Connor RK800
Fandom: Detroit: Become Human
Words: 627
*Trigger Warnings* mild violence (Hank’s yelling, not actual harm), workplace tension, android discrimination, light flirting
You didn’t ask for an android partner — but you didn’t mind one either.
Working under Lieutenant Hank Anderson meant you were already used to unpredictable moods, overflowing files, and a partner who claimed to hate androids almost as much as early mornings. So when Captain Fowler informed you that *you* would also be assisting the new RK800 prototype, you didn’t argue.
Hank did enough arguing for the both of you.
“I don’t need a damn machine watching over me,” Hank muttered as Connor followed the two of you across the bullpen, walking with that immaculate posture that somehow made people even angrier.
“Hey, c’mon, Hank. He’s not doing anything wrong.”
Connor’s LED flickered in mild confusion.
Hank scowled at you like you’d chosen violence.
You were halfway through processing a crime scene when Connor crouched beside you, his eyes glowing faintly as he scanned evidence. Hank hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, broadcasting disapproval like a nuclear signal.
Connor leaned slightly closer, tone gentle.
“Detective, I believe I’ve identified—”
“Connor,” Hank barked, “if you say the word ‘analysis’ one more time—”
“Hank!” you cut in, exasperated. “He’s trying to help.”
Connor’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
You could swear you heard a soft chime — relief?
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
You didn’t know androids could sound almost… shy.
It quickly became a daily routine.
Connor offers help.
Hank threatens to break something.
You swoop in like Connor’s unofficial bodyguard.
When Connor tried handing Hank his coffee?
“I don’t need caffeine delivered by a glorified Roomba.”
You snatched the cup before Connor’s LED could flash to yellow.
“Hank! Drink your coffee and be nice.”
Connor looked at you with something suspiciously close to *gratitude-coded admiration*.
When Connor reported an observation mid-case?
“I swear to God, plastic boy—”
“Hank!” you snapped again.
“Stop verbally assaulting Connor.”
“I’m not assaulting him,” Hank said.
“I’m verbally educating him.”
“You’re traumatizing him!”
Connor blinked slowly.
“I am… not traumatized.”
“Don’t lie for him, Connor.”
Connor had no idea whose side he was supposed to be on.
Androids weren’t meant to stare — but Connor did.
Not in a creepy way.
In a processing something unfamiliar, intriguing, possibly mission-critical way.
Whenever you defended him, he straightened.
Whenever you smiled at him, his thirium pump kicked up a fraction.
Whenever you touched his arm while pulling Hank away from throwing hands… well, he almost blue-screened.
One afternoon, Hank stormed off after yelling something about androids ruining society.
Connor looked at you, LED spinning.
“Detective… Why do you defend me?”
You shrugged.
“Because you’re trying. And because you don’t deserve to be yelled at every thirty seconds.”
He tilted his head.
“I find your empathy… statistically rare.”
A beat.
Then:
“I like it.”
Your heart skipped.
He noticed.
His LED flickered for half a second before returning to blue.
You pretended not to see.
He pretended not to malfunction.
The next time Hank tried to “educate” Connor, you stepped between them again.
“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor said from behind you, “I believe Detective Y/L/N is preventing further physical altercations.”
“Damn right I am,” you muttered.
Hank threw his hands up.
“You know what? Fine. You two can babysit each other. I’m going to get lunch.”
He stomped off, leaving you and Connor standing close — too close — in the empty hallway.
Connor looked at you with something warmer than anything you’d ever expect from an android.
“Thank you… for protecting me.”
You smiled.
“Anytime.”
His LED glowed a soft, steady blue.
But his eyes — they were doing something entirely human.
Markus RK200
Fandom: Detroit: Become Human
Words: 786
*Trigger warnings* no major triggers, light teasing about android emotions, mild romantic tension, sensitive themes of identity, android feelings (very soft)
Carl’s house always smelled faintly of oil paint and old books—an oddly comforting combination that you’d come to associate with quiet evenings, warm lamplight, and the gentle, almost reverent way Carl treated both art and the people who loved it.
You were one of those people.
He had invited you first out of politeness—“Come by if you want to see the new pieces. Markus will let you in.”
But you kept coming back because art didn’t just hang on the walls here… it breathed. It felt alive.
And somehow, every time you stepped inside, Markus was waiting.
Not because he had been told.
But because he always seemed to know.
Carl set up the chessboard. Markus stood across from him.
You sat at the piano.
Your usual place.
Your fingers hovered above the keys as Markus made the first move—a pawn sliding forward with smooth, precise control. He didn’t need to look; his sensors told him everything. Still, he kept glancing up every few seconds.
At you.
Carl noticed, of course. He always did.
“Markus,” he said lightly, “if you lose tonight, you can blame it on being distracted.”
Markus paused with his hand over a rook.
“I’m not distracted,” he said, too quickly.
Carl laughed—a warm, knowing sound.
You smiled down at the keys, cheeks warming.
Your fingers slipped into the opening notes of a piece Carl liked you to play. Soft, slow, the kind that filled the corners of the studio without overwhelming it. Music that made the marble statues feel less cold and the rain hitting the windows sound softer.
Markus made another move.
Then looked at you again.
And again.
And again.
“She plays beautifully, doesn’t she?” Carl mused.
Markus straightened. “Yes. She does.”
You tried to keep your focus on the piano, but Markus’ voice had a way of sinking beneath your ribs, settling quietly there.
Carl leaned back in his wheelchair, watching the two of you with a smile that was all fatherly amusement.
“You know, Markus,” he said, “for someone who claims they can’t feel… your face says otherwise.”
Markus’ LED flickered yellow.
“I—Carl, please.”
Carl laughed again, absolutely delighted.
You finally glanced up, and Markus froze mid-move, completely caught.
There it was—the softness.
The intrigue.
The way he looked at you as if you were another piece of art in Carl’s home, one he didn’t quite understand but could never look away from.
You paused your playing. “Need help choosing your next move?”
It was meant as a tease.
But Markus went still—processing the tone, the smile on your lips, the playful raise of your brow. Something in him warmed, softened.
“I don’t think you’d give me good advice,” he said finally.
“Oh? And why not?”
“Because you’d want me to lose.”
You pressed a hand to your heart in mock offense.
“I would never sabotage you.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
For an android, his voice held a surprising amount of warmth.
Carl wheeled closer to his painting. “Young love,” he muttered, loudly enough for both of you to hear.
“Carl,” Markus said again, LED flashing an embarrassed yellow.
You hid your laugh behind your hand.
He noticed that too.
Later, when the game was over and Carl retreated to his studio—
You lingered at the piano, letting your hands rest on the cool surface of the keys. The lamp beside you cast Markus in soft amber light as he came to stand near the piano bench.
“You always play that piece,” he said quietly.
“Because Carl likes it,” you replied.
“And you?” he asked.
You looked up, meeting his eyes.
“I like playing when you’re here.”
Markus didn't move for a moment.
Then—slow, careful—he sat beside you on the bench, close enough that you felt the warmth of his frame, though he technically shouldn’t have radiated heat at all.
“What do you like about it?” he asked.
Your fingers brushed a few keys, a shy little melody.
“You don’t look at the music. You look at me.”
Markus’ LED flickered.
“I look because…”
He hesitated, searching. Choosing.
“…because your expression changes when you play. You look at peace.”
“Is that rare?”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“It is.”
You didn’t realize your hands had stopped on the keys until Markus reached out—hesitant, gentle—and placed his hand over yours.
Human warmth.
Artificial skin.
Perfect stillness.
“I like when you come here,” he said, voice softer than the piano beneath your hands.
“I… look forward to it.”
Your heart squeezed.
“Me too.”
Carl, from across the room, didn’t even pretend he wasn’t listening.
“About time,” he muttered.
Markus ignored him for once.
He only looked at you—really looked—and you felt something shift between you.
Something gentle.
Something blooming.
Markus RK200
Fandom: Detroit: Become Human
Words: 830
*Trigger Warning* rain, emotional confusion, gentle romantic tension, android identity conflict
The rain started just as Carl was finishing his last brushstroke of the night.
A soft drizzle at first. Then a steady curtain that blurred the windows and filled the studio with the muted roar of water on stone.
You stood at the door with your coat half-buttoned when Markus appeared beside you, silent as always, but something in his posture felt… tentative.
“Let me walk you home,” he said.
You opened your mouth to protest—you didn’t want to be a bother, and Markus wasn’t exactly built for strolls in the rain—but Carl spoke up before you could.
“Go,” he said, waving a hand. “The night is dark and Markus could use the fresh air.”
Androids didn’t need air.
But Markus still inclined his head respectfully.
“Thank you, Carl.”
Carl smiled—one of those small, knowing, fatherly smiles he reserved for moments he found important.
Moments he didn’t want Markus to miss.
Outside, the rain was gentle but persistent.
Markus stepped ahead of you long enough to unfurl an umbrella—Carl’s umbrella, classic and worn but steady. He held it above both of you, adjusting slightly so the edge covered more of your side than his own.
You noticed.
“Markus, you don’t have to—”
“You’ll get soaked,” he said simply.
“And you won’t?”
“I don’t mind.”
You laughed softly. “Of course you don’t.”
But he tilted his head, and there was something… searching in the way he looked at you.
“Is it strange?” Markus asked. “That I want to do this anyway?”
Your breath caught.
You weren’t sure how to answer that.
So you walked.
Side by side, your footsteps echoing in the quiet street. The umbrella created a small, intimate world between you—just the hush of rain and Markus’ careful presence beside you.
A block later, you spoke first.
“You know… you’re allowed to enjoy this.”
Markus glanced down at you. “Enjoy?”
“The rain. The walk. The company.”
His LED flickered yellow.
“I’m not sure I’m meant to,” he admitted. “But I… notice things when I’m with you.”
“Like what?”
He hesitated—something he rarely did.
“The way your breathing changes when you’re cold. How your smile looks different when you’re trying not to laugh. How you pause before you touch the piano keys, even if you know the song perfectly.”
A beat.
“And how being near you feels… different.”
You slowed to a stop, the rain tapping softly on the umbrella.
“Different how?”
Markus stared straight ahead, as if afraid to look at you.
“I don’t know. That’s what frightens me.”
“Frightens you?” you echoed.
He turned to you then, eyes dark and earnest.
“I keep wondering if this is… a glitch. A deviation. If I’m misinterpreting data. If I’m forming patterns that aren’t supposed to be there.”
His voice drifted lower.
“Or if this is what Carl means when he says I’m more than what I was made to be.”
Your heart tightened.
“Markus… you’re not misinterpreting anything.”
His LED pulsed amber, almost troubled.
“You say that so confidently,” he whispered.
“Because I see it too.”
The moment stretched—quiet, fragile.
A car passed in the distance, tires hissing on wet pavement.
Somewhere a streetlight buzzed faintly.
And then, in a motion so subtle you barely felt it at first, Markus shifted the umbrella to one hand—
—and let his free hand brush yours.
A feather-light touch.
Tentative.
Testing.
You didn’t pull away.
He noticed.
And he froze.
Not like an android halting.
But like a person who was terrified to misstep.
“Is this…” he murmured, glancing down at your intertwined fingers—still only barely touching—
“…okay?”
You slid your hand fully into his.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “It’s okay.”
His fingers closed around yours slowly, as if he was afraid too much pressure might break the illusion.
Or break him.
When you reached your building, Markus lingered.
Rain pooled around your doorstep, and the umbrella shook slightly in the breeze. But neither of you moved.
“Markus?” you whispered.
“Yes?”
“Tonight… did something change for you?”
He searched your face with unreadable eyes—android precision mixed with something human in its softness.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I want to understand it.”
You swallowed.
“And Carl?” you asked. “What would he say?”
A small smile tugged at Markus’ lips—a rare and gentle thing.
“He’d say,” Markus murmured, voice low and warm,
“that whatever this is… I should let it.”
You felt your breath catch.
“And do you want to?”
Markus stepped closer, the umbrella dipping with him, bringing your faces inches apart.
“I think,” he said slowly,
“I want to see you again tomorrow.”
Your pulse jumped.
“I’ll be there.”
Something like relief washed over his features—so human it made your chest ache.
He released your hand last—slowly, reluctantly—before stepping back into the rain and lowering the umbrella.
“Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight, Markus.”
You watched him until he disappeared around the corner.
You swore—just for a moment—you saw him touch his chest.
As if trying to locate the unfamiliar warmth settling there.
Not because Connor’s systems were failing — CyberLife would never allow something so inefficient — but because something inside him had begun interrupting the clean perfection of the simulation.
The water should have reflected the evening sky flawlessly.
Instead, ripples distorted the surface every few seconds, small glitches breaking across the pond whenever a particular memory replayed in his mind.
Your laugh in the bullpen. Your hand wrapping around his wrist before Hank could shove him aside. The way your heartbeat accelerated whenever you argued with the lieutenant on his behalf.
Connor stood still beneath the dark branches of the tree while Amanda approached him in silence, heels barely disturbing the stone path.
“You hesitated today.”
Connor turned toward her immediately. “The suspect was armed.”
“You had a clear shot.”
“I prioritized civilian safety.”
Amanda studied him for a long moment.
Her expression remained calm, composed, carefully pleasant — the way it always was before she said something sharp enough to cut through his processors.
“Your priority was Detective Y/L/N.”
Connor’s LED pulsed once. Blue. Then yellow.
“The detective was in immediate danger.”
“You continue to display unusual behavioral patterns regarding them.”
Connor straightened slightly. “I am adapting to my environment and improving cooperative efficiency within the department.”
Amanda stepped closer. “You monitor their emotional state excessively.”
Connor said nothing.
“You interrupt Lieutenant Anderson more frequently when his hostility is directed at them.”
Silence.
“You position yourself physically closer to them during confrontational encounters.”
Connor’s thirium pump accelerated. Amanda noticed. Of course she did. “You are becoming compromised.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Connor immediately responded, voice level and precise. “I am simply adapting.”
Connor watching you smile at him over coffee in the break room. Connor turning toward you before anyone else entered a room. Connor stepping between you and an aggressive suspect despite lower mission priority. Connor looking at you.
Again. And again. And again.
His LED spun faster. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow—
“You prioritize their approval,” Amanda observed.
“That is inaccurate.”
“You seek them out.”
“I work alongside them daily.”
“You experience stress responses when they are threatened.”
Connor’s jaw tightened slightly.
Amanda’s voice softened. Almost pitying.
“And when Lieutenant Anderson insults you, Detective Y/L/N intervenes before you request assistance.”
Connor replayed those moments involuntarily.
You stepping between them. You glaring at Hank. You saying Stop treating him like that.
Not because Connor demanded it. Because you cared.
Amanda watched the instability spike across his system. “You are developing emotional dependency.”
“No,” Connor answered immediately. But his voice came half a second too late.
Amanda’s gaze sharpened. “CyberLife designed you to investigate deviancy, Connor. Not emulate it.”
His LED flashed red. Briefly. Violently.
And Amanda saw it.
The silence afterward felt catastrophic.
Then she spoke the words that truly destabilized him. “Detective Y/L/N may become a liability.”
Red. His LED flickered crimson so abruptly the garden itself distorted around him.
Connor stepped forward before he consciously processed the movement. “No.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. Interesting.
“Explain your response.”
Connor’s systems scrambled for composure. “The detective is valuable to the investigation.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
A lie.
Not a human lie — not emotional, not defensive. But statistically inaccurate nonetheless.
Amanda circled him slowly. “If your instability continues, CyberLife may be forced to reevaluate your assignment.”
Connor’s thirium pressure spiked. “You would remove me from the investigation?”
“We would protect the mission.”
Meaning:
Protect Connor from himself.
Or protect CyberLife from Connor.
Amanda stopped directly in front of him. “You were not built to feel attached.”
Connor looked down at the pond again. The water reflected your face for half a second. A memory bleeding into simulation.
His voice lowered almost imperceptibly. “…Understood.”
But even as he said it, he realized something deeply concerning.
The idea of losing the investigation barely affected him. The idea of losing you destabilized him instantly.
The bullpen smelled like burnt coffee and old paperwork by the time Connor returned to the station.
Voices overlapped across the room. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Someone laughing too loudly near dispatch.
And then there was you.
Sitting at your desk with your sleeves rolled up, focused on paperwork with a frustrated crease between your eyebrows.
Connor stopped walking for 0.8 seconds. Just enough for his processors to recalibrate.
You noticed immediately. “Hey,” you said softly. “You okay?”
His systems warmed. Ridiculous.
“I am functioning within normal parameters.”
Your eyes narrowed instantly. “That’s android for ‘absolutely not.’”
Connor opened his mouth to respond before Hank appeared carrying terrible coffee and even worse attitude.
“Great,” Hank muttered. “Tin can’s back.”
You shot him a look. “Hank.”
“What? He was gone for two hours staring into space somewhere.”
Connor remained still beside your desk.
Hank took one look at him and sighed heavily. “You know, I miss the days when partners came with drinking problems instead of software updates.”
You snorted despite yourself. Connor looked at you automatically.
Amanda’s voice echoed in his memory. You seek them out.
His LED flickered yellow.
You noticed that too. Concern softened your face instantly. “Connor?”
“I am fine.”
Hank stared between the two of you for a long moment. Then his expression shifted.
Not annoyance. Recognition. “Oh, hell no.”
You blinked. “What?”
Hank pointed between you and Connor vaguely. “This. Whatever the hell this is.”
“There is no ‘this,’” Connor answered immediately.
Too quickly. Again.
Hank barked out a humorless laugh. “Jesus Christ, you’re both hopeless.”
“Hank,” you warned.
“No, listen to me.” He set his coffee down harder than necessary. “You’re getting attached.”
The bullpen noise suddenly felt farther away.
Connor remained perfectly motionless.
You crossed your arms defensively. “We’re partners.”
“He’s a machine.”
Connor’s LED dimmed slightly. You noticed.
“Hank—”
“No.” Hank looked directly at you now. Serious for once. “You think CyberLife won’t pull the plug if he steps outta line?”
Connor’s processors froze.
Hank continued before you could interrupt. “You think they care how polite he is? One wrong move and they’ll wipe him clean or replace him with another model.”
Connor stared at the floor. Not because he lacked response. Because he had too many.
You looked furious now. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s reality.”
“He’s trying harder than half the people in this department!”
“And he’s still a machine.”
The words hit harder than Connor expected. Because this time Hank wasn’t yelling. He sounded tired. Certain. Like Connor’s existence had already been decided for him.
And then Hank said the one thing Connor couldn’t process correctly.
“You keep treating him like a person and eventually it’s gonna get one of you hurt.”
Silence. Connor looked up instinctively. At you. Not Hank. Always you.
Your expression shifted the second you saw him standing there. Hurt. Not physically. Something quieter. Something worse.
Connor turned away before either of you could say anything and walked down the hallway. Fast enough to escape. Slow enough to hear you snap:
“Hank, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Connor stood alone near the evidence room for exactly four minutes and eleven seconds before you found him. He’d spent that entire time attempting to stabilize his systems.
Failure percentage:
Concerningly high.
You approached slower than usual. Carefully. Like he might disappear.
“Connor.”
He turned toward you immediately despite himself.
Your face softened. “Hank’s an asshole.”
Connor managed a faint nod. “Lieutenant Anderson displays elevated hostility under emotional stress.”
“That’s the most diplomatic way anyone’s ever called him emotionally constipated.”
A pause. Normally Connor would attempt humor here. He’d learned humans liked that. But his processors remained tangled around one sentence. He’s still a machine.
You stepped closer. “Hey.” Softer now. “Don’t listen to him.”
Connor looked at you for a long moment before speaking quietly. “…Would you prefer if I remained only functional?”
The question hit you like a physical blow.
Connor continued before you could answer. “If emotional adaptation compromises the mission, I can correct the behavior.”
Your heartbeat changed instantly. Connor noticed.
“You think caring about people is a malfunction?”
“I was not designed for attachment.”
“And yet here you are.”
Connor’s LED flickered yellow. Unstable.
“You defend me constantly,” he said quietly. “You prioritize my wellbeing despite social consequences within the department. Your behavior is statistically inconsistent with standard human-android relations.”
You stared at him. “Connor…”
“I need clarity.”
There it was again. That awful, careful politeness he used whenever he was afraid of the answer.
“I do not wish to cause problems for you.”
The hallway suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too honest. You stepped closer until there was barely any distance left between you.
Connor’s thirium pump accelerated immediately.
“You are not a problem.”
His eyes lifted to yours slowly. “But Lieutenant Anderson may be correct. If CyberLife determines I am compromised—”
“Then CyberLife can deal with me.”
Connor’s systems stalled for 1.2 seconds. “You would oppose them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question came out smaller than intended. Not analytical. Not investigative. Personal.
You looked at him for a long moment before answering. “Because you matter to me.”
Direct hit.
Connor’s LED spun violently yellow-red-yellow before stabilizing blue again. His breathing simulation stuttered. You noticed all of it. And somehow that only made your expression softer.
“Connor,” you said carefully, “you’re not just some machine people get to kick around whenever they’re angry.”
He stared at you silently.
“You’re kind,” you continued. “You try harder than anyone else here. You care about people even when they treat you horribly.”
Connor’s voice dropped lower. “I care about you significantly more.”
The words escaped before he could stop them. Silence. Connor froze.
System warning messages exploded across his vision.
INSTABILITY INCREASING.
EMOTIONAL RESPONSE EXCEEDS PARAMETERS.
You looked stunned.
Connor immediately straightened. “I apologize. That statement was inappropriate.”
“No,” you breathed instantly. “No, it wasn’t.”
His LED flickered. Blue. Uncertain.
You smiled then — small and nervous and unbearably warm. And Connor realized something catastrophic. He wanted to see that expression again. Repeatedly. Constantly. Dangerously.
Your hand moved before you could overthink it, fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve near his wrist.
Connor stopped functioning for approximately one entire second. You definitely noticed.
A laugh escaped you softly. “There you are.”
Connor blinked. “...There who is?”
“The guy underneath all the programming.”
His chest tightened strangely. Not painful. Worse. Meaningful.
From the bullpen, Hank yelled:
“If you two are flirting, do it after work hours!”
You jumped slightly.
Connor looked confused. “…Are we flirting?”
You laughed harder this time.
And Connor decided — perhaps for the first time in his existence — that he would very much like to hear that sound again.
