Work Text
It's another rainy night in Denerim, the drizzle faint as it pelts his old coat, cracked leather barely held together by its cheap threading. He pulls his coat tighter, picks up his pace, makes for the loud, bright lights of the only building that isn't dilapidated and crumbling in the heart of what once was the center of the city's alienage. Alienages...he recalls those from his youth, from the few times his family had ventured into the city. Places once filled with elves, crammed into low-income housing, many escaped slaves with precarious refugee status (and many more without), accepting whatever job they needed to keep their bills paid and avoid deportation. Slums is what they were, crawling with drugs and gangs, a place where 'decent folk' (humans) best avoid. And now, every other homeless beggar he passes is very much human and Fereldan. How so much has changed since the first android went on the market but a decade before, the Tevinter-made machines meant to replace their organic counterparts after the abolition of slavery. What was once lauded as 'innovation' has had far-reaching effects and Cullen has only to look at the impoverished slouching in the filth of the sidewalks and shivering in the rain. A moment of guilt has him drop some coins into a dirty cup, perhaps enough to at least afford the poor woman some coffee. She offers her thanks and he merely ducks his head awkwardly, cheeks coloring as he feels her eyes follow him into the building he steps into. The entrance is nothing remarkable, low lighting and ambient music setting the tone of the establishment. At first glance, it appears pristine, alluring, the promise of what awaits in the main room enough to have blood pumping thick in one's veins. But Cullen sees the dust collecting in the corners, the near imperceptible cracks in the paint of the walls behind the brothel's flashing advertisements: it's all a facade, cheap thrills of any fancy to escape the screams that have him waking in a cold sweat, shaking hand reaching for his pistol and caressing the cold metal to keep the nightmares at bay. He's here for cheap thrills because Maker knows anything is better than being alone with his own head this time of night. The glass doors slide open and he enters. He walks by the Lavellan bot, scantily clad and spinning around a pole, his feet following a familiar path to the synthetic housed at the other end of the room. He ignores the pointed look of the owner—the only non-synthetic who works here—because it's his third time here this week and while Cullen can hardly afford such expenditures, he'd be damned if he has to explain himself to some seedy scumbag who profits off of the world's oldest trade. His hand presses to the sealed, glass pod, scanning him. It takes only moments to complete the transaction and then the synthetic is stepping out, glitter peppering its tan skin, lips curling in a sultry smile as it glances approvingly up and down at Cullen. Despite how it always starts this way, Cullen feels his cheeks heat. “An absolute pleasure to meet you,” it says, its gray eyes twinkling. It cocks a brow, arms folding over its bare chest, and smirks. “Though, I imagine, this introduction won't be the only pleasure we'll experience before the night is through.” Used to the android’s attempts at flirtation, Cullen’s quip is immediate. “I have been quite privy of late to the kinds of pleasures your establishment offers.” “The bold type,” it purrs, sidling in closer. Its smile is warm and infectious, hand moving to caress the lower part of Cullen's arm. “I know just how to help you unwind...” Though a layer of clothing separates them, Cullen flinches out of the synthetic's grasp. Surprise, and then concern, clouds its expression, its LED flashing yellow at its temple. But before it can inquire, the Fereldan quickly says, “Apologies, Dorian. I suppose I came on more strongly than intended. But we haven't quite reached that part in our...'meetings'.” It takes only a moment for the android to make the connection and it steps back, its LED returning to a calm shade of blue. “You've purchased me before.” “A few times, yes,” Cullen admits, looking down at his feet. He knows the machines have their memories wiped every few hours—part of protecting the privacy of the clientele—but it doesn't change how unnerving it is to have to reintroduce himself to Dorian each time. “My name's Cullen. You...well, that is, you said...you like the name 'Dorian'. After the character from the Oscar Wilde novel.” It blinks in surprise. It takes but a moment before understanding dawns on the synthetic. Perhaps it had sought the novel in question through its internet application. “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and—” “—your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself,” Cullen finishes. The android smiles. “I see we've had this conversation before.” “More or less,” Cullen says, with a chuckle. “You seem rather fond of that line; I'm hardly clever enough to remember it on my own.” “You must find it quite monotonous, having to listen to my velvety voice repeat words we’ve already exchanged.” “Nothing you could ever say would bore me,” Cullen admits, quietly. It smirks and, if Cullen wasn't aware he was speaking with just a machine, he'd almost think he'd seen it's gaze soften with genuine emotion. “You're probably the first and only customer to admit he'd rather listen to me blather on about some book than engage in activities more...physical in nature.” “I would only like to converse with you, for a while. If that's alright with you, Dorian.” An unreadable look passes over its face before it once again smiles at its patron. “Of course. Though, I must question if it's truly money well spent if you are not making full use of my talents,” it answers, somewhat cheekily. Then, it adds, “I rather like that you've given me a name. I don't believe anyone else ever has.” Not that it would remember what anyone else has said to it before this conversation. “...you chose it,” Cullen reminds it, recalling but a week ago when it asked the Fereldan to start calling it that. It seems almost confused but the expression is gone before Cullen could read more into it. “This way. We'd best continue this somewhere that affords us more privacy. I'd much like to hear what other nefarious things I've revealed during our previous 'meetings'.” The android brings him to some nondescript room. As far as Cullen can tell, it looks no different than every other room they've occupied: double bed centered against the back wall, next to a bed stand...a chair placed to the corner nearest him, screens on the walls should he be interested in altering the colorful visuals bursting in the background. He draws his gaze back to Dorian. It stands in the middle of the room, at ease and lacking the social awkwardness that has Cullen's tongue sitting heavy and flat in his mouth. It's how he knows he's not dealing with a living, breathing human because not even the most charismatic of organics he's met has even been able to overcome the anxious tension he exudes. And yet, the android is not the least bit phased. It laughs in a way that has desire pooling low in Cullen's abdomen, expression coy, skin glittering in the low lighting and drawing his honey-colored eyes to the defined abs and sharp planes of the its perfectly crafted physique... Cullen swallows hard. The Maker himself could not form such beauty and he's momentarily lost in how much he wants. “With the way you're looking at me, I really must question if we've never known each other carnally,” the android says. Cullen wets his lips, looks away. It's confusion and shame that sobers him, keeps his hands fisted at his sides. “I...am not so good with intimacy,” Cullen admits. That he's never so much as kissed a man makes him feel that much more out of his depth. The Fereldan's had sex, sure, but only as many times as he could count on one hand, his experiences so far between and few, he hardly imagined the women who took him to their bed had found him any more fulfilling than a quick romp to scratch an itch. He's not really cared for sex, never found satisfaction in skin-on-skin rutting, each time leaving him more jaded and empty than the last. He’s at a crossroads, caught between what he should want and what he craves most. If his time in service has taught him anything, it’s the ugliest side of humanity and he knows now that there’s nothing any other human could ever offer him that would rid him of his despondency. “Then, perhaps, let's start with something simple,” the android says, seating itself at the edge of the bed. It doesn't motion for Cullen to sit beside it but it leaves room enough for him to close that distance should he choose, its gaze warm. “How was your day?” This...is something Cullen could work with. “Not very interesting, I'm afraid,” the Fereldan answers. “I'd like to hear about it.” It's perhaps the most genuine thing anyone has said to Cullen in a while. That it's coming from something that isn't even really alive only shows how starved the Fereldan is to have someone care about him, even if it is only the result of the machine's programming. Throwing caution to the wind, he carefully seats himself on the edge of the bed. “I...I attempted to find work again. It...well, it went better than I expected,” Cullen begins. *
It's not alive.
He stares at himself in the cracked mirror of his bathroom. His fingers reach the tip of his scar, trace it down to his lip's edge. It's not the only mark on his skin, numerous hidden beneath his threadbare shirt and worn jeans, but it's the most prominent, the one that matters. He hates to stare at himself naked, hates seeing the evidence of his past written into his flesh. No one would dare consider him attractive. He wonders, absently, if maybe Dorian would...
It's not even human.
Cullen grips the porcelain, feeling the itch. It starts as a faint burst of need that ripples into an insatiable ache, fingers chalk white as he digs them into the sinks edge. He's been clean for only a few months now, no longer taking 'blue ice' to chase his night terrors. But it doesn't make these moments any easier, when he knows all someone would have to do is drop crystallized lyrium in front of him and he would saw off his own limb just to be able to smoke it. His head does the math. He has enough limit on his credit card to make the cash advance and buy a hit. Sure, it means he won't be able to eat for the next few days, or pay anymore visits to the brothel, but... No. He won't succumb. Not now.
It won't even remember you.
He stares at his tired face, more haggard than one in their late 20s should look.
It never remembers you.
But that's why he keeps going, why he's replaced lyrium with a synthetic: something to listen, to be programmed to genuinely give two fucks when no one else in the world does. And that's the beauty of Dorian never remembering: it's one less 'person' for Cullen to disappoint. * “...it's the most valuable thing I own,” Cullen says. Dorian tilts his head, scrutinizes the coin held in the Fereldan's hand. Likely, the android is scanning its composition, brows furrowing as it realizes that the object is absent of any metal or alloy worth more than a copper. With a smile, Cullen hands the coin to the synthetic, his fingers tingling as they brush against its own. Its skin is warmer than he anticipates. Dorian spends only a moment longer questioning what's in its fingers before its confusion has it saying, “It's composed of primarily copper, as well as aluminum and zinc. I'm afraid I cannot ascertain any monetary value in your trinket. Am I to assume its value is derived from personal attachment?” “My brother gave it to me before I enlisted, said it was lucky and would keep me safe.” The android rolls the coin across its fingers and Cullen feels his lips quirk as it absently amuses itself, though the perplexed look has yet to leave its face. Like usual, they are seated beside each other on the edge of the bed, Dorian in its boxer-briefs and Cullen fully clothed. “And did it?” “Well, I'm still alive,” Cullen reasons, with a small shrug. But the android seems hardly satisfied with that answer. “I...must apologize but while I'm aware that 'luck' has a placebo effect in scenarios where the probability of a positive outcome is low, I can't quite understand how logic is so easily overridden by superstition.” The confusion on Dorian's face has Cullen chuckling. He reaches for the coin, swipes it as it rolls across the android's knuckles. “It's, perhaps, best to think of it this way: there's what you know—the enemy's lines have been reinforced, another platoon is advancing on your position, and you have only enough ammo for one final assault, the odds of success stacked against you. Then, there's what you hope for: that every shot you fire hits its target and you somehow make it to the end of the day. There's no reason, just hope...because, sometimes, you're not ready to die just yet.” “So, it's about what you want, not precisely what is or most likely will be?” The android takes the coin back to roll it across its knuckles, smirking at the mock look of annoyance Cullen gives it. “I...yes. I suppose.” A pause. “Haven't you ever wanted anything, Dorian?” The coin stops rolling. That strange look that Cullen's seen on the android's face only a handful of times returns. It stares, hard, for a long moment at the object balanced between its fingers, its expression appearing more troubled with each passing second. As it gazes up at Cullen, he sees conflict in its gray eyes. “I don't know,” it admits, quietly. “I can't remember if I've ever wanted anything.” * He feels anxious again, fingers trembling at his sides. He has the urge to scratch the back of his neck, to shut off or toss his phone, but holds his composure, tries to force down his panic as he scrolls through his list of contacts. He's cracked and barely held together but already he can feel himself beginning to shatter.
It's only Mia.
But that's like saying, It's only a shark as one is bleeding out and clinging to driftwood in the Waking Sea. He's nervous, still hears the pain and betrayal in her last words to him not half a year ago, when he'd spiraled to his lowest point in his blue ice drug binge. He knows how much he hurt her—guilt still raw and worse than any physical wound he'd ever endured during the war—and he still questions whether he deserves to have her give him another chance. But Maker knows he needs to start somewhere and he needs to make amends. It doesn't help that, not two days ago, he stupidly lost the coin his brother had given him. It must have fallen out of his wallet after he left the club. The last, and only thing, connecting him to his estranged family. He dials, heart in his throat, pulse beating rapidly. It goes immediately to voicemail. He's half a mind to hang up but after hearing the tone, decides to follow through and at least leave a message. “H-hey, Mia. It's me—Cullen,” he begins. He breathes deeply, wets his lips. “I—I know we haven't spoken in some time. I...I'm not asking for money. I've been clean for a while now and—well, I've a job. Just got one.” He sighs shakily, feels his other hand reaching for the back of his neck. “I was hoping, maybe, we could speak. I'd—I'd like to make up for everything, pay back the debt…” He attempts to steady his voice but his next words are spoken with an audible crack. “I miss you and...I'm sorry. For everything I put you through.” A pause. “Call me back, when you're not busy.” He's hopeful, at first, that he'll hear back from her. But as the sun wanes and night falls, he feels that hope diminish and not even the terrors that wait to haunt his fitful slumber can temper the loss that weighs heavily in his chest. * It's a few days before Cullen returns to the club, spirits low. After finishing his first shift at his new job, he had hoped to see a missed call from his sister and had to avoid the urge to drown his sorrows in his vices, chasing misery with a hit of blue ice or cheap whiskey. Instead of returning to his apartment, his feet carried him a few blocks over to the brothel, to the only thing in this Maker-awful world who would give two shits about him for the right price. “This way,” Dorian says, leading Cullen to one of the rooms, playful smirk on its lips. Door sliding shut behind them, the Fereldan's about to begin his usual spiel—jogging the machine's memory—when it turns to him, warmth and recognition in its eyes. “It's good to see you again, Cullen.” It extends its hand. But Cullen's rendered speechless, gaping at his purchase. It...must be a glitch in its speech functions. It knows who's made the purchase, as all androids do when the transaction's being made. But maybe it's been saying this to all its customers today. “You've been gone for a few days. And here I was, wondering what dreadful social faux pas I've committed to make you forget about my handsome, dashing self,” it teases, with a wink. Much to his embarrassment, Cullen's cheeks flare a violent shade of red. He hadn’t meant to make it feel neglected. “I-I...I had work,” he mumbles, his excuse making him feel that much more stupid. Not quite sure what else to do, he takes the android's hand. “You remember me?” He feels a fluttering in his chest when their hands touch. The android's grip is gentle, warm, so human-like to the touch that Cullen could easily fall into the delusion of believing he's gripping the hand of a Tevinter man and not a machine made to mimic one. Its amused laugh is sweeter than the nectar of Andraste's Grace. That's when he feels it, something round and cool pressed against his skin. “I'd be remiss to forget such a pretty face,” it answers. Then, it adds, softly, “You left this here. I know how much it means to you.” The loss of its touch is felt immediately. But as Cullen stares at the coin in his hand, his throat becomes tight and he has to pause as he feels a his eyes begin to prickle. “My coin.” The only thing he has connecting him to his family, a reminder of of who he once was before he became what the war has made him. The only reason he hadn't sold it years ago was because it had never been valuable enough to hawk for drugs. “You—you kept it? To give back to me?” “My programming requires I submit for a mandatory wipe whenever I complete a transaction with a customer. However, I knew that in doing so, I would forget about you and be unable to return your trinket. I,” and it looks a bit uncomfortable as it admits this, “...may have overridden some of my coding to prevent that from happening.” Cullen's so overwhelmed that he needs to pause, breathe in shakily. He looks once again to the coin he holds and then back up at Dorian. “Thank you, Dorian.” “Now, I believe we had been discussing the validity of Dr. Genitivi's claims of dragons once existing in Thedas, before our last session had so abruptly ended.” The Fereldan folds his arms over his chest, failing to hide a smile. “Dragons were real. Even the Canticles claim they were.” “Be that as it may, you can hardly expect the scientific community to hold the recorded tales of a woman—whose very existence also remains in question—to the same standard as organic evidence, especially in light of the fact that no physical proof of dragons has ever been found...” Despite the almost obnoxious way in which the android uses its superior knowledge to make Cullen feel like a bit of a buffoon for his religious beliefs, the Fereldan easily falls into their comfortable banter, no longer needing to spend so much time reconnecting with his companion. The coin sits like a weight in his palm, marking a shift in their relationship, each time Cullen folds his fingers around it and watches with bemusement as the synthetic paces the room, vehemently insisting on its point and even throwing up its hands in mock surrender when Cullen stubbornly refuses to concede. It has the Fereldan struggling to hold back his chuckle, the depressing slump he'd fallen into the last few days long since forgotten. “So, you 'just know' that dragons lived, Andraste led some revolution to free slaves, and she was the Maker's bride?” Cullen smirks. “Yes.” The android curses in its foreign tongue—words Cullen would not be able to understand if he tried—and somehow manages to appear even more sulky. “But—that hardly makes any sense.” “It doesn't have to. It just...is.” It contemplates this before giving a rather irate huff. “Fasta vass. You organics manage to take the simplest explanations and complicate them with what seems to be how you wish the world worked and not how it actually does.” “...you're pouting.” “'Pouting' is not part of my programming. Do not change the subject,” it says. “It's rather amusing.” “Are you implying my appearance amuses you?” “At the moment, yes.” “Festis bei umo canavarum.” “...what does that mean?” “If my CPU survives your insistence on using untenable 'evidence' to support your belief in dragons, I'll tell you,” it grumbles. They continue like that for some time, Dorian eventually giving up and seating itself beside Cullen in mock irritation. The Fereldan chuckles, watches as the android collapses back on the bed sheets and releases a long sigh. He's impressed by how accurately the machine can mimic human behavior, surprised to see how much personality it has, more than it’s ever shown in the past. But maybe with the constant memory wipes, Dorian has had little opportunity to reveal how far SyberVitae has come in android technology. A warning tone rings, reminding the room's occupants that their time is almost up. “Maker's breath, did we spend three hours arguing over dragons?” Cullen asks, incredulously. “Evidently, that's how long it takes for you humans to 'beat a dead horse',” Dorian sasses him. “Beating a dead horse? I thought we were having an amicable disagreement over theology.” Dorian gives a derisive snort, though the Fereldan can see the android holding back a small grin. Still in his work clothes, Cullen has only to retrieve his coat, which he's left on the single chair in the room. He takes it, slips it over his shoulders, a polite farewell sitting on his tongue. “I had not have been entirely honest, earlier.” He glances over at the android, now sitting up, a conflicted look on its face. It seems to be bothered by something as it stands and there's an audible tension that thickens the air between them. For how easily Dorian can lecture circles around Cullen and his simplistic views, the synthetic appears lost, unable to decipher whatever puzzle its mind is stuck on. “If this is about the non-existence of dragons, I'm aware of how 'fantastic' the Canticles can get and...am perhaps willing to concede that maybe I shouldn't believe everything my faith dictates,” Cullen says, with a rueful smile. It's meant as more of a joke, to cut whatever tension is taut between them but there's a serious look in Dorian's eyes, even as his lips curl in belayed amusement. “You admit defeat too easily. I assure you, there is more debate to be had on your ridiculous arguments but that's not what I was referring to.” It steps closer, stopping cautiously within Cullen's personal space. The Fereldan can almost feel the warmth that radiates from its artificial skin, chest glittering beneath the glare of the low lighting. He sees the gentle fluttering of the android's lashes, gaze flickering up shyly in a way that makes the words stick in Cullen's throat. “It had never been only about returning your trinket to you.” A thumb delicately brushes against the hand still holding the coin. “You asked me last time if I've ever wanted anything. There is something I want,” the android admits. It leans in closer, reaching to grasp Cullen's cheek, staring up at him with eyes more vibrant than the skies of the Storm Coast, “I want to remember you. Us. When we're together like this.” “Dorian...” He's overcome with emotion, unable to find the words. So he leans down, presses his forehead to the android's, exhales heavily. His heart is pounding, the sound of it drowning out the final warning, reminding both of them that their time is up. But he doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to leave. “I must return,”Dorian whispers. “If I don't...” Cullen slips the coin in its hand, folds its fingers around it. “Keep it.” “I can't possibly—” “Keep it,” the Fereldan insists. He knows it's only a matter of time before the owner realizes its machine is avoiding its resets. “I...I want you to have it. Even if...” Dorian looks at their joined hands. There's a melancholic lifting of its lips. “Thank you.” And with one last, lingering glance, the door slides open and Dorian is gone. It takes a long minute for Cullen to collect himself, to steady his racing pulse, the feel of Dorian's hand in his lingering like a kiss whispered against his skin. * His new job as a security guard keeps him busy the next couple of days. In truth, he's more of a glorified babysitter, overseeing the SG 500 units, “Stens”, which conduct most of the nightly patrols at a nearby packing facility. Each shift leaves him too bone weary to make it back to the club but he is not without moments in the middle of his shifts where he stares down at his hand, remembering the weight of Dorian's in his own. It's on the evening of his first night off that he can't stand to be away any longer, yearning for the only companionship he's found since moving to Denerim. In the past, he's avoided Fridays, knowing it may be too busy to purchase the only bot he's interested in. His fears are confirmed as he sees the empty pod. “How long until that one's available?” Cullen asks. The manager, a rather seedy looking man with a thick, Kirkwall accent, gives a huff of irritation. “S'other ones available. Why not take one of 'em knife-eared ones? The new Serendipity model's a big hit. Or, if you like 'em Vints, we've got the Leto unit over there.” Cullen barely glances at the silver-haired elven android the manager indicates to. “I'd much rather wait on the one I usually purchase.” “Then you're gonna be waiting all night,” the manager all but sneers. “The Pavus unit's been bought out. Seems you're not the only one who enjoys buggering 'em Vints.” Cullen's aware that these androids are mirrors of their creators: objects programmed to do whatever task they've been assigned. But something about the dismissive way the manager regards Dorian makes the Fereldan feel sick to his stomach. Or maybe it's knowing that there's someone else touching—defiling—that which he has grown oddly attached to that makes hot shame fester in the pit of his gut. “I...I see,” Cullen mutters. “We'll clean it up nice 'n good for you next time.” The lecherous smirk makes Cullen feel so disgusted with himself, he can barely mumble his thanks before he's beelining for the exit, tips of his ears burning a darker shade than his cheeks. The thought of someone else touching—fucking—the Pavus unit, sits at the forefront of his mind. It was easier to shield himself from the realities of the brothels—humanoid bodies with simulated personalities, meant to entice the clientele into fulfilling whatever perverse fantasy they crave—when there wasn't a face, with a name it's chosen, to picture bent over and submitting to its customer. But now all Cullen can see is Dorian and it fills him with something near violent, makes him want to lash out. But no amount of screaming in his own head is enough. He needs...to make this feeling go away. To numb the hurt and confusion that have him shaking in his own flesh. He buys blue ice. It's easy to find, every other person on the street can name a buyer or two, a place to get it. It's how he ends up, leaning against the counter, hands trembling from where they're gripping the surface edge as he stares down at the crystallized lyrium he's purchased. He needs it. Anything to make him forget how much it hurts.
There is something I want...
He grasps the rocks he's purchased.
I want to remember you.
...and dumps them in the toilet. After he flushes away the evidence of his near relapse, he crumples to the floor. * He's never sure what to expect. Part of him would not be surprised if Dorian gazes at him with a coy smirk, recognition absent in its eyes. But each time the door slides closed, there is an immediate softness in its smile, eyes lighting up as it shyly takes Cullen's hand. “It's good to see you again, Cullen.” And each time, Cullen feels the coin slide against his palm. A sign of what they are. Cullen still isn't sure what that is but he dreads the day he no longer feels the weight of it between their joined palms. There are some nights when Dorian isn't available. It's something the Fereldan should anticipate but whenever it happens, it forces him to confront the reality he's been avoiding, denial growing weaker as his fondness grows stronger. “How it is you've avoided a reset?” Cullen asks one night. The android stops rolling the coin over its knuckles, lifts its head from where it had settled on Cullen's shoulder. It smiles mischievously. “A single organic running his own club, too cheap to pay for any service droids to oversee its operations? It does leave one rather busy and I may, perhaps, be taking advantage of such oversight.” “Clever.” “I never claim to be anything but.” It has Cullen chuckling and settling once more into a blissful cloud of ignorance, thinking they could continue like this. But reality always has a way of rearing its ugly head, revealing the harsh truths one tries to avoid as the fog of pipe dreams fade. He notices little things at first: marks that won't properly heal, welts that suggest physical damage being done to the android, hidden only beneath glitter and a flirtatious rapport meant to distract from the machine's little imperfections. “Dorian, your arm.” He gingerly grasps the android's wrists, thumbing along the deep contusions left in the synthetic skin. There's a tint of blue beneath—lyrium, though he tries not to think about that—and everything seems to suggest the android was recently bound. “It's nothing you need worry about,” the android answers quickly, taking back its arm. And then, it's like Dorian closes itself off, dismissing Cullen's few attempts to ask about the little signs of damage. It's clear that it doesn't want to talk about what may have been done to it when it wasn't with the Fereldan. But by the next meeting, Cullen can't ignore it any longer. “Is someone hurting you?” He tries to reach for the android, touch the part of its arm where burn marks reside along its skin, and that is when Dorian pulls back, something like panic splashing across its face. Its LED flashes an angry shade of yellow and Cullen knows he’s broaching a sensitive topic. But he can’t ignore the evidence, a map of abuse in blemishes that won't fade, not like they would on a person. “A bit of mishandling.” “A bit? Dorian, these look like cigarette burns.” “It's nothing I can't handle. I wasn't designed to feel pain.” “That doesn't make it right! Dorian, if you would just—” “Fasta vass, will you stop!” Cullen's never heard the android speak so sharply, voice pitching with fear. It paces away from him, bright red burning at its temple, “I don't get the luxury of your concern! I'm a bloody machine made for one purpose only. What exactly do you think happens when I'm not with you?” “I...” But there's nothing he can say to that. He feels bile burning in his throat, the hurt in Dorian's voice burrowing beneath his flesh, a cold wave of guilt causing him to drop his gaze. It may not feel pain in the way that an organic would but it certainly has learned what it means to be ashamed. “I'm a fucking sex android. Or, to put it in a way you organics so liberally use, a whore.” The word has Cullen visibly wincing with the voracity of a hard slap across the face. “And unlike you organics, I remember every moment in vivid detail as if it were happening over and over again: every mark each one them has burned in my flesh when they...misuse me!” He’s ready to argue, hating how it so euphemistically refers to its violation. But he hears its pain and anguish and, much to Cullen's shock, he sees tears spilling down the android's cheeks.
Every moment...
It takes but a second to cross the space between them, pull Dorian into his arms, grasp onto the android tightly. He clings to it as the android silently cries, the only evidence of its sadness the wetness that seeps through the cotton of Cullen's shirt. He's powerless to do anything, knows that as soon as he leaves, someone else may walk in and use Dorian in any sick way they want. It's just a machine; it's not even alive. Isn't that the narrative that all of Thedas has lived by, what everyone tells themselves so they don't have to think of the implications of their creations having consciousness? But he knows, deep down, that it's more complicated than programming and functions. “It was easier before, when I was submitting to have my mind wiped regularly,” Dorian says, lifting its head to stare sadly into Cullen's eyes. “I knew what was being done to me but I never remembered. I didn't have to live with the memory of their slurs or their vitriol carved into my skin. Or what it feels like each time they make me...” Its voice cracks with emotion but Cullen is no more ready to hear Dorian voice explicitly what its endured anymore than the android is willing to say it. As another tear splashes down its cheek, Cullen gently wipes it away with his thumb before taking Dorian's face, cradling it in his hands. He knows there's only one solution to this, one way to stop the android's pain. “If you reset—” “No.” Its response is firm, immediate. “Dorian—” “I'll not let them take this from me.” It tugs at Cullen's wrists, pulling them from its face. The Fereldan sighs in frustration, his chest aching at the thought of Dorian having to spend another at the hands of its abusers. “Maker's breath! You can't carry on like this!” “If I reset, I'll go back to being another Pavus 400 unit. I'll forget who I am,” the android says. It entwines their fingers, pressing the coin against Cullen's hand. “And you.” The Fereldan shakes his head sadly, dropping Dorian's hand. Everyone else he's cared about he's hurt, his mistakes driving them away. “I'm not worth remembering. I'm not—I'm nobody. Why would you—?” It happens so fast, Cullen's words are left sitting on the tip of his tongue. It kisses him, a firm pressing of its lips against his and it always surprises him at how human-like the few parts of Dorian he's touched feels. His shock is a half-groan that echoes at the back of his throat but then he's kissing the android back, his heart pounding, hand lifting to gently slide against the android's cheek. Its fingers are in his hair, pulling gently on golden curls, the other hand pressed over his heart. It's almost anti-climatic as Dorian breaks the kiss, staring up at Cullen, eyes swimming with the kind of emotion that has the Fereldan drowning in their intensity. “You're somebody to me, amatus.” * Fire rains from the sky, setting ablaze the surrounding forest as the unit treks through the thick cloud of smoke. The smell of burning flesh hits Cullen's nose but he remains stoic as he's directed forward, no longer needing to hold back the urge to gag, battle-hardened and accustomed to the stench of death. It's hot, the humid jungles of Par Vollen providing cover for the remaining rebels but with Tevinter drones whirring overhead, the few assailants left have little chance of making it out alive. The qunari are outnumbered. All that's left is for the Fereldan unit—more of a cleanup crew, really—to finish off the few that have escaped the drones' assault. The team leader, Samson, indicates to his left. Cullen joins Carver Hawke and Aveline, hearing on the intercom, “Don't leave any of them alive.” Taking point, Cullen navigates carefully across a fallen trunk, combat rifle raised, peering through the scope to survey the trees around them. But there's too much smoke, fire crackling as it licks at the vegetation. “Your four o'clock,” Carver whispers into the com. “I think I saw movement.” Cullen immediately makes for that direction, Hawke and Vallen covering his flank. As his foot snaps a branch, he hears a gasp. He pivots, points his gun at the sound, finger on the trigger and ready to unload lead. Before him, crouched against the thick trunk of a tree, is a qunari soldier cradling a young child. Tears leave thick tracks on the child's ash covered face, its eyes wide with fear as it stares down the barrel of Cullen's gun. But there's no hesitation as the Fereldan assesses the situation and angles the gun at the real threat, firing a round point blank into the soldier's face. The child's wail drowns the soldier's final words, Maraas kata, as he slumps against the tree. “Leave,” Cullen barks harshly, motioning for the child to run. But the child is hysterical, sobbing and choking out words in qunlat. Cullen can't even be sure if it's the language barrier or the trauma of war that's made it unable to understand these foreign invaders. “Rutherford, the hell is that noise?” Samson demands on the intercom. “A qunari child, Ser.” “Take it out.” “But it's just a child. She's not a threat,” Carver says, frown on his face as he lowers his weapon, coming to Cullen's side, “Ser, why don't we—” The shot that rings makes Carver cry out in shock. Finger heavy where it sits on the trigger, Cullen lowers his weapon, doesn't even look at the child's lifeless, bleeding corpse as the Fereldan turns on his heels. “It's been dealt with. Preparing to regroup.” He doesn't have to see the disgust on Carver's face, hears it in the younger man's voice as he trails hot on Cullen's heels. “You didn't have to do that! She wasn't—!” But Cullen's too sick of this war to get into it, has seen and done too much shit to care about any moral high ground. He turns, grabs Hawke roughly by his armor, and snaps, “We had orders: 'Don't leave any of them alive!'” “She was a child!” “This is war, Hawke! It’s us or them—and what chance does a qunari child have of surviving in these woods?” “You’re a regular, bleeding heart,” Carver spits out, sarcastically. “Mercy at the barrel of a gun. Is that what gets you through these missions or is it that blue ice you’ve been huffing?” Cullen scowls angrily, noting how easy it would be to move his hands higher, wrap them around the mouthy recruit’s throat. Insubordination. That’s what it is. Carver’s not been here as long as him and Vallen, has not seen the worst of what these...things, are capable of. “Ser!” He hears the warning in Aveline’s voice: not now. It provides the moment of clarity he needs before he crosses the only line he’s promised himself he would not, does something he’ll regret. “We're done here.” And as he lets go of his companion, his steeled gaze falls on a pair of large, lifeless eyes, the tiny body crumpled like a rag doll, the last of its tears trailing down its dirty cheeks. It's at that moment that he awakens with a violent start, throat burning and stomach heaving. He stumbles and only just collapses onto the cracked tile, bending forward and emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He's unable to fight the subsequent wave as his stomach burns once again but all he hears is her wails in his head, feels his finger pressing against that trigger and taking everything from her with but a single bullet.
I was only following orders.
But he knows now how much of a lie that was. * Intimacy is still something foreign to Cullen, something that in all his prior experiences would have him freeze up, like a halla caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. He recalls moments of uttering absolute nonsense, mumbling and shirking a gentle touch on his arm, a kind of confusion in his eyes that read, Am I worth any of this? But it's different with Dorian. When Dorian presses his lips tenderly to the inside of Cullen's wrist, the Fereldan's gaze softens, his pulse beating wildly as he gently tugs the android closer. Dorian falls easily between Cullen's spread thighs, fitting into him as if it was made for Cullen's frame, its breathless gasp a plea for everything Cullen wishes he can give as he captures the android's lips in a heated kiss. “Amatus,” Dorian whispers and it's the only word Cullen needs to hear, the only one that matters. Dorian never says it but Cullen knows he's the only one it has ever called that. They don't get much farther than that, Cullen only as naked as the android, but he is content to lay with Dorian, exchange kisses in the dark, hold each other and pretend that there isn't another life waiting for him outside these walls. His desire for Dorian burns with the intensity of the mid-summer sun but Cullen's mind is so damaged, he can't remember the last time he's had an erection. It's sometime later, when the android is tracing the many marks on Cullen's chest, that the Fereldan knows walking away from it this time will be the hardest thing he's ever had to do. “I can't do this anymore.” Dorian pauses and it's only when the hurt flashes in its expressive eyes that Cullen realizes his poor choice of words. “If I've done anything to—” “That's not what I meant,” Cullen says hastily, grasping the android's hand. He squeezes it reassuringly. “You must forgive me and my barbaric, Fereldan mannerisms.” “Oh, your barbarism has hardly ever been in question. I must admit I've grown fond enough of your savage ways that I am willing to overlook your poor bedside manner.” The Fereldan makes a face, earning him a light chuckle from his companion. “I appreciate your wit, even if it comes at my expense.” “Wit is hardly my tongue's only talent.” Color splashes across Cullen's cheeks but his lips tug in a grim expression. “I'm being serious, Dorian. We need to discuss this arrangement.” The android sits up, creating physical separation between it and the Fereldan. “If this is yet another of your fruitless attempts to convince me to reset—” “I want to purchase you.” It stops mid-rant, stares down in shock at Cullen. Given how much it enjoys talking, Cullen's a bit impressed with himself for saying something that's left Dorian speechless. He sits up as well, takes Dorian's hand to press a soft kiss on its knuckles. Its grip is loose in his but then he feels its other hand reach for the back of his neck, toying with the curls of his hairline. He's met with a watery gaze and he's so lost in their bottomless depths, he has to swallow thickly to find his voice. “You don't have to stay with me.” Cullen half thinks it doesn't want to, not when he's offering it freedom. “You can go where you choose, once you're free. But I won't keep doing this, Dorian: I won't ignore the abuse any longer, not when there is something I can do about it.” “Amatus...” It falls into his arms, hugging him tightly. Pressed this closely, Cullen can feel the thrum of its pump regulator whirring in its chest. Yet, for all that makes it so different, it's somehow as intimate as a lover's racing pulse felt beneath the palm of one's hand. “I will free you,” Cullen whispers into Dorian's hair. A promise. “You have my word.” * “How much for the Pavus unit?” The manager cocks a brow. “You want one o' your own? Check the SyberVitae website. I'm not in the business of selling used androids.” “I'm not interested in a new Pavus model. I want that one.” Cullen indicates to Dorian, now heading to the back room under the pretense of submitting for its mandatory reset. The manager makes a sound of derision. “Don't tell me you've grown attached to it. It's a fucking machine.” The Fereldan's gaze grows steely. “All I'm asking is how much.” He braces himself, knows that sex androids run at a higher price point than most androids on the market. The Pavus unit, in particular, is an exclusive model and he can imagine that even used, it will leave a large dent in his savings. “10 000 crowns.”
Fuck!
He's got only about half of that, money he'd been saving these last few months to send to his sister. She still hasn't returned any of his calls. “5 000. Cash.” The manager rolls his eyes. “I'll make more money keeping it on the floor.” “7 000.” “You really want that bloody thing?” “8 000.” “Andraste's tits, fine,” he mutters. “You give me 8 000 crowns, cash, and I'll sell it.” “I can bring you the money by the end of the month. And I'll buy it—whatever condition it's in.” The manager shakes his head, a look of disbelief on his face. He waves Cullen off, mumbling, mostly to himself, “Bloody daft, buying one used.” It's not until he's back home, coat drenched from the evening drizzle, that Cullen groans aloud and drops his head on the table. How in the name of the Maker is he going to come up with that kind of cash? The next few weeks are a blur as Cullen works double-shifts and takes what little overtime is available. Meredith, the head of the security agency he works for, which mostly provides security droids on contract, is impressed with his work ethic and has him working between two different companies. The days are long, the nights even longer, and by the time he arrives home, he collapses in bed, rests for a handful of hours, and wakes up once more to begin the cycle anew. It isn't easy. And there are days when he's so exhausted—so lonely from having only a handful of security androids to make conversation with (and, as it turns out, none of them seem to have been programmed with a personality)—that he finds it near unbearable to go on. But then he remembers the tears dripping down Dorian's cheeks, the anger and hurt in its voice, and he knows that he needs to do this. Exhausted in a way he hasn't been since his time in service, he returns to the club on his next day off, his entire savings in an envelope he's folded into the inner pocket of his coat. It's a weekday morning, barely any clients perusing the 'merchandise' but Cullen pays them no heed as he heads straight for the service counter. “I'm here for the Pavus unit,” he declares, slapping the envelope down on the counter top. The manager stares, for a long, hard, moment, at the manila envelope, thick with cash. “Bollocks, you really were serious.” “It would appear so.” The man gives him a nonplussed look. Then, much to Cullen's irritation, he pushes the envelope back towards him. “No sale.” “We had an agreement,” Cullen says, pushing the money back towards the manager. “It's all there: 8000 crowns.” “And I'm telling you the deal's off. Use it to buy yourself something useful: they have 'em housekeeping droids, cheaper than some used, cock-sucking one.” It's when Cullen's eyes fall to the display pod Dorian was in and he feels dread burrow deep in his gut as he notices a fair-skinned elf in the case. “Where is the Pavus model?” “I got rid of it.” Ice cold fear grips him, has him crumpling the envelope in his hand. It's shock, disbelief that makes him cling helplessly to any possibility that isn't as definitive as the worst he can think of. “Got rid of it? What in the name of the Maker do you mean?” “It was defective,” the manager replies. But there's something about his demeanor that strikes the wrong nerve in Cullen. He grabs the man roughly by the collar of his shirt, tugs him forward until he's half on the counter, shaking hands itching to wrap around the man's throat. “I'll ask you once again: Where is it?” “Not. Fucking. Here,” the man spits out. “You want the damn thing: try looking in the junkyard.” He feels a surge of anger, a desire to tear into something, to inflict his ire upon the man who's been standing between Dorian and freedom from abuse at the hands of the brothel's clients. He's back in the battlefield, fingers on the trigger, sound of gunfire and exploding mines fading to white noise as he lets off each round, gunning down each faceless 'enemy' before they have a chance to unload their weapon on him. But this isn't war. There's no explosion, no gunfire, no towering qunari armed to the teeth and ready to take him out in the massacre—genocide—the rest of Thedas is committing against their people. There's only a sneering, feckless arsehole who's made his living off the bodies of machines. And as much as Cullen would love to smash the man's teeth in, there's nothing to be gained from it except a momentary distraction from the despair broiling beneath his crumbling anger. He lets go of the man, roughly stuffs the envelope back in his coat. He's still shaking with anger as he turns away, needing to get far from here before the cracks in his armor begin to show. “It was just a fucking machine,” the man sneers. Unable to hold back any longer, Cullen's fist goes flying at the man's face, cartilage snapping beneath his knuckles. * It's well into the evening by the time Cullen returns to his apartment, stumbling in and crashing against the poor excuse of a kitchen table. He moans, attempts to stand upright but his legs can barely hold himself up. He's drunk, more so than he's been in years. But he needed something to numb him, to make him not think about— Maker, does his face fucking hurt. It takes him a while to make it into the bathroom. Gripping the sink to hold himself up, he stares blearily at his bruised face, marks littered across his skin in varying shades of blue. He's had worse, knows they'll heal. It takes a few attempts before he gets the tap running, barely flinches as the cold water licks the cuts on his knuckles. His apartment is quiet. No shitty dubstep bouncing off the walls, no drunk patrons to blather on about their stupid, fucking lives. Nothing to drown out the sound of his own voice in his head.
It was just a machine.
His vision blurs. He can no longer convince himself it's from the alcohol alone.
Just a fucking machine.
Something hot and wet drips down his cheeks.
It wasn't even alive.
And he's there, once more, in their room. Gray eyes gazing into his with warmth, a hand entwined in his. Skin that's smooth to the touch as he cradles the android's face, lips pressing gently to his...
'Amatus...'
With a cry that's half rage, half sob, Cullen smashes his fist into the mirror. Glass cracks, bits of it clattering into the porcelain sink, others sticking to his skin. Blood dribbles off his knuckles but Cullen only feels the angry sob that tears into his chest, leaves him choking as another wound is carved beneath his flesh.
It wasn't even alive.
Except...he was.