The Picture!

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HE IS S I G N I N G HELP!! HE'S TRYING TO GET US TO HELP HIM

Funny. (A DBH Drabble)

A/N: Well, I absolutely adore Detroit: Become Human, and I’ve been wanting to write a piece about it for a while! So I thought I’d get my feet wet with a quick little drabble about laughing. Enjoy!

The first time it happened, he didn't know what to think. He and Hank were eating at the usual food truck. Well, Hank was eating. Connor was leaning against the table, nodding his head to the distant music eminating from a nearby club. He didn't much care for the lyrics, but the beat was good, strong enough that he could feel it shaking the table and resonating in the soles of his shoes. He would never know why his fingers tapped the table or his head nodded in time, but he didn't mind. Having some things be unexplained was...interesting, if neither positive nor negative. "You lost in your head again, son?" He blinked and looked over at Hank, who was gesturing at him with a half-eaten chicken sandwich. "My apologies Leuitenant-" "You can just call me Hank, y'know." He blinked again, and Hank grinned somewhat awkwardly. "You don't have to. I'm just sayin', it's...y'know, it's weird to only call your friends by their rank. No one does that." "Friends?" "Shit, Con," Hank laughed, then sighed. "I mean...hell, it doesn't make sense to not call you my friend after you've saved my life a few times, right?" He waved the sandwich as if in salute. Without thinking, Connor laughed. It was a genuine, honest laugh, somewhat loud in the quiet night air. As soon as he realized what was happening, the noise cut off abruptly. The look on his face must have been quite a sight, because Hank went from smiling to wide-eyed laughter. "What'd I say?" "I...I don't know?" Connor was surprised to find that he was still smiling. "I don't think it was anything you said, but...you waved that sandwich at me, and it seemed...ridiculous?" He found he was laughing again, and Hank chuckled in return. "Are you kidding me? Damn, how low does a man have to fall for his own fuckin' android to laugh at 'im?" In yet another first, Hank reached over and ruffled his hair. Thinking he might as well follow instinct again, he batted away the hand and shoved Hank's arm slightly. "I'm sure I'm not the first to laugh, L-...ah, Hank." "And now you're making fun of me too! What's the world coming to?" Connor thought he just might have to laugh more often.

At times I actually forgot that the colonel, Damien and dark were different people he played them so well and so clearly

Right? Mark did such a good job separating the characters and their little quirks and mannerisms that you forget they’re all the same person, even though they all have the same face.

Could you maybe pretty please write even like a short idea on how you think corroded crank would realise they like somebody romantically and how they would deal with finding out their feelings were reciprocated?

Ohhh, interesting! I haven’t thought about CC in ages, I’m glad you brought him up. :)

(I’m going with him IDing as male because he’s modeled after Ethan, in the same way that Google IDs as male because he’s modeled after Mark, just so you get my reasoning there.)

I think Corroded Crank would be confused at first, because he doesn’t think he’s capable of attraction. He’d probably go to Google to ask about it, and Google would explain that androids are generally programmed to replicate and imitate human emotion in order to blend in to society more fully.

He’d probably be attracted to someone who’s kind to him, because he’s so unused to that, being under Dark’s control. He’d like someone who’s clever and witty, and doesn’t mind that he’s broken. Someone who isn’t scared of him when he breaks further or his programming malfunctions and he becomes dangerous. But I think he’d be terrified, because he wouldn’t want to hurt them. He’d probably end up pushing them away, trying to protect them.

When he found out that they liked him back, I think he’d be shocked. He’d ask them why they liked something like him, he wouldn’t understand. He would think that because he’s not human, no human should like him in that way, or in any way at all. But that person would probably tell him that he’s close enough to human, and just as nice as any human could be. He’s a person in all the ways that count.

I think that would be the day he discovers that not only can he feel, but he can cry, oil leaking from his eyes in a slightly disturbing but overall endearing display.

This is giving me one shot ideas hmmmmm.

this.

this makes perfect sense.

this is literally my theory and even i kinda doubt it but like

i see similarities

@justsamantha19 mentioned this on my post and I thought I’d reblog it here.

Interesting...

Okay guys. I tried posting this once for some reason it didn’t go on but I played around with the picture.

All I did was lighten the picture in my regular phone settings then I took it into VSCO cam and darkened it and turned the contrast, saturation and clarity all the way up. And here’s the final product.

So here’s my theory. The mark in the picture isn’t Dark but Dark is in the room. The red and blue is his light reflecting on the window, because you can see it on “Mark’s” face and the mysterious figure’ shoulder. Dark has teamed up with another ego.

....he’s trapped...

Looking back on CHASE I noticed something. 

The scene where he suddenly ended up at the parking lot and looked around, it’s clear he noticed he didn’t have his whiskey on him. But I think he may have lost something else. 

Before he looks at his hand that held the bottle, he feels his front pocket:

and then looks to his hand, his palm shaped more as if he’s mining hold a phone and not a bottle:

At first I thought he was checking to see if he still had the photo, maybe to get a gage the time he had lost or gained: was he thrown back in time or forward?

Then I checked:

The photo came from his back pocket. Not only that his front pocket is bulged and rectangular, like a phone. 

Chase lost his phone at some point in ‘transporting’. 

This is an observation and although I have my thoughts as to what it could mean, they’re half-arsed and sleep deprived. If anyone else has theories to what this could be, feel free to mention. :)

Packing

Pairing: Ten/Rose, unrequited!Tentoo/Rose

Rating: PG for strong angst

He pulled open a drawer.

Ties. This was where he kept the ties. Browns and blues mostly. Some in shades of red. He took a few of those, and one of his favorite brown silk ones.

He opened one of the cupboards.

Converse, stacked up high on the shelves. He took a pair of the reds, a pair of the whites, a pair of the blacks.

He walked to another part of the wardrobe and looked through a rack until he found what he was looking for. A long brown coat, not the same one, not perfect, but as close as he was going to get, and he didn't have time to be picky. He shoved it awkwardly into his pocket.

He left the wardrobe, feeling numb. Never in his long life had he been faced with this reality. Never would he have expected it. Now that he didn't have much time left here, he was starting to panic.

Not about not having a ship, he knew he would be taking a piece of the coral with him, even he couldn't be that cruel, so that wasn't gone forever. But about not having this ship.

He'd never see Susan's room again. Or Ace's. Or Sarah Jane's. He'd never see any of Romana's books again, or any of Adric's formula sheets. He'd never see Martha's extra jacket, or Donna's sketchbook full of shorthand notes, caricatures, and tic tak toe.

He skulked out, toward the console room, and stopped just before he entered.

He peeked in.

They were in there. And they were talking. And she was smiling.

Her smile was so beautiful. Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and her tongue poked cutely out between her teeth. How many times had he been temped to forget whatever little adventure they'd been on when he'd seen that smile, to just forget every limitation and kiss her, to tell her how much he loved her against that smile.

She laughed at something he said.

It hurt, physically, to see them talking, see her smile, hear her laugh. He knew he wouldn't be hearing it much longer. Why would she choose him? His hand snaked up to feel the single heartbeat in his chest, the constant reminder that he wasn't the real him. That no matter what his mind said, no matter what memories and feelings he had, no matter what he looked like, he was just a copy. A fake. A poor recreation. He was going to age, and die. And he'd be doing it alone.

But wasn't he used to alone? Wasn't he used to the universe teasing him with the chance of happiness and just when it seemed like he'd always have a hand to hold, taking it away from him? That didn't make it any easier.

He scowled in the empty corridor. Nine hundred years, all to end up dying as a human, in the wrong universe, alone. Maybe it was exactly what he deserved.

He said something, and she agreed, and they moved toward the hallway. He ducked quickly into an alcove and stayed there until they passed. Then he hurried out into the console room and over to a side panel on the central pillar. He flipped a few switches, tapped the screen a few times, and turned a few dials before pressing one last button and waiting. A few seconds of whirring later, a sonic screwdriver plopped into the little slot at the bottom of the panel, and he picked it up and tucked it into his pocket. He moved over to another panel and smacked it a little too violently. A drawer popped out, and he picked up the extra psychic paper and put it in his pocket as well. He spotted a picture of Susan, and, heart wrenching alienly, took that as well. Then he shut the drawer and looked up, just staring around the room he'd called home for seven hundred years.

His teeth clenched and his hands gripped the coral edging tightly as he suddenly fought back a sob.

It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair. He could be so much more than this. And maybe he would be. But this him, this counterfeit, never would. Was this his punishment for all that he'd done? By all rights, it hadn't even been him! Why make him conscious? Why make him share the same mind?

Why hadn't he just changed?

Someone coughed. He didn't need to look up.

The other him walked slowly back into the room. He stared at him for a minute with a look of mixed pity, sorrow, and guilty fascination. It was sickening.

He looked up, and their eyes met. By the way the Doctor winced, he could tell that he knew exactly how he felt. Something flashed in his eyes as well...regret? Pain?

Whatever it was, it felt almost perverse.

Then he coughed again, and spoke, softly.

"I haven't told her what you are yet. Not about..." he tapped his chest. "I'll leave that to you."

"Thanks," he said acidly.

The Doctor rubbed his neck awkwardly, almost ashamedly, then grabbed his jacket off the jumpseat and shuffled out of the room.

"Take whatever you need," he said over his shoulder as he went back to Rose.

He very nearly slammed his fist into the console. His hand was raised and clenched when Donna came in.

"Don't you dare, Spaceman."

His hand dropped limply to his side as he turned to look at her.

Without another word, she walked up and threw her arms tight around him. He hugged back.

Neither commented on the oddness of only two hearts beating between them.

After a minute, she pulled away from him, handing him a small book. He recognized it as her most recent sketchbook. Gripping it tightly, he met her eyes, and, almost ashamed of how desperate he sounded, blurted, "You can't come with me?"

"No," she sighed, patting his arm, "I've got to stay. For Mum and Gramps. You know that."

"I know."

She hugged him again, briefly, before walking off down the hall, presumably to find the other one and Rose. He almost smiled. Donna would have liked to get to know Rose. His almost smile turned into another almost sob, but he held his composure. He would not lose it until he was truly alone, he promised himself. He wouldn't let them see him break. He couldn't do that to Rose, or to Donna. He supposed he couldn't even do that to himself.

The TARDIS landed with a loud groan and a dull thud. He glanced at the screen. A beach appeared on it, the beach he hated more than almost anything in the entire universe.

His single heart was beating out the word that had started it all, and would end it all, for him.

Run.

So what you’re saying is that we might not have Anti’s real name? That would be an interesting dynamic to explore.

Has Anti ever said that his actual name is Anti :/ ? Like that’s what we and Jack call him but he has never used that himself.

Henlo this gave me ideas.

-

His voice was much croakier than it used to be. It was at the same time far too low, and just right. It was raspy and rough from disuse, or from strain, because all he ever did now was scream.

“Let’s go in the garden, you’ll find something waiting, Right there where you left it, lying upside down...”

He discovered that the old song’s lyrics were still stuck somewhere in his mind, and when he tried to pin down where it came from, he came up with an odd mix of faded memories; he was playing an acoustic guitar on the patio, badly, and his best friend was laughing and calling him a sap; she was dancing with the man she should never have fallen for, and he was singing in her ear, in the dark, far away from all the trouble that seemed to follow them constantly.

Most of the time, when he remembered them, the names he’d once owned and the faces that went with them, it would hurt. It would burn every fiber of his being until nothing remained but fury and hatred. He would be himself and no one at once, and it would tear him to pieces over and over again.

But today...

Today, he was just...sad. Not in pain. Not furious. Just sad. He was a boy who wanted to make his great city proud of him. She was a girl caught up in romance, with a ring on her finger and a rose in her room.

And in the hands of an old friend who’d just wanted to hear everyone laugh, and see justice served, was an old, nearly illegible ribbon, grey where it had once been black. They’d given it to him the night of the election,a joke then, but less so than the cruel one it had become.

“In little ways, Everything...stays...”

The voice that was all three of theirs, and no one’s, trailed off and went quiet. For once, his world was quiet.

FUCK this will never not hurt.