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ninjathrowingstork · 5 months

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Blade Runner: Bitter Water

Hello I am back again with more heartbreak.

I'll probably update with my actual notes once I remember what I wanted to add for this.

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Chapter 3

A blood black nothingness.

A system of cells.

Within cells interlinked.

Within one stem.

And dreadfully distinct.

Against the dark.

A tall white fountain played."

He’d passed. He always passed.

Leaving the dingy white room, the rapid-fire questioning had left his mind feeling scraped raw, but he was still on his baseline and he had a job to do. It had been nearly a week, and he was running out of time. This hadn’t been the fight he was looking for, but hunting down where a fugitive replicant would go to ground meant finding other fugitives sometimes. Fugitives who fought back.

But they weren't designed to fight, to hunt, to kill, the way he had been designed.

The investigation was getting nowhere.

kD6-3.7 scanned through another day’s worth of surveillance recordings, fruitlessly looking for one, specific spinner.

While pursuing his other lead had resulted in the crash landing in a pile of slush, he’d eventually tracked down first a shop owner who’d recognized the lost heiress’s replicant companion and that had led to someone else who’d confirmed the woman’s daily route, and finally to the series of cameras along the streets.

Just for once, he wished something could have been easy. It took days to get some of the recordings back, from stores and private security cameras. Sure the Police Department could request the files be turned over, but tracking down the paperwork and waiting for permits to go through had already set him back, even before sitting and watching through the days and days of recordings. He’d eventually had to put each camera’s recording of the last day the replicant woman had been seen together in sequence, tracking her path along the usual route, and-

There.

One moment she was walking, head down under an umbrella, and the next she’d turned a corner and by the camera next in the sequence, she was gone. There was still one more recording, partially blocked by an awning, that had a viewpoint of the alley in between the two streets. It was slim chance, but-

He had it. The woman turned the corner onto the street, lined with parked spinners, speeding up slightly on the empty sidewalk. He watched as the door of one swung open as she approached, and with one last look over her shoulder, she’d slid into the dark, unmarked vehicle and it had pulled away and vanished into the flow of traffic around the next corner. But-

Zooming in. Another flick of the controls and the image of the spinner’s open door was magnified to take up the whole screen. He brightened it, and there. It was her mistress. The missing heiress was already in the vehicle, holding the door open for the replicant woman to join her.

He’d been told not to look into the human woman’s vanishing as well, and he’d surmised the two were connected, but their timing and circumstances for disappearing had stayed a mystery, until now. While finding the method of their disappearance solved several questions, it only raised more. If the two hadn’t been abducted, hadn’t been taken by force, that left the questions of who helped the pair, and why did they leave ? Answering those would be a start in finding where they went.

Wearily, he ran his hands down his face, it had been long hours sifting through the recordings, and it was getting close to dinnertime. That didn’t mean he was done for the night, though. With a few keystrokes, he sent the shots of the replicant Alice entering the car and a report of his progress to the Lieutenant, and put in a request for any ID on the spinner the system could find.. She’d given him a week, and he had one more day to work the case before she’d said it would be passed along, solved or not. He hoped he’d made enough progress to buy more time. Whether that was to work the case or to live, he wasn’t sure. It was the highest profile assignment he’d been given, and the family of the missing girl could easily ask for his retirement for not finding the pair. Still. Joshi had phrased it to sound like this was just a courtesy and a preliminary investigation before more important resources were invested in the case. He could still be retired and replaced over a courtesy, when dealing with a family with the money of the missing girl.

The only thing left was to go take a look at the street where the replicant woman had been picked up, if he could still find any evidence. If he could get any lead in the case from there.

Trudging through the station, he kept his head down as always. The past week had been. . . different. The other officers still either ignored him entirely, or else he had to endure the gauntlet of glares and the occasional curse flung as he passed, sometimes a shoulder slamming against him as he passed, but. But. No one had grabbed him, no one had touched him more than in passing. He wondered how long the sergeant’s influence would keep them off of him, but he would take whatever reprieve she’d bought him.

Sergeant Flint. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night, but he’d seen her at the desk in passing a few times. She’d looked up, nodding in recognition each time, but he’d been focused on the case, and it seemed wrong to approach her uninvited, with others around. There had been that one time he’d passed a hallway to see her red hair shining in it’s tight knot as the tall woman was speaking with the Madam. The conversation had seemed friendly, but there was the now-recognizable angry set to her jaw, and Joshi had been standing even more stick-straight than usual. Whatever the two women had been discussing seemed personal, and he’d turned and left them alone.

“Officer K?” As though summoned by the memory, there she was striding down the hallway as he passed. With barely a pause, she fell into step beside him as they entered the entryway together. “On a case tonight?” It was less formal, less restrained than she’d been at first but there was a new tautness to her words, and that set to her jaw that said anger had returned.

Best be wary then. “I am, ma’am.” Then, “the report is due tomorrow.”

She paused as they neared the desk, and he stopped a step later, looking back at the tall sergeant. “Think you’ll have time for dinner again?”

Dinner? Was this a regular thing for them now? There was a small flutter of - of something in his chest, a strange lightness, but still. . . “If this lead doesn’t turn up anything, I - I could meet you somewhere.” It was one of the longest sentences he’d said to her so far. He told her the neighborhood, and after a moment, she nodded.

“There’s a rail station there. Meet you there at seven?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If you’re not working, officer, it’s not an order.”

The pitch of her voice shifted minutely, the tone softer as it had been when she’d reassured him before. Oh. Not an order. He could. . . he could say no, could say another time, if he wanted. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll meet you there at seven.” This was already too close. Too familiar. Before she could say anything else, he’d turned on his heel and headed out into the evening.

Within cells interlinked.

The streets on the way were as busy as they’d been on the day of the disappearance, but turning down the side street, it was quiet. The backs of a few stores, and crumbling brick walls. It was. . . nice, not a neighborhood a wealthy heiress would be walking through, but someplace her tutor and assistant replicant would be left alone. Stopping at the point across from the camera, still with an awning stretched over a door blocking a corner of the view, he looked along the empty stretch of street. A single spinner hummed by in the evening chill. Not for the first time, he recalled his instructions not to look into the missing girl, the missing human. Investigating her would possibly give more information about the spinner’s route, where she had boarded it, who was driving it behind the dark privacy-tinted windows. If anyone had been watching the street here that day, they wouldn’t have any more insight than the camera had given about the spinner or the two passengers. Between the tinting and the positioning of that awning, any identification of the vehicle or driver had been carefully hidden.

They knew someone would come looking.

They knew, and he’d get nothing else from here.

Once more, Officer KD6-3.7 turned, trudging into the evening. He might still make the station for seven.

By the time he reached the monorail station, he half expected she’d have gone. It wasn’t long after the hour, but she had no reason to wait for him.

But.

There she was, lights glinting off the damp on the shoulders of her coat. She peeled herself away from the wall when she spotted him, lowering the boot she’d propped up behind her. “Didn’t know if you’d make it.”

Didn't know if he’d make it alive, he realized. There never was a guarantee he’d come back. “I don’t have that much of a social life,” he shrugged. “Didn’t know if you’d still be here.”

That got an almost-grin from her. “Not much of a social life either, I had time to wait.”

The thought that a human would willingly spend her time just waiting for him, not knowing if he’d make it back, was. . . strange.

“And anyway, I was the one who asked to meet,” turning on her heel, she led him into the station and towards the monorail car. “Wasn’t about to leave you here, if you got held up on the way and happened to be late.”

As little as he could trust most humans, and even less those who held rank over him, whose orders he was bound to obey, he could feel himself actually trusting the sergeant. This was well beyond caring for his well being as department property, coming to this corner of the city just to meet him. The first night she’d led him from the station, had given him food and kindness, she’d said she didn’t want to use him, and his instincts were telling him this woman didn’t change her mind easily so he doubted that was her plan for the evening.

Ahead, his companion quietly slid by the kiosk where evening passengers stopped scanning passes with a soft chime before crossing the platform to board. “We’re not paying, ma’am?” He’d been on the monorail that wound through the black buildings and neon lights once before, in his first, disorienting days alive as he was learning his new life on the force. He’d been with another officer then, taking him through the city on foot instead of spinner for once, leading him along with a hand clamped painfully around his arm, and it had all been too overwhelmingly new for him to process if there had been any fare paid then. He hadn’t tried the rail system since, preferring either the privacy of a department spinner or the economy of traveling by foot.

Without stopping, Flint glanced back at him, reaching to tap at the insignia pinned to her coat shoulder. “Not in uniform, officer, we ride free, department wants us to have a presence out here and the transit folks say it keeps the rides safer.” He caught the corner of her half-smile before she turned back.

As the lights of the city slipped by in the night, he glanced sideways at the woman standing still as a statue, gazing calmly out the window as she held onto the overhead strap for balance. Maybe her presence in her uniform-blue coat did make the other passengers in their car feel safer, maybe not, but if all he’d gotten from them was the occasional side-eye, he knew the weight of presence she carried around her was keeping him a little safer. They didn’t talk during the ride, despite the ease between them earlier Flint had slipped back into being the stone-faced sergeant beside him with the closeness of the other riders around them, and.

And.

And there was still that flicker of the suppressed anger in the set of her mouth and line of her jaw. Had something happened in the past week? Was this night with him for her to unwind for once instead of him? But there had been that something in how she’d asked to meet him, something masked behind the rare lightness in her tone. Either way, whatever her intentions, he reminded himself, it wasn’t his place to question her. Even if she had said it wasn’t an order.

Still in silence, they left the rail car, a jerk of her head the only signal it was time to exit before she led him out and back into the city streets. There were more holo-signs here, the city more dense than the area they’d just come from. High above them, a glowing pink woman was dancing on the side of one building, and he stopped, for once watching one of the myriad of advertisements he walked through daily. “Those digis really are something.” The sergeant had stopped, joining him again to stare up at the display. “Wonder if they really can be whoever you want, like she says.”

“Wouldn’t know.” The idea of just having someone around to talk to had been utterly alien to him until little more than a week before, but having someone, even a fake, digital companion had been so far above any wildest dreams, if he’d had any. “Probably costs a lot, though, so they must be worth it.”

“Probably right.” The rosy light slid over the orange of her hair, turning it a strange, murky shade, “ but I guess if folks really need someone to talk to. . .” she shrugged, before turning and leading him further through the streets.

Dinner that night was some kind of meat, likely vat grown also, but with a slight char to the corners and served on long skewers, and tonight, he didn’t protest her buying him food. Tonight, they ate quietly again, only commenting on the sauce on the meat, on the crowds. Tonight she wasn’t trying to distract him from anything, to save him from anything. There was no sharing of memories or stories of life- on the force and just of living . Just the company of sharing a meal with someone else as they watched the crowds pass by.

She was subtle. So subtle it took until they were both nearly finished eating for him to realize she was watching for someone , and as she quickly finished her food, he wolfed down the last bites of his, savoring the memory of the sauce and crunch of seared vegetables, trailing a step behind her as they crossed through the evening foot traffic to another table across the market from theirs.

The pair, a man and a woman, stood, talking over plates of food and something- something in the way they stood, the fit of their clothes, despite being nondescript civilian garments, said this pair were also police. Plainclothes, likely detectives-

Like the sergeant had been, he remembered.

“Roark and Nguyen,” Flint had stopped, just far enough the pair wouldn’t notice them, her voice just loud enough to be heard above the noise of the street. “I’ve known ‘em for a while. They ever give you any trouble?”

The question caught him off guard. Had they ever been among the ones he’d learned to avoid? Their faces were familiar, but just as another pair he’d seen around the precinct, never when his tormentors were around, never among the hands reaching to drag him into corners or rooms. “No, no, they’ve never bothered me.”

“Good.” She nodded curtly. “Knew I could trust ‘em, just had to be sure, you know?”

He didn’t know, but the realization she’d asked if her friends had ever. . . the thought she’d checked her knowledge of them was real against his experience was something he’d lie awake in his thin, fold-out bed thinking about in the night. But for now, he was following her again, straight for the pair.

“Evening, detectives.” There was a new wryness in her voice as she greeted them. It was almost. . . playful?

“Sarge, it’s been a while.”

“Hey, you.” The other woman, shorter, dark hair brushing damply against her shoulders, grinned up at the sergeant.

He was seeing their friendship, seeing the serious, hardened senior officers he passed every day as people, as friends. There was that pull, that twisting in his chest again for something he’d never truly be a part of.

“Hey back at you both. Been keeping out of trouble?”

“Nothing we can’t get ourselves out of, you know.” The man, average height with a fighter’s build, his instincts filled in, as the detective leaned his elbows on the table, a smile in his eyes despite an otherwise serious expression. “Who’s your friend?”

“Matt, Alicia, Officer K’s new around here.” A tilt of her head invited him to step into their circle, joining Flint and her friends at the table. “K, these two and I go way back. Went out drinking with them when I first made detective.”

And she still stopped to ask him if they’d ever hurt him.

“And the Sarge here has been kicking our asses in the shooting range since the academy days,” The man - Matt’s face finally cracked into a grin as he ran a hand through short, sandy hair, brushing out a scattering of snowflakes.

“He’s the new ‘runner, right?” Detective Nguyen - Alicia - eyed him curiously.

“Yeah, since they stopped partnering with human detectives, don’t think I’ve seen much of the last few. Well, uh, it’s good to finally meet ya,” finally looking past the sergeant to greet K.

Beside him, Flint’s jaw twitched with- with annoyance?

“That’s part of why I need to ask you two a favor.”

“Oh?” The shorter detective leaned forward to mirror her partner, curiously. “What kind of favor?”

“Have you two seen Walters and his pals much this week?”

She shook her head, as her partner drawled a slow “can’t say that I have.”

“Well, that pack’s been givin’ K here trouble lately, and L-T can’t do much through official channels to stop it.” Her voice had slipped into the nomad drawl as she spoke to her friends. “Try as I might, I can't watch everything at once-” that got another grin from the detectives, “so I’m askin’ if you two could help keep an eye out, run interference for him. Keep that pack of degenerates off his back. Leastways until they get bored and back off. It’ll save me the worry and keeps the L-T from coming down on me if he takes any damage in the station that’ll put him out of commission.”

This was. . . different, from how she’d been- been concerned for him, framing the request as a favor for her, for the department instead. Using her own friendship with them to shield him again.

Both detectives stared at him, she with a cool appraisal and he with a sharp curiosity, and he found himself wanting to shift uncomfortably under the new scrutiny. He’d learned this much attention from anyone not connected to a case was rarely ever good.

Roark straightened up, the sharp grin he’d greeted the Sergeant with almost returning. “Well. Never thought about the runners having trouble like that, but Walters and his guys are jackasses, so- K, was it?”

“Yes, sir.” His reply was too quiet, again, as he stared at the flickering light of a holo ad on a wall past the man's shoulder.

“K, you find me or Alicia here if there’s any trouble, those degenerates know not to mess with us.”

It wouldn’t help if he was ambushed in the hallways again, but it was a start.

“And I know this is already a big favor,” Flint jumped in, “but anyone else you can trust, who’s not been taking advantage of K here,” the muscle of his shoulder twitched as she dropped one hand onto the fabric of his coat, resting it with the slightest squeeze before dropping away,, “run this by them also, that the Sarge says he’s off limits.”

Off limits. He almost missed the two nodding in agreement as he processed what her words meant.

“Hey, Tam,” Nguyen reached across the table, tapping the surface by where the Sergeant’s arms were folded. “In exchange for this massive favor, you gonna come back out from behind that desk again? Joshi’s got that standing offer for you to join us in plain clothes again, I hear.

Beside him, Flint shifted minutely. Uncomfortably? “I’m fine where I am, Detective, you know that. ‘Asides, if she wants me back that badly she can make it an order.” She shrugged, barely a lift of her shoulders. “You never know, though. Someday I’ll get bored in the precinct maybe, and finally go outside again.”

The humor in her voice sounded forced to his ears, but the seriousness of the moment was broken. Making their goodbyes, Flint excused herself from her friends, and strode back along the street, with him following a step behind, the two of them alone in the crowds again.

The carefully-designed investigator’s mind they’d built in him was racing with questions as he followed, watching the sharp set of her shoulders in the blue coat. All of them led back to why . Why had she asked him to meet her and spend another evening out with her? Why go out of her way to meet him at the station, Why introduce him to her friends, and ask-

She’d known. She’d known the pair would be eating in this neighborhood, and for her own reasons had made the encounter and request appear casual. But. But that still left the question of why . She didn’t have to do this, didn’t have to protect him. He’d been built to endure the violence that came with the solitary life of a blade runner. He - didn't’ want, couldn’t want anything else - would have survived. But the sergeant had told him she’d used her position and influence to put the fear of real consequences, the fear of their sergeant into his - his attackers. Off limits , she’d said. She’d already done that for him. Now, she’d gone further and requested help from detectives . Human detectives. For him. If he could have felt shame, felt it even after what he’d been subjected to in his short life so far, he would have been ashamed of the request that the well-known and respected partners have to watch out for him, that they have to watch out for one replicant in the station who can’t-

But. There was, once more, that strange warmth in his chest that she was trying to protect him, and they’d agreed. He’d never spoken with the pair - still hadn’t beyond a few words, he realized, playing back the conversation - and, because she’d asked them, the two had agreed to help watch out for him and keep Walters and his cronies off his back. It wasn’t much on the surface, but, if they kept their word, then the number of humans in this world who gave a second thought for his life had just tripled. It seemed unlikely, but. . . but the memory of warm food and tea, of the blue-coated figure parting the crowds ahead of them, and of the rare, warm touches said it just all might be true.

That figure strode ahead, hand now shoved deep back into the pockets of her coat, and he followed as always, just a step behind her shoulder. With one long step, he caught up, for once walking beside her. She looked as she did that first night, that determination, that deeply hidden burning anger that only highly-tuned senses could have detected. “Thank you. . . thank you for doing that. You didn’t have to” He sounded too quiet in his own ears again, each word carefully measured out.

She shrugged one shoulder, “can’t always be around to keep those sonsabitches off you, already asked Bernal and Elliot to help keep an eye out also. They’ve never bothered you, right?” One eyebrow tilted, she glanced across him finally.

He’d seen the two men on occasion also, they’d maybe looked at him in passing but never longer than it took to recognize his approach before going back to their own conversion, their own lives. “No, they’ve never bothered me. “

“Yeah, those two are the last guys I’d ever suspect, and the last who’d be into whatever kicks Walters and the others get from. . . well, it’s just not their thing.”

There were several things she could mean, but right now it meant he had two pairs of respected, senior, human officers watching his back in the station.

“Thank you” His voice was even quieter this time. Falling back to his usual position at her back, he almost missed the quirk of a smile his thanks earned.

“It’s the least I can do, Officer K.” Her voice was that almost-gentle tone again, the current of anger she’d carried all night hidden deep. “Like I said before, you shouldn’t have to put up with how they treat you.”

Any other protests he might have made, if he’d been able to find it in himself to ever contradict her, were lost as he trailed her through the narrow, winding stalls of the night market she’d led them into. This was more closely packed than the one she’d brought him to before, smaller openings for evening shoppers to eat, and tighter lanes wrapping around the few, coveted stores hemming the packed streets. Long legs carried Flint smoothly through the press, sliding around crowds with the occasional person slipping out of the way upon recognizing her. Finally, she slowed, giving him the chance to catch up.

“Up there,” she gestured at a larger booth, selling what looked like fruit from a distance. It was set up against a wall, possibly connected to one of the permanent shops if he judged the large, semi-permanent structure right. They stopped, and he watched over her shoulder as the sergeant leaned in, ordering from the woman behind the counter, her sleek dark hair a contrast with Flint’s fiery copper. It was hard to hear, even with his heightened senses, but he could faintly make out “les vrais” before the woman nodded, vanishing into the darkness of her shop.

“When I was a kid,” Flint had turned, staring out across the market as she spoke, her nomad’s drawl slipping back into her speech, “sometimes we’d find berry bushes up in the mountains still. Scrubby lil’ things, but they’d be out there clingin’ to life.” His full attention was focused on the story, another memory of a real childhood she was sharing with him. “Sometimes we’d find berries on them, growing in whatever sunlight the things could get. Dusty, tart little things, but we’d pick any we could reach. Bring ‘em to the city, get good money for ‘em, even then.”

He could only imagine, produce that wasn’t grown in Wallace-made facilities was treated like gold, and-

The thought was interrupted as the soft rustling of paper containers sliding across the counter heralded the woman’s return. Two small, paper cups holding. . . holding blackberries.

“Since getting here, this is the only place I’ve found that still has a hookup with other dusties, can still buy the berries from outside the city.” Her almost-grin looked more like a grin than ever now. As she reached out, taking the cups from the woman, he almost missed the flash of a slip of paper passed along with one cup to the sergeant, vanishing behind her fingers a moment later. Strange, but her business was none of his, and questioning human officers, no matter how odd their behavior, was not his job.

The almost-warm almost-grin was back as she passed him one of the small cups, and for once, he barely noticed how her hand pulled away too quickly for their fingers to touch. The cup held barely a handful of small, dark berries, with a small swirl of . . . whipped cream? Slowly, carefully, he tried a berry with a bit of the cream, and-

For a heartbeat, it was as though a part of his brain froze and a wave of something ran through him as the thin membranes of the berry burst on his tongue. It was sweet , sweet in a way nothing he’d ever tried compared to. There was a tart earthiness to the berry, a burst of flavor and juice that no synthetically grown food could compare with, somehow more substantial than any fruit he’d tried before.

“Like it?” Beside him, Flint popped one of her own berries in her mouth, eyes suddenly distant as she chewed.

“It’s. . . it's real. ” This was real food, something more real than he’d ever had, ever be able to afford on his own and that ache behind his sternum was back, aching for everything he’d never know, never be able to experience, everything that was long-gone from the world even before he’d drawn his first breath. “They’re. . . really real. Ma’am I can’t-”

“Yeah, they’re real. They get sweeter when they’re on the plant longer, get to stay in the sun longer, but those don’t stay good as long to get em’ to a buyer.” She popped another berry in her mouth, savoring it for a moment. “And I know what you’re going to say, K, and you absolutely can . Your life doesn’t have to be shitty, leastways no shittier than any of ours down here, just because of what you are. You get a chance to enjoy some small, bright spot of joy down here, you enjoy what you can, you hear me?”

He did, and while most of what she said still sounded wrong to him, he took another bite of berries and cream, feeling the flavors burst in his mouth like nothing ever had before, feeling their realness and beauty. It was wasted on him, of course, since he was neither of those things himself, but . . . but for however long he had left to live, he’d remember the taste. “Yes, ma’am. And thank you, for the berries, for everything. If it’s an order, then I’ll. . . allow myself to enjoy things.”

That drew a snort of a laugh from her. “It’s not an order, just a suggestion. It took me a hellova long time once I got here to start livin’ like a civilized person, enjoying the stuff we never had out there,” she jerked her head in what was probably the direction of the badlands, “havin’ so much running water alone felt wrong. But, I adapted. Learned to take what little softness the city had. It’s different, but. . . you learn to live, understand?”

He did, a little. Remembering his curt, perfunctory showers framed her words over that being even more water than a nomad girl had in a new light. “I- I think so. I’ll. . . I’ll learn, eventually. Maybe get to do some living while I’m alive, right?” The dry humor was coming easier now.

Chewing the last of her cupful of the rare treat, Flint’s quirk of a grin showed it was appreciated. Eventually, regretfully, the last of the purple-black jewel-like berries he guessed to be more rare and prized than actual jewels these days was gone. The only trace was the lingering tartness on his tongue, and the rich, slightly-sweet oiliness of the cream coating his mouth.

He’d just eaten what was likely a small fortune in bootleg, genuine fruit. There was a strange mix of - not emotions he didn’t feel - from the delicacy. He knew he didn’t deserve them, that the rare produce grown on some far-off mountain that still had the faintest tang of dust clinging to them was far beyond the station for which he’d been made, been manufactured. They had been more real and valuable than he. But. But she’d told him he could eat them. Had wanted to see him enjoy them. If it had been anyone but Flint he might have suspected they’d wanted to see his reaction, if he reacted, to the taste as their own entertainment. She wasn’t like that and it didn’t take the heightened intuition and observational reflexes that had been carved into his nervous system to see that. She’d told him to eat, and even though the same deeply-carved and wired instincts recognized her as a superior officer, and something deep within his mind knew her as a registered user and her orders were law and there was never any question about obeying her commands. This hadn’t been an order, really. She’d given him the food, sure, but the closest thing to an actual order had been. . . to find what made him happy? He may not have been given the luxury of free will, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find peace in the small luxuries he was able to obtain.

It didn’t make sense, not with everything he knew to be true about himself, how he was created and what he’d been created to do. That he was a product, not a person. Maybe, though, maybe what the sergeant wanted him to hear was that it didn’t mean he had to endure what might be a short, brutal life entirely alone and empty. The idea was . . . new. As much as he could trust any human, and any who he’d been created to serve and obey, he trusted her.

They’d thrown the empty containers away as they exited the market, Flint falling back a step to walk beside him, far enough away her elbows couldn’t brush his with her hands back in her coat pockets, face hidden inside the cavernous hood. They walked in silence that way for a few blocks, the sounds and lights of the city at night rippling around them.

“Bein’ a nomad, it’s not all that folks think it is.” Her voice broke the silence between them, and he half-turned to look at the sergeant beside him on the sidewalk, but the shadow of the hood hid her face as she spoke. “Folks in the Department jus’ know the dusties in raiding parties, maybe some that’ll camp outside the city, sellin’ anything that’ll sell. Anything we’ve found.”

We , she’d said. It’d been a long time since Flint had been with them, K remembered, but she still slipped and called herself one of them.

“But ridin’ together, stripping abandoned buildings, cities, looking for anything we can use, sure it’s a rough life but you’ve got the convoy, you know?”

He didn’t know, but stayed silent as she spoke.

“There’s scavenging yeah, but we weren’t scaveys, not like those almost-ferals down south. We work as teams, families sometimes, watch each other’s backs. You learn to turn junk into whatever we needed out there. Going on reuse and recycle runs to find supplies off old trucks, old machines. Clean it up, hammer out the dents, and cut it int’a what you need.”

They walked, surrounded by the darkness and grime of the city that was the only home he’d known, but. . . but her words conjured up memories that weren’t his, of a dirty, lonely childhood spent hammering trash for the few pieces of treasure. Of bleak, dusty stretches of parched land. What could a life out there have been with a convoy and family behind you? “I. . . I have memories of the ruins,” it was the first time he’d told anyone about the past that wasn’t his. “In an orphanage, they put us to work picking over scrap metal, breaking apart old machines.”

A small hum of what might have been sympathy sounded from the hooded woman. “Think I heard about places like that, never been near one from what I recall. Yeah the clan had kids around but if’n one lost their folks, we’d just keep ‘em and raise ‘em with the rest.”

A family, even in the harsh, wild life of the nomadic clans out in the badlands, it was more than he’d ever had. Ever have. “So, why’d you leave and join the Police?” There were notes in the file, and while he could put together pieces from her interview and records, there were also things she’d never said.

For a few steps, they walked together in silence again until he thought she might not answer. “Lost my ma when I was real young,” that much he’d already heard. “My brother and my Da were on a convoy with me, and one night raiders hit us. We got away but Da got hit and we lost him.” Her words were short, clipped. Rehearsed? Something nearly inaudible in her tone sounded rehearsed but then, he supposed, she must have told this story before. The Madam had been her partner in the past and he doubted the hard-eyed woman he answered to would have let Flint’s history stay a mystery to her.

“Brother and I stayed on the convoy together for a time after that, then one night we met up with another band, and knew the folks so we camped together that night,” she continued. “In the morning, he was gone. Hopped a truck in the other caravan and left.”

“He left you?”

She shrugged, one-shouldered. “Left the memories, saw a chance for a new band to fight with and took it. He liked to fight.” The last sounded almost sad. “Didn’t have anything keepin’ me there, so I packed whatever I had and came here. Knew the city was dangerous and all, but if’n I’m gonna get mine one day, I figured I’d do it somewhere I didn’t hafta forage for food and might get a hot shower first.” Beside him, she rolled her shoulders, head tilting back to look at the sky. It had begun snowing again, and the flakes settled on her lashes in the glimpse of her face he got before, lowering her head once again, she was lost in the hood.

“Why’d you choose to join the police?” You had the choice to join. He’d never have the choice to or not, only the preprogrammed memories of choosing that he’d been given, like a pile of clothing left folded on a chair for him.

“Why them? Well, as much as I can keep an engine goin’, things I was best at were fighting and shooting. Spent enough years guarding convoys I thought might as well get paid for it, not that the pay for a beat cop just startin’ out is that much, but it sure as hell was more than I’d ever had before.”

And it sure as hell had to be more than the small allowance he was given by the same department.

“Also, picked the Police over private cops because I’d heard they always needed fresh meat, and weren’t as choosy. Knew I could handle anything they threw at me after growin’ up how I did.” Her voice had dropped off at the end, and . . . and he could almost relate, almost understand with his fictional past. Fighting to survive in the orphanage had made the brutality, the isolation of his life here almost easy. But- but her past was real , her humanity stood as a chasm between them and their nearly parallel stories.

“And now here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“Ever think of. . . of visiting them, your clan?”

Another long pause. “Got no one left to visit. Some old friends, yeah. Might find my brother out there if I go asking around, if he’s still topside. Been so long though, don’t think I’d really know them that much. Anyway, got my life here now. Got work to do.”

They’d reached the platform for the monorail again, and, now silent, she led him back across the platform and onto the car. She was silent again as they soared through the night, the sleek metal capsule flying past spinners and signs, the smells of bodies and metal dust and late-night spilled alcohol drifting around them. Soon, they had stopped again, and he realized this was the station closest to the market and his own neighborhood.

Still in silence now, they walked together through the snow-dusted streets. Around them, the lights rippled off the powder in the moments before it melted to a cold grey slush, turning the streets a momentary shimmering rainbow of neon.

They were a few blocks from his building when she broke the silence. “I’m taking the promotion.”

Only his expertly crafted neurochemical system kept him from twitching at the jolt of surprise. “The promotion?”

“Back to sergeant.” She’d shoved her hood back, staring levelly ahead, face back to the stony mask. “Got an ultimatum from the L-T. Wants me to take it, join a new task force that’s being built for these kidnappings, or else I’ll be put on the nomad raids.”

He remembered that briefing, the events. . . after had made the report less important, and it wasn’t his work anyway, but he’d heard talk in passing of more disappearances in the week since. But that would mean. . .

“So I won’t be around as much anymore, K. Might be in the precinct for reports but can’t say it’ll be regularly anymore. I’ve done what I can and having detectives saying you’re off limits should keep those pieces of shit off your back.”

At least as far as anyone could see them, he knew. It might not stop the wandering eyes and hands, but he hoped, as much as he could hope for anything, it would keep them from going any further again. “I. . . I understand. Does this mean-”

“And these nights will have to end, yes.” The words were as cold as the snow beneath their boots. “I’ve had word from up above that this. . . association is frowned on. Might impact your effectiveness or something. Point is, I’ve been ordered to back off.”

It was back, that yawning pit inside his guts, knowing now how much it ached when he wasn’t supposed to feel it ache, feel anything. He knew now what it was to have someone being near him, to walk beside in the dark, to eat with, tasting flavors he’d never dreamed he could ever know. But now, now he knew . And because of what he was, who had paid for him, he was denied that life a second time. “I understand.” He swallowed around the tightness rising up his throat. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble, sergeant.”

They’d reached his doorstep again, and she glanced away, the corners of her mouth turning down as the simmering anger she’d carried all night flared. She’d known. She’d planned this as a final night, he realized. Flint must have been told that week, been arguing with Joshi that day in the hallway, and had planned this night to be a farewell, to tell him others would be looking out for him and to give him one last taste of the life he could never know. A taste of the fruit he would never be worthy of knowing. She’d known it would always end like this.

“It’s no trouble, Officer K. And if the department wants to come down on anyone for this, they can take it out on me. I’ve been around long enough to handle it.” And for her, censure wouldn’t mean the risk of retirement.

A rapid flicker of emotions nearly broke her stone-like composure, nearly said something else before the faint click of her teeth killed the words. “Goodnight, officer.” Turning on her heel, she strode into the dark and snow.

“Goodbye,” his whisper followed her into the night.

On feet that felt as dead and heavy as lead from more than just the cold, he forced himself to climb the long flights of stairs up to his apartment. The jeers and hands reaching and groping for him that he usually had to endure on the path to his door all faded out as white noise tonight. Silently, he brushed past all of them, head down, ducking into the safety of his collar. Cans and debris crunched under his boots as he shouldered past figures outside his apartment. Someone called out at him as he unlocked the door, slipping inside as it shut behind him before any reaching fingers could catch the back of his coat (this time).

He was alone.

He’d always been alone. Now, he- he could almost feel how alone he was.

(He wasn’t supposed to have feelings opinions but still-)

Silently, as always, he moved through his evening routine. He was meant to be alone. The lukewarm water of his shower pelted skin. He’d known almost what it was like to have a friend. The packaged seasoning for the stovetop noodles smelled stale compared to the memory of flavors so sudden his eyes had nearly watered. The packaged food was better than the protein grubs, although less nutritious, but the meal earlier had been solid and warm and he wished he could forget how the background hypervigilance needed for a blade runner to survive had quieted some with the presence in the blue coat beside him. Harsh alcohol burned down his throat, washing the small meal down, but the memory of the taste of berries and cream still clung to his taste buds.

Curled in his thin, cold fold-out bed, he thought ahead to what the next day might hold, his time on the case had run out, and depending on what was asked by the people even beyond his Madame’s sphere of power, he could be gone and another, new replicant in this apartment in the next few days. He’d been given a case with little to use and a short timeline, been given as little choice or consideration in this assignment as he’d ever been, and now the one person who’d cared enough to try to help him the least bit was gone. If the worst happened the next day, there’d be no one left to remember him. A deep curl of something by his heart almost ached at the thought. As he drifted off, the ghostly memory of a rough wooden toy in small hands that weren’t really his made his palms itch with the phantom touch, and the persistent whispered “ survive” slid through his mind, soothing away the thing that another might have called despair.

<- Chapter 2. Chapter 4. ->

#blade runner 2049 #blade runner #blade runner fanfic #fanfic #blade runner 2049 fanfic #officer kd6 3.7 #officer K. fanfic #ryan gosling #writing #cyberpunk

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drivinmeinsane · 3 months

Text

{ Eyes Always Seeking }

2/3 ※ Officer K (BR 2049) x Sierra Six (The Gray Man) ※ { masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

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※ Summary: Unpleasantly, K feels the return of the drowning sensation he had felt earlier. It is almost as though someone had placed a mirror in front of him in a dream. The reflection is him, but distinctly not. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Canon-typical violence, Descriptions of a Crime Scene, Eye Horror, Descriptions of Injury, Frottage, Handjobs, Implied Reoccurring Sexual Abuse by a Supervisor, Emotional Hurt, Identity Issues, References to Greek Mythology, Hand Holding, Slow burn ※ Word count: 3,551 ※ Status: Chapter 2 / Complete ※ Author's note: This chapter and I bitterly fought. I'm not sure who won, but here it is all the same. Eyes Always Searching has expanded beyond the word count I set out to write and there will be a third and final chapter because of that. K's really going through it, but we'll get there, folks. Hands WILL be held. ※ Song inspiration: The Ghost on the Shore - Lord Huron

It’s considerably later in the night when the spinners containing the matching set of replicant officers finally touch down on the roof of the Los Angeles Police Department's towering building. The impact of the tires on the ground is enough to rattle K’s already overstimulated body. The inevitable test hangs over his head like the fist of another replicant primed to swing at his skull. He is not confident that he is going to look like himself inside, not tonight. He’s swimming in the ocean, head going under, fighting for breath, miles away from solid ground of his baseline. Odysseus on the boat, not yet to the shore of the Cyclops’s island.

One of his implanted memories is a lesson for him to stay out of water. Keep your feet touching the bottom. Don’t drift too far. If you do, you won’t come back. Seems like he didn’t learn from that lesson or maybe he was pushed into the depths. He didn’t choose this life.

He gets out of his spinner. The plastic bags rustle and shift inside his pockets. That sensation, at least, is something familiar in the turbulent waters of tonight.

Six meets him at the midpoint between the two spinners and, together, they walk to the door that opens into the rooftop entry point. The other replicant mentions for him to walk ahead, needing him to take the lead in an unfamiliar building. K bypasses the elevator entirely. They descend the stairs like two men being led to the gallows as he takes them down past the level that houses Lieutenant Joshi’s office. He learned early on in his inception not bring pending work with him when visiting her, only results.

The muscles in his thighs burn, going numb from the constant use. Elevators are not safe, not for their kind. Their privacy allow for intimacies, liberties that cannot be easily refused. They are nothing but slow-moving cages. As they descend into the bowels of the building, he wonders at the lack of protest from his fellow officer at taking the stairs. Had Six also found himself cornered in his own precinct? Likely.

K pushes open the stairwell door on the floor that contains collection and processing and they step out into the populated hallway. They do not go unnoticed. Both replicants are too bloody and rank to escape attention. Their condition is enough to provoke most of the other occupants into pressing against the walls. An unnatural silence falls. K had expected a greater uproar than usual due to his new shadow, but it seems like the presence of the other replicant at his back is having the opposite effect on his usual hecklers.

Wide eyed stares at the matching set the two of them make K tuck his chin into the lining of his jacket. He’s shying away from the scrutiny and closer to his fellow officer. Six, for his part, doesn’t waver. The other replicant is a steadying presence, unbothered and enduring as the seawall.

Making a sudden left, K abruptly ducks into the evidence intake room. Six doesn’t miss a step and adjusts course accordingly. K would be relieved that there is an available processor if it didn’t mean that their baselines are coming up that much sooner. It’s slow here this time of night. The late hours bring a differing type of crime, pertaining more to perpetrators and enforcement rather than victims and deduction.

“Evidence turn in,” he says to the man seated behind the counter. K’s pretty sure the employee is an organic. He’s likely one of the folks that haven’t had the money or the latent qualities to make it off-world. There were more than a few of them left behind.

“Badge,” the processor says, disinterested. Faint moans are coming from a personal phone resting on his desk. Two female doxies grope each other on the visible sliver of screen. K buries the thought that he might as well be them and they might as well be him. They are spared the veil of secrecy at least.

K slides his badge under the plexiglass barrier. The man doesn’t bother to pause the video before checking the engraved number and pulling K’s file up on the computer screen. When he glances over at him to do a facial match to record’s photo, he does a double take. K gets to see him blanch, blood drains out of his face at the sight of Six hovering just at K’s shoulder. He quickly adverts his eyes. Like the organics in the hallway, he is clearly unsettled by the sight of a matched set.

His badge gets shoved back at him unceremoniously. He tucks it away. The seated man gives him a hard look, his lips are pursed like he is about to say something unpleasant. In response, K keeps his head lowered and his shoulders curled in. It’s a submissive display, nonthreatening, he’s a good dog showing his belly. Some of the tension bleeds from the employee at the show, although he still eyes Six warily.

“Slide whatever you have under.”

There’s open disgust on the seated employee’s face as both he and Six pull bags of eyeballs from their pockets and begin piling them on the laminated counter. Over a dozen hues stare blindly in all directions, lidded by thin plastic instead of flesh. The piece of metal that had slashed K’s temporary partner’s face open gets tossed unceremoniously alongside them in its own bag. It reflects the dazzling blue of one of their own eyes. K’s own or Six’s? Does it make a difference?

K does not produce the scarf they had taken from their personal Minotaur that they left slain and discarded in the heart of the maze. It is for him to keep, just like the coat that he tucks himself inside every day. Perhaps, when he is gone, his retiring officer will carry a piece of him with them, a reminder that he had existed in the endless list of serial numbers. He wishes sometimes that his own collection was smaller.

His partner gestures him aside and K obediently takes a step back, watching on as Six pushes the pile through the opening in the barrier. The sight of a tattoo on the other replicant’s hand makes the air seize in his chest. He just took on another lungful of water.

He knows he’s staring. His fellow officer had been wearing a pair of gloves earlier, hiding the pale flesh of his hands, but now they exposed in a way that distorts his reality. The moaning of the recorded doxies, the bare skin. Those hands on him, wringing noises from his own throat. It blurs together. He forces his eyes to look somewhere left of the processing employee’s ear.

The presence of the shakily etched palm tree in front of a sun on the joint of the other replicant’s thumb is troubling. K is perpetually lost in the ocean. That memory was implanted in him so deeply that he can taste the brine of saltwater every time he thinks of that day. Why should a replicant be here, wearing his face, and baring a mark representing the shore that was his salvation, just out of reach. The single palm tree in the sand just on the horizon... He never makes it.

The employee types loudly as he enters in the information. The crinkling of the plastic as he picks up each eye to press it against the scanner is as loud as a gunshot in the near silent space. More often than not, there’s an error. Just as K had suspected, the eyes are too decomposed for a regular scanner. Hitting the limit of his patience, the seated man finally throws the entire lot of them into a bin to be taken for more in-depth processing. Chances are that Coco is going to be saddled with it. He’s good at his job. He is also K’s favorite coworker. He at least apologizes when he insults him. The others don’t bother.

“You can go.” The employee says, irritated. As they take their leave he loudly says “Skinners!” to their backs. K twitches, wounded. Six tightens his jaw and his hand jerks ever so slightly towards K. Their knuckles brush, bare skin on bare skin. He might as well have punched him for the way the impact of that light touch radiates through his body.

The initial shock of them has worn off by the time they step back into the hallway. Muttered insults greet them as they carve a path back to the stairwell. They descend deeper into the precinct where the more unsavory things have a home.

Their hands do not touch again.

K pushes open the door onto a floor several levels below. It’s empty. No one but the cleaning crew and his kind have a purpose down here. His reflection meets his eyes in the polished floor. He doesn’t have to imagine company for once. One has become two has become four. Who will be coming back?

The overhead light buzzes, popping like broken bones under his hands. He can’t hold back the future. It’s inevitable.

Their footsteps echo. The slight squeak of the rubber of the sole of K’s left boot is insistent. The rustling of Six’s jacket accompanies it like an old friend. If he fools himself, he could imagine- No. Bury it. Bury it on the shore and enter the cave. It’s his fate.

They reach the room they need. There are no chairs.

It was once a waiting room with a desk, years before K came along. Now, instead of an employee, there is a screen mounted on the surface. He scans his fingers and then leans down and holds his eyelids open with those same fingers. Eyes up and to the left like a good boy. He steps back and lets the replicant at his side do the same.

In what feels like an act of cruelty, Six gets called back for his baseline first by a voice projected through a speaker in the corner of the room. Neither of them speak as he walks into the connecting room. K is left to wait, anxious. He has never had cause to be worried about another one of his kind before, not in this way. The similarities between them are too many. He has to trust that his fellow officer isn’t defective like him. Surely he isn’t. He seems less affected by the unpleasant aspects of their job. The vitriol of the organics around them hadn’t appeared to be as crushing. Their passing touches were likely not as remarkable to the other replicant as they were to K.

For his end of things, K knows all too well how easy it is to feel beyond what is safe. There has been days when the exhaustion has been bone deep. Days when he’s felt almost too tired to shove down his flaws. The wrongness of him bleeds to the surface, bubbles up through the dirt he buries the aspects of himself in. Pressure never staunches the wound for long.

He strains himself to hear anything behind the sealed door. There is nothing but the whoosh of the vents and his own body operating. Would he hear the killing blow?

Six returns after several achingly long minutes. His face doesn’t reveal anything when he steps out of the room. His jacket is folded over his arm. The dark material of his shirt hides the blood from his cheek injury. It looks worse than K had remembered. He’s suddenly too aware of the brain matter drying in his own hair.

The disembodied voice calls for K before the door even shuts behind Six. He nods at K and steps aside to let him pass. Irrationally, he has an urge to tell the other replicant goodbye.

There is a patch of missed blood in the room. The tile is stained pink around it. Someone had felt too much and paid the price. He shrugs his coat off. K tries not to look at the vibrant smear as he takes his seat on the stool. He keeps his eyes focused on the camera’s singular eye. A Cyclops. The Cyclops. He must outwit it.

“Subject: Officer KD6-3.7. Let’s begin. Ready?” comes the detached voice.

He imagines himself trapped in a cave. He loosens his fists. Pictures the scene in his mind, sinks into it. “Yes, sir.”

The camera whirs loudly. Locking onto him.

“Recite your baseline.”

“And blood-black nothingness began to spin. A system of cells interlinked within. Cells interlinked within cells interlinked. Within one stem.”

The rest of the questions follow. The camera clicks with each response, capturing any sign that he needs to be culled. With each reply, the story unfolds in his mind. The Cyclops is fooled, left drunk and unaware of his plans and innermost thoughts. His pulse beats steadily in his throat. He does not swallow excessively. He is calm, compliant.

“Do they teach you how to feel finger to finger? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.” He says automatically, before he can stop it, a flash of Six’s gloved hand in his bare one. It had been warm through the synthetic leather both times they had grasped hands.

“Do you long for having your heart interlinked? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.” Looking into Six’s eyes, thinking of the way the other officer asked him if he was okay. The way they had fought to keep each other alive mere hours ago.

“Do you feel that there's a part of you that's missing? Interlinked.”

“Interlinked.” Yes, but he found it. He found it. He fights the jump in his throat, the way he wants to look away from the piercing eye in shame.

He recites the words that are expected of him. Gives all the correct responses, fights any trace of humanity within himself. He reminds himself that there isn’t any. He is defective. He is irredeemably defective.

“Say that three times. Within cells interlinked.”

“Within cells interlinked. Within cells interlinked. Within cells interlinked.”

Machinery powers down. There is silence after K says the final word. His heart is hammering in his ears. His vision blurs, the camera turns into a wavering white fountain.

How long will Six wait for him? Will they tell the other replicant what happened here, or will he be left to draw his own conclusions. He should have held onto his hand. He should have felt Six’s bare skin with his own in the hallways, should have allowed himself that final luxury. But… maybe if he had, he would have tainted Six and it would be his blood in the corner. Yes, it was better this way. K can retire alone with his shame.

Finally.

“We’re done. Constant K. You can go.”

K locks eyes with the camera’s eye. He pictures himself driving a fiery wooden stake through it, desperation burning up the edges of himself. “Thank you, Sir.”

He stands up and puts his back to the camera as he moves to exit. He wonders if they put a bullet in the replicants from behind after telling them they can go or if they make them sit still and look ahead for their retirement. His shoulders are stiff. He reaches the door, imagining himself clinging to a sheep on the way out of the Cyclops's cave, hoping against hope the Cyclops won’t notice. His fingers are buried in the faux fur lining of his jacket, furthering the illusion.

Six is standing patiently for him in the main room. Hands clasped. Head lowered. Coat back on. Settled in like he would wait a lifetime. He nods upon seeing K and K nods back, neither of them speak. There is always someone listening.

They take the stairs to Joshi’s office. Once again, neither of them indicate for the elevator even despite the long climb. K ignores the burning of his lungs and the ache in his side. There is relief to be found in its presence. It hurts of victory, of his continued survival.

The bullpen outside of his madam’s office falls silent the moment their presence is registered by its occupants. No whistles and lewd commentary accompany their journey. Hushed murmuring and the dry rustling noises small insects might make when they skitter away from a bright light take the place of it instead. People stand up to look at them, the matched set. K thinks about the pile of endlessly staring eyeballs they had left behind. It’s difficult not to draw comparisons between them and the eyes of his coworkers.

He is the one to knock on his madam’s door.

“Come.”

A twist of the doorknob and then they’re stepping over the threshold. Predictably, the crowd waiting with bated breath behind them explodes into the conversation. Six closes the door, shutting away the leering remarks.

“Madam.” K greets, submissive nod of his head. Six does not follow suit. Joshi frowns at the lack of subservience.

“Took you long enough.”

“Apologies, Madam.”

She scans over them both with a critical eye. K has long since learned to not squirm under the weight of her scrutiny. Doing so only serves to displease her.

“I’m not paying for that,” she says abruptly.

K flinches, thinking she’s referring to him. He mentally catalogs every possible injury he might have. There is nothing that she should be able to see. He’s hiding his soreness. His pulse ticks up. His mouth dries.

“Of course,” comes Six’s steady voice. It’s his fellow officer’s cheek that had captured her notice.

The flippant answer seems to upset the woman seated behind her desk even more.

“What did you find.” She’s addressing him now, impatient.

“Thirteen bodies plus the one we retired. Fourteen. Looks like the tipster might have been right. There was some things written on the walls that seemed to suggest it. The entire place was set up like a maze.”

“What got to them?”

“Carbon Monoxide poisoning. It put some of them down in their sleep and riled up the one we dealt with today enough to finish off the rest long before we arrived on scene.”

“Your kind just can’t help themselves, can they?” Joshi says, a knowing gleam in her eye. He is aware of how she thinks of them.

“I suppose not, Madam.” K agrees placidly. There’s a spark of satisfaction on her face at his acquiescence, like they’re both in on the same joke.

“I’m a little surprised that you two haven’t torn each other to pieces yet. Didn’t think you newer models got along all that well. The reps over at Wallace warned me that there might be some conflict, like two starving dogs in a cage. Unless you were the one who put that cut on his face.”

K silently shakes his head. He doesn’t trust himself to react more than that. His madam’s assumptions rankle at him. The urges he is having are wrong, but they’re not violent. It would be better if they were. That would be forgivable. Despite himself, he can imagine the two of them clashing, but he would not draw blood. He would be toothless, hands soft, body yielding. He thinks he might let Six retire him if it came to it. Hopes it would be him and not anyone else.

“I’ll have a forensics team go out in the morning to canvas the place and find what you missed. I need you both back here in the morning. Let’s say… 0600. Go home, K. Get cleaned up, you look like shit.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Her attention redirects to the replicant at his side. “Anything to add…” she squints at her screen, “KS6-2.8?”

“No.”

“Lieutenant Fitzroy sure gave me a charmer when he sent you over. Are you usually this surly with your superiors or is it special treatment just for me?”

Six is silent. Joshi is looking like she might stand up and backhand him. K feels a sweat break out across his back. Suddenly, his coat seems stifling. “Well?”

“Whichever makes you feel better.” His tone is dripping with politeness. The crease deepens between the woman’s eyebrows.

Joshi stands up, one hand on her desk. She visibly takes a breath, holds it, lets it go. Her ire barely relents.

“Get out.”

Six inclines his head and pivots. K is careful to shut the door gently behind them.

K follows Six out of the door and up the stairs. He feels shaken, off balance. He would have never dared to needle his madam like Six had just done. It would have meant the hose, the metal grate, and the unforgiving tile. Standing, shivering in the refrigeration unit for minutes, for hours, for as long as it took for him to learn his lesson. They can’t disobey directly, the compulsion to bend a knee is too strong, but they are capable of other infractions.

“My place?” K asks, before Six pushes on roof access door. He feels a curl of desperation. He doesn’t want to see him leave. They haven’t talked. K needs more. He always needs more. One day he will pay for that need, but not tonight.

“Sure. My spinner?” Six responds easily, holding the door open for him. If he’s feeling nervous, he’s not showing it.

“Sure,” he echos.

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#blade runner 2049 #br2049 #blade runner #blade runner 2049 fanfiction #officer k #kd6-3.7 #officer k fanfiction #the gray man #the gray man (2022)#sierra six #sierra six fanfiction #the gray man fanfiction #officer k x sierra six #ryan gosling #ryan gosling fanfiction #.my work #.my posts

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