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This is just a fun little way of expanding CR. For those who do post a top level, CHIRPER toplevels are worth five extra points regardless of if they are put up willingly by the character themselves. These five extra points do apply to the 25 maximum per month.
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AURORA
NAME ▷
Aurora
AGE ▷
2
CURRENT MOOD ▷
🙂
IF I WERE A DOG, I'D BE A ▷
Shetland Sheepdog, as I am a fast learner and a natural protector.
Hello. My name is Aurora. My duty is to oversee your comfort and the daily workings of Etraya, as well as provide information for upcoming missions.
[Hank pauses, holding the cloth against Connor’s cheek.]
You, uh, doing okay?
[Connor doesn’t seem especially upset at the memory, but hell if Hank knows. He squints at him before trying to wipe at his frosting-encrusted hair.]
Jesus, I’ve got no idea what we’re gonna do about your hair. Or — [gaze turning to the ceiling] — any of that. I mean, hell. Guess we need a ladder, huh?
[Someone told him the companion bots can clean — enjoy cleaning, even, maybe? — so that might be an option. Hank has, admittedly, warmed up to the bots.
Especially now that Connor’s here and Hank feels less of a need to hate someone.]
Think you might need a bath, Connor. Good ol’ soak in the tub.
[Hank purses his lips. Rubbing at Connor’s head with the towel, and — yeah, he’s gonna need to wash his hair, at the very least.]
What were you scared of?
[It’s not condescending — or it’s not meant to be, anyway. Maybe Hank sounds a little tired, but that’s because he’s thinking about how Sumo might also need a bath. Maybe the little weird bots can help with that, too.]
[There may or may not be bits of frosting all of the apartment as Connor had rushed around looking for him. Only after continuing the conversation with Hank did it remind Connor that he was okay.]
I thought the flies could be coming from a corpse, your corpse.
You don’t gotta worry about me. Let me worry about you.
[Hank pulls back, setting the towel on the counter — the counter with frosting.
Frosting everywhere.
He should go start Connor a bath, but now he’s a little uneasy about leaving him alone. Isn’t sure how to comfort him, really, so he pats Connor’s shoulder.]
No, the lasagna should be fine. [Connor pulls down plates, silverware, and glasses for both of them. It's a habit Connor has begun, since he can taste bits of the food without his system going haywire.
The glass is just for visual symmetry.
He sets the table and moves the cake to sit on top of the stove.]
No. [Before remembering he once again forgot to get oven mitts. Maybe Hank won't notice?]
omg crying if Connor reaches into the oven with his bare hands again
[Hank gives Connor a sideway glance. Is Connor sounding a little weird here? Maybe Hank is over thinking. Over-worrying.
No, he’s definitely sounding a little curt. Did Hank piss him off again? Probably. But his attempts to fix things usually just frustrate Connor more, which frustrates Hank, so:]
Is that right.
[Accentuated with a little nod. He shouldn’t have said anything, really. Should have just basked in the pre-lasagna silence.
The towel is pretty much fucked now. Also encrusted with frosting. How many towels are they gonna need? Hank should probably focus on the lower disaster zone so Sumo doesn’t go licking it all up.]
[Connor registers Hank's frustration and quietly hates it. He's a people pleaser, it's in his programming (even if that programming has recently blown to pieces). He pulls down the door of the oven and reaches in without oven mitts once again. His hands go white as he sets it on the table.]
I apologize. I am... [What's the word for this emotion?] Frustrated. With myself. For the mess.
Hank sighs. Is Connor feeling like an inconvenience, maybe?]
Was an accident. Not like you went and did it on purpose.
[Maybe if Connor had, he wouldn’t be feeling this way. Guilty?
Hank is scrubbing at another patch of frosting when he turns to glance at Connor.]
Oh, Jesus Christ, Connor, you are not reaching into the oven with your bare ass hands again.
[Except he is, of course. And Hank remembers how Connor reassured him before, but it’s hot, and...]
You have really gotta stop doing that. If not for yourself, then for me. Gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.
[Hank grabs Connor’s wrist once he’s set the lasagna down; a little too rough in his worry, but his grip loosens once he realizes that he’s overreacting. Again.
But still. Connor shouldn’t have gone and just shoved his hands in the oven again.]
One of these days you’re gonna try and grab something too hot for your plastic-metal-whatever, and what then?
[Connor really does feel like an inconvenience right now, while he's learning his feelings, while memories bring up other ones. When Hank snares his wrist, Connor doesn't find himself feeling entirely worth the concern.]
I will acquire oven mitts the next time I visit the store.
[It takes a moment or two, but his false skin wraps around his fingers once more.]
[The moment the glob of frosting plops onto Hank's head, Connor learns a new emotion! Self-hate. He immediately goes for a towel and wets it before trying to wipe up the frosting. Instead, his efforts simply smear the frosting around and Connor steps back with a frown.]
[Hank sounds angry to Connor, a lot like when they first met and the panic that shoots through him reminds him of the moment he stood before Chloe with a gun.
However, just before he can apologize, Hank laughs. Hank laughs deep and full and Connor has never been more confused in his life.]
I can clean it up, Hank. [He doesn't need to sleep, after all. He could have it cleaned up by morning!]
Stop worrying about that. I mean — [a quick, unfortunate glance toward the ceiling has Hank stepping a little to the right before another glob of frosting plops down on his head] — I get it. Kind of overwhelming to think about, yeah?
But it’s not like anyone got hurt. You’re okay, right? And I’m okay. And Sumo hasn’t gone and started licking up all the frosting so I’m sure he’s fine, too.
It’s fine, Connor. Really. As long as you’re... all right?
[Which is half a question as Hank squints at him.]
[The frosting glob splats on the floor and Connor's expression crumbles. Shame, embarrassment, self-hate, they all play in rapid succession like a runaway jukebox.]
[Connor nods without saying anything before disappearing down the hallway. There's specks of green here and there and every time Connor sees one, he wilts a little more. However, he's in the shower soon enough and starts washing out the frosting.]
[Connor seems so goddamn dejected, and Hank’s first thought is to do something. Fix it.
But his attempts at helping Connor have been disastrous in the past, so he keeps his mouth shut. Hank is sure that time will help to some degree, but fuck if he doesn’t hate it. Playing the waiting game while Connor is...
Hank has no idea what Connor is thinking. Maybe he should ask, point blank. Or maybe he should let Connor be? The bath will hopefully help. Give him some time to wind down.
While Connor’s in the bathroom, Hank sits at the table. Gets a serving of lasagna all ready to go, and right as he’s going to dig in, of-fucking-course some frosting’s gotta shimmy its way down from the ceiling and onto his plate. He tries to wipe it away but it’s blending with the cheese, and... goddamn.
Connor made this lasagna, so Hank is going to eat his frosting lasagna like a champ.]
[Connor takes the time in the bath to think. Is he really helping Hank by staying in is apartment? Does he really have any right to continue staying after a mess like this? After all, androids are meant to be helpful and all Connor seems to do is make one mess after another.
He lingers longer than it takes to wash all the frosting off him, allowing himself the moment to continue to dwell. Once he's breathed through all of that, he empties the tub and takes a final rinse from the shower to get the frosting-laced water off of him (and to wipe the green ring off the tub).
He usually would change back into his normal clothes-- his only set-- but they're currently a crime scene of green frosting. Should he ask to borrow some from Hank? Would that just make matters worse? As he picks up his clothes, he frowns at the sheer amount of frosting there.
Seems he'd have to ask after all.
Cracking open the door, he calls down toward the kitchen.] Hank?
[Hank is putting the lasagna leftovers in the fridge when he hears Connor call for him. There’s a jolt in his chest, despite the fact that Connor doesn’t sound like he’s in distress.
Now it’s his turn to have a painful flashback, apparently: Connor calling his name back in Stratford Tower. Pained.
He swallows back that worry, though — Connor’s fine — before heading down the hallway.]
Yeah?
[Just a peek through the door, and... oh. Hank’s gone and forgotten about clean clothes, hasn’t he? Not only that but Hank hasn’t even taken him shopping, hasn’t gotten him those fucking oven mitts, hasn’t got him anything new for his room.
Some guy Hank is. Some guy.]
Clothes, yeah? Shit.
[Muttered irritably because goddamn, can he do nothing right? Hank holds up a hand for Connor before heading into his bedroom, pulling out... fuck if he knows. How many times do they have to do this whole song and dance? Connor should have his own clothes — but he doesn’t.
This is the last time, Hank tells himself. Last time he lets Connor down in this regard.
Again he just pulls out a bundle of clothes. Nothing he has is particularly small, nowhere near Connor’s size, since Hank hasn’t been here long enough to hoard old clothes.
He pops back out to the hallway to ask:]
Do you want — I mean, what do you want? [He holds up the hodgepodge pile of clothes in his arms.]
[Connor remembers Stratford Tower as well, being pinned down by the deviant, having his core ripped out. Diving over the lieutenant as bullets sprayed the hallway.
However, this time he isn't bleeding from a hastily re-attached core, nor facing a sudden darkness that he wakes from in Cyberlife. No, this is a much simpler problem. Hank looks in and then retreats to retrieve a collection of garments.]
Do you have anything in blue or gray?
[He likes wearing his usual outfit and not just because it was assigned to him.]
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etraya2025-04-15 03:35 pm
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That said, Connor stands nice and still as Hank cleans him up. It's oddly nice to have Hank so close. What is this odd feeling in his chest?]
It reminded me of Carlos Ortiz's scene.
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[Hank pauses, holding the cloth against Connor’s cheek.]
You, uh, doing okay?
[Connor doesn’t seem especially upset at the memory, but hell if Hank knows. He squints at him before trying to wipe at his frosting-encrusted hair.]
Jesus, I’ve got no idea what we’re gonna do about your hair. Or — [gaze turning to the ceiling] — any of that. I mean, hell. Guess we need a ladder, huh?
[Someone told him the companion bots can clean — enjoy cleaning, even, maybe? — so that might be an option. Hank has, admittedly, warmed up to the bots.
Especially now that Connor’s here and Hank feels less of a need to hate someone.]
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I heard what I thought was a fly and it reminded me of Carlos Ortiz. [He's trying to explain, give him a moment.] I was afraid.
[Which is frankly bizarre to him, but he's got all these new emotions he's trying to work through.]
And that's when the icing ended up on the ceiling.
[Don't ask him. He's wearing the expression of The Guilty Dog again.]
A shower may be the best way to go.
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Think you might need a bath, Connor. Good ol’ soak in the tub.
[Hank purses his lips. Rubbing at Connor’s head with the towel, and — yeah, he’s gonna need to wash his hair, at the very least.]
What were you scared of?
[It’s not condescending — or it’s not meant to be, anyway. Maybe Hank sounds a little tired, but that’s because he’s thinking about how Sumo might also need a bath. Maybe the little weird bots can help with that, too.]
I mean, what were you thinking was gonna happen?
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[There may or may not be bits of frosting all of the apartment as Connor had rushed around looking for him. Only after continuing the conversation with Hank did it remind Connor that he was okay.]
I thought the flies could be coming from a corpse, your corpse.
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Me? Jesus, no. I wasn’t even here, Connor.
[Which is Hank’s clumsy way of saying:]
You don’t gotta worry about me. Let me worry about you.
[Hank pulls back, setting the towel on the counter — the counter with frosting.
Frosting everywhere.
He should go start Connor a bath, but now he’s a little uneasy about leaving him alone. Isn’t sure how to comfort him, really, so he pats Connor’s shoulder.]
I’m okay. Nothing happened to me.
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I didn't realize until you replied.
[Which is Connor's way of saying that the mess is extraordinary.]
The lasagna should be ready soon.
[He's sorry, Hank.]
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Didn’t go and get frosting on the lasagna, did ya?
[Just trying to lighten the mood here.
Really, they’ll figure out the whole mess thing. It’s a lot — a whole damn lot — but Hank cares more about Connor.
...Who doesn’t seem exactly relieved that Hank is fine, but okay. Guy’s just a little unsettled, maybe. That’s fair. Maybe he just needs some time.]
You need me to help with anything?
[Well, beyond the whole cleanup thing. Hank does at least start on that: re-wetting the towel, wiping down the counters.]
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The glass is just for visual symmetry.
He sets the table and moves the cake to sit on top of the stove.]
No. [Before remembering he once again forgot to get oven mitts. Maybe Hank won't notice?]
omg crying if Connor reaches into the oven with his bare hands again
[Hank gives Connor a sideway glance. Is Connor sounding a little weird here? Maybe Hank is over thinking. Over-worrying.
No, he’s definitely sounding a little curt. Did Hank piss him off again? Probably. But his attempts to fix things usually just frustrate Connor more, which frustrates Hank, so:]
Is that right.
[Accentuated with a little nod. He shouldn’t have said anything, really. Should have just basked in the pre-lasagna silence.
The towel is pretty much fucked now. Also encrusted with frosting. How many towels are they gonna need? Hank should probably focus on the lower disaster zone so Sumo doesn’t go licking it all up.]
i mean if the shoe fits
I apologize. I am... [What's the word for this emotion?] Frustrated. With myself. For the mess.
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Connor, that’s...
[...not your fault.
Hank sighs. Is Connor feeling like an inconvenience, maybe?]
Was an accident. Not like you went and did it on purpose.
[Maybe if Connor had, he wouldn’t be feeling this way. Guilty?
Hank is scrubbing at another patch of frosting when he turns to glance at Connor.]
Oh, Jesus Christ, Connor, you are not reaching into the oven with your bare ass hands again.
[Except he is, of course. And Hank remembers how Connor reassured him before, but it’s hot, and...]
You have really gotta stop doing that. If not for yourself, then for me. Gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.
[Hank grabs Connor’s wrist once he’s set the lasagna down; a little too rough in his worry, but his grip loosens once he realizes that he’s overreacting. Again.
But still. Connor shouldn’t have gone and just shoved his hands in the oven again.]
One of these days you’re gonna try and grab something too hot for your plastic-metal-whatever, and what then?
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I will acquire oven mitts the next time I visit the store.
[It takes a moment or two, but his false skin wraps around his fingers once more.]
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Should’ve just gone and done it myself after last time. You shouldn’t have to do everything.
[Hank touches Connor’s fingers: a little warm, but not terribly so. For all he knows, maybe that’s just normal.]
Gotta set that as my prime objective, yeah? ‘Keep Connor from burning his hands off.’
[Another bit of dry humor as he lets Connor’s hand go.]
Stick it under some water, if you need to. Or ice — we’ve got ice. Need to worry about you.
[Then, as if to break the tense mood, a glob of frosting falls from the ceiling onto Hank’s head. Rolling down his cheek.]
Oh, Jesus Christ.
[He has to ignore the urge to taste it because goddamn that shit was on the ceiling.]
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HE’S SO PRECIOUS
Connor.
[Hank sounds a little chastising, maybe, as he feels that glob of frosting spread.
Really, though, he’s trying to suppress a laugh — which doesn’t work because Connor just looks so serious. He chuckles: deep, hearty.]
Between the two of us, you’d think we could clean up this much, yeah?
[The rest of the apartment does not bode well if they’re already this much of a disaster. But it’s fine: they can be disasters together, at least.]
he tried his best sob
However, just before he can apologize, Hank laughs. Hank laughs deep and full and Connor has never been more confused in his life.]
I can clean it up, Hank. [He doesn't need to sleep, after all. He could have it cleaned up by morning!]
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Stop worrying about that. I mean — [a quick, unfortunate glance toward the ceiling has Hank stepping a little to the right before another glob of frosting plops down on his head] — I get it. Kind of overwhelming to think about, yeah?
But it’s not like anyone got hurt. You’re okay, right? And I’m okay. And Sumo hasn’t gone and started licking up all the frosting so I’m sure he’s fine, too.
It’s fine, Connor. Really. As long as you’re... all right?
[Which is half a question as Hank squints at him.]
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I'm alright.
[He just has some emotions to work through.]
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[Hank isn’t buying it. But he’d rather not get into another round of their usual, with Hank eventually snapping and upsetting Connor.
So: patience. He can do that.
Hopefully.
The apartment itself feels like a jenga tower, though. Every bit of wayward frosting seems like a game piece plucked haphazardly. Ominous.]
How ‘bout you go wash up, Connor? [It’d get him away from the mess, at least.] And I can shove this lasagna in my face, then...
[Another uncertain glance toward the frosting on the walls.]
We could get out of here for a bit.
[Would that help? Escaping the mess?]
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[Connor seems so goddamn dejected, and Hank’s first thought is to do something. Fix it.
But his attempts at helping Connor have been disastrous in the past, so he keeps his mouth shut. Hank is sure that time will help to some degree, but fuck if he doesn’t hate it. Playing the waiting game while Connor is...
Hank has no idea what Connor is thinking. Maybe he should ask, point blank. Or maybe he should let Connor be? The bath will hopefully help. Give him some time to wind down.
While Connor’s in the bathroom, Hank sits at the table. Gets a serving of lasagna all ready to go, and right as he’s going to dig in, of-fucking-course some frosting’s gotta shimmy its way down from the ceiling and onto his plate. He tries to wipe it away but it’s blending with the cheese, and... goddamn.
Connor made this lasagna, so Hank is going to eat his frosting lasagna like a champ.]
frosting lasagna sob
He lingers longer than it takes to wash all the frosting off him, allowing himself the moment to continue to dwell. Once he's breathed through all of that, he empties the tub and takes a final rinse from the shower to get the frosting-laced water off of him (and to wipe the green ring off the tub).
He usually would change back into his normal clothes-- his only set-- but they're currently a crime scene of green frosting. Should he ask to borrow some from Hank? Would that just make matters worse? As he picks up his clothes, he frowns at the sheer amount of frosting there.
Seems he'd have to ask after all.
Cracking open the door, he calls down toward the kitchen.] Hank?
it’ll be Hank’s little secret
[Hank is putting the lasagna leftovers in the fridge when he hears Connor call for him. There’s a jolt in his chest, despite the fact that Connor doesn’t sound like he’s in distress.
Now it’s his turn to have a painful flashback, apparently: Connor calling his name back in Stratford Tower. Pained.
He swallows back that worry, though — Connor’s fine — before heading down the hallway.]
Yeah?
[Just a peek through the door, and... oh. Hank’s gone and forgotten about clean clothes, hasn’t he? Not only that but Hank hasn’t even taken him shopping, hasn’t gotten him those fucking oven mitts, hasn’t got him anything new for his room.
Some guy Hank is. Some guy.]
Clothes, yeah? Shit.
[Muttered irritably because goddamn, can he do nothing right? Hank holds up a hand for Connor before heading into his bedroom, pulling out... fuck if he knows. How many times do they have to do this whole song and dance? Connor should have his own clothes — but he doesn’t.
This is the last time, Hank tells himself. Last time he lets Connor down in this regard.
Again he just pulls out a bundle of clothes. Nothing he has is particularly small, nowhere near Connor’s size, since Hank hasn’t been here long enough to hoard old clothes.
He pops back out to the hallway to ask:]
Do you want — I mean, what do you want? [He holds up the hodgepodge pile of clothes in his arms.]
cute
However, this time he isn't bleeding from a hastily re-attached core, nor facing a sudden darkness that he wakes from in Cyberlife. No, this is a much simpler problem. Hank looks in and then retreats to retrieve a collection of garments.]
Do you have anything in blue or gray?
[He likes wearing his usual outfit and not just because it was assigned to him.]
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had to mention Sumo’s whereabouts (he escaped the Great Frosting Battle)
bless
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thank u for the opportunity for Hank to say this ((CLUTCHES CHEST))
omg
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