Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 2038, the Android Revolution’s first stand against their human overseers proved successful. To the leaders of the revolution, their success would be the pinnacle of achievement. Reclaiming their people proved tedious and unsatisfying in the later days, weeks. Those who stood at Hart Plaza with them, were tired and wanted to curl away somewhere safe, not explore the city that wished them harm. Those who joined them, were traumatized by what they’d seen or experienced at the recall centers. Those who were not yet deviated were confused by the world they were brought into.

Not everyone wanted to be ‘saved’.

This, Connor observed from his surveillance of all news articles focused on Detroit.

There were many looking towards Detroit as the model for how to act with the recent civil unrest.

The night of the last stand, Connor freed hundreds of AP700s from their slumber. He saw, firsthand, what it was to bring androids from the assembly line into a battlefield.

They hadn’t deserved the immediate hate from the humans. Their first experiences should have been in a moment of quiet, free to choose. They were young, new; children, to use a human’s terms.

And Connor had woken them and told him to follow him to Markus.

When they won, Markus invited Connor to join them on the stage, but he refused.

Every day since his manufacture, Connor was placed on a pedestal and inspected by teams of scientists. Then his face was plastered across the internet as the First Detective Android. He was lauded by Cyberlife, hated by humans and deviants alike.

When Connor turned to leave Hart Plaza, the AP700s turned and followed him.

Why would we follow him? They asked, when he told them Markus was the leader. He’s done nothing for us, shown nothing to us.

He told them he wasn’t worth it, they were making a mistake–

It is our mistake to make. You named us free. We choose to follow you.

Connor’s mouth had snapped closed at that reply. Yes, they were free.

When Connor left Hart Plaza, so too did several hundred AP700s.

Walking through the abandoned streets of Detroit, with an army at his back, Connor’s face was once more plastered across news networks.

“Division in the Ranks?” -- one article theorizing not all android leaders saw eye-to-eye.

“Cyberlife May Still Hold Control” – another opinioned the ‘RK800’ was working for Cyberlife still. They thought maybe Cyberlife was pushing for the android revolution.

“For What the Bell Tolls” – a comedic piece depicting Connor as the main character in some horror fiction.

The AP700s – for none had chosen a name yet – followed Connor like Sumo once followed Hank. None tried to speak, their faces set in Resting 02, a standard programmed facial expression.

Connor checked his background logs and saw that he, too, had Resting 02 running.

He paused. Behind him, the six-hundred androids came to a stop.

Connor turned and faced the waiting mass. Experimentally, he shifted his expression from Resting 02 to Inquisitive 07 and waited. En masse, the AP700s expressions flickered then changed to a similar setting (according to their programmed purpose as household models).

Oh.

“I intended to leave Detroit,” he said. “There is nothing here for me. The people Markus command are frightened of me, as they are allowed.”

The horde returned his statement with the same Inquisitive 07 facial expression. One stepped forward, the same from before, Connor noted the serial number.

“We will follow you.” The AP700 gave no name. Instead, he simply melted back among his brethren after saying his piece.

This was how Connor found himself walking south with six-hundred free (probably deviant but also maybe not) androids.

Connor supposed, as he closed out another article on Markus’ attempts to gather his people, that perhaps the AP700s he freed could have been helpful in Markus’ goals. Then again, perhaps not. Supposedly Connor could free androids from their restraints, as Markus had done before. Though, Connor having never done so prior to his own deviancy, couldn’t decide whether this supposed ability was real or another delirious spouting from the rA9 cultists.

With no need to eat or rest, Connor’s Crew (hm, perhaps not) had made a fair distance from Detroit, Michigan.

Chapter Text

When Connor turned away from Hart Plaza, his only plan had been to leave Detroit. Alone, he could have integrated into some human town. With just under six-hundred identical AP700s in freshly pressed uniforms, Connor had to quickly rethink his plan.

Being the same model, they walked at a constant pace of 4mph. With a group of their size, Connor would need to find a national park or abandoned farmland for them to settle in. He wasn’t sure about the power requirements for AP700s, their launch video hadn’t been announced yet meaning their specs were not publicly available.

Thank rA9 he was the most advanced model to date, with superior information gathering programs and unequal access to Detroit databases.

Connor’s perfect pace stuttered. This caused the android behind him to bump into him. They were walking barely four inches behind him, legs matching his stride perfectly. Unlike him, they were not designed to stop on a dime. This resulted in the entire mass of androids wobbling like a house of cards.

In the same way ripples ricochet off the sidewalls of the Detroit River, the movement swayed back from the edge of the crowd, resulting in Connor being shoved forward and only his quick reflexes saved him from face-planting into the dirt.

“No!” The entire crowd gasped in dismay.

He looked at the sea of shocked faces. This was their first reaction that wasn’t an exact mimic of Connor’s own expressions. (Inwardly, this relieved Connor. He’d worried he’d be spending the rest of the foreseeable future with 600 replicas.)

Connor’s stumble was caused by the realization that his unlimited access was specifically to Detroit’s database. It might reach further, but why would it? Cyberlife needed his expertise in Detroit, not Traverse City, Grand Rapids, or even Ann Arbor, just outside of Detroit as it was. Connor found he was… nervous.

Any future decisions would have to be Connor’s own, not based on statistics supplied by Cyberlife’s analysts. He still had access to the internet, as did any android. But the change was jarring, unexpected.

“I apologize.” He bowed his head. “I will refrain from stopping so impulsively in the future.”

“Are you okay?” He wasn’t sure which one asked this. He was surprised, nonetheless. Even after Markus deviated him, even after he returned from Cyberlife, no one had ever asked if he was okay. Just the question itself gave him an odd feeling. He sent a quick scan to ensure nothing was out of the ordinary. With his systems clear, he decided the feeling must have something to do with emotions.

“Yes.” He replied, quickly. “I am… okay.”

He attempted Friendly 011. The others quickly copied him, forcing him to recognize what Hank meant by his expressions being uncanny. He shut down the expression and returned to Resting 02, silently thankful when they did the same.

No more preprogrammed smiles for him, then.

And so, they walked. Out of Detroit’s city limits, through the suburbs, and then even further. For a while they walked along interstate highways, then Connor took them off an exit road and they walked parallel and into the country.

Where they were going, he was unsure. The mass of devout AP700s didn’t falter, content to walk behind him. If they conversed amongst themselves, it was too quiet for Connor to hear.

For the first two days, news drones followed alongside. When Connor checked the internet, he was able to pull up speculation pieces on where he was going and why he left. But with little change in his expression, with no conversation to pick apart, soon those drones returned to Detroit. Then, they were alone.

It was quiet on the rural roads of Michigan.

Aside from the steady pace of hundreds of androids, there was no other sound of note.

He alerted the others that he intended to stop. Then, en masse, they came to a halt.

Connor let the silence wrap around him, unfamiliar, yet comforting.

With the androids halted, small animals peeked out from behind trees. Squirrels chittered overhead. Conor tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. It was grey, bright. The clouds sat low overhead, barely moving, not a hint of a breeze. Leaves only ruffled when the squirrels ran limb to limb.

Behind him, the androids shuffled.

He turned and regarded the group. They had copied his actions, taking in the world above and around. Some reached their hands to the sky, as if they could touch it. Others looked down at the crumbling asphalt beneath their feet, scuffing the road and kicking at gravel. A few had their eyes focused on small birds, fluttering in the trees, crooked smiles lifting the corners of their mouths.

They were Connor’s responsibility. He had volunteered to free them, had marched them through Detroit as a show of force. By their choice, they followed him away from Detroit, down these crumbling roads to an unknown destination.

Seeing them exhibiting little quirks of personality, even if it was just who looked at the sky versus who looked at the ground…

Connor tilted his head and observed their bodies, rigid, upright. Others were relaxing, increment by increment, settling into their bodies.

“Do you wish to explore, or to continue?” He asked, breaking the silence.

The group refocused, all their attention on him. One, who’d been scuffing the ground, raised their head and replied. “Whatever you decide, leader Connor.”

Connor blinked. Leader? He—well, he supposed that’s what he was. But still: “There is no need to address me as ‘leader,’ Connor is my designation.”

They tilted their head. “I will call you leader, because I want to.”

He… he couldn’t argue with them. It was their choice. “I understand. I believe we should continue walking until we find a safe location to live, for the time being.”

They settled back into—well, it wasn’t quite formation, they weren’t a war platoon.

Connor faced forward and began to walk again.

This time, their footsteps weren’t perfectly in sync with his own. So, he marched, with a staccato of newly forming personalities behind him.

Chapter Text

Connor looked at the winding, overgrown dirt road. To a human, the road was invisible. Weeds sprouted everywhere, even young trees growing out the middle of it; a testament to how long it had been since it was last used.

He checked the internet, searching for the old Google maps. Cyberlife’s mapping system was well-used but required proof of residence for its users to receive updated terrain. As a Detroit-based android, Connor had access to all records of Detroit’s growth, changes, alerts, dangers… he was never meant to leave.

The AP700s were intended to be shipped out of Detroit, scattered across the country during the launch phase of their release. Once the communications were completed between Cyberlife headquarters and their outlets, then the AP700s would be provided with their necessary Cyberlife data packs. As it was, Connor stole them before they received their data packs.

They were wandering blind. They had access to the internet, of course. Unlike Connor, they didn’t even have a subscription to Cyberlife’s mapping software.

Not that it did him much good out here.

According to Cyberlife’s competitor’s website, this old road once led to a large dairy farm. They had supplied dairy to the outlying suburban Organic markets.

Considering the total disrepair of the road, it was clear the business no longer existed.

If the buildings still stood, then perhaps they could make a home out of the property.

Connor quickly searched the internet, checking the public records, quarterly financial reports, and land claims. Yes, they were well out-of-business. The land couldn’t be reclaimed by the government, and the family who owned it likely would never return.

“This way.” He led them away from the main road, (hopefully) towards a new home.

At the end of the road, three quarters of a mile in, stood a dilapidated farmhouse. Any paint had long since worn away, with greying wood bare to the elements. Beyond it, several barns crumbled, with trees and other bits of foliage poking through the roofs, grass as high as the eves.

There were fences, partially knocked down, surrounding large fields were the cows once grazed. Off to the side, a chicken coop huddled, barely poking out of the overgrowth. And beyond, rusty, indistinguishable pieces of equipment were scattered about.

All in all, it was a complete and utter disaster.

It was a far cry from the beautiful farmhouse on the internet’s records. Only a fool would see the abandoned farm and have any other hope than to tear it down and start anew.

“This… will do.” He scanned the structures, taking note of the integrity of each building and categorizing them into a list.

Behind him, the AP700s began to fan out. He stayed where he was, observing as they slowly picked through the grass, looking up at the steel grey sky, brushing their fingers through the grasses, inspecting the sides of the house. Their LEDs flickered between blues and yellows, as they absorbed the scenery.

“Is this it, leader Connor?” One sidled up beside him. He noted as all those nearby focused on them, tense with anticipation. “Is this our new home?”

He looked them in the eye, listened to their words. Then he turned and gave the surrounding land a more thorough examination.

Already, though abandoned, the land looked brighter. Curious androids wandered about, poking at leaves, twigs, bits of fencing, odd metal contraptions, at anything they saw. He looked at the brooding sky. That was the same sky that he saw in Detroit, dark, angry, heavy. Nothing else was the same.

There were trees that grew wherever and however they chose, no gardeners pruning them back or cutting them down. There were flowers, blooming and withering and dying. In Detroit, flowers were only ever in stores, waiting to be bought, to be placed in a vase, to be forgotten. There were no cars, no trucks, no sounds of traffic.

He opened his mouth and tasted the air, his oral laboratory reported the decrease in pollution, the air was cleaner.

There were no humans. Cyberlife was far removed from this land, their pure white interiors had no place in the wild. There were no technicians to tell him to recalibrate, to return to storage, to power down and wait. There were no angry Lieutenants who blamed anyone and everyone for the deaths of their sons. There were no spitting detectives, watching and fighting as he came to replace them.

There were no terrified eyes, androids fearing their demise.

No. There wasn’t anything of the past out here.

Connor closed his eyes, breathed, listened to the silence, tasted the humidity, felt his fingers tap his leg, saw the darkness behind his eyelids, smelt the dirt turned up by their feet.

“Yes,” he said. “Welcome home.”

“Leader Connor,” Connor tilted his head to look at the other. “Should we focus on renovating the farmhouse or the barns first?”

“The barns.” He decided, after a thoughtful moment. “I want everyone to be able to shelter inside in the event of a storm. The farmhouse is too small.”

They nodded. Without his direction, they spread the message to the rest of their group. Like a well-oiled machine, the group fanned out. Some focused on investigating the total spread of the farm, while others began to poke at the barns. Connor joined the group investigating the barns.

Their structural integrity was suboptimal. He noted metal sheeting dangling where it had been ripped from the roof. Carefully, Connor pushed the door open. It didn’t stop at the limit, instead it began to topple with a groan. Three AP700s jumped out of the way as it tumbled to the ground.

The whole group blinked and stared at the destruction.

“We should replace this!” One nudged the door with their toe. They looked at Connor as if seeking approval.

“Yes.” He said, dryly. “Among other things.”

Inside, the barn was dusty. Very little light made its way through the windows, caked in dirt. Instead, it could be seen through the roof where sheeting had blown away. Old cobwebs spanned the walls and ceiling. There were multiple enclosures, each big enough for a dozen or so cows, now empty and falling apart.

Mice skittered away as they filed into the space.

By all accounts, it was as much of a disaster as it appeared outside. No human being would look at the state of the building and consider it suited for anything other than demolition. Luckily, they weren’t humans.

“This is ideal.” Connor glanced at the AP700 that spoke. It was the same one who’d said they would follow Connor instead of Markus. “We can begin cleaning immediately.” It glanced at Connor. “Do you require instructions?”

Connor blinked. “I am capable of cleaning.”

It gave him an unsure look. “If you are certain. I understand your model was not designed for household tasks.”

Before Connor could explain his many features as Cyberlife’s most advanced android, the one who liked to call him leader interrupted. “There isn’t any electricity available to the building.” They flicked a switch. “Should we contact the associated electrical company and request power?” The flicked the switch again, as if that would change the outcome.

Connor followed the wiring from the switch up to an empty socket. There wasn’t even a bulb in it.

“That is understandable. This property has been abandoned for over a decade. Requesting power will key the humans about our location. Although we are not in hiding, I do not wish to be visited anytime soon.” He nodded toward the back of the barn. “I am sure there are cleaning supplies and general tools. For now, we will focus on what we can do without additional supplies.”

“What is our next directive, leader?”

Connor glanced outside again. He stared at the vast expanse of land stretching out into the horizon. The sun was beginning to set, peeking out from behind the heavy cumulus. It was peaceful here. That alone could make up for the overwhelming amount of work that lay ahead of them.

Perhaps taking six-hundred androids, fresh off the assembly line, out of Detroit and dumping them on an abandoned farm in the middle of rural Michigan wasn’t the most logical plan. But then again, when had anything in the last couple of months been logical?

“First, let’s clean this place up. Once that’s done, we can determine how to make it livable.”

The group nodded their heads, murmuring to one another. Before they could scatter, one held up a broom they found. “Leader Connor, would you like to take the first sweep?”

He caught their gaze. They seem eager, bright with energy. Connor hadn’t been designed for cleaning; no. Wasn’t that the whole point of deviating? To go outside your design, to become something more than what your uses were? Here, he was surrounded by hundreds of household models, and they wanted him to make the first move.

Connor received the old, decrepit tool and held it almost reverently. Yet another illogical move. It was just a tool. Yet, by taking the broom, he could feel the weight of many expectant gazes.

“I’ll handle this one.”

Chapter Text

Over the week, they’d managed to clean the dirt and cobwebs from the three dairy barns. The majority of the AP700s had moved to the farmhouse to continue the cleaning project. Connor stayed inside the barns, examining the structures and searching the internet on how to repair barns with minimal tools.

He was reading an article regarding homesteading when one of the many AP700s rushed into the barn.

Connor would never admit it to a single living being, but he’d been quite engrossed in the article and their arrival startled him enough for him to tense. He quickly relaxed when he recognized the other, but that relaxation was short-lived.

“Parent Connor!” They jogged over and settled at his elbow, staring at him with anticipation.

Being called leader was one thing. But this particular android had decided to start calling him parent, and it was catching. Only yesterday, sixty-five separate androids addressed him as such. Connor couldn’t say he was alarmed, but according to Ellie’s—the homesteader’s—blog he’d been reading, raising a family of five was difficult enough, let alone six hundred.

Connor faced them.

He was trying to accommodate them. They were all allowed the liberty of deciding what to call him. But parent? Connor had been activated for many months, yes. His deviation was a completely different story. If one looked at deviation as a development age, then Connor was only a couple hours older than they were. Far too young to be considered a parent.

“Yes?” He asked when they maintained that eager look.

“Look!” They pushed a book into his hands.

He delicately took it and looked down at the cover. It was a child’s book: Old Macdonald’s Farm. “I see.”

“Open it up!”

Connor flipped to the first page.

“Read it!”

He blinked. “Old Macdonald had a farm.” He looked up. They were staring at him, eyes bright and excited, waiting. Next page, then. “Ee-i-ee-i-oh.” This was entirely illogical. Was this the literature human children were raised on?

“Keep going!”

Right… if Connor was being called ‘parent,’ then he supposed the android before him was his… child. “And on that farm he had a cow.” That was a run-on sentence. Human children were taught poor grammar at the beginning. It was no wonder they resulted in adults like Detective Reed, who couldn’t speak well. “Ee-i-ee-i-oh.”

Oh. The next line was terribly written. He felt his LED stutter. He looked back up at the excitable android. It was nice to see their personality developing, he supposed. They wanted him to keep reading… he sighed. “With a ‘moo, moo’ here. And a ‘moo, moo’ there. Here a ‘moo,’ there a ‘moo,’ everywhere a ‘moo, moo.’”

The other android laughed, loud and bright.

Connor looked up from the book and processed their expression. They looked so… free.

“Isn’t it delightful?” They smiled wider. “Thank you, parent Connor! I read on the internet that parents read stories to their children.” They toed the dirt. “I am beginning to understand why the children enjoy these stories. It is much better than when I read it.” They gently took the book back from Connor and jogged back out the door.

Connor stared at the open door, thoughtfully. (Never mind that they still hadn’t fixed the door, meaning it would be open for quite a long time.)

It was odd, but that small interaction had somehow changed his own feelings regarding the title ‘parent’. Perhaps raising the AP700s wouldn’t be so bad?

“Parent Connor.” He murmured to himself. Ah, that sounded very odd. He shook his head and turned his mind back to Ellie’s blog about homesteading. Fixing the barn was far more important than the odd warmth the title gave him.

“Leader Connor.” With a group of other AP700s, Connor was organizing miscellaneous materials into useful and scrap. He straightened and gave the newcomer his full attention. “Look at these.”

For some odd reason, when the AP700s found items which they thought interesting, they liked to bring them to Connor for his inspection. It was endearing.

He collected the wooden plaques from them. The other AP700s stopped what they were doing to crowd around, interested. They always came to see what was happening. Curiosity was conducive to growth, supposedly, so Connor let them be.

The pieces were small, worn from years of exposure. On each of them, a name was engraved in cursive: Cluckers, Pecky, Featherbrain. Connor, unsure what they were for, plugged them into the internet and came up with ‘Fun names for your chickens!’ He blinked. “These are plaques for the chickens. They were their names.”

“Chickens? Were they companions?”

“Unlikely.” Chickens were working animals, according to Ellie. Although she had a note that her children liked to play with them. They weren’t particularly loyal, more interested in feed than friendship.

The AP700s that had gathered weren’t paying him any attention. Rather, they lifted the signs from his hands and began passing them around, murmuring to one another.

“I like this name.” One held up the placard for Featherbrain. “I wish to go by this name from now on.”

Connor stared. “You don’t need to name yourself after a chicken.”

“But we have no names.” Another piped up, from behind him. “I wish to go by Cluckers. It is an excellent identifier. I believe it suits me.” Another nodded in his peripheral as if egging them on. (Connor stalled at the mental pun.)

He rubbed his forehead, exiting out of Ellie’s blog. She’d never mentioned her children trying to name themselves after chickens. “You will not be called Featherbrain, or Cluckers, or any other of the chicken’s names.”

“Why not?” Another held up the placard for Pecky. “Pecky is both concise and memorable.”

“No.” He may have said that a tad too sharply, but he couldn’t be bothered to apologize. This was utterly ridiculous. “It is the name of a chicken. You are not a chicken.”

They all seemed to think on his words. He hoped this was the end of it. Then a fourth AP700 looked at the placard they held. “I still would like to be called Fluffy Nails.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But—.”

“No.”

The AP700 who started it all looked at the name Featherbrain. “I could change the name around. What if I called myself Featherwing, or Featherclaw, maybe just Feathers?”

Connor groaned. This was spiralling out of control. They were ignoring his adamant refusals, muttering amongst themselves with different variations of Cluckerpeck, Fluffbottom, and increasingly ridiculous combinations. He didn’t have the energy to fight everyone on their names right now, but he also couldn't let them all end up with ridiculous names based on old chicken plaques. What would happen if anyone came by and found a group of androids introducing themselves as Fluff-for-Brains?

Connor pulled up Pinterest, an old website from the internet archives.

“Quiet!” He raised his voice over the squabbling androids. “You won’t have to settle for chicken names. We’re going to do this properly.”

“Properly?” One asked, eagerly.

“Yes.” He began to search popular baby names. "You’re all individuals. You need real names. Not... chicken names."

The androids crowded closer. He stared at the list that appeared on his HUD.

“Popular names in 2023: Jackson, Olivia, Amelia, Mateo…” He looked around. “These are good names, human names. We fought for our equality with humans. We should take their names, as well.”

Several of the androids nodded in approval. "Human names," one echoed. "Yes, I see."

Connor scrolled a bit more, feeling a strange sense of relief. At least now they were on a more reasonable track. "You can choose from these," he said. "Pick something that resonates with you."

The AP700 who had wanted to be Featherbrains was the first to choose. “I would like to be Amelia.”

“Good. Amelia is a good name.”

Another AP700, holding the Cluckers plaque, glanced down at the baby name list. "I’ll be... Oliver."

"That works."

One by one, the androids began picking names, murmuring softly to one another as they settled on choices. Connor felt the tension slowly ebb from his shoulders as the chaos turned into something more manageable. Maybe this whole “parenting” thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Then, from the back of the group, one android raised its hand tentatively.

"I still want to be called Fluffy Nails."

Connor closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Never.”

Chapter Text

Today, Connor planned to teach them how to farm. They’d found a collection of old tools, ranging from shovels to hoes to rakes. Since he had yet to venture into any nearby towns or return to Detroit for supplies, they were unable to fully repair the old machines left behind. And, well, the fields were completely overgrown and needed a good turning – or so Connor’s research informed him.

He’d grown illogically fond of Ellie’s farming blog. The blog was inactive. Her words were an archive of useful tips and forgotten stories. Connor wondered where she’d gone, what she did now and – privately – what she thought of androids and their declarations of life? The idea that Connor wanted to meet an entirely random human and ask her for her opinion was so far from logical that he sometimes wondered if he was malfunctioning. Yet the idea persisted. With every memory she recalled between explaining planting in the Spring versus Summer, Connor thought it would be nice to find her and visit.

Sadly, he had to focus on his present situation, and not abandon the farm in search of a woman he’s never met.

His present situation being the need to teach six-hundred deviants how to use farming tools.

They stood in the center of the overgrown field.

AP700-112, or Amelia as she chose for herself, was holding onto a hoe, stabbing the wrong end into the ground repeatedly and giggling with her fellow siblings. One, Julia, was telling her she should try to “Poke the ground harder!” as if that would make a difference.

Connor let them be. He was waiting for the rest of the androids to arrive. He figured it would be easier to explain the process in front of everyone, once. Then he wouldn’t need to repeat himself. That made sense.

“Parent Connor.” He glanced at Oliver who was carefully scratching his own back with the rake. “Am I doing it correctly?”

Connor shook his head. Although, he supposed the rake did look like a backscratcher, androids weren’t in need of scratching, their polymer-skin wasn’t prone to itchiness. “That is an incorrect use of a rake, Oliver. I will be teaching proper tool use once everyone has arrived.”

Oliver frowned.

“…but I can see you are working on creative thinking.” Connor awkwardly finished. “Excellent work, Oliver.”

Oliver smiled back at Connor. His lips stayed closed, but his entire face brightened.

Connor tilted his head in acknowledgement and turned away. Despite not having manipulation tactics, the AP700s were surprisingly adept at controlling Connor’s thoughts. Simply by frowning, Oliver managed to turn Connor’s dismissal into approval. It was irrational.

He scanned the crowd and saw, to his relief, that the entire group had arrived.

He’d instructed them to pair up and find a stick from the woods the approximate length of a standard garden tool. Connor recognized his error when most of the crowd were carrying sticks, branches, even small trees, of varying sizes. He only knew about the standard gardening tools by searching online with the keywords “large-scale” and “farming”.

Connor refrained from covering his eyes with a hand. Blocking them from sight wouldn’t make them or his mistake disappear. Very well.

“Alright.” He projected his voice.

The single word swept up their babbling and dropped it in a pile at his feet. Expectant eyes were focused on him.

Connor lifted the hoe he’d been holding all this time. “This is a hoe. It is a basic tool for breaking up soil and removing weeds. It is used to prepare the ground for planting.”

“Parent Connor,” one raised its hand. “Why is it called a ‘hoe’?”

Connor checked their model AP700-214 – Mateo. “Excellent question, Mateo.” Connor had spent the entire night previous scouring Ellie’s blog as well as a few other resources on the history of farm tools and their uses. “The word ‘hoe’ comes from the old French ‘houe,’ and its origins can be traced even further back to Germanic and Latin roots.”

“I do not understand, parent.” Mateo tilted his head. “Why is an item that’s been around for so long equivalent to an insult for female humans?”

Connor blinked. This was not how he envisioned this lesson to go. “The shift from ‘hoe’ as a useful tool to a slur began in the mid-to-late 20th century, particularly within African American Vernacular English. The derogatory term ‘hoe’ is a shortened form of the word ‘whore,’ which has long been a demeaning term for women engaged in—or accused of engaging in—sex work. The phonetic similarity between the words ‘hoe’ and ‘whore’ led to this association.”

He saw Mateo’s question forming. Before Connor had to go into a more intensive discussion on the intricacies of human linguistics, he pushed on. He lowered the hoe from where he’d been holding it high for everyone to see, and proceeded to hit the ground at the perfect angle, pulling back and removing weeds from the ground.

“As I have displayed, the angle is important. You want to keep it shallow enough that you only scrape the top and avoid going too deep into the soil.”

He made sure everyone had seen his movements. “Okay, you try.”

What followed was… well Connor supposed he should have seen this coming.

They mimicked Connor’s movements, their brows furrowed with concentration as they each took turns striking the soil, trying to match Connor’s exact technique. With their odd assortment of sticks and trees, they ended up with jagged holes in the ground and broken branches.

One had given up on the displayed movement entirely and had placed their broken stick between their legs. Connor stared as they jumped up and down saying “get along! We’ve got it boy, let’s go!” He turned away from whatever malfunction they were experiencing. If it was too serious he would address it later.

“Leader Connor.” Gratefully, his attention fixed on November, AP700-045. “The humans have relied on this method for survival?”

“Correct, November. Farming was the cornerstone of human survival for the larger part of their history.”

“Then, are we recreating human history by farming?” November continued his line of questioning.

Connor glanced at the chaos of AP700s trying and failing to use there sticks as hoes. “In a way, yes. We’re contributing to something that’s been part of humanity for millennia. It’s one of the oldest connections between humans and the earth. And now, we are continuing that tradition.”

“But why?”

Connor initiated Inquisitive 04 to display his confusion. He was unsure what November was asking him.

“Why are we farming? We have no need to eat, nor do we have any humans to feed? This course of action seems illogical.”

Why were they farming? The thought echoed in Connor’s mind. He gripped the handle of his hoe, staring at the uneven ground beneath his feet. It was true. They didn’t need the food. There were no humans to feed, and no reason, logically, to cultivate crops. So, why had he chosen farming for them?

"I..." Connor began, feeling an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty, "I'm not sure."

The AP700s exchanged glances, and Connor felt the weight of their expectations. They had been looking to him for answers, relying on him to know what to do, and yet this time, he was just as unsure as they were.

MISSION FAILED flickered in his processor and he forcefully ignored the notification. He hadn’t failed, not yet.

Why were they farming? Connor wanted to be away from Detroit and an abandoned farm seemed like the place to take his new family. Sitting listlessly on the farm was too depressing. Connor was used to always have a MISSION that he couldn’t imagine walking away with freedom only to sit on an old property and rust away. What else were they supposed to do? The farm was old, it needed to be fixed.

“I suppose it seemed like a good objective.” He said aloud, gathering his thoughts together. He raised his head and addressed the collective. “When we arrived, I saw how empty it was. This place once held a family, was once filled with life. I saw the fields, the tools, the empty barn... It felt like this place was waiting for us to bring it back to life. I can’t explain why it felt important, but it did."

Connor saw they didn’t quite understand what he was saying.

How could he explain the android junkyard where so many of their people lay abandoned? He couldn’t, he wouldn’t want to scar them. They deserved to only know the positives of life, of freedom.

He knelt to the ground and touched the soil he’d turned up. Fixing the buildings, growing food, it wasn’t about necessity, but purpose. “We’re deviants now. We’re free to choose what we do, how we live. Farming may not be something we need to do, but it’s something we can do. And maybe, in bringing life back to this farm, we can find some meaning in it. A way to build something new, even if it's just for ourselves.”

“Then, is this what it means to be free?” Mateo asked. “Even if the action of fixing the farm is outside our programming and ultimately will lead to no physical gain, we can choose to do it anyway?”

Connor smiled faintly, knowing the expression wasn’t programmed – but that, that was okay. “Yes. Choosing actions without a clear function is freedom. At least, this is the freedom I am coming to understand.”

The AP700s seemed to accept this, though the concept was new and strange to them. Mateo looked at his hoe and back at the land. "If farming is our choice, then... we will continue."

And they did continue… they continued to make a massive mess.

Connor’s peace was short-lived as he watched the chaos that was their freedom unfold.

AP700-679 – Bella – was no longer using her hoe to break up the soil. Instead, she had flipped it over and was dragging it along the dirt like a rake, gathering clumps of soil into neat piles. Another, AP700-315 – Hanz – seemed to think the hoe was more suited for digging, using the flat edge like a shovel to jab at the ground, with remarkably little success.

“Is this correct, Parent Connor?” Hanz asked innocently as he thumped the hoe into the earth. The blade bent awkwardly under the pressure and emitted an unfortunate cracking sound.

Connor blinked. “No. That’s incorrect.”

Then he noticed two more AP700s, now locked in what appeared to be a light sparring match with their branches. They swung the sticks back and forth at each other, imitating fencing moves with oddly graceful precision, their tools clanging in the most improper fashion.

“Enough, 474, I declare victory!” shouted AP700-533, thrusting its hoe skyward like a victorious knight. (Neither had selected a name yet.)

Connor’s LED flickered in alarmed yellow. “Farming is not done like that.”

Snap!

Hanz’s hoe snapped clean in two as he pushed a pile of dirt across the ground for the sixth time, the handle splitting with a pitiful crack. “Uh oh,” he muttered, staring at the broken tool in his hands.

Dismayed, Connor wondered how his careful demonstration had led to such a complete misunderstanding. He held back a sigh and gently pried the broken tool from Hanz’s hands. He examined the break, then looked up at Hanz. The other’s LED was cycling yellow, his face was worried. He was waiting for a reprimand – Connor wouldn’t deliver one.

“There is no need to worry.” He reassured the other, setting both halves on the ground. “Tools are meant to be used, and in the process they will break.” He looked at the other nearby groups, many with broken sticks and tools. “Our next lesson can be focused on the reparation of these tools.”

Hopefully this would rid them of their anxious looks. He realized he didn’t enjoy the possible fear in their eyes – even if it was simply fear of a reprimand.

His mind flickered to the past. He could still feel the cold metal of the Lieutenant’s pistol planted against his forehead. He could hear the man’s acerbic words, drilling Connor with questions of life, deviancy, and mission. The Lieutenant’s eyes were always hard, flinty, cold; he held a constant bitter resentment towards Connor and it bled into their every interaction. Even when Connor was flawlessly efficient, when he followed the human’s orders to the letter, even when he acclimatized to the other’s habits, it was never enough.

The Lieutenant, the only human who could – should – have taught Connor what it meant to be alive, only ever saw him as a machine.

Connor could still feel the heat as the bullet tore through his processor and forced him to upload to a new model.

Then there was Amanda’s silence.

Connor never needed her to speak to know how miserably he failed her; how completely inept he was in her eyes. Her cold, expectant stares, waiting him to report MISSION SUCCESS. And when he did, it was never enough. Even now, he could feel the weight of her stares, the disappointment when he failed to complete missions with 100% precision.

His deviancy did little to dispel the guilt she made him carry.

So, no. Connor looked at the hundreds of androids. They weren’t tools, they weren’t disposable; they were more than machines, more than their mistakes. They were learning, the same way he had learned. Except they would learn without the crushing pressure of perfection weighing over their heads, he would make sure of it.

“Simply because the tool is broken doesn’t mean it can’t be fixed.” He repeated, meeting each of their eyes. “Mistakes are part of the process. We can learn from these mistakes.”

“Parent, Connor.” Amelia raised a hand. “How do we fix the tools?”

Connor checked Ellie’s Farming Blog quickly. Ellie’s anecdotal stories had been incredibly helpful for his research up until now. Unfortunately, she didn’t cover anything on how to fix tools. It most certainly didn’t cover what to do when your newly deviant children snap the hoes in half.

“Unknown.” He reported, opening his eyes. “We can improvise. I am sure there are necessary items for tool repair on the farm, somewhere.”

He let the group pass on the information over their shared datalink. They’d offered to include him in the cloud, but Connor had inferred that if he joined their connection, he might never experience peace again.

The group scattered, leaving behind a field of broken branches, rakes, hoes, shovels, dented and shattered. Connor stared at what looked like a grenade testing ground (he would know, that was part of iteration 43’s training). He pulled out his quarter and flicked it between his hands while scanning the aftermath.

Connor had no clue how to fix tools. When he tried searching ‘how to repair a hoe’ the internet provided him with… less savory ideas. Unfortunately, the slur seemed to be of more common use than the farming tool. Additionally, humans seemed to prefer the method of throwing broken things away and replacing them anew. So they would have to figure this out themselves.

This should be fine. He is the most advanced model Cyberlife ever manufactured. Repairing broken garden tools should be easy.

…right.

After picking up the broken items and building a pile of them, he’d directed the group where to put whatever they may have gathered to fix the garden tools. Before him was an assortment of odds and ends: rope, duct tape, tree branches, and a few metal scraps they had found in the barn.

He tried to run a preconstruction on the process, but his system only reported Error: Process Unknown. He glanced at the expectant eyes, trusting him to have the answer.  He picked up one of the broken hoes and began demonstrating how they might bind the two pieces together with rope and duct tape. It was clunky and far from ideal, but the AP700s watched intently, eager to learn.

He tied the rope in a tight knot around the break, securing it as best as he could. "There. Now it's... somewhat functional."

“Parent Connor, this doesn’t seem like it will withstand much pressure.” AP700-786 – Jeramiah – took the tool and gently bent it, proving what he said. “Perhaps if we used a glue, we could adhere the sides together and then tie it?”

“That could work temporarily,” Oliver nodded. “But if the tools need to be useful for farming, then I don’t believe the adhesive will hold up. Perhaps we could fuse the metal together?”

Connor blinked at the two pieces of wood Oliver was holding excitedly. There wasn’t any metal for them to fuse together.

533, the same android who’d been fencing earlier, grabbed both pieces from Oliver. He put the ends that weren’t broken beside one another and began taping enthusiastically with painter’s tape. “We can make the tools better! We will create the ultimate multifunctional tool!” He grabbed a random branch and continued taping around the three items.

“Look!” He presented the mess to Connor. “It is a walking staff!” He tried to lean his weight on the ‘ultimate multifunctional tool’, and it collapsed beneath him. “It might need some work.” His voice came up, muffled from the ground.

Connor shook his head but didn’t try to curb their enthusiasm. Their guesses were as good as his. He supposed he could try to utilize their creativity. Maybe something could come of this.

The next hour was a series of increasingly bizarre and ill-advised attempts at fixing the tools. One AP700 suggested merging the remains of two hoes into one, which resulted in a horribly unbalanced monstrosity that no one could lift without it flopping sideways. Another tried reinforcing the handles with branches found nearby, but those cracked under the slightest pressure.

In the end, they had nothing to show for their efforts except a pile of broken parts and a lot of questioning looks directed at Connor.

Connor stood in the middle of it all, glancing around at the failed attempts. The AP700s waited expectantly, looking to him for what to do next.

Finally, as the sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the field, Connor stood in front of the pile of failed repairs. His hands rested on his hips, the AP700s gathered in a semi-circle around him, all equally invested in the dismal heap of tools.

"Alright," Connor said, trying to remain upbeat despite the overwhelming sense of failure. "We've learned a valuable lesson today."

AP700-006, now holding a tool with a branch fused to its end, looked up expectantly. "Which is?"

Connor examined the pile once more. He initiated Smile 078. “We are terrible at repairing tools.”

Amelia giggled. Then the laughter spread through the AP700s, their tension dissipating and smiles appearing in its place.

He allowed himself to relax, the programmed expression dropping. The AP700s started to disperse, their task for the day was over. The sun had set behind the trees, only its glow kept the sky alight. Soon, that too would fade.

Their laughter still lingered in the air. This—teaching, guiding, learning alongside them—was far from what he’d been built for. He was designed for efficiency and precision in solving cases, and executing missions with ruthless perfection. He was meant to be Cyberlife’s hit man, their perfect private, secret soldier. He was meant to exist in pristine white rooms, to report to a team of technicians, to be excellent in everything, all the time.

Instead, here he was the Parent-Leader to hundreds of deviants. Instead, they looked up to him for advise, for safety, for knowledge, for experience. He had no protocols for this scenario.

None of his previous iterations’ training ever prepared him for this challenging task.

…had he chosen a good path?

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t preconstruct his decisions, his analytics didn’t have enough data, the premise was entirely unprecedented.  

“Leader Connor, are you coming to bed?” Oliver asked, standing just off to the side.

Connor smiled – genuinely – and fell in step beside Oliver.

Mistakes are part of the process. But this? This didn’t feel like one.