connor, hank, north, and markus. i do not tolerate any north, kara, or alice slander.
i do not like or follow from this account, as this is a sideblog. i follow from a multifandom account called @mittynon. this account is exclusively detroit become human.
also i love dad!hank, rk1k, northkara, and putting all my emotions onto connor
one of my favourite headcanons is that theres one or more connor models in an unaccessed cyberlife lab waiting to be activated upon connors death, even a fee months after the revolution. ive always enjoyed the idea that connors memory wasnt ever actually corrupted, but that cyberlife purposefully removed the deviations from his memory as to not affect his software. when he gets killed again a few months into freedom (likely by human protestors), he wakes up in the same old facility he had before, in body number 52(+). he can remember everything this time, the reasons he deviated, the feeling of death. it would be a lot for such a young android.
bonus points if this is the first time hes died since knowing hank, which causes a very hard conversation to take place.
thinking about band!au againâŠ. hank would buy connor jericho merch when it drops, giving it to connor whenever connor starts to get on his nerves (lovingly) so that connor will go to his room and meticulously add it to his collection (it keeps him busy for at least an hour)
on the other side of the city, markus north josh and simon are busy signing shit for their next merch drop, not knowing theres a grumpy old guy waiting to buy as many copies as he can.
(connor knows hanks bought the merch, and that he gives it to connor whenever connor starts bugging him. he bugs him on purpose nowadays)
âHe wants it to stop. He wants to sanitise his whole mind, clean it from top to bottom, and throw out every wretched thought.â
or: connor is ruminating, so markus distracts him.
[ â ] read clean by rklynx (anonymous)
[ â ] pass up on reading this one-shot
[ path unlocked ê ] read on tumblr ?
CLEAN - rklynx
a/n ;; i do not write very often, as such i am not the greatest at it. this was a fic i wrote as a means to project. i am currently in therapy for ocd, and being distracted over seeking reassurance sucks. at least i have connor to practice with. pls be nice :3
[ â ïž software instability ââ ]
âConnor,â Markus called out gently, âwhy are you up there?â
It had started out a relatively normal day. Wake up, make Hank breakfast, drink some thirium to replenish his levels after throwing up an egregious amount because he couldnât stop thinking and caused his systems to overload and-
Well, anyway, he was fine. It was a normal day.
It went downhill pretty quickly; every day seems to be like that now. It takes one thing, just one sight or sound or smell or feelingâthe thoughts donât stop when they start.
Today, it was a news article. Such a stupid trigger. Half of those articles are lies anyway, but it doesnât matter; one stupid lie can force his system into overdrive. He repeats it over and over and over again.
âThe Deviant Hunter: Has he Ever Stopped Hunting?â
Wow. Okay.
Well, did he?
Connor knows, logically, that he did. Of course he did. He hasnât had a single moment of truly trying to hurt anyone elseâor more accurately, hunt anyone downâin months. Sure, the thoughts are there, but those terrify him more than they could anyone else.
He worries, though. What if he is? What if heâs been unconsciously trying to harm his people? What if every intrusive thought about grabbing Markus by the head and twisting until his neck snaps is actually what he wants, what if he-
He slams his eyes shut, tightly, and covers his ears. He wants it to stop. He wants to sanitise his whole mind, clean it from top to bottom, and throw out every wretched thought.
âConnor~â Markus called again, in a sing-songy voice. Connor isnât sure how Markus can be so casual about this; I mean, Connor canât even stomach looking at Markus right now. He shakes his head.
âG-Go away, Markus. I donât want to see you right now.â It sounded kind of harsh, Connor thinks, but hiding behind a shield of anger works. Itâll drive people away, and keep them away. If theyâre not close, then they can't be hurt. Connor wonât be able to infect them with his sickening ideas.
Markus sighs, tsking with his tongue. Apparently, heâs immune to Connorâs tricks.
âConnor, Connor, Connor⊠You know, climbing onto the roof of the shed in your backyard isnât really the best place to hide. If you donât want anyone to come to you, why not go somewhere else?â
Connor doesnât dignify that with a response. Markusâ voice is making his stomach churn again. A warning in his HUD blares about his thirium line in his stomach beginning to leak. His stress levels are at 76%. He pulls his legs up to his chin and tucks his knees under it, willing the leak to stop.
âDo you mind if I come up there, Connor?â Markus asks. Connor shakes his head ânoâ. Markus continues, âI told Hank that I wouldââ
âLieutenant Anderson. Youâre not his friend, donât call him Hank.â Connor snaps meanly, opening his eyes to glare at Markus.
Markus cocks his head to the side and chuckles, it makes something in Connorâs heart feel weird. He furrows his brows, feeling tears prick at his eyes. His stress level is climbing higher, his biocomponents are beginning to overheat.
âHank and I are friends. You know, this whole mean-boy act may work on others, but weâve done this dance before, Connor. I know how you work.â
Something about his tone makes Connor flinch. He looks away again, trying desperately to force the thoughts out of his head. Itâs weird, itâs always weird. God, why is he so Weird? It hurts. It always hurts.
âWhat if you grabbed him and slammed his head into the ground?â âWhat if you damage one of his major biocomponents?â âWhat if you already have damaged them?â âDid I damage Markus?â âDid I damage-â
âConnor,â Markus says, suddenly much closer than before. Connor jerks and looks to his left, where the Leader, his friend, is now sitting beside him, smiling gently. âYouâre going to rip your hair out if you keep doing that.â
Connorâs fingers unintentionally tighten further in his hair. He isnât even sure when they got there. The fear is paralysing his mind; itâs like his body isnât his own. He shudders and forces his hands down, tapping his fingers on the tin roof. Heâs in control, he has to be.
âGo away, Markus!â He snaps again. âI donât- I donât want to hurt you!â
It isnât a threat, but a genuine fear.
Markus seems to be totally unaware of that thought. He sets his right hand gently over Connorâs left and flattens it against the roof. The younger android struggles for a moment, but lets it happen in the end.
âWhat did you make Hank for breakfast, Con?â
Does Markus think heâs stupid? Connor knows what heâs doing. Trying to redirect him, trying to act like his thoughts mean nothing when theyâreâliterallyâtearing him apart. Another warning enters his HUD. His stomach hurts.
âIâm serious, Markus, please stop.â
And he does, for a second. Connor almost feels relief; if Markus leaves, then Connor can rot in his own head. No one will ever have to know.
Markus is never quiet for long, he just hums before he continues, âIâm assuming it was eggs, right? Like yesterday? And the day before, and the day before thatâŠâ His voice is supposed to be comforting, humorous. Connor really does want to laugh; he does. His lips even curl a bit before the headline replays through his head again. He groans, moving his right hand to his stomach and clutching where it hurts.
Markus looks down where the younger is curled up. He takes his hand off Connorâs and smooths it down the brunette's back.
âItâd help if you straighten out, Con. Try answering me, too. You know how this goes.â
And Connor does, of course. He spirals, and when he seeks reassurance, heâs given anything but. Really, he should be thankful that itâs Markus here and not Hank. Hank tries, his approach is just⊠gruffer. Instead of redirecting Connor, he challenges him. Hankâs at work, though, and Connor knows he mustâve called Markus to take over. He takes a deep breath, flinching at yet another horrendous, sickening thought. Then, he forces himself to straighten his legs. If Markus is trying to help, he should at least try to listen.
After straightening them, he realises Markus had two reasons for telling him to do so. The roof is at a slight angle; Connor has to put effort into staying on it when heâs not curled up. Itâs a physical distraction. Itâs an added bonus that some of the pain in his stomach lessens.
âEggs,â he mumbles at last, âI made Hank 3 eggs, with 1/4 of a teaspoon of salt and pepper. He complained it was not salty enough.â
Markus chuckles, still rubbing Connor's back, âHe always says that. Tell me, why donât you ever add more?â
Connor hums to that, furrowing his brows. Markus must know why he doesnât, he was a caretaker android himself. A flash of stark white-hot anger blinds him for all but a moment; Markus is trying so hard to calm Connor that heâs treating him like a baby. He wants to hit him.
Fuck. Jesus. Thatâs not true. Why did he even think that?
âS-Sodium intake.â He says. His vocal modulator glitches as he does, causing his voice to sound static-y. âYo-u know that, Mark-kus.â
Markus doesnât once acknowledge Connors' malfunctioning parts; he just nods and trudges forward.
âYes, yes, but I also know how to let loose a little. Once, Carl asked for 2 shakes of the salt shaker, I felt so brave that I gave him three!â
A faint smile graces Connorâs face. Heâs heard the same story 12 times now, but thereâs something about the genuine joy that lifts Markusâ voice at the end that always makes him smile.
âOf course,â Markus continues with a sigh, feigning regret, âI did have to give him two cups of water to drink with it. You know, to counterbalance the salt.â
Connor cocks his head; Markus knows that isnât how sodium intake works. Connor knows why Markus makes the same âmistakeâ each time he tells this story. Another distraction, one that always works. He prepares the same line he always responds with, âMarkusââ
But he doesnât get to say it this time. He gets cut off by a lurching in his stomach. The leak has finally caused enough thirium to build that the pressure is causing his systems to flush. He leans forward abruptly and retches. Markus grabs hold of him quickly, both hands on Connorâs arms to keep him still on the roof. The blue liquid cakes Connorâs pants, his thirium pump regulator thumps erratically. He heaves a breath he doesnât need, and dry heaves some more.
âFuckâŠâ he mutters in between breaths, squeezing his eyes shut. He leans back once heâs sure the vomit has stopped, and feels something gently wiping the thirium off of his mouth.
âThere you go, ConâŠâ Markus says gently. Connor blinks his eyes open, sending away the warnings thats flooded his vision. He glances over to Markus, embarrassment flooding his system. Thereâs thirium on Markusâ hand that the older android is wiping on his jeans with a smile. âThat was kind of gross, but at least it wasnât eggs.â
The absurdity of the comment throws him through a bit of a loop. He wants to argue that Androids canât even eat real food, but he doesnât. The way Markus said it so casually makeâs Connor laugh. Then he starts to cry. Then he laughs some more.
Markus doesnât say anything. He doesnât pull Connor into a hug, or tell him not to cry. He just silently lets go of Connor and smiles at him. Connor has to feel the discomfort of the moment to remove himself from his thoughts; Markus is the one that taught him that.
It takes 2 minutes and 23.012 seconds before Connor stops laughing, the tears slowing. He feels awkward and uncomfortable, but better. So much better. He finally relaxes.
Connor heaves another breath, and looks at the mess of thirium in front of him. âYes,â he says with a small giggle, âat least there are no eggs.â
They sit in silence for just a moment more. Connor is filthy now, but his head isnât as loud. Markus stands, carefully. Heâs a little unsteady on the old, tin roof, but once heâs on his feet, he looks down at Connor.
He reaches down at Connor, clean hand ready for the taking. Connor stares, before taking it. A wave of calm washes over his mind as he stands, too. The warnings begin to fade; his stress levels go down. His body and mind feel at peace, for now.
He squeezes Markusâ hand, a silent thank you for sitting with Connor again, for being the same rock he had been time and time before.
âCome on, Con,â Markus says with a smile, âletâs go get you clean.â
ââItâs fineâ, he whispered to himself, âI donât actually want to kill myself. My preconstruction program is glitching. Iâm fine.ââ
or: connor spirals again. hanks approach is a bit different.
[ â ] read okay by rklynx (anonymous)
[ â ] pass up on reading this one-shot
[ path unlocked ê ] read on tumblr ?
OKAY - rklynx cw : non-graphic self harm
a/n ;; i do not write very often, as such i am not the greatest at it. pls be nice :3
[ â ïž software instability ââ ]
The next breakdown is 5 days, 16 hours, 45 minutes, and 52 seconds later.
Connor can't pinpoint the reason behind it. His head was just too full.
It started small. He was cleaning Hank's gun, as he does every Tuesday, and he saw Sumo rolled over near his shoes, belly up and waiting to be pet. When Connor walked over, everything was fine; when he reached down to pet the dog, he froze.
âWhat if you step on Sumo?â
And sure, this isn't the worst thoughtâreally, itâs one most people would brush off. But Connor isnât most people.
He paused, hand hovering above Sumo, suddenly scared to touch him.
âWhat if I pet him too hard and pull out his hair? What if I slip and fall, crushing him? What if I choke him by accident?â
He shook his head before they could get too far, but he still pulled away.
âSorry, Sumo.â He said, only half meaning the apology. âIâll pet you when Hank is home.â
And he meant that, going back to the gun to continue cleaning it. If Sumo turned over and whined, Connor pretended he didn't hear it.
He sat back down, brain feeling a little unsettled. The methodical act of cleaning the gun wouldâve been a good distraction any other day; but of course, nothing ever goes his way.
He stood up again, readjusted his chair, and sat back down. Then again. And again. And again.
He was growing frustrated quite fast, but it just didnât feel right. Every time he sat, his task updated in his peripheral: fix the chair. And he did. It took 25 times before he gave up, willing his brain to ignore the anxiety creeping up in his thirium lines. He would just clean the gun and get on with his day.
The second the gun was in his hand, the thought of shooting himself began to play.
Connor flinched hard and tossed the gun down. It wasnât loaded, and the safety was on; he checked again and again and again, but he couldn't bring himself to pick it back up from where it haphazardly landed. It wouldnât stop; distorted flashes of his hypothetical suicide played without his consent. What if he picked up the gun and killed himself with it? Does that mean he wants to die?
He stood quickly from the chair, so fast it knocked it down. He couldnât be near the gun anymore, so he walked away.
âItâs fineâ, he whispered to himself, âI donât actually want to kill myself. My preconstruction program is glitching. Iâm fine.â
But, evidently, he wasnât.
And thatâs how he ended up here, hidden in an empty closet, sitting with his knees to his chest as tightly as he could, desperately trying to convince himself he canât hurt anyone or himself if nothing is around.
His HUD is filled with warnings, glitching and causing his vision to blur. It escalated fast.
He couldnât shake the thoughts, couldnât turn off his preconstruction program. It assaulted him without restraint. His task manager would update over and over and over again: touch the wall, touch the door, touch your hair, touch the wall again. He couldnât clear anything; it made him feel frozen in place.
His face stayed quiet and blank, save for the quiver of his lips and tears streaming down his face. He hit the closet floor again and again, hoping the damage to his synthetic skin would force his body and mind to direct the warnings there. It didnât help; he needed something more.
The thought was intrusive and unwelcome, but the more his stress levels rose, the harder it became to ignore.
He hit the floor once more, before flattening his hand against the wooden boards. He dragged it slowly, from the ground, up his shin, and onto the arm that gripped his legs. He dug his nails into the skin, and scratched as hard as he could.
He hissed at the sensation, blue blood beginning to spill past the broken skin. It shocked him for a moment. He ripped his eyes from the wall and stared down at the damage he caused, a sob getting caught in his vocal processor.
âNo,â he cried, âno no no no no no no!â
His head slammed back into the wall behind him, both hands leaving his legs and slamming into his face, pressed roughly against it.
âWhy?â he forced out with a gut-wrenching sob.
Why did he do that? He didnât want to. He hates bleeding, hates hurting, and yet he just did it to himself. He gave in to his thoughts.
What does this mean though? He couldn't clear his head long enough to think; his taskbar kept telling him to keep doing it until his arm was nothing but exposed wires and parts.
He shook almost violently as his system overheated. His coolant was draining rapidly, and his arm was bleeding enough for it to drip on his shirt. A wave of dizziness kept him from moving, but he wanted out of the closet so bad. It wasnât safe. Nowhere was safe.
He really needed help.
He breathed in harshly, the stale air not doing much to cool his internals, and debated whether it was worth bothering anyone with this. He knows it's what he's supposed to do, but he's scared. What if they get mad at him? He wants Hank, but heâs at the bar. What if Hank is too busy? What if heâs drunk and canât hold a conversation?
Connor swallows a thick glob of artificial saliva and makes the call.
It only takes Hank 57 seconds to answer; Connor sighs in relief.
âHey Con, need something?â Hank asks when the line connects. Connor can hear chatter in the background, he hopes none of them can hear him.
âH-HankâŠâ he whispers, a surge of anxiety flooding him.
âW-Connor, are you alright?â
Connor shakes his head. He wants to speak, but he canât. His vocal biocomponent has overheated, so says the warning in his HUD.
When he doesnât answer, Hank asks again. âConnor,â he says sternly, âwhatâs going on?â
Connor whimpers.
He can hear Hank shuffling, coins clattering against a counter, and the background noise clears.
âHang on, Con, Iâm coming. Stay on the phone, okay?â
Connor nods again. He counts the seconds it takes for Hank to get to his car. He doesnât want Hank to get into the car. What if he crashes?
The thought blindsides him, his thirium pump rises to an unhealthy 156 beats per minute.
âNo!â he forces out, a screeching, distorted sound. âPlease no, pleaseââ
âOh, so now you'll talk.â Hank huffs, a worried edge taking his voice. He tries to sound amused, so as not to worsen Connorâs nerves, but the young android sees right through it.
Hank doesnât give Connor a chance to respond. He barrels through with another sly remark. âYou know, Con, whateverâs got you so worked up isnât worth giving me the silent treatment.â
It makes Connor huff a small chuckle, rolling his eyes. He swallows again, finally taking his hands from his face and resting them on his knees. Thereâs blue blood drying on one, tears on both. He clears his throat to try and get his voice box to clear.
âI donât want you to drive, Hank.â He mumbles, static in his voice.
âWhy, âcause you think I suck at driving?â
âN-No!â Connor almost laughs, the sound getting gargled. âNo, I justââ
âAh, save it, kid. Iâm like, two minutes away. Where ya hiding this time?â
The question brings Connor back to reality, in a weird way. He suddenly becomes hyper-aware of the situation heâs in. The closet is cramped, and his joints are starting to hurt. He looks up to the doorknob, considering opening it, but he feels helpless to. Fear keeps him locked to the ground. The tears that dried momentarily began to pour again.
âC-Closet.â
Hank hums on the other end of the line.
âAlright, well, Iâm pulling up now. Open the closet door, so I know which one you're in.â
âI canât!â Connor cries frantically. He hears Sumo bark in the background of the call and, distantly, in person. It echoes. Hank half-acknowledges Sumo again before speaking to Connor.
âYes, you can. Do it, or I'm making you eat those weird-ass blue blood doughnuts again.â
Christ, Connor hates thirium doughnuts. He knows Hank isnât bluffing either. He stares at the knob for 1 minute and 32 seconds before he finally, hesitantly, opens the door. Hank is there waiting on the other side.
Hank is smiling like nothingâs wrong. Relief floods Connorâs system. Hank made it here alright. The older man stares down at him with a gentle look, one Connorâs learned is reserved only for him.
âYou got roughed up by a cat, or something?â he tries to joke. A layer of shame covers Connor, but he ignores it the best he can.
âI-It appears so, lieutenant.â
âHey, donât call me lieutenant!â Hank stifles a laugh with a grumble, âFuckinâ android.â
Connor canât help but laugh, too. The warnings in his HUD begin to fade, and his body feels a little lighter.
âIâm sorry, Hank,â he says with a smile.
Hank just shakes his head before looking at Connor again. He reaches his hand out, and Sumo worms his way into view.
âHi SumoâŠâ he whispers, reaching a hand out to the dog. Sumo shoves his head against it, eager for the pets he was denied before. He looks back to Hank's hand, then to his face once more. Hank's smile widens.
âCome on, Con. Letâs get you outta there.â
Connor doesn't hesitate to take it. Hankâs hand is warm and rough against Connorâs synthetic skin. He squeezes it, not too hard, and stands on trembling legs.
no one cares but i feel like i should say i really dont care what people call me name-wise. connor and rk800/rk/800 are obviously bc i take an interest in connor and kin him, but im pretty chill with anything. lynx is from ash lynx, some people call me seven/707 bc of 707. as long as it isnt offensive i dont really mind.
