jarpad
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“They still won’t tell me what shit they do to you.”
The room was silent, save for the intermittent humming of the rig behind, and flickering fluorescent lights above. Connor couldn’t respond. And even if he was physically able to… he still couldn’t. Not about that particular comment. It went against orders he had been given. The rules. Dire consequences should he go astray.
“You get wheeled in here every couple weeks the past five months, practically torn to shreds. No explanation, just a blank envelope with a wad of cash. Nothing traceable either. Believe me, I tried.” Gavin’s voice took on a note of bitterness. He didn’t often bring this topic up, but as Connor had noted earlier, the man seemed more on edge today. The android wondered why that was.
“You don’t even care, do you?”
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Or: Fighting Ring AU, where Connor finds reprieve with the mechanic who fixes him every few weeks.
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Gavin didn’t want to be here. Correction: he wanted to be anywhere but here. The DPSF Winter Ball was a yearly event that Fowler had been forcing him to go to ever since he made detective. And Gavin hated every fucking second of it.
Tonight was gonna go exactly the way it always went. Gavin would drink the free booze. He’d drink the free booze. And yeah? He’d drink the free booze. It was the only way he’d make it through this fucking hellscape disaster of a night each year. It was absolutely, unequivocally the complete opposite of a ‘fun’ night for him.
And fuck, what could make this night worse?
Being seated with Connor the Robot Tincan Android sent by fucking CyberLife.
Fuck his life. Fuck everything.
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Artwork is by the incredible DeviantManiac!
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Gavin owns an old gen iPhone. Very old gen. Suffice to say, the autocorrect function has dropped him into hot water many many times.
Or: Gavin swears a lot, and makes many unintentional innuendos.
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The sky thundered heavily with rain, as if wringing itself of the last dregs of spring.
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“What have you done to him?”
“You mean Sumo?”
“Yeah I mean Sumo.” Hank demands.
“What’s wrong with him?” Connor asks, “He seems happy enough.”
“... What the fuck is he wearing?”
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this is dumb pls enjoy
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Leon's spent the last hour watching his target drink and flirt and dance while his hearing slowly goes from the deafening music of this overly-packed club. He wishes that he could have at least picked his own outfit for this mission. People keep staring at him, and he already hates undercover missions enough as it is. They've made it that much harder for him by sticking him into the tightest clothes he's ever worn, and if he has to evade one more person offering to buy him a drink he's going to resort to pretending not to speak English.
The night is slogging on and there's no hope in sight for him to complete this mission easily. At this point, he's hoping for a miracle to come along so that he can get it done quickly and leave this place behind.
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Written for Whumpmas in July prompt 'ache.'
Leon gets a nasty concussion. A shame he's also being held at gunpoint.
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Leon gets a migraine after many nights of sleeplessness. It's not easy, training under Krauser.
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Consciousness comes back in a rush, a gasp escaping his lungs from the shock of icy water that splashes violently across his face. He flounders for a moment, spluttering on water before he can properly blink his eyes open. Krauser stands beside his bed, holding a rusty-looking bucket that drips water onto the hardwood floor, a rhythmic tapping sound. His face is a mask of displeasure.
"Get your ass out of bed, Rookie," he growls. "I don't care how many hours you like to sleep, training starts now. On the field in five."
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A DSO-BSAA joint gala event goes wrong- and of course, Leon, hungover and wishing he were anywhere else, ends up caught in the crossfire. So much for enjoying the free drinks.
At least Piers is there.
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A high-pitched scream breaks the silence without warning. Everyone’s heads snap towards the back of the room—or rather, everyone except for Leon. It takes him a moment to register the sound, blinking dazedly when the quick turn makes his head spin. So, he’s a little more intoxicated than he’d wanted to be. Muscle memory still lets him reach for his gun, throwing himself up onto the table to scan the room in a single smooth leap."Zombies!" someone shouts, and the room explodes into chaos.
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“There's a man goin' 'round takin' names
And he decides who to free and who to blame”The sun had started to set, the golden rays blanketing across Sherry’s peaceful face in the backseat. A small victory to see her with that untroubled expression, like any kid sleeping on a road trip. Not one who had just lost her parents, her home, and her childhood in one fell swoop. It broke his heart all over again.
Leon couldn’t do it anymore, he was terrified. He was cursing himself for letting Claire leave, and then cursing himself for thinking that in the first place. Get it together, you’re the cop here, you can handle this, he thought as he shook out his head, trying and failing to will away the creeping fatigue. His frustration with himself, with this entire situation, wasn’t enough to keep him awake.