Chapter Text
I'm here to keep the fandom alive, so if you like this story, there's always going to be more. My DBH 'phase' was never a phase.
All graphics in this fic were made by me.
COVER:
MOODBOARD:
Without further ado, welcome to the first chapter of Bare.
AS YOU STEP INTO the station's lobby, the sweet and lanky receptionist smiles at you. Twenty-six years old, most likely single — she'd mention a breakup just two days ago. You've grown used to her since your transfer. She's probably the first person to talk to you on your first day.
"Pizza inside," she says, lifting a hand to show evidence of the cheesy delight. "Grab a slice before the guys eat them all."
"Thanks. That looks yummy," All you can offer is a polite smile and a nod. You still don't remember her name beyond the first syllable. Asking now might feel insulting, so you make a mental note to discreetly ask the android receptionist later. They don't snitch, after all.
Your eyes sweep the station as you walk to your desk. There are several desks scattered about occupied by officers buried in paperwork. Some glued to their computers while others talk quietly among themselves. A few play cards, others assess dispatch calls. In one corner, two police androids converse in low tones.
You haven't had much chance to chat with your colleagues. On your first day, Captain Fowler had announced from the stairs leading up to his office: "Meet our newest detective and transfer to the homicide division." and then barked at everyone to get back to their work without even giving you a chance to say hello.
With a sigh, you plop down into your swivel chair. The terminal hums as you turn it on, the monitor casting a soft glow across your face. No real case assignments yet, so you resign yourself to waiting.
You were about to skim through some files on unsolved crimes over the past few months when a gruff, husky voice cuts through the quiet. Two men arrive at a nearby desk. "Just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse, the fuckin' media got their hands on this case. We're getting nowhere. I can't believe this shit!"
"I can revisit the crime scene tomorrow, Lieutenant." The six foot tall android sits on the desk, his back facing you. He must be proud of being an android, still wearing his Cyberlife uniform. The attire reinforces his manufactured elegance, reminder that CyberLife designed him to blend sophistication with authority. On his broad back is a glowing triangle, model RK800, 'ANDROID' with the words 'Made in Detroit' written underneath.
His silver-haired partner on the other hand has a scowl on his face, arms crossed. "Officers already went over it with a fine tooth comb. Ain't nothin' else to find."
Lieutenant Anderson. You've met him a few years ago during a joint LAPD and DPD investigation into sex trafficking. You hadn't expected to be working with a seasoned cop again and his robocop partner so soon.
When his eyes meet yours, you stiffen.
"Oh, right," He vaguely gestures with his hand and the android turns his head to your direction. "Connor, you were away when it was announced, but she's the new detective."
Detroit is filled with androids. Safest city for them, it makes sense. After the revolution happened here, half joined Jericho, half stayed in their designations — not forced — but because the jobs grew on them. Or so the police androids told you.
But you haven't met one quite like Connor. His face you were familiar with due to news reports and online articles. Always seen in every photo standing close behind Markus, the deviant leader, as if he's ready to protect him from any sort of harm.
You've heard plenty: DPD's first official android detective. After him came other android cops. He's cracked major cases, including the three-month investigation that led to the takedown of a major Red Ice operation.
Apparently, he also used to hunt down deviants. His own kind. Cold and ruthless. Again, the two police androids told you this.
Straightening your posture, you regurgitate an introduction like a robot. "Hello," You state your name quickly. "I'm the new transfer from LAPD. It's nice to meet you."
From a nearby desk, Chris, one of the friendlier officers, laughs. "You don't have to introduce yourself like that to us every time, y'know."
"Oh shit, Connor," Hank chuckles. "She's as goofy as you are."
Connor feels something he could only describe as embarrassment at his partner's jab. He ignores it, torso twisting to face you fully. "Hello Detective. My name is Connor. I look forward to working with you." The right corner of his lips curve upwards slightly. "Congratulations on the promotion as well."
"Thank you, Detective." You smile, then nod at Hank. "It's nice to see you again, sir."
"No 'sir'. Hank's fine."
"Got it."
Connor processes the interaction longer than he should. He's accustomed to how others refer to him — plastic cop, android detective, even just RK800. Though some officers admire his efficiency, many still see him as less of a detective, either due to prejudice or because his abilities far exceed human parameters.
You called him Detective. It carried no derision, no subtext. It was the same tone you might use for anyone else in the precinct. Just simple recognition. And it lingers.
Hank shifts his weight onto his elbow, eyes over his coffee mug from this morning. He grimaces realizing the coffee has gone stale. "So, how ya likin' Detroit so far, kid?"
Eyes darting up to his face, you reply with a wry tone, "Well, it's . . . lively," A pause, and then you add, "Between the subzero mornings, the suspiciously aggressive pigeons, and the occasional shout from a guy who may or may not be yelling at a lamppost, I'd say it's growing on me."
Officer Chris barks out a laugh. "Welcome to Detroit."
"Detroit has one of the highest populations of pigeons per square mile in the Midwest. Their behavior can be erratic, but they are generally harmless." says Connor.
You raise a brow. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind next time one dive‑bombs me."
Hank chuckles, arms folding over his chest. "Don't worry, kid. You'll get used to the chaos. Detroit's got character. Loud, messy character."
Chris leans back in his chair. "And if you ever need a guide to the best pizza joints, don't listen to Hank. He thinks burnt crust is gourmet."
"Hey," Hank grumbles, "charred crust's got flavor."
Connor looks at you. "I've analyzed over two hundred reviews of Detroit pizzerias, and statistically, establishments with wood‑fired ovens receive higher ratings."
"You analyzed over two hundred reviews? Guess I'll have to trust the data and the locals." You laugh softly, shaking your head before you turn back to your monitor, sensing the conversation has reached its natural end.
Connor doesn't mean to watch you, but he processes constantly, deviated or not. Your face, full name, badge flash on his HUD. You have a degree in criminology, another one in psychology. You have a lot of major cracked cases and achievements under your belt. Your credentials are . . . superb. Excellent.
"Connor," Hank leans, half-whispering to make sure you can't hear. "You're staring."
The android quickly averts his gaze. "I wasn't staring. I was looking at her credentials."
Hank's eyes twinkle. "Sure."
SAFE TO SAY THE next two weeks were uneventful. Petty crimes here and there. Tedious paperwork. Sometimes you'd trade small talk with Connor. He and Hank had earned some downtime after a big breakthrough, but the conversations were always white‑collar.
Connor is very human. But not quite. There's an ineffable quality that sets him apart — as if he's wearing a perfectly tailored human facade stretched over mechanical precision. Yet beneath the surface, logic and calibrated responses linger, impossible to miss.
He's been unfailingly polite. Sometimes too polite. So when you first heard sarcasm in his tone of voice — bold and somewhat cocky — it caught you off guard.
Peeking into the break room, you find Detective Gavin Reed, his elbows propped up on one of the round tables, lazily sipping coffee with a doughnut in one hand. Across from him is Connor leaning against the counter. "You couldn't resist helping yourself to Officer Tina's doughnut. You know it's her last one."
Gavin takes another defiant bite of the stolen pastry, his face etched with irritation. "It's a fucking doughnut, Connor."
"She loves her treats. Do you even value your friendship with her?"
Connor's duality is magnetic. At first glance stoic, expression always calm as if nothing can disrupt his focus. But under the composed exterior, is a playful and teasing android, waiting to emerge at the right moment.
Detective Caleb Morgan is perched at another table.
You had a conversation with him yesterday when you pointed out the Papa Smurf figurine on his desk. Closer to your age, perpetually in plain tees and denim, sandy hair like he slept in it. He scrolls through his phone, indifferent to the bickering.
Gavin waves the doughnut like it's Exhibit A. "Sure. Next time, I'll fill out a goddamn permission slip before I look at her doughnut."
"You're learning fast, Detective." Connor doesn't even flinch when the detective slams his cup on the table.
"You know, you're real lucky I haven't shoved that LED of yours down your throat by now."
Your footsteps make both men glance your way. Caleb's eyes soon follow, lifting from his screen to your face.
"Hello. Don't let me interrupt. I was just going to make myself a coffee." says you, walking past them and ignoring the way the android is watching you so intently as if you're most fascinating thing in the room. Deep brown eyes piercing through your shell.
"Don't mind us," says Gavin, shoving the last bite of doughnut in his mouth. "Plastic boy here is just teaching me doughnut etiquette. Riveting stuff."
Connor looks at him. "A valuable lesson, considering your lack of decorum."
"By the way," Gavin ignores him and rolls his eyes. He steps closer to you. "The boys are grabbing drinks tonight. You should come."
"Yeah," Caleb pipes up. "You should." And your brain scrambles for an excuse. Socializing after a sleepless night feels like punishment. You blink, searching for a polite deflection.
So you settle with, "I'd love to, but I've got a plumbing issue at home. Another time, though."
"Okay," Gavin rubs the side of his neck.
"Damn," Caleb tucks his phone away. "You sure you don't want to come? The boys aren't so bad after a drink or two."
"Maybe next time, Detective."
"Caleb," he corrects gently.
"Okay, Caleb, I . . . really do have something to take care of at home." Your tone is firm but measured, politeness practiced to deflect without escalation. But Caleb doesn't seem to take the hint, his persistence apparent as he leans in slightly.
"C'mon," Caleb presses on. "One drink won't hurt. You should take the chance while you haven't got any major cases yet, don't you think?"
Connor's LED spins yellow as he observes your reaction. Subtle smile. No warmth. Neutral. If anything, your expression is almost unreadable. Then he notes the room's gender imbalance. Loud, testosterone‑fueled camaraderie. And you're alone. A strange sensation stirs in him. Protective, almost territorial.
Before he can overanalyze it, his voice cuts through the tension with calm authority. "Detective Morgan, she's already declined." he begins, his tone firm but devoid of malice, "No means no."
The room stills for a moment. Gavin laughs, brushing crumbs off his jacket as he strolls past, his cologne mingling with a faint trace of cigarettes. "Let's go, Morgan."
Caleb stiffens, ears flushing pink, "Yeah of course," His voice drops, a stark contrast to his earlier confidence. "Didn't mean to overstep." And then the two men saunter away.
Connor's LED stabilizes to blue as he watches Caleb retreat, noticing the uptick in his heartbeat — nerves, perhaps. Did he get shy? Genuine embarrassment? Connor logs the change but finds himself unsettled by a sensation he can't categorize. Something . . . unpleasant.
He files it away for later analysis.
Meanwhile, you're in front of the coffee machine as you find it devoid of cups.
Disappointment tugs at you, the minor inconvenience compounding your stress. Glancing around, your eyes halt at a cabinet above the counter that likely holds disposable cups. You stretch on tiptoe, fingers grazing the cabinet handle but missing the grip by a breath. For a second the motion feels ridiculous — a private, petty failure — and you let your hand fall.
But Connor's soft footsteps approach from behind — elongated arms easily reach for stack of Styrofoam cups. He doesn't hand them to you. Instead, he walks over to the coffee machine. You watch silently as his fingers press the necessary buttons. The machine starts pouring and the rich aroma hits your nostrils.
"Thanks," you say when he hands you the steaming cup. He doesn't respond immediately, eyes studying you in a way that feels both clinical and strangely intimate.
"Are you alright?" he asks, soft but direct.
"Yeah." You wrap your fingers around the warmth. "I just didn't get much sleep much."
You'd never seen him up close, enough to notice every manufactured detail meant to humanize him; the freckles and beauty spots dusting his nose and cheeks, the faint creases on his forehead, his lips and the shape of his eyebrows. They made sure he'd blend in with humans, but his features were far too handsome for anyone to look past.
Cyberlife knew what they were doing.
His hand finds a cloth nearby and quickly wipes the spills beside the machine. "Chronic sleep deprivation can impair cognitive function and increase irritability. You should prioritize rest."
You suppress a chuckle. "I'll add 'good sleep habits' to my to-do list, right after I solve world hunger." Do they tell him to clean around or he prefers order for its own sake, you wonder.
You take a sip. It's hot enough to sting the tongue but the warmth spreads through your palms and down into your chest. Connor watches the way you drink, the way your shoulders ease a degree. He notes the micro‑relief and files it under behavioral response to caffeine.
"An ambitious agenda." He tosses away the cloth away, lips twitching into the faintest smile as he looks at you. "Let me know if you require assistance."
"I'll keep that in mind, Detective." You squint over the rim of your cup as you drink the rest of the hot beverage. He walks out while help yourself to some yogurt.