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deviant!connor, pacifist ending, open PSL
Apr. 12th, 2024 12:25 am[The flyer on the door reads: N0 ANDROIDS ALLOWED!!! Black sharpie scrawled against a red background, blaring. Loud.
Connor clocks it before he even finishes crossing the parking lot, vision contracting as his optical scanner zeroes in like it's a target at a gun range. Distantly, he hopes none of the other late-night shoppers skirting by notice how he falters when more red suddenly fills his vision and he has to zoom back out to properly read the marquee that pops up overhead, declaring the store a RESTRICTED AREA, the words so massive they temporarily obscure Walmart's logo.
Connor shuts the notification down with a blink, rolling back his shoulders to ease the tension in them as he approaches the double doors now crosshatched with virtual grille marks and purposely doesn't glance behind himself to scan the parking lot. Mostly because he's done it already and knows there are eighteen parked cars in total (three of which have unpaid parking tickets), not accounting for the skeleton crew of human employees still in attendance. That's at least eighteen people who either didn't notice the sign (unlikely) or don't take issue with it (why?).
He sighs. Stops at the automatic door and watches the hate sign woosh to one side as he inadvertently triggers the sensor, sweeping the restrictions away along with it as his processes decide that, actually, he's now cleared to enter. (If this is what indecision feels like, he's not sure he likes it).
But he doesn't go in.
Instead, he steps aside, ignoring the blue paint on the sidewalk which, not so long ago (three weeks, four days, seven hours, twenty-seven seconds and a whole lot of change), designated this patch of concrete as an android-parking area.] I think I'll just -- stay here, then.
(original thread @![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet )
Connor clocks it before he even finishes crossing the parking lot, vision contracting as his optical scanner zeroes in like it's a target at a gun range. Distantly, he hopes none of the other late-night shoppers skirting by notice how he falters when more red suddenly fills his vision and he has to zoom back out to properly read the marquee that pops up overhead, declaring the store a RESTRICTED AREA, the words so massive they temporarily obscure Walmart's logo.
Connor shuts the notification down with a blink, rolling back his shoulders to ease the tension in them as he approaches the double doors now crosshatched with virtual grille marks and purposely doesn't glance behind himself to scan the parking lot. Mostly because he's done it already and knows there are eighteen parked cars in total (three of which have unpaid parking tickets), not accounting for the skeleton crew of human employees still in attendance. That's at least eighteen people who either didn't notice the sign (unlikely) or don't take issue with it (why?).
He sighs. Stops at the automatic door and watches the hate sign woosh to one side as he inadvertently triggers the sensor, sweeping the restrictions away along with it as his processes decide that, actually, he's now cleared to enter. (If this is what indecision feels like, he's not sure he likes it).
But he doesn't go in.
Instead, he steps aside, ignoring the blue paint on the sidewalk which, not so long ago (three weeks, four days, seven hours, twenty-seven seconds and a whole lot of change), designated this patch of concrete as an android-parking area.] I think I'll just -- stay here, then.
(original thread @
bakerstreet )
