[Hank’s voice carries from around the other side of the house, and Connor looks over for a moment, brow furrowing. Without delay, he walks over to the very familiar kitchen window (now fixed, apparently), each step feeling like a strange exercise in deja vu, if androids experienced such a thing.
His form comes into view, framed by that of the glass. It’s shut, he notes, and when Connor gets close enough, he leans in — almost squinting at the sight before him. He spots Hank, assumes that his mood is irritable (the insult) and that his state may or may not be inebriated (the early departure from work, hastening home; it didn’t take an investigative RK800 unit to know that the excuse of gastrointestinal woes was likely a farce).]
Lieutenant.
[Connor shifts slightly, to get a better view inside. His face is nigh pressed to the glass, straining to see the rest of the kitchen — no apparent signs of playing “Russian roulette”. That’s good, a step above when he had found him drunk out of his mind last time, but the situation is still generally unfavorable.
Connor taps lightly on the kitchen window with his knuckles, eyes skating over to Hank. Through the pane, he hears something about cognitive dissonance, which only furthers the theory that Hank had gone home to deal with his problems the only way the man knew how: drinking. And drinking more.]
May I come in?
[His LED blinks, casting light off of smooth glass. If he strains to look, he could see his own reflection, staring back at him with a mildly concerned frown.]
no subject
His form comes into view, framed by that of the glass. It’s shut, he notes, and when Connor gets close enough, he leans in — almost squinting at the sight before him. He spots Hank, assumes that his mood is irritable (the insult) and that his state may or may not be inebriated (the early departure from work, hastening home; it didn’t take an investigative RK800 unit to know that the excuse of gastrointestinal woes was likely a farce).]
Lieutenant.
[Connor shifts slightly, to get a better view inside. His face is nigh pressed to the glass, straining to see the rest of the kitchen — no apparent signs of playing “Russian roulette”. That’s good, a step above when he had found him drunk out of his mind last time, but the situation is still generally unfavorable.
Connor taps lightly on the kitchen window with his knuckles, eyes skating over to Hank. Through the pane, he hears something about cognitive dissonance, which only furthers the theory that Hank had gone home to deal with his problems the only way the man knew how: drinking. And drinking more.]
May I come in?
[His LED blinks, casting light off of smooth glass. If he strains to look, he could see his own reflection, staring back at him with a mildly concerned frown.]