Your POV
Waking up, I snuggle further into a familiar figure. My eyes open from the sunlight streaming through the curtains and a light squeeze on my hand.
I notice that Connor likes to grab my hands with his bare biocomponents. I know that he is awake, but I still raise his hand to my lip, brushing the pink flesh against it. His breath hitches and pump beats faster. I place a gentle kiss before looking up to the Android.
I sleep a lot better with him by my side. In a way, he fends off my nightmares.
"Good morning," I murmur as if I didn't do anything.
"G-good morning," he stammers with a like blush on his face. "How was your sleep?"
"It was a lot better than usual," I answer, getting up. "I should get ready. Rachel wants to meet me today. Do you want to come? We could walk around the city after."
"That sounds nice." I bite my lip, smiling while getting up. He sounds exactly like he used to: the way he talks with charm, sass, and knowledge, but also with the care in his eyes. There is personality behind his voice. "I'll make you breakfast while you get ready." He stands, giving me a quick kiss before leaving.
Connor might not know this but my happiest moments are with him.
Looking in the mirror I do take a deep breath, closing my eyes.
The price of freedom isn't cheap.
I seem to always pay the price. . . But I'm still alive, aren't I?
Slipping on a hoodie, I leave the bathroom. As I enter the kitchen, I see Connor straightening his tie.
"I'm curious about something?" He speaks, looking up to me.
I let out a hum, starting on my breakfast. I feel him standing behind me, chest against my back.
. . . It's really hot in here all of a sudden.
His hand untucks my shirt before slipping under, making my back arch as it slides across my stomach. I feel lips against my neck, making my breath hitch and grip on the fork tighten.
"W-what are you d-doing?" I squeak as he lightly bites my skin before sucking on the sensitive flesh. I cover my mouth, a muffled moan of embarrassment escaping me. "C-Connor?"
"This is something humans do, right?" His breath tickles my ear as lips brush against the shell. Is he teasing me?
"I-I guess." Fuck. "C-could you go and p-put some civilian clothes? W-we're going out t-today, right?"
There is a peck on my cheek before walks away. Hearing the shoe click fade away, I cover my face with my hand, still cutting away at the pancakes so I can eat it. A light laugh escapes me because it's stupid to be afraid of the price.
If I don't pay it, I'll never get to feel this way again.
I'm excited to leave the house with him at my side, but I want to live for the day that we can both just be us outside on the streets without judgement. Grabbing my phone and keys, I shove them into my pocket. Then I slip on my boots and. . . I put on a jacket with my scarf. I wait, staring outside as snow begins to fall.
I still don't like the winter but I've learned to bare it. If Death was a season, he would be winter, claiming lives-- and I've come to terms with it, numb to the pain and body stops trembling. My brain just tells me to keep moving so I'll be warm. It's better to be out here than in there where Death cuts you loose from his grasp no matter how damaged I became in that household. Looking back, maybe Death wasn't waiting for me but my parents.
I notice Connor walking towards me with the LED flashing yellow.
"You're wearing a coat without me asking," he points out and I nod.
"I won't be useful if I was sick," I reply before intertwining my fingers with his.
"You'd find a way. It seems like you always do."
-----
I'm. . . I am usually a calm person. . . because it feels like I am not risking as much as others do on a daily bases. People lose loved ones, family, homes, and hope but I never really had those things so I didn't worry.
When I returned to Detroit, there was one goal in mind and then it was rewritten after interacting with more people.
A machine they'd call me.
Throw as many obstacles in my way and I will overcome them to reach that stupid goal. Hate speech, violence, and threats-- oh how those were so empty because I didn't care for myself. If the job gets done, I am willing to trade my well being for it. They couldn't bring my parents back to life and kill them again. Even if they did, I would be indifferent like the first time. I don't show affection so people assume that they aren't my friend and avoids me. There wasn't a place to call home-- just a roof over my head to keep the precipitation off my head, and walls to keep the outdoors outside.
It all changed when I was done school. I lost someone and then missed him right after trying to do the best thing I can. The most pain as a creator is to be forced to destroy a masterpiece.
Standing outside, I hold a crimson red paper with black writing away from me. With a lighter, I set the corner on fire, letting the hungry demon devour the threat like those words are doing to me.
A threat has never bothered me so much. Threats to murder me never made me leap out of my sleep or hide a gun in my clothes. Maybe this won't encourage me to pick up a gun, but it will keep me up at night.
My hands are trembling as the flames a beginning to lick my skin. When the heat is too hot, I let it go, winter winds taking the remains away.
Will CyberLife execute their threat? Or is it just for psychological torment?
Hearing the back door opening, I tuck the lighter away.
"What are you doing outside?" Connor questions from the porch.
Looking to him, I smile. "Getting some fresh air. It's nice outside." I thought that I wouldn't have to lie to him again. . .
Emotions complicate everything. It brings stress who feels like bringing fear just to amplify the party. Then they dance the waltz to form this beautiful thing called depression. Not being happy, the new couple complains-- no, not to each other but to the host. You tear yourself down to try and satisfy the two but. . . it never works. Instead, they take wrenches and try to fix the clockwork only to make everything worse. It is like the two is trying to make you suffer because you didn't appease to their need when you have your own to look after.
Have I become a pathological liar? I think I have been taught to live life by lying. I've learned how to keep all of the stories in order and lines up like a book report. Keep a black or white plastic cover so it can be protected, the pages better be stapled together and put in the right order or it doesn't make sense.
Too bad I can't lie to myself. . . I guess its why they say that intelligence goes hand in hand with depression.
"It's really nice to come out here every now and then, just to see the stars," I murmur. giving a smile as well. Is this how the secretary models feel? Plastic smiles despite whatever is running through their programs?
His LED flashes a deep red, staring at me like I'm doing something suspicious. "Yes, the night sky is pretty." There is a small smile, making me feel slightly more at ease--
Well until I remember that death threat.
Risking my life in a protest is acceptable, but being executed is not? That makes no sense: Death doesn't hold out options and tell you to pick your method. . . What is the difference between the two?
The chances. . . The plan. . . The timing. . .
I calculated for a peaceful protest that could go wrong-- not someone planning to murder me before the final meeting.
The things people will do for themselves. . . but am I just the same as them? Am I willing to kill someone to get my way?
I guess if you want it bad enough, you'd kill for it. . .
That is just how all beings are. . . No matter how humane they seem.