Virtual Love (4/?)
Co-Writer: @500shadesofblue Pairing: Connor/DFAB!Reader (Gender is unspecified) Rating: T (Chapter), NC-17 (Entire Fic) Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 Summary: Virtual reality is becoming the next great evolution of technology: some say on-par with Elijah Kamski’s breakthrough design of the first modern-day android. It has immeasurable potential; to enhance, to assist, and to completely break the bounds of our reality.
You, as a member of the team spearheading the technology in a branch within Cyberlife, have developed a working prototype. It’s finally finished; all that’s left is a series of trials to check if it’s functioning properly.
On the first test run, however, you find an android named Connor standing in the middle of your virtual kitchen.
Several nights later, you’ve almost gotten into a routine.
The android you encounter in your prototype tests is an… intrigue. It’s far more advanced than any android you’ve ever encountered. Connor is interesting, and once your alarm at his presence wore off, his opinions, his questions, enthrall you. You’ve never spoken this way with an android before, talking just for talking’s sake, and making conversation actually gives you something to think about after a long day of industrial labor.
...Dammit. There you go again. Calling Connor a ‘he.’
“Hey, Connor,” you say lazily. You’re laying on your back, outside in the meadow again, drawn to its sunshine and splendor after a couple days in the real world with dreary rain. Connor, ever respectful, is a couple feet away, properly seated, cross-legged and presumably ramrod straight. You wouldn’t know- you’re staring up at the sky. It’s bright and clear, but you know that the sky in the real world is dark and strewn with stars.
Not that you can see any stars in Detroit.
“Yes?” he says. You exhale softly, feeling the warmth of the earth below, seeing the blue of the sky above. Today - or rather, tonight - it’s filled with puffy white clouds drifting across its expanse.
“Do you have a gender?”
The air is thick with tension, his hesitation almost audible. You keep your eyes on the clouds.
“...What does it matter?” He finally says, and alright, that definitely wasn’t the road you were expecting him to take.
“I…” You almost want to sit up, feel that the subject matter is serious enough that it’s warranted, but you want to hang onto the plausible deniability that staying still, staring up at the sky gives you. You let your thoughts percolate, brewing your ideas, arranging them into a picture you’re ready to present.
“I’m big on respecting what people want to be called, whatever that may be,” you finally say, rawly honest. And by this point… you’re not going to say it, but you’ve been talking with him for almost a week. The level of familiarity you’ve reached is beyond acquaintances, from coin tricks to twenty questions, suspicion to wariness to peaceful acceptance.
“And even if you’re an android, and not ‘people,’” you continue, a bit awkward, “to tell you the truth… it’s been pretty damn confusing in my head.”
“Oh?” he says. You can’t quite discern his tone.
You don’t know why you’re telling him the truth, but… it’s easier. Plus, who’s he going to tell? “I keep going back and forth in my head,” you confess, “between calling you ‘he’ and ‘it.’” It feels like an ugly confession, halfway-between perfectly acceptable and strange. “I thought it’d finally settle the matter if I asked you what you’d prefer. No harm in it, right? Either way, I can get it settled.” And I can stop agonizing about it.
“It’s kind of you to ask my opinion,” Connor says, and behind the soft tones of his voice, you can hear the grass and flowers rustling. “It’s very considerate.”
“It’s not… I’m not being considerate,” you say, oddly defensive, because you’re not . You’ve barely known this android for a week, and you’ve talked every night, but… “It’s not kind to ask what people prefer. It’s common decency, especially if you’re unsure. Just because you’re an android doesn’t mean you don’t…”
Have feelings.
“...doesn’t mean you don’t care about what you’re called,” you finish, lamely.
“Still,” Connor says, “it’s polite of you.”
Your social patterns, honed over decades of interacting with humans and trying to be mindful and respectful, get weirdly mixed up when you’re actually speaking with an android, interacting for a long period of time. Plus, you don’t know how to keep contradicting him without sounding both ungrateful and like an ass, so you just lay there, breathing slow, looking at the sky.
“Androids don’t have… don’t have natural gender, as such,” Connor finally says, breaking the silence, “at least not the way that human beings do.”
This is your cue to sit up.
You lift your arms up from your sides, reaching forwards, heaving yourself up from horizontality. You’re in a simple, loose tank top (can’t go braless while expecting company, even if the company is an android) and a ratty pair of knee-length shorts, loose and comfortable. With all your bare skin, the grass feels lovely, and the sunshine even lovelier.
You finally sit yourself in a comfortable position again, and when you look at Connor, his eyes are transfixed on your face in that odd way he does- unblinking, intent, absorbing information keenly.
“Go on,” you say, ignoring his staring, scooting to face him. You cross your legs, propping your elbows on your knees and your face on your hands. The way you’re sitting, now, you’re facing him, a little less than two feet away. This close, you can see all the subtle shifting expressions on his face, the yellow flickering of his LED made golden by the sunlight.
“Androids don’t have gender, as such,” he says eventually, looking away. You turn your gaze in the same direction, looking over the field of endless flowers. Among the kaleidoscope of color, you spy splotches of pale purple in clusters of green, heart-shaped leaves.
Dog-violets.
“Our preferences are… hardwired into us,” Connor continues, voice distant. “Gender makes humans comfortable. So, as such, I do prefer being called a ‘he’ over an it.”
There. There’s your answer.
“Plus,” Connor says, and you feel his gaze on the side of your face. “Being referred to with gendered pronouns facilitates integration, as it humanizes us in the eyes of others.”
Right.
“So you’re good with ‘he’?” You say, turning back to look at him. In another one of his typical expressions (which you recognize even in the short time you’ve known him), his eyebrows are slightly drawn together, mouth subtly downturned.
“Yes,” he says, a note of finality in his voice. “In fact, I’d even say that I prefer it.”
“Okay,” you say cheerfully. You pivot neatly, flopping back down in the grass. You can feel the smile blooming on your face.
You don’t know why, but you feel lighter.
“Does that answer your question?” he says, voice filtering down from above. He almost sounds amused.
“Yup,” you say, popping the p. “Perfectly, thanks.”
“Why did you want to know?” He says.
You don’t know why he’s pressing this.
“It doesn’t kill me to give common courtesy,” you say, a small frown on your face. “Even if it’s just to an android. When something has a face, when I’ve been talking to it for more than five hours cumulatively… when it has opinions, and questions…” you turn to look at him, and at this angle, you can only see his suit, the slope of his neck, and the hard cut of his jaw. And his mouth.
“It’s hard not to humanize something when things are like that.”
You look away, back at the sky.
“I think I understand,” he says.
After twenty minutes more peaceful silence, laying in the warm grass under the bright blue sky, you tell him see you tomorrow and you log out.
Work is boring.
You spent your life working towards this. Battling through high school, through college, through long hours of internships and grunt work and working your way up the ladder until finally you made it where you wanted to be.
Virtual reality development.
But now that it’s done, you just feel… well, you’re not sure.
You want to test it. Spend all your time inside VR, practicing manipulation, seeing what you can do. But you still have a job, technically, even if all you do is troubleshoot. It’s still not ready to be released to the public; guides need to be written, instructional manuals, tips and tricks and things to be aware of. It’s most of why your whole team is still troubleshooting the damn thing. Such a complex project coming together is bound to create gaps in awareness, blind spots as people focus on perfecting their own corner of the tech. Experiencing VR as a whole gives a fuller, better picture. So…
So, why can’t you test the tech at work?
Well, you left the damn headset at home on your coffee table, that’s why.
So you huff, turning your attention back towards the code you’re reading over for a friend. Mere formalities, at this point. You know it’s completely fine.
When did your nights become the highlight of your day?
You push the thought to the back of your mind and keep working.
That night, you phase into VR between one blink and the next.
Your eyes shoot open and you scan the room- ah. Connor’s on the other side of the couch, his ‘usual’ spot.
“Hey, Connor!” you greet, smiling.
“Hello,” he says, and gives you a slightly sad but evidently genuine attempt at a smile. It terminates somewhere between its command and execution, leaving him with an awkward twist of the lips, but you’re used to it by now.
“Hey, okay, idea,” you say, businesslike.
You see him perk up, attention sharpening.
“We should practice manipulating the virtual reality,” you say, gesturing around the room in a vague, sweeping generality. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about all day, honestly. And I bet you’d be good at it!”
You’re not sure if Connor has practiced conjuration in the time between your little coin trick and now, but if he has, you haven’t seen it.
“I have made several attempts,” he says, and you’re not even surprised that he’s managed to find the time. You’re not sure how you know, but Connor seems… crafty. You have a feeling he’s good at finding loopholes and ways to achieve his goals.
You raise an eyebrow. “How’d they go?”
He smiles at you, and this one almost looks genuine. “Very well, though the tests were simple.”
And, as you watch, holds a hand out in front of him. When your attention refocuses, he clenches his fist, and when it opens…
Slowly, his fingers unfurl, revealing a coin.
You laugh, bright, head bobbing and eyes scrunching shut as the laughter is startled out of you. When you open your eyes, still grinning, Connor’s almost smiling, too.
“Did you enjoy that?” he says.
“It was great!” you can’t help how your voice sounds, unduly enthused. This shit is so cool.
He starts fidgeting with it, but you turn your focus inward. What can you do? Theoretically, your only limits are your own imagination and willpower.
Can you change your appearance?
Whether or not it’s possible, you don’t want to do that, now. For one, you don’t want Connor asking questions. (Or considering doing the same.) You like Connor, you do, but… trust?
Trust is something different entirely.
So you close your eyes and clasp your hands together, holding them in front of you, arms parallel to the ground.
You hear Connor’s distant what are you doing? but you tune him out, focusing inwards. What can I summon? Start simple. How about…
Your mind flicks from object to object, ranging from the practical to the wildly impractical. A red rubber ball. Dancing flames. A glittering, gem-encrusted dragonfly. A purple blossom. An ornate, painted egg.
An egg…
You feel something building between your palms. Warm, and tingling, almost. Like a word, on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite…
And then there’s something between your hands, forcing them a few inches apart to make room, and your eyes fly open.
Your eyes dart to Connor’s face, his eyes transfixed on your hands. You can hear…
Peeping.
You open your cupped palms, slowly, supporting the chirping creature within. You keep looking back and forth, from Connor’s face to your own opening palms, a slow reveal.
You sigh as you take in the sight, settled between cupped palms: A fluffy yellow chick with shiny black button eyes, peeping and looking around. It looks- it looks real , feels warm and downy soft in your hands.
“You’ve created life,” Connor says. He sounds sincere.
“The facsimile of life,” you correct him, a warm smile stealing over your face, using a thumb to stroke the chick lightly along the side of its small, feathered body. You can feel it’s tweets reverberating through its chest, quieting as it settles into your hands, placated by touch.
“It’s very… small,” Connor says, voice quiet. He looks enthralled, more entranced than you’ve ever seen him.
“Do you want to hold it?” you say.
“Oh, I…” he looks almost… embarrassed? But surely, you’re imagining that. “If you want. There’s no purpose to doing so.”
“Here,” you say, soft, holding it out, keeping your palms together, careful not to jostle it. You stop stroking it and it starts cheeping again, but it settles as you stroke a fingertip across its chest.
Connor steps forward, reaching, and cups his hands together under yours, cradling them. Illogically, his hands are warm. Bigger than yours, large enough to easily encompass them. And those facts are… irrelevant. You push them to the back of your mind.
Unbidden, you feel a flush rising to your face as you part your hands, slowly withdrawing. The chick tweets, panicked, as your hands start to move away, and it staggers into the cradle of Connor’s palms. Connor’s fingertips drag against the back of your hand as you pull away- irrelevant . You take a step back: You need some space.
“I can’t scan it,” Connor says, and you can’t read his tone. His voice is soft. “I can only… feel it. I can sense its warmth, and its texture. I can hear it.”
As if called to action, the chick starts peeping furiously, feathers ruffling, looking around frantically.
“Pet it,” you suggest. Your eyes keep flicking back and forth between his hands and his expression. The chick looks even smaller in the cradle of his hands, and his face has a familiar expression on it: intensely focused. “It worked for me.”
“Comfort,” Connor muses, voice low. But he curls his pointer finger away from the rest, stroking along the chick’s feathers, and it quiets.
You want to say I wonder what’ll happen when we log out? But you know what’ll happen to the chick. It’ll stop existing, like everything does in VR. Unless you establish the server permanently… but that’s beyond beta testing, only available when the final version comes out. Your house, the meadow outside… it’s all default, generated every time you enter VR.
“Willpower,” Connor muses, snapping you out of your reverie. The chick is still in his hands- oh, it’s dozing off. It looks like a pile of golden fluff, soothed and quiet by Connor’s petting. “You summoned this… this facsimile of life through willpower. Did you foresee its behavior?”
“No,” you say. “I just pictured…” a baby bird. A chick. The color wasn’t planned, nor its need for… comfort.
“Yes?” Connor prompts.
“I just thought of a baby bird,” you say. “Hatching from an egg.”
When you go into the next session, Connor is absent, as is the chick. Your virtual-cat isn’t there, either.
You’ve never felt more alone.
The next session, Connor’s back.
Your cat - who’s gotten into the habit of settling on your lap for your long, nightly VR sessions - comes along for the ride, too. You know it’s not actually your cat, but it sure acts like your cat, affection, quirks and all. It’s comforting, at least.
So you practice summoning vibrant plumed feathers and scraps of colorful fabric for your cat to play with. Connor, expression colored with amusement, keeps to his side of the couch.
You’re dangling a vibrantly red strand of yarn for your cat (who’s batting at it playfully), jerking it back and forth, when-
A mouse goes flying past your face.
You shriek, jerking back- oh goddammit, Connor.
You shoot him a glare. The mouse - which your cat is racing over to investigate - is currently motionless and clearly mechanical, joints segmented and body hairless, skin a shiny chrome. You can hear whirrs and buzzes as your cat - overjoyed at the superior toy - sprints after it as it starts to scurry.
“Why are you like this,” you say, grumpily settling deeper into the couch.
“I figured I’d utilize my own expertise to contribute towards your goal,” he says smartly. You refuse to look at his face, but you have a feeling that he’s looking smug in his own self satisfied, android-y way.
You grumble, but you both spend the rest of the session chatting softly, watching your cat chase the mechanical mouse around your living room.
That night, as usual, you go to bed with a smile.
(You don’t know how or why, but somehow, Connor has become a part of your routine. Moreover, he’s become the highlight of your day.
Virtual reality and its manipulations are incredible, and you're becoming better and better at twisting reality. Connor, too.
Things were going so well.
It makes sense that something had to break.)
“What...are your thoughts on androids?”
The question catches you off-guard.
You had expected something along the lines of your background, maybe even your professional credentials--it is what most people tend to ask when getting to know someone else. College you graduated from, notable achievements in your career, that sort of thing.
You didn’t actually expect Connor--an android itself--to ask you about your opinions of them.
It’s a bit unnerving, actually. You feel your thoughts flutter for a moment, unable to come up with a response that wasn’t anything more than a jumble of confused noises.
Your thoughts on androids?
“I--well,” You sputter out an attempt of a sentence before coming back to yourself. “Could you clarify? That’s a….really general question.” Not to mention awkward. Odd. It left a slightly sour taste in your mouth.
Connor blinks. You can practically feel him processing your words, though it’s barely a moment of silence before he speaks again.
“Simply your general view on androids as a societal topic.” He speaks as if he’s discussing the weather. “I’ve met many people who think quite negatively of androids for their impact on the job market, among other things. I was wondering how you saw androids due to your position and background.”
His words are fluid, somewhere between sounding rehearsed and spur-of-the-moment that it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Surreal. You’re not sure why he’s asking- did he hear something in real life, during his job, on the topic? Is he coming to you for your opinion? You’re not sure why.
It’s a cold reminder that the being you are speaking to is simply not human.
“Well, I mean…” You can’t keep your eyes on his--they look a hair too intense, too focused. You save the moment by looking out, into the meadow, as if any number of the flowers in the distance caught your attention. “They’re...helpful?”
You hear Connor let out a cut-off hum. Is he asking your opinion for a purpose?
It takes a few seconds to collect your thoughts in a way that sounds professional, deserving of your background and education that should have given you a bit of worth to speak on the topic. You are no expert by any means, but androids were a part of everyday life for a lot of people--they aren’t something you can just choose to ignore. Plus, working for Cyberlife, you can't really afford to have an unprofessional opinion.
“I think that the discovery of androids were a great aid to humanity,” you say, words coming out slowly. You're not sure why you’re so cautious about the words you’re using--he's just an android, it's not like he's going to argue with you. He doesn’t have an opinion. “...I think that, despite the employment issues, androids have been a great tool--” The word sits awkwardly in your mouth. “--in many fields of expertise. Medical, technological, research and development, even childcare.”
Is there a purpose to what you’re even saying? You’re answering the question of an android, what purpose would Connor even want to know--he didn’t even have the capability to have desires.
With the way you talk with Connor, sometimes you forget. But you shouldn’t. No matter what he says, what information he shares… he’s an android.
He’s not human. Why am I even being careful? It’s no different than taking survey answers, right? Asking without a purpose, without a desire--without a soul?
But you answer the question as honestly as you can.
“I’ve met a lot of people who share a less positive outlook than you do for androids in society,” Connor says, tone immeasurable. “It’s interesting to hear the opinions of those around me as I continue with the missions I’ve given.”
Your internal tension breaks, and a huff of amusement comes from your mouth before you can stop it. Connor looks over to you just as your eyes move back to meet his gaze.
“I mean,” You offer him a shrug. “I never thought an android would ask me on my opinions on androids.”
“I am programmed to learn from my environment,” Connor starts. Does he sound defensive? “I am also equipped with a multitude of subroutines to help me incorporate myself in a variety of social situations. I felt it appropriate to ask since you say that you work within Cyberlife.”
“So, you’re curious,” Your words slip from your mouth before you can stop them, a moment of naive amusement against the forgotten truth.
Connor's gaze is hard and cold in return, a quick shift from the gentle look mere moments before. “I have already explained that I do not exhibit curiosity.” Connor definitely sounds defensive as he speaks and it, more than anything, seems surreal. “Seeking information is simply a byproduct of my programming to solve difficult cases that require complex thought processes to work through.”
Oh.
You swallow down a lump in your throat, cold reality settling into your thoughts. You try to save the moment between the two of you, scrabbling together the shredded pieces of the conversation with a half-genuine smile.
“That sounds like curiosity to me, however you want to explain it.”
Connor doesn’t seem to have a response to that. He doesn’t seem to meet your eyes at all after that, staring off instead into the distance, entrenched in his own thoughts. Is he angry at you?
Is it even possible for him to feel anger?
Ten minutes of tense silence later, you wish him curt farewell and log out of the program.
You’re not sure why, but you feel sad.