Markus RK200
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.
something that stands out to me about markus is that pre-deviancy, he doesn't put on an act for carl. he could easily say "yes carl i love your painting!" like most androids who are designed to please their owner, instead he's like "i don't really know how this makes me feel but i think i like it?"
he's honest with carl about how he doesn't really understand human emotions. he likes philosophy because he feels like it helps him get closer to understanding. he doesn't try to mimic humanity for carl's sake, all the humanity he shows before properly deviating is genuinely him just learning
