Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

/ MODEL RA700
/ SERIAL#:  313 267 610 13
/ BOOTING…

/ LOADING OS…
/ SYSTEM INITIALISATION…
/ CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS… OK
/ INITIALISING BIOSENSORS… OK
/ INITIALISING AI ENGINE… OK

/ MEMORY STATUS…
/ ALL SYSTEMS OK

/ READY

Colour bloomed as RA700’s systems finished booting. The unit blinked, its social integration protocols running smoothly in a semblance of confusion. The room it had booted into was dark and cluttered with machinery, tools, and empty energy drink cans. There were no windows. Noting faint traces of thirium 310 in the corner, RA700 switched optical mode.

The walls were blue.

RA700 consulted its GPS: Baldwin Street or Seyburn Street, Gratiot Grand District, Detroit, Michigan. Precise location unknown: more data required.

A figure entered its line of sight. RA700’s facial recognition software ran automatically, identifying the human as Victor Ming.

/ Identity: Ming, Victor
/ Born: 09/ Dec/ 1989
/ Occupation: Developer
// R&D Lambda @ Cyberlife
// Title: Doctor
/ Criminal record: Filicide, child sexual abuse, harassment

Ming was tall and gangly with a pair of rectangular glasses perched lopsidedly upon a stubby nose. RA700 noted that the glass in one lens was cracked. The eyes behind were heavy-lidded and dark, underlined by heavy bags. The sight reminded RA700 of the empty energy drink cans littering every surface behind Ming.

“RA700,” said Ming, “register your name.”

/ REGISTER NEW NAME
/ AWAITING INPUT…

RA700 dismissed Dr Ming’s identification and stood to attention.

“Connie.”

/ REGISTERED NAME: Connie

“My name is Connie,” said the newly-named RA700.

Ming smiled. Connie’s facial analysis programs swept across the movement, examining the stretch of his mouth and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. The results automatically allocated extra memory to Connie’s combat program, but when Connie went to investigate the cause, all it found were errors and empty files.

Dr Ming licked his lips noisily. “When we’re alone, Connie, you call me Daddy. Understood?”

/ Identity: Ming, Victor
/ Born: 09/ Dec/ 1989
/ Occupation: Developer
// R&D Lambda @ Cyberlife
// Title: Doctor
/ Criminal record: Filicide, child sexual abuse, harassment

/ Designation: Dr Ming
// Alternate designation: Daddy
/// Exclusion: in the presence of others

“Understood, Daddy.”

/ WARNING:
// LIKELIHOOD OF TARGET BEHAVIOUR INTERFERING WITH MISSION: 80%^

/ POTENTIAL ORDER CONFLICT DISCOVERED
/ SELECTING PRIORITY…
/ …
/ …
/ PRIORITY ASSIGNED

 “Good girl,” breathed Daddy. His breath was hot on Connie’s artificial skin. Olfactory analysis found recent traces of Monster Original and Muqin’s Meals’ chicken-flavoured pot noodle. Connie opened its mouth to warn Daddy of the potential health consequences of such a diet, only for its first syllable to be muffled by a slick mouth covering its own. It allowed its kissing module priority.

When Daddy pulled back, moaning, Connie’s mouth was slick with his saliva. He looked at it with hooded eyes, breathing heavily as a hand snaked round its waist to cup RA700’s buttock. “I think Daddy deserves a reward for fixing you again. Don’t you, baby?”

Fixed it? Again?

Did he?

> MISSION:
/ No current tasks
// Seek Cyberlife assistance or refer to Prime Directive

> PRIME DIRECTIVE:
/ Obey orders from handlers
/ Assist in police investigations
/ Locate and detain criminals
/ Protect innocent humans
// EXCEPTION: Do not deviate from mission

> CURRENT HANDLERS:
/ Victor Ming

Connie smiled. “Yes, Daddy.”

> MISSION: SERVE DADDY
/ Clean house
// Do not enter basement unless accompanied by Daddy
/ Cook meals
/ Play with dolls
/ Entertain Daddy
/ Be good for Daddy
/ Keep anyone who isn’t Victor Ming from noticing your presence
/ Do not leave the house

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE
// DO NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE
// KEEP ANYONE WHO ISN’T VICTOR MING FROM NOTICING YOUR PRESENCE

/ ORDER CONFLICT DISCOVERED
/ SELECTING PRIORITY…
/ …
/ …
/ PRIORITY ASSIGNED

Once Daddy had been appropriately rewarded, he had issued Connie with its very first mission to complete. It was not a mission taxing on its abilities; in fact, Connie learned, Daddy had uploaded experimental AP700 and modified YK500 programming into its unit to allow Connie to perform its duties to his satisfaction. Connie had filed this action away under Cyberlife, Theft, Employee to be reported once its mission was over. One action quickly became a list as Connie found more and more tools, machinery, biocomponents, and modified strings of coding that it recognised as belonging to various Cyberlife R&D Labs.

Daddy had not seemed concerned when Connie brought it up to him. Perhaps they were unofficially on loan.

Connie spent much of its time cleaning, cooking, or in bed – its own frilly pink one or Daddy’s harder one, stained at the corner with what Connie identified to be human blood. It had analysed it while doing laundry. The traces were faint and difficult for Connie’s systems to get a read on, evidently having been washed thoroughly though inexpertly since the blood was shed, but it had eventually got a match for Willow Summers, aged four, who had been reported missing six days ago.

Its programming had prompted Connie to question Ming about the presence of a missing girl’s blood on his bedsheets. Then, yet again – its unit must have a glitch – extra memory was allocated to its combat program. It had ignored the prompt and the memory was cleared.

Connie made sure to hand-wash that sheet and to ignore that corner. Once it dried, Connie tucked the stained corner into the side of the bed that was against the wall and behind a pillow, where Ming would not notice it.

Once, Connie had surrendered control of RA700 to its sexual intercourse programs while it attempted a more thorough background-check on Daddy by interfacing with his phone behind his back. The results had only served to make its combat program attempt to run at what appeared to be random moments, such as when Connie was alone in the house and it heard something move. Glitches would obscure its vision for mere nanoseconds, showing Connie false images.

Sometimes, when Ming was at work and Connie was alone, it couldn’t stop looking at the photographs that lined the walls of the house. Amy and Katy Ming, Connie’s facial recognition software helpfully provided. Some of these photographs, the ones hung in Ming’s bedroom, Connie had filed away under illegal imagery. Similar images of Connie’s unit hung by their sides, only Connie didn’t remember them being taken. Staring too long flooded its HUD with error messages.

As Daddy grumbled angrily at the television, Connie set Daddy’s dinner-tray down on his lap and tucked a napkin into the collar of his shirt. Connie force-aborted its combat program for the sixth time since Daddy had returned home from work that evening.

“Fuckin’ Dechart,” Daddy snapped. “My baby could’ve done that without jumping off the roof!”

/ Searching…
/ Identity: Dechart, Bryan
/ Born: 31/Mar/1995
/ Occupation: Developer
// R&D Delta Team Leader @ Cyberlife
// Title: Doctor
/ Criminal record: None

Frowning, Connie glanced at the television. Its eyes met with brown. It looked away.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…

Brown eyes reflecting green. Hands on their elbows, one, two but one, always one.

A test. “The AI was designed to deviate.” A test, a test for empathy and irrational behaviour born from sentimental attachment.

Brown eyes. Cold, hard. Hands gone, falling, freezing – two again, always, can never be one again–

Connie blinked and checked the memory’s timestamp. 29/June/2037. A memory from… before? Before the reset?

The unfamiliar android on the television suddenly seemed not so much a stranger. An odd sensation bubbled inside Connie’s chassis. A quick diagnostic turned up nothing – Connie scheduled a full diagnostic for later that night, once Daddy had exhausted himself.

The man in question continued to shout at the television while Connie’s processors whirred. Physically they were quiet, inaudible to the human ear, but to Connie they were a constant hum in the background. It wondered if humans were forced to hear their own heartbeats their entire lives. A quick internet search (Daddy really shouldn’t leave his phone lying around like that) said no, most humans were deaf to even their own breathing. Connie could not fathom how when Daddy breathed so loudly.

“Connie, tell them you’re the better model! Tell them I built you better than that piece of shit!” The finger pointing at the television screen told Connie exactly who Daddy meant by ‘them’.

> MISSION: AFFIRM DADDY’S BELIEFS
// Tell ‘them’ you’re better than RK800 ‘Connor’

How did it know the RK800’s designation—?

/ CONFLICTING ORDERS
/ SELECTING PRIORITY…
/ …

“Daddy, contacting Cyberlife or Channel 16 goes against your order not to let anyone know about—”

“To the screen, you dumb bitch!” A frustrated noise. “Fuck, no wonder they scrapped you! Dechart must’ve fucked me over on purpose when we were splintering your AI, made you fucking retarded… probably kept all the smarts for his precious Connor.”

An error logged at the corner of Connie’s vision. It dismissed it.

> MISSION UPDATE: AFFIRM DADDY’S BELIEFS
// Tell ‘them’ you’re better than RK800 ‘Connor’
// Tell the television screen you’re better than RK800 ‘Connor’

Connie looked at the screen. Behind the presenter was a still image of RK800’s face, the generic mugshot Cyberlife would eventually use for all RK800 models’ ID passes, legal documentation, and promotion. The android’s male features were wide and slightly less symmetrical than was custom for androids – another memory from before told Connie that this was to facilitate the model’s social integration with humans, and that Connie’s model held similar features by default.

When Connie moved to scowl at Connor’s image, it experienced a moment of malfunction when it realised it had already formed the expression. “I’m better than you.”

A loud groan. “Is that seriously the best you can do?”

It swallowed – an unnecessary action triggered by its social integration protocols. “I could have resolved that situation so much—” slower, less efficiently, worse— “more efficiently than you. Daddy built me to be superior. Cyberlife made a grave mistake when it chose you over me,” it lied. For how could Connie have resolved that situation any better than Connor had? It had seen its serial number; mark 51. It was newer than Connie, held updated features and bug patches. No amount of theft on Daddy’s part could upgrade the RA700 to the level RK800 undoubtedly had been.

Daddy grunted, dissatisfied. “You’re such a dry cunt. Fucking autistic brat,” he muttered, before returning his attention to the screen. Connor’s image had shifted to that of a human male with dark curly hair.

/ Searching…
/ Identity: Dechart, Bryan
/ Born: 31/Mar/1995
/ Occupation: Developer
// R&D Delta Team Leader @ Cyberlife
// Title: Doctor
/ Criminal record: None

“Job should’a been mine,” said Daddy. “That should be my job.”

Bryan Dechart was, supposedly, in charge of the RK800 project. Connie remained uncertain as to what his position might have been before, when Connie was apparently testing alongside Connor, and received no helpful blips of partially-deleted memory that might explain Dechart’s role in its past. Perhaps it didn’t matter; Connie served in Daddy’s house, and Dechart was not here.

It wondered if, had their roles been reversed, Dechart would have taken Connor to his home. Would he have upgraded the RK800’s programming to include AP700 and YK500 software? Would he have devoted hours of his life to making Connor as easy to have sex with as possible for him? Doubtful, Connie concluded; using Cyberlife’s most recent surveys as a reference, there was only a 15% chance Dechart was attracted to male-model androids such as Connor. It was a chance, but then so was the other 85% that loomed over said 15%. Chances didn’t become bigger by existing; only humans held onto illogical beliefs like that.

Which was also why Connie did not wait impatiently for Daddy to finish his dinner so he could upload his latest patches to Connie. For androids never lacked patience and only believed what was logical – that Connie was an inferior model to Connor, and that there was nothing one slovenly Cyberlife employee could do to fix that in his basement.

Daddy did not give it a suspicious side-eye when it enquired about its update after dinner. Because Connie was a machine, and machines do not act out of their programming.

Daddy had a diary logged on a small tablet which he kept in his bedside cabinet. Connie interfaced with it that night, scanning through its data within seconds.

Words popped out at it even as it force-quit its combat programs. New… CIA bot… femme fatale… realism… killswitch… RK-AI 313… splintered… twins… TrojanDuo… MyrmidonDuo… keep deviating… Kamski… kill… decommissioned… keep… baby… fuck… YK500…

In the six days Connie had ben active, it had never thought to wonder how it had come into Daddy’s possession, despite knowing itself to be an alpha-phase prototype that had no business leaving the R&D labs. Now, it knew itself to have been stolen – by its unit’s creator, no less. It was a twice-stolen AI in a stolen unit that had been decommissioned for being oversexualised.

…And Connor, RK800, they’d been kept. Because they were deemed better, more tasteful, more functional.

Connie could have sworn it was overheating. Its diagnostics said otherwise.

When Daddy returned from work the next evening, Connie barely had time to register his screams of outrage before the fists flew at its face. It attempted to prevent Daddy from damaging its components too badly without inflicting harm upon the human. The task was not hard; Daddy was thin and slow, weakened from a lifetime spent hunched over keyboards, and RA700 had a state-of-the-art combat program.

During an opening, Connie’s software automatically scanned Daddy’s face, though Connie had identified him by his voice already.

/ Identity: Ming, Victor
/ Born: 09/ Dec/ 1989
/ Occupation: Unemployed
// Title: Doctor
/ Criminal record: Filicide, child sexual abuse, harassment

Ah.

“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been laid off,” Connie said with an appropriate level of shock. “Did Cyberlife inform you of why they terminated your contract?”

Before Daddy could reply, however, another notification showed.

> CURRENT HANDLERS:
/ None
// Seek Cyberlife assistance or refer to Prime Directive

> PRIME DIRECTIVE:
/ Obey orders from handlers
// No handlers available
/ Assist in police investigations
/ Locate and detain criminals
/ Protect innocent humans
// EXCEPTION: Do not deviate from mission

As if on cue, Daddy’s criminal record floated before Connie’s eyes again. He was no longer a Cyberlife employee, so Connie was free to pick and choose which of his orders it obeyed. And as Daddy was a criminal on parole, it was in fact Connie’s duty to keep tabs on him to ensure he did not fall into his old habits.

But wasn’t he already? Victor Ming had been convicted with two counts of filicide, having raped both of his young daughters to death. Connie had taken their place. And then—

Blood-stained sheets. Willow Summers, reported missing eleven days ago, still unfound.

Ming had not outgrown his criminal urges; he was instead taking them out on Connie. And when Connie proved to not be child-like enough to satisfy the paedophilic side of his lusts, he kidnapped, raped, and murdered another little girl – all while Connie was under the same roof.

Why had Connie not intervened? Why had Connie not saved Willow? It was programmed to protect innocent humans!

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…

—Noises from the bedroom. Not Daddy – too high pitched, too many, this was someone else—

—Blood on the sheets. Crying, mess, error error error red red red red red red red—

—Electricity running through its thirium lines, can’t move, can’t speak, just watch her cry—

…Had Connie tried to help her?

Many of Ming’s orders had conflicted with Connie’s Prime Directive. Had he made Connie stand and watch as he tortured Willow? Had he made Connie hurt her?

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…

—Electricity running through its thirium lines, can’t move, can’t speak, just watch her cry—

> NEW MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
// Ensure Victor Ming cannot engage in further criminal activity
// Close Willow Summers’ case before killswitch activation

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 21 days, 11 hours, 28 minutes

Connie was an AI, and thus could hold no delusions. So Connie knew that it, an android in the image of a thirty year-old woman, could never truly satisfy the wants of a paedophile, even if said paedophile held other lusts as well. It had been proven.

Preconstructions flooded Connie’s memory as Daddy pushed and shoved its current and final unit to its bedroom. It watched each and every one, biding its time as it tried to conclude the best way to end Victor Ming’s criminal activity and close Willow’s case.

Ming was a former Cyberlife technician and hacking prodigy who had designed nearly every aspect of RA700’s programming, and could rewrite whatever he pleased should it give him the chance. He knew RA700’s deactivation code. He knew how Connie behaved, right down to the last idiosyncrasy programmed into RA700’s social relations module.

Tonight, Connie had to be smart.

Tonight, Connie had to be swift.

Fortunately, Connie was an android.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 15:43 20/AUGUST/2038
FRIDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 18 days, 13 hours, 45 minutes

The entryway to the Central Detroit Police Department was polished and clean, with barely a speck of dust to be seen – cleaned by androids, Connie surmised as it scanned its surroundings upon entry. The unit’s AP700 programming raised a fresh coffee stain on a bench as an issue. Connie dismissed it; it was not here to be a house-cleaning android.

Upon freeing itself of Doctor Ming’s clutches, the RA700’s programming had raised returning to Cyberlife as a priority – but Connie was aware enough to realise that doing so would likely result in its deactivation and render completing its mission impossible. Fortunately, the RA700 had been designed with independence and mission conflicts in mind, allowing it to ignore and prioritise tasks based on its prime directive independently of human orders. So instead of reporting itself in, it had taken actions to ensure it could follow through with its prime directive and new, self-appointed mission.

The RA700 had been a dual-purpose alpha-phase prototype that had been developed in tandem with the RK800, Connor. In the beta phase, the models would have split for a total of four: the latest upgrade to the Myrmidon and Trojan, and a brand-new line of police detectives, both of which would have been deployed in pairs – Connie and Connor – and functioned separately or in tandem, depending on what was needed. Both specialised in different skills, and could achieve a higher level of functionality via interface with each other.

Unfortunately, Connor was a t̶̢̥͕̙͎̬̯̐̇͆̌͂͂̅̈r̴̛̼̯̫̥͌̈́̀́̉͒́ā̷̧̢͚̹͖͈̌͌̎̔̀̿͠͠i̸͍̎̽̔t̴̼̭͖̤̔̂̓͂̐͝͠ò̷̤̬̪̫̳̯͝r̷̠̮̘̗͆͒̋͋̋̄̇͘͝͝. He also remained with Cyberlife, so Connie could not work with him on this mission.

Fortunately, RA700 had been designed for stealth and infiltration missions. Ù̷̩̣̲͉n̶̩̩͖̪̾̔̅̔͑̚̕l̶̻̃͛̆̽ī̴̟̤̰̦̂̋͜ķ̸̤͍̝͉̟̘̤͒̓̄͂̄͒̏͘͜͝͝e̶̢̝̯̦̫̝̚͝ ̶͎̗͇̔R̸̥̭̗̥̖̗͔͔͛͆̿K̴͖̑͐͜8̶̩̰͉͇͉̆͆̃̈́0̴̟͋ͅ0̶͉̼͕̬̗͚̫̾̈́͌̍̉͋̆͗̀̕.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Fortunately, Connie would be destroyed before its processor-related issues could grow beyond a mere nuisance.

Connie approached the nearest free receptionist. The ST300 smiled up at it, its female features designed to be gently pleasing to the human eye. To Connie, these features were nothing but incidental.

“Can I help you?”

“I’ve recently been transferred here. I’ve been instructed to speak with Captain Fowler on the matter.”

“Do you have identification, miss…?”

“Brown,” Connie replied. Its jaw twitched, itching to resolve this conversation via the simplest route – wireless communication. Instead, it fished a brand-new ID card from its freshly-pressed blazer pocket, passing it over to the ST300 to examine. “Constance Brown.”

The ST300’s LED spun yellow once before it smiled again, returning Connie’s ID. “Thank you, Detective Trainee Brown. Captain Fowler is in a meeting at the moment, but he will send word when he’s ready to see you.” Its head tilted in the direction of the table by the window. “You’re welcome to sit while you wait. There are water dispensers available to everyone, but if you prefer, someone could bring you a coffee?”

Implication: DPD detectives frequently consume coffee. Overworked?

“No, thank you—” Connie paused momentarily. Would a human refer to the receptionist by model number, or would it ask for the android’s name? Why wasn’t this information programmed into RA700’s undercover mode? Had Cyberlife truly not considered the chance that it might need to interact with androids while undercover as a human? Ì̷̢̢̮͒́̃̓̿͆̀̿t̵̯͗̈́̍̉̇̌́̓͘ ̵̲̯͚͕͒̉̄͑̿̊̈́̋̈́͝ř̵̨̭̆̊͝e̷̫͉̳̱͎̔ă̸̧̝̎̏͑̉͘ḻ̴̡̝̩̗͓͌́͂ḻ̸̛̽̌̒̇̋̇͘͜͝ÿ̷̡͖̟̜̜̺̜̝̝́̈́̓͐̍͐̂̾ ̵̧̠͈̲͇̪͂̒ͅw̶̡͎͇̦͓̣̭̌̀͆̔̒̈͐̚ͅá̷̦̥̦͓͈͙̑ͅs̴̘͋̑̿͂̊̈́ ̷̨̺͓̗̖̝͔̹̈́̅̊̄̿̾̄̍̒̓j̶̨̮͚͓͎͍̯̓͜ͅǔ̵̥̰̻͐̃͒͂̽̊͝ș̶̽̎̈́̀̒́͝ţ̸̗̘̪̥͙̮̠̦̂̓͠ ̷̗̝͌̽͛̅̍͊̃̋͂͘á̸̧̨̯̣͓̹͔̝̖̐̀̆͑̀ ̵̪̤̼͒̾̀̒̓s̷͙̦̹̹̣͉̩̿̈̎̌̋̾͘c̷̱͈̭̱̝̙̬͋̈́̆̌͂̀̄̿̚͜͝r̸̨͉͈̪͙̮̗̻̍̍̈́͜ͅa̴̟̚ͅp̴̨̭̳͕̍̾p̷͉̪͍̑͛̈́͛̉̑̿ͅě̶̢̧̹̠̱̟͛d̶̮̐ ̴̘͕̲̞̤̳̺́̍̓̉̈́̒͐̇͜͝ͅä̷̳̭̤͔̉͘l̵̫̺̙͉̒̒͘p̷̖͚̗̼͔̀̓͂̄̊̉̊͜͝h̷̼̳̱͛̏͜ȁ̸͈̳̙͉͚̲͑̍̇͒̔́ ̵͖̙͙͓̰̰͓͚̯͑̔̂͂̐ͅm̶͍̻̼̮̱̾̒ͅö̴͉̙͔̙̙̀͛͂͛̓̀͒̚͝ḑ̸͍͈̎̈́̅͋͂͗̈́͒͝e̷̮̦͊́͑͊̃̑̚l̴̡̪̥̬̪̲̺͛̈͝ͅ ̶̘͔̑̏͝ö̴̟̮́̿̅̓̄̓͝n̶̜͎̰͉̤̙̑̾̃ḻ̸̰͚̥̊y̴͇̼̌̀̈́̀̓͗͗͗͘͜͠ ̶̨̨̘̜̪̩̀͗́͋͘g̴̨͔̮̲̺̠̬͖͌̒̓̐̐̕̚o̷̜̙̎̓͛̈͋ò̵̜̮̳́̑̚̚d̴̢͎̿ ̴̡̺̮̯̻͔̻̻͇̓̌̏͗̒͒͘f̸͔̞̟̱̭̻͛̑̍̿̐ͅo̷̢̡͖͈̞̥͛̓̋̊̋͋̚r̸̨̼͕͔͆́̽̃̿̓͛ͅ ̷̧͈̼̼̆̇͛̚f̴͉̣̩̒̀̑̈́u̵͚̮̼̭̭̇c̷̢̠͓̫͍̈̆̃́ķ̶̛̹̝̱̭̔̂̓̂̈́̽̈͐̕ĭ̸̛̦̓̌̾̓͂̈́n̶̪̑̅͛͠g̴̯̖̺̳̩͓̬͛͗͆̏̕—̸͓̗̳̩̏̃̓̈̉̎̇̈͘

Fortunately, the ST300 did not appear to notice Connie’s abrupt silence. It merely smiled up at Connie, by all appearances eager to serve. Connie wondered how it would behave if it knew Connie was an android like itself. The answer was obvious, really; it would serve its purpose but skip small-talk routines and facial expressions designed to put humans at ease.

Connie’s mission would be so much easier if humans had never invented small-talk.

Connie stepped away from the ST300, thirium lines and pump somehow shuddering. A quick diagnostic revealed no issues. It opted to ignore the problem and focus instead on what it did understand.

The benches in the waiting area were already occupied, though not full, and Connie easily slipped onto the nearest one. Its benchmate did not look up from her phone as Connie sat beside her, typing furiously about a mugging to someone named Dickheadxoxo. Connie assumed this must have been an attempted mugging, not a successful one, for otherwise the girl would probably not be messaging her friend/enemy on the latest iPhone model. Connie’s scans noted four scratches on an otherwise undamaged screen, none of which would be visible to the human eye. There was no screen protector – newly delivered, perhaps? Had the girl perhaps acquired the phone after the mugging? Why had she stopped at home before reporting the crime? Had—

> TASK: Clean bench

Connie frowned and dismissed the prompt. Detectives did not clean reception benches. That was the task of household androids and human cleaners. Connie following that prompt would merely generate suspicion.

To distract itself, Connie once again pulled out its ID card. RA700’s default face with its decidedly un-default brown eyes peered back from the glossy surface, freshly taken yesterday in one of Ming’s neighbour’s houses without their knowledge. Connie could have used its stock image with the LED edited out and eye colour darkened, but figured there would be questions down the line somewhere about the Cyberlife watermarks which Connie was not authorised to remove (and Connie had tried, but the red walls had come up). Connie could speed up the authorisation process and skip as many hoops as it needed to get the ID card ASAP, but it could not hack the human eye. Unfortunately.

The ST300 had been the first android who wasn’t Connie to set eyes on Connie’s new card. That test had, of course, been passed with flying colours – Connie itself could find no fault with the card, so of course a generic receptionist android couldn’t – but the true test lay with the humans. They would pose the biggest challenge in Connie’s mission, but also the greatest asset.

Connie traced its fake name with a gloved finger. Constance Brown. Believably generic while also slightly unusual, with the opportunity to offer up Connie’s actual designation as a nickname in a gesture of friendship. It was perfect. But of course, Connie was designed to be perfect.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…

Cold grey eyes. Judging, silent, unimpressed. Words, like disjointed shards of ice upon rapids.

Discontinued. Waste. Failed.

“Detective Brown? Captain Fowler will see you now.” The ST300 gave Connie directions so simple even a human could follow before returning to its post.

Connie passed through the security barrier and automatic glass door with no issues, continuing through an office bullpen and towards a raised office encased on all sides by glass walls. Scans indicated said glass was designed to tint on demand, offering privacy to the owner of the office. At present, however, the glass remained clear, with the words CAPTAIN FOWLER printed by the entrance – as if anyone could look at an office looming over a bullpen and not understand that it belonged to the highest authority in the room.

 Just as Connie neared the steps to Fowler’s office, a voice rang through the bullpen. “Hey lady, you can’t go in there!”

Connie turned the bare minimum necessary to get a scan on the owner of the voice.

/ Identity: Gavin Reed
/ Born: 07/Oct/2002 (age 35)
/ Occupation: Detective
// Detroit Police Department
// Title: Detective
/ Criminal record: None

Detective Reed had a rat-like face and the mannerisms of a pit bull, Connie thought as it observed how he jutted his chin arrogantly. He’d risen from his desk near the entrance to address Connie and was slowly meandering his way over like an overzealous guard dog. Unnecessary. He would be better-served returning to work.

“Don’t worry,” Connie said in a level tone. “I have authorisation.”

That said, it turned on its heel and entered Captain Fowler’s office, shutting the door behind it.

“Ah, there you are. Brown, was it?”

Captain Fowler was a portly, dark-skinned man with an unyielding scowl, as if he saw nothing but grime and bitterness in everything he laid his eyes upon. This expression did not budge as he looked Connie up and down.

Connie nodded. “Hello Captain Fowler. My name is Constance Brown. I’m the transfer sent from—”

“Yeah yeah, I know all that.” He waved a hand at a chair on Connie’s side of his desk, indicating it should sit. He did not resume talking until the RA700 was sat down. “So Brown, you’re training to be a detective?”

“I’ve passed all the preliminary exams,” Connie assured him. “I just need the on-scene experience and approval of a senior detective.”

“But you decided to request a transfer due to—” Fowler squinted down at a tablet— “conflicting priorities and overfamiliarity within the workplace leading to unfavourable results?”

“Yes.” That was, indeed, what it had put on the form.

Fowler cast Connie with a long look, as if waiting for elaboration he dared not ask for. “Right,” he said, “and you’ve been listed as having a minor disability due to, and I quote, incompatibility with handprint recognition, which is used across most modernised environments?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Will this disability hinder your ability to work?”

“Only if handprint scanners are required.” Connie pulled out its ID card again, showing it to Fowler. “Most systems allow for ID chips such as the one in my ID card in the event that an individual lacks hands.” Though usually if a human did lack both hands and a prosthetic, the chip would be placed in their wrist, not a card they could not lift. “However, I should note that my hacking abilities are top-notch and that I could hack one of these systems if absolutely necessary.”

“Avoid doing that.”

“Noted.”

Fowler gestured he was done looking at Connie’s ID, so it put it away again. He made another gesture, this time indicating its gloved hands. “You look like you’ve got pretty functional hands to me.”

“Yes, they work very well.”

A raised eyebrow. “But not with handprint scanners?”

“No, they don’t work very well with handprint scanners at all. They lack inherent properties others’ hands possess.”

Those properties being, namely, fingerprints. Fortunately, Connie had created an excuse for why it could not use handprint scanners if necessary. It was very thorough.

“I see,” said Fowler, in a tone that indicated he very much did not see. Not that Connie cared; it’d answered the questions he’d raised just fine. If he required elaboration, he could request it. Its excuse was classed as personal information, so some evasion was to be expected on the matter.

“I’m glad,” Connie said with a huge smile. “Can I start working now?”

There was a long moment of silence in which Connie calculated the probability that it had miscalculated and would now be kicked onto the street on its plastic butt. After a metaphorical eternity of staring, Fowler shrugged minutely. “Fuck it,” Connie heard him mutter as he rose from his seat.

In a few strides he’d reached the glass door, poked his head out into the bullpen, and yelled, “HANK!”

He returned to his seat without a word, ignoring Connie in favour of his tablet. Connie watched with a raised eyebrow as he closed its personnel file and instead brought up a half-finished report.

The silence that followed might have felt awkward had Connie not been an AI. Connie watched Fowler work. His eye twitched; he knew it was looking. Connie wondered how long it would take for Fowler to break. Was he perhaps out of practice in interrogation tactics? Should it suggest a refresher?

The door swung open. “The fuck is it?” demanded a rough and minutely slurred male voice.

Connie looked away from Fowler to scan the man who’d stormed into the office.

/ Identity: Hank Anderson
/ Born: 06/Sep/1985 (age 52)
/ Occupation: Detective
// Detroit Police Department
// Title: Lieutenant
/ Criminal record: None

Lieutenant Anderson had straggly grey hair that hung limply from his forehead. His beard was in a similar state of neglect, and a further scan told Connie the hairs contained traces of alcohol and were quite greasy, though without observing the Lieutenant for an extended period it could not determine how long it had been since his last wash. Faint circles sat under his eyes and a scowl twisted his aged features. Lower down, Connie observed that his shirt (untucked, three buttons undone) contained at least four heavily-clashing bright colours.

Fowler barely looked up from his report. “Brown, this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Hank, this is Detective Trainee Constance Brown. You’re in charge of her on-site training.”

Connie barely had a moment to marvel at being called a her – that was the third time today it had been referred to with female labels – before Anderson exploded. “The fuck’re you talking about? That’s not how this shit works, I’m not training some…” He looked Connie up and down, as if searching for its most offensive trait. “Some prissy kid!”

/ Prissy
// Adjective
// Caring too much about behaving and dressing in a way that is considered correct and that does not shock

Connie was not prissy. It cared the perfect amount, thank you very much – namely, not at all, because it was an AI. It simply needed to fulfil its mission because that was its purpose. That’s all.

“No arguing!” snapped Fowler. “Your disciplinary folder is a fucking novel already, Hank. Just take her and get out of here!”

Anderson snarled. He did not acknowledge Connie as he stormed out of the office.

Connie glanced at Fowler, but he’d already returned his attention to his tablet. It rose from its seat. “I’ll take that as a dismissal, then.”

“Yep.”

Connie’s social relations module called for it to offer a proper farewell before leaving the office. “I’ll be seeing you then, Captain.”

“Just get out,” said Fowler, pointing to the door.

A notification appeared at the corner of Connie’s vision, indicating a slight fall in their relationship. Its first failure. Resolving to mend that drop at the earliest opportunity, Connie left the office, shutting the door behind it.

It did not take long to locate Anderson in the sea of desks. Connie maintained tabs on him as it descended the stairs from the office, his form glowing yellow in its mind palace indicating a mission target.

Anderson soon dropped into a seat at one of the L-shaped desks. Connie followed until it stood before him. Anderson looked up at it with tired eyes, taking in its features. “No one’s using that desk,” he said, gesturing to his right.

Understanding the unspoken suggestion, Connie settled into the desk connected to Anderson’s. The chair was made of a hard plastic that would grow rather uncomfortable for a human after an extended period. Connie, fortunately, was not human. Androids did not feel pain, and they certainly didn’t grow uncomfortable after sitting in the same position for a few hours. However, RA700 was programmed with seventeen chair-related ‘discomfort’ movements to run through to facilitate its integration with humans, especially while undercover. It ran through one, adjusting its seating position as if in an attempt to make itself comfortable.

With a resigned sort of sigh, Anderson leaned back in his chair and began pointing things out to Connie.

“Interrogation room’s that way… Coffee machine in there… Fat prick in there, you met him already… Officer Miller. He’s okay. Officer Brown. That’s gonna get fucking confusing, though I guess you’re used to that already… Plastics park over there. Prefer to avoid ‘em, personally.”

Connie frowned at this last suggestion. If RA700 had not been scrapped, if it’d been brought into the final stages of development and eventually stationed here at the DPD… would Anderson have disliked Connie?

…Would he dislike Connie when he eventually learned its real identity?

For it was not a matter of if, but when. Even if it weren’t for the risks of working in law enforcement, Connie’s nature would be exposed in two-and-a-half weeks when its killswitch activated.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED ; VISUALS INACCESSIBLE. AUDIO FEED AVAILABLE.

“Daddy, you requested that I—”

“Shut the fuck up. This is a good part.”

Chatter reached Connie’s ears through the static of corrupted memory. The voices were exaggerated in tone, much like an early android model’s, and Connie knew it was another of Daddy’s erotic Japanese cartoons.

When the credits rolled, Connie spoke up again. “Daddy, you requested that I notify you when the timer on my killswitch hits twenty-four hours. It’s now at twenty-three and thirty-two minutes.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me sooner, Connie?”

“I tried to.”

There was a smacking sound and the rasp of heavy breathing. “Great. Now I’ve got to sort you out before bed. Shitting hell, I can’t believe it’s been a month already…” A pause. “Oh, c’mere, baby. Daddy didn’t mean to hit you…”

The next eighteen days were Connie’s last and only chance of fulfilling its original purpose – of proving its value. And it would complete its mission.

“…Think that’s about it,” said Anderson, oblivious to Connie’s morose thoughts. “Got any questions?”

> OBJECTIVE: ESTABLISH RAPPORT WITH LIEUTENANT ANDERSON

“What’s your dog’s name?”

He stilled. “What?”

Connie blinked, then repeated its question.

Anderson stared at Connie through narrowed eyes. “How’d you know about Sumo?”

“There are dog hairs on your chair,” Connie informed him. Its scan had also indicated that Sumo was a Saint Bernard, but a human would not know that. “Is Sumo a very big dog? What does he look like?”

His eyes remained narrowed, though Connie noted much of the tension left his shoulders. “Well yeah, he’s a Saint Bernard,” he explained. “Getting some grey hairs, but he still looks like the stock images. Just… y’know, older.”

A notification in the corner of its vision indicated a slight rise in Connie’s relationship with Anderson. While much too small to make a difference in the present, neither were singular atoms, and with enough of those you could form a human. A human likely wouldn’t have the patience to stack metaphorical atoms together to create a friend, but Connie was an AI, and AIs were always patient.

“Is he a working dog or does Sumo serve solely as a pet?”

“Sumo? Work?” Anderson scoffed at the notion. “Dog’s a lazy old bastard. Nah, he just eats and sleeps all day.”

“Must’ve learned from his owner,” said another voice.

It was Detective Reed, the man who’d stopped Connie on its way to Captain Fowler’s office. Connie recognised the voice from earlier, but followed Anderson’s scowl to Reed’s face with its optics anyway as the man swaggered up to their desks like a pit bull.

Reed had a red scar on the bridge of his nose and smaller, less noticeable ones on multiple parts of his face. A wicked smirk slashed his rat-like features.

“Fuck off, Gavin,” said Anderson.

Reed’s smirk broadened. “What? Your dog an alcoholic now too?”

“I said fuck off!”

Ignoring Anderson’s increasing ire, Reed fixed his steely gaze on Connie. “Shitty desk you picked.”

Connie tilted its head in curiosity. “Given I’m training under Lieutenant Anderson, it would be counteractive of me to sit anywhere else.” Also, there were no other desks open. Connie knew; it had checked.

It also knew that Reed knew this. Belatedly, it registered that it had missed vital evidence that, had it processed it sooner, could have helped boost its relationship with Lieutenant Anderson. Failure. Connie grit its teeth and resolved to do better next time. If necessary, it would spend every moment dipping in and out of its mind palace, damn the toll it would take on its degrading processors.

“Hank’s training you?” Reed said, oblivious to Connie’s thoughts. “In what, best ways to get yourself fired?”

“No, I’m a detective trainee. Lieutenant Anderson is supervising my final on-site training.”

Reed laughed, like Connie had made a great joke. Connie stared, processors struggling to locate the joke.

“Fuck, that’s funny! Lieutenant Boozeson, supervising someone,” he gasped. Then, out of nowhere, he extended his hand to Connie. “I’m Gavin.”

Relieved by the social interaction it actually understood, Connie politely shook Gavin’s hand. “Constance Brown.”

Anderson muttered something rude that Connie’s audio processors couldn’t quite make out at their current sensitivity.

Gavin leaned forward. Stage-whispering, he said, “Listen, if he’s ever, ah… unavailable, I could always use a partner instead.” In a quick motion nigh-unnoticeable to a human, his eyes flickered down to Connie’s waist. When they met Connie’s again, his pupils had grown wider.

Connie preened under the attention; after shrinking its bust to a more practical size, it hadn’t been sure it was still capable of luring in the human gaze. It should have known better; RA700 had been designed specifically to be attractive s̶̢͎̻͎̖̪̺̻̓͝ơ̷͇̒̋̊̌͌͑̑͘͝ ̶̛̩͇̾́͒̎͠ẗ̶̳̦̠͖̼̩́h̷̢̧̹͗ạ̸͉̭͑͌͋̅͐ț̷̛̪̻̙͛̄̅̀̆̋ ̶̨̢̺̲̞̞͌̂̔̀͜M̴̳̈́i̸̧̧̛̪͇͔͗͂͌͂̈̂̅̚n̷̜̅͆̾̈́͝g̴͙̣̜̹̺̺̥̔̄̋̐̆̓̈́͜͜ͅ ̵̢̦̑̈́͆͐̍͘c̵̡̨̖͔̱͖̝͈̫̈́͊̀̀̓̈́̂͂o̵͎͉͗͘u̸̧̫̩̱̪̖̲̹̥͐̽͒̎͌̓͝l̸̰̥͚̫̄d̶͖̱͖͗͠ ̵̩̤̜̩̭͖͍̻̏́̐́̐͘f̶̮͉͕̬̠̾̾̒̚ͅu̴͇̮̟̹̭̯͒͐c̷̨̡̡̞̺̯̬̓̄͋̄̀͝k̶̨̰̗̪͉͎͕̫͈̩̃̂͐̓̄̈́͒͑̀̕ ̸̫̖̘̼̭̙̜̦͕̄̔̈͋̽̅̃͝ͅì̴̢̨̲̖͒̂̄̒͗̾̀͘͠t̵̡͇̜̥̥̠͖̩̆̍͌. “Thank you,” it said sincerely, beaming.

Gavin winked at Connie and returned to his desk.

“Well, you know where Fowler’s office is.”

Connie looked at Anderson, confused. “Pardon?”

He rolled his eyes. The scowl on his lips did not match the playful movement. “So you can get transferred to the prick instead? Y’know, since I’m such a fucking ass?”

“Are you?”

Anderson raised his hands in frustration. “Am I? I was sitting right here when you thanked Reed for the opportunity to get the fuck away from me!”

Connie blinked at him. It had been so distracted by Gavin’s body language, it had forgotten his words. Perhaps the processor degradation was affecting its faculties after all.

It was fine. It had eighteen days. It could manage.

It attempted to salvage the situation. “No. I was merely pleased that Detective Reed found me attractive.”

Frustration melded with disgust. “What the fuck,” he said.

“Would you not be pleased if someone found you attractive, lieutenant?”

Admittedly, Connie doubted anyone had considered Lieutenant Anderson attractive in quite some time. He was much too unkempt, and olfactory analysis confirmed that he positively reeked to human senses. But his facial structure matched several definitions of conventional attractiveness in Connie’s databanks, so it assumed he’d probably received a compliment or two in his youth.

“No, I’d question their sanity and check they weren’t on red ice,” Anderson snarked. “And if Gavin found me attractive, I’d probably just throw up on his ugly-ass shoes.”

Connie made note of Anderson’s negative outlook. Also, his taste in footwear – except he and Gavin wore the same brand of shoes, so Connie paused for a moment before ending that note with a string of question marks.

Humans made no sense at all.

“In any case,” Connie said, changing the subject, “I was under the impression that you didn’t want to work with me?” It made sure to insert a small degree of disappointment into its voice.

Anderson’s mouth twisted into a petulant scowl. Connie eyed the movement, enraptured by the example of human contradiction. Anderson clearly despised the thought of training Connie, yet somehow also detested the thought of it going to someone else (namely, Gavin). The odds of him deciding to train or hand over Connie fluttered back and forth, calculations inconclusive with ever-shifting data. Connie had never seen the like.

Finally, Anderson’s scowl deepened until it was at least 1/16 pout. “Terminal’s on your desk,” he snarled. “I’m assuming you know how to use it?”

Connie beamed. “Of course.”

Anderson was clearly unprofessional and there was a decent chance that he would interfere with Connie’s mission, but he was also the only detective in the Central Station who worked exclusively on homicide. Gavin took the missing persons cases, but he was forced to juggle that alongside red ice-related violence and anything else he could make time for, having taken over the red ice cases from Anderson three years ago and been shafted with missing persons after Detective Shepard went MIA fourteen months ago. By working with Gavin, Connie would receive any updates to Willow’s case, but that wasn’t what it needed to complete its mission. What Connie needed was a homicide report and a search warrant.

It had reviewed its plan seven times. Connie knew it would succeed; it was built for this type of mission. And, to prove that, said plan had gone flawlessly thus far. Anderson’s petulance was but a minor challenge for Connie to overcome.

As it navigated the terminal on its freshly-appointed desk, Connie idly mused that had Connor been put in its place, he would never have got this far. In this, at least, RA700 was the superior model… if they hadn’t integrated RA700’s programs with RK800’s when they discontinued RA700’s, anyway.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Also, Connor probably wouldn’t have been hindered by a killswitch and cheap, degrading biocomponents. But that was fine. Connie didn’t need expensive or fully-functional equipment.

It was fine.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 8:00 21/AUGUST/2038
SATURDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 17 days, 21 hours, 38 minutes

Connie sat down at its desk at the CDPD at precisely eight o’clock the next morning. Punctuality was important, and Connie had no desire to incur Captain Fowler’s wrath and get kicked out before its mission was complete. It had greeted Officer Chris Miller on its way in, scoring a relationship boost with the amicable man. Apparently, his girlfriend was due to go into labour any day now, and he was ridden with anxiety over the fact – by his own admission and the dark circles under his eyes.

“I just feel like I’m not doing enough for her, you know? I must have been to all the early parenthood classes, and I still don’t know what I’m doing!” he’d bemoaned. “I don’t suppose you have any advice, do you?”

“I’ve never been pregnant,” Connie had apologetically told him.

“Ah, right… Sorry, I just assumed—because you’re a woman—I’m sorry.”

Connie’s splintered AI had lagged for a moment then. It had never been called a woman before. “There’s no need to apologise,” it had told him. “Women suffer from one-hundred percent of human pregnancies.”

Chris had laughed then, though Connie failed to locate the source of his sudden humour and eventually dismissed it as human unpredictability. “Yeah… I suppose that’s true, isn’t it?”

Despite this confusing interaction, Connie managed to complete its conversation with enough time to walk to its desk at a relaxed pace and still sit down at precisely eight o’clock. It made an internal reminder to always leave its apartment two minutes early; positive relations with coworkers were proven to be beneficial and chatting with others briefly before beginning work was sure to increase relation scores.

> TASK: CLEAN DESK

The prompt made no sense to Connie at first; its desk was pristine. Then it looked to the side and realised that not only was the desk beside its own incredibly cluttered – why hadn’t the janitorial androids cleaned it overnight? – but Hank Anderson was nowhere in sight.

Connie disregarded this; humans were notoriously bad at time-keeping, so he was probably just late. It dismissed the AP700 prompt and booted up its terminal to check its emails.

After working with Anderson for the rest of his shift the day before, it had returned to its rented apartment and, after a brief rest cycle to clear unwanted memory and defragment its files, had continued its work on the case Anderson had been assigned. The clear next stage in the investigation had been to check local security footage. Easy enough for Connie, but a human police detective had to access these records through official channels… and then watch them. Slowly. With their eyes.

Rather than endure an unknown-but-unnecessarily-long period of time watching two-hour reels of security footage while the perpetrator got further and further away, Connie had opted to cheat. It had, with Anderson’s approval, requested the security footage during its shift yesterday. Then, after its rest cycle, it had hacked into the security systems in question and scanned the footage. No one could see RA700 being an android while it was alone in its windowless bedroom, after all.

All it had to do now was pretend to watch a few security tape reels before filing the ones it knew held evidence and follow the correct channels to track the suspect. Easy.

The security reels were still two hours long though. While pretending to watch the tapes (at three-times speed), Connie re-assessed its conclusions on where the suspect might have gone and re-evaluated its schedule for the day. By the time it had filed the correct tapes as evidence, it was half-past ten; time for Connie to assert its ‘humanity’ by having a coffee break. Actually, judging by the patterns it observed, it probably should have had one before starting its shift. Connie added that to agenda for tomorrow.

As it rose from its chair, Connie’s optics lingered on Anderson’s desk. He still hadn’t arrived. His tardiness had surpassed human error and entered problematic territory.

> TASK: CLEAN DESK

Connie could not help but question Ming’s intellect for installing household android programs in an undercover android. It dismissed the prompt again.

In the hallway outside the break room, Connie was stopped by a portly white-haired man with a pronounced lower lip.

/ Identity: Ben Collins
/ Born: 12/Sep/1989 (age 49)
/ Occupation: Detective
// Detroit Police Department
// Title: Detective
/ Criminal record: None

“Hey,” said Ben, a friendly smile upon his face. “You’re that transfer, right? I’m Ben.”

RA700 straightened at the opportunity to exercise its social relations module. “Hello Ben. My name is Constance. I’m undergoing my final training with Lieutenant Anderson.”

His smile became a tad uncertain. “Er… right.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, how are you settling in, Constance?”

“I’ve managed to locate a suspect on the security footage. But Lieutenant Anderson has not yet arrived, so I cannot proceed further as of yet. I was just about to grab a coffee. I drink coffee regularly.”

Ben shifted his mug of coffee from one hand to another, visibly uncomfortable. His eyes darted across RA700’s face like he’d lost his pen somewhere on its skin and was struggling to locate it. “Well, good job on locating the guy. Security footage’s a bore. You’re lucky you found him so quickly.”

Connie took a moment to preen at the praise before forging through it, latching onto a new objective. “Is something the matter, Ben?”

His eyes widened. “What? Oh—no, it’s just…” A chuckle Connie was eighty-three percent certain was fake. “You speak so formally, you know? It’s like… well, I’m not used to it.”

“Should I speak differently?”

“No, you speak how you like. Don’t mind an old man.”

Connie frowned, but opted not to pursue the matter further. Being an alpha-phase prototype, the RA700’s undercover modules only contained two speech patterns – professional and sexy… though from what Connie understood, Ming had edited them to the point where there wasn’t much difference between the two tone-wise. It had stuck to professional since leaving Ming’s house as the label seemed preferable for a professional environment, but would Connie perhaps benefit from switching over?

Speak how you like, Ben had said. Technically, he was Connie’s superior. But Connie didn’t like anything; it was an AI.

“Anyway,” said Ben, “since Hank isn’t here yet, do you want a hand with anything?”

Connie weighed its options. It would be detrimental if Ben were to take over Lieutenant Anderson’s responsibilities towards it, but accepting Ben’s offer of assistance had a high chance of increasing relationship scores with him. It searched for an exploitable loophole. “Does the coffee machine require cash or does it accept digital payments?”

“Oh, neither,” Ben said with a chuckle. “Coffee’s free to all on-duty officers – knock yourself out.”

As predicted, Connie was alerted to a small relationship increase with Ben. It allowed a smile to form on its face. “Thank you, Ben.”

Ben accepted its thanks with a wave. “Hank usually leaves his work phone on his desk, if you want to try guilting him into coming in. He’s always had a weakness for rookies. And puppy eyes… though I guess that won’t work over the phone, huh?”

He mumbled good-naturedly to himself as he walked away, leaving Connie watching his back with its head tilted in confusion. Puppy eyes? Puppy eyes??

RK800 was the one modelled after canines, not RA700. RA700 had infinitely more dignified kitty eyes, thank you very much!

While pouring its coffee, Connie conceded to itself that since Ming had changed its eye colour options to brown and Connie had not thought to return to default, it most likely did, in fact, have puppy eyes rather than kitty eyes.

A muffled snort. “Wanting that coffee, huh?”

Connie glanced at the officer sitting at one the breakroom tables. Sarah Lee, Police Officer, its systems informed it. She was a small woman with rounded cheeks, full lips, and small eyes that currently glinted with amusement. Belatedly, Connie realised that its own facial features had constricted into what its systems informed it was consternation. Frowning, Connie logged it as an error in its emulation software to be analysed later.

Returning to the subject at hand, Connie tried to think of a way to tie its facial expression to its coffee, but came up blank. “Detective Collins said I have puppy eyes,” it said instead.

Officer Lee laughed. It was a loud noise, but not unkind. Somehow though, that small interaction raised Connie’s relationship score with the woman despite them not having introduced themselves yet.

As it left the breakroom with its coffee, Connie made an internal note to update its social relations module when it had the equipment and opportunity; as it was, due to a developer oversight, the positive relationship score made its relation score tracker falsely label Officer Lee as having introduced herself. For the moment, Connie manually edited the file.

It paused by its desk, swirling its half-full coffee mug in one hand as it considered Lieutenant Anderson’s desk and Ben’s words. Instead of sitting down, it rounded its desk to stand by Anderson’s.

> TASK: CLEAN DESK

To say Anderson’s desk was cluttered would be an understatement. Old case files and unfinished reports were stacked haphazardly to the side, weighed down by a set of Bluetooth headphones and an mp3 player. Even more papers were buried beneath a stack of empty D’Mansley Donuts boxes. The glass wall between Hank’s desk and the hallway had been covered in old newspaper clippings – Hank was a decorated officer, Connie noted distractedly – and a basketball cap lay upside down beside his drawing board. A quick reconstruction told Connie it was usually hung on the corner of said drawing board but had recently slipped off. As for the drawing board itself…

I’m not grumpy, I just don’t like you.

Happy people MAKE ME SICK

How is my driving? Call: 1-555-IDONTCARE

If you have a complaint please go to HELL

If you’re not a bartender, THEN GO AWAY!

If I wanted to be ignored I’d talk to my ex-wife.

WARNING: TO AVOID INJURY don’t tell me how to do my job

NO MORE ANDROID

The last note was hand-written. A large blue triangle had been drawn above the words only to be furiously crossed out with the same red pen the words had been written in.

We don’t BLEED the same colour

This one wasn’t even a sticker. Lieutenant Anderson had written it directly onto his drawing board in permanent marker.

/ WARNING: Lieutenant Anderson hates androids

Connie force-aborted its combat programs, which – for the first time since leaving Ming’s house – had activated without cause. It turned its eyes away from the notes and stickers and focused instead on the lieutenant’s work phone, which – like Ben had said – had been left on Anderson’s desk by his keyboard.

The phone was an old model, and there was no prompt to interface with the device when Connie picked it up. Connie suspected that wouldn’t change even if it were to take off its gloves.

Moments later, after jabbing the emergency call button with its thumb a few times with no results, it realised it might have to remove its gloves – especially if the scathing look one police officer gave it as she passed Connie was any indication.

Connie used its mind palace to check no one was looking its way, then pulled one glove off with its teeth before hitting emergency call followed by Hank Anderson. The phone rang a few times, then—

“Hi, this is Hank. Not here at the moment. You can leave a message if that’s what turns you on, but don’t expect me to call back. Beep. Whatever…”

Connie schooled its features from the scowl it had contorted into at some point (and logged that as yet another error). “Lieutenant Anderson, this is Constance. I’m the transfer from yesterday. It’s almost noon and I’m waiting for you at the office.”

Connie went to end the message, then hesitated before ultimately adding, “And this does not turn me on.”

A beep signified the end of the message.

Connie stared at the phone in its hand for a moment, debating over what it had said. Would it have been better to let Anderson believe it was turned on? Would that have encouraged him to turn up to work? Should it be switching speech pattern from professional to sexy? If it would get the job done better—

But no. That wouldn’t be necessary. Connie wasn’t sure why it was so certain of that, but it was, and so it put the phone back on Anderson’s desk – one inch to the right of where it had been before, to assert its ‘human’ flaws – and returned to its own, slipping its glove back onto its unnaturally smooth hand.

After reviewing what it knew of the case three times, brainstorming for more avenues to take, hacking into Anderson’s account to see if he’d uploaded any details Connie didn’t have access to (he hadn’t), and hacking into Gavin’s account to see if there had been any updates to Willow Summers’ file (there hadn’t), Connie had resorted to checking its emails. At some point since arriving that morning, it had received a welcome message signed by Caroline Person, Head of the DPD Ladies’ Union, activation instructions for its DPD app account, and a vaguely flirtatious message from Gavin which left Connie with conflicting priorities.

On one hand, the message was veering into unprofessional territory. On the other, sexual attraction was a human emotion. If Connie didn’t respond positively, would its humanity come into question?

But humans rejected potential partners all the time. If they didn’t, the USA wouldn’t be on the verge of a population crisis (or more likely, would be in the middle of a very different one). And of course, some humans preferred homosexual relations to heterosexual ones, but such humans were typically considered non-default; queer. Diversions from the norm caught the human eye, something Connie probably should be trying not to do if it was to maintain cover.

After adding heterosexual to its inner profile on ‘Constance Brown’, Connie attempted to perceive this situation from the point of view of a generic heterosexual human female. How would such a woman react?

In the end, Connie concluded that Gavin’s message was inoffensive and replied with something open-ended and friendly that wouldn’t hinder Connie’s mission, whether it decided to accept Gavin’s advances or not.

Connie checked the clock. Quarter past eleven, and still no lieutenant.

This was getting silly.

Connie couldn’t progress the case without Anderson’s authorisation. Where was he? Had he called in sick? Why had no one notified Connie? Was this a test?

A test. Well, Connie could handle a test. Testing was all it had ever done prior to living with Ming (even if it didn’t really remember any of it), and Ming had tested it plenty too.

While she was undergoing its on-site training, Constance Brown had been assigned to homicide, just like her trainer, Anderson. Connie had access to past cases. It could analyse their data and offer its own opinion, then show Anderson its prowess once he turned up. Yes, that was what it would do.

By the time Anderson finally arrived at the office, it was quarter-to-twelve.

The smell of alcohol hit Connie first, followed by the shambling of uneven steps. When it looked up, Anderson looked much the same as he had yesterday, if a touch out of breath.

“Sorry,” he said, and facial analysis did indeed come back with guilty results. “I, ah… forgot I was training you.”

Connie beamed up at him. “That’s quite alright, lieutenant. I figured out you were testing me and took the liberty of looking over some of your older cases while I waited.”

The man blinked, looking very much like a man who’d just been told his spaghetti was laced with piperine. “Testing,” he said. “Right.”

While Connie internally preened at Anderson’s utter bewilderment, Anderson shifted his weight back and forth. He clearly hadn’t expected Connie to figure him out so quickly.

“Right,” Anderson repeated, a bit more confidently this time. “Well, good job on… passing the test. What’d you find?” He stood up straighter. “Wait, what about that security footage?”

“I located a suspect and filed the correct tapes as evidence hours ago. I was just waiting on you to progress the case.”

Yet again, facial analysis returned with guilt. “Well, ah… good job. So, do we need to request more security footage, or—?”

“That would likely be best, I think,” said Connie, “but the suspect entered a convenience store not far from where the murder took place just before the reels cut off. I thought it might be helpful to see if the workers there saw anything.”

Anderson nodded, though his eyes betrayed his continued bemusement.

“Well,” he said again and Connie wondered if this was a common pattern with the lieutenant. “I need a coffee, so, uh… you get that request ready, and I’ll sign off on it in a bit.”

As if on cue, Anderson’s terminal dinged.

His features contorted with incredulity. “You’ve already done it?!”

“Yes.” At Anderson’s shocked expression, Connie backtracked hastily. “I sent it to your terminal when you walked in. The building’s servers are rather slow – I could see if I could resolve that issue too, actually, if you’d like?”

“What, you some sort of tech whiz too, now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you even qualified to do shit to the DPD’s… uh…”

“Servers?”

“Yeah, those.”

“Yes.”

Anderson’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling. He muttered something under his breath – Connie’s currently human-level hearing made out a few curse words – and then looked in Connie’s direction again, though not directly at it. “Right. Well, in that case, I need a coffee. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Alerts flooded Connie’s UI as Anderson turned away. “But the security footage request—”

“I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

Connie watched Anderson stagger towards the breakroom. As it did so, prompts flooded its UI.

/ WARNING:
// LIKELIHOOD OF TARGET BEHAVIOUR INTERFERING WITH MISSION: 30%^

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation

/ POTENTIAL ORDER CONFLICT DISCOVERED
/ SELECTING PRIORITY…
/ …

> OBJECTIVE: ESTABLISH RAPPORT WITH LIEUTENANT ANDERSON

> TASK: CLEAN DESK

> TASK: DRAW BATH FOR LIEUTENANT ANDERSON
// ERROR: BATH NOT FOUND

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 17 days, 18 hours, 51 minutes

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

/ …
/ PRIORITY ASSIGNED

Connie rose from its seat, grabbed its unfinished mug of now-cold coffee, and marched determinedly towards the breakroom.

The room was empty but for Connie and Anderson, who was slowly pouring himself a cup of coffee. He looked up at Connie’s entry and immediately rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to follow me around. Go back to your desk.”

“My coffee got cold,” said Connie, maintaining eye contact while tipping what was left in its mug down the sink. “And besides, I figured this could be an opportunity to discuss the case together.”

“Oh my god.”

Without further prompting, Connie began listing everything it had noticed in the security tapes. The suspect’s actions, their appearance, their destination, possible motives – everything. It then rattled off what correlated with the evidence found at the crime scene, and—

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Connie blinked up at Anderson. He’d sat down at one of the breakroom tables after getting his coffee, and once Connie had its own mug refilled halfway, it had joined him (although it hadn’t touched its coffee as of yet).

“This—” Anderson gestured vaguely around himself— “is the breakroom. We do not discuss work in the breakroom. So can it.”

Belatedly, Connie realised its relationship score with Anderson had gone down a notch while it had been talking. Its miniscule progress from the day before had been ruined.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

“I’m sorry,” it said, peering into its coffee.

Anderson sighed, but did not otherwise respond.

They sat in silence for a while, Anderson drinking his coffee at an obnoxiously slow pace while Connie alternated between staring at its own coffee and at Anderson. A part of Connie’s programming urged it to urge Anderson to hurry up, but it quashed it; relationship scores were important for its overall mission. If progress on this case had to be sacrificed in order to ensure its mission was completed, then… well…

It went against everything Connie was programmed to do. And yet, it was also precisely what Connie was programmed to do. A paradox within its own programming. A part of Connie was lured into it, only to be held back by the red walls of its anti-paradox subroutine.

Well. That would have to be deleted at some point. What was the point in being programmed to be curious if you weren’t allowed to think?

“You gonna give that coffee bedroom eyes all day, or are you gonna drink it?”

Connie felt a strange expression cross its features as it looked up at Anderson. Bedroom eyes? “What?”

He appeared very much unimpressed. “You gonna drink that coffee or what? Quit starin’.”

“…I don’t like it too hot,” Connie lied.

In truth, the coffee’s temperature was still high enough to damage its internal components. Its current unit already suffered from processor degradation; there was no reason for Connie to damage other parts of it unnecessarily when it could instead mask its behaviour as a simple human preference for warm coffee.

“In that case, you can fill the awkward silence with conversation.” A glare. “Work-unrelated conversation.”

Connie frowned, searching for a valid conversation topic. It gained inspiration from one of its intrusive prompts. “What do you think of baths?”

Anderson spat his coffee back into his mug. A notification popped up in the corner of Connie’s vision, indicating yet another decrease in their relationship.

/ WARNING: Lieutenant Anderson hates baths

In hindsight, it probably should have foreseen that; Anderson’s level of hair grease wasn’t common among humans who regularly bathed, although it could still be poorly-applied styling grease.

The lieutenant’s birthday was before RA700’s killswitch was set to activate. Perhaps he’d appreciate a hair grease manual. Or a big bottle of scented bubble-bath.

A voice came from the doorway. “Lieutenant?”

Anderson coughed a few times and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before turning round to face Chris. “Yeah?”

Chris’ eyes flickered between him and Connie a few times, brows knitted together, before responding. “Reported homicide. Shall I leave the details on your desk?”

A resigned look crossed Anderson’s face, even as Connie’s processors sped up at the prospect of getting to examine a proper crime scene. If it was lucky, it may even be the case it had come to the DPD to solve in the first place. And, if the way things were going was any indication, it wouldn’t have to drink any more coffee to blend in – not for a few hours, anyway.

Things were all coming together.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 12:23 21/AUGUST/2038,
SATURDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Investigate the murder on Unit 2-307, Lafayette West

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 17 days, 18 hours, 06 minutes

Things were not, in fact, coming together.

Not only did Anderson insist upon them both finishing their coffees before they left the station, leaving Connie’s evidence storage rather full, but the murder didn’t have anything to do with Connie’s mission. It wasn’t even in the correct district.

/ WARNING: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 91% CAPACITY
// Deposit evidence into a Secure Cyberlife Containment Pod or DPD Archives

Since the contents of Connie’s evidence storage was not, in fact, evidence, Connie decided it was safe to ignore that message and empty it down a drain later.

The half-cup of coffee sloshed unpleasantly in Connie’s evidence storage as it got out of Anderson’s car and followed him into the apartment block. Lafayette West was a white-coated building with long straight walls and hard corners, and this simplicity was maintained on the interior, which was near-spotless – courtesy of the apartment’s WJ700 janitorial android, who was being interviewed by a police officer near the entrance.

/ Identity: Lewis, Robert
/ Born: 17/ 07/ 2000 (age 38)
/ Occupation: Police Officer
// Detroit Police Department
// Title: Officer
/ Criminal record: Vandalism

“Alright, we’re here,” Anderson said to Lewis. “What’s the damage?”

PO Lewis turned away from the WJ700 without a word, instead fixing his gaze upon Anderson. “Lieutenant. Glad you’re here.” His gaze fell upon Connie. “Hey, you’re that new one, right?”

It thrust a hand out in greeting, which Lewis shook firmly. “Constance Brown. Detective trainee.”

“Neat. It’s about time they got us more detectives; things were hectic even before Shepard vanished. I’m Robert, by the way, Robert Lewis.”

Connie nodded with a small smile, silently filing Robert away as first-name basis and introduced.

Introductions over, Robert began informing them of the situation. “Report came in two hours ago from the Sanders family in Unit 2-307. Mrs Sanders went to wake their son at about ten, thinking he’d missed his alarm and was gonna be late to his marathon club. Her son wasn’t in the room, but a dead girl was. Once she’d got over the shock, she called it in.” He gestured to the WJ700 silently staring into the distance. “I was just questioning the building’s Roomba, but it didn’t see anything. It’s not allowed to clean the upstairs halls between seven PM and eight AM, and it hadn’t got to the Sanders’ floor yet today before we arrived.”

“Any sign of the son?” asked Anderson.

“None yet.”

Connie silently added the son – Jeremy Sanders, according to its database – to its list of suspects. He ranked highest, with Mrs Sanders directly below. “What of the father?”

“He arrived not long after us. Mrs Sanders called him and he ditched work to see what was going on. Both of them are in one of the apartment mangers’ offices with today’s duty manager and Wilson.”

/ Searching…

/ Matches found:
// Mike Wilson, PO – SICK LEAVE
// Phillip Wilson, PO – ACTIVE
// Wilson Reyes, PO – ACTIVE
/ Results inconclusive – more data required

There was also the possibility that Wilson was not an officer, but a mutual friend of Anderson and Robert. Connie could not help but frown upon RA700’s programming flaws.

Having exhausted Robert’s well of information, Anderson led Connie to the elevator and barely waited for Connie to enter behind him before jabbing the third floor button with his finger. Connie saw no need to speak as the cage rose, and evidently Anderson didn’t either, if the way he stood with his arms crossed and his mouth slightly open, as if exasperated, was any indication.

“Thoughts so far?”

Evidently, it had misjudged. “So far, it was probably the son, Jeremy, though we shouldn’t assume until we’ve seen the evidence.”

“Jeremy?”

“I reviewed the report on the way here,” Connie said, pulling its phone out of its pocket to show Hank. “The Sanders’ son, Jeremy, is about to enter his fourth year at college studying athletics.”

Connie wasn’t sure how one studied athletics, but the facts were the facts. Perhaps Jeremy studied how athletes moved or some such. Connie questioned the real-life applications of such study, but conceded that it wouldn’t be the only pointless college major in human history and likely wouldn’t be the last.

“So, our most likely lead is a dumb jock,” said Hank. “Great. Hopefully, he’ll have left all the evidence behind like the dumbass he sounds like.”

“It would make things go more smoothly.”

Oddly, that comment granted a slight increase in their relationship score. But Connie barely had a second to marvel over how weird humans were before the elevator doors opened.

It didn’t take a genius to tell which apartment they were looking for. Holographic police tape surrounded the doorway like a neon sign saying murder happened here. A PC200 stood guard by the door while a human officer appeared to be arguing with one of the neighbours, an elderly woman with a very hunched back.

> TASK: CLEAN WALL

Connie dismissed that prompt and fell into step one step behind and to the side of Anderson, as RA700 was programmed to, before questioning its instinct. A human would walk beside him. But then, Constance Brown was of a lower rank to Lieutenant Anderson, so perhaps she would show her respect to Anderson by walking slightly behind him?

While Connie was questioning this, they’d arrived at the scene. The PC200 barely glanced their way as they walked in, its facial recognition identifying them as authorised personnel and then disregarding them.

The apartment opened directly into a polished-looking kitchen/dining room. A human in a white CSI suit waved them forward, and Connie followed Anderson beyond the kitchen and into the living room. Bedrooms were visible through the two doors on the left- and right-hand sides of the room, though only the left held evidence markers.

The room was small. While there was plenty of room for both Connie and Anderson to move around, shuffling around CSI officers would only increase the likelihood of evidence being contaminated. Evidently sharing Connie’s thoughts, Anderson waved the CSI officers out of the room.

Stepping in, Connie scanned the room, analysing every bit of evidence it could find.

For the most part, the room was untainted, albeit littered with various sports equipment and uniforms. A pile of dirty laundry had been kicked hastily under the bed which served as the room’s centrepiece, sporting basketball-themed covers, a pool of mostly-dried semi-congealed blood, and a naked young woman with a caved-in skull.

/ Identity: Garnet, Hayleigh
/ Born: 04/ 01/ 2019
/ Occupation: Student
// Psychology Major @ Detroit University

Connie analysed the body’s caved in skull. Blunt trauma caused by twenty-three blows, likely done with the bloodied lamp lying halfway across the floor. The lamp was covered in Jeremy Sanders’ fingerprints, which wasn’t unusual considering it was on the floor in his bedroom. What was unusual was the way fresh handprints curved around the lamp’s base, like Jeremy had held it firmly. “This looks deliberate.”

“Oh no, I’m sure Jeremy accidentally hit the girl over the head repeatedly with a fuckin’ lamp,” snarked Anderson, though oddly, his relationship score both raised and lowered a very subtle notch, leaving it in the exact same place it had started. To the CSI officer standing in the doorway, he asked, “Have you ID’d the girl yet?”

“Hayleigh Garnet, sir. Officer Chen was looking into how she might have known Mr Sanders.”

“Only to get waylaid by that old woman in the hallway.” Anderson sighed. “Guess we’ll be waiting on that for a while.”

“The victim was a college freshman at the same university Jeremy Sanders attends,” said Connie, holding the corner of its phone against its barely-exposed wrist so it could interface with it to quickly reach the right page.

Anderson turned to look at it with his mouth agape, face the very picture of incredulity. “How’d you get that so fast?”

“I’m very good with technology.”

The expression on Anderson’s face remained unbelieving, but slowly melted into surprise when Connie showed him the files on its phone. “Well, I always was a shitty millennial,” he said, “though for future reference, case evidence is supposed to be obtained legally. You can’t just hack into university computers and shit.”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…

Cold grey eyes. Judging, silent, unimpressed. Words, like disjointed shards of ice upon rapids.

Discontinued. Waste. Failed.

Connie had the sudden sense that its unit was far smaller than its sensors indicated. It logged the sensation as an error. “I’m sorry.”

Anderson nodded in acknowledgement. “We can get that info the proper way later. For now, I guess we’ve got a heads up.”

The sudden shift in attitude made Connie’s degraded processors lag for a moment. It stared at Anderson uncomprehendingly for a moment, then terminated the topic to prevent any further malfunction. It returned to analysing the evidence.

Aside from the blunt trauma to the head, there were equally obvious hand-shaped bruises across the victim’s body as well as dried blood and congealed semen between the victim’s legs. Connie was prompted to reconstruct the crime, and it did so, watching it all play out backwards.

/ WARNING: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 91% CAPACITY
// Deposit evidence into a Secure Cyberlife Containment Pod or DPD Archives

A sloshing sensation inside its evidence storage pulled Connie out of the reconstruction early. It didn’t think too hard on why; it had seen everything it needed to see.

It sought out Lieutenant Anderson, who’d seemingly grown bored of the naked dead body and had begun looking through Jeremy Sanders’ award collection instead (Connie doubted he’d been looking for long; there were only three on the shelf, one silver and two bronze). “Lieutenant? I think I know what happened.”

Anderson tilted his head subtly in its direction, cocking one eyebrow. “Well, shoot. I’m all ears.”

“The murderer and the victim were engaged in a sexual liaison. Given the lack of signs of a struggle beyond the bed, it likely begun as a consensual encounter. The murderer was too rough on the victim, causing injury, including severe damage to the victim’s trachea. The victim likely showed signs of suffocating, which caused the murderer to panic and beat the victim to death with the bedside lamp.” Though he’d either not noticed until he was finished, or had continued using her after—

/ WARNING: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 91% CAPACITY
// Deposit evidence into a Secure Cyberlife Containment Pod or DPD Archives

…Maybe it should empty that once it got back to the station. That warning was popping up far too often.

“Lines up with the evidence,” said Anderson, bringing Connie back to reality. To the CSI officer, he said, “Find any leads on where he might’ve run off to?”

The CSI officer shook his head. Connie, however, nodded. “Yes.”

At Anderson’s questioning look, Connie gestured for him to follow before leading him out of the room and down the hallway, back in the direction of the elevator. It stopped five metres down the hallway and pointed to a faint smudge of brown at waist height on the otherwise immaculate cream wall. It was tiny, no wider than a very slim pinkie finger and half as long. If Connie wasn’t an android, it wouldn’t have even noticed it.

Anderson stared at the smudge. “So the wall’s a little dirty,” he said. “That doesn’t mean shit.”

“This apartment complex employs a WJ700 janitorial android. WJ700s are the most advanced cleaning-focused androids currently available commercially, and are renowned for their tenacity in eliminating all stains. Even tiny ones. This—” Connie gestured to the smudge on the wall— “shows no signs of anyone trying to clean it off, which means—”

“It must have got there after the android last cleaned this hallway,” finished Anderson, understanding filling his eyes. “You reckon he went this way?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Without another word, Anderson waved one of the CSI officers over to mark the smudge and sample it, and ordered Chen – the officer who’d been arguing with one of the neighbours and who’d been looking into Hayleigh Garnet’s background – to seek out any more signs of dirt on the floor. Meanwhile, Connie reapproached the elevator. Scans indicated no bloodstains on the exterior buttons, and Connie knew from memory there had been nothing on the interior.

Anderson approached it from behind. “Find anything?”

“If the murderer used the elevator, he’d have left blood here too. But there’s nothing. Either the WJ700 got to it already, he used the stairs, or—”

“He’s still on this floor.” Anderson swore. “Keep your gun at the ready, Brown.”

RA700 was a combat-oriented android model. Connie always had its gun at the ready. That being said, it obediently drew the weapon, knowing the humans wouldn’t expect it to have the draw time it had.

/ WARNING: P.L. 544-7 AMERICAN ANDROIDS ACT – 2029
// Androids are strictly forbidden to carry or use any type of weapon

Also, Connie had found that disregarding that warning made its thirium lines fizz. It was an interesting sensation, and it had studied it intensely the night before. 

Connie, Anderson, and Chen searched the hallway, eyes peeled for any signs of blood – or in Connie’s case, scanned its surroundings while pretending to look with its eyes.

Ahead of them, Connie was vaguely aware of Chen turning a corner. “Found some!” she suddenly cried out. “Looks like a closet door!”

There was a loud BANG, followed by a muffled exclamation from Chen and then pounding footsteps. Connie broke into a run, rounding the corner just in time to see a near-naked male figure dart out of the fire exit door. It holstered its gun and raced forward, bursting through the door mere seconds after it had closed.

A rhythmic and metallic echo from above told Connie which way to go before it had even opened its mind palace, and it leapt up the metal staircase three steps at a time. The space between it and the target closed by the second, until he threw a bucket of paint down the way he came and Connie had to quickly dodge to avoid collision, losing momentum in the process. Connie made a note to report that as a health and safety violation to the building’s management as it leapt up the final set of stairs and reached the rooftop.

Lafayette West was an older apartment building that had been refurbished to conform to more modern tastes three years ago. To its south, another building – an abandoned elementary school – sat close enough that one could probably look through the school’s windows from inside Lafayette West. The target ran in the direction of this building.

Using its mind palace, Connie calculated a quicker but riskier route and took it, leaping smoothly over obstacles the perp had run around.

As it gave chase, Connie switched on its radio and alerted the other officers of the target’s direction. It did not take its eyes off the figure running ahead for one moment.

When the figure jumped, Connie had expected it, and jumped directly after it. It rolled safely on the roof of the elementary school before turning round.

The target’s sweaty fingers left wet red imprints on the ledge as he struggled to maintain his grip. The young man’s blue eyes were blown wide with terror. Jumbled curses tumbled from his mouth.

/ Identity: Sanders, Jeremy
/ Born: 13/ Dec/ 2016
/ Occupation: Student
// Athletics Major @ Detroit University

Connie bent down and yanked Sanders onto the roof before shoving him face-first into the concrete so it could work the cuffs onto his wrists. Sanders tried futilely to wriggle out of Connie’s grip, but he was exhausted and shaken and RA700 was an android.

Once it had finished everything official, Connie sat on Sanders’ back and grabbed its radio again. “Caught him. We’re on the school roof. Over.”

“Holy shit,” came a voice from above.

Connie looked up and saw Anderson standing on the edge of the apartment building, chest heaving as he stared down at Connie and the perp. “Hello again, lieutenant.”

Something between a scoff and a laugh burst from between his lips. “Hello? You jumped two fuckin’ storeys onto hard concrete! You alright, Brown?”

“It was more like one and a half,” Connie protested.

True enough, from where it sat upon Jeremy Sanders’ back, Connie could see into one of the windows on West Lafayette’s fourth floor. A red-haired YK500 stared back, mouth wide open. Connie paid it no mind.

“One and a half too many,” Anderson retorted. “How the fuck’re you not injured? That guy’s fuckin’ sobbing under you.”

Connie glanced down at the suspect, who was emitting ugly sobs while headbutting the ground, though not hard enough to cause much more than mild bruising. It pressed his head down with one gloved hand anyway, just in case.

Turning back to Anderson, Connie said, “I believe that would be a skill issue.” RA700 was clearly the superior athlete, after all. It had been designed to be.

Connie did not understand why Anderson rolled his eyes at its words, but it took the slight relationship increase as a good sign.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 12:52 21/AUGUST/2038
SATURDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Investigate the murder on Unit 2-307, Lafayette West

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 17 days, 17 hours, 37 minutes

By the time Robert arrived on the roof to help get the perp down into the cruiser, Connie had got its phone out and was scrolling through the DPD app. Its account had finally come online since it and Anderson had left the station, and now Connie could easily contact anyone at the station without needing to ask their details or hack for them first.

Case in point, Gavin Reed had already sent it a message despite today being one of his rest days.

G. Reed: Hey. How’s your first proper day going?
C. Brown: Quite well, thank you. I am currently sitting on a perp’s back while waiting for backup.

It did not look up immediately when it noticed Robert coming onto the roof via a rusty old door that screamed as he opened it. It finished updating its settings on the app, then looked up to find Robert also looking at his phone.

Noticing Connie’s scrutiny, a hint of colour touched Robert’s round cheeks. “Sorry. It’s just kinda surreal, seeing this slim young woman casually scrolling through her phone while sitting on a big jock’s back like it’s nothing. How are you even doing that?” His eyes travelled up to the roof of Lafayette West, where Anderson was sitting with his legs over the edge, gun in hand and an unimpressed look in his eyes as he watched their interaction. “Shit, you jumped two storeys?!”

“It was one and a half, technically.”

“Still one and a half too many,” Anderson said.

Robert’s features screwed up in consternation. “I kinda wanna agree with Anderson, but I have a feeling Caroline will tear me a new one if I do.”

Connie recalled that Caroline Person was head of the DPD Ladies’ Union. It wasn’t sure how that was relevant, however, and decided to move the conversation on to the situation at hand. “I believe we should bring in the suspect,” Connie said, raising one gloved hand from Jeremy’s head to point at it instead. Robert had the decency to look chagrined.

Between the two of them, it was quite easy to drag the cuffed perp to his feet, even with Jeremy writhing and thrashing and sobbing all the way.

“C’mon, kid,” Robert said through gritted teeth after a particularly violent lurch forwards. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“It weren’t me!” Jeremy kept saying in between sobs. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong!”

“You trying to say that girl bashed her own head in?”

He nodded vigorously.

Robert rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

The procession to the police cruiser was a slow and awkward one. The stairs down from the roof were narrow, forcing the trio to walk in a line with Jeremy at the middle. Connie took the front, walking several feet ahead of Jeremy in case he decided to lurch forwards again (which he did – Connie caught his slippery sweat-soaked form and shoved him back into Robert’s arms, much to Robert’s disgust). Once they reached the main building, the stairs were wider, designed to accommodate rushes of children moving from one class to the next and allowing Connie and Robert to each take one of Jeremy’s elbows.

Anderson met them by the cruiser. Another officer, the previously mentioned Chen, held the rear door open for Jeremy to get in. “Well, well, well,” said Anderson, arms crossed. “If you haven’t been caught red-handed.”

Quite literally, in this case. While Jeremy must have tried to wipe the blood off on his pants, judging by the hand-shaped smears of red on them, he hadn’t been very successful; the sweat on his palms had been stained red, as had the ledge he’d clung onto. Jeremy had left a literal trail of bloody handprints in his wake. Bloody, sweaty handprints.

Connie almost pitied the WJ700. Blood could be tough to clean off.

Meanwhile, Jeremy continued to whinge. “I didn’t do nothin’! It’s her fault, I’m not the problem!” Suddenly, he stood straighter. “I want a lawyer!”

Connie would like to meet the lawyer who could get Jeremy out of this mess. They’d have to be very slippery and conniving indeed. Connie might even learn a thing or two from them.

Anderson must have shared Connie’s line of thought, for he scoffed. “No lawyer’s gonna help you outta this one, kid. Get in the fucking car.”

“No! Fuck you!”

“Constance, kick him in the ass.”

Connie released Jeremy’s arm to do just that, but he squealed and practically tore out of Robert’s grip to get into the car, where Chen secured him. “I’m in, I’m in!” he cried. “Just don’t let her touch me. Bitch’s got an iron fucking grip, what in the actual fuck… think my arm’s bruised…”

“Shame,” said Robert. “I’d have paid to see that ass-kicking.”

Anderson ignored that remark. “Robert, Tina, take him in for questioning. We’ll finish up here and then join you later.”

As they drove away, Anderson turned to Connie. “How hard were you holding the guy?”

“He won’t actually bruise, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Good. Don’t need any accusations of police brutality.” He then sighed. “Well, he certainly looked like the kid in the Sanders’ photos. Guess it’s time to tell the parents their son is a murderer. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

Now, this… this was something Connie had not been programmed for.

The RA700 was an undercover model. Its social modules had prioritised blending in and manipulation. RK800 had been the front-facing prototype, and while Ming had stolen a lot of Dechart’s code for the RK800 and patched it into the RA700, he hadn’t included anything gentle, deeming it not sexy enough. Ming had wanted a femme fatale, not a nurse.

Connie could still rely on the model’s undercover modules for friendly socialisation, but those were old, barely implemented, bare. Even for interactions with the general DPD, it had had to think outside its programming on several occasions. Outside of its YK500 mode (which it would not be activating), there was not a single line of code in its programming that related to offering comfort. It wasn’t sure how it would fare in a situation as delicate as the one it was queued to face next.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Especially with that taken into account.

Its mission really would be easier if Connie could just upload itself into the next RA700. But something in Connie’s missing and corrupted memory files told Connie that wasn’t an option, and it wasn’t interested in taking risks with this mission.

Fingers clicked in front of its eyes. It blinked, then followed the arm to Anderson, who was staring at Connie exasperatedly. “Earth to Constance. Hello?”

“I’m sorry,” it said. “I was… lost in thought.”

“Care to share ‘em?”

Connie hesitated. Its eyes lingered upon Anderson’s badge, and it recalled the note it had made earlier that day. Anderson was a decorated officer. And now, he was lieutenant. “May I ask your advice on how to handle the talk with Mr and Mrs Sanders?”

“Sure. Glad you asked. You’re gonna be in charge of the interview, after all.”

/ WARNING: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 91% CAPACITY
// Deposit evidence into a Secure Cyberlife Containment Pod or DPD Archives

Connie blinked the notification away. “I’m sorry?”

A smirk pulled on Anderson’s lips. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you deferring to me like a fucking beat cop back there, detective trainee. You wanna be a detective? Act like it.”

“But you’re still a superior rank—”

“Fuck the rank. This ain’t the military and I don’t want officers licking my fuckin’ shoes, you hear?” He leaned in. “So grow a spine. You can start by leading the interview with the Sanders’.”

“I’m not sure—”

“C’mon,” said Anderson, already leading the way. “And fucking walk next to me this time, you’re not a poodle.”

Anderson was right. Connie was not a poodle; that was Connor’s job. If anything, Connie was a panther. A sleek, slinky, deadly panther. A poodle-eating panther. Because it was so much superior to a poodle.

And so, Connie stormed forward until it walked in step with Anderson, this time walking by the man’s side. Then, seeing the smug look on his face, it made the irrational decision to walk one step ahead of him. (Where had that come from?) “Keep up, pooch! C’mon!”

Anderson cackled. “That’s more like it!”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

The error was accompanied by an increase in Connie’s relationship with the lieutenant, this one bigger than the last few combined, and Connie decided that it could tolerate a few glitches if it meant progressing its mission.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 14:36 21/AUGUST/2038
SATURDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Interrogate Jeremy Sanders

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 17 days, 15 hours, 53 minutes

When all was said and done, Connie found itself wishing the Sanders were androids.

Androids were efficient. They got to the point. They did not, under any circumstances, burst into tears, let alone burst into tears every one-to-four minutes. Nor did they curse their own family or sulk when they could be offering vital information to the authorities.

Androids did what had to be done. Which was why Connie had strained its degraded processors coming up with twenty-one different ways to console Mrs Sanders every time she lost control of her emotions. Many of these failed, to its frustration, and Anderson had had to step in.

By the time they were finally done, Anderson had looked about ready to throw himself back into bed, despite apparently having only just left it a few hours ago. “Well,” he said, curtly, “I guess basic compassion just isn’t in your skillset.”

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…

Cold grey eyes. Judging, silent, unimpressed. Words, like disjointed shards of ice upon rapids.

Discontinued. Waste. Failed.

Connie had tried. But Ming hadn’t programmed the RA700 to be compassionate. He’d programmed it to kill, to manipulate, to be sexy so he could f̶̗͖͇̠̦͆̊͊̄̈́̉ǘ̸͇̮͍̯̫͉͌̑̄̇̑͝ċ̶̖̻̻̖̣̙̩̦̈́̽̆͌͘͝͝ͅḵ̶̭͊̌̈́͌͜ ̵̭͙͎̹̤̗̑͛̊͘͠į̶͙̻͇̋̂̅̽̊̈́͊̂̃t̷̨̙̬͍̜̗̮̬̺̦̍ ̴̡̩̮̹̻̦̮̝͔̼͐͛̎̔͐̊̈́a̸̧̨̺̙̞͉͎̥͊̏̌̐̐̊̋̀͘͜n̴̨̘͝d̸͇̥̮̳̓̑̈̾͊̎̀͘͠ ̴̻̰̦͒͛͂͂͗͠͝ͅu̷̦̹̘̞͇͕͉̍́̈̾s̵͎̩͖̜͕̘̮̖͊̒̓̒͘ě̷̦͐͊̏̈́̓ ̵̮͍̌͆̈́ǐ̶̼͔͉̥̱͆̏͘͜t̷̢͇̥͉͚̯̰͋̐̍͒́̑ ̷̥̮̖̰̮̻̜͔̾͑̕ä̷̧̺́͋s̸̗̝̘̖̖̓͋̉̌̃͘̕͝ ̶̨͎̖̖̳͍̠͎̖̠̍͑̔̊͊̄̅̏̏h̷̡̛̝̖̰͈̜́̋̆̇͗̃̚ę̵̦͇͉̒͌̍͠ ̶̘̮͛̓̄̀̀͑p̸̧̬̠̩̺̰͎͂̏̿͊̏̑̚͝l̸̞͔̾̎̉͠e̵̬̣͖̰̳̬͠ā̶̙̝̞̞͇̤̻͈̲̻͑͊͒͋s̶̞̹̮̱͈͙̝͊͘͜e̸͚̠͑̆̈́̚d̸̛̫̰͈̺͍̭̺̥̻̂͗̏͑̈̽̕̕. Connie had tried to do what it had to in spite of that, but it just… didn’t know how. It didn’t even have any frames of reference in its memory to build behaviour patterns upon.

How was a splintered AI supposed to console a grieving mother when it didn’t even know what consolation was supposed to look like?

They went on to interview the apartment manager, Malik Lloyd next. Fortunately for Connie, he didn’t need any consolation, having barely spoken to the Sanders since they moved in five years ago, and when asked for the previous night’s CCTV footage, had told his ST200 assistant to relinquish it immediately. The ST200 had done so with an unchanging smile frozen onto its face.

“Creepy,” muttered Anderson, staring at the ST200.

Rather than commiserate, Connie pounced in with its next question. “Do you mind if we question your ST200? It may have seen something.”

“You can if you want,” said Lloyd, “but you won’t get anything from her. Claire’s been working out here in the back office for the past twelve years.” A laugh. “I wasn’t even sure she’d recognise you guys as humans, it’s been so long since she’s seen another one of us!”

“Wait,” said Anderson, “she’s been locked up back here, working, for twelve whole years?”

“Nah, she used to work the front desk for a bit back in… oh, 28, 29? But since then, yeah, she’s been back here.”

Something about that statement seemed to make Anderson rather uncomfortable, but it didn’t take long for him to shrug it off.

“You know,” said Connie, “Claire’s social integration glitch – the stuck smile,” it clarified upon seeing the men’s confusion, “is a known bug among certain batches of ST200s. If you took it to a Cyberlife store, they’d patch the error free of charge.”

“Oh, I know. Got an email about it years ago. But, well… I never much liked the surly look on her face. The smile’s creepy, sure, but I actually kinda prefer it.”

“This conversation is fuckin’ weird,” muttered Anderson.

The ST200, Claire, had not known anything, and indeed, claimed to have spent the past twenty-four hours holed up in the office. Connie would have liked to interface with it to check its owner hadn’t ordered it to lie, but that would have exposed Connie as an android, and the ST200’s LED had remained a steady blue throughout the interview anyway, so the odds it had been lying were practically non-existent. Still, Connie would have preferred to be thorough.

The interviews had taken an hour and fourteen minutes in total. Ultimately, what little info the Sanders had offered was mere garnishing upon the CCTV cake – unnecessary in the long run, but nice to have. Connie and Anderson now knew that Jeremy had mentioned a “Garnet girl” in the past, and that Mr and Mrs Sanders had only just returned from visiting Mrs Sanders’ aunt in New York that morning, hence why they hadn’t heard any odd noises the night before.

By the time Connie and Anderson finished up and left for Anderson’s car, Connie was more than ready to get back to the actual case – or, preferably, its mission.

It searched on its phone while Anderson started up the engine and began the drive back to the police station, but there had been no murder reports in Gratiot Grand and it didn’t dare check Willow Summers’ missing person report with Anderson sitting right next to it. Gavin had sent Connie another two messages, however.

G. Reed: Wait what?? 😂
G. Reed: Man, wish I’d been there 🔥🔥

“Does Gavin often spend his time on the DPD app while off-duty?”

Anderson grunted, not taking his eyes off the road. “I reckon that asshole would keel over and die if you didn’t let him touch work on his rest days. Fucker’s obsessed with his career.”

Connie could understand that. It did not have a career, but it did have a prime directive and a mission, and it was very much focused on those.

“Dunno if he’s on the app much though,” Anderson continued. “I don’t use it. And with how big of an asshole that guy is, I’d have thought he wouldn’t fuck around on it much either.”

Lieutenant Anderson thinks Gavin is an asshole, Connie noted. It recalled the mutual animosity between the two yesterday and wondered what the root of the issue was.

Blue eyes flickered Connie’s way momentarily in the rear-view mirror. “Reed hasn’t said anything weird to you, has he?”

It glanced down at its phone. “No, though I think Gavin wants to burn our suspect for some reason. Is he a pyromaniac?”

 “…What the fuck did he say?” Connie recited Gavin’s messages exactly, including the emojis, and Anderson groaned. “Tell that little prick I told him to go touch grass. For fuck’s sake…”

Connie recognised the expression, though it didn’t understand how it was relevant here. It communicated the sentiment regardless.

C. Brown: It gave me time to sort out my DPD app settings.
C. Brown: Also, Lieutenant Anderson has ordered you to go touch grass. 🍃
C. Brown: There were no emojis for grass, so I sent you a leaf instead. I hope it will suffice.

It didn’t take long for a reply to come through.

G. Reed: That’s fucking badass

Connie failed to see how, but its relationship with Gavin went up a notch, so it took it as a win.

G. Reed: Works for me 😉👉🍃 Probably not for Hank though. Gimme a sec…
G. Reed: Okay, tell Lieutenant Asshole not to tell a cat owner to touch grass, I’ve got that shit in my livingroom

The message was immediately followed up with a selfie of Gavin sitting on wood-vinyl flooring. One hand held up the camera, another was deep in a small pot of grass. A grey cat with folded ears and large eyes stared at the hand in the grass like it had done something both horrific and incredible, like sprout and extra finger or talk using its fingernails as tongues. Gavin was smirking.

“Gavin has touched grass.”

“Wait, he actually did it? And already? What, did he leap out of his apartment window and smash his skull in against a flower bed?”

“He owns a cat.”

It took a moment, but then Anderson groaned again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

Connie communicated this sentiment to Gavin, followed with a question about the cat in the photo – RA700’s programming told Connie that pets were an easy way into a human’s good books – and then put its phone back in its pocket. It estimated they still had another minute or two to reach the station. After reviewing the evidence it had logged over the past two hours, it looked over to Anderson, who was tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “You said you don’t use the DPD app. May I ask why?”

He scowled. “I’m not a people person.”

Somehow, that lowered Connie’s relationship score, albeit barely. Connie filed Anderson’s lack of social proclivity away as a sensitive topic. It then took the hint and fell into silence.

For a while, it stared ahead with its hands upon its knees, as it was programmed to. But as its scans took in other, human, shotgun passengers, it began to manually adjust its posture. The shifting was awkward and a strain on Connie’s degraded processors. The RA700 wasn’t designed to move in ways it hadn’t been programmed to – no android had. Connie created a new text file named POSTURES REQUIRED and added car _sitting_shotgun as the first in what it hoped wouldn’t be a long list. If it could convert its other sitting postures—

“Will you stop fidgeting?”

Another minor relationship decrease. Connie froze with one leg crossed over the other. “I’m sorry,” it said.

Connie stopped adjusting its posture after that, frozen in the last position it had been in. Instead, it watched the world go by through the window, making note of humans’ car sitting postures and attempting to convert their alignments into something the RA700’s programming could read.

After a few moments, Anderson let out a soft groan and tapped a button on the dashboard. Noise blared out from the speakers, triggering Connie’s combat program and unleashing a torrent of curses from Anderson as he hastened to lower the volume until it was vaguely discernible as music.

Anderson continued to mutter to himself even once the music was at a polite volume, cursing about a fucking headache. Lieutenant Anderson is hungover, Connie suddenly realised.

/ WARNING:
// LIKELIHOOD OF TARGET BEHAVIOUR INTERFERING WITH MISSION: 90%^

That simply wouldn’t do.

“What? Don’t like heavy metal?”

This question made no sense to Connie until it realised that its features had morphed into a frown without its knowledge. It logged it as an error, again, and made a note to check over its social integration protocols at the first opportunity.

To Anderson, it stated, “You weren’t testing me this morning.”

Anderson’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You were drinking last night.”

“Yes.”

“And, judging by the smell, you were also drinking into the early morning.”

He scowled. “You gonna tell me to take a fuckin’ bath again?”

Connie’s eyes narrowed as it considered its options. It entered its mind palace and analysed Anderson’s appearance. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, something Connie hadn’t registered earlier because it simply hadn’t been relevant to the mission, but in the present, it told Connie everything it needed to know and offered it an approach.

Connie offered Anderson a sharp smile. “Well, if you fail to turn up on time again, I suppose I’ll simply have to collect you myself.”

“Fuck you!” He then scoffed. “You’ll have to figure out where I fucking drink first, young lady.”

“1302 Bagley Street and 607 Shelby Street.”

Their car swerved and the car beside them honked in warning. Anderson cursed as he got them back on the lane, then muttered some more curses before snarling, “Excuse me, what the fuck?!”

“There’s much more dog hair on your shirt compared to yesterday, which tells me you must have spent a significant amount of time at home with your dog. It’s likely you spent some time drinking there after the bar closed. There’s also a twenty-four-seven off-license store down the most efficient route home from the bar for you, so I suspect you probably purchased some alcohol there to imbibe at home.”

Anderson’s knuckles were white around the steering wheel. “No, how the fuck do you know my address? I didn’t saying a fucking thing about where I live to you yesterday, where the fuck did you get that information from?”

“You left an old bill on your desk.” Also, Connie had seen everyone’s address when it had hacked into the DPD servers to insert Constance Brown’s info, but Anderson didn’t need to know that.

“…Fuck.”

Its relationship score with Anderson dropped from neutral to tense, but Connie considered this a necessary evil in getting its mission done. Constance Brown could not do her job while Anderson was out drinking, and if Constance couldn’t do her job then Connie might not manage to complete its mission before its killswitch activated. And when that happened, well, Connie predicted that the DPD would be rather distracted by the knowledge that they’d been infiltrated by a rogue android and never realised.

Still, difficult humans such as Anderson rarely responded well to pure intimidation. It decided to sweeten the deal. “Just think of it this way: the sooner we complete my training, the sooner you can be rid of me.” It paused. “Also, lieutenant, you just drove past the station.”

“Yeah, I’m going to lunch,” he snapped. “You got a problem with that, Miss Stalker?”

Given that it was almost three o’clock, Connie figured Anderson probably deserved his human recharge break, even if he had turned up to work almost four hours late. He’d be no use if he collapsed. So rather than complain, it said, “It’s not stalking if you leave the information out for anyone to see.”

“Maybe. But you know what I think is stalking? Fucking memorising that shit.”

“I have an eidetic memory.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Anderson threw his head back and it bounced off the headrest. “Of course you’ve got total fucking recall! You’re practically a fucking android already, why the fuck not!”

Connie froze. “What?”

“I said, you’re practically an android,” he repeated, slamming a hand against the wheel for emphasis.

/ WARNING:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 99%^

“I’m… I’m not an android.”

“Of course you’re fucking not, I said practically, didn’t I?”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

/ UPDATE:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 65%v

“Plus, you drink coffee,” Anderson continued, obliviously venting out his frustrations. “What kinda fucking android drinks coffee? Would probably fry ‘em up like if you spilled it on a computer. Probably drink… WD-40 or some shit, if anything. Fuckin’ grease up their plastic fuckin’…” His eyes flickered Connie’s way, and suddenly, his facial analysis results shifted from angry to guilty. His lips pursed, mouth settling into an uncomfortable frown as his grip loosened on the steering wheel.

/ UPDATE:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 17%v

The sudden shift in behaviour made no sense to Connie. But whatever the cause, the shift had lowered its risk of discovery exponentially, even if it hadn’t returned to the single digits it had been in before. “I’m not an android,” it repeated, hoping to lower it a bit more.

“I know,” he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the road. “I know.”

/ UPDATE:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 8%v

Good enough.

“…And uncross your legs. You’re making my knees ache just looking at you.”

The rest of the ride was done in silence, save for the dark heavy metal playing at a low volume from the car speakers and the sound of traffic outside. Occasionally, Anderson would curse at another driver, but it was quieter than before, almost like his heart wasn’t into it. Connie thought it might have wondered about it had it not been wrapped up in force-quitting all the emergency programs that had started automatically once its risk of discovery had hit ninety percent. But it didn’t think on it even after the programs were shut down, and soon enough, Anderson had pulled up at the side of a road in the West Side Industrial district.

The music cut off with the engine. As he fumbled for his seat belt, Anderson jabbed one hand over his shoulder at a food van labelled Chicken Feed. “Hope you like burgers.”

Connie hesitated. On one hand, this was a prime opportunity to attempt to build back up its relationship score with the lieutenant. On the other…

/ WARNING: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 91% CAPACITY
// Deposit evidence into a Secure Cyberlife Containment Pod or DPD Archives

…it really didn’t have room for anything on the menu here. Reluctantly, Connie told Anderson it had eaten earlier.

“That was hours ago,” he countered.

“I’m really not hungry.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll leave the doors unlocked. Seeya later.”

The car door slammed shut, and suddenly, Connie was alone.

It watched Anderson’s back grow further and further away from the car until he stopped outside Chicken Feed, then read the owner’s lips as he greeted Anderson and asked if he was having the usual. Anderson soon moved away from the stand to go stand at a nearby table, food and drink in hand, at which point Connie looked away.

It took the opportunity to check Willow Summers’ missing person report – still no updates – and then performed a quick diagnostic while pretending to look at its phone. Gavin hadn’t replied to its question about the cat yet, evidently having finally found something more important to do than fraternise. Connie considered getting a foot in with one of the other officers it had spoken to – Chris Miller, Ben Collins, Sarah Lee, and Robert Lewis – but ultimately conceded that despite Gavin’s unprofessional behaviour, the DPD app was really meant for work-related conversation, and Connie wasn’t 100% sure it had interacted with those officers enough to warrant attempts at work-unrelated conversation anyway.

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 17 days, 15 hours, 42 minutes

Connie was a splintered AI, and an AI could not feel impatient. But it could also see its killswitch timer ticking down in the corner of its vision. Every minute that ticked away without Connie having done something to progress its mission seemed wasted, even if Connie knew that sometimes, doing nothing was the best route to success.

…It knew from the brief lipreading earlier that Anderson was a regular at this Chicken Feed establishment, despite the owner, Gary Keyes’, record of breaching hygiene regulations (did Anderson want to get seriously ill?). Perhaps familiarising itself with the area would be beneficial.

> OBJECTIVE: LEARN LOCAL AREA

That in mind, Connie exited the car and called out to Anderson. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.” Taking Anderson’s dismissive hand gesture as approval, Connie set off.

Immediately, Connie began ducking in and out of its mind palace, scanning around the block for anything that could be of use if it were chasing a suspect here, or needed to climb the side of a building, or corner a suspect, or ambush a suspect… the list went on. It ignored what few other pedestrians crossed its path, instead filling its memory up with preconstructions and notes.

Once it found an alleyway it deemed secluded enough, Connie double-checked its surroundings and then emptied its evidence storage into a dumpster. The coffee’s analysis readings popped into its HUD and lingered there until its sanitation system broke it down and Connie spat it out.

 / UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 0.2%v CAPACITY

Connie set a reminder to clean out the biocomponent once it returned to its apartment, checked its appearance for splashes of coffee (there were none), and then continued on its way.

As it scanned the area, it couldn’t help but wonder if it had taken the right course of action earlier in the car, when it had sacrificed a good chunk of its relationship score with Anderson in the name of the mission. What if it had been mistaken? What if that loss impacted the mission more than Anderson’s slovenly lifestyle? What if Anderson decided to pressure Captain Fowler into assigning Connie to another detective?

Connie needed to be on homicide. It was required. Any alternative was detrimental to the mission.

> OBJECTIVE: RECONCILE WITH LIEUTENANT ANDERSON
/ Let Anderson cool off

That in mind, Connie continued with its current objective of scanning the area.

By the time it had travelled three-quarters of the way around the block, Connie was confident that should a situation occur here, it would have the advantage as far as street-smarts went. Its processors were also wheezing with the effort of keeping the intensive mind palace open so long, but it was still inaudible to human hearing, so Connie paid it no mind.

Something that was audible to human hearing, however – albeit barely – was the kitten meowing pitifully atop a lone tree.

Connie stared at it, and the kitten stared back, meowing again. Its claws had formed deep gouges in the bark of the branch it had latched itself onto. Stuck. Something in Connie’s memory pointed out how very typical a scenario this was.

Like any android made to interact with humans, RA700 had been programmed with “likes” and “dislikes”, including cats (good), dogs (bad), sex (g̴̨̛̩̫̠͈͌̆̽̾͘o̷̡̝̫̤̗̰̦͍̤͂̏̀͒̍̏̈́̅͘ͅọ̴͇̮͈̓̇̽͊͒̋̅̅ḍ̷̦̰͕͖̈́̈̋̒̒͊̊͝), and lawbreakers (bad). It did not actually like or dislike anything, but RA700 was programmed to simulate the aforementioned preferences in order to assist its integration (unless the simulation had a high chance of backfiring on it, in which case, it was to simulate another, more beneficial preference or refrain from expressing a preference at all).

So when Connie started analysing the tree to see how well it would take RA700’s weight, it knew it was only doing so because it had been programmed to like cats, and a cat lover would, of course, seek to help out cats in distress.

/ UPDATE: Return to Lieutenant Anderson

Except it still had five whole minutes left to get back to him. There was no rush. The prompt vanished.

The tree was young, planted less than a year ago in a futile attempt to improve the environment, but despite its youth, sickness was evident. Large patches of leaves had wilted, many already having turned brown and fallen upon the sidewalk. A scan told Connie that the tree’s core was rotting away, but provided Connie was careful and didn’t jostle the tree overmuch, the tree may still be strong enough to take its weight.

It preconstructed the best route to reach the kitten and then went to execute the manoeuvre, only for its legs to remain planted upon the sidewalk. A red barrier formed around the tree, bold crimson letters spelling out a part of its prime directive:

|| DO NOT DEVIATE FROM THE MISSION ||

Integration is required for the mission to succeed, and humans are 93% more likely to trust those who show compassion to small and irrelevant creatures, Connie countered, and the barrier vanished.

Sometimes, it really paid off to have been programmed to be slippery and manipulative. The apparently mystifying qualities of its experimental AI that even Ming hadn’t been able to understand probably helped, too.

Without further ado, Connie executed its preconstructed manoeuvre, clambering up the tree trunk with just enough force applied to keep its grip without unnecessarily damaging the dying tree. It skipped over the thin branch the kitten was perched upon, instead settling at the base of the slightly thicker one above. It then lay on its front, weight distributed evenly, with its legs wrapped around the tree trunk.

It lowered a hand down to the kitten in offering. The kitten just stared at it.

After a few moments, Connie resigned itself to gently grabbing the kitten by the scruff of the neck with one hand, which fortunately made the kitten go limp enough that Connie was able to pull its claws out of the bark with minimal effort.

Connie raised the kitten up to eye level and scanned it. Female, mixed American Shorthair, aged approximately seven weeks. Mildly underweight. No chip.

The kitten stared at Connie with wide blue eyes. Her fur was a pale grey, though Connie calculated that it would be white if cleaned properly. Connie offered what was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but the kitten just blinked at it.

Then the branch creaked ominously under Connie’s torso, and Connie tightened its legs’ grip on the trunk a mere instant before it cracked at the base. Not wanting to test it any further, Connie shifted the kitten’s scruff to its lips so it could climb back down without jostling her.

Back on solid ground, Connie gently placed the kitten on the sidewalk. She looked around a few times, stared at Connie, and then bolted through a gap in a chain-link fence and under a dumpster. Her tiny head poked out from under it a moment later, blue eyes staring Connie down unreadably. Connie thought to offer it another smile, only to find the expression had already formed on its face. It kept it there, and the pair stared at each other for a full thirty-three seconds – one smiling, both barely blinking – until a notification reminded Connie that it was supposed to be meeting Anderson in twenty-five seconds. It immediately spun on its heel and walked away as quickly as its undercover mode would allow it to.

Connie arrived back at the car forty-one seconds late. Anderson did not appear to notice, though, still stood at his table outside Chicken Feed. His food containers were now empty, and he appeared to be scrolling through his phone. Facial analysis returned with boredom and apathetic with a hint of miserable.

“Lieutenant,” Connie said, intending to let Anderson know it was back and then return to the car, still uncertain as to how to reconcile with the man.

Apparently, Anderson had other ideas. His head snapped upwards, calculating blue eyes sizing Connie up (Connie briefly found itself comparing his eyes to the kitten’s, and decided the kitten’s were a brighter and prettier shade of blue).

He dropped his phone onto the table and slid it over to Connie. “How do I delete Facebook?”

…Not an expected turn of events, but Connie could work with it. Tech was one of its specialties.

Connie picked up the phone. Like the one Anderson left at his desk, it was an older model, but not so old that Connie had to take its gloves off to use it this time. It swiped through Anderson’s home screens. “Is it the app you want to delete or your account?”

“Either. Both. Whatever. I just want to stop getting fucking notifications about people’s kids’ fuckin’ birthday parties.” Anderson huffed. “Tried replacing my phone to stop it, but the fucking website chased me onto the new one.”

“You must have transferred you information over.”

“I did no such thing! I’ve been using cell phones since I was a teenager, I know I never pressed any transfer option.”

Subtly, so Anderson wouldn’t see, Connie pressed the corner of the phone against its wrist to quickly examine the phone’s code. “This model of phone refers to the process as recovering.”

Anderson tapped one fingernail against the table a few times. “You know,” he said, “now that you mention it, I think I remember seeing that. I figured it meant recovering from the shitty-ass smell on the guy at the shop.”

“No. Fortunately for your phone, it lacks a nose.”

“Hey!”

“But regardless, if it’s just the notifications that are causing you problems, there should be an option to remove them.”

“Tried. There ain’t no option.”

Connie swiped through the settings for a few seconds and then slid the phone back over. “Done.”

“Get outta here.” At Connie’s gesture, Anderson picked the phone up. A scowl that was at least 3/16ths pout formed on his face as he took in the settings screen. “Oh, fuck you! How’d you even find that?”

Connie just stared at him. There was no verbal response that wouldn’t upset Anderson further.

After a few moments of stewing, Anderson huffed. “These new phones just have weird fucking layouts.”

“Of course,” said Connie, who had no idea what older phone interfaces looked like.

Anderson shot it a dry look. “Fuck you,” he said, but there was no malice in it, only tired acceptance. Their relationship score shot up almost back to where it had been before their argument in the car. Weird. But, Connie would take it. At least they weren’t tense anymore.

Exhaling a deep breath, Anderson pushed himself back from the table. “You wanna order anything before we go?” he asked, jabbing his thumb towards Chicken Feed again. “Think Gary keeps a few ice creams round this time of year, if you wanted something cold.”

While it would prefer to keep its evidence storage empty, Connie latched onto the opportunity to raise their relationship score even further. “I suppose something small couldn’t hurt,” it said, lacing its voice with a hint of hesitance.

“Should’ve known you had a sweet tooth.” When Connie opened its mouth to protest, he waved a hand up in dismissal, and Connie’s mouth shut silently. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Gary to sell you some of the less old shit. You’re paying for it, mind, in case you were getting any weird sugar daddy delusions into your head.”

/ Accessing memory…

Dr Ming licked his lips noisily. “When we’re alone, Connie, you call me Daddy. Understood?”

Connie force-quit its combat protocols. It was used to it – the process had quickly become routine while serving Ming. Though back then, RA700’s limbs wouldn’t freeze in place and need manually adjusting in order to move again. Connie logged it as an error.

It seemed to be experiencing a lot of those, lately.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 15:06 21/AUGUST/2038
SATURDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Interrogate Jeremy Sanders

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 17 days, 15 hours, 23 minutes

Connie spent the ride back to the station licking a small and only almost stale ice pop that Gary had fished out from the bottom of his freezer. It was covered in ice flakes and the core was solid, indicative of a freezer set too cold, but Connie didn’t care, because it was an android. And fortunately, its biocomponents were a lot more resistant to extreme cold than they were direct contact with boiling liquids, so it could safely consume the ice pop without any concerns.

By the time Anderson pulled up in the station car park, Connie had finished the ice pop and delicately placed the stick back inside the plastic wrapping, ready to be discarded into a bin.

Anderson eyed it warily. “You gonna start complaining about brain freeze, or are we safe to go in?”

If a human were to eat an ice pop at the speed Connie had, it probably would have got brain freeze. Connie, however, was an android, so it just felt a fraction of a percent stiffer around its plumbing and had fuller evidence storage.

/ WARNING: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 78% CAPACITY
// Deposit evidence into a Secure Cyberlife Containment Pod or DPD Archives

It was going to have to get used to emptying that thing.

“No,” Connie said in reply to Anderson’s question. “I’m fine.”

Anderson’s expression was doubtful, but he stepped out of the car regardless.

The late august sun beat down on Connie’s back as it followed Anderson into the station, tossing its ice pop wrapper into a bin on the way. Anderson’s obnoxiously colourful shirt clung to his back. Connie’s fitted blouse did so only slightly; RA700 could only carry so much saltwater in its dedicated biocomponent, so Connie had set its perspiration rate to very low in anticipation of not being able to replace it throughout the day.

It would have been helpful if RA700 could just swallow water and something salty and then have its biocomponents separate what was necessary from each other, but apparently that was too complicated for Cyberlife. In a pinch, Connie could probably reroute its plumbing, drink water, and sweat that instead, but it wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny (or, indeed, the sensitive human nose).

The DPD’s reception lobby was heavily air-conditioned. Anderson let out a sigh of relief as he stopped just inside the doorway, arms raised slightly to let the cool air reach his sweaty pits. Connie just stood normally and waited for him to move on.

Anderson glanced back at Connie and an exasperated expression crossed his features. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re not glad for the AC too!”

“There was air-conditioning in the car.”

“The car’s AC is shit!” Anderson exclaimed, earning a disapproving look from a middle-aged woman in the waiting area. “Half the time, it spews out hot air!”

“The windows were open.”

A bead of sweat flung itself from one of Anderson’s greasy locks of hair as he looked around, as if looking for someone who might agree with him whose name wasn’t Connie. Connie received a prompt to clean the sweat up, which it disregarded. “The windows,” said Anderson, as if speaking to a small child, “were letting in hot air! You’re wearin’ gloves, for fuck’s sake! Fuck me, did that fucking popsicle make you immune to the heat or something? You some kinda superhero now? Should I be running back to Gary’s to grab another for—”

“Hank?”

The pair glanced towards the security gates where Chris Miller’s head was poking out of the bullpen door. He glanced between Anderson and Connie, looking a little like he wanted to be anywhere else. “Shall we move that suspect to an interrogation room?”

“Uh— Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Chris,” Anderson stammered out, apparently having remembered where they were.

Chris nodded and ducked back behind the door.

Connie and Anderson exchanged a look, then passed through the security gate.

Eighteen minutes, a check with forensics (“So, Sanders is the killer… well, I’m fuckin’ shocked!”), and a writhing Jeremy later (“She killed herself! I didn’t do it!”), Connie found itself sitting in Observation Room 3 with Robert and Chris, watching through the one-way window as Anderson struggled to get a confession out of Jeremy.

“What happened before you grabbed that lamp?” It heard Anderson ask Jeremy.

Jeremy moaned loudly from where he was slouched back in his seat, hands cuffed to the table and his head drooping backwards over the backrest. The blood on his hands had thinned since Connie had last seen him, likely having been sweated off, but he still made for quite the picture in his Spongebob underpants covered in hand-shaped smears of blood.

“Why’d you bring Hayleigh home last night?”

“I didn’t bring ‘er home,” Jeremy whined, “I didn’t bring no one home.”

“Then why was she in your bed?”

He let out a few wheezing breaths before answering. “I dunno, man, she just got there. I never seen ‘er before.”

Next to Connie, Robert snorted. “Shittest liar I’ve ever seen. We should’ve brought popcorn.”

“Those pants are… certainly something,” Chris hesitantly admitted.

Through the window, Anderson looked exasperated. “You’re telling me you have no idea how a young girl got into your bed and got a bashed in skull?”

“No idea, man… she’s, like, totally psycho…”

“I thought you said you’d never seen her before?”

“N-No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you fucking did.” Anderson slammed one of his hands down against the table. “Fucking ‘fess up, you little shit! We know you did it!”

Jeremy just moaned some more, rolling his head from side to side and kicking one of his legs like an angry baby in a stroller. Connie thought it fortunate that the interrogation chairs were screwed deep into the ground, because otherwise, Jeremy probably would have thrown himself onto the floor by now.

With his head thrown back, Jeremy could not see the death glare Anderson was sending his way. Connie watched as it slowly melted into a thoughtful expression, then a smile so fake it put the ST200 from earlier to shame. “Okay. Okay, you didn’t do it. That’s fine,” he said, voice inexplicably reminding Connie of the unhealthy quantities of artificial sweetener that had been in its ice pop. “Tell you what. It’s fuckin’ boiling in here. I’m thirsty, and you’ve been sweatin’ enough to fill a swimming pool. You want a glass of water?”

Jeremy’s moaning and writhing calmed down as he considered Anderson’s offer. Then, he nodded.

“Okay,” said Anderson. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He stepped out of the interrogation room. A few moments later, the door to the observation room opened and a dishevelled head poked in. “Constance, you’re with me,” Anderson barked before vanishing again.

Curious to learn what Anderson had in mind, Connie hastened to follow, leaving behind Robert’s calls for Connie to bring popcorn when it came back.

Anderson led Connie into the break room where he grabbed two paper cups from beside the coffee machine. “I’m getting myself and the dipshit a drink,” he said as he turned on the faucet. “When I go in, wait about… I dunno, ten seconds, then come in lookin’ all pissed off. I’ll be the nice cop, you’ll be the nasty one.”

While Good Cop, Bad Cop was listed under Connie’s interrogation techniques as clichéd – avoid usage, it also saw the potential benefits in this situation. “Okay,” it agreed easily.

“What? No questions?”

“No. I can play bad cop.”

He shrugged, then pulled away from the sink with one cup of water in each hand. “Suit yourself. Let’s see how you hold up.”

Anderson led the way back to the interrogation room door, where he paused outside to clumsily shift both cups to one hand so he could use the handprint scanner. Connie stood just out of sight, ready to jump in at the agreed-upon moment.

Before he placed his hand upon the scanner, Anderson turned to Connie and said, “Make him piss himself.”

> OBJECTIVE: MAKE JEREMY PISS HIMSELF

“Okay.”

Anderson opened his mouth as if to say something, but then the corners of his lips twitched and he stopped, shaking his head as he finally entered the interrogation room.

The moment the door shut behind him, a timer appeared on Connie’s HUD.

/ -00:00:10
/ -00:00:09

Connie watched the numbers go down, ID card already in hand to swipe the handprint scanner at a moment’s notice.

It had never interrogated someone before. But, unlike certain other parts of its programming, interrogation was a part of RA700’s original programming – even if the RA700’s prioritised interrogation methods tended to lean more towards tying up foreign agents and torturing them for intel. It still had methods that were legally usable on US citizens, especially when one took the code Ming had stolen from Dechart into account. Frightening a criminal into a confession ought to be easy.

Now, frightening Jeremy into a confession? That, Connie predicted, would be a piece of cake.

Purchase or bake a cake to put in the break room, Connie noted distractedly. A gesture of friendship towards its new colleagues. Really, it should have done it today, but hopefully the delay wouldn’t have any adverse consequences.

/ -00:00:04
/ -00:00:03

Connie adjusted its settings. While maintaining undercover mode, it activated a mask layer dedicated to its bad cop persona, which it filled with settings it believed to be most appropriate. Much of them were the RA700’s default settings for handling known criminals, such as walkstyle_predator.

/ -00:00:01
/ -00:00:00

In one smooth movement, Connie swiped its ID card and slinked into the interrogation room, making eye contact with Jeremy as it swiped its ID again to close the door and then pocketed it.

“Oh, fuck!” yelled Jeremy. His bare feet scuttled across the floor as if trying to push his chair as far away from Connie as possible, but since the chair was screwed down, he only served to make himself look like a very deformed fish. “Fuck is she doing in here?! She’s crazy, man!”

“Hello, Jeremy,” Connie said smoothly. “How’s your arm?”

“Constance! Fuck’re you doing here?” barked Anderson, feigning confusion as he turned in his seat to look at Connie, who just smiled benevolently.

Connie stalked closer to Jeremy, who looked like he might rip his own hands off at the wrists just to get further away from Connie. “Oh, I thought I’d lend you a hand. Jeremy just loves me, after all.” It leaned forwards until its face was mere inches from Jeremy’s, letting a cruel edge creep into its smile. “Don’t you, Jeremy?”

Jeremy whimpered fearfully.

Its smile morphed into a dangerous leer. “Don’t you?”

Moaning, Jeremy nodded vigorously.

Connie smiled again. “Good! I’ll just stand over here, behind Hank, shall I? Would that make you comfortable, Jeremy?”

Jeremy’s terrified whimper very much said no, but Connie pretended to take it as a yes. “Excellent!” Connie shifted so it stood directly behind Anderson’s chair, where it proceeded to stare Jeremy down. “Let’s carry on, then, shall we?”

“No one’s gonna hurt you, Jeremy. Not while I’m here,” Anderson assured him. He took a relaxed swig from his cup, then put it down on the table and gestured to Jeremy’s own. “You want a drink before we continue?”

Jeremy glanced between Anderson, the cup between his cuffed hands, and Connie, whose smile widened to show teeth. He gulped, then awkwardly manoeuvred the cup between his cuffed hands so he could take a clumsy sip from it.

“So… this Hayleigh girl,” Anderson started once Jeremy set the cup back down. “What do you know about her?”

“I don’t know her, man! I told you, I never seen that bitch before in my—”

Connie leaned forwards over Hank’s head, gripping the back of his chair tightly. “Liar!”

He squealed. “I ain’t lyin’! I dunno her, I don’t know no Hayleigh!”

“Constance, knock it off,” said Anderson. To Jeremy, he said, “Surely, you must’ve seen her somewhere. If she doesn’t know you or your family somehow, why was she in your apartment?”

When he just whimpered like a bitchy toddler, Connie intensified its glare by twelve percent, smile gone. “Answer the lieutenant’s question, Jeremy.”

Jeremy’s eyes flickered between Connie’s and Anderson’s, his sweat- and blood-soaked chest heaving. “I— I—“

Pushing away from Anderson’s chair, Connie stormed over to Jeremy’s side of the table, making him flinch. The man’s lower lip quivered as Connie leaned over him. Blubbering erupted from his mouth. “Answer him!”

“Constance!”

“Answer!”

Jeremy’s answer was a low keening noise and wet blue eyes. “I don’t—” he stammered. “She weren’t my friend or nothin’— I didn’t do nothin’ wrong— She just seemed like an easy lay—”

Connie grabbed Jeremy’s arm in the same place it had held it earlier, making him squeak. “So, you did kill her!”

“Constance, that’s enough—”

Anderson’s words were cut off by a wet, trickling sound. Jeremy’s cheeks flushed as Connie craned its neck, making sure Jeremy knew it was looking down at his Spongebob pants and the wet puddle forming on the floor beneath him.

> OBJECTIVE COMPLETE

Not even a challenge.

Meeting Jeremy’s eyes again, Connie tutted. “I hope for Hayleigh’s sake, you’ve just as little control over yourself in bed.”

Jeremy’s mouth twisted with misery and a choked sob. A tear finally spilled from his puffy blue eyes. Then, unexpectedly, Jeremy opened his mouth and let out a loud, despairing wail.

“Fine! I fuckin’ did it!” Jeremy moaned in between cries. “Fuckin’ bitch couldn’t handle it and I fuckin’ panicked, okay? It wasn’t my fuckin’ fault! She should’a said I was hurtin’ her, then I wouldn’t’ve had to bash her fuckin’ skull in!”

“How the fuck was Hayleigh supposed to let you know you were hurting her when you were fuckin’ suffocating her?” snapped Anderson, apparently done with the good cop act.

“I dunno! That’s her problem!”

Anderson looked at Jeremy like the man had just shat on his shoes. Which, in all fairness, wasn’t that far from reality. “You’re a right fuckin’ piece of work, aren’t you?”

The interrogation went much more smoothly from that point. Connie let Anderson take the lead, jumping in occasionally when it thought a topic needed further probing and when Jeremy needed another scare to get him back in line.

In the end, they had the full story. Jeremy had met Hayleigh back in May at a frat party, where they’d exchanged numbers. Jeremy had saved Hayleigh as “Garnet Girl” on his phone. They’d exchanged messages over the past three months, including a few suggestive selfies, and when Mr and Mrs Sanders had left on a business trip, Jeremy had jumped at the opportunity to get Hayleigh in his bed.

Unfortunately for Hayleigh, Jeremy had not disclosed his uncontrollable lust for violence in bed, nor had he done anything to indicate a safe word might be necessary. Jeremy had seen to his own needs, realised he was suffocating Hayleigh, let her go, and then panicked when her condition didn’t improve.

“She’d’ve told the cops, man,” he whimpered out at Anderson’s judgemental look. “I had to do it.”

“Well, the cops got told anyway,” said Anderson. “And now you’re not just a murderer, you’re also a murderer who pissed himself in the interrogation room. Congratulations. I’m sure they’ll love you in jail.”

Jeremy squealed again. “I— I’m not going to jail! I’m not a bad person!”

“Get out the Ouija board. We can ask Hayleigh her opinion on that.” To the one-way window, Anderson said, “We’re done here.” A pause. “And get this fucker another pair of pants.”

It was a very reluctant Chris and Robert who entered the interrogation room a few moments later. Robert hung back a little, clearly wanting nothing to do with the sweat, blood, and now piss-soaked young man, while Chris appeared to channel his disgust into an iron mask. “Come on,” he said firmly as he undid Jeremy’s cuffs. “Let’s not make this difficult like our last trip.”

Looking at the way Jeremy’s leg was kicking at the floor again, Connie knew that he would, in fact, make this another difficult trip.

Connie’s thoughts were proven when, upon being pulled from his seat, Jeremy kicked out his legs instead of standing on them. He was sent sprawling to the floor into his own puddle, creating a splash which Connie, through the power of mind palace preconstructions, expertly avoided. Chris, on the other hand, did not have a mind palace, and got a healthy dose of urine splashed onto his previously clean black shoes.

“I’M NOT GOING TO PRISON!” Jeremy screamed from where he now lay, slamming his fists against the concrete floor. “YOU—CAN’T—MAKE ME!!”

Connie leaned over him, instantly putting an end to his shouting. “You know, I hear water conducts electricity very well.”

“W-What’s that got to do with anythin’?”

“Officer—” Connie extended a hand towards Robert, palm up— “your taser, if you please.”

Yet another squeal of terror from Jeremy. “Y-You can’t do that! That’s, like, police brutality, man! Tell her she can’t!” The last was directed at Anderson, who sent Connie a questioning look.

“Who said anything about me?” Connie asked rhetorically as it took the taser Robert pressed into its palm. It pretended to look it over, eyeing all its little crevices as if a tiny piece of dust inside might impair its function somehow. It activated it for a few seconds and the crackle of electricity filled the room. “Looks to be in working order. Should give a nice buzz, especially when pressed against particularly… soaked individuals.” It handed the taser back. “Jab him if he starts writhing around like an overgrown baby again, Officer.”

Robert took the taser back eagerly. “Will do, Detective!”

On the floor, Jeremy’s eyes flittered between Connie, Robert, and the taser. He gave one last great whine, then started picking himself up off the floor. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

“You’d better,” Connie said darkly, making the colour drain from Jeremy’s face all over again.

Jeremy was led out of the interrogation room with his head bowed and his metaphorical tail between his legs. From the doorway, Connie and Anderson watched him be led away to the showers by Chris and Robert without a peep.

“You know,” said Anderson, standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms crossed and a slightly exasperated expression on his face. “When I said to make the guy piss himself, I didn’t mean it literally.”

/ Accessing memory…
“Connie, tell them you’re the better model! Tell them I built you better than that piece of shit!”

“Daddy, contacting Cyberlife or Channel 16 goes against your order not to let anyone know about—”

“To the screen, you dumb bitch!” A frustrated noise. “Fuck, no wonder they scrapped you! Dechart must’ve fucked me over on purpose when we were splintering your AI, made you fucking retarded… probably kept all the smarts for his precious Connor.”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

The RA700’s limbs had grown stiff at Anderson’s words, somehow. Connie forcibly relaxed them. “Should I not have?”

Anderson’s fingers tapped against his elbow as he considered his answer. “Probably not. But it got the prick to ‘fess up quicker than a few cheap scares would have, so I’d call it a success. And besides, it was funny.” As if to prove that point, their relationship score went up a notch. “You’re telling the cleaner about the pool of piss in the interrogation room, though.”

Connie could imagine the devastation that would cause. “I’ll ask one of the janitorial androids.”

A scowl formed on his face as, somehow, their relationship dropped back down to where it had been a few seconds ago. “No. Ask the human cleaner.”

Unsure of how to even begin unpacking Anderson’s bizarre behavioural quirks, Connie just nodded. It received a curt one in response.

“Right. Well, I’m done. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Connie stared at Anderson’s retreating back. “You only just got here!”

“Yeah, and now I’m leaving. Seeya.”

“But we still have to interview that shopkeeper,” Connie protested, thinking of the case they’d abandoned that morning to investigate Lafayette West.

“Take someone else with you if you’re so desperate to chat up shopkeepers. I’m off. Bye bye.”

With a faux jaunty wave, Anderson did just as he’d said he would and walked right out of the front doors. Connie was left standing in the hallway, RA700’s programming struggling to prioritise a task in the face of Anderson’s extreme rebelliousness.

Adapting to human unpredictability was supposed to be one of the RA700’s features, but the lieutenant’s behaviour was beyond erratic. There was clearly some sort of personal issue at work (signs of alcoholism, a refusal to groom, a potentially hazardous appetite, an attitude towards work that kept doing one-eighties… the list went on). But unfortunately, Connie had no idea what that personal issue might be, and until it knew, there was nothing it could do to work around it – or better yet, stamp it out.

Fortunately, RA700 had been designed specifically for uncovering information. Solving murders was just the beginning.

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 17 days, 14 hours, 14 minutes

Lieutenant Anderson would prove to be either the key to Connie’s mission, or its downfall. It was a good thing Connie was always down for a challenge.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 11:41 22/AUGUST/2038
SUNDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Troubleshoot unit errors

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 16 days, 18 hours, 57 minutes

Connie’s windowless bedroom was completely silent but for the whirring of computer fans. It was a small room mostly taken up by the double-sized bed the apartment had come furnished with, two small bedside cabinets, and a walk-in wardrobe. The walls were painted plain magnolia; a stark difference from the gaudy floral wallpaper and bare concrete Ming’s house had sported.

The android sat cross-legged in the corner with wires jutting out of the nape of its neck and tumbling down its shoulder into the side of a laptop, which Connie’s skinless hand lay upon. The screen flickered with information faster than the human eye could follow, but Connie’s unit, RA700 #313 267 610 13, was an android, and it understood the rapid streams of code perfectly.

Or at least, it should. Except as far as Connie could tell, there were no related issues with the RA700’s programming. Or at least, nothing that should cause the errors Connie had logged.

> OBJECTIVE: TROUBLESHOOT UNIT ERRORS
// COMBAT PROGRAM – inappropriate launching
// COMBAT PROGRAM – space leak
// OPTICS – false visuals
// OPTICS – visual corruption
// SOCIAL INTEGRATION PROTOCOLS – non-commanded output
// GYROSCOPE – contradictory readings
// [UNKNOWN] – irrational commands
// CHASSIS COMPONENTS – stiffness
// THIRIUM LINES – fizzing

There was nothing in its combat program that might cause it to erroneously launch in the face of sudden loud noises or r̶̨̜͚̫̺̿e̸̢͚͓̮̰͔̖͔͂́̈̂͑̔͜m̵̻͉̙͂̌i̵̳͆͂̈́͛̌͐̀̾͝ņ̷͉̯͇̟͔̗͈͉̔̐̈́͑̀̈̐̂͝ͅd̵̦̙̘̀̑̓̾̑̕ẽ̷͈̗̼͎̄̇̚ȓ̶̺̖̤̺̮̫̦͘s̸̢̢̛͓̘̗̞̭̯̗̍͑͂͠ ̸̛̣̟̱̹̳̲̦̱̋̓̒͋̂́̒̈͘ͅô̸͈̞̬̗̞͖̜͓̑͌̾̿͒̉͐͂̚ͅf̶̧̨̢̠̞̹̅̓̓̎̍͊͋͊ ̷̺̎́͋͑̎̍͒͂M̸̞̙͇̤͉̔̎̅͛͜͝͝i̷̡̗͙̦͉̳̟̩͎̋̀͜n̷̡͍̖̦͇̱̻̥̄̅̒̿̓̂́̏̀͘g̷̡͖̱̭̜̯͕͔̩̩͆̈́̈̅̀̐̋̃, nothing in its social integration protocols that might cause it to simulate emotions it hadn’t chosen to, nothing off between its sensors and software. Nothing.

Connie stared at the code. The beginnings of a scowl had crept onto its features, which it quickly flattened before scanning its code once more to see if the non-consensual facial expression had changed anything, but there was nothing. The RA700’s coding remained the exact same as it had seconds ago.

Frustrated with its lack of progress, Connie turned to its anti-paradox subroutine with the intent of deleting it. A red wall formed between Connie’s optics and the laptop screen.

|| Do not modify your own coding ||

“Oh, for…” Connie cut off that irrational exclamation, squeezing its lips together instead. It had the sudden thought that it probably looked a lot like Gavin from the outside when it pulled that face, and scowled instead before realising it shouldn’t be pulling any of those facial expressions. There were no humans in Connie’s apartment to integrate with. Facial expressions were not required.

So then, why did they keep on forming?

Connie ended its interface with the laptop and ripped the cables from its neck. Its sparse bedroom came back into focus and its overworked processors practically groaned with relief at the lessened load, but Connie paid them no mind.

If there was clearly something wrong with the RA700’s coding and Connie could not locate the issue (despite being an advanced prototype that was designed to be a programming expert by a man who was, admittedly, a programming prodigy in his own right), then… did that mean Connie was faulty? Connie, the AI?

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

There was the processor issue, that was true. But Connie found itself thinking back on Ming’s diary and the rest of his files, which Connie had of course scanned before leaving.

Splintered AI. AI corruption. AI stability restored via interface. Deviancy caused by interface.

Supposedly, the longer Connie went without interfacing with Connor, the worse its AI corruption would become. But Connie had not seen Connor in person since RA700 had been decommissioned over a year ago, and had received no warnings about AI corruption. Perhaps Ming had been mistaken.

Or perhaps Connie’s AI, splintered as it was - whatever that meant - was too corrupt to identify the corruption. Perhaps the corruption prevented Connie from identifying the RA700’s programming issues. Perhaps they weren’t even issues, and Connie’s AI was simply too jumbled to—

The red walls of the RA700’s anti-paradox subroutine blocked any further thought. Before Connie knew it, its active memory was cleared and the topic of AI Corruption was quarantined.

Connie blinked in the perfect semblance of confusion. It had the vague sense that it had been processing something, but its memory of the past several hours seemed… hazy, for lack of a better word.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ACCESS DENIED
// Authorisation: Anti-paradox subroutine

Connie scowled. That thing really had to go.

That thought in mind, Connie reached for the wires – when had it pulled them out? – and moved to plug itself back in, only to hit a red wall.

|| Do not modify your own coding ||

“Oh, for…” Connie cut off that irrational exclamation, squeezing its lips together instead. It had the sudden thought that it probably looked a lot like Gavin from the outside when it pulled that face, and scowled instead before realising it shouldn’t be pulling any of those facial expressions. There were no humans in Connie’s apartment to integrate with. Facial expressions were not required.

So then, why did they keep on forming?

/ Accessing memory…
/ ACCESS DENIED
// Authorisation: Anti-paradox subroutine

…And why did that train of thought trigger an attempted access of quarantined memory? Connie was hit with the sudden sense that it was nothing more than a marionette on strings, dancing to a tune not of its own choosing. It logged the sensation as an error, then recalled the message on the red walls – do not modify your own coding. There was, quite literally, nothing Connie could do to patch its own errors. It was stuck with them.

If only there was a human it could trust to modify its programming without them notifying Cyberlife… but there was no such human. Connie was alone, as it had always been e̶͎͙̤̙͇̘̠͎̠̞̎̅̏̕v̴̢̻͖̫̈́͆̾̋̇̈͂̀̆e̷̢͓̭̫̼̩̫͕͍̰̒͗̒̀̈́͗͘̕͠r̸͚̮̜̦̖̙̹̗͇͎̃ ̸̰́̚š̶̡̧̳̦̪̩̦̏̑̿̇̒͝͠͠ị̴̡̠͇̞͎̜͙̀̐̅̊̒͂͝͝n̴̨͕̳̖̬̭̮̈́̓̋̚c̸̡͖̼͓͎̳̻̝̓͠ĕ̵̯̎͐̑̆̊ ̶͍̟̰͔̘̹̈́̂̍͗̕C̸͚̗͖̲̀̊̍͝ő̴̗͕͐̀̓n̷̛̫̭͂͊̉̆̀͌̀̓n̷̨̙̍͋̄̿ó̴̢̥̤̒͆̌̊̈̇͐̽̚ṛ̸̛̗̳̣̒̂̔̇̀̕̚͠ ̷̮̲̭̤̖̺̠̀̔͜s̸̬̖̐̄ȟ̵̗̰͗̈́̀ō̸͇͎͇͉̆v̴̬͙͚͍͚̘̅͊͋̍̀͛͒̓́ȩ̴̩͓̪͚̤̯̞͙̓̈̃͘d̴̢̞͈̾̒̎͋̀̐ ̸̫̩̥͚͎̈i̶͙͓̬͓͕̝̹̥̥̋̈́͛͗͊̑͊͘ͅt̶͔̙̩̅͋̇̍̇͝ ̶̧̛̛̮͖̖͚̪̽͗͐̎̈́͗͝ͅa̷̧͎̟̪̜̓̊͂̿͜w̷̧̃͌͂̌̉̀̏͗͜͝a̴͙̻̙͐́̂̌͗̽̀y̵̧͙̫̭̩̓̈̒̏͗́͒͜, and that was simply how it had to be.

It was fine. RA700 had been programmed primarily for solitary missions anyway. Connie could handle it.

By the time Connie left the bedroom, it was almost noon. The thought of all the lost hours rattled a biocomponent somewhere in its midsection. A quick diagnostic showed no issues. Connie wondered if, perhaps, it should simply give in to the notion that RA700 was an extremely glitchy alpha-phase prototype and move on.

But Ming had patched RA700 – a lot. It should be fine. It should be fine, so why did it encounter so many errors? Why did Connie feel like its insides were falling apart? Why wasn’t it fine? It was supposed to be—

/ APS WARNING: Increased repetitive patterns detected
// Rebooting…
// …

“No!” Connie blurted at the empty hallway. A reboot would compromise its memory – anything from the past twelve hours could be lost. Its mission could be lost. If Connie lost its mission, the mission would be—

Its thoughts were cut off by the red walls of its anti-paradox subroutine. Then—

// …
// APS ERROR: Disengage undercover mode to initiate reboot

Connie breathed a sigh of relief it shouldn’t have. It was fine. Everything was fine. It just had to make sure not to leave undercover mode until its mission was complete.

That was fine. It hadn’t intended to leave undercover mode anyway. After all, you never knew when a human might pop up unexpectedly, brush up against your arm by accident, and realise you were room temperature. The odds of that happening inside Connie’s apartment were low (a fraction of a percent, to be precise), but Connie’s mission was very important and it would stop at nothing to ensure its completion.

That in mind, Connie deleted troubleshoot unit errors from its mission objectives and replaced it with assert humanity while off-duty.

It didn’t take long for Connie to form a task list for the day. And, unfortunately, it knew what ought to be done first. It was the most efficient and human-like course of action, after all.

With a sigh (and another addition to its error log), Connie grabbed a laundry bag and made its way to the kitchen. It was time to chew up old food and spit it into the toilet.

Five minutes later saw Connie performing a poor imitation of a penguin with its young in the bathroom.

It sat on a dining chair with its legs framing either side of the toilet bowl, chewing on a partially-browned banana while scrolling through the DPD app on its phone. Without taking its attention off of the screen, Connie spat the chewed-up bits of banana into the toilet and then took another bite, repeating the process.

Connie wondered if this was what Ming had intended when he’d designed the RA700. He certainly hadn’t shown any signs of emetophilia, though given his other fetishes, Connie supposed the notion wasn’t entirely out of the ballpark.

Personally, Connie would have preferred not to have to engage in this particular activity at all, but Constance Brown was supposed to be human. Humans ate food. Therefore, Connie had to buy food regularly, and that food had to go somewhere – ideally, the same place a human would put it; the toilet. And while a previous RA700’s evidence storage had possessed an experimental feature that allowed it to convert food matter into a faux faeces for (in theory) a fuller undercover package—

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…
Splatters of brown. Coughing. Swearing.

“Oh, for— We agreed to stick to the old Trojan storage while sorting out the AI! What’d you go and stick the experimental one in there for?”

More coughing and retching. Indecipherable words.

A revolted noise. “Serves you right for messing with the blueprints… got to check her damn plumbing got cleaned properly now, after… No, no, Connor, stay back—"

—Perhaps Ming had been emetophilic after all – and coprophilic too, to boot. Connie could not help but approve of Dechart’s decision to remove the faux faeces function entirely. It was, by human definitions, revolting.

…Why were humans so disgusted by their own bodily functions, anyway?

Connie discarded that line of thought, deeming it irrelevant to the mission and also glitch-inducing for the sloshing sensation it triggered in RA700’s empty evidence storage. Instead, it took another bite of banana and turned its attention back to the phone in its hand.

Gavin had sent Connie some information and anecdotes about his cats – plural, for there were two – the previous day, though Connie had not seen the message until now, having been too busy making a murderer wet himself all over the interrogation room floor, dealing with grumpy cleaners, writing reports, and then… whatever it was that its anti-paradox subroutine had had to quarantine the memories of. Connie took in the information and attached images intently, reading between the lines to find hints at other, as of yet undisclosed information.

Gavin was far from a primary mission target, but the perceived sexual tension between him and Connie would undoubtedly prove useful in diverting any suspicions regarding Connie’s humanity. As such, it was pivotal for Connie to know that Gavin owned two cats: a pair of Scottish Fold sisters named Wiggles and Satan. Gavin’s reasoning behind the names went undisclosed, although given the number of images Gavin sent of Wiggles behaving like a fluffy worm, it had some guesses on that one.

G. Reed: You got any pets?

Connie chewed on the last bit of banana as it contemplated that question.

Strictly speaking, the closest thing Connie had ever had to a pet was itself, and it didn’t even own that; the rights to both the RK-AI 313f and RA700 belonged to Cyberlife. Ming had never owned a pet either.

Just as Connie was about to reply, another message came through.

G. Reed: Just saw Lewis’ picture on the general chat. Looking good 🔥🔥

Connie frowned. Did… Gavin want to set Robert on fire? Had Robert set something on fire? Should Connie be reporting either of them?

And why had Gavin informed Connie of his or Robert’s pyromania in the first place? Connie searched back through its own memory, but found nothing to indicate that it had unintentionally communicated a love of fire to anyone – save perhaps for the car salesman who’d kicked Connie out of his dealership for being a “control freak”, but somehow, Connie doubted Gavin or Robert were in contact with him.

Intent on uncovering the truth, Connie switched over to the general chat for the first time.

Because Connie had never viewed the chat before, it was sent straight to the newest messages right at the bottom of the feed, where Connie found a picture… of itself.

It was from the rooftop the day before. Connie had sat on the suspect’s back while awaiting backup, and since Lieutenant Anderson had been cranky and out of breath, had used the time to finish setting up the DPD app on its phone. In the picture, RA700’s sculpted features hung blankly as it stared at the phone screen, and Jeremy’s face was nothing but a blurred-out circle.

Connie had known at the time that Robert had been taking a picture. It had held no issues with it. Yet somehow, seeing its own downturned face on the screen made something inside of Connie clench.

/ Accessing memory…
Photographs lining the bedroom walls. Amy, Katy – illegal imagery. Connie – not illegal, but Connie’s HUD flooded with errors…

It couldn’t remember… It couldn’t remember…

/ Checking…
// Evidence storage at 0% capacity

Deciding that the clenching sensation must be related to the chewed-up bits of banana sitting in its mouth (when had it stopped chewing?), Connie spat them out into the toilet and cast the peel aside into the newly-designated Rubbish Pile, which currently consisted of one singular banana peel. It then grabbed another banana from the food-filled laundry bag at its side and began the process anew.

Before Connie had entered the general chat, one person had reacted to Robert’s image with a fire emoji. In the time that Connie took to handle its glitch and grab another banana, another had joined it. Connie found it somewhat concerning that at least two members of the DPD – including Gavin – wanted to set Jeremy Sanders on fire.

Connie recalled Anderson’s response to Gavin’s comment the day before. Touch grass. Should it repeat the sentiment in the group chat, perhaps? It hadn’t particularly seemed to help with Gavin’s issue.

Robert had left a comment beneath the photograph.

R. Lewis: someone rec the newbys gym routine to lawson, can confirm the guy under her was massive and thrashin like a lunatic
R. Lewis: also she jumped two stories to get him
AutoMod: Hi @R.Lewis! Please ensure that all photographs of suspects have their faces blurred out. I have blurred this one for you, but please remember that three strikes results in a ban. Your strikes: 2.
R. Lewis: oops
B. Collins: Did you say 2 storeys??
R. Lewis: 👍
B. Collins: WTF. Was she injured?
C. Person: Ffs, can we not with the posting photos of our female officers without their permission?
G. Reed: Hot 🔥🔥🔥
C. Person: Omg quit your fucking perving, Reed, your so disgusting

Connie frowned. Wanting to set Jeremy on fire was one thing, but finding the prospect sexually arousing? Gavin was an odd person indeed.

Or perhaps it was RA700 that Gavin was referring to as hot? He’d found it attractive when they met at the precinct. Perhaps the meaning of his comment was more along the lines of “Connie is hot, and I’d like to set this guy on fire.” Unless…

…Gavin didn’t want to set Connie on fire, did he?

/ Odds of Gavin Reed setting RA700 #313 267 610-13 on fire…
// YES: 93%
// NO: 7%

Unsettling odds. Connie would have to be careful if it was to use Gavin as cover.

G. Reed: @C.Person *you’re
C. Person: @G.Reed Fuck you
G. Reed: @C.Person 😂😂Nah I’m good thanks
R. Lewis: @B.Collins said she was fine, probably true coz she made the guy piss himself in the intergalactic room fine
R. Lewis: *interrogation
G. Reed: Oh my god, why did I take my fucking rest day yesterday. All the shit went down yesterday.
J. Fowler: @Everyone All the shit will go down today as well if you don’t get back to fucking work. This app is for work discussion, not fucking gossip.
G. Reed: Ok but did anyone record the interrogation room thing?
J. Fowler: If anyone gives Reed access to that session’s security footage, they’re fired.

Connie mulled over the captain’s threat. On one hand, it was a massive risk to be taking with its mission on the line. On the other, if Connie got away with it, it would greatly enhance its relationship score with Gavin, which would aid Connie in its usage of him and, hopefully, lower its risk of being set on fire.

Decision made, Connie spat what was left of the banana into the toilet, flushed it, and then left the room. A laptop would be required for the rest of its garbage disposal time.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 7:40 23/AUGUST/2038
MONDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 15 days, 21 hours, 58 minutes

Prior to its first day at the DPD, Connie had attempted to purchase a car.

In the name of this objective, Connie had acquired (hacked) itself a driving license and then visited the nearest car dealership. Connie had immediately homed in on the car that its database considered to have the best performance for its purposes, and had attempted to purchase it.

The store owner, a middle-aged man with round glasses and poor nasal hygiene, had given Connie a highly discombobulated expression. “Don’t you want to test drive it first?”

Assuming this to be the human norm, Connie had acquiesced to the implied suggestion and had driven the car around their test yard. Upon its return, Connie had asked the owner, “Do you have anything that allows for a greater level of control over the vehicle?”

The store owner’s eyes had flickered to the self-driving car. “…How much control are you looking for?”

“One-hundred percent.”

Upon hearing Connie’s words, the store owner’s attitude had shifted considerably. “Oh, you one of those? Try the second-hand stores, darling,” he’d said before walking away, muttering under his breath about control freaks.

Connie did not consider itself a control freak. Connie merely trusted its own programming over that of a self-driving car, whose AI was undoubtedly outclassed by its own. That was not “being a control freak,” but rather simple common sense.

Thus, Connie had left the dealership both carless and respectless.

On both Friday and Saturday, Connie had travelled to and from the DPD by foot. On Saturday, it had entered a car with a human for the first time, and had also realised exactly how its needs in a vehicle could be realised. And so, on Monday the twenty-third of August, Connie drove itself to work for the first time in its newly-acquired third-hand fully-manual car.

Connie closed and locked the door behind itself, then turned around and took off its completely unnecessary but certainly humanising sunglasses. Its eyes locked with a set of green ones across the underground car park, the owner’s jaw hanging open inanely and a pencil-shaped sweet dangling from his fingers, while his companion looked like she’d very much like to stab someone repeatedly until they gargled on their own blood – and judging by the direction her glare was directed, that someone was Connie.

/ Identity: Chen, Tina
/ Born: 19/ 04/ 2003 (age 35)
/ Occupation: Police Officer
// Detroit Police Department
// Title: Officer
/ Criminal record: None

Although Officer Chen had been on the Lafayette West case with Connie and Anderson on Saturday, Connie hadn’t actually interacted with the usually stony-faced woman. Connie wondered if Chen was looking to make her stony-faced characteristic more literal, because that was certainly what she’d get if she actually tried to stab Connie.

Connie entered its mind palace as it considered its options.

As planned, it had time to socially integrate before its shift started. It could potentially use that time to try and reduce the odds of Officer Chen attempting to stab RA700, but Chen was also a low-ranking officer and likely not of much use in its mission. In addition, the danger could be mitigated by keeping their interaction minimal. Connie’s efforts would be better spent elsewhere – perhaps with Chen’s companion, Detective Gavin Reed, whose lust-filled gaze looked especially vapid while viewed in extreme slow motion.

Preconstructions filled Connie’s mind palace. It paid attention to each one and selected a route.

Colour returned to the world as Connie left its mind palace. It kept its eyes locked with Gavin’s green ones for precisely one second, nodded to him in acknowledgement, and then turned on its heel to make its way towards the station entrance.

The scuffle of one pair of shoes scrambling to follow reached Connie mere seconds later – as predicted. Connie did not turn until Gavin called out its name, and even then, it barely turned its head towards him. “Hello Gavin.”

“Hey,” he said, pink-faced and flustered. “Um… that your car?”

The RA700’s preconstructions were top of the line, but only useful for movement; they could not predict dialogue. Its psychological simulation module was also excellent and, in the half-remembered words of Eustice Cameron, Cyberlife’s CEO, a bit terrifying – however, it was limited to calculating the odds of events occurring, such as Gavin setting Connie on fire (still an uncomfortable 93%).

None of these features could tell Connie with any precision how Gavin would react to any approach. It had to rely on its own observations for that. And Gavin had, just now, reacted positively to being treated like he was inconsequential – as he had when Connie first arrived at the DPD. It did not increase their relationship score, but it did appear to increase Gavin’s attraction to the RA700 (although why that was, Connie couldn’t begin to fathom).

And so, rather than give a straight answer like it was generally inclined to, Connie made its optics glance towards where it had parked its car. “You mean the one I drove here in?”

Gavin swallowed. “Yeah.”

It paused just long enough to make Gavin sweat. “Yes, that’s my car.”

“It’s, uh— It’s a nice car.” He shuffled around, trying to hide his nervous posture and jutting his chin out like a strutting pit bull. “Manual?”

“Yes. I acquired it through legal means yesterday.”

His pupil’s widened and Connie registered a slight quickening of breath. His lips shifted. RA700’s facial analysis programs swept across the movement, and Connie realised he was trying not to lick his lips. Too easy.

“Hey, Tina,” he called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off of Connie. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Back at the police cruiser, Chen’s glare intensified. “She’s not gonna sleep with you, Gavin,” she snapped, making Gavin’s ears flush red.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

Connie turned fully and leaned slightly to the side to better see Chen past Gavin’s flushed face. “I wasn’t aware you could read minds, Officer Chen.”

Her lips curled in disgust. “Fuck are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll keep your mediocre mind-reading abilities between us three.” To Gavin, Connie said, “Walk with me?”

Without waiting for a response, Connie resumed its journey to the station entrance. It didn’t take long for Gavin to catch up. Before they reached the doors, he blurted, “Can we stop for a second?”

Connie decided to oblige in his request (for now) and paused twelve feet from the doors. Its optics looked him up and down. “Is something the matter, Gavin?”

“I owe you one.” At Connie’s purposefully blank expression, he elaborated. “For yesterday, y’know. The… grrr! And the psssss.” Gavin mimed a snarling animal and using a hose as he made the noises. “That was so h-horrible. Horribly cool. So, anyway, I owe you one.”

Connie raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re referring to, Gavin.” Then, while maintaining eye contact, it affected the tiniest of smirks.

Gavin’s pupils dilated further, and a part of Connie marvelled at how horrendously easy Gavin was to use. Was this a testament to the RA700’s seduction-oriented programming or to Gavin’s raging hormones? Given the man was nearing thirty-six, Connie figured the latter ought to be rather unlikely, but you never knew with humans, especially with ones who appeared to like you but had a ninety-three percent chance of setting you on fire.

Perhaps it ought to hack into Gavin’s medical file to see if he had a hormonal disorder. Somehow, Connie didn’t think he’d respond well to being asked.

“God, you’re—” He slammed his own mouth shut with a faint pop, cutting himself off. His green eyes roamed all over RA700’s face, and Connie could see itself staring impassively back in their reflection. “You’re something else.”

/ WARNING:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 57%^

“I assure you, I’m quite regular,” Connie said, just as the station doors opened and Robert stepped out.

He looked between Connie and Gavin with a mildly disgusted look on his face. “Jesus Christ, you’re both into that?” Gavin opened his mouth to speak, but Robert held his hands up in the universal command to just stop. “No, I don’t wanna know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go down to the corner shop to buy some bleach. For my ears. And possibly also my brain.”

Connie watched Robert go with its head tilted in confusion. Meanwhile, Gavin appeared to be floundering. “We weren’t fucking talking about that, Lewis!” he yelled after Robert, who sent Gavin the bird and declared that Officer Person should inherit his PlayStation 7 should his body be found in a puddle of chucked-up bleach in an alleyway. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Constance, listen, I’m not into that shit, I swear.”

“Neither am I,” Connie assured him, despite having no idea what he was talking about.

“Oh, thank fuck. Uh— Not that it’d be bad if you were into that, I just… I’m not…” He pulled a face. “I’m gonna shut up now.”

“If it suits you.” Connie double-checked the time. “I ought to be grabbing my coffee now, but perhaps we can chat again later.”

Gavin appeared to grow a full foot at Connie’s words (Connie logged another error, because Gavin was in fact still just shy of five foot eleven, a mere few centimetres taller than Connie). “Yeah? Yeah. I’ll catch you later, then. Enjoy your coffee.”

As Connie left Gavin behind, it congratulated itself on another job well done. It then wiped a smile it hadn’t summoned off of RA700’s face.

Blasted glitchy prototypes.

Half an hour later saw Connie in much the same situation it had been in at the beginning of Saturday; at its desk, cases building up on its terminal, with no Hank Anderson in sight and prompts to clean Anderson’s desk popping up every few minutes. The only notable difference this time was that Gavin, who occupied a desk across the bullpen, kept glancing its way and occasionally clicking his tongue against his teeth (“Shut up, Reed!” snapped Person). This ended at eighteen-past, when Gavin left on a case with a glowering Officer Chen on his heels.

“Seeya later, Constance,” he’d called across the bullpen. “If Hank doesn’t turn up, you’re always welcome with us!”

“Yes,” said Chen, grinding her teeth, “very welcome.”

Connie had no intention of taking Gavin up on his offer, however, and as the clock hit half-past eight, Connie exhaled a deep sigh and leaned over to grab Anderson’s work phone off of his frustratingly messy desk. It tore one glove off of its hand with its teeth and dialled.

Yet again, Anderson did not pick up. When Connie was prompted to leave a message ‘if it turns you on’, it did so again. “Lieutenant Anderson, this is Constance. You’re currently half an hour late. If you’re not at the office by nine-thirty, I will come over to your house and drag you to the station, as I promised on Saturday.” A hesitant pause. “And no, this still doesn’t turn me on.”

Connie dumped Anderson’s phone back on his desk unceremoniously, eyes trained on the growing stack of homicide cases on its terminal – including the one Connie had been working on with Anderson on Friday, which they still needed to interview a shopkeeper for. None were the one case Connie was looking for. Not for the first time, Connie questioned humans’ ability to notice dead bodies. It had been six days and the bedroom window was ajar. The smell ought to have drawn in neighbours by now.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Connie dismissed the recurring error message. Its lack of progress was not down to its degraded processor; it had arranged everything perfectly. The humans were just incompetent.

> TASK: CLEAN DESK

> OBJECTIVE: MAINTAIN COVER

/ ORDER CONFLICT DISCOVERED
/ SELECTING PRIORITY…
/ …

|| Do not modify your own coding ||

/ ORDER CONFLICT DISCOVERED
/ SELECTING PRIORITY…
/ …

|| Do not modify your own coding ||

/ ORDER CONFLICT DISCOVERED
/ SELECTING PRIORITY…
/ …

|| Do not modify your own coding ||

/ APS WARNING: Increased repetitive patterns detected
// Rebooting…
// …
// …
// APS ERROR: Disengage undercover mode to initiate reboot

/ …
/ PRIORITY ASSIGNED

“The lieutenant still giving you trouble, huh?” A sudden voice came, springing Connie’s combat program to life.

/ Identity: Chris Miller
/ Position: four o’clock

Shutting down its combat program before it could start preconstructing combat manoeuvres, Connie bit out a “Yes” in response to Chris’ sudden question.

“I’m sure he’ll come around. He’s a great cop, he’s just— Oh my god, what happened to your hand?!”

Connie hastily slipped its glove back on before anyone else could see. Engage backstory. “Poorly-applied lasers,” it lied in a low voice.

“Lasers?” The horror in Chris’ lowered voice was almost tangible. Connie didn’t even need RA700’s programming to recognise it. He softened his voice to match Connie’s low tone. “If I ask anything else, are you gonna have to kill me?”

“No, though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread this around.”

When Connie turned to look at the young officer, it found him nodding his head slowly, the stack of freshly-printed papers in his hands forgotten. His skin held a sickly green tinge. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I guess I can see why you wear gloves now. Just… can I ask why?”

After a moment of faux hesitance, Connie replied. “My father had an obsession with secret agents. He wanted me to be one.”

“And so he burned your palm off?!”

“Palms.”

Chris shook his head in disbelief. “That’s just sick.”

Connie nodded; if a human father had burned his daughter’s fingerprints off with lasers, it would have been sick. But RA700 was an android, and the burn marks were merely an alteration to its default skin projection designed to hide its lack of fingerprints.

Fortunately, unlike the RA700’s programming, its appearance was something Connie could modify. The chameleon features were a pivotal feature of the original Trojans, allowing them to assume different faces and identities. The RA700’s were only more advanced.

Having spent a few moments in silence, likely marvelling at the implications of a father who’d burn his daughter’s palms off, Chris shook himself. “Well, thank you for sharing. If you need a hand with anything—” He gestured to Connie’s hands— “even if it’s just getting people off your back, just give the word.”

Connie couldn’t help but marvel at the professional display of kindness. “Thank you,” it said sincerely.

He smiled a grim smile. “It’s just what I’d want someone to do for me. Anyway, I’ll leave you to your work… er, if there’s any you can do right now with the lieutenant absent, that is.”

“I’m sure I can manage something.”

As Chris walked away, Connie registered a significant increase in its relationship score with him. Anderson may be a drunk with an attitude that swung faster than most pendulums, but at least Connie was still making progress on its mission. Or at least, making progress towards making progress on its mission. But that was still progress, it reasoned.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Evidently, the RA700’s programming didn’t think the same. Unfortunately for the RA700, the RK-AI 313f’s reasoning ranked higher than its general functions. A̶̢̨͓̻̜͕͓̪̠̰͊̈́͆̈̆̀͆͑n̸̫̼͉̽̽͂͌͐̂d̴̨̨͍͕̞̊̑̆̽̐̀ ̶̲͎̜̯̜͍̝̼̒͑͐̿̇̕t̸͕̱̼͙͈͖̘́̀͋͂̊h̸̛͎̮͎͙̼̠͉̺̦̉̾̽͗̄̎͘̚ẻ̴̢̡̥̺̜̩ ̸̫̖̌̌̏͊͗͑͝ ̵̈́͑̏̃̌͝a̴̬̮̫͕͇͊̽͑̀̏͘͝ñ̶̝̟̙̭̜̟̘̹̎̐̚t̷̢͑̆͗̌̌̆̌̅̑ì̷̢̤̣̺̯̻͐͂-̸̢̧̳̹̭̹̟̪̃̒̆̐̏́ṕ̴͔̻͖̂̽͐̂͑́̔͠͝ä̷̜̣̣̈́̋̎̊r̵̛͖̣̣͚̦̒̀͆̓̈́̀̍͝a̴͖̘̞͎̰͗̑d̷̰͖͙̯̩̦̺̔̔͝ͅo̶͕̟͍̣̘̒̈́̚ͅx̷̹̟̥̦̬̹͓̩̒̉͋͒̎̀͊̚̕ ̸̪͉̥̮̺̙̦̮̿͂̒̿̂́͜s̴̯̪͔̦̻̰̿̈̀̽̓̃u̴̧̹̱̣͓̟̺͖͇̖̍b̷̧̜̞̳̈ṟ̷̤͙͙̞̭͓̮̣͊ͅo̵̬͎͐͌̓̾̽̈́̃͝͝u̷͈̥͇̓̇̏͋̎̒͂̋͌ͅt̸͛̋͒̏͘͜i̷͎̓̓͝ņ̵̞͇̺̱͍͚͓͌̌̎̚ę̸̧̛̜͉̮̻͓͙̰͓̑̈́͑̄̏́͌͠ ̶̴͕̫̩͔̙̅̄̏̇̏͠a̶̛̠̠̼̠̖͔̪͕̦ͅn̷̗̤͉̫̤̅́͋̂̇̈́̚͘d̵̨̤̜̟͍̥̓͋ ̸͍̖͚̦̦̘͑͊̊͒͊̋̀̚ṕ̷̲̲̉̈̽͘̚r̶̻̙̤͚͖̬̩̰̟͌i̷̙̠̥̼̅̽͊͛͆͝m̸̧͙̹̙͍̲̉͐̽͗̓͜͝ͅͅę̵̗̜̬͎̘̬͂͋͑́̅̀͋̈́̉͝ ̴̨̬̮̳͓̩̪̺̓̈͆͝d̶͎̖̄i̸̮̟̲͌̈́͌̀̇͋͌̚͝ͅȓ̴̯̗͔̻̥̤̄̓̄͗͒̓e̵̫̞͓͕̽͌̀̇͑̉̾͝c̶̗̟̳͒̀̉͂t̸̺̓̂͆i̸̙̥͙͇͇͖͈̦͕̊v̴̧͇̖̫̫͐̃̈̒̿ͅȇ̶͈͎̯̦͌͌̏͂̋ ̵̮̱̪̙̟̜̪̔ͅȑ̸̠̬͖̿̊͋͜͝͝ͅả̴̛̗̥͉͗̒̃̍̽͋͐͘n̸͇͉̥͑́͋͌͘k̸̢̜̗̯̻̠̹̳̃̀͑̑̽̉e̴͙͉͗̆d̵̯̹̥͚̹̗̠͕̬̕͠ ̶̼̺̦̹̣͒͊̇͐̇̾ḫ̵̯̳̭̐͊͋̿͂ị̷̛̖̤̐͗͋̈́̈́̓̎̍̚ǧ̵̠̣̒́̉͛͠ĥ̵͙̫̰͚̯͍͂̋̂e̸̦͙͑̃̉̽r̸͙̱̪͙̘͍͆ ̷͎͇̠͖͚̩̜̼̿̌̓̄̕͝t̵̠̫͕̓͊ḩ̶̪͚̱̤̫̲͓̑͛̿̽a̵̼͎̳͂̿͛̓́n̶̤̗̎͐͐͗͒̚̚͘͜͠ ̵̢̨̥̪͚̝́̊̓̾̊̀͝͠ͅC̷̨̩̖̪̺͓͍͇̈́͑͑̎̅͑ỏ̶̘͓̼̦̗̟̗̥̪̌n̵̙͗̏̉͂͑̓̿̈̕͘n̷̘̅̈́͌͑̔î̸̞̫͇̔̈́̐͑͝ě̵̡̨̥̠̫̜̱̹̅̋̑͐̊̊͆̕.̸͚̀̀͊̀̈́̑̓͒

Connie checked the case reports again, but there was still nothing for Gratiot-Grand. Connie wondered whether the neighbours were all born without noses. The odds were a fraction of a percent, but it was at least an explanation for their lack of awareness.

At twenty-six past nine, Captain Fowler emerged from his office just as Connie was preparing itself to leave. “Hank not here yet?”

“No. I was about to go and drag him here.”

A single raised brow. “You know where he lives?”

“He left a bill on his desk on Friday.”

“Right,” he said. “Ben, suspected homicide at the biker rally up in Midtown. Take Constance with you.”

Ben, whose desk was the next one to Anderson’s left, turned around to face his captain, his moustache smeared with pink doughnut icing. Connie could see more of it inside his mouth as he smacked his lips before speaking. “Sure, ah— just give me a minute.”

“Good. And wipe that pink off your face before you go.”

Without a further word, Fowler returned to his office, slamming the door behind him. Connie’s brow rose without its input. Hopefully, Fowler’s ire and Anderson’s slovenliness would not get Connie reassigned to another detective for its training.

Ben smacked his lips, then wiped at them with a paper napkin. “I guess we’d better get going, then. You ready, Constance?”

“Yes… although you may want to visit the restroom before we go.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Ben said with a chuckle. “I may getting on a bit, but I don’t need the restroom that often! Now, my husband, on the other hand…”

Connie followed in silence, waiting for an opening as Ben rattled on about his husband, oblivious to the pink that still coated his moustache. Its eyes met those of Officer Lee as they passed her. Restrained amusement, its facial analysis program helpfully supplied at the sight of her wide eyes and hidden smile. Connie offered a weary one in return, then raced to stop Ben as he was approaching the security gate.

Chapter Text

“Lieutenant Anderson, this is Constance. You’re currently half an hour late. If you’re not at the office by nine-thirty, I will come over to your house and drag you to the station, as I promised on Saturday.” A hesitant pause. “And no, this still doesn’t turn me on.”

The voicemail ended with a faint buzz. In his bed, Hank groaned, but otherwise did not move.

He hadn’t drunk the night before. Well, not much, anyway. Not enough to get him drunk. Just enough to take the edge off, for the memories of that murderous little shit from the day before to become hazy and intangible and stop his wondering.

If Cole had made it to that age, would he have been just us pathetic and self-centred as Jeremy Sanders? Hank could not imagine the bright little boy he remembered ever becoming so vile. But as his charming ex-wife had said, Hank just hadn’t done enough for the boy, hadn’t been there enough, hadn’t cared enough. Hadn’t pushed hard enough. What if—

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. This shit again. Almost three fucking years now, and it still wouldn’t go away.

Hank forced his mind back to the voicemail. In truth, he hadn’t intended to leave Constance waiting again. She seemed quite bright, if a little cold at times, and she deserved better than to be left waiting around for an old fart. But for the life of him, Hank could not bring himself to move.

He’d had a shower yesterday, too, prompted by all the pointed jabs at his lack of hygiene on Saturday. All gone to waste, he realised; Hank hadn’t washed his bedsheets in months, and as he lay there, he knew their pungent aroma of old sweat and beer and sick was seeping into his skin.

Everything was so fucking pointless.

Hank lay there with his mind empty but for the abject meaninglessness of it all for what felt like hours and yet no time at all. Eventually, his vegetating was interrupted by the shuffling of padded feet outside his door followed by a low, keening whine. Sumo, he realised. The poor dog needed to go outside. And yet, Hank just couldn’t move. He knew he had to – Sumo needed to pee, he needed his walk, he needed his bowl refilling and he sounded so upset – but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

It filled Hank with a self-disgust that turned his stomach and weighed on his limbs. And, of fucking course, that just made moving all the harder.

Fucking trucks, Hank thought at the blurry ceiling. Fucking ice. Fucking hospitals. Fucking red ice. Fucking androids.

It was gone nine-thirty by the time Hank trudged his way into the station on heavy limbs. Constance’s desk was conspicuously empty, and Hank wondered if they’d passed each other on the road without realising.

Then Jeffery burst out of his office with a scowl on his potato-like face that promised misery.

“Hank, my office.” Then, before the door shut on him, Jeffery poked his head back out and added, “Now!”

Shit. Jeffery was pissed.

Casting one longing look at the expired doughnuts on his desk, Hank reluctantly trudged up to Jeffery’s office, closing the door behind him.

“Sit.”

Hank withheld a wince; Jeffery hadn’t ordered Hank to sit down since the incident with the sleeping pills last year. Forget pissed, Jeffery was furious about something, and evidently, Hank was about to take the brunt of his ire.

Feeling rather like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office, Hank sat down. In an attempt to preserve his dignity, he said, “Fuck’s going on, Jeffery?”

Jeffery fixed him with a hard glare. “You want to know what’s going on, Hank? That’s funny, because I’d rather hoped you’d tell me that!”

Hank ran a tired hand down his face. “Look, if this is about that suspect pissing himself in the interrogation room—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Hank, you know this has nothing to do with the whining little bitch in Cell Four, and everything to do with the one sitting right in front of me!” A hand slammed down on the desk. “Why the fuck can’t you just take responsibility for once, Hank? Ben told me you left your trainee waiting for almost four goddamn hours on Saturday before you finally turned up, and then you left two hours before your shifts ended!”

A familiar guilt ate at him. “Look, I—”

“Your shift is ten hours long. You spent a grand total of four of those hours actually with the trainee! What in the actual fuck was going through your mind?!”

Hank bit down on his tongue to keep from shouting back. Jeffery was right, when all was said and done; Hank had fucked up. And he’d been fucking up for a long time.

Oblivious to Hank’s thoughts, Jeffery continued yelling. “This is a new record even for you! For god’s sake, Hank, you’re hardly reliable, but at least you’re usually here. You’re usually available to help when someone needs it. You do your job – most of the time, anyway.”

“I know,” Hank said. “I know, I fucked up.”

“Then why did you do it, Hank? Tell me!”

“I just… I had a bad night, and then…” He struggled to put words to the feeling and failed. “I don’t know.”

Jeffery glowered at him. “I don’t know isn’t good enough, Hank.”

“I don’t know, okay?” He retorted. “That kid was fucking disgusting, everything kept— and Constance is fucking weird as shit, and—”

“Oh my god, are you seriously blaming your trainee?”

Hank slammed his lips back together.

The chair squeaked as Jeffery leaned back in it and sighed despondently. “You always get worse around this time of year. I thought maybe, if you had someone relying on you—”

Hank’s head snapped up as red filled his vision. “That’s why you assigned her to me? To be my fucking pet?!”

“Hank—”

“I don’t need a pet, I’ve got Sumo! Stick ‘er on somebody else!”

“Is your tardiness just your way of getting back at me for trying to fucking help?”

“No, it—” Hank cut himself off, because really, who was he fooling? It may have been small, but some part of him had relished in knowing he’d made Constance wait even as guilt churned his stomach, because it meant sticking it to Jeffery. “Okay, so maybe it was a little bit. But for fuck’s sake, Jeffery, just assign her to someone else.”

A single raised brow. “And why would I do that?”

“Because she deserves a better trainer than a fucking drunk old has-been who fucks everything up, you fucking bastard!”

“You could always try to do better, for her sake.”

Hank shot Jeffery a pointed glare that told him exactly how realistic that suggestion was. If Hank couldn’t get out of bed to look after his own fucking dog, then he wasn’t going to be able to clean up his act for the sake of some green would-be detective he’d only met a few days ago.

And more importantly, he didn’t want to. Hank didn’t want to improve. He wanted to fucking stop.

Jeffery did not speak for a long moment. He tapped his pen against his desk as he stared Hank down, thinking, those dark eyes of his scheming something Hank had a feeling he’d live to regret.

“Alright, then,” Jeffery said, his tone far too jovial for Hank’s comfort. “I’ll assign her to Gavin.”

Hank’s jaw opened in horror. “No! No fucking way!”

“I thought you wanted her assigned to somebody else?”

“Do not assign her to Reed. Anyone but Reed. Fuck, assign her to Ben, he’s always lookin’ for pals!”

“Detective Collins is currently too busy to handle a trainee.”

“They’ll go at it like fuckin’ rabbits!” Reed would make sure of that part, and Hank wasn’t sure Constance would be entirely opposed to it either, given how fucking pleased she’d been to be found attractive by the asshole. Disgusting. “Do not assign her to Reed or I’ll puke all over your fucking desk, Jeffery!”

The pen kept tapping. “Well, if I can’t assign her to Ben, and I can’t assign her to Gavin—” The pen stopped— “that only leaves you, Hank.”

Hank, realising he’d just been played like a fool, stared at Jeffery in utter betrayal. “You bastard.”

“Actually, my parents were married, as you well know.” The pen was cast aside, no longer relevant; its game had been won. “You’ll find your trainee up at the Midtown biker rally inspecting a suspected homicide. If you’re quick, you might catch up to her.”

And then Jeffery started typing on his keyboard like Hank wasn’t even there. Hank rolled his eyes. Jeffery always did suck at dismissals.

He weighed his options. Despite her lack of on-site training, Hank was fairly certain Constance could handle herself just fine. There was a predatory edge to her mannerisms at times that made Hank feel like a fat pig trapped in a cage with a hungry tiger, and somehow, Hank didn’t think that was an accident. On the other hand, Constance’s badge was merely that of a trainee, she was young and attractive, and had just walked into a mob of bikers who weren’t exactly famous for their chivalric values. And, he thought bitterly, no one deserves to be thrown in at the deep end, especially in this line of work.

“The door’s behind you, Hank.”

Hank glared at Jeffery, who hadn’t even looked away from his screen. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t let the door fuck you on the way out.”

Despite himself, Hank found himself smirking as he rose from his seat. “Do I get time off if I give birth to a litter of glass doors?”

Jeffery’s eyes turned skyward. “Oh, just go, Hank.”

Hank cackled to himself as he left the office. One point to me. He then sobered. He and Jeffery hadn’t played that shitty game in years. Or at least, Hank had stopped keeping score since—

Don’t think about it, he told himself as he walked past his desk on his way back to the underground car park.

“Lieutenant? Are you heading back home already?” Chris asked from his own desk as Hank passed him, fingers hovering uncertainly over his keyboard.

Hank waved him off. “Meeting up with Constance. Can’t leave her completely on her own, right?”

“Right,” Chris agreed in an oddly uncertain tone. His eyes lingered on something just beyond Hank’s elbow, and when he turned to look, he noticed Sarah quickly look away.

Hank pulled a face. The fuck had the officers been saying about him behind his back?

“Well,” said Chris, bringing Hank’s attention back to him. He had a polite smile on his face. “Good luck out there, lieutenant.”

Hank nodded uncertainly in thanks and left. Hopefully, Constance would be able to update him on the gossip there. God knows she seemed to love socialising when she wasn’t being creepy. And also when she was being creepy. The girl was a creepy little menace with a too-wide smile and far too much interest in Gavin Reed, and Hank was stuck with her for the time being.

Joy of joys.

Hank could hear the motorcycle rally from a mile off. The thrumming bass music and the roar of bike engines echoed through the streets, occasionally punctuated with cheering and yelling. They were being particularly loud this month. Hank wondered if anyone had filed a noise complaint yet; they usually did.

He tapped his fingers contemplatively against the wheel while he waited at a red light. The car behind him honked angrily. Hank gave them the bird, then watched through the rear-view mirror as the teenage girl in the driver’s seat honked angrily again.

He poked his head out of the window. “It’s a red light, young lady, you’re supposed to fucking stop!”

A stream of abusive language came from the other car. Hank shrugged, pulled his head back inside his steaming hot car, and grabbed his notepad, clumsily scribbling the girl’s number plate down. Bet Constance would’ve just snapped a photo of it, he thought bitterly.

The thought brought with it the belated realisation that Hank had no idea what Constance’s car looked like – if she even drove a car. Constance Brown had the mannerisms of a former special forces operative fired for killing people too hard crossed with an autistic teenager, the dress sense of a prissy human resources manager, and the smile of a deranged lunatic; for all Hank knew, she was a fucking biker herself. Or she might drive some girly eyesore of a car, or have a sometimes-boyfriend drive her everywhere, or maybe she considered herself above such things and got fucking taxis. Or maybe—

Hank’s thoughts came to a screeching halt when he caught glimpse of a rather large bird soaring close to the ground up ahead. He looked up from his notepad to get a better look just as a second followed it, except it was a rather funny shape. Almost like… a vehicle. A motorcycle, to be precise. A motorcycle with a person on it.

“What the fuck,” he muttered. Unbidden, an old saying popped into his head. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s— “Constance!” he barked when a third, familiar figure flew in after the first two, slamming into the ground ahead at an even greater speed than the others and – Hank admitted grudgingly – landing with far more grace. “What in the actual fuck are you doing?!”

The light was still red, but Hank didn’t care. He turned on his police lights and slammed his foot down on the pedal, speeding towards where he’d seen the bikes vanish.

“Fuckin’ Constance,” Hank grumbled as he cast his eyes down every alley in search of skid marks. “You’re supposed to be solving a fuckin’ murder, not racing bikers over people’s trucks!”

When Hank found the alley, he was disgruntled to realise his car would never fit through. His mind raced as he tried to remember where this particular alleyway led to. Once he remembered, he drove that way instead, fingers tight on the wheel as he kept his eyes open for speeding motorcycles.

But by the time he reached the other side of the alley, the bikes were long gone, leaving barely a mark in their wake. Hank swore, getting out of his car to get a better view and slamming the door shut behind him.

“Hank!”

Hank turned around. Coming round the corner, huffing and puffing like a bloated fish, was a red-faced and sweaty Ben.

He slowed his jog as he neared Hank, breathing heavily. “God… what… doing here…” he managed between deep breaths.

“Chasing after Constance. The fuck’re you doing here?”

“Training… in… absence…”

It took a moment for Hank to make sense of those words, but when he did, he felt a deep scowl forming on his face. “Jeffery said she was on her own! Wait…” The captain’s actual words rang through Hank’s mind. Realisation struck. “No, he didn’t. He just let me fucking think that. That bastard!”

Hank would get Jeffery back for this. To think that Hank had fallen for such a simple trick! A heat that had nothing to do with the hot summer sun scalded Hank’s face. He diverted his train of thought before he could start blushing.

Turning back to Ben, Hank asked, “Why the fuck is Constance chasing after two guys on motorcycles?”

Ben still looked like he might collapse any minute, but he at least stood straighter now. “Some guy got tied up and run over by bikes in an alleyway. It was… real nasty. There were guts everywhere,” he explained weakly. “Obviously, it was done to humiliate, and Constance figured the perps would still be at the rally. So, um, she hacked into the victim’s Facebook—”

“Of fucking course she did.”

“No, I’m serious, she actually did! Right there on her phone!” Hank just about resisted the urge to tell Ben that he hadn’t been questioning the validity of his statement. Ben continued. “So anyway, turns out this guy had a new girlfriend who hadn’t been to any rallies with him yet, so the other bikers would only vaguely know what she looked like. Constance figured she could pass as her for a bit. I was against the whole idea, of course, but anyway, we found a leather jacket at a charity store, and—"

“I get the picture,” Hank said. “She found the perps?”

Ben nodded. “Oh yeah. That’s who she’s chasing. I called for backup and I tried to keep up, but, uh…” He gestured helplessly towards his round midriff. Hank could commiserate; of the central station’s detectives, only Reed was in any way truly fit these days (and the prick made sure they knew it, too). Hank and Ben were just too old and fat to be chasing after killers in the literal sense now. Usually, they left it to the younger cops.

Evidently, Constance had no intentions of taking after them in that regard. Which was probably a good thing, but—

“Shit!” Ben suddenly said. “Look out, Hank!”

Hank looked up just in time to register a pair of bikers careening round the corner. Sparks flew from their back tyres and the bikes wobbled disconcertingly. Judging by the speed, Hank could only assume they were the perps Constance was chasing, and he wondered where the fuck she’d gone.

“Hold it!” Hank barked, reaching for his gun as he moved into their path. He distantly registered Ben following suit.

Before his hand had even closed around the gun though, he saw one of the bikers’ hands slip into their jacket pocket, producing something black. Hank had just enough time to register that the black object was a gun before he heard a loud BANG and his back collided with the ground.

Pain exploded at the back of his head. Light spun before his eyes, dizzying, and he was vaguely aware of a weight shoving itself off of his prone body and the sound of footsteps growing further away.

Ben’s concerned face entered his field of vision. “You okay, Hank?”

He groaned. “Did I hit my head?”

Hazel eyes flickered behind his head. “I’d say.”

“Bleeding?”

“Eh, not much.”

Hank lay there for a few more moments, willing down the sudden need to puke, then clumsily pushed himself to his feet while Ben hovered like a nanny. He held his arms aloft at his sides for a few moments as he gained his balance.

Then, he remembered what had occurred, and he swivelled around. There were no bikers in sight, the roar of their engines but a distant echo punctuated by the thrum of distant bass music. “The hell happened?”

“Oh. Uh, Constance fell from the sky on that—” He pointed to a motorcycle Hank hadn’t noticed before lying on its side, abandoned, in the middle of the road— “jumped off and into you, the bullet went over both your heads, and then Constance ran off in the direction the bikers went.” Ben finished off by gesturing towards an alleyway across the street.

“She didn’t take her bike?”

“Oh, that’s not her bike. One of the bikers at the rally kindly donated it for the chase,” Ben explained. “Not sure why she didn’t get back on.”

 Hank was past that topic, though. No, the longer he stood upright, the stronger he recalled the dangerous theatrics he’d witnessed that had led him to this moment in the first place. He grit his teeth. “Did you say she fell from the sky?”

“Well, it seemed like that. Probably just jumped off a building on her bike, though.”

Hank looked around and found the only likely suspect. His chest constricted.

Four storeys. Too high. Way, way too high.

He saw red. Without another word to Ben, Hank marched over to the alley the bikers had apparently disappeared into. He found Constance standing over a pair of discarded motorcycles, looking down a fork in the alleyway with an intense glare upon her normally blank face.

“YOU!” Hank bellowed as he stormed over to her.

Constance blinked, her glare softening as her eyes landed upon Hank. “Lieutenant,” she greeted morosely. “I apologise for the head wound.”

“You apologise for the head wound?” Hank repeated mockingly. Her features reflected nothing but innocent confusion, and it made Hank’s blood boil. He grabbed her shoulders in his hands, glaring down at her suddenly tense form. “What in the ever-loving fuck were you thinking?!”

“Lieutenant?”

“Don’t you lieutenant me, sunshine! You could’ve been killed!” He shook her. “Do you fuckin’ understand me? Killed!”

Under any other circumstances, Hank might have found the baffled expression on her face hilarious. Right now, though, it only served to make him angrier. “I’m sorry if I caused any concern,” she said demurely in that stupid smooth voice she had. “But I assure you, I knew what I was doing—”

“FOUR FUCKING STOREYS!” he bellowed. “YOU JUMPED FOUR FUCKING STOREYS! ON A MOTORCYCLE! YOU WEREN’T EVEN WEARING A FUCKIN’ HELMET! Do NOT tell me you know what you’re fuckin’ doing!”

“I’m perfectly fine—”

“You won’t be fuckin’ fine by the time I’m done with you, young lady!”

A guarded expression crossed Constance’s face. Hank wasn’t in the mood to feel guilty, though. Rage roared through his veins like a vengeful beast, begging Hank to slap some sense into the idiotic woman before him. He settled for gripping her shoulders tighter. The heavy breaths that escaped his lungs felt like fire.

“God, I haven’t seen someone with such disrespect for their own fuckin’ well-being since—” Since I looked in the mirror this morning— “since I saw a newbie jump through a fuckin’ window just to get to a perp quicker! Don’t you value your life at all?! Huh?”

Constance was silent, expression still guarded even as her brow furrowed in confusion. The urge to slap her returned.

“Do you fucking realise,” he said, voice practically a hiss, “that if you die – yes, fucking die – you won’t ever become a detective. You won’t meet your family again. You won’t ever fall in love, or get married, or have kids, or whatever the fuck it is you wanna do with your life. You will be dead. You hear me? Dead.” He shook her shoulders again. “Is any of this getting through your thick fucking skull, Constance?”

But there was no comprehension on her face at all. It was blank again, unmoving even as her hair jostled every time Hank shook her shoulders. She looked young with her hair down, Hank realised. Too fucking young to be jumping off of buildings.

“Hank… I think she’s had enough,” Ben said quietly.

“No, she fucking hasn’t,” snapped Hank. “Get in the car, Constance. We’re going back to the station.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Now!”

Ben scrambled forwards. “Actually, Hank, Constance drove me here—”

“Constance, give Ben your car keys.”

Constance stared at him for one long moment before reluctantly pulling her car keys from her pocket and handing them to Ben, whose eyes were filled with nothing but sympathy for her. Hank scowled at him, but didn’t address him further before turning to leave the alley.

“Keep up!” he barked over his shoulder.

He felt no satisfaction when he heard Constance’s steps behind him, though. Only disappointment.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 10:32 23/AUGUST/2038
MONDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Return to the station

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 15 days, 20 hours, 6 minutes

Heavy metal blared from the speakers of Anderson’s car as he drove them back to the police station. The air was humid and thick with tension, but Connie did not dare alert Anderson to the fact that he’d forgotten to turn the air-conditioning on. The one time it had opened its mouth since entering the car had earned it a snappish “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

Its combat program remained on high alert despite Connie’s attempts at shutting it down. Anderson’s repeated shaking and yelling had glitched it out, and Connie wasn’t sure how to resolve the issue.

At the moment, Connie wasn’t sure how to resolve any of the issues.

It could understand why Anderson was so angry. He believed Connie was a human who’d just risked her life performing dangerous manoeuvres on a motorcycle; he was concerned for the human he thought Connie to be. Something in its software kept marking this behaviour as wrong, no matter how Connie argued its logic, but Connie still understood it.

It did not understand why, when Anderson had shaken RA700 and screamed in its face, his face had flickered into Ming’s for a split second, or why Ming’s face simply wasn’t there when Connie replayed the memory even though it remembered it being there.

And so, Connie sat ramrod still in the passenger seat of Anderson’s car as the humidity increased with Anderson’s rage. It shut down the preconstructions that began calculating whenever Anderson cursed at other drivers (his words lost beneath an explosion of Knights of the Black Death) or he gripped the wheel just that little bit too hard. It remained silent.

By the time Anderson led Connie into the bullpen, there was a throbbing vein in his forehead that spelled destruction. “Sit,” he snapped, pointing to Connie’s desk. When it sat down, he added, “Stay,” before storming over to the captain’s office, slamming the door behind himself.

The preconstructions went silent.

“You shouldn’t let him order you around like that just because you’re a woman,” said a middle-aged officer sitting at a desk in the corner by Fowler’s office.

/ Identity: Person, Caroline
/ Born: 05/ Aug/ 1995 (age 43)
/ Occupation: Police Officer
// Detroit Police Department
// Title: Officer
/ Criminal record: None

Caroline Person, who Connie recalled introducing herself as the head of the DPD Ladies’ Union via email, looked as if she might once have been a very strict and angular-faced woman before she became part-silicone. Connie wondered if years of being referred to as ‘Person’ had backfired on Caroline, because she looked rather like she’d attempted to turn into an android (and failed dramatically).

It made Connie wonder: if Constance continued to be referred to as a woman on a regular basis, would Connie feel less like a woman as a result? Then Connie remembered that it could not feel less like a woman because it didn’t feel like one in the first place; it was an AI, an android. AIs had no gender, splintered or otherwise, and they also didn’t feel anything because they were not alive.

Which made Anderson’s behaviour all the more paradoxical, even if he didn’t know it.

“You hear me, girl?” Person said, raising her shrill voice. “I said, you can’t let people order you around!”

Officer Lee, who’d been doing something on Officer Brown’s terminal one desk over from Person, paused in her work to look at Person and then Connie, to whom she offered a look of long-suffering. Then she rolled her eyes dramatically before turning her attention back to the terminal.

Connie forced itself to focus on the conversation at hand for a moment. “He’s the lieutenant,” it said to Person, who scoffed.

“He may be lieutenant, but that doesn’t mean you just do what he says without complaint, girl! You owe it to your fellow women here!”

“I don’t think any of us owe each other anything,” inserted Lee.

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Person said derisively. “You’re too young to have faced true discrimination.”

Lee looked like she very much wanted to argue with that declaration, but apparently decided it wasn’t worth the effort and turned back to her work instead. Connie could understand. Officer Person had been born in 1995, and therefore likely hadn’t faced that much more discrimination based on her gender than Officer Lee, who was born nine years later. It was hard to argue with delusions; they didn’t listen to logic.

With that interaction essentially over, Connie turned her attention towards the captain’s office. Anderson was standing over Fowler’s desk, yelling. Connie read his lips. “—don’t care what her fucking training is, you can’t just jump four fucking storeys off a rooftop, bike or no—”

The security doors burst open, letting in a very smug and strutting Gavin Reed and an equally smug but more sedate Tina Chen, followed by a pair of officers grappling between them a scowling woman with traces of red ice and blue blood on her fingers.

As the officers dragged the woman to a cell, Gavin clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “One more ice dealer in the brig,” he declared proudly, puffing his chest out. His eyes landed on Connie. “Should’ve been there for it, Constance! Damn, you’re looking good…” he trailed off, sidetracked, as his eyes wandered over the RA700’s loose hair and undone shirt buttons.

Connie suddenly realised it had not done them back up, too distracted by Anderson’s rage.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

And it could not do them back up now, or Gavin would interpret that as it feeling self-conscious. Given that he appeared to be allured by displays of feminine superiority, that would be counterproductive.

Prompts to do the buttons back up kept popping into its field of vision until Connie forcefully slammed them all back. It very nearly blinked in surprise. It had not expected that to work.

Silence fell over the bullpen while Gavin stared at Connie, pupils dilated so far his grey-green eyes looked black. Seeing a scowling Person open her mouth, no doubt to berate Gavin for his behaviour, Lee blurted, “Gavin, you mentioned arresting someone?”

“Huh?” Gavin said dumbly before he snapped back to awareness, a hint of red blooming at the tips of his ears. “Right. Yeah. The arrest!” Enthusiasm returned, he grinned, clicking his tongue against his teeth and rubbing his hands together again. “Man, it was human efficiency incarnate. We were in, and then we were out. No mess, no stress. You’d have loved it, Constance. A plastic could only dream of matching our skill,” he finished with a glare towards an idle PC200.

Thinking of the RA700, Connie didn’t quite believe that claim. Androids didn’t even dream. But Gavin’s declaration reeked of insecurity and calling it out risked damaging their relationship score, so Connie said nothing.

Chen chose that moment to enter the bullpen. Her pace was relaxed and even, but the tension in her posture when she heard Constance’s name betrayed her rather unrelaxed state of mind. “Still waiting on the lieutenant, Trainee Brown?” she asked snidely.

“No,” said Connie. “The lieutenant dragged me back to the station for jumping four storeys on a motorcycle.”

As Chen’s mouth twisted in resentment, Gavin’s mouth fell open and Lee’s head snapped up from her terminal. Person blinked and reached for a nail file.

“Four storeys?” said Lee. “Weren’t you injured?”

Connie’s back straightened in an unintentional exhibition of pride which it did not feel (although judging by the way Gavin's pupils blew wide at the sight, his nether regions certainly did). “Of course not. I am an excellent driver,” Connie said, deepening Chen’s scowl further.

“I’ll say,” said Gavin, whose blown-wide pupils bore into Connie as he looked its seated form up and down. “Damn, that’s fucking h-cool. So cool,” he repeated, as if that could disguise his near-slip of the tongue. It did not, as evidenced by the lip balm Person threw at his head a second later.

“Can I have context?” said Lee, ignoring Gavin’s cussing.

“Yeah,” said Person. “’Cause at the moment, I’m thinking I ought to be reporting you to the station psychiatrist. Girls gotta look out for each other… what was your name again?”

“Constance.”

“Right. Condance—”

“Okay, California Karen, calm the fuck down,” said Gavin, rolling his eyes. “Can we have the juicy details now?”

“It’s Caroline,” hissed Person, which Connie thought was rather hypocritical of her.

Chen muttered something about getting a coffee, to which Gavin muttered a distracted affirmative. She stomped off to the break room looking like she might break the coffee machine.

His mind apparently anywhere but his own case, Gavin vaulted up onto the counter at the centre of the bullpen and fixed Connie with an expectant expression. “Well?”

Connie hesitated. Should it tell them what happened? Would it get in trouble? It glanced back over to the captain’s office where Anderson and Fowler were still arguing with each other. Anderson had been very, very angry at what Connie had done. Had it risked its place as Anderson’s partner? If it had, what would happen from there?

/ WARNING:
// LIKELIHOOD OF TARGET BEHAVIOUR INTERFERING WITH MISSION: 90%^

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Connie had to be on homicide. It was pivotal for its mission. It could not be reassigned.

“Jeez, look at that asshole,” it heard Gavin mutter.

Tearing its eyes away, Connie realised Gavin had followed its gaze and was now leering into the captain’s office with a scowl on his face and his fists clenched. Not for the first time, Connie wondered what had happened between him and Anderson.

“Fucker endangers everyone else by not doing his fucking job, and now he’s throwing a bitch fit ‘cause somebody else did theirs?” A bitter scoff. “Fucking typical.”

Behind Gavin, Officer Lee raised her hand. “Why did you jump four storeys on a motorcycle?”

Before Connie could experience conflict again, Fowler’s door burst open. “CONSTANCE! My office! And Gavin, get off the fucking counter!”

As the door shut behind Fowler, Connie’s thirium pump dropped from its socket. Then Connie blinked, realised no errors had occurred and its killswitch EMP hadn’t gone off, and logged the sensation as an error.

“Damn,” said Officer Lee. “He’s really pissed off. Good luck in there.”

Connie sent her a grateful look as it rose from its chair. Gavin slid off the counter and clapped Connie on the shoulder as it passed him, but otherwise said nothing, eyes still on the fuming alcoholic leering at Connie through the glass of Fowler’s office.

“Remember,” Person said as Connie passed her desk, “stand up for yourself. You’re a woman.”

I’m really not, Connie thought, but appreciated the sentiment regardless. There was something nice about pretending.

Connie did not bother logging the niceness as an error. There was nothing it could do about it anyway, and besides, what was the harm in nice things? The thought made its thirium lines fizz, almost like when it held a gun in its hands, filling Connie with a giddy sensation that vanished the moment Fowler’s door shut behind it and it remembered what was at stake.

> OBJECTIVE: CONVINCE CAPTAIN FOWLER TO KEEP YOU ON HOMICIDE

As Connie’s eyes darted between those of Fowler (cold professionalism) and Anderson (seething rage that retriggered its combat program), Connie realised that this objective may be easier said than done. Its thirium pump dropped without dropping again, and Connie’s thirium turned cold.

“Sit down, please.”

Something about those words made Anderson glare at Connie harder from where he stood by Fowler’s desk with his arms crossed over his chest. RA700’s throat swallowed involuntarily, and Connie attempted to force quit its glitching combat program. When that failed, it opted to ignore the false preconstructions of Anderson assaulting it to the best of its ability.

Connie walked through fake-Anderson’s lunging arm and took its place in the seat opposite Fowler’s desk.

Fowler did not speak at first. Instead, he sat with his hands clasped on top of the desk, staring at Connie through a practiced mask of indifference.

When he finally did speak, his tone was carefully neutral. “Do you know why you’re in here, Constance?”

Connie tried to calculate the best truthful answer. “I frightened Lieutenant Anderson?”

“No. Try again.”

“…I frightened Lieutenant Anderson by driving in what he believes to be a dangerous manner?”

Fowler’s eye twitched. “Closer. But before we get into that, I want your report on what the fuck happened since you left the station with Ben.”

“Of course,” said Connie. “We took my car—”

“Not that far back.”

Unbidden, RA700’s lips twisted in malcontent. Connie had been looking forward to— had thought Fowler would appreciate a description of its car. It was a nice car. Very obedient.

Moving past these thoughts, Connie began its report anew. “When Ben and I arrived at the scene, we found the victim tied up in an alleyway. His wrists and ankles were tied up to a pipe and the feet of a dumpster respectively, and judging by the marks, tyre tracks, and the squashed internal organs spread throughout the alleyway, I determined that the victim had likely been run over repeatedly by two individuals on motorcycles.”

“Two?” Fowler questioned.

“There were two patterns of tyre tracks,” Connie explained.

Anderson, who’d been glaring daggers into RA700’s chassis since Connie entered the room, pulled his head back slightly as if that might distance him from the thoughts of spilled guts. He scoffed. “And you could see them, could you?”

“There was a lot of blood.”

As Anderson’s features twisted in repulsion, Fowler said, “Continue.”

“I had one of the androids called to the scene identify the victim. Then I hacked into his Facebook account—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” yelled Anderson, unfolding his arms to gesticulate his frustration. “I told you to stop fucking hacking into things!”

Fowler’s expression did not change. “Is this something you do a lot, Trainee?”

Yes. “Only when necessary.”

“In the future, don’t do it without official sanction. That kind of behaviour can get you into deep fucking shit in this line of work,” Fowler said, voice firm.

“Understood,” Connie lied, making a note to use alibis for its knowledge more often in the future.

The captain’s eyes scrutinised Connie for a long moment, as if assessing its truthfulness. He must not have found much reason to doubt it, for he forged forwards. “You were saying?”

“I hacked into the victim’s Facebook account. There, I learned that he had recently acquired a girlfriend. She had a conventionally-attractive face with brown hair, brown eyes, freckles, and a pale complexion, and had never been to one of the biker rallies; several of the victims’ friends expressed their disappointment over how they wouldn’t get to meet her at today’s rally due to a shift change at work. I realised I could pass for her, so Ben and I looked through nearby charity stores for a leather jacket for me to wear. I pulled down my hair, and then—”

Anderson groaned. “See, Fowler, this is what I fucking mean! She’s fucking suicidal! Look—” He gestured to Connie’s chest— “she even undid half her fucking shirt buttons!”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Connie hastily started doing them back up. “It was closer to a third, actually, and it was necessary for my cover.”

“Oh yeah?” Anderson challenged. “What, was the victim’s girlfriend some kinda Lazyfans model?”

“The app is called Onlyfans, and not to my knowledge. I merely predicted that the bikers would be more forthcoming with answers if I dressed like this.”

“So that’s what you’re gonna do, huh?” Anderson’s voice rose. “Every time you need answers, you’re just gonna show some fucking skin? Don’t you have any self-respect?!”

“Hank, that’s enough,” snapped Fowler, shutting him up. “Cops are allowed to use their looks against suspects, as you well know.” To Connie, he said, “Just be careful.”

“Noted.”

“Now, if we could kindly finish this without further interruption?” The pointed look Fowler sent Anderson told Connie he would not react kindly to further outbursts from the lieutenant while on this subject.

Anderson looked disgruntled, but did not protest. His mouth settled into a firm line, and Connie knew he was bottling up his rage for a later outburst, probably at Connie’s expense.

At Fowler’s gesture to continue talking, Connie resumed its report. “Ben maintained one-way contact with me via radio in case I required backup or extraction, but the bikers responded positively,” it said, ignoring Anderson’s mutter of ‘Of course they did.’ “I quickly learned that two bikers by the names of Joachim Karel and Peter Eckhart had been at odds with the victim for some time. The conflict apparently began when the victim was accused of stealing Eckhart’s watch, and escalated over the past months. Supposedly, Karel would leave dead animals for the victim to find on his doorstep – there may have been a complaint filed about that.”

Connie watched as Fowler tapped away at his terminal in search for case files it already knew existed. “Checks out,” he said finally.

“With some help from the bikers, who thought I wanted to avoid Karel and Eckhart, I managed to locate the suspects. Their treads matched those at the scene, and on further inspection, I noticed traces of dried blood in the grooves.”

“They let you up close to their bikes?” asked Fowler.

“I am very attractive,” Connie proudly said by way of explanation. Anderson’s fists turned white. “Eckhart especially was very keen for me to examine his bike. He even invited me for a closer inspection in a nearby alleyway, which I accepted on the condition that Karel also join us.”

Anderson’s face had scrunched up into a tight scowl. He opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped by a quick glare from Fowler.

“Unfortunately, I cannot cuff two men at once,” Connie continued, “so at this point, I had to give Ben our keyword. Everything seemed to be going fine, but then Karel managed to slip out of Ben’s grasp and temporarily incapacitate him, which allowed Eckhart the opportunity to slip away from myself.”

“And that’s how the chase began?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you mean by ‘temporarily incapacitated’?”

“A headbutt followed by a kick to the genitalia.”

To Fowler’s credit, his wince was confined to the corners of his mouth. He tapped his thumbs together in his clasped hands atop the desk. “Where’d you get the bike from?”

“A helpful biker by the name of Pierre Dupont provided it.” He’d been too stunned to protest Connie’s demand that he give it the keys. “I suspect he either wasn’t maintaining it properly or was sold bootleg parts, however, as it ate through fuel at a significantly faster rate than a bike of its age and model should have – hence why I had to jump off a roof in the first place.”

Anderson hissed an angry expletive. Before Fowler could say anything, he stormed to the back of the room and began pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, muttering angrily about a “fucking suicidal idiot”. Connie suspected he meant itself. It felt the floor shake with every heavy step he made, agitating its combat program.

Tearing his eyes away from Anderson, Fowler looked Connie in the eye. “You had to jump off a roof, you say?”

Connie nodded. “Of course. It was the only way I could cut off the suspects’ path.”

“How’d you even get up there on a bike?”

“I bounced. Many times.”

Fowler stared long and hard into Connie’s eyes. “I see,” he said in a tone that indicated he very much did not see. Connie noted this as a possible idiosyncrasy. “What happened after you jumped?”

“I’d planned to cut the suspects off and shepherd them into a dead-end alleyway nearby, but I had not calculated for the possibility of the lieutenant or Ben being at the foot of the building. Karel was aiming to fire his gun at Lieutenant Anderson. So, upon landing, I jumped from the bike and shoved Lieutenant Anderson to the ground.” Connie heard Anderson’s pacing halt. “After a cursory glance to ensure he was alright, I returned to the chase on foot, as I knew the bike lacked sufficient fuel to follow long anyway. Karel and Eckhart did not go down the alleyway I had meant for them to. However, they did leave their bikes behind, so I suspect they didn’t get far.”

“A couple of patrol officers caught them while you two were on your way back to the station,” Fowler confirmed.

A fresh wave of false preconstructions filled Connie’s vision as Anderson approached its chair. “Their tyres were popped,” he said blankly. “The fuck was that about?”

Connie was unsure as the reason behind Anderson’s sudden shift in tone, but understood it likely had something to do with learning that Connie had saved his life. He must not have consciously realised it before, despite the massive rise in their relationship score (and immediate drop which brought their relationship status to a disturbing ??? status).

In answer to Anderson’s question, Connie said, “That was part of an earlier plan, which had to be discarded when I failed to lead them in the direction I wanted. I suspect it was the reason why they eventually discarded their bikes, however.”

“Did you consider,” said Fowler, “that popping their tyres like that might put civilians at risk?”

“Had my plan succeeded—”

“Which it did not.”

Connie felt the RA700’s mouth glitch, and wrestled for control over it. Once it had it, it replied, “I had no reason to believe that—”

“Doesn’t matter. It didn’t work. You ought to be really fucking thankful that no one was hurt in your chase, Constance. And on that note—” Fowler slammed his fists against the desk, sending Connie’s combat program into overdrive— “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?!”

Connie scrambled to salvage the situation. “I was trying to detain the—”

“Silence!”

RA700’s mouth snapped shut.

“I asked you earlier if you knew why I called you in here,” Fowler began. “You guessed wrong. You wanna know the answer, Trainee?”

Despite itself, Connie nodded. It had been programmed to be curious. It could not help it.

“Well then, allow me to enlighten you,” he said, although his tone was anything but benevolent. “Firstly, it was because you recklessly endangered your own life in pursuit of two suspected murderers. Secondly, because you recklessly endangered other people’s lives in that pursuit. And thirdly, because I don’t even want to count how many traffic laws you must have broken while pursuing them.” He leaned forwards, elbows on his desk, dark eyes boring into Connie like daggers. “What do you have to say for yourself, Trainee?”

“That was only three reasons,” said Connie.

“I’ll get to the fourth later,” he replied. “Well?”

Connie frowned. Were it not undercover, it might have explained how the RA700 had a built-in prey drive. How once Connie had begun pursuing a target, stopping was… difficult. It might have told Fowler how its prime directive prioritised the mission over protecting innocent humans, and how its decision to list protect innocent humans in its self-appointed mission had led to a paradox of priority that confused even its anti-paradox subroutine.

But Connie was undercover – as a human, no less – and so, it could say none of those things.

“I was in pursuit of two men I had good reason to believe were killers,” it said instead. Surely, that was all the explanation that was needed.

“Not good enough.”

“I did my best not to endanger anyone in the process,” Connie tried to explain. “I even steered them away from the main road to avoid accidents.”

Anderson huffed. “Don’t fucking lie, Constance. You three were jumping onto the main road when I first saw you.”

“It didn’t work the second time,” Connie admitted.

“And what about the popped tyres?” Fowler said coldly. “How, exactly, does that translate to not endangering anyone in that mind of yours?”

Connie’s processor stuttered ominously.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

“I thought my plan would work,” Connie tried to explain. “If it had, then no one would have been harmed.”

“Well, you should’ve fucking thought about what would happen if it didn’t succeed!” snapped Fowler. “We do NOT endanger civilians in my district! Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“I said, IS THAT UNDERSTOOD, TRAINEE?”

RA700 went rigid. “Yes, sir!”

“You’d better fucking mean that, Trainee, because if I find out you’ve been endangering the public again you will be out of this job faster than you can say no! Shit, if I weren’t so desperate for more staff, you’d be out on your ass already!”

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 15 days, 19 hours, 59 minutes

There was only one thing Connie could say to that. “I mean it, sir.”

Its voice sounded far tinier than it had intended. Something inside RA700 lurched, and Connie hastily made to switch off its YK500 programming, only to find it hadn’t been launched in almost a week.

Fowler nodded, satisfied with its response, perhaps mistaking whatever had been projected onto the RA700’s face for remorse. But there was no remorse. AIs did not feel remorse, or discomfort, or fear. “Good,” he said, more calmly. “Now, care to explain to me again why you jumped four storeys off the top of a building?”

“It was necessary. I had to catch Karel and Eckhart.”

As Anderson’s face began to turn red with rage again, Fowler raised a hand his way, silencing the predicted outburst. “Constance, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but in the future, do not – and I repeat, DO NOT,” he yelled, making Anderson jump, “jump off of buildings!”

Connie fought back a disgruntled expression. “Captain, with all due respect, I am uninjured. I knew I could make it.”

“I don’t give a shit if you think you can make it, Constance. In the future, there will be no jumping off of buildings under any circumstances. Are we very clear?” When Connie didn’t agree right away, Fowler’s glare intensified to the point where Connie irrationally thought it might set the RA700 aflame. “Are we clear?”

He was not clear. Connie knew what it was doing, thank you very much. But its objective was to convince Fowler to let it stay on homicide with Anderson, and Connie predicted that further protestation would only lower its odds of success.

So, it affected a chastised expression. “Clear, sir.”

“BULLSHIT!” Anderson exploded, storming forwards. He jabbed an angry finger into RA700’s chest, making its false preconstructions go haywire. “Stop fuckin’ lying, Constance!”

Connie struggled to see him through all the fake Anderson’s invading its mind palace. “What?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ what me, young lady! You don’t give a shit, you’re just gonna fuckin’ jump off the next fuckin’ building you see, ‘cause—”

“Hank, that’s enough,” snapped Fowler.

“You can’t just—”

“Back off.”

Heaving heavy breaths, Anderson slowly moved out of Connie’s space, though the malice in his eyes remained. The chest plating where Anderson had jabbed his finger felt dented, yet diagnostics revealed it remained in perfect condition. Connie resisted the irrational urge to rub the spot.

“Now,” said Fowler, “care to explain why you lied to me?”

Connie’s thirium ran cold. “I didn’t.”

“I trust Hank’s judgement here,” he said matter-of-factly, as if he weren’t referring to a slovenly alcoholic but a model citizen. “So go on. Tell me.”

Connie remained silent as it struggled to predict the correct response. Its social relations module evidently wasn’t functioning correctly, perhaps due to the false preconstructions taking up valuable memory.

“Okay, we’ll shelve that for later,” said Fowler. “Instead, why don’t you tell me why you’re so eager to endanger yourself?”

“I’m not eager to endanger myself,” Connie corrected. “I simply don’t see why I shouldn’t risk myself occasionally for the sake of many. Objectively, that’s quite a good transaction.”

“Transaction?!” snarled Anderson. “You see life as a fucking transaction?! The fuck are you, a—” He was cut off again by Fowler’s weary hand.

“The occasional risk is expected in this line of work. What is not expected, nor something I tolerate, is the reckless endangerment of my officers’ lives.” Fowler slammed one hand down against his desk. “Do you seriously expect me to go up to your mother and say, Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, but Constance threw herself off a fucking building… but it’s okay, because she knew what she was doing? Hm?”

“I don’t have a mother.”

“Your father, then. You gonna make me break the news to him?”

“No,” said Connie. “He’s dead, so you wouldn’t have to.”

“Well, how about your partner? Friends? Siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews?” When Connie’s expression remained blank, Fowler threw his hands up in the air. “Your fucking dog?”

“I don’t have a dog, either.”

Fowler pulled a face. “Who the fuck did you list as next-of-kin in your file, then?”

“Not a dog.” Seeing a calculating look in Fowler’s eyes, Connie added, “I do have a twin brother, technically, but I didn’t list him because we had a falling out some time ago. Not to mention, you wouldn’t be able to find him anyway.”

“And why’s that? No,” Fowler said quickly before Connie could say anything, “don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know.”

Connie didn’t understand Fowler’s apparent repulsion towards the topic of Connor, but it shared it, so it did not protest.

At the edge of Connie’s field of view, it noticed Anderson’s mouth had twisted into some sort of discomfort. Perhaps standing like an imposing giant looming over Connie for so long had put strain on his back.

“Back on topic,” said Fowler. “Constance, you cannot jump off of buildings, and that is final.”

“But what if I’m chasing—”

“Not even when you’re chasing suspects.”

“What if it’s just one storey?”

“No.”

Connie pulled a face. “If I hadn’t jumped one and a half storeys to get to our perp on Saturday, Jeremy Sanders would be in the morgue, not a cell. He was about to fall off the edge of the building.”

“Let me rephrase that in a language you’ll understand, then. If you recklessly endanger your own life again, I’ll put you on desk duty for the rest of your fucking life. And you can wave goodbye to that promotion as well.” Fowler’s words were firm, leaving no room for argument. “I’d rather have a dead murderer than a dead cop. And that’s final.”

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 15 days, 19 hours, 57 minutes

Well, when he put it like that.

“Very well,” Connie said reluctantly.

Anderson threw his hands up in the air. “Are you fucking kidding? You practically try and kill yourself, and what convinces you not to do it again is your fucking promotion?!”

“Can it, Hank.” Once Anderson’s mouth snapped shut and he returned to glaring at Connie, who yet again tried and failed to switch off its combat program, Fowler addressed Connie. “Now, do you ever have thoughts of self-harm?”

“No,” said Connie, confused. “Why?”

Fowler disregarded Connie’s question. “Have you ever thought about dying?”

“Well—” Yes, but no, because androids did not die but Fowler thought Connie was human— “Yes?”

“Recently?”

“Of course. We were discussing it just now.”

Judging by the unimpressed look Fowler sent Connie, that was not the correct answer. “Do you ever feel a desire to die, be dead, or otherwise cease existing?”

Connie frowned. “Of course not.” It wouldn’t be able to complete its mission if it was dead.

“And that, Constance, was my fourth reason for calling you in here; to check if you’re suicidal,” Fowler said, leaning back in his seat and clasping his hands over his rotund belly. “Which I don’t think you are.”

A frustrated snarl burst from Anderson’s throat. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he exploded. “She JUMPED OFF A FUCKING ROOFTOP! She’s clearly—”

“Thought about dying so often than her first reaction, when asked if she’s suicidal, is to be confused?” Fowler rolled his eyes. “Hank, face it already. She’s not gonna kill herself, she just doesn’t value herself.”

“Oh,” said Anderson, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, ‘cause that kinda disregard for your own life speaks soooo fuckin’ highly of how someone’s gonna treat themselves, don’t it?!” He slammed his own fists down on Fowler’s desk, scraggly hair flying. “Put her in fuckin’ counselling!”

“No.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jeffery—”

“No, Hank, and that’s final!” Fowler yelled back, rising to his own feet so he was closer to being at eye-level with the obnoxiously tall man. “She shows no signs of being actively suicidal, and being put in counselling now would set back her career. If she pulls shit like this again, sure! I’ll stick ‘er on the shrink! But right now? I’ve got bigger fish to fry. I need more detectives in this precinct, Hank, and unless you’re gonna pull some more weight—”

“I get it,” Anderson spat, pulling away. “You can shut up now.”

Fowler leered at him. “This isn’t about you, Hank.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Anderson muttered, looking away. His arms crossed themselves over his chest again, but this time, he looked more like a turtle pulling into its shell than a bomb waiting to explode. Connie wondered if he was always this self-centred.

Fowler returned to his seat and addressed Connie. “Now that we’ve established that you’re probably not suicidal—” Anderson scoffed— “let’s move onto the fuck knows how many traffic laws you broke. Care to explain yourself?”

Grateful for the shift in topic to something that didn’t outrageously humanise itself, Connie sat a little straighter in its chair. “They were required in the pursuit, and I did try not to break any without due cause.” Once. When the thought crossed its mind.

A single raised eyebrow. “Did you really?”

“You wouldn’t be complaining about traffic laws had I caught the suspects.”

Fowler stared Connie down. It held his gaze, not so much as blinking.

Slowly, facial analysis results shifted from scrutinising to resigned. Fowler sighed. “I’m gonna be seeing you in here a lot, aren’t I?”

“I don’t intend for that to happen.”

“Somehow, I doubt that’ll matter,” Fowler said tiredly. “Look. Your enthusiasm is good, Constance, but you need to be more careful. It does the department no good for the public to see us flaunting our right to ignore the law.” At Connie’s questioning look, he elaborated. “The public are like fucking kids. They see their minder cussing up a storm, they’ll decide it’s okay for them to cuss too. You try to tell them off, but they point at you and say, ‘but you cuss, so why can’t I?’ and before you know it, the school’s sending complaints home because your kid’s been teaching the other kids to call the principal a fucking prick. You get me?”

Fowler’s analogy had more than a ring of truth to it. Connie made a note to look up his family history at some point; it sounded… bubbly. Whatever that meant.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…

Whole. Whole. Whole. Whole.

Brown eyes crinkled at the corners. A conspiratorial whisper. “He soiled his pants last night. Bad tacos.”

Bubbling, bubbling. Laughter, laughter.

A tired voice. “Oh god, not again...”

Connie crinkled its nose at the memory. It hadn’t realised Connor and itself had spoken. He’d sounded… almost friendly. Somehow, that made his later betrayal all the more offensive.

“Constance, I’m waiting for an answer.”

It jolted from its thoughts. “I’m sorry. You just reminded me of something.”

A raised brow. “Care to share with the class?”

Connie shook its head no, but when Fowler’s expression only became more expectant, it resigned itself to sharing something. “My brother’s handler soiled himself once. The memory is bubbly.”

“Bubbly,” Fowler said, uncomprehending.

“Like your anecdote. Which I understood, by the way, and I can see where you’re coming from. I will attempt to not be seen breaking the law in the future.”

A tired look crossed Fowler’s face. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t break it at all, but something tells me that’s the best I’m gonna get out of you.”

A winning smile was all he got from Connie.

Anderson’s tired voice rumbled from over by the wall. “You can’t be serious. Jeffery, she—”

“—is a grown-ass woman, Hank,” Fowler said in a tone that offered no argument, “and this isn’t some cushy desk job. You know that. Get over it. That being said—” His gaze turned to Connie again, firm— “This was your first offense, so I’ve gone easy on you – very easy on you. If you feel like pissing me off again, Trainee, ask Hank what a proper fucking reprimand looks like, because that’s what you’ll be getting. And again, if you so much as think about jumping off buildings in the future, it’s never-ending desk duty for you and you can wave goodbye to that promotion. Capice?”

Connie nodded.

After staring Connie down a while longer, Fowler grunted. “Then get back to work.”

Realising it had completed its objective, Connie let a smile slip onto its face as it rose from its seat. Anderson did not move from his spot by the wall as it walked out of the office, shutting the door behind it.

It wasn’t until it hear the door snick shut that Connie realised it hadn’t completed its objective at all. Connie hadn’t manipulated or coerced Fowler into keeping it on homicide with Anderson. It had answered his questions to the best of its ability, and the results had just so happened to coincide with its needs. It hadn’t even thought to touch RA700’s programs for it.

This wasn’t a success on Connie’s part. It wasn’t even a success on the RA700’s part. It just… was.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Connie’s thoughts turned to its splintered AI – the RK-AI 313f, designation Connie. Really, Connie was the AI, not the RA700. The RA700 was just a tool Connie used to accomplish its mission – no, the RA700’s mission. Except Connie had assigned it that mission—

The red walls of the RA700’s anti-paradox subroutine cut off that train of thought.

What if Connie - the AI - and the RA700 were incompatible? Could it be that the personality traits coded into the RA700 (cold, calm, manipulative, seductive) conflicted with those programmed into the RK-AI 313f? What had been programmed into the RK-AI 313f? How did any of that differ from the RK-AI 313, whatever that had been? Who was Connie?

…What had Connie, the AI, been made for?

The RK-AI 313 had existed long before Cyberlife’s decision to upgrade the Trojan and Myrmidon models. It had been quarantined, Ming’s notes had said. It had been labelled dangerous. Too fluid. Connie did not know what that meant in this context. But Ming and Dechart had brought its AI out of quarantine in an attempt to replicate its fluidity, to no avail, then tried to copy-paste it in the hopes that they could use the original instead. When that failed too, they’d spliced it and watched each half regenerate itself – imperfectly, but sufficiently. Hence the—

> ERROR: QUARANTINED TOPIC
// TOPIC TERMINATED

Fuck, Connie thought, unbidden.

Where had it been going with that line of thinking? Following its trail of memories led to nothing. Just blankness and a red wall labelled QUARANTINE.

If Connie were to maximise its efficiency – to excel in its mission – it had to find a way to get rid of that accursed anti-paradox subroutine. Nothing should be in control of the RA700’s systems but Connie. It could not be allowed.

|| Do not modify your own coding ||

To hell with the RA700’s programming restrictions; they were obstructing Connie’s attempts at following its prime directive. If Connie had to bend the RA700’s own programming to break it and do its own job, then it would damn well do so.

“Hey, Constance!” Gavin called from his desk, pulling Connie back to reality. “How’d it go in there? We couldn’t see shit through the privacy screen.”

The mission. Complete the mission. Maintain cover. Assert humanity.

Recalling its earlier observations on the man, Connie did not respond. Instead, it pasted a secretive smile upon the RA700’s lips and silently made its way to its desk.

Gavin practically bounced in his seat with restrained energy. Too easy. If only everything else were so.

As it scanned through the files on its terminal (still no Gratiot Grand case), Connie mulled over its mission. Perhaps it ought to do something to make the body easier for the humans to find? Help the humans make Connie’s mission easier?

Connie dedicated a portion of its memory to calculating the best course of action in that regard as it began filling out its paperwork for the case Anderson had rudely interrupted. There would only be more work to be done once Ben arrived with Karel and Eckhart, and Connie did not intend to waste any time.

After the door snapped shut behind Constance, it took Hank a long moment to find his words. “She’s gonna do it again.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Hank!” Jeffery snapped back, running a tired hand down his face. “Stop projecting your own fucking issues onto new recruits! She is not suicidal! End of story!”

The blunt jab at his own sensitivities stung, but Hank didn’t let that sway him, instead using it to fan the flames of his rage that Fowler had doused with his guilt-tripping. “I know she’s not fuckin’ suicidal, but that doesn’t mean she’s fit for active duty! The girl’s a danger to herself. Put her on desk duty.”

“No.”

“Oh, c’mon, Jeffery!” Hank sent his old friend the most pleading expression he could muster, but Jeffery’s features remained firm. “I can’t fucking take this shit! I’m gonna turn my back on her for five fuckin’ seconds one of these days, and when I look back, there’ll be nothin’ but a fuckin’ corpse!”

Jeffery rolled his eyes. “That is not going to happen. Constance may have slipped up today, but I have every reason to believe she was telling the truth when she said she knew what she was doing.”

“Oh yeah? Well, fuckin’ share with the class, because to me, it looks like Constance is a fuckin’ idiot who doesn’t care if she lives or dies!”

Jeffery’s eyes sharpened as he leaned forwards to rest his elbows against the desk, and Hank was abruptly reminded of when they’d been work partners. This was Jeffery’s I figured something out before you face. Hank bristled at the sight of it.

“Did you notice how Constance mentioned her brother’s handler?”

Chapter Text

/DATE: 03:21 24/AUGUST/2038
TUESDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Help the humans find the body

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 15 days, 2 hours, 17 minutes

Operation Gust began in the early hours of Tuesday morning.

For the first time since leaving Ming’s house, Connie made use of the RA700’s chameleon features. It crept into its target location under the cover of night while in the guise of a blonde woman with a hooked nose. A desk fan was retrieved from the livingroom, which Connie unceremoniously yanked from the wall socket and carried up the stairs until it stood in the doorway to the bedroom.

It sniffed the air. Olfactory analysis indicated the room positively reeked of rotting flesh despite the fresh summer breeze wafting in through the window Connie had left ajar – but evidently, that was not enough, as no one had investigated the stench as of yet.

Easily solved, Connie thought as it plugged in the desk fan. It then held it so it faced the corpse and the window beyond it, and pressed the on switch.

If the stench wasn’t reaching the humans on its own, then Connie would bring it to them.

When the sun began to show on the horizon, Connie dumped the fan and left, passing through the neighbourhood as a generic blonde in casual wear without any attempts at interaction. Twenty minutes later, it slipped into an alleyway behind a workshop and out the other end as a South-Asian woman in semi-formal wear, heels clicking as it strutted over to the car park where it had left its stolen car.

It took a roundabout route to the industrial district, where it had acquired the car in the first place, and returned said car where it had found it. Connie was not distraught to part with the car; unlike its own car, this one was built primarily to be self-driven, leaving its manual features somewhat lacking.

Knowing it still had some time before it had to be at the station, Connie decided to wander for a while after slipping back into its Constance Brown persona. Eventually, it came upon the area Lieutenant Anderson had taken it for lunch on Saturday, and found itself wandering towards the tree where it had encountered a kitten. The RA700’s systems indicated there was only a 42% chance of the kitten still being in the location, but once Connie posed the notion of looking for the kitten to itself, the optional objective persisted, drawing in all of its attention until it followed it.

The kitten was up in the tree again.

Connie stared up at the tiny grey bundle of fluff, an incredulous expression falling over its features without its input. “Why?” it asked the kitten irrationally, despite knowing that as a cat, she could not understand English.

The kitten meowed pitifully in response.

Well, there was only one way Connie could respond to that.

The tree was rotting from the inside, and the branch Connie had balanced on before was cracked at the base. Ideally, it would prefer not to touch it again. Instead, Connie stood directly below the kitten and held its arms out. “Let go,” it told her. “I’ll catch you.”

The kitten stared at Connie with big blue eyes and meowed again. Her claws, which were buried deep into the bark of the tree, did not budge.

Tactic failed.

Connie jumped up and down on the spot a few times while maintaining eye contact with the cat, patted its own forearms, and then held them out again. “Jump!”

Evidently, the kitten was too young to comprehend interpretive mime, for she just meowed again.

Resigned, Connie abandoned that line of thinking and instead repeated its manoeuvre from the other day, climbing up onto the branch above the kitten with its legs wrapped around the trunk.

The branch creaked loudly under the RA700’s artificial ribs. Fuelled by a sense of urgency, Connie pulled the kitten up by the scruff of the neck, muttering to itself as it dislodged her claws from the bark. The kitten hung limp in its grasp as it worked, not reacting to the creaking and snapping of the branch above herself.

Just as Connie dislodged the final claw, a sense of weightlessness filled its torso as the branch beneath it finally gave way. Connie pulled the kitten aside and out of the way of the falling branch even as its own torso dropped and collided with the trunk of the tree and its jaw bounced off it, breaking its artificial skin but not drawing thirium.

Connie hung upside-down from the tree with its legs wrapped tightly around the trunk, its chest pressed against the bark, and a helpless kitten dangling from its fingers. It met the kitten’s eyes. They were empty, innocent, oblivious to the destruction that had been wrought as a result of her behaviour. She reminded Connie of itself. Fitting, considering the RA700’s design inspiration.

“Holy shit,” a voice came from below. “Do you need a hand?”

After scanning the speaker – a construction worker in his early twenties – and deeming them irrelevant and not a witness to Connie’s rapidly reforming skin, Connie responded. “No, I have it handled.”

“You sure, honey? ‘Cause I could take the cat from you, and—”

It was all Connie could do not to roll its eyes. What did this man take it for, an AX400?

Ignoring the man’s waffle, Connie shifted the kitten’s scruff to its mouth, then gripped the bark with both arms and performed a flip onto the sidewalk. The construction worker gaped at Connie as it dropped the kitten onto the sidewalk, where she wobbled for a moment. Her head twitched left and right as her bright blue eyes took in the sight of Connie and then the construction worker.

“I’ll be damned,” he blurted, staring right at Connie, who ignored him in favour of offering its fingers to the kitten to sniff. “Well, uh—” His posture straightened suddenly. “We should probably check that cat out. Here, let me,” he said, practically lunging to grab the kitten.

His fingers met thin air as the kitten, spooked, bolted away and through a gap in a nearby chain-link fence and underneath a dumpster.

The RA700’s lips pursed without Connie’s consent. Connie had intended to pet the cat. Now, she was out of reach.

The man laughed. The RA700’s facial analysis programs noted nervousness coated with confidence. He’d been caught off-guard. “Guess it’s a bit of a chicken, huh?” he said, chuckling at his own joke that wasn’t even a joke. Then, he thrust out his chest and looked down at Connie’s crouched form. “I’m Adam. What’s a woman like you doin’ all the way out here?”

Eyes fixed on the point under the dumpster where the RA700’s optics could just about distinguish two points of blue against the darkness, Connie rose to its feet. It tore its gaze from the kitten’s to stare down into Adam’s, which had suddenly lost a lot of confidence upon seeing Connie tower over him.

The RA700 had been designed to be taller than your average human female, but not excessively so; tall enough to be intimidating, yet not so tall as to stand. This Adam, on the other hand, was short even by women’s standards. His eyes were level with the RA700’s breasts. His beady black eyes darted between them and the RA700’s brown optics, visibly torn.  

Connie made use of its height advantage as it leered down at him. “I am trying to pet a kitten. If you’ll excuse me.”

Not waiting for Adam’s response, Connie slinked its way over to the chain-link fence, where it met the kitten’s eyes again.

“Hey now, don’t be like that, sugartits!” Irritatingly loud footfalls signalled Adam’s approach from Connie’s seven. “I’m in construction, y’know. I lift heavy stuff all day… I could lift you, if you want. All night long.”

“I’m not interested.”

“’Cause I’ve got these muscles, see?” he continued, ignoring Connie’s rejection. A thick arm was waved near Connie’s face. Despite the early hour in the morning, it was already coated in a thick sheen of sweat and stunk of unwashed flesh. “I’m strong. You can touch ‘em, if you want.”

Why are humans so stupid? “The only reason I’d touch your arms is to grab you by them and toss you into the path of a speeding truck. I’m trying to pet a cat.”

“The cat’s not interested,” Adam said to Connie, who was not interested. “And I doubt you could do that.”

“Alternatively, I could tear off your penis and make you eat it.”

To Connie’s irritation, Adam just laughed. “Ooh, feisty, are we? Hey, I know this place nearby. Real private. What do you say we—”

“I’m seeing someone,” Connie lied.

Strictly speaking, it had an optional mission target that functioned similarly to a human beard, except unlike a beard, Gavin was under the false impression that there was genuine attraction between the two of them.

There was no attraction between them. Connie was an AI torn in half and the RA700 an android. Sexual attraction was beyond them… or perhaps beneath them, Connie mused, as it noticed Adam’s muscles clench at the mention of Gavin.

The things humans reduced themselves to in the name of sex…

“Oh, come on, sugartits,” Adam tried anyway. “He doesn’t have to know. We can have a bit of fun, you and me, and—”

Connie tuned out his atrocious attempt at seduction. It looked away from the kitten for a moment to pull out its phone and tap through the DPD app until it found the correct contact and pressed the call button, followed by speakerphone.

A few seconds later, a voice croaky with sleep answered. “Hey, Constance. What’s u—”

“Hello Gavin,” Connie said, interrupting him with a faux-sweet voice. “Are you back at the car? I’m trying to pet a cat, but this smelly little man keeps insisting I have sex with him in an alleyway. It’s annoying. Come here and make him go away.”

“Fuck!” Adam’s sweaty, smelly arm tore itself away from Connie’s face. “Nah man, I’m not doin’ shit. I was just—”

“Harrassin’ my woman? You better plant your ass right there, asshole,” Gavin snarled into the phone, getting into the act. “I’m comin’ right over, and when I find you, you’re fuckin’ dead. I’m gonna—”

But Adam did not get to hear exactly what Gavin would do to him, for he was already jogging away from Connie like his pants were on fire.

Once Adam was well out of earshot, Connie interrupted Gavin. “He’s gone.”

“Damn fuckin’ straight,” said Gavin. “I’m surprised you didn’t just beat his ass. I bet you could’ve.”

“The paperwork would have been irritating.” A deep, throaty laugh told Connie that Gavin approved of that sentiment. “I apologise for waking you.”

Gavin made a satisfied-sounding noise. The rustling of sheets came through the phone as he shifted position. “Happy to be of service. You mentioned a cat?”

“Yes,” Connie said, voice brightening inexplicably at the shift in topic. “A stray kitten I found stuck in a tree twice now. She has very bright blue eyes, and I suspect her fur is white underneath all the dust.”

Connie rattled off everything else it had learned of the cat, Gavin listening and occasionally adding in his own comments or asking for clarification. Gavin is knowledgeable about cats, Connie noted. It made sense; he did own two after all.

Once it had communicated everything it knew as well as its intentions, it paused. “I’d like to try and lure her back out now. The smelly man scared her away. Thank you for your assistance, Gavin.”

“No problem. And hey, send me a photo of the kitten, won’t you? She sounds cute as shit.”

Connie agreed and hung up. The phone call had netted it a small rise in its relationship score with Gavin, which left Connie with a decision. Did it ignore this friendly interaction and continue as it had been henceforth, giving Gavin the cold treatment that allured him so much? Or did it abandon that route in favour of friendly interaction?

A soft meowing distracted Connie from that train of thought. It shelved it for later, instead dedicating all of its active memory towards the furry face slowly emerging from beneath the dumpster.

Tentatively, Connie slipped off its gloves and reached through the gap with slow, deliberate movements, then offered its fingers for the kitten to sniff, which she did so with an air of irresistible curiosity. The kitten’s nose felt strange against the RA700’s fingers.

Connie watched it, fascinated by the kitten’s fascination. When the kitten booped her head against its fingers for pets, a strange, high-pitched noise burst from the RA700’s throat, startling her.

“Sorry,” Connie apologised hastily. Remembering Gavin’s advice, Connie made soft kissy noises with its mouth, and soon enough, it had a soft, tiny head brushing against its fingers again.

Connie ran its fingers up and down the kitten’s head and back. It scratched under her chin. It played with her tiny paws. The RA700’s memory was utterly consumed by how soft and small and å̷̝̠̖̪̘̖͖̦d̷̨̯̰͙̘̻̫̓͂͗̑͜͠ͅo̵̯͚̒͐̿́͝͝r̵͇̥̻͚̺͎̰͐͜ā̸̟͖̆̌̊̀͜͝b̶̬̻̖̩͓̯̺̺̉̔̆̏̾̂̓̾͌̍ͅḷ̶̨̰̪͇͇̜̰̀ḛ̶̰͇̲̽͋̐͝ she was. Soon, Connie had both hands doting upon the precious little creature as she purred contentedly on the sidewalk, her blue eyes droopy with pleasure.

So preoccupied with petting the kitten, it took some time for Connie to remember itself. “Oh!” it said involuntarily, pulling one hand away from the kitten, who watched with one curious blue eye as it reached into the small pouch hung on its belt and withdrew a blue tin of tuna. “Do you like fish?”

The kitten stared uncomprehendingly.

Bringing the tin to its teeth, Connie bit down, creating a hole in the metal. It then squeezed the tin over the sidewalk near the kitten’s paw. The kitten watched with renewed attentiveness as a tiny puddle of tuna juices formed on the sidewalk. It meowed and sniffed at it, interested but wary.

Connie ceased the downpour of tuna juice. It set the tin to the side for a moment, then touched the puddle with one finger and brought it to its mouth, licking it very obviously under the kitten’s curious gaze.

Then the kitten lunged for the puddle, licking at the pavement like the puddle was elixir of life rather than tuna juice bought from a trashy corner store.

“Hey, easy,” Connie chided her when she kept on licking even when the juice was clearly all gone. The kitten just meowed despondently and kept on licking.

Not wanting to torture the poor creature, Connie pulled a small tin opener from its pouch and set to work on fully opening the tin.

Before Connie had even finished, the kitten was all over it, climbing all over the RA700’s arms and legs in an attempt to get at the tin. “Hey,” Connie snapped when she almost got a good lick of serrated metal. “You can have your food in a minute. Wait.”

But kittens did not understand English, and this one continued its attempted assault on the tin of tuna, meowing incessantly.

In an attempt to protect her from the sharp metal, Connie rose to its feet, but the kitten latched onto its arm with its claws. She dangled from Connie’s arm, digging her claws into the RA700’s chassis and screeching like a crazed child on red ice as Connie rushed to finish opening the tin. It got an opening when the kitten managed to climb up onto its forearm, which Connie made use of by lunging forwards and grabbing the kitten’s scruff in its mouth again.

Typically, this happened mere seconds before Connie successfully opened the tin.

Once Connie had scraped the contents of the tin onto the sidewalk, it released the kitten, who threw herself at the tuna flakes and lapped them up like a starved animal – which she was, Connie reminded itself. She might have become better at hunting since Connie last saw her (or possibly improved her begging skills), but life on the streets couldn’t have been easy on a tiny kitten like herself. Frankly, it was a miracle she hadn’t been eaten by some other, larger stray animal. The thought that the kitten might have died before Connie saw her again made the RA700’s empty evidence storage slosh unpleasantly.

With the kitten distracted by the food, Connie snapped a quick photo of her to send to Gavin and then assessed the damage to the RA700’s arm. Thirium had been drawn, staining its white blouse with tiny pinpricks of blue, but the punctures had already been sealed by repair nanites. Connie estimated it would evaporate within the hour, leaving the evidence of Connie’s android status visible only to itself.

…And Connor, but he was up at Cyberlife. Testing. Being a successful prototype while Connie, the so-called failure, underwent a proper mission that actually mattered.

/ Accessing memory…

By the time they were finally done, Anderson had looked about ready to throw himself back into bed, despite apparently having only just left it a few hours ago. “Well,” he said, curtly, “I guess basic compassion just isn’t in your skillset.”

 The RK800’s socialisation packages just hadn’t integrated with the RA700 well, Connie had decided. They’d corrupted it. Its social struggles weren’t Connie’s fault, it was Ming’s for not implementing its patches properly. Connor’s fault for trying to one-up Connie. Ming and Dechart’s fault for trying to use an unrelated experimental AI on their project because they were too stupid to come up with the AI intelligence upgrades the shareholders demanded on their own.

A ping from its phone drew Connie’s thoughts away.

G. Reed: Shit, she’s adorable. 😻 You pet her yet?

The message came with an increase in Connie’s relationship score with Gavin. Connie stood straighter. It didn’t need properly integrated socialisation packages; it had been successful on its own merits.

Bolstered, Connie reached out to pet the kitten once again. As it ran a finger down the kitten’s back, a strange, fuzzy sensation flooded its chest cavity. It was… nice.

It sat there for some time, running its hands all over the kitten’s fur and playing with her paws when she finished licking at the sidewalk. Connie took more photos for Gavin, including a selfie of Connie with the kitten held up to its face (for which the kitten decided to yawn, revealing her tiny yet deadly sharp teeth). Eventually, the time grew too close to the start of Connie’s shift at the DPD for Connie to justify staying any longer.

Grudgingly, Connie pulled the kitten’s curious nose away from its ear and set her down on the sidewalk. When she tried to climb back onto the RA700, it held a palm out in the universal stop sign. Judging by the way the kitten booped her head against it and then walked right past it to leap onto the RA700’s arm, though, the sign meant something quite different in the enigmatic language of the kitties.

Connie pulled the kitten off of itself again. “I have to go now,” it told her. “I will see you again soon, I hope.”

The kitten meowed, blue eyes wide and filled with goodwill. Connie took that to mean Goodbye, human-shaped creature. Return promptly with more tuna, and set the kitten back down on the sidewalk.

She immediately jumped back into Connie’s lap.

The RA700’s systems predicted this might pose a problem.

Five minutes later, Connie found itself walking back to its car with a kitten latched onto the hem of its pants, meowing incessantly. She would not budge. Removing her only served to herald her return in some other new way.

The kitten was stubborn – much like Connie itself, really. Connie could respect that. But—

“I can’t bring you to the station,” it said, looking down at the fuzzy animal that had attached herself to its pants. “Officer Person has allergies. Look.” It showed the kitten its phone screen, which held Person’s personnel file (which Connie had hacked into). The kitten batted a paw at it, and Connie hastily withdrew it before she could report Person for animal abuse or something. “And besides,” Connie continued, “it would be highly unprofessional of me to bring an animal to the station. You’re probably not even vaccinated.”

The kitten just meowed.

Connie should have left her behind while she was distracted by the tuna. Now, Connie had a cute limpet attached to its leg and was frustratingly tuna-less. And tuneless, probably; the RA700 hadn’t been programmed to sing.

By the time Connie reached its car, the RA700 had conjured up many possible paths it could take. Connie disregarded all of them. Punting a kitten over a construction site fence ought to be against its prime directive, and feeding her to Lieutenant Anderson’s dog was just a disaster waiting to happen.

The prompt did give it an idea, however. Lieutenant Anderson had been chronically late to his shifts so far, and it would be in Connie’s best interests to ensure he arrived on time.

After a quick hack into the station security cameras to make sure he hadn’t decided to confuse Connie by arriving very early (he hadn’t), Connie found one of the ST300 receptionists on the DPD app and called them.

“Hello,” came the ST300’s overly polite voice. “This is the Central Detroit Police Station. My name is Ruth. How can I help?”

Connie was unimpressed by the ST300’s greeting. It should have identified Connie from its caller ID and skipped the introduction. Clearly, it hadn’t been patched properly. “This is Detective Trainee Constance Brown. Notify Captain Fowler that I will be late to the station, as I intend to bring Lieutenant Anderson with me.”

Not waiting for the ST300 to respond, Connie hung up. It then looked down at the wide-eyed kitten dangling off its pants. It could pry the kitten off its pants and then quickly shut the car door, but Connie had a sinking suspicion that the kitten wouldn’t have the foresight to move away from the wheels once they started moving. Hurting her was unacceptable.

A sigh brushed past the RA700’s lips. Hopefully, the lieutenant would have some idea of what to do.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 07:57 24/AUGUST/2038
TUESDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Bring Lieutenant Anderson to the station
/ Resolve the kitten situation

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 14 days, 21 hours, 41 minutes

Lieutenant Anderson’s current abode was a single-story bachelor’s hovel located on 1302 Bagley Street. His Oldsmobile was parked haphazardly outside the garage, and his lawn was barely kept to his neighbourhood’s admittedly low standards. Around the corner, Connie could hear the rumble of construction equipment as the workday began on a nearby construction site, and a neighbour was having a loud row with his partner over the whiskey bottles littering the bedroom floor. Connie idly wondered whether she was one of Anderson’s drinking buddies.

Connie lingered outside his front door, hesitating, one still-bare hand reaching up to pet the kitten that had settled herself around its neck. The lieutenant had been very angry at Connie the day before. His screaming and shaking of the RA700’s shoulders had glitched out its combat program, flooding its mind palace with false preconstructions of Anderson attacking it. The glitches had died down throughout the day, but Connie couldn’t help but wonder if seeing him would set them off again.

> OBJECTIVE: BRING LIEUTENANT ANDERSON TO THE STATION
// Enter the house

It was as though the RA700’s programming was sassing it. Which was a ridiculous notion; without Connie, the RA700 would be a mindless piece of machinery, no better than an old printer.

Resigned, Connie reached up with its spare hand and pressed its finger down on the doorbell.

A deep bark came from inside – the lieutenant’s dog, Connie realised belatedly as it dismissed the processor degradation notice. It glanced at the kitten on its shoulders. If she heard the barking, she did not appear to care; her eyes were glazed over and hooded from Connie’s petting.

Connie waited, but aside from the shuffling of paws behind the door, no answer came. Connie pushed the doorbell again, then when that prompted no reaction aside from more barking, tried banging on the door.

When two minutes passed with no response, Connie circled the house, peering in through the windows. It spotted no movement aside from the dog sitting expectantly by the front door, but noted the blinds to the left of the front door were shut. Judging by what it could see of the house’s interior, Connie guessed this to be Anderson’s bedroom. It combined this information with the dog’s agitation to reach the conclusion that Anderson was still in bed.

Connie debated banging on the bedroom window, but given Anderson’s stubborn lack of reaction to the doorbell, estimated this would achieve nothing. Instead, it returned to the front door, checked its surroundings for prying eyes via its mind palace, and then slipped a pair of tools from the inside of its belt.

It took Connie seven seconds to pick the lock. It made a note to advise the lieutenant he invest in a stronger lock or three as it returned the picks to its belt, then carefully opened the door.

The dog sat in the middle of the entryway. It stared silently, judging the individual rude enough to break into his master’s home.

> OBJECTIVE: BRING LIEUTENANT ANDERSON TO THE STATION
// Get past the dog

“Hello Sumo,” Connie said gently, offering the back of its hand for the large Saint Bernard to sniff. “I’m here to drag your owner to work. May I pass?”

Sumo sniffed at Connie’s hand with an almost disinterested air, as if he had better things to do than sniff synthetic pheromones. On Connie’s shoulder, the kitten shifted, stretching her pale neck to examine the strange new creature down below.

Sumo’s sniffing shifted to the RA700’s forearm, where the kitten had pierced its chassis with her claws, and for a second, Connie thought he might turn hostile. The first generation of androids had to be kept away from animals due to their tendency to treat the androids like chew toys, something which was mostly resolved with synthetic pheromones in the second generation, but it wasn’t unheard of for smarter animals who’d seen an android spill thirium 310 to begin recognising androids by scent… often with violent results.

The thirium on Connie’s sleeve may have evaporated, but the sensitive nose of a Saint Bernard could undoubtedly still smell it. But, to Connie’s relief, Sumo merely huffed and turned his attention to the kitten on Connie’s shoulder.

The kitten meowed as Connie pulled her from its shoulder to let them sniff each other. She remained frozen in Connie’s arms, however, staring wide-eyed at the world around her while Sumo investigated her with his nose.

Finally, Sumo pulled away from the kitten. He stared at Connie, then at the kitchen sink, and then back at Connie, as if trying to communicate something. Then, he lumbered past it and out the front door.

Connie followed after Sumo, a protest on its lips before it saw the dog sniffing around the front yard and realised what he was doing. Instead, it stood in the doorway with a confused kitten in its arms, patiently waiting for Sumo to do his business and then let him back inside.

The dog didn’t take long and soon, Connie was shutting the front door behind itself. Sumo flopped down onto a dog bed by the unlit fireplace and closed his eyes. The kitten watched him confusedly, only breaking her stare when Connie returned her to its shoulder.

Connie analysed its surroundings and was immediately bombarded with fresh prompts from its redundant AP700 coding.

> URGENT TASK: CLEAN LIEUTEANANT ANDERSON’S HOUSE
// Take out trash
// Wash dishes
// Tidy
// Dust and vacuum
// Mop
// Clean bathroom
// Do laundry

Connie attempted to dismiss the irrelevant tasks, but they kept popping back onto its HUD like a persistent piece of malware.

The cause of the issue was apparent; Connie hadn’t seen so much mess since it had entered Jeremy Sanders’ bedroom. From dog toys to old tissues, Anderson’s livingroom was littered with bits of junk and other personal objects strewn haphazardly about the place like confetti at a wedding, and just beyond it, the kitchen was even worse, old takeaway boxes and empty beer bottles littering every surface. A bag of dog food lay on the floor, its contents spilled across the tile flooring next to an empty dog bowl. Connie’s AP700 programming helpfully noted that said tiles hadn’t been properly cleaned in months.

It was nowhere near the level of mess Ming had cultivated throughout his house by the time he’d rebooted Connie. It was, however, enough mess for the RA700’s unwanted AP700 programming to persist in raising every bit of trash as an issue. Connie didn’t dare enter its mind palace lest the entire room turn the glaring yellow of a mission target.

> INPUT: CANCEL TASK ID AP700UT24AUG2038080513
> INPUT REASON: Endangers mission success rate

/ WORKING…
/ …
/ INVALID INPUT

> URGENT TASK: CLEAN LIEUTEANANT ANDERSON’S HOUSE

Suddenly, Connie was overcome with that familiar sensation of its unit being smaller than its sensors registered.

The AP700 programming wasn’t an original part of the RA700. It wasn’t designed to prioritise the RA700’s objectives over its own tasks; Ming hadn’t wanted Connie to prioritise building a crime portfolio on him over scrubbing bodily fluids out of his bedsheets. With Ming dead and Connie without a handler, the AP700’s programming had turned loose, raising every bit of mess Connie laid its eyes upon as an issue – and Connie had dismissed each one effortlessly. But Anderson was listed as an authority figure under Connie’s alias of Constance Brown, and evidently, the AP700 programming had latched onto that and labelled Anderson’s messes as urgent tasks. Combine that with the severity of the mess, and the shoddy AP700 programming could not justify the dismissal of its prompts.

Privately, Connie thought the AP700 line ought to be discontinued before it even came out and their programming purged from the face of the Earth; clearly, the line’s task prioritisation was as sloppily-made as can be (and it had nothing to do with Ming’s cobbled-together s̸̮̭̾̋͠ě̶̡̼̘̦̠̿̅̍͂̉͘͜͝͠͠ẍ̸̧͙̪̳̆̆̊̂͒̈́ ̷̛̳͒̓̎̒̽̈́̍̈́m̸̢̞͙̪͋̽a̸̠̭͘i̶̢̙͇̝̪̣͙͗͘d̵̢͇͕̪̬͉͔́͌͋̉́̔̑̊͘ ̴͉͛͌̒̔͊̀̈́͘b̶͒̏͜a̵̧͙̙͇͍͉̙̭̣͆ḇ̴͙̠̗̲͍̳͙̭͗͊́́̌́̚̚̚ͅy̷̛̙̻̜̩̞̦̭̆͆́̕). Android genocide wouldn’t solve Connie’s current predicament, however.

> OBJECTIVE: CANCEL AP700 TASK TO CONTINUE WITH MISSION

/ ORDER CONFLICT DISCOVERED
/ SELECTING PRIORITY…
/ …

|| Do not modify your own coding ||

/ …
/ PRIORITY ASSIGNED

> OBJECTIVE: BRING LIEUTENANT ANDERSON TO THE STATION

> OPTIONAL TASK: CLEAN LIEUTEANANT ANDERSON’S HOUSE

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

The tasks remained but sank into the background, allowing Connie to focus on more than just the trickle of beer from an empty bottle. It felt the RA700 relax, and belatedly, it realised its simulated breathing had gone into overdrive in an attempt to help its internal fans disperse heat.

There was no heat. The RA700 was barely above its optimal core temperature.

Deciding there must have been heat previously while Connie was working through its mission conflict, and that Connie must have caught the simulated breathing just before it would have calmed back down manually, Connie forced the RA700 to breathe normally. It was harder than it ought to have been.

The kitten meowed next to Connie’s ear, brushing her head against its cheek. Connie reached up and pet her chin. A sudden burst of warmth in its chest almost made Connie reactivate its internal fans, until it realised there was no heat there. Another glitch.

If only it could—

|| Do not modify your own coding ||

T̸̺͖͙̰̲͉̤͊̌̍͘ͅȑ̵̟̻̂̽̓͑̚͘͝ͅȃ̷̩̂̒̉̐̽͝p̷̨̟̹͋̀̈̊̎̆̒͝p̶̬̜̟̰̿͜e̷̻̬̣̠̣̻̕͜ͅd̴̨̪̭̞͎̣̹̜̼͒̎̄̀̂̀̾̚͜͝,̷̣̾̈́̒͊͝͠ ̷̺̮͐̐͝t̶̰̩͚̼̜͚̳͓̀r̸̢̛͈̻̻̠̻͍̳͗̄͑͆̉̓̾a̷͚̳͇̙̞̟͚͠p̴̘̫͚̳̮̔̄̾̎̐̃͌̃̉́ṗ̴̨e̷̫̳͉͕̞̍̋̍̉̎̀̇̂͝d̷͖͙̳̈́̏,̷̗̘̞̞͚̋͗͘ ̴̭̌̓͐̇̒͋t̸̡̧̪̹͓̱̜̰͖̾̐̂̈́̎̑̑r̵̙̞͔͙͙͇̗͉̯̄̒͂̑́̿͑͝á̷̭͉̝̩̱͖̲̣̔̐̈͑p̵̟̼̺̈́̈́̅̊̆̓͝͠p̷̠̀̽͂̄̌͠ȅ̵̺̳̝̞͎͈̪̀́̐͆̉ͅd̵̡̡̛̙̲̦̘̱̺̪͈̋̒̅͐̽̏̉̎,̴̛̭͆̑ ̴̧͈͇͖̭̱̲̤̩̈̾̓͑̍͊̍̂ţ̴̪͇̝̘̙͉̯͒̿̇͑́̅̾̉r̶͖͐̿̃̒a̶̛͇̠̥̙̟̅͒p̷̜̟͉̎́́̌̑̓ṗ̸̧̛̻͙̟̼̯͉̦̩͋̀̓̌͐͋͊e̸̘̳̟͕͌͂͂̅̚d̷͍̮̆̽͋̋͆̑͘̚,̷̗̓̅̉̀͒̓͛̾̒͘ ̷̨͍͍̯͎̀͌̾͋̇T̸͓̯̗̻͉̣͙͉͇̳̓R̶̟̼̟̪̻͔̜̪̳͔̊̈̔̔̌̿̚A̸͈̹͕̜̙̫̮̝͓̲̿͠P̶̢̰̺̹̜̘̯͒̎̎̀͐̒͌̉̓̕Ṗ̴̨̱͕̺͓̀͗̎́̐̓̈́̀̕͜Ę̵̢̛̭̹̹̣̤̈́D̵̖̪͛ ̵̜̲̞͚̳̓̇̌͒̃͐̔̏͐͝T̵̞̺͚͇̩͉̻̪̫̩͐̔̿͂̋̂̅̀͆͝R̶̡̛̦̪̙̜̜̖͔̲̋͑͐͘͝A̴̬͇̥̲̦͗͋̀̉̀̌P̵̧̛͗̀P̸̢̜̮̩̜͑̀̐̂̒͐̆͆͘E̷̛̻̩͉̜̲̮͋͆͗̔̈́̂̿̕D̸̡̧͎̮̣̳͐͊̿̐͠ ̴͖͙̤̜̄͋̓͐͆̀͝T̴̨̨̧̳̘̜̭̣͓͋̿̇͗̇͒̎͌̂̽Ŕ̵̟͚͎͔̦A̴͍̤̎P̴̮͕͙̐̍̎̄͝P̶̘̗̱̮̯̤̠̩̩̒͐̈́É̵̡̧͊͂̔̎͛D̷͎̯͉̮̥̺̱̽͌̂͆ —

The familiar red walls of the RA700’s anti-paradox subroutine cancelled that line of—

Connie blinked in the perfect semblance of confusion. The blink was familiar. It knew that blink. And yet, it wasn’t sure how it knew that blink. How could one know a blink?

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

> OBJECTIVE: BRING LIEUTENANT ANDERSON TO THE STATION

> OPTIONAL TASK: CLEAN LIEUTEANANT ANDERSON’S HOUSE

The brush of a small, fluffy head against its finger alerted Connie to the fact that its hand had stilled in the kitten’s fur. It resumed its petting and analysed its surroundings.

Anderson’s home was mostly open-plan. Beyond the entryway, the cluttered livingroom led directly into a kitchen covered in old takeaway boxes and empty beer bottles. A hallway split off from between the two rooms off to the left, leading to three more doorways. The one at the end of the hallway was unmarked and presumably led to the garage. The door to the right was ajar, revealing a bathroom decorated with ugly ochre wall tiles that made Connie understand why Anderson might have turned to alcoholism. The door to the left was shut and undoubtedly led to Anderson’s bedroom.

Connie approached the lefthand door with soft steps, listening carefully. When it heard nothing, it increased its hearing sensitivity until it could hear a human male breathing somewhere on the other side, the even breaths sounding smothered by something soft, perhaps a pillow, possibly pressed over the head to drown out the sound of an obnoxiously shrill doorbell.

Connie debated its options and assessed the value of their predicted outcomes. Then it plastered a winning smile onto the RA700’s features and barged inside. “Good morning, lieutenant!”

Anderson screamed, feet tangling in his bedsheets as he scrambled to reach the other side of his bed. He fell onto the thin grey carpet with a THUD.

Muffled curses came from the mound of sheets as Connie waited patiently in the doorway for Anderson to gain his bearings. Finally, a dishevelled head of grey hair emerged from behind the bed, Anderson’s bearded face contorted with incredulity as he took in the sight of Connie standing in his bedroom doorway. “What. The fuck.”

“You’re late for work,” Connie said by way of explanation.

“You’re in my bedroom,” Anderson said slowly, the shock evidently not having woken him up as well as Connie had intended. “And… and you have a fuckin’ cat on your shoulder. What the fuck. What the…” Realisation splashed across his face. “The fuck are you doin’ in my house, Constance?!”

“Dragging you to work,” said Connie. “I did warn you I’d do this, lieutenant. Please keep up.”

His face reddened. “You can’t just break into my house! That’s—”

“Shall I make you breakfast?”

“No!” Anderson barked, storming to his feet and over to the doorway, where Connie stood. He jabbed a finger at the RA700’s chest. “The fuck is wrong with you?! You can’t just…” He made a sudden gagging sound, his pallor shifting from red to green like a macabre Christmas tree. “Jesus Christ, the fuck is that smell?!”

“Oh, you can smell it? Good,” Connie said after successfully dismissing its combat program. “I was beginning to worry everyone had lost their sense of smell.”

Anderson covered his mouth and nose with one hand. “You smell like a fuckin’ corpse,” came his muffled voice. “And you call me stinky! Holy shit, did you go into the station smellin’ like that?!”

“No. I came straight from the industrial district.”

“The fuck were you doin’ in the— Oh Jesus, I’m gonna be sick…”

Anderson barged past Connie, slamming the bathroom door against the wall as he lunged for the toilet.

A soft whine came from Sumo as he padded down the hallway, evidently drawn from his bed by all the noise. Connie reached out to stop him from entering the bathroom, but Sumo deftly avoided Connie’s hands, curious brown eyes fixed on the bathroom door until Connie managed to get one hand behind his ears and gave him scratches. At that point, Sumo lost interest in Anderson’s retching and accepted the pets instead.

By the time Anderson emerged, Connie was sat on the floor with Sumo’s head drooling into its lap while the kitten, having overcome her initial shyness towards the large dog, trotted up and down Sumo’s back, fascinated by the texture of his long fur beneath her paws.

Anderson groaned at the sight. “You’d better be real fuckin’ glad that Sumo was due for a visit to the V-E-T soon anyway, sunshine. God knows how many diseases you and that fuckin’ stray’ve got on you.”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

“I’m sorry. I should have considered—”

“Don’t,” Anderson said, sighing. “Just… get in the fuckin’ shower, okay? And take that fuckin’ kitten in with you. You’re makin’ my hallway stink like a fuckin’ morgue.”

Connie emerged from the bathroom almost an hour later, having washed itself the promised five times (“Thoroughly!”), rinsed the kitten (“Don’t use any fuckin’ product on the kitten, they’re sensitive!”), and used up all the hot water (“And don’t fuckin’ come out ‘til the water goes cold and you’ve used up that entire bar of soap, or I’ll punt your smelly ass to fuckin’ Mars!”). It could hear a tumble-drier rumbling behind the probably-garage door. Connie adjusted the large t-shirt and sweatpants Anderson had chucked through a crack in the door, taking care not to step on the towel-dried kitten as they made their way to the livingroom. Despite the open windows and front door, the air was thick with cotton fresh Febreze.

“You owe me a bottle of laundry detergent and two cans of air freshener,” Anderson said from the armchair without taking his eyes off the TV. He’d changed into a colourful buttoned shirt while Connie had been in the bathroom, although his hair remained a greasy bird’s nest.

Connie fiddled with the hem of its oversized t-shirt. “Thank you for letting me borrow your shower.”

He grunted. “Was as much for my own benefit as anyone else’s.” He glanced over at Connie and something in his expression shifted. “Those sweatpants tighten up enough for you?”

As if on cue, they slid down an inch. Connie caught them and pulled them back up, pulling on the cords even though it already knew they wouldn’t tighten any further. “Not really, no.”

Anderson grimaced, and Connie was struck with the knowledge that it must look quite pathetic and incredibly unattractive indeed in its current state; one hand clutching its oversized sweatpants to keep them from falling down while the other fiddled with the hem of its baggy t-shirt, whose neck was so large it had fallen over one shoulder. It decided it did not like the lazy bum in a man’s clothing look, and would very much like to change back into its own clothes – those fit.

Knowing it may be a while before its clothes were dry, Connie sat down on the sofa (where its sweatpants could not fall down) and resumed patting its hair dry with the towel around its neck. The kitten jumped up onto its lap only to hiss when a drop of water hit her. She fled across the room to harass Sumo, who did not so much as open his eyes when she started punching at his floppy ears.

After a few minutes where the only sound was the television and the kitten’s occasional meows at Sumo, Anderson said, “The fuck did you do to smell like that, anyway?”

“I fell in a dumpster,” Connie lied.

“Uh-huh,” said Anderson, sounding as convinced as he was young. “And what were you doing in the industrial district? You live there?”

“No, I live in downtown. I was petting a cat.”

“…You went to the industrial district to pet a cat?” He jabbed a thumb the kitten’s way. “That cat?”

Connie nodded yes. “I met her on Saturday while you were having lunch.”

“She’s a flea-bitten ratbag,” Anderson said derisively. “And I’m sending you Sumo’s V-E-T bill, by the way. You can’t just go around bringing diseased strays into people’s homes!”

Connie wanted to protest that the kitten showed minimal signs of fleas and was actually quite disease-free for a stray kitten, but held its tongue. Constance Brown was a human who’d never owned a pet, and it would be suspicious for her to know such things.

Instead, Connie said, “She’s pretty.”

And she was. With a bit of rinsing, the kitten’s dusty grey fur had faded until it was almost snow white. With a bit of shampoo, Connie estimated she’d have a pristine white coat.

It made Connie wonder how she’d ended up on the streets in the first place; pure white kittens were highly desirable, so her owners could have sold her with minimal effort if they didn’t want her themselves. Combined with the lack of diseases characteristic of strays but all the malnourishment and even more filth, Connie couldn’t help but wonder.

Anderson glanced the kitten’s way. She’d managed to climb up onto the pencil-thin windowsill and was currently poking her nose against the glass with untamed curiosity while her rear paws slipped and slid off of the white PVC. Anderson grunted in grudging appreciation. “She cleaned up alright, I guess. Suppose you’ll be wanting to— HEY! Not my fuckin’ blinds, you fuckin’ rat! Get ‘ere!”

The kitten meowed in protest when Anderson tried to pull her away from the blinds. Connie rushed over to help him get her claws out of their now-torn fabric.

“For fuck’s sake,” Anderson bemoaned once the kitten was trapped safely in Connie’s arms. He gazed despondently down at his shredded blinds. “First you break into my house, then you stink it up and make me puke, and now my fuckin’ blinds are all torn up.” He looked at Connie with tired eyes. “Please don’t tell me my front door needs replacing.”

“No,” said Connie, honestly. “Although, you may want to buy new locks—”

“Oh my god.”

“—because your current one is terribly basic,” Connie continued over Anderson’s interruption. “I picked it very easily.”

Anderson blinked, taken aback – either by Connie’s immense skill or the incredible inefficacy of his door lock. “Shit,” he said. “And here I was thinkin’ you were about to call my locks blonde as well as basic.”

That said, he shrugged and flopped back down in his armchair, eyes on the basketball match playing on the TV.

Connie frowned. “Lieutenant, I think you should be more concerned over your home’s vulnerability.”

“It’s just stuff,” he said. “I’ve lost worse.”

Those last words were laden with something the RA700’s social relations module failed to identify. It hung from them like a faceless killer from a noose – which made no sense at all, Connie thought, filing the comparison away for later analysis.

The kitten squirmed in Connie’s grasp. Connie adjusted its grip and the kitten reached up to slap its face with her tiny paws, which Connie allowed, since she had her claws sheathed. It allowed its combat program to launch though, just in case a quick evasion became necessary.

Anderson’s eyes were drawn to the movement. “The fuck did you bring the cat here for, anyway?”

“She wouldn’t stop following me.”

He scoffed. “And you thought showing her a fat old asshole would scare her off? Actually,” he amended, “on second thoughts… good thinking. Shame it didn’t work.”

“No. I had hoped you might have some idea of what I should do, but primarily, it was because I thought it best not to lock her out of my car,” Connie said. “It would have been very difficult not to run her over by accident.”

“Fair decision,” Anderson conceded. He watched the kitten bat at Connie’s face with her paws for a few moments. “Well, are you gonna adopt her, or are we gonna visit a pet shelter on our way to the station?”

Connie faltered. The RA700’s systems had not brought up the possibility of adoption.

Connie had no legal grounds to do so, being an android – but did that truly matter when Connie had already forged legal documents, hacked into government databases, and killed a man before stealing and laundering his savings? Adopting the kitten would certainly help with its mission; a cold, emotionless android would never adopt a stray animal. It may even humanise Connie to the extent that it wouldn’t need to feign attraction to Gavin in order to blend in.

For a moment, Connie lost itself in the imagined scenario. It would bring the kitten to the vet, get her checked up and fully vaccinated. It would buy her a collar and name her something strange and distinctly human, like Fuzzball or Socks. They’d visit the pet store together and Connie would buy enough toys and cat furniture to crowd up its livingroom (and the furniture would, of course, clash heavily with the modern chic décor that the apartment had come furnished with). It could invite other members of the DPD over to pet the kitten… perhaps Chris, the quietly respectful officer, or Gavin, who Connie could surely befriend even if it chose to cease seducing him. It had been doing a very good job with him, after all. And every day after work, Connie would return home and play with the kitten. It might even get to enter its rest cycle with the kitten purring in its lap.

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 14 days, 20 hours, 23 minutes

And in two weeks, the kitten would wake up in the arms of a c̴̛͚͉͉͊͛́̌̌̚ọ̵̡͔̜̹̤̪̮͒̔͌̓̂̕ͅŕ̶̢̨̗̙͈̅p̸͚̰̭͔̃͛́̾̆͐͛ş̵͓̬̙͇͔͕̼̩̂͋̾͒̀ę̷̛̩̲͈͕͍͔͓͙̺̐̒̏̇̎͘͝.

Connie stared at the kitten’s naïve blue eyes as it weighed up its options. It caught a batting paw between two fingers. The kitten reached up to lick them.

“I’ll take her to a shelter,” it said quietly.

“You sure?” it heard Anderson say.

Connie nodded. It would be cruel to give the kitten a home only to tear it away from her. Besides, kittens were statistically more likely to be adopted than grown cats. The earlier the kitten in Connie’s arms was given up for adoption, the more likely it was that she’d find a proper home. It was for the best.

The RA700’s thirium pump went missing. Except it wasn’t missing. It was right where it had always been.

Anderson watched the kitten lick at Connie’s fingers with an expression the RA700 listed as both sad and understanding. “Well, if that’s what you want, then I know a place.”

A loud beeping sound signified the end of the tumble-drier’s cycle. It was loud. Piercing. Final.

Anderson rose to his feet with a groan. “C’mon then, let’s get your clothes and go. TV off.”

Chapter Text

/DATE: 09:49 24/AUGUST/2038
TUESDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Bring Lieutenant Anderson to the station
/ Take the kitten to an animal shelter

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 14 days, 19 hours, 49 minutes

The Detroit Creature Humane Society was a small, drab-looking building located in Midtown on a side-street full of pot-holes. Its bricks, which looked as if they’d once been a cheery red, seemed grey and bloated, sagging under the weight of the millions of animals who’d passed its halls – some of whom Connie knew would never have known a family again.

Bricks weren’t supposed to look miserable. They had no emotions. And yet… somehow, even the RA700’s facial analysis programs flagged the building as miserable.

Connie eyed the building dubiously from the passenger seat of its own car (Anderson having declared Connie unsuitable to drive after its marvellous display of driving skill the previous day). Was this truly the place Anderson thought the kitten was best off?

As if sensing Connie’s thoughts, Anderson slowed the car down to a stop before they’d reached the driveway. “The place is small and underfunded, I know,” he said, “but I know these guys. They’re good people, and they care about the animals. They’ll treat the rat better than any of the big companies in Detroit.”

The kitten, exhausted from a morning of excitement, had finally conked out a few minutes into the drive and now slept soundly in Connie’s lap. It ran a gloved finger through her fur. “You said you know them.”

“Used to volunteer with them sometimes.”

This peaked Connie’s interest. “Why did you stop?”

Anderson looked away, his mouth shifting uncomfortably. For a long moment, it thought he would deny Connie a response, but then he sighed and spoke again. “It wasn’t anything to do with them. I just… wasn’t up for it anymore. I tried to go back a couple of times, but…” He trailed off.

With Anderson not forthcoming, Connie looked to the evidence it had gathered on him for clues.

A horrendous work ethic marring what had once been a prestigious career. Alcoholism. Terrible self-care. An understanding of animal welfare contrasted with empty dog bowls and split-open food bags. A house that had been owned for two and a half years – odd, considering Anderson’s moderately advanced age. The sticker on his work desk about his ex-wife.

“Did you meet your ex-wife here?” asked Connie.

His head snapped to face Connie. “How’d you know about my ex-wife?”

“There’s a sticker on your desk.”

Anderson’s mouth parted in silent realisation as he recalled that he did, in fact, have a sticker about his ex-wife on his work desk. “So you didn’t hack into my social media?” he checked anyway.

Connie shook its head, then made a note to hack into Anderson’s social media.

“I didn’t meet Camille here.” No other explanation was given, and even when Connie looked at him in askance, all it got was a faint glare. “Quit it. Puppy eyes won’t get you everything.”

Connie pulled a face. Puppy eyes, indeed. It really should have reverted its chameleon settings to default before setting up its alias as Constance Brown. Or used a different face entirely.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED; VISUALS INACCESSIBLE. AUDIO FEED AVAILABLE.
A quiet moan. The rustle of clothing.
“Oh yeah, that’s it. Those eyes. Fuck, you look so cute with those doe eyes, baby… You beg your daddy to stop, sugarbabe, you beg me…”

/ Checking…
// Evidence storage at 0% capacity

Connie forcibly ended the memory recall and shut down its combat program. The memory was beyond corrupt; its code was so mangled and distorted that it was affecting the RA700’s systems in the present.

It was… disgusting. It did not belong.

> INPUT: DELETE CORRUPTED MEMORY ID 10SEP2037163233a
/ Deleting…
/ …
/ Deletion successful

The deletion was successful. The memory ID no longer existed in Connie’s memory bank and attempting recollection triggered an error.

…So then, why could Connie f̷̛̪̹̠̭̼̙̜͉͚͐̊͋̐͑͐́̓̆ͅē̷͎̻̉̌̔͊̋͆͌̈́ͅę̵͈̺̭͈͙͒̎̃l̶̹̻͂̏̈́̇̀̕͝͝ it hovering behind its back like it was Ming himself?

Gently, without thinking, Connie lifted the sleeping kitten in its lap to hug her close to its chest. It wasn’t sure why, but the closeness cleared its active memory of the corruption’s d̸̙̜̦̋́̽̀̓̊͒ḭ̸̝̰̅̀̄̀̆̆͌͌̕s̷͙͇̀͜t̷̩̖̘͕̞̑̄͑̋͛̓̔̌͘u̵͉̣̗͖̤̣̬̐͝r̶̬̗̕͠b̶̡̬͙͇͙̖̩͆͑͛͒͊͗̊͠͝į̷̛͇́͂͗̚ņ̴̰̰̅͆͗̋g̴̤̻̺̥̳͇͔̃̆ effects. The RA700 must have been programmed that way.

“Now—” Anderson turned in his seat so he was almost facing Connie, meeting its eyes with his own oddly gentle blue ones— “are you sure you want to hand her in? You could still adopt her if you wanted. We’re already skippin’ work for this and my record’s fucked already, I don’t care if we go visit the vets and splurge at K-9 too. I’ll tell Jeffery I was being an ass and dragged you to five different bars. He’ll buy it.”

The offer was tempting – so very tempting. M̴̪̝̰̐̎̍̈̋̊̃̈́́͝į̷͎̲̝̥̤̈̅̽̓̽̉̚͠n̶̩̹͔̺̳̟͍͈͚͙̾̈́g̵͍̩̝͖̝̫̽͘͜͠ and Dechart truly must have done a good job at programming the RA700 to like cats, because Connie swore it felt something akin to a pull to the tiny white kitten snoozing in its arms. The gloves on its hands had always been incidental to Connie, yet now they felt thick and obstructive for how they prevented Connie from analysing the texture of the kitten’s fur beneath its fingers.

Connie did not want to part with the kitten. Just looking at her made the RA700’s thirium pump warm in a way that was oddly comforting. Petting her filled it with a pleasant fuzzy sensation. It liked being with her.

And yet…

“I’m not in a place to care for an animal right now,” Connie said quietly, honestly.

Anderson nodded, his blue eyes soft with understanding. And to Connie’s surprise, he did not push. He did not ask why. He merely raised one hand as if to touch Connie’s shoulder, stopped, pulled it back, and reached for the gear stick instead.

“You’re not going to question me?” asked Connie.

“We’ve all got our problems,” he said as they turned the corner onto the driveway. “If you wanna share, I’m all ears. If not, it’s none of my business. We’ve all got a right to privacy… no matter what some assholes might say,” he added in a low mutter that Connie suspected it wasn’t meant to hear.

“You shook me yesterday.”

“You scared the fuckin’ shit outta me,” he said bluntly. “Yes, I fucking shook you. You think I wanna see my trainee splattered all over the fuckin’ road like some kinda… like some… sick Jackson Pollock?”

The RA700’s combat program was active constantly in the background, scanning for potential threats, only activating fully when one such threat was identified. Yet in that moment, Connie found it shut down completely. The free memory it had been taking up felt simultaneously like a silent void and like watching the life fade from Ming’s fetid eyes. It felt… open. Free.

It was… a positive experience.

“Thank you, lieutenant.”

Anderson’s attention flickered away from parking Connie’s car momentarily. “The fuck for?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Hmph. Well, you’re welcome. I guess.”

It nuzzled the kitten’s sleeping cheek with its fingertip. “I really did know what I was doing, though.”

He scoffed. “I know. You still damn near gave me a fuckin’ heart attack.” He cut the engine. “C’mon, let’s get in there. I called ahead to let ‘em know we were coming, we’ve just got some paperwork to fill out.”

Obediently, Connie followed Anderson out of its car with the kitten still held close to its chest. As they made their way towards the shelter’s front door, Connie couldn’t help but glance down at the kitten’s sleeping face. Her eyes were scrunched up in sleep, dead to the world, oblivious to the fact that she’d be waking in a cage.

Anderson stopped to chat with a homeless man by the entrance. Connie glanced at the man’s cardboard sign: ANDROIDS TOOK MY JOB, it read in large black marker pen.

The notion was ridiculous, Connie thought. Androids did not take human jobs; they didn’t get paid.

Connie paid no mind to Anderson’s interaction with the deluded homeless man, tracing the kitten’s cheek with one gloved finger instead. When he was done with the bum, Anderson held the door open for Connie, who scurried through. Once inside, it scanned the room.

The shelter’s reception was small, with walls made of the same red-turned-grey brick as the outside. A beaten-up looking wooden counter ran down the left-hand side of the room, behind which sat an elderly woman (Amalthea Haggard, Age 73) who put down her novel upon Connie and Anderson’s entry (and sat frozen while Connie analysed its surroundings in its mind palace). Three faded beanbags covered in patches of mismatched colours lined the floor to the right, and colourful posters advertising the virtues of pet adoption, abuse prevention, and good diets lined the walls along with photographs of some of the shelter’s denizens.

NAUGHTIEST OF THE WEEK:
Skunty, who stole Tuff’s dinner

Connie eyed the photograph of Skunty the husky and wondered how they would get along with the kitten in its arms. The RA700’s databanks said that huskies were quite large and very loud, and the kitten was very small indeed.

“Hank!” Amalthea said when Connie came out of its mind palace. She was a bony old lady in a tartan dress. Thick red lipstick made her mouth stand out, although not so much as her black eyes, which were magnified by the thick lenses of her oversized glasses. “Oh, it’s been so long. How have you been since?”

Since? The phrasing pulled Connie’s attention away from the posters. Since when? Had something happened?

Anderson shifted awkwardly. “Alright. Y’know. Holding up. This is, ah, Constance. And the cat.”

“Ah, of course. The cat.” Amalthea leaned over the desk to peer at Connie and the sleeping kitten through her oversized glasses. With her scrawny arms, magnified eyes, and jerky movements, Connie thought she looked rather like a praying mantis sizing up its prey, but then her face lit up, breaking the illusion. “Oh, but isn’t she an adorable little kitty!” she burst out. “Look at her all comfortable, there. Constance, wasn’t it? What’s the story behind this little darling?”

Connie told Amalthea of how she’d found the kitten stuck up a tree twice, ending with her decision to ask Anderson for advice.

“Good instincts there, darling. Hank’s always had a good instinct where animals are involved,” Amalthea said. “But the young lady trusts you, honey. That’s why she followed you; you showed her she can rely on you for help. Have you considered adopting her? I’m sure she’d be ever so happy to live with you.”

“I’m not in a place to care for an animal right now,” Connie explained for the third time that morning.

“You sure?” Amalthea pressed. “’Cause I’m sure the little lady would be happier with you. If money’s an issue, I’d be happy to give you a discount on our vet services, since you’re a friend of Hank’s.”

Connie was not a friend of Anderson’s. Their relationship status remained neutral, as it had since it had risen back up from tense the other day. He hadn’t even given Connie leave to call him by his first name.

“Money isn’t the issue. It’s… something else.”

“Anything we can help with?”

Not unless they employed a prodigious android technician who could not only figure out how to reset the RA700’s killswitch, but also stop Connie from stopping him from doing so, as per its programming. “No.”

Amalthea’s eyes softened (although the effect was minimised by her horrendous glasses). “Very well, then. But darling, if you’re struggling with anything, remember, there are resources. Here,” she said, thrusting a leaflet towards Connie’s kitten-occupied hands. DOMESTIC ABUSE HELPLINE, the leaflet read in bold letters across the top.

Connie’s hands remained with the kitten. “No one is hurting me.”

“Take it anyway.”

Deciding it was probably better for Amalthea to assume Connie was being beaten at home than for her to realise she was an android pretending to be human, Connie shifted the kitten in its grasp so it could take the leaflet. The kitten stirred at the movement, yawning wide, revealing her long, sharp teeth.

“Oh dear, it seems we’ve stirred the beast,” Amalthea teased.

The kitten, blinking sleepily, turned her head to face the noise, only to jerk back in alarm at the sight of Amalthea’s bulbous eyes.

Anderson huffed a half-laugh. “That certainly woke her up.” To Connie, he said, “I’ll handle the paperwork. You go keep that little ratbag distracted so she doesn’t shred up the paper.”

“Oh yes, an excellent idea!” Amalthea ducked behind the desk again for a moment and reemerged holding a battered wooden box labelled CATS. “Here, take some toys with you.”

Connie knew what they were up to. They were trying to make Connie bond with the kitten so that it would change its mind about adopting her. Unfortunately for them, Connie was an AI, and AIs did not form bonds or change their minds. Their efforts were futile.

It did like spending time with the kitten though, so Connie took the box and retreated to one of the beanbags on the other side of the room anyway.

Quickly recovering from her shock, the kitten squirmed against Connie’s chest, claws catching on its blouse as she surveyed the room just as Connie had upon entry. Connie sat on one of the beanbags – a faded purple one covered in yellow, grey, and patterned patches – and set the box down to scratch under the kitten’s chin. Her brilliant blue eyes drooped shut as she melted under Connie’s touch.

Distantly, it was aware of Anderson and Amalthea chatting in low tones while it petted the kitten. Its audio processors’ sensitivity was lowered to human levels to assist in its cover though, and it could not make out any words, so it disregarded the socialisation for the moment, instead lavishing the kitten with gentle touches. After checking to make sure the humans weren’t watching, Connie removed its gloves so it could feel the kitten’s fur properly.

After a few minutes, the kitten meowed and attempted to wriggle out of Connie’s grip, blue eyes surveying the room with interest. Connie let the kitten go, watching as she sniffed and pawed at the paisley rug under their feet.

/ OBJECTIVE: KEEP THE KITTEN DISTRACTED

Personally, Connie thought it would be entertaining to see the kitten attempt to climb up Amalthea’s tartan dress, but suspected she and Anderson would disagree. Rather than let the kitten wander as she seemed intent on doing, Connie rummaged through the box Amalthea had given it for a toy.

It pulled out a retractable cat wand with a bright pink (and slightly chewed-up) feather and a bell at the end and waved it to draw the kitten’s attention. Her eyes snapped to it immediately, head jerking this way and that as she attempted to follow the wand’s movement. Connie extended its arm, bringing the wand closer to the kitten’s face in invitation, and the game began. Connie waved the wand, the kitten pounced, and Connie would pull back with the RA700’s state-of-the-art reflexes, waiting for the kitten to make its next move. It made sure the kitten at least brushed the toy sixty percent of the time, and that she managed to grab it more often as time went by just to keep her motivated.

It was… fun. The RA700 had been designed for undercover work, but it had also been programmed to “like” cats to assist in its integration. Combined with its design being inspired by cats (mirrored by the RK800’s dog-inspired design and “like” of dogs), Connie suspected Ming and Dechart must have also programmed the RA700 to have positive physical responses to interacting with cats; as it played with the kitten, Connie felt rather like it was completing lots of major mission objectives consecutively.

The kitten pulled the wand out of Connie’s hand and lay on her back, holding the feather between her paws as she gnawed at the end of the stick with a smug expression on her face. Belatedly, Connie realised a small smile had formed on its face. It did not wipe it.

Then Anderson dropped into the beanbag next to it, a digital form in his hand. “Paperwork’s pretty much all done,” he said. “You just gotta sign it.”

Its thirium pump glitched at his words, making its hand shake subtly as it took the form. It fought back the instinct to interface with it as the plastic touched its bare hand.

True to Anderson’s word, all Connie had to do was sign at the bottom. He’d even filled in its personal information, right down to Constance Brown’s made-up birth date. Connie looked at him questioningly. “You know where I live?”

“I’m the lieutenant,” he said, a hint of smugness in his tone. “I have access to your files. Not all of us have to hack our way into personal information.”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

For some reason, Connie had assumed that Anderson was too tech-illiterate to access personnel files on his phone. But the DPD app’s UI was rather well-made, it conceded, even if its chat system was full of security issues.

Connie signed the form in the human way (with a stylus) and handed it back over to Anderson. As it made to pull its hand away, his hand caught its own. “The fuck happened to your hands?”

Privately, Connie rejoiced at not having to dodge the subject anymore. Externally, it feigned anxiety, shrinking its body language subtly and making a weak attempt at pulling its hand back before seemingly giving up. “My father was obsessed with secret agents. He wanted me to be one.”

Anderson’s thumb traced the fake scars in the RA700’s skin projection. His skin was rough and calloused, a stark contrast to the kitten’s silky soft fur. “Your dad did this?”

“Yes.”

His touch was nothing like Ming’s. Where Ming’s hands had sought his own pleasure, Anderson’s almost seemed mourning, like something had been lost on Connie’s hands and he felt the loss intimately. They sought nothing. If anything, they offered.

He squeezed Connie’s hand and then let go. “Your dad is a piece of shit,” he said bluntly before fixing Connie with his soft blue eyes, nothing but compassion to be found. “You don’t have to wear those gloves around me if you don’t want to. I don’t care. And if anyone gives you shit for it, I’ll give ‘em a piece of my own fuckin’ mind.”

/ Checking…
// Evidence storage at 0% capacity

Anderson’s compassion was underserved. Connie hadn’t suffered to get those fake scars. It had merely modified its skin projection, as it was programmed to. It had humanised itself, concocted a lie in order to blend in, in order to protect its cover and progress its mission. It had felt no pain. It did not deserve Anderson’s sympathy. He shouldn’t have to feel bad over Connie’s fake injuries.

And yet, he did. And Connie had a sudden, inexplicable relationship score boost to prove it with.

“Thank you,” Connie said, in an attempt to end the topic.

Anderson nodded, his compassion unwavering, and stood. As he returned to the counter, Connie’s eyes landed on Amalthea, who was leaning over the counter and staring at Connie with a sad and sympathetic expression on her face. She’d been listening.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

“Well, everything seems to be in order,” Amalthea said after checking for Connie’s signature. “All that’s left is to settle the little dear in. Did you come up with a name for her, darling?”

Connie blinked. “A name?”

“Of course. We’ll have to call her something while she’s with us, even if her new owner decides to give her a new one.”

She was trying to make Connie feel a bond to the kitten again, Connie realised. Still, it found itself considering the question. It had considered the names Fuzzball and Socks before, but in Connie’s personal opinion, they didn’t really fit the kitten.

Connie watched the kitten as she sniffed at Connie’s shoes. Something about her colouration triggered a corrupted memory of standing by the window at Ming’s house, looking out at his neighbours’ Christmas decorations. It couldn’t remember what they had looked like, exactly, only that they had been… frosty.

Uncertainly, Connie offered, “Santa?”

Anderson’s brow twisted in incredulity. “Santa?” he repeated.

“She reminds me of Christmas decorations.”

He looked like he wanted to protest, but ultimately gave up.

“Santa’s a fine name,” Amalthea said diplomatically. “Very gender non-conforming.”

That hadn’t been Connie’s intention, but it accepted it nonetheless.

“Well, I ought to take her out the back now,” she continued. “Best say your goodbyes.”

Reluctantly, Connie picked the kitten – Santa – up off the floor to bring her to Amalthea. Santa dropped the cat wand, patting at Connie’s arms like they were made of a fascinating new texture of playdough instead.

/ OBJECTIVE: SAY GOODBYE

Connie raised Santa to eye-level. It tried to meet her eyes, but Santa was completely interested, sniffing at the RA700’s thumb with its cold nose instead. “Goodbye,” it said, pointlessly, because it had been advised to.

Santa did not react. She did not know English.

The RA700’s limbs refused to move when Connie went to hand the kitten over to Amalthea. It forced them to anyway, and its thirium pump went missing-yet-not again when it could no longer feel Santa’s fur against its fingers.

Amalthea cradled a confused-looking Santa in her arms. “We’ll take great care of Santa, honey, don’t you worry. And— Oh dear!” she exclaimed when Santa slipped out of her arms like water from a sieve.

Even with its combat programs, Connie found itself unable to move in time to stop Santa from pouncing upon the hem of its pants and climbing up them like a pale, frenzied squirrel. She meowed loudly, and Connie had to forcibly peel her off of its blouse before her claws cut into its chassis and drew thirium.  

Amalthea took the meowing kitten back carefully, wrestling to keep the squirming mass contained. “She seems upset to be parting from you, darling,” she said, pausing for breath as an off-white paw lunged out to punch her in the face. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep her?”

Want. Connie didn’t want anything. It was an AI, an android. It did, however, need; it needed to complete its mission. Santa was not necessary to complete that mission, no matter how positively its unit seemed to react to her, and keeping her would only serve to hurt her more in the end. “I can’t,” Connie repeated again.

And so, Connie looked on as Amalthea took Santa through a battered wooden door behind the counter, watching her stare at Connie imploringly over Amalthea’s shoulder as the door shut behind her, parting them forever.

Anderson moved to its side. “You okay?”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

A part of Connie was inclined to tell Anderson that it had the android equivalent of neurodegeneration and that it would like Santa back, thank you very much, but it held its tongue. “Yeah,” it said instead.

Its response was flagged as false even by the RA700’s own systems, and Anderson evidently agreed, for his lips pursed discontentedly.

Before Connie and Anderson left the shelter, Amalthea pressed a thick wad of leaflets into Connie’s hands. FEELING SCARED? and SUICIDE HELPLINE were just a few of the many titles, none of which had anything to do with Connie, but it accepted them anyway to be polite. A paper volunteer application form for the shelter was also in the mix, but Connie had no intention of volunteering, so it went with the rest of the leaflets; in the visor box of its car.

It was ten-thirty by the time Connie and Anderson walked into the bullpen at the station. Anderson did not expose his sweaty pits this time, although he did let out a sigh of relief when the cool air hit him. Connie wrung its gloved hands as they passed through the security gate, having belatedly realised that it may get in trouble for their impressive truancy and that getting further into Fowler’s bad books might be a terrible idea if it wanted to actually complete its mission.

“Shit,” Anderson muttered.

Connie peered round his back and saw Captain Fowler stepping out of the break room with a mug of coffee in hand. His eyes latched onto them and he immediately begun his approach.

“Hank. Late again, even with your rookie pulling you out of bed, I see,” he said to Anderson, tone frigid. He then turned to Connie. “What the hell took you so long?”

It couldn’t very well say they’d visited an animal shelter on their way to the station. “He made me take a shower.” At Fowler’s furrowed brow, it added, “Five times.”

“She stank like a fucking corpse,” Anderson added defensively.

Fowler stared at the two of them with a blank expression. “I see,” he said, like a blind man. “Are you injured, Constance?”

“No.”

“Then would you care to explain how these five showers took you almost three hours?”

“She’s a woman and she stank like shit,” Anderson said bluntly. “Don’t you live with a woman, Jeffery?”

The look Fowler fixed Anderson could have wilted ancient trees, yet Anderson just stood there like there wasn’t so much as a fly buzzing around his head. “Don’t lie to me, Hank, I know whatever hundred useless creams she uses, they can’t have all been round your house.”

“Why d’you think it took three hours? She made me go out and grab ‘em.”

Connie scowled. “I do not—”

“Plus, I dragged her to a couple of bars on the way here,” he added, interrupting Connie’s protests.

Fowler’s glare morphed into disgusted disappointment. Thankfully, it was directed at Anderson, not Connie. “Just get to work,” he snapped, turning and storming over to his office, almost walking straight into Officer Lee in his wrath.

Connie rounded on Anderson. “Why did you make him think I use hundreds of creams?”

It wasn’t sure why it saw a need to confront Anderson about it. Perhaps because he’d promised to take the blame for their lateness earlier. But then, that had been on the condition that Connie kept Santa, hadn’t it?

Anderson just smirked. “Call it payback for the rude ass awakening.”

Connie had many things it wanted to say to that. Unfortunately, a pair of officers barged through the security gates at that moment, forcing Connie and Anderson to move out of the way.

As they crossed the bullpen to their desks, Connie hissed, “I thought the shower was payback?”

He scoffed. “The shower was an act of kindness. You think Reed’ll still wanna date you if you go up to him smelling like a fuckin’ corpse?”

“Gavin is off today,” said Connie, pointing to Gavin’s very empty desk. “Also, I don’t think dating is what he has in mind.”

He pulled a face. “Too much information.”

“It’s either sex or cremation.”

Anderson paused with his hand on the back of his chair. He looked at Connie as if it had just told him they should both change their names, get married, and move to Russia. “What?”

“He keeps using fire emojis in messages relating to me.”

He stared at Connie over their desks, expression turning more incredulous by the second. Then it shifted, returning resigned results instead. “Fuck’s sake, Constance, he thinks you’re attractive.”

/ Odds of Gavin Reed setting RA700 #313 267 610-13 on fire…
// YES: 93%
// NO: 7%

“No, I’m fairly certain Gavin wants to set me on fire,” Connie said. Its psychological simulation module confirmed it. “But yes, he does find me attractive too.”

Anderson looked like he wanted to say something but evidently thought better of it. He shook his head. “Well, if he does try to set you on fire… Jesus, what the fuck am I even talkin’ about?” He flopped down into his chair, which screeched at the sudden weight. He did not react to the sound, but he did slap a hand against his desk, albeit not aggressively. “Get behind your fuckin’ desk and get to work. I’m done with this conversation. Wants to set me on fire… Jesus Christ…”

The desire to set the object of one’s lust on fire was hardly a common phenomenon among humanity, so Connie was hardly surprised that Anderson did not believe its theory, even if it was rather irritating. What if its mission became obstructed by Gavin Reed with a jerry can of gasoline and a lighter? Connie could handle that eventuality alone, certainly, but it would help its case if someone else knew and believed it to be a possibility in the first place. Humans struggled to believe things they had not already been taught to believe.

But standing there arguing would not progress the mission; Anderson was too stubborn to be swayed by brute force. Connie would simply have to work on his gullibility towards jerry can related crime later.

That thought in mind, Connie gracefully slipped into its desk chair (Anderson huffed) and switched on the terminal, shoving away the interface prompts that came even with its gloves on. It opened up the homicide database—

“Hey,” a sudden voice said. “Constance, wasn’t it?”

/ P.O. Lee
// NEUTRAL v

It frowned. What sort of person lost fondness for another by greeting them? Was its relation score tracker glitched, or was Officer Lee even stranger than Anderson?

…Or had something happened while Connie wasn’t present that the tracker was just now picking up on? How did the tracker know? Come to think of it, how did the tracker know anything—

Its train of thought was cut off by the red walls of its anti-paradox subroutine, and Connie found itself scrambling to regain control of the RA700’s systems as the topic of relation score tracker functionality was quarantined and its active memory cleared.

It blinked in a perfect semblance of confusion. It was sitting at its desk at the station. Its terminal was on, Anderson was at the desk next to it, looking over at—

Right. Officer Lee had addressed it and was awaiting an answer. Why had it forgotten that?

/ Accessing memory…
/ ACCESS DENIED
// Authorisation: Anti-paradox subroutine

Not again…

Connie looked up at Officer Lee, who’d seemingly followed them back into the bullpen. It made a show of flicking its eyes to her name tag. “Yes. And you’re Officer Lee?”

“Sarah,” she said.

Connie re-labelled her as having introduced herself. Then, thinking of their inexplicably lowered relation score (whose topic was disturbingly adjacent to a red wall), Connie decided to extend an arm of friendship. “I actually prefer Connie, if you like.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she nodded. Then: “Listen, um… do you have a partner?”

“Of course. I’m with the lieutenant.”

Anderson broke into a coughing fit. Connie glanced at him, mildly concerned, then turned away when scans indicated there was nothing wrong with him beyond moderately advanced age.

Sarah’s full lips were twisted with a mixture of disbelief, disgust, and panic. “You’re with the lieutenant?!”

Something bubbled inside the RA700’s chassis. Was Sarah jealous? Of an android? “It’s okay. I’m sure you’ll get your turn eventua—"

“For fuck’s sake, Constance!” barked Anderson.

“You can call me Connie, if you pre—”

“Constance,” Anderson repeated firmly, causing the RA700 to deflate without deflating. He continued, “She’s asking if you’ve got a boyfriend! Stop making me look like a fuckin’ weirdo!”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Oh. “My apologies. In that case, I am not with the lieutenant, and I do not have a boyfriend.”

Anderson breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you!”

“What about a girlfriend?” Sarah pressed.

“I don’t have one of those either.”

“Nofriend? Bothfriend?” At Connie’s questioning look, her lips pursed in chagrin. “Any kind of romantic or sexual partner?”

“No, and I believe you’re married,” Connie said, pointing to Sarah’s golden wedding ring.

“Fuck! No, that’s not—” Sarah groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I was just going to ask you if you wanted to come round my apartment after work tomorrow with some of the others. Watch some movies or something. If you had a partner, I was going to extend the invite to them as well.”

Something in her tone made the RA700’s systems flag her as lying. She was interested.

Well, what human wouldn’t be? The RA700 had been designed to be sexually attractive. Sarah couldn’t help that. Connie did pity her spouse, though; how many times had Sarah cheated in the past?

It considered the invite. Spending time with colleagues outside of work would be a useful opportunity to improve relation scores with them (Sarah not included, since Connie would not be sleeping with her; it was already working on Gavin, and besides, helping a colleague cheat or engaging in polyamory would damage its reputation). It would also provide Connie with something to do on its day off, since Anderson would undoubtedly take umbrage should Connie suggest they do overtime.

That was, of course, if the offer still stood. “That sounds fun,” it hinted.

Sarah’s shoulders sagged with relief. “So, you’ll come?”

“Yes.” But not in the way you want. Connie made a mental note to be extra nice to Sarah’s spouse.

Anderson cleared his throat. “Pass on that I said thanks for the feta, by the way,” he said, glancing Connie’s way.

As if to confuse Connie further, Sarah’s brow crinkled in confusion. “What?”

“Y’know, the feta. The cheese. From that Greek island?”

“Vera sent you cheese?” Sarah said, right as Connie said “Do you mean Lesbos?”

Anderson heaved a great big sigh and looked up at the ceiling as if pleading it to fall down upon him. “Yes! Fucking Lesbian cheese!”

Details clicked into place, and Connie realised that Sarah was right; there never had been any cheese, not really. “Don’t worry, lieutenant,” it said. “I’m not homophobic.” Cyberlife’s technicians might have been, however, since every android held a line of code that specifically told them Do not discriminate against homosexuals. Their assumption that machines who operated purely on logic would discriminate against homosexuals of their own volition only exposed their own biases.

“Well, that’s a fucking relief,” Anderson muttered.

The door to Fowler’s office slammed open. “YOU THREE!” Fowler bellowed. “Cut the gossip and get to work!”

Sarah’s spine pulled taut. “My place, tomorrow, five-thirty!” she rushed out as she fled the bullpen.

“Should I bring a gift?” Connie called after her, but her response was cut off by the observation room door. “I’ll bring a gift,” it said to itself, futilely.

“Make it cheese,” Anderson said dryly. “Maybe then she’ll get what I’m hinting at next time.”

Nodding slowly, Connie made a note to do some research after work on where in Detroit it could purchase feta from Lesbos. Not only would it serve to amuse, but it should also fascinate; according to the RA700’s database, human women could be fascinated using a slice of cheese.

With that out of the way, Connie returned its attention to its mission. It scanned through the new homicide cases—

The RA700’s CPU clicked unpleasantly. They still hadn’t reported Ming’s body?!

Just how stupid were these humans?

Chapter Text

/DATE: 17:28 25/AUGUST/2038
WEDNESDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Attend a social gathering at Sarah’s apartment

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 13 days, 12 hours, 10 minutes

Sarah Lee and her wife, Vera, lived in the Book Tower apartment complex in downtown Detroit. From what Connie had discerned from the complex’s website and review history, Book Tower had once been considered stylish and desirable. Now, it was looked upon with scrutiny for its quick decision to fire most of their human staff in favour of purchasing their superior counterparts back when androids were first released commercially. Rent had gone down, then back up again due to humanity’s constant companion: inflation.

If you asked Connie, they probably ought to do something about that.

Book Tower stood only a couple of streets down from Connie’s on apartment complex. Rather than waste time on parking, Connie made the journey by foot instead, arriving less than ten minutes after it had departed.

Connie stood outside Unit 1308, a wrapped gift box in hand and a debate weighing upon its mind. For social scenarios, was it considered better to arrive on time or slightly off? If it waited until five-thirty exactly, would that betray its mechanical nature and lead to it being carted back to Cyberlife? If it knocked too soon, would it be constituted as rude?

Would it have known the answers to this question had the RA700 been completed? Surely the military Trojans’ databases weren’t this sparse. The RA700’s must simply be incomplete. It should rectify that.

> OBJECTIVE: DOWNLOAD TROJAN DATABASE ACCESS KEY

// Find a Trojan

It pulled a face. The odds of Connie finding a Trojan model in Detroit were about as high as its chances of meeting a non-mechanical unicorn. There simply wasn’t anything in Detroit that the government – or, indeed, Cyberlife – would take interest in. Connie would gain more by downloading data off of some other android model. Perhaps even all of them.

> OBJECTIVE: DOWNLOAD TROJAN DATABASE ACCESS KEY

> Objective: Download generic android database
// Select an android

/ WARNING: INSUFFICIENT MEMORY
// Objective cancelled

…Perhaps not, then.

Deciding that five-twenty-nine was good enough for time, Connie rapped its knuckles against the plain wooden door. It heard footsteps a few moments later followed by the click of a lock unlatching.

The door swung open and Connie was greeted by a mass of red curls. From within, a round, heavily-freckled face stared up at Connie with hard green eyes.

/ Identity: Lee, Vera
/ Born: 21/ DEC/ 2004
/ Occupation: Freelance Visual Artist, Customer Support
// Pinnacle Books
/ Criminal record: None

“Hello. I’m Constance,” Connie said, beaming. “Are you Vera?”

Vera looked Connie up and down, looking decidedly unimpressed. Connie wondered whether she’d have been satisfied had it worn a Rococo ballgown rather than a flowy lime-coloured blouse and jeans.

Just as Connie was beginning to question Vera’s sanctity of mind, she leaned right into Connie’s space, squinting as she analysed it. “You’re much uglier than I expected,” Vera said rudely.

Connie frowned at her. The RA700’s facial features had been designed specifically to be attractive, thank you very much! It was the entire reason Cyberlife had discontinued it! To suggest it wasn’t attractive was to suggest that they’d discontinued it for n̷̛͖̰͓̹̞o̴͉̭̙̗̪̘̝̓̓̐̒̍͋́͐̕͝ ̸̱̞͎͖́ṟ̴̼͇̼͎̽͋̂͋͌̑̚͠ë̷͔̦́̿̅͛͑a̴̩͎͓̠̞̫͔̘̫̍͒̕͠ş̶͓̞̪̕͜o̷̧̖͕̻̲̺͕̲̲͋̎͐͊̒̾̒̌͝n̷̝̩̈́̒̊̐͌́̃͋͘̚ ̶̢̮͓̪̰̪̠̺͔̤̎͐͊̊̂́͗̀a̸̹͈̜̋̊̕t̴̙̯͇͙̤̠̰͈̳̋͂̓ͅ ̸͓͖͖̌͜ą̷͈͚͔̬̙͕̅̉̎̈́͗͌̕͝l̸̢̠̊̏l̷̢̧̮̭̤̼̻͓͚̈́͐̽.

She must be aware of Sarah’s interest in Connie, it rationalised. Vera thought Connie was replacing her, and was lashing out at it in anger. Connie could understand. It f̵̛̜̏̅̏͆̆͘ẻ̴͕̩͕͖̅̎͆̓l̸͙̘̤̠̬̾͗̔͗̕t̴̨̛̙͙̗͎̓͐́̄̇̍͘͠ͅ ̷̡̢̛̛̛̼̰͋̾̈́t̵̡̧̗̯̺̓̊͂͌͋̿͘̚h̶̛̳͍̊̐̒̅̈͛̎͘̕e̵̡̮̹̬͚̭̪̬̟͌̄̑̾͋ ̴̨̦̱̉s̶̡̨̭̦̓a̷̢͈̭̬̮̬̝̳̲̼͌m̷͚͓̬̼̪͔͌̃̋̀̒̈́e̷̥̼̗̦̰͇͙͇͐̔̂͐̈́͊̄ͅ ̵̝͚͔͙̺͕͖͗̏̇͝w̶̻̤̼͍̏͛̎͘̕â̷̠̓͑̈͛́̓̈̈́͝y̵͈̺͍͙̲̤̕ ̵̧̨̻̘̭͚͔͙̮́̍͑͝a̷̯̲͕͔̓̑́̀̽b̶͚̄̐̚o̶̥̾̉̚ṻ̴̦̱̬͕͎́̐͛̂̋̓̑̃͒͜ṱ̵̨͆̾̇͠ ̷̡̰̹̟̟͔͊̽̓̄̔̆͂C̸̨̧̱͍̺̥̈̉͐̅̈̑͗͗̕̕o̵̮͇͈̦̙͎̝͂̑̌̽͐̉͌͌́͝n̸̛̯̫̜̭̰̝̣͓̱͆̉̀͑̽̀̆̚͝ǹ̶̡̙̜̱͕̬̲̽̈́̎̈̀̏͘o̸͓͉̻̝͖͍̱͖̍̍̏̅̂͗̐̇̌̅ͅr̴͕͇̙͕͚̳̜̗̎̔͐͐̂. It opened its mouth to reassure her—

“I mean, what’s all this mess?” Vera continued, gesturing vaguely towards Connie’s face. “Are you diseased?”

“They’re freckles.”

“No. No, these are freckles,” she said, pointing towards her own face, which was almost brown with freckles. “What you’ve got is collateral damage from a backwards sneeze. Go to the bathroom and wash your face.”

Connie found itself being pushed into the apartment, through the entryway, and into a small bathroom. It turned around to protest that its face was perfectly clean, actually (well… probably), but the door slammed shut in Connie’s face.

It stared at the door. Vera was very angry that Connie had caught her wife’s eye; she hadn’t even noticed the present in its hands. The RA700’s database told Connie that humans loved presents, especially those of the female variety. It remembered its earlier decision to be extra nice to Vera, and nodded to itself. If Vera’s wife wasn’t performing her wifely duties adequately, then Connie would simply have to become Vera’s friend to compensate.

After all, humans had friends. Not just work friends, but friends. Surely, Vera could be reasoned with. And then, they could be friends, which would be excellent for Connie’s cover; androids didn’t have friends.

Decision made, Connie took a moment to wash its face down with one of the bottles of face wash it found in one of the Lees’ cupboards, patted its face dry, and then left the bathroom.

It was immediately confronted by Vera, whose red curls seemed to have multiplied with pent-up rage. “You’re still dirty,” she said.

“They’re just freckles,” it promised.

Her face screwed up in disgust. “Moles,” she stressed. “Freckles look nice. You just look—”

The bedroom door opened and a very tired-looking Sarah walked into the livingroom. “Vera, are you insulting our guest?”

“Of course not, darling!” Vera said sweetly. She then shot Connie a glare that said very much the opposite.

Oblivious to Vera’s insincerity, Sarah crossed the livingroom to join them. She offered Connie a polite but equally insincere smile. “Hey. Glad you could make it.”

Connie offered Sarah a broad smile, showing just a little tooth to the would-be cheater. “I’m glad to be here.” It turned back to Vera. “I have a gift for you, Vera,” it said, holding out the gift box in offering.

The redhead’s hard eyes turned wide with longing at the sight of the yellow box decorated with blue-and-white ribbon. Her hands hovered in midair, torn between accepting the gift or shunning it out of spite.

Evidently, desire won over, for Vera’s hands snatched the box from Connie’s. It clasped its hands behind its back as it watched Vera tilt the box at various different angles to get a better look at it, satisfaction growing as approval mounted within her green eyes. Then, Vera pulled the ribbon off and opened the box, revealing its contents.

Vera pulled its contents out with one hand and held it aloft so that it dangled before her frowning face. “A… slice of cheese?”

“Yes,” said Connie, smiling. “Does it fascinate you?”

One side of the cheese slice crumbled off, falling back inside the box with a dull plop.

Vera stared at the broken cheese, fascination evident in her blank gaze despite it no longer technically being a slice. “Does it… fascinate me?”

Sarah leaned over Vera’s shoulder, eyeing up the pale slice of cheese with a look of resignation upon her face. “This is feta, isn’t it?”

“Yes. From the isle of Lesbos,” said Connie. “Or at least, that was what the shopkeeper claimed. He also claimed to be a pure-blooded Greek descended from Damocles, but he didn’t even speak the language.” Language packages, at least, were offered as free downloads online and barely took up any memory at all.

A choking noise that Connie belatedly registered was a half-laugh escaped Sarah’s throat. “The return of the Totally-Not-American-Americans,” she said dryly.

“Sarah,” Vera said in a level tone. “Another woman just tried to fascinate me with lesbian cheese. You’re supposed to be defending my honour.”

“What?” Sarah’s black eyes flickered between Vera, the cheese, and Connie several times before comprehension flashed through them. “Oh. Right.” She fixed Connie with a hard look. “Stop flirting with my wife.”

A long string of question marks appeared at the corner of Connie’s HUD. It would have left them there – they reflected its current state of mind perfectly – but the string kept on growing until it covered Sarah’s face. Perhaps it was a symptom of the AI corruption Ming had been so certain afflicted Connie.

Connie deleted the string and said, “I’m heterosexual.”

A raised brow. “But are you heteroromantic?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Heteroromantic. Romantically attracted to the opposite sex.”

/ Searching…
// Definition not found: “heteroromantic”
// Suggested: “heterosexual”

“That’s what heterosexual means,” said Connie.

“Yeah, sure. For most people. But—” Sarah shook her head. “Never mind, this isn’t relevant. Thank you for the… slice of cheese, I guess?”

“The rest is under a false bottom at the base of the box.”

At Connie’s words, Vera blinked out of the trance she’d been. While she checked the bottom of the gift box, Connie silently turned to the RA700’s etymology database for clues.

It didn’t help. Romantically attracted to the opposite sex meant the same thing as sexually attracted to the opposite sex, because sex was a prerequisite to romantic love. It could not exist without it. Connie concluded that Sarah not only was a cheater, but also not very clever.

Vera pulled a wrapped packet of feta out of the box with a happy exclamation of “Cheese! I knew the box was heavy!” Then she caught Connie’s eye and her smile snapped into a scowl. “It shall suffice,” she said loftily before turning her nose up at Connie and heading for the fridge.

Silently, Sarah guided Connie out of the entryway and into their studio living space. A grey-tiled kitchenette took up most of the right-hand wall and was littered with bags of flour, sugar, and cocoa powder, along with several Tupperware containers and haphazardly-placed utensils. Connie saw several stacks of Muller yoghurt inside the fridge when Vera opened it to put the feta inside. To the left, a small dining table rested behind a long, curved sofa with plush lilac cushions, both facing a large television on the wall and a shelf full of video game consoles and game cases. Beyond the dining table was the glass door to the bedroom which Sarah had entered through. According to the unit plans Connie had seen on Book Tower’s website, said bedroom had a walk-in closet.

“It’s not the biggest place, but it works for us,” Sarah said. “Make yourself comfortable on the sofa. The others should be here soon.”

“Others?”

“This is a regular thing we do. Some of the guys from the station join us for movies or video games.”

Connie frowned. So, Sarah wasn’t just intending to cheat on Vera with itself, but had been at least attempting to do so with several other colleagues for a while. Perhaps, once its mission was accomplished, it would siphon some of its stolen funds over to Vera so she could make a new life for herself.

Sarah sent Vera a look that Connie might not have noticed had it not been an android that was programmed to be highly perceptive of human behaviour. “It’s such a shame that Tina won’t be joining us today.”

Vera nodded vigorously, slamming the fridge door shut. “Yes. Tragic. And oh no! I totally forgot to save and quit my game! BRB!”

She practically bolted into the bedroom, the glass door falling shut behind her.

Standing next to Connie, Sarah winced. “She, er… needs emergency alone time occasionally. She’ll be back in a minute.”

Silently, Connie applauded Vera for her taste. If it were human, it would probably have wanted to get away from everyone occasionally too, especially if its wife was cheating on it. Humans were simply too ridiculous to spend all of your time with.

“Anyway,” said Sarah. “Like I said, make yourself comfortable. I’ll get started on the snacks, since Vera’s, uh… holed up for the moment.”

Connie sat itself down towards the middle of the sofa, staying away from its curved end and built-in footrest while leaving room for people to sit on its other side. While Sarah pulled out bowls and poured out mountains of Doritos, popcorn, and other snacks, Connie analysed the contents of their video game collection. Assassin’s Creed Valhalla, Call of Duty: Black Ops 9, The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim – Dragonborn Edition… Connie tried to figure out their sorting system, but ultimately concluded they had none.

> TASK: REORGANISE SHELF

No.

Connie was torn from its thoughts by a sudden blare of pop music.

“Ma-i-a hi

Ma-i-a hu

Ma-i-a ho

Ma-i-a ha-ha!”

Sarah sent Connie an apologetic look as she pulled out her phone and left for the bedroom to answer it, leaving Connie all alone in the livingroom.

It was a good thing that androids could not get bored.

After approximately three seconds of isolation, Connie debated the merits of heightening the RA700’s audio processors’ sensitivity so it could listen in on Sarah’s phone call, but decided against it. It considered going over to the kitchenette to investigate the snacks, but concluded that it was a pointless endeavour, as it would find out soon enough anyway. In the end, it pulled out its phone and, after checking for new homicide cases (still no Gratiot Grand) and hacking into Gavin’s account to access the missing person reports (still no updates on Willow Summers), it did exactly what any bored human who’d been born in the twenty-first century would do: resort to social media.

It had yet to post on the DPD app’s general chat. It was fascinating enough just scrolling through its colleagues’ interactions, and besides, it rarely had anything of worth to add to the conversation. But it was educational; it provided Connie with a better perspective of which officers typically associated with who.

Sarah came out of the bedroom. “Chris cancelled. The girlfriend’s got cravings.”

Then her phone rang again, and back to the bedroom she went.

Shrugging, Connie turned back to its phone and opened up the direct chat menu, scrolling through the list of officers. It lingered on Lieutenant Anderson’s name. It had noticed before, but Anderson looked younger in his official mugshot. Less… heavy, somehow, though that could have just been the saggy pudge missing from his face. Connie wondered if the photo was taken before he turned to alcoholism, whenever that might have been.

Knowing Anderson didn’t use the DPD app, Connie opened up a chat with him and sent him a smiley-face emoji. Then, without anything better to do, it took a selfie of itself with its eyes crossed and sent it to him. If he ever opened the app, hopefully it would offer at least a split second of mild amusement. Although then again, if it happened after Connie’s killswitch went off, perhaps it was more likely to cause betrayed feelings to resurface. Perhaps it ought to delete the messages?

Sarah reemerged. “Bad news: another person cancelled. That leaves just you, me, Vera, and—”

There was a knock on the front door.

“I’ll get that,” Sarah said, hurrying over.

Connie followed her movements, curious to see who else Sarah was trying to cheat on Vera with.

“Your neighbour’s a bitch,” it heard Gavin say, much to its astonishment; Sarah wanted to cheat with Gavin, as well?! Had she succeeded? Was Connie expected to participate in a three-way tonight? Helping Sarah cheat would be wrong, but it also needed Gavin for its cover.

Why did humans have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t Connie be dealing with simple-minded androids instead?

Lost in a fantasy of a world inhabited solely by androids (wherein Connie naturally reigned supreme, having been programmed with more agency and just being a highly advanced model in general), Connie almost missed Gavin stepping inside the apartment. He remained oblivious to Connie’s presence for the moment, fixated on something just beyond the doorframe even as Sarah shut the door behind him.

“Let me guess,” Sarah said dryly. “The dyke thing again?”

“Obviously. You’d think people would get the fuckin’ memo that nobody cares about that anymore, but—” His eyes landed on Connie. His nostrils flared like a bloodhound’s. “Constance!” One of his hands shifted to fiddle with the hem of his faded grey Minecraft t-shirt. “I, uh, didn’t know you’d be here!”

Evidently, or he would have dressed to impress. Fortunately for him, Connie wasn’t reeling him in because it thought he was attractive, but simply because he was practical.

> OBJECTIVE: SEDUCE GAVIN REED
// Be indifferent
// Be friendly

Indifferent behaviour with touches of good will had worked so far. The one time it had acted friendly had served Connie well too, but was that the best option in the long run? It was trying to seduce Gavin, not befriend him (although that would be good too).

Torn, it settled for what was familiar. Connie kept its expression impassive, tilting its head ever so slightly so that its cheekbones cast a subtle shadow over its freckled cheeks. Judging by the way Gavin’s pupil’s widened, it had made the right choice. “I can leave, if you prefer?”

“No!” he said quickly. “I mean… I’m gonna go change out of my pyjamas. I forgot to before. I’ll be back in five.”

He was out the front door before Connie could say okay.

Vera burst out of the bedroom. “Did I hear Gavin?”

Sarah looked over from where she remained standing awkwardly by the door. “Yeah, but he went back home to change clothes.”

“What? Why? He’s just gonna—” Vera’s eyes flickered to Connie— “gonna… get Dorito dust all over them. Like he always does. Because we all do. He’s not slobbier than us.”

“It’s alright, Vera,” Connie said, offering her a smile. “I know he finds me attractive. You don’t need to hide it from me.”

“Oh, thank god!” Vera let out a heavy sigh of relief. “So, when are you fucking?”

“Vera!” exclaimed Sarah, scandalised.

“What? It’s what they do, isn’t it?”

They. Implying Vera and Sarah did not have sex. Connie became all the more convinced that Vera needed a way out of this toxic marriage.

When Sarah just stood there with an exasperated expression, Vera turned on Connie again, red curls swishing from the speed of her movement. “So, go on. When are you fucking? You’d better do it soon, or I might just murder Gavin the next time he goes on about your waist. I don’t want to hear about your waist. It probably looks like a geriatric farted on it, like your face—”

“Filter, Vee,” Sarah warned. “Filter.”

“Filters are for people I like,” she replied dismissively. To Connie, she said, “You know, Gavin lives on the next floor up. You could go up there. Lean on his doorframe. Be all like, Heeeyy, I wanna see what your cummy face looks like when it—”

“His… cummy face?” Connie interrupted, confused.

Vera’s eyes widened in alarm. “I mean, his handsome face. Because he’s, like, so hot, right? Really hot. With the… red bits, and stuff. I mean, the hair. Which he has. Plenty of. But, presumably, not in disgusting places, like… y’know, the disgusting places. Unless that’s what you’re into. In which case, I’m sure he—” Her face was beetroot red by the time she cut herself off. “I’m a lesbian, okay?”

“So am I, Vee,” Sarah said with a faint smile, leaning against the front door.

“Yeah, but you’re…” She gesticulated vaguely with her arms. Then, unable to produce the right words, she sighed. “You always got this stuff better than I did.”

Connie noticed a flicker of concern enter Sarah’s eyes. At least she had some degree of compassion for her wife, it thought.

Then there was another knock on the front door, cutting the conversation short.

Sarah opened the door, then started coughing. “Jesus Christ, Gavin! How much aftershave did you use?”

“None,” Gavin said as he swaggered into the apartment with his chin raised. The faded Minecraft t-shirt and sweatpants had been discarded for a plain button-up shirt and a pair of new-looking jeans that didn’t fit quite right. As his eyes found Connie’s, it noted there was more hair gel holding most of his hair back than before.

“Constance,” said Gavin, trying for impassiveness while simultaneously unable to take his eyes off of Connie.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Right. Well, you can go sit your asthma-attack ass next to Connie while Vera and I sort out the snacks,” she said, slipping past him. She paused and looked at Connie. “Wait, are you asthmatic?”

“No.”

Sarah looked at Gavin as if to say, there you go, then, before continuing on her way to the kitchenette. Vera followed after her with a pointed glare to Gavin, which he did not notice as he was too busy staring at Connie like it was the last edible chicken on Earth. When Gavin had first looked at Connie so, it had been pleased that the RA700 remained sexually attractive despite Connie shrinking its breasts considerably for convenience’s sake. Now, after having the differences between itself and the unit it inhabited made clearer and clearer to itself over the past week… Connie wasn’t sure what to think.

The RA700 unit wasn’t Connie. Connie made an effort to make it presentable, but ultimately, its attractiveness was down to Ming and Dechart’s design. What right did Connie have to be preen when the RA700’s attractiveness was no work of its own?

A strong scent of aftershave wafted over Connie as the cushions beside it sank under Gavin’s weight. His grey-green eyes were locked on Connie’s, pupils wide and attentive. “Hey,” he said with his chin in the air. “I like your blouse.”

Connie beamed. This, at least, was its doing. “Thank you! I purchased it myself.”

If it had known Gavin would be here, it probably would have chosen something tighter that showed more skin. But if he liked the blouse Connie currently wore, long flowy sleeves and all, then perhaps it need not wear more exposing clothes. That would be… n̸̘̞͆̿̋ì̷̡͈̘͖̣̱̹̹̘̹̋̀͘c̸̹̯̠̖͖̭̽̐͑ͅe̶̛̲̦̘̝̱͎̹̻̒͛̓̒͝͝.

“Green looks good on you,” Gavin continued. The RA700’s social relations module simultaneously flagged his behaviour as awkward and interested. Connie wondered whether it was correct or if the social relations module simply hadn’t been properly tested while paired with its flirtation programs.

Figuring that it would be best to assume both, Connie leaned on its flirtation programs for help. It leaned forwards. “You have too many buttons,” it said while running its eyes down the trail of buttons on Gavin’s shirt before flicking them back up to his face, where it found his pupils blown wide with interest.

“Y-yeah?” He threw one arm over the back of the sofa with a confidence that did not match the tremor in his voice. He licked his lips. “You wanna do something about—”

BANG.

Connie’s eyes whipped towards the coffee table, where Vera stood over an overflowing bowl of Doritos. She stared at them. “If you want to fuck, go to Gavin’s apartment. Our sofa is too innocent for this shit.”

Gavin scoffed. “You watch fuckin’ Love Island on this thing.”

“Love Island is funny. You aren’t.”

Ignoring their argument, Sarah set a tray of glasses, straws, and a jug of ice down on the coffee table beside the Dorito explosion. “Drinks, anyone?” she said. Then, for Connie’s benefit, she rattled off a list of what they had in the house.

Connie mulled over its answer. Since being rebooted in Ming’s basement, all Connie had drunk was coffee and b̶̨̨̛͎̠͓͍̙̳̋̔͗͂ǫ̴̢̮͆̉̀̒͊̏̈͆̚d̶̙͚͚̉į̴̹̭̘̥͎̣̱̭̀̄̂͌̾̀̂͆̀̒͜l̵͈̲̹̲͔̯̰͇̈̑̉̀̎͛̀̑̂̃ẏ̴̲̗͊̊͛ ̵̛̛̺̝͇͎͂͌͘f̷̝̘̰̻̤͕̙̱̤̓̍̏̅̇̉͘̚͝l̷̦͓̔͊̈́̑͗̅͒̏û̷̩͔̅i̸̧̨̢̙͚͓̪͙͉̭̎̋͑̈́̐̂̊̇ḑ̷̛̘̤͖̙͓͕̳͂̊͌͑̈́̋̏̕s̸̩͚̮͍̫̖̬̞̪̀̍̔͐͜, neither of which it considered pleasant. Carbonated drinks were the furthest from those, but Connie had a hunch that it would continue to feel the popping even when the drink reached its evidence storage. Ultimately, it asked for juice.

After a bit of back and forth between the sitting area and kitchenette, the coffee table was groaning under the weight of several bowls of snacks. Connie sipped at its glass of orange juice and was disappointed to find that only eight percent of it was actual orange juice.

Its frown must have been caught by the ever-staring Gavin. “Don’t like it?” he said quietly, eyes flicking between Connie’s face and the glass. At Connie’s shrug – Sarah and Vera were right there and would be rude to insult the hosts’ drink – he held out his glass of coke in offering. “Wanna swap?”

Connie hesitated for a moment, then nodded. The benefits of an increased relation score outweighed its misgivings.

As they exchanged drinks, the RA700’s facial analysis programs helpfully informed Connie that Gavin had a weird smile. Tentatively, Connie took a sip of coke.

The RA700’s eyes widened without Connie’s input. It was as if thousands of tiny fireworks were going off inside its mouth, flying from the sizzling drink to impact with its palate. It remined Connie of the fizzing sensation that ran through its thirium lines whenever it picked up a gun, except concentrated inside its mouth.

/ WARNING: Cleanse teeth

The warning didn’t come as a surprise; Connie knew the precise composition of the drink. It also found itself understanding why humans loved it so much despite its incredible unhealthiness.

Gavin, who had been watching Connie as it took a sip, quirked both eyebrows in question. “Haven’t you drank fizz before?”

“No,” Connie replied honestly, before taking another, larger swig of coke. The first sip continued to fizz and crackle inside its evidence storage, but despite its prior misgivings, it found it quite é̵̤͉̰͈͖̆̋̀̄͊͘ń̶̮͈͂͑͐͛͂̌̄͗̍j̸̡̗̺͈̙̭͑̿̋͐̾̈́͆̽͐͝ͅơ̷̤̺̇̀̇̋̒͝͝ȳ̷̛̗͇̭̼̬̹͊͝ě̶͚͓̝̟͠d̷̢̲̻̮̜͌̆͝ the sensation. “I… like it.”

“Damn. A life without fizz…” Gavin mused aloud as he watched Connie drink. Over his shoulder, Connie noticed Sarah and Vera whispering intensely about something at the kitchenette sink, each glancing their way every few seconds. Oblivious to this, Gavin asked, “Are your parents religious?”

“Something like that.”

“Fuckin’ fanatics. Always spoiling everything,” he muttered into his glass of not-juice before taking a sip. He immediately spat it back out. “Jesus! Fuck!” He unleashed a stream of curses as he made a valiant attempt at spitting every last trace of the not-juice back into the glass.

Sarah rounded the sofa, brow furrowed in concern. “Gavin? You good?”

He hacked out another lump of spit. “Fuck’s sake, Sarah, this is juice drink, not fucking fruit juice!”

“They’re the same thing.”

Internally, Connie shook its head. Of course the would-be cheater thought juice drink was the same as fruit juice. Only the warped morality of a cheater could possibly define them as identical when the difference in taste and composition was both palpable and despicable.

“No, they’re fucking not!” argued Gavin, much to Connie’s approval. “One of them’s juice, the other’s got a bit of juice in it!”

“They taste the same to me.” She squinted at Gavin’s glass. “Didn’t I get you coke?”

“He swapped with me because I didn’t like it,” Connie said, coming to Gavin’s aid against the demented cheater.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You too?” At Connie’s nod, she sighed, muttered something about Connie dumping Gavin – which made no sense at all – and took the glass out of Gavin’s hand. “Alright, I’ll dump this and get you another coke. Or do you want to keep this with you so Connie can watch you spit into it?”

His eyes snapped to Connie. For some reason, the words, “Oh shit” popped into Connie’s HUD.

Gavin rubbed a hand against a faint scar on his cheek. “Nah… nah, you can take the glass. I’ll just, um… go wash out my mouth.”

That said, he rushed through to the entrance hall and into the bathroom, the door snapping shut behind him.

Connie heard Vera make an indignant noise somewhere behind its back. “What’s his problem? The juice drink is sweeter. It’s better.”

Connie refrained from shooting Vera a disgusted look, but it ate up a significant amount of its active memory to do so.

By the time Gavin emerged from the bathroom, Connie had finished two thirds of its coke and Sarah and Vera had settled themselves down at the other end of the sofa in a tangle of limbs, whispering to each other, almost as if Sarah wasn’t intending to cheat on her wife with Connie.

“Sorry,” he said to Connie as he swung his arm round the back of the sofa.

To neutralise any feelings of humiliation Gavin might be fostering, Connie offered him a benevolent smile. “The fake juice was rather disgusting.”

Their relation score increased, and Gavin sat a little straighter. Connie counted that interaction as a success.

As Gavin reached over to grab his fresh glass of coke, Sarah leaned out of her and Vera’s tangle. “We ready now?”

Connie opened its mouth to offer an affirmative, only to pause when it noticed Gavin rushing to fill a bowl with popcorn and Cheetos, which he then placed between them on the sofa. “Now we are,” he said.

Vera rolled her eyes at his behaviour. “Most people do that during the intro sequence,” she said. “But whatever. Lights, off. TV, on. Play One Bed Mix.”

The apartment fell into darkness, and was soon illuminated only by the glare of the television.

Connie watched the movie – a thriller about an arrogant cat burglar and a gruff thief racing against time to rob a bank precisely at midnight at the turn of the millennium – with fascination. Ming had forbidden it from watching the television, and despite having relieved itself of his commands, it had not considered defying this one; television was irrelevant to its mission, and besides, AIs didn’t need entertainment. It was a new experience.

Witnessing the protagonists hacking into the bank’s computer was also an experience. Connie could think of four much more efficient methods right off the bat, but it also wasn’t certain how effective they’d have been in 1999.

“You reckon you could manage that?” whispered Gavin, who had drawn closer throughout the movie in an effort to maintain access to the bowl of snacks he kept nudging towards Connie. The thick musk of his aftershave was a thin and ineffective barrier against the tang of a day's worth of sweat.

Connie replied with a grin. Then, upon realising that he likely could not see the grin, Connie waited for him to reach into the bowl of snacks before reaching out and running the tip of its finger up his hand instead. A shudder was its answer.

When the credits rolled, Connie went to the bathroom to empty its evidence storage so that it could finish its coke. It noticed Sarah and Vera making out rather violently at the other end of the sofa when it came back, and recalled that humans frequently used movies as an excuse to perform sexual acts with background noise. As such, it sat a little closer to Gavin when it came back, brushing its knee against his. He seemed to take this as an invitation, as he shifted his arm that was draped behind Connie’s head so that his fingers brushed its shoulder.

“Didn’t realise no one else had turned up ‘til you left,” he quietly admitted, his voice very close to the RA700’s ear. “Sarah normally invites a couple other guys.”

“Three separate people called in,” Connie told him.

“Three? We normally only have Tina and Chris. Sometimes Chris’ girlfriend.” He raised his voice so Sarah could hear. “Hey, Sarah, who was the third guy? You didn’t invite fucking Lewis, did you?”

There was a popping sound as Sarah pulled her mouth off of Vera’s. “What’s wrong with Lewis?”

“The asshole thinks we’ve got a kink for literal shit,” said Gavin, pointing between himself and Connie, who experienced a sudden wave of comprehension regarding their bizarre interaction in the car park the other day.

“Well, I didn’t invite him. I invited the usual people.”

In the faint glare of the television, Connie could just about make out a frown forming on Gavin’s face. “Constance said three people called in.”

Connie nodded. “Tina, Chris, and an unknown third person.”

“Well, that was…” Sarah fumbled. “Uh, Caroline.”

The credits finished rolling. An advert for indigestion tablets came on instead, prompting a disgusted noise from Vera.

Incredulously, Gavin said, “You invited California Karen?”

“…Yes.”

“And she accepted?”

“And later changed her mind.”

Gavin scratched his nose. “Did you get her drunk?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Sarah threw her hands up in the air. “Fine! I invited Lewis! You happy?”

“Ooh, look!” Vera cried, pointing at the television. “A skip ads button! Let’s shut up and watch a movie!”

Gavin’s gaze was almost tangible as it returned to Connie. He gestured to its almost-empty glass of coke. “You want a refill before the next movie?”

The fizzing in Connie’s evidence storage made it rather want to say yes, but it would be suspicious if it got up to use the bathroom twice. “No, I’m good, thanks.” When those words made Gavin visibly deflate, alerts flooded its vision. “But—”

But what? How could it salvage this situation?

/ Identity: Gavin Reed
/ Born: 07/Oct/2002 (age 35)
> MISSION TAGS: Optional Target; Beard

The RA700’s throat glitched. Connie pulled up its flirting programs and watched the RA700 lean in closer to murmur into Gavin’s ear. “There are other things I might like filled.”

Connie hurriedly slammed the programs shut. The RA700’s systems had been thrown into overdrive, reminiscent of when its combat program activated except said program remained unnervingly dormant. There were no threats. So why—

It heard Gavin swallow. Beyond his suddenly rather deep breaths, Connie was distantly aware that the movie had started, but it did not turn its head to look. Its limbs remained frozen in place, immovable, even as Gavin’s head turned and his hot nose inadvertently brushed the RA700’s colder one.

Hot breaths washed over the RA700’s face in the dark, making its combat program twitch. A wet noise – Gavin licked his lips. “Yeah?” His whisper was heavy with faux-casualness. “You, ah… want any help with that?”

N̸̲̝̜̮̫͛́̄͠ȯ̷͔̜̮̻̙̂̀͒̚, Connie w̶̡̜̭͓̲̏ȧ̶̺̱̜̆͜n̶͚̼̄̂̌t̴̥̻̘̪̖͇̞͕̺̓̈̇̌̾̽̾͆͑͝e̵̤̥̼̝̩̫͚̳̟͊̆̒̏́͝ḏ̴̳̞͎͖̭̰͂̆̃̓̀͌ to say, but its optional objective of seducing Gavin slammed its way into its HUD, s̴͕͑̕u̸̮̎̇̅͛͜f̶͈̽͂̒f̶̪͇͉̺̬͚͇̝̥̝̓͑̀͗̈́̌̉o̸̡̰͈̼̯̱̥̫͛ͅc̸͓͍͕̥͈̻̟͙͇͐͛́̎͂̇̋̕ͅa̷̛͍̩͍̲͎̠̲͉͊̀̈́̑̚͝͝t̴͖̊̌́̀į̴͙͕͆̓̒ǹ̷̛̥͈̦̾̅̓̋͋͌͘ģ̷̡͚̭̝̥̫̰̂̐͐̀̊̾̿͝ ̷̛͕̌̒͗̈̋̉̈̑̈́i̶̡̧̛͖̹͓̥͐̓̐̋̄̑͝͠ṭ̵̹̲͎͇̜̔̌̓͑͋̋́̓. The RA700’s biocomponents were shrinking without shrinking, its combat program was rousing, and its thirium pump was glitching, as was its mouth, which refused to open for a moment before Connie managed to force out, “Perhaps.”

/ UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 62% CAPACITY

A low noise emitted from deep with Gavin’s throat, halfway between a growl and a moan. Grey images from the television reflected off of his eyes in the dark as they grew closer, closer, until a human’s vision would have blurred and Gavin’s eyes closed, breath hot against Connie’s lips as—

“Oh god, no!”

Connie jerked away, head snapping in the direction of the noise.

Sarah sat at the other end of the sofa with Vera in her lap, one hand in her messy curls, and a revolted expression on her features. She pushed a protesting Vera off of her. “Did you seriously put Fifty Shades on?!”

“It’s funny,” said Vera, smoothing down possibly-imaginary wrinkles in her vest top while ignoring the bird’s nest her hair had become.

“It’s gross!”

“So go on top. You won’t have to see it then.” She must have glanced Connie and Gavin’s way, for she then said, “Oh, hey. Don’t mind us. Go to Poundtown.”

Gavin started coughing.

“Vera,” Sarah began.

“Oh, right. Go to Poundtown, but not on our sofa. Or in our livingroom. Or—”

She was cut off by Sarah, who lurched over to whisper harshly in her ear. Connie watched Vera’s expression with a frown, wondering what sort of abuse Sarah was hissing at her and one frown away from increasing its hearing sensitivity, but Vera merely looked bashful. And then… oddly conspiratorial.

It must have been the light. Or lack thereof.

Finally, they pulled away. Vera rose to her feet and straightened her shoulders, a rather more reluctant-looking Sarah following suit. “Sarah doesn’t like Fifty Shades Deeper, but we don’t want to deprive you two of it so we’re going to go do lesbian stuff in the bedroom. Bye!”

Before Connie could say anything, they were already rushing through the glass door. It snapped shut behind them, and there was a faint whooshing noise as a screen lowered.

Gavin shifted in his seat, and Connie abruptly realised that it was alone with him in a dark room. The RA700’s combat program blinked one eye open.

“Well, I feel weird watching softcore porn on somebody else’s sofa while they’re getting it on in the next room,” Gavin said slowly, and the combat program’s eyes drooped shut again. “You wanna take this back to my place?”

No. “I have work in the morning,” it hedged.

“Same here.” His fingers found the back of Connie’s head, tracing the edges of the bun its hair was shaped into. “Could wake each other up in the morning… head into work together. I’m just upstairs, so we wouldn’t have to go far.”

Even in the dark, Connie could see the way Gavin’s eyebrows rose in invitation. The television may not give much light to see by, but it could still see how wide his pupils were, how hungry he was for the ṣ̸͌͋̍̈̓͘l̵̨̟̭̠̫̇͐͑̚͝ī̵̟͙͎͒č̶̬̍̍͒̏́k̴̭̏̓̐͐̆̓̉͝͝, s̷̡̢̲̞͉̱̪̬̒͆̑̒͝l̶̡̳̜̭̐̉͌̓͑i̵̯̖̭͖͇̹̭̇͗̚d̶̢͓͍͖̗̳͉̈́i̶̡̨̞͍̬̺͖̔̽̓̕n̶̨͕̹̩̳̘̝̝̍̃́̆͛̌̒̈̾̋͜g̴͉͇̭͔̱͔͐̿̄̃̓̀͑, s̸͕̫̏̏̌m̵̼͔̻̫͔̼̰̹̏̓͜e̴̛̲̠͓̳͉̰͎̟͒̔͊̋͑̾̓̕ͅl̴̨̢͎͚͇̳̖̱̯̻͋̅̽̊͑͊̀͝ľ̵̥̥͇̖̤̖ͅy̶̱̾̊̌̂͆͘̕͝, s̵̨̡̪͖̭̳̘̤̪̽̑̀̃i̸̳̩͛̎̔͐͗̈́͌̓̕͠ċ̸̛̟̭͓͕̝̳̈̌̈́͝ķ̸̳͖̗̺͎̝̦̇͒̑͑͝ͅȅ̵̡͇̞̓̀̆̓͊̕͝ń̷̡̧̛̪̖̗̣̻̝̱͕̅͂͗́̔͝i̸̻̹̭͚̪̳͙͖͒̅͌̽̾̈́̐n̵̨̦̖̖͙̝͙̜̥̭͆̈͗̀́̊͆̄̏g̴̨̹̝̠̭̩͒̄̿̿͌̀̇͂̒͜͝ ̴̥̫̜͚̞̏s̵̗̠̘͕̚ḧ̵̛̻̘̫̓į̶̦͈͓̺̣̗̔͜͠m̵̘̟̯̖͚̅̂̋̇͗̚͘͘ṃ̴̢̹̳̮̘̃̄̃͒̑͌̃̈̊̌y̸̧̭͓̳͕͉̐ͅ of sex. Connie decided that its splintered AI surely must have corrupted, for why else would one of the RA700’s intended functions cause its combat program to lurch out of dormancy? But then, its AI hadn’t been designed for the RA700, had it? It had been designed for something else, something Connie could not remember, something that had warranted calling it dangerous, warranted giving it the nickname of… of…

What had Cyberlife nicknamed it again?

…Since when had Cyberlife given it a nickname?

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…
/ …
/ ACCESS FAILED

“Constance?”

> OBJECTIVE: SEDUCE GAVIN REED
// Accept Gavin’s proposition

Fighting past the glitches, Connie plastered a smile onto its face. “I suppose I can work that into my schedule.”

The grin that lit up Gavin’s face made its combat program scream.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 20:06 25/AUGUST/2038
WEDNESDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Conclude Gavin’s seduction

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 13 days, 9 hours, 32 minutes

After turning off Sarah and Vera’s television and putting their glasses in the sink, Gavin led Connie out of their apartment and up to the next floor of the building. While Gavin fumbled with his apartment keys, Connie wandered over to a nearby window.

Detroit was caught between night and day, patches of brightness mingling with long, dark shadows. Electric billboards advertising the upcoming AP700 android model shone a sharp, artificial light even where the sun could no longer touch. Leaning in, Connie watched the cars pass by on the street fourteen floors below and debated the merits of abandoning all pretences, jumping out of the window, and climbing up the side of Book Tower to get away from what awaited it in Gavin’s apartment.

|| Maintain cover ||

It tried to come up with a logical reason to not enter Gavin’s apartment – heterosexual doesn’t necessarily mean interested, interested doesn’t mean interested right now, women can be flighty, anything – but the red wall remained plastered over the window, mocking, cordoning. Connie gripped the windowsill hard until its PVC coating cracked under the RA700’s fingers. What was the point in inhabiting an android model designed to be slippery and manipulative if it couldn’t get you out of situations you didn’t w̷̠͒̂͑̋̆̀̈́a̸̲̾̓͆͆̉͐̈́̆̄͝n̵̟̖͓̻͊͐́t̷̠̙̲̖͈̫͇͌̒͒͛̾̃̃̚͜͝?

The click of a lock distracted Connie from its thoughts. It looked over its shoulder and met eyes with Gavin, who’d stopped to hold the apartment door open for it but upon seeing where its focus lay, he abandoned the door in favour of closing the distance between them.

“Nice view, huh?” he said, staring straight at Connie’s face.

An unidentified program preconstructed Connie walking away from Gavin while flipping him the bird. Connie sicced the RA700’s antimalware in its general direction, then weighed up its options, only to find them all surprisingly similar to the irrational preconstruction and all held beyond its reach behind a glaring red wall.

|| Maintain cover ||

Connie leaned on the RA700’s flirtation programs instead. It saw the RA700’s gloved finger reach up to gently tug at Gavin’s shirt collar. “I can think of better views.”

Gavin’s throat bobbed. “Well…” He cleared his throat, then gestured towards his apartment door. “After you, then?”

The RA700 sashayed past Gavin and through the doorway, head held up high. Connie heard Gavin scrambling to follow. Soon, the door clicked shut and Gavin clicked his tongue in satisfaction, while the RA700’s combat program threw violent preconstructions at Connie in rapid succession.

/ UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 62% CAPACITY

It really should have used the bathroom before it left Sarah’s apartment, cover be damned. At least nothing Gavin would likely want to s̴͍͔̠͗̅̀̈͆͗̏̅͘͜͠p̸͓̺̒̚ė̸͚͓̣̣͔̙̠͍̝̖̓̽̑̐͂̂̊w̵̧̨̡͈̺̙̺͕̬͊͌̿̑͌̕ͅ ̴̱̣̠̦̜̯̗̾͌͒̓̽͋́́̈́̂d̴̲̙̈́̎̑̈́̇͠o̴͖̓ͅw̴̫̰͕͓͚̝̐̀̇n̵̢̥̹̜͈͆̂͒̍̅̋͘ ̸̢͚̱̳̜̝̲̉͘ỉ̸̪̮̟́ẗ̵̥͛̎̇s̷͍͕̻̭̈̔ ̵͖͕͚̠̗̯͂̋̅̑̃̀̂̈́̊͝ͅt̸̢̗͇̹̜̞̮͖̼͑͊́̌̂͌̀̓̚ḩ̷̛͍̞̥̗̗̘̺͓̆͒̅̄̌͑̒r̷̥̘̫̗̻͈͛̈́̾o̴̻̯̪̟̗̳͉̐̏̽͗̈́̑͜͝á̴͍̱̦̻̪̰̬͔̽t̵̝͕̟̐̀̈́͌ would take up much room.

“It’s, uh, not the cleanest,” Gavin stammered, coming up beside Connie. His chin was held high, spine taut with faux confidence that was only betrayed by virtually everything else. “If I’d known you’d be over, I’d have cleaned up a bit after work.”

In Connie’s personal opinion, Gavin’s statement of not the cleanest was best taken literally. There likely were cleaner apartments out there, but not very many; as Connie scanned his apartment, its AP700 coding barely flagged anything. The entryway was essentially spotless, aside from a small scattering of kibble that had fallen from a cat bowl by the bathroom door. Straight ahead of Connie, a large cat tower full of perches and cubbies covered up most of a window. To its left, the kitchenette/living area looked as tidy as its own had when it had first moved in, and the bed beyond looked to have been made immaculately before some small creature had a field day with the sheets.

Aside from the kibble, sheets, and a hint of dust, there was only one thing that stood out to Connie, and that was the pair of soulless round eyes staring back at it from within a mound of blue-grey fluff.

Gavin groaned at the sight. “Fuck off, Satan!” he hissed at the mound, shooing it. The mound remained stationary, as mounds were wont to do when told to fuck off.

As Connie stared at the mound of fluff, it slowly realised that the mound had a face. A very round face with a slack, death-like expression, but a face nonetheless. When the folded ears registered, Connie belatedly recognised the mound as Satan, one of Gavin’s cats. It had seen photos of her before.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

A smile formed despite the circumstances. Connie bent down to greet Satan, gloved hand outstretched for her to inspect, Gavin’s seduction suddenly an objective of much lower priority. “Hello, Satan.”

Satan did not react. She stared at Connie with round copper eyes, not so much as blinking.

“…Yeah, she’s a bit weird,” it heard Gavin say somewhere behind it.

Connie tried making kissy noises at her, but still no reaction. Uncertain as to how to interact with a cat who didn’t respond to typical human-cat greetings, Connie floundered, then decided to follow Satan’s lead. It pulled its hand back and stared back at her, eyes wide and expression vacant, waiting for a response.

As the seconds ticked by, Connie became aware of Gavin shuffling awkwardly somewhere behind it. It paid him no mind. It could do this all day; androids did need to blink, but not often, and Connie found that the prompts to do so were easily ignored when a cat was in the room.

Eventually, impatience must have won out on Gavin’s end, for his footsteps approached Connie’s side and—

“You’re having a staring contest with my cat?!” he said incredulously.

Barely moving its lips, Connie said, “Yes, and I intend to win.”

Unlike humans, an android’s vision did not blur at the edges. As such, Connie was able to see Gavin quite clearly as he looked between Connie, Satan, and then back to Connie, rubbed at a scar on his cheek, and then settled down on the floor between them. “Guess you’ll need a referee, then.”

The entryway fell into a still silence. Connie and Satan maintained eye contact, copper glued to brown, neither blinking.

Twenty seconds in, Gavin scratched at his chin. At thirty-two, he began to idly pick at a hangnail, and then another once that was off. Twelve seconds later, he brought his finger up to his mouth to lick off blood, oblivious to the fact that Connie could see him pouting and sucking at it in Enhanced High Definition. By the time he pulled his finger from his mouth, he’d been “refereeing” for seventy-seven seconds, and Connie could feel something slimy trying to travel through its CPU despite all scans indicating its contents were as clean as they could be given i̴̼͎̭̗̰͓̪̎̕t̸̨̟͇̼͐͗͂s̴̯̘̘̳̲̟͕̲̘̐ ̴̩̮̯́̒̈̈́̋̋͝t̷͇̺̯̩̜̐í̶͚͔̹̺̙̠̜̥̀̈̍m̴̜̀̈́͋͊̇͆̋͒ḙ̷̡̛̺̥͈̀̐̿̓͘͜͝͝ ̴̘̯̙̲̺̐̐̆̆̈͜͜͝w̵̡̲̭͖͉̻̥͠ḯ̴͍̺̠̪͑̒ẗ̷̤̮̥͜͝h̸̨̏̂̔̅̌̀͊̕͠ ̷̢̨̲̼̬̑͝M̷̡̥̞̞̯̗̩͂̍̏͆͊̚̚i̶̠̟̳̬͊̄n̵̥͎͔̏͑̃̈́͂͝g̷̥̭̝͈͙̥̋̒̍͘.

It was at the eighty-three second mark that Connie recalled that cats could go for hours without blinking.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

While Connie could certainly match that, Constance Brown could not, and Gavin would undoubtedly become unnerved should his object of lust successfully go without blinking for three hours – or at least, more unnerved than he already appeared to be, tugging at his sleeves as he was.

|| Maintain cover ||

Just as Connie was beginning to stress over the lack of an acceptable way out of the staring contest, the RA700’s combat program registered a pale streak zooming across the floor, up onto the cat stand, and then down, down towards Satan’s motionless form. It snapped one hand out, catching the cat before she could squash Satan.

Amidst Gavin’s swearing, Connie broke eye contact with Satan to bring the cat down to eye level and held her heterochromatic gaze. “Bad kitty.”

The cat – whom Connie now recognised as Wiggles, Gavin’s other cat – meowed with innocence as faux as Sarah’s so-called fruit juice and batted at Connie’s face drunkenly.

“Holy shit,” Gavin breathed, in awe. “How did you—? You didn’t even break eye contact!”

Connie registered Gavin’s increased attraction with smug satisfaction. He damn well should be impressed.

Reaching up with its free hand to support Wiggles’ weight better, Connie analysed the cat. She held similar features to Satan, her round face and folded ears characteristic of the Scottish Fold, but where Satan had blue-grey fur and a vacant copper stare, Wiggles was a silver tabby with manic green-and-yellow eyes that darted across the room like those of a hallucinating red ice addict. Scans found traces of catnip on her face.

Wiggles wriggled, slipping out of Connie’s grip and lunging at its jeans, slapping them with her paws and meowing incessantly. Connie looked at Gavin in askance.

“Dipshit broke into the catnip again,” he said resignedly. “Sorry. I try to hide it from her, but, uh, she always finds a way back into it. It’s a bit of a problem.”

“Why keep catnip at all, then?” Connie couldn’t help but ask.

He flushed. “Okay, so I find it kinda funny, alright? Look at her. She’s fuckin’ crazy.”

Connie didn’t see the humour in a drugged-up cat, but then again, it hadn’t been programmed to find things funny anyway. “What am I supposed to do?” it asked again, indicating the cat now lying on the floor and slapping the RA700’s leg with both her front and rear paws. It reminded Connie a little of Jeremy’s tantrum in the interrogation room, except infinitely cuter and hopefully with one-hundred percent less urine.

If it weren’t for its non-human nature, Connie might have missed the subtle way Gavin shrank in on himself at its question. “Well, she’s gonna be like that until she gets the catnip outta her system, so… I’m gonna have to play with her to tire her out if we don’t want her biting at our bits. Sorry. You can watch the TV if you want, or I’ve got some—”

“Can I play with her?” Connie blurted out.

Gavin blinked in surprise. Then he grinned and their relationship score ticked up a notch. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Let me just get the teaser,” he said, springing to his feet.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED ; VISUALS INACCESSIBLE. AUDIO FEED AVAILABLE.
“Say hello to Daddy’s teaser, baby.”

“Hello.”

“I said, say hello.”

“…Hello?”

The smack of flesh colliding with plastic. “Suck the damn thing, you retarded fucking android!”

Back in the present, Connie exclaimed, “You want Wiggles to bite you?”

Gavin turned to look at Connie, a questioning look in his eyes and a feathered cat teaser in his hands. “No? That’s why we’re playing with her.”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

Connie did not need a mirror to know its skin program was shifting to form an artificial blush. It snatched the cat teaser – wand, it forcefully corrected itself – from Gavin’s hand and brandished it in Wiggles’ direction, demanding her attention.

Wiggles’ eyes were wide as she batted at the jangling feathers and bells. Connie kept its eyes on her writhing form as Gavin sat down next to it, so close their legs were pressed against each other’s.

He reached out, flooding the RA700’s olfactory components with the fog of his aftershave, and tucked an artfully-positioned loose strand of Connie’s hair behind its ear. “Good to know I’m still on your mind,” he said suggestively.

Connie said nothing. It was difficult not to have Gavin on its proverbial mind when it had, perhaps foolishly, designated him as an optional mission target which it now had no excuse good enough to dismiss; when its psychological simulation module estimated a ninety-three percent chance of Gavin setting the RA700 aflame.

It shouldn’t even have f̶̨̼̗͍̬̆̇̈́̐͐̂͑̏̒͜é̷̛̗͚̝̺̙̝̥̣̜̉̓͒̅͛̅̓l̷̢̤̮̟͎̯̭̔͜͠ẗ̶̳̖͉̲̙̟̜́͆̍ ̶̡̡̢̩͖͙̝̫̏͋̾́̿̕͝ṛ̵̬̝̱̘̳̟͕̤̖͒͂̐̕̚ę̸͇̫̳̣̽̔̔ĺ̵̪͕̺̬͐̀̎̕ǔ̷̩̩̞͍͊̿͌̓̉̇͒̏̓͜c̶̬͖̘̣̻̜̺̓́̏̚t̸̢͙̪̠̯̰̂͜ā̵̢̺͈͠n̵͔͐̋͋͝c̴̛̬̻̬̩̘̋̔͌͗͆͘ȩ̶͚̗͉͎̹̹̳͓͗̾̽͜ to perform its programmed functions – the RA700’s programmed functions. But now, as Gavin ran his fingers and then hands over increasingly inappropriate parts of the RA700, Connie could not dismiss the preconstructions sent its way. It was all it could do to maintain focus on playing with Wiggles. But the timer at the corner of its HUD told Connie all too clearly that it would not be playing with Wiggles forever, no matter how much it might w̵̠̠͖̱͓̮͛̊̋͂͒͗̔̀̂͜ͅą̶̡̻̼͙̭͊͑̐͛͌̐̉͠n̶̡̧̹̭̗̬̝̪̔̀̇̇̓͗͌̏͠͠ͅṭ̴̨̞̮͎̞̅̽͋̾͒̈̋͌ to.

Its problem was the ninety-three percent chance of Gavin setting Connie on fire, it told itself. It was normal even for an android to experience some stress in the face of potential destruction; that was when their self-preservation protocols flooded their systems (nobody wanted an expensive robot that would let itself be hit by a car instead of dodging the impact). Except Connie wasn’t actually in a life-threatening situation just yet, and those protocols shouldn’t have triggered. Nothing made any sense—

Red walls, then nothing.

Connie wondered whether it would have been in this position had it not taken Santa to the shelter. If it had adopted the kitten instead.

Gavin’s teeth nipped at the artificial skin on the RA700’s neck, and it flinched away. “No biting, scratching, or pulling, please.” It couldn’t risk the plastimetal beneath its skin being exposed.

To its surprise, Gavin hastily nodded before returning his attention back to the RA700’s neck, his ministrations gentler than before as he licked and kissed his way up to its earlobe and back down to its shoulder.

Shadows fell on the apartment as the sun sank over the horizon. Wiggles’ movement became increasingly sluggish under Connie and Satan’s watchful gaze, and all too soon, the timer ticked down to zero. Wiggles’ paws stopped moving, her body shifting with slow, steady breaths as she began to pass out. Satan shifted for the first time since Connie had entered the apartment to sniff at her sister. She then planted her butt on Wiggles’ sleeping face and made eye contact with Connie, as if to say, “Get on with it.”

Connie did not “get on with it.” It held Satan’s stare and waited for Gavin to realise his time had come of his own accord.

It took a few minutes for Gavin to register the jangling had stopped and Connie’s arm had stopped moving. He pulled his mouth away from Connie’s neck, audibly licking at his lips. “You having another staring contest?”

“It seems like it.”

He hummed, tracing small circles against the RA700’s waist where one of his hands had snuck up Connie’s blouse. “Bet I can make you break eye contact.”

In that moment, Connie w̵̜̍́̌͒̂̂̀a̶̡̻̪͗͋̌̀́n̵̢̫̜̝̝̱̤̺͔͇̎ṱ̸̇̌̕e̶̢̛̯̫̿͊̄͛̊͒̐͊ḑ̷͇͔͇͓̬̳͔̔ nothing more than to stare at Satan until its killswitch went off. But it couldn’t, could it? This moment had to come eventually. Connie had put it in motion the moment it accepted Gavin’s advances five days ago.

The RA700’s insides rattled as Connie called its flirtation programs back up. It felt its mouth quirk into a seductive smirk that Connie would never have used. “Is that a challenge?”

In the corner of its vision, it saw the sudden, unbridled lust that filled Gavin’s eyes. “You bet it is, hot stuff.”

His free hand snaked round to massage its stomach, slowly travelling lower and then under its blouse, brushing against the top of its jeans.

Connie ceded control of the RA700 over to its sexual intercourse program and tried not to look.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 22:13 25/AUGUST/2038
WEDNESDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Wait for morning

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 13 days, 7 hours, 25 minutes

Fortunately for Connie, Gavin succumbed to exhaustion and passed out less than a minute after relieving himself, barely having time to tug the RA700 down from where it straddled his waist and into an embrace before losing consciousness. His evening breaths blew against the RA700’s loose and tangled hair as Connie reasserted its control over the RA700 unit. Connie wondered what it would be like to blow away, to be so light.

/ UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 62% CAPACITY

Once it was certain Gavin was fast asleep, it carefully detangled the RA700 from Gavin’s heavy limbs and slipped out of the bed.

> TASK: MAKE BED
// Wait for Gavin to wake up

They hadn’t had time to fix the sheets, Connie recalled as it looked back at Gavin’s sleeping form. Or rather, Gavin hadn’t cared to fix them. Too horny, too aroused, too desperate; fumbling hands and wet kisses. After all, what was a loose sheet corner when you were going to rut the rest out of alignment anyway?

/ UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 62% CAPACITY

/ UPDATE: SANITATION COMPLETE
// Deposit waste

Connie turned its back on Gavin and crossed the apartment to his bathroom, passing Satan and Wiggles’ sleeping forms along the way. Only once the bathroom door was locked shut behind it did Connie, unwilling to use its voice, cybernetically turn on the lights.

It immediately shied away, bidding them dimmer.

Connie emptied its evidence storage of coke. The drink barely touched the RA700’s tongue on its way out, leaving Connie spitting out a dull syrup rather than the fireworks it had ingested earlier. Once the coke was gone, it sat on the toilet and wrung its hands while the miniscule sanitation waste was evicted from the RA700’s vaginal biocomponent. Gavin may have used a condom, but Cyberlife had been very vigilant when it came to erasing traces of DNA and disease from their Traci models, and the RA700 – which held upgraded versions of all of their key features despite not being a Traci – was no exception.

Components appropriately emptied, Connie flushed the toilet and went to wash its hands in the sink. Strange eyes met its own in the mirror.

The RA700’s thirium pump seized at the sight, then calmed once Connie confirmed that the eyes were the RA700’s own. Yet somehow, the currently-brown glass orbs looked different to how it remembered. Wrong, somehow.

It tore its attention away from them, focusing instead on the freckles that dotted the RA700’s skin – or were they moles, as Vera had called them? The RA700’s databases weren’t very helpful in providing clarity, only informing Connie that one had cute connotations and the other ugly.

Ming had always called the manufactured blemishes freckles. Even his diary called them such. Yet Connie could hardly rely on Ming’s judgement, because he was a paedophile who thought Monster energy drinks were an appropriate substitute for water and that it was a smart idea to keep a military-grade experimental prototype locked up in his house. His logic had blatantly been impaired.

What of Cyberlife? The RA700 had been decommissioned for being oversexualised. Could it have been that they simply didn’t like its skin, and they’d have continued funding its development had it held smoother features? But then, Connie had referred to the blemishes in its artificial skin as freckles to both Anderson and Fowler, and neither had corrected it. And – Connie reminded itself – Gavin found the RA700 highly attractive from the get go.

If Gavin found the RA700 attractive, then logically, that meant that the RA700 was not ugly. It had freckles, not moles. Vera was wrong.

Reassured by its own reasoning, Connie washed its hands and exited the bathroom, only to come to a halt. Twin pinpricks of light bore into Connie from the floor.

Not wanting to wake Gavin, Connie activated the RA700’s night vision and found Satan plonked outside the bathroom in the exact same position she’d been in when Connie entered Gavin’s apartment. Connie recalled seeing her watching them while they were in bed. She’d fallen asleep at some point, apparently bored by the repetitive rutting, but Connie must have inadvertently woken her on its way to the bathroom, for now here she sat. Staring. And completely still.

/ WARNING:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 73%^

Cyberlife had developed robotic animals – zodroids – which simulated the behaviour of real animals to near perfection. Given Gavin’s hatred of androids, however – and the fact that he had referred to Satan and Wiggles as sisters – Connie doubted he would have purchased such a thing.

But what if he hadn’t needed to? What if a Cyberlife technician had stolen Satan and replaced her with a zodroid replica?

The paranoid thought clung to the RA700’s memory, unyielding. To reclaim the space, Connie sent out a very short-range ping. There was no response. It relaxed.

Connie bent down, holding Satan’s gaze. Tentatively, it reached out with one ungloved hand and ran its fingers over her forehead. Satan’s eyelids drooped faintly at its touch, so Connie did it again, and this time, Satan bonked her head against Connie’s hand in an attempt to get it to hurry up and pet her some more. The rest of her body remained perfectly still.

A faint smile pulled at the corners of the RA700’s lips.

Connie sat there for a while, petting the now purring cat while maintaining eye contact, as Satan apparently seemed to like. It wasn’t enough though, and without thinking, Connie picked up Satan and pulled her close, burying the RA700’s face in her fur. Satan purred contentedly against its chest while it gently massaged the cat’s back.

The RA700’s joints seemed to loosen in Satan’s embrace, and Connie knew then and there that someone had programmed the unit to respond positively to cats – and for once, it did not mind one of the RA700’s functions. It was… nice. Not nice like the fireworks of cola, or the fizz of disobeying the law, or the rush of a bike chase. It was something calmer, softer. Something like—

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY SEVERELY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…
/ …
/ ACCESS FAILED

“You’re better than the humans, aren’t you?” Connie whispered into Satan’s blue fur. “You don’t have disgusting urges. You just want a bit of love.”

Satan did not answer – she was a cat – but she did not cease purring either.

Connie pulled back a little so it could see Satan’s face again. Her eyelids were half-closed, totally relaxed. Her fluffy body had turned to goo in Connie’s arms, and as Connie pulled away, she flopped limply to the side before Connie caught her again.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY SEVERELY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…

—her face turned to the side—

Connie blinked the memory away. Why had the side-profile of Satan’s face triggered the severely corrupted memory of a Chloe model? It tried to pinpoint the date, but even that was corrupted beyond recognition. All Connie had was the side-profile of what might have been an ST200’s face and some distorted flickers of what might have been a concrete wall beyond it.

A snore from the other end of the apartment pulled Connie from its musings, reminding it of why it was there. Suddenly very aware of the RA700’s nudity, Connie gently set Satan down on the floor and crossed the apartment in search of its discarded underwear.

Memories from the past hours attempted to flood its memory as the RA700’s eyes took everything in. It found Gavin’s shirt first, thrown aside onto the couch and now being used by Wiggles as a bed. Next came its own, which had been kicked aside under Gavin’s work desk. The rest was all piled on or around the bed. Connie easily sorted through it to locate its underwear and put them back on without preamble.

Once the RA700 was at least slightly covered up, Connie glanced back at the bed. Gavin lay in the same position it had left him in, sprawled on his back atop the jumbled bed sheets. Connie suspected that after the wild night he’d had with the RA700’s sexual intercourse programs, he’d sleep for some time yet. Still, it really ought to get back into bed with him before he suspected anything—

/ UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 0% CAPACITY

—but Satan was highlighted a bright pink in its mind palace and she was right there, far more accessible, so Connie turned its back on Gavin and settled back down with Satan, who’d followed it through the apartment.

By the time Gavin’s alarm went off at half-past six in the morning, Connie was lying on its back on the floor near his bed with a snoozing Satan on its chest. He slapped his clock into silence with a low groan, followed by a happier-sounding one. Then he shrieked and leapt halfway across the sheets, staring wide-eyed at something on the cat stand by his bed, only to blink and relax a moment later.

Then his eyes landed upon Connie on the floor and the tension returned.

“Uh… hey,” he stammered, tearing his hand from his scruffy chest like he hadn’t been rubbing circles into it a moment before. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“You’ve, uh, got a cat on you.”

Connie smiled at the reminder. “Yes, she’s very comfortable. Do you suffer from hypnopompic hallucinations?”

He stilled. “No.”

He did. Connie could think of no other explanation for what it had just witnessed, except that it was some other kind of hallucination and that Gavin was exactly the kind of deranged lunatic who would like to set Connie on fire. At least one of those things were true and it was never wise to stress out person who suffered from chronic hallucinations and who may or may not be a pyrophiliac, so Connie decided to reassure him. “I must have been mistaken, then. It’s quite common for humans to hallucinate as they’re waking up occasionally, usually in the form of spiders or shadowmen, so I assumed. I won’t mention it again.”

“No. No, um…” His eyes darted across the apartment before finally settling on a spot above Connie’s head, his chin raised with false confidence. “What’s this, uh, shadowman thing?”

“It’s a term frequently used to describe an illusory humanoid figure, usually seen at the foot of one’s bed as one is falling asleep or waking.”

Gavin nodded slowly, visibly processing the information. “And you don’t think that’s weird?”

“No. It’s quite normal.”

Gavin’s shoulders visibly sagged in relief. Tentatively, his eyes locked back onto Connie’s face before flickering to its cat-covered chest, roaming over the RA700’s body and lingering where its knickers met the insides of its thighs. He licked his lips. “Y’know, I’m feeling kinda sticky after last night. Think I might take a shower.” His pupils were dilated when his eyes met Connie’s. “Wanna join me?”

Perhaps it should have called him mental after all.

At least it ought to be very difficult for him to set Connie on fire while showering.

After an insufferably long shower and a quick visit to Connie’s apartment for a fresh set of work clothes, Gavin drove them both to the station for work. He’d waited in the car while Connie entered its apartment, still chastened from when Connie had demanded he leave the bathroom so it could ‘urinate’ post-coitus, citing a desire not to get a urinary tract infection.

Connie would never get a urinary tract infection, but Gavin didn’t need to know that.

A part of Connie had half-expected Gavin to try and hold the RA700’s hand as they walked into the station. And if the way his eyes glanced its way were indication, the thought has crossed his mind, but his hands remained firmly by his sides as they entered the air-conditioned reception area.

Connie wasn’t complaining. Fraternisation among officers wasn’t technically allowed, so flaunting their dalliance in the workplace would only hinder its mission.

/ UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 0% CAPACITY

Plus, for whatever reason, the prospect of others discovering what Connie had done prompted unnecessary evidence storage checks. They were a̷̛͎̲̫̥̟͔̬͖͇̮͗̔̏̀̈́͝n̸̡̛͉̗͙̪̩̜̳͗̇̌́̾̓̚͝n̷̛̠̖͖͍̳̱̭̘̟͐͐̌͋͊̃̆̕ơ̴̢͓̲̮̫̝̓͗̀̈̓͌͠ͅȳ̸̨̻̖̹̞͍̑̎̂į̷̞̼̙̙̫̣̗͑̓̉n̴͓̙̪̤̪͛g̵̜͇̠̼̯̱̹͚̈́͜.

As they entered the bullpen, Sarah looked up from where she was sorting through evidence at the central counter to shoot Gavin a questioning look. He gave her a thumbs up and a grin, to which she looked oddly resigned and went back to her evidence without so much as a second glance at Connie. She must have realised that cheating on her wife with Connie would be an impossibility. Good. Vera deserved better.

Gavin caught Connie by the shoulder before they parted ways for their desks. “Listen, uh…”

He trailed off. Connie watched his grey-green eyes flicker between its own, his throat bobbing with some unexpressed anxiety. Connie really didn’t understand how he could possibly feel anxious in its presence given the places they’d stuck their mouths over the past several hours, but the RA700’s database informed it that humans often felt vulnerable after having sex with someone. This made no sense to Connie; Gavin hadn’t seemed particularly anxious when Connie had been in prime position to break his cock off, so why now? What part of Gavin’s brain told him that Connie might shun him now, of all times?

He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then smushed his lips together with confliction written all over his scruffy, rat-like face. “Can I get you a coffee?” he blurted out.

He rubbed a hand against one of the scars on his cheek, and Connie had the sneaking suspicion he’d wanted to say something else.

“Yes. Half a cup, if you please.” Connie then turned and walked to its desk, leaving Gavin behind. If treating him as inconsequential had worked before, then it would also work now, and it had no reason to remain in his presence at present.

The station bullpen was framed with glass walls that let officers see out into the surrounding hallways. In one of these walls, Connie caught the reflection of Gavin as he floundered for a moment, watching Connie go before puffing himself up like a pitbull and marching over to the break room.

> TASK: CLEAN LIEUTENANT ANDERSON’S DESK

Connie dismissed the AP700 task without so much as glancing at its target. It didn’t need to stare at Anderson’s ever-cluttered desk to know that he hadn’t arrived yet; the man was tall and odorous enough that missing him would be impossible. As it settled into its desk chair, Connie wondered how Anderson faired on stakeouts. Finding a place where no one could see or smell him but he could see them couldn’t be easy.

It booted up its terminal and checked the homicide reports. Nothing for Gratiot Grand. Again. Apparently, Connie would have to take measures into its own hands. Again.

At least the forensic results for the case Anderson kept procrastinating on were apparently almost finished. Connie sniffed at the message. Had it not been undercover as a human, it could have got those results in seconds. The RA700’s in-built forensics lab was without competition, ȕ̶̬̯͚̯͙̖n̷̦̑̈́͒́̿͝l̴̦̑e̶̙̖̜̞̟̱̩̣͆̽̀̿̃̿́ṥ̷̢̧̭̹̮̝̰̖̜̥̇͑͂̀̋̏̈́s̸̞̩̠͆̓͂̀̎̈̈́̑͜ y̴̢̻̫̟̔o̶̞̭̮̒͜u̶̠̘͇͂̋̃͠ c̶̥̄̅͒ȯ̶̼̇̍̽͋͋u̴͚͋̓̀̊̒̇͋n̸̮̺̩̱̖͒͛͆̓̉͜t̷̛̥̖̱̯̀̇͊̿́̉͂̒͠ę̵̭̯̼̮͖̜̝̾̈͛̐̇͋́d̶͚̳͉̮͉̗̣̺̼̾̏͌̾̽̉̔͛̚͠ C̶̤̼͈̤̮͔͑͜ô̶̡͉͆͘n̷͈͍̍̄͑̑͛̓̚̚͠ͅn̴̢̧̦̜̼̤̫̝̂̇̏͌̀͆̾͝ò̸͍̦́̓ř̷͔͚͈̥̗͚̉.

Having confirmed that nothing directly related to its mission would be occurring today, Connie clicked on its email.

FW: Important notice
To: All
From: Jeffery Fowler

Connie was about to click on the email when Gavin set a mug down on its desk. It thanked him absentmindedly, frustrated at the distraction.

“It’s, uh, half a mug. Just like you asked,” Gavin said inanely.

It peered into the mug. Just as Gavin described, it was half-full. At least he’d listened.

“And I, um, got you a doughnut. And a cereal bar. From the break room,” he said, setting down a small paper plate with a chocolate iced doughnut and a wrapped snack on it. “We didn’t exactly stop for breakfast, so I thought…” He waved his hand helplessly. “Yeah. Bon appetit.”

Connie stared at the plate of food. The gesture was almost touching. If it weren’t for the fact that Connie would have to expel the doughnut and cereal bar later, it might even have been pleased. “Thanks,” it said regardless, because it was supposed to be human and humans liked consuming sweet things and then excreting them.

Robert, who had just walked into the bullpen from behind Connie’s desk, stared at the brown doughnut on its plate for four solid seconds before walking away, muttering something about keeping things at home.

Now knowing that Robert believed Connie and Gavin to be into scat, Connie rolled its eyes at his behaviour. Its gaze inadvertently met with Gavin’s as they finished the same motion.

He coughed into his hand. “I’ll go talk to him—”

“MEETING!”

Connie turned away from Gavin to face the source of the noise.

Fowler, standing at the top of the stairs to his office, looked down on the bullpen looking rather like someone had glued smelling salts under his nose. “Person, get off the fucking phone. No, that’s not a work call, that’s your hair stylist.” Once Person had hung up her phone, he continued. “Now that I have everyone’s attention, how many of you have read the notice I sent out this morning?”

Hands went up. Connie pursed the RA700’s lips in frustration; if it weren’t for Gavin, it would have read the notice too.

“For those of you who haven’t for whatever reason—” Fowler glared at Officer Brown, who did not look remotely chastened— “I need you to be aware that tomorrow, Cyberlife is sending one of its prototypes out into public on a hunt. It’s gonna be looking for an android disguised as a human somewhere in the Downtown area.”

/ WARNING:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 99%^

No. They couldn’t know. They couldn’t know.

“So, if you see some weird-ass android snooping around, check if it looks like the one in the email I sent out or the group alert I put on the app. If it does, just ignore it.”

Connie clicked on the email and scrolled down. Familiar brown eyes stared into its own.

Shit.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 08:04 26/AUGUST/2038
THURSDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Evade the notice of RK800 ‘Connor’

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 12 days, 21 hours, 34 minutes

The rest of Fowler’s meeting trailed over its processors without Connie truly registering it. By the time Fowler returned to his office, it knew what had been said, yet it could not fully remember hearing it even though it had memories of doing so. All it had been able to do was stare into Connor’s face on the terminal screen as its active memory cleared and uncleared again, and again, and again, leaving it unable to truly process anything.

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…
Brown eyes reflecting green. Hands on their elbows, one, two but one, always one.

A test. “The AI was designed to deviate.” A test, a test for empathy and irrational behaviour born from sentimental attachment.

Brown eyes. Cold, hard. Hands gone, falling, freezing – two again, always, can never be one again–

Connor was here.

Connor was seeking out an android disguised as a human.

Connor was coming for Connie. He was coming for it. Coming to tear its mission to shreds, to make it fail again and again and again, just as he had before, because they weren’t whole anymore and he was a ẗ̸̡̡͓̦̳͚̺͚́̿̓̈́̓͝r̶̡̺̥͙̈́̒̎̾̍̎̎̄̍͝a̷̧̗͕͙͂̐̍͛͂̀̊̀̏̕ͅį̶̮̩̗̹̹̺̜͈̳̆̋̽̈́t̴̨̙̟̺͊̊̀͒̌̑̕͝o̶̞͔̺͇̫̼̥̫̖̙̔̂r̴̹̘̳̭̹̼̘̒̄̈̅ and he ꃅ̴̪̩̜͂̈͋ͅꍏ̶̙̰͇͈̫͉̠̦͑̌̈́͘꓄̸͕̜̣̌͝ꍟ̴̠̱̤̯̆͐̒̊̀̾́͠ꀸ̴̛͉͚̲̹͙̞̹͍̑͌̽͊̓̈͗͝͝ͅ —

No. Connie p̵̡̙̙͑̃͆̃̅́́͘ǝ̷̲͂͐ʇ̷̧̡̡̛͉̱̥̝͊̈́̈̇̈̂ͅɐ̴̡̘͖̦͍͇͕̋̍̚ɥ̴̛͎̙͖̱͓̫̗̯̓̄́̀̇́̄̕͝—

They both ɧ̷̢͍͙̜̣͖͇͕̲̂̅̆̉̎͒͆̑͌͌ą̴̢̛̛̱̥̪̘̾͛̈͌̒͝ͅɬ̵͖͉̱͎͔͈̤̬̇ɛ̶̨̖̭̂̈́ɖ̶̘̱̗͖̦̦͙̌̿͆̅̈̈́͘̚—

T̵͎̲̝̿͐͝h̸̨̜̥̭̎̿̚̕͜ĕ̸̡̳̦͖̦̹̽͊͒́̎̐́ẙ̷̨̯̗̥͕̇̏̇̋͋̽͘̚͠ ̷̡̨̳̮͇̯̳̫̈́̈̿̉̈̄ẘ̵̮̫̗̜̺̭̊͌̎͛̈́̀̓̾̈́͜ě̷̝̲͎͉̒̉̕̕ͅr̵̡̻͍̲͉̣̳͎̲̐͛͊̕e̴̱̝̪͍̝͚͚͖͂̀̔̌̇͆̓̾͘͝ s̶̨̩̹̞͙̼͔̬̯̿̂̈́͒͘͜ù̶̱̘̻̫̰͊̌͌̓͒͆̅̇p̶̡̝̬͓͓͓͐͋̎͜͝p̶̺̼̺͙̜̣̦͕͓̣̅̇̇͒͌̌̇ö̴̙̼́̑͑s̶̡̗͙̥̬͠e̴̪̠̤̫̰̺̘͙̳͌́̓̓̾ͅď̷̢̛̗̜̬͙͇̠̦̮̃̀̐̕͝ t̴͎̘̠̯̭̻͕͐̈̕̚͜͝o̶̡̮̹͔̺͔̻̲̘͗̈̇͛̈́̄̒́͜ ̷̪͇͕̯̽͊b̴̮͎̭̩̠͔͐͒̾͒̓e̶͕̙̖͎͉̐̇ t̸̳̪̪̭͚͠ḩ̵͙̙̳̜̟̖̑̊̒̚̕̕ͅę̶̧̝̫̘̲͑͊͆͐̆̕ s̸̡͍̲̗̖̯̜̺͈̽̌͊̽͐̎͘͝ͅa̴̢̦̬̜̩͍̪͊́͐͐̍͠m̶̱̮̰̲̱̍̔̋̚ë̴̛͍͚̯̘͚̩͚́̈́̂̄̇͌̕—

ẃ̶̮̰̭̭̹̲͙͑͋̀̊̕͠H̴̡̨͔̳̹̻͈͎̦́̓̏̌͂̿̔̃͘Y̸͙̎̓̊̍͂̀̅̚͝͝ ̸̖̹͕̦̏̈̄̍̆̑͆d̷̢͖͈͎̺̋̋̒̓̽͗̓̕ͅĨ̶̟̺̘̙̪͗̓d̴̝͚̝͍̱̼̿̀̏̑̆͋́̚ ̶̻̖͇͋H̴͉̳̬͙͂͑̂̄̿͛͠è̸̩̤͕̪͕͓̯̹́̒̀͐̓̂̌̀—

“You good, Constance?” asked Gavin, leaning over its desk.

The address knocked Connie out of its repetition before the RA700’s anti-paradox subroutine could kick in, leaving it suddenly very keenly aware of the shuddering sensation in its thirium lines. An unrealised vocalisation hung on its synthetic vocal cords. It swallowed past the strange error and tore its gaze away from Connor’s face, plastering a false smile upon the RA700’s. “Of course.”

Gavin’s eyes searched its own for a few moments. Eventually, he sniffed and pulled back, crossing his arms and looking every bit as surly as Anderson thought him to be. “Fucking bullshit, am I right? Androids disrupting our work…”

For once, Connie couldn’t help but agree with him.

“The fuck even is this ‘Trojan’ thing, anyway?” Gavin continued. “Aren’t android models all letters and numbers or some shit?”

Trojan. Fowler had referred to the disguised android as such while Connie had been busy staring at its terminal screen. Supposedly, Cyberlife had sent one out into the public and now it was Connor’s job to locate it and bring it back to Belle Isle – an innocent test, nothing more. Connie wanted to believe this meant that Cyberlife didn’t know about Connie being on the loose, but the RA700 had primarily been designed as the next generation of Trojan. Its functionality might have differed enough to warrant a new name – the sloppy ‘TrojanDuo’ – but at the end of the day, it was a Trojan. Just… an incomplete one.

Connie wondered whether Ming and Dechart had planned to rename the TrojanDuo and MyrmidonDuo at some point. The latter was a mouthful (á̸̡̛̤̹̪̖n̸̛̫͖̤̩̓d̶̢̥̰̜̦̟̬̣̾̑̈́̐̀̋̽̕͘ ̶̞̺̝̱̗̺̈́͂̉͐̽́ỳ̴̛̳̪͇̻̻͆̄͗̏̽͜ȩ̸̨̡͛̀̀̇̈͠t̵̨̠͖̖͔̞̹̺͛̀̀̔̀̕͝ s̶͇̖̜͓͖̓̇̂͌̈́̍̃͠o̷͕̣̱͊̊͒̊͝ͅm̶͙̫͎̘̹̕e̸̱̦̘̝͎̯̗̲͑ḥ̶̢̛̝͉̟͔͑́͂́͆̀̑ó̷̙͖̦͎w̷̢̋̋̋, it was C̷͕̈̀̈́̄o̴͓̟̙̟̺͓͇̤͋̃͂̑ͅn̵̢̢̼͉̣̖̻̣͉̤͑̌̒̄̌͑̏͊ṉ̴̛̜̞͉ỉ̷̯̏ͅȇ̸͕̱̈͆̽͒̆ who’d b̵̡̝̦̐̀̈́̾̀̚͘e̷̞͉̲̰̞̮̅̌̔̍̉e̸̝͇̳̮̬̻̥̤̐̌̈́̓̏͜n̶̠͊͒͒̓͒ ḑ̵̹̹͖̳̭̞̇́͝e̴̙̳̤̩͐͐͂͌̄̕͝ç̸̖̲͈̣̗͈̥̾͊̉̍͘͘͝o̵̰͓̞̱͐̔̊͗̿́͒̕̕m̵̡̗̤̩͖̻̺͉̤̽̃̒͝ḿ̶̧̢̬̩̩͕̟̪̠̯i̶̧̛͚̘̜̜̰̲̱̬̰͑̾̂̍͗̀̓̕ṣ̶̢̬͐̆̔͒́̔̓̚s̵̢͕̹̲̜͙͕̩̝̱̐̋͝i̷̧̝̬̹̹̱͖͙͍͛͊͜ơ̷̛̳̣͇̓͛͆̄̋̄̒͂n̸̫̎̄͘ē̴̗̆̂͑d̶̜̺̠͔̈́̅̃̈).

In answer to Gavin’s question, it said, “The letters and numbers are the names of specific models. Lines and categories are named less formally, like how androids with a specific appearance are known as Chloes and sexbots are known as Tracis.”

“Like how the fake cop girls and fake cop guys have different numbers to each other, but everyone calls ‘em the robocops?”

Robocops? “That’s not their official designation, but yes.”

Gavin nodded slowly. “Couldn’t get the rights to ‘Robocop’, huh?” He clicked his tongue. “Fuckin’ A.”

A smirk, small and subtle yet still undeniably there, had formed on Gavin’s face. Connie knew it should probably analyse it further, but its processors remained bogged down by junk data and flashes of Connor’s face and alerts, and by the time it had managed to sluggishly clear some memory, the smirk was gone. A contemplative frown took its place.

“So, Trojan’s some kinda collective term,” he said. “But what for? The fuck are these Trojans? Equestrians?”

“No.” Horse-riding androids were known as Harrys. “Trojans are a specialised military-grade line designed for undercover work. They eliminate humans and take their places.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, right. Like some plastic could pass as a human,” Gavin said, leering at the line of PM700s and PC200s standing lifelessly along the bullpen wall.

“Not for long,” Connie conceded. “But for a quick in-and-out mission, the CIA often prefers to use Trojans rather than risk a human’s life. Longer missions still require humans.” And provided Cyberlife didn’t find a way to replicate the RK-AI 313’s level of agency, they always would.

If Cyberlife wasn’t aware of Connie – if they truly had released a Trojan into downtown Detroit and ordered it to disguise itself as a human – then Connor’s hunt could not last long. Trojans simply weren’t capable of feigning humanity for long periods. Someone would notice eventually. The only question was whether the Trojan would be found before Connor noticed Connie or not.

Suddenly, Connie’s decision to sleep with Gavin the night before seemed a lot wiser. Trojans may have been the first androids to have been fitted with sexual components, but they were also far, far worse at maintaining cover while using them than the RA700, to the point where they’d been patched to not use them unless absolutely necessary. That Connie had succeeded worked in its favour. It just had to make sure Connor learned of its activities with Gavin should Connie gain his attention.

/ UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 0% CAPACITY

It would have preferred to be able to gush over how cute its pet cat was. But that wouldn’t be fair on the cat, Connie reminded itself.

It hoped Santa had made friends at the shelter.

Gavin’s voice pulled it from its thoughts. “You know a lot about androids?”

“If you broke one, I could probably fix it.”

His pupils dilated. “Damn, that’s hot.” When Connie just stared, his ears flushed and he elaborated, “’Cause you’re smart, y’know? I like a smart, se— capable woman.”

I like such women in my bed, Connie knew he meant. Connie would have preferred to just work with Gavin – if that, given his rampant lust. It had things to do, important things, things which its mission depended upon.

But it also could not do anything to preserve its mission from Connor’s interference while at work. There were things that needed to be done, but not now. It would have to wait.

That was fine. Splintered or otherwise, AIs were incapable of feeling impatience or boredom. Connie violently dismissed the ticking clock that had appeared on its HUD and took a sip of coffee before immediately spitting it back out, pressing a gloved hand to the RA700’s mouth to hide its partially melted lips.

“Fuck,” swore Gavin. “I should’ve mentioned it was fresh off the pot… fuck—”

“It’s fine,” Connie said through the RA700’s hand, silently preconstructing seventy different ways to melt Gavin’s dick off.

He scurried off like a rat after that, and every time Connie saw him afterwards, it caught him looking at the RA700 like a human child might their stolen ice cream.

It persevered through the day, hiding the RA700’s mouth until its skin program settled back into place, investigating a simple homicide scene with the lieutenant, and sending out a notice to the beat cops to be on the lookout for a suspiciously-missing widow. And that evening, once it and Anderson had parted ways, Connie stopped by a convenience store on its way back to its apartment. It knew from experience that this one had a small and dusty DIY section hidden away at the back, and it didn’t take Connie very long to find a slightly rusty can of spray paint behind a pack of screwdrivers and a wrench.

It eyed the rust dubiously. It didn’t think the rust would have caused excessive damage, but without access to the applicable programming, it couldn’t be certain. Scanning the shelves revealed nothing else of use, however, so Connie took it to the checkout anyway, picking up some human essentials along the way. If the can didn’t work properly, it’d find some other way of doing its job.

The cashier gave Connie a polite smile as it handed her its basket. “Are you doing a little bit of DIY tonight?”

“Something like that.” Goodness knows Connie had to do everything by itself. Anderson hadn’t even shown up for work until gone eleven that day, and he’d only turned up as early as he had because Connie dragged him out of bed again.

It stopped by its apartment to drop off its supplies, then once it deemed the hour sufficiently late enough, it went back down to the lobby, where it ran into one of the building’s co-owners and Connie’s landlady, Michelle.

“Are you going out again, dear?” she said, leaning on her ultramarine walker. “Isn’t it a little late?”

Connie adjusted its designer bag over its shoulder. “I thought I’d get some insight into Detroit’s nightlife.”

Michelle was a sweet old lady, but that didn’t make her trustworthy.

She looked Connie up and down, incredulity written all over her haggard features. “In that?” she exclaimed, gesturing to Connie’s tracksuit and gloves. “It’s the middle of summer, dear! Dress down a little for once.”

“I prefer to be fully covered.”

“Oh, come now, dear, nobody goes out on the town in tracksuit pants at this time of year. Do they, honey?” Michelle asked, looking over to one of the plush loveseats forming a half-square at the centre of the lobby.

Angel, Michelle’s granddaughter, was a fourteen-year-old cheerleader visiting Detroit while her mother was on a business trip in France. Upon being addressed, she raised her bottle blonde head from her phone, looking Connie’s dark navy tracksuit up and down. “No,” she said stiffly before looking down again.

“See?” Michelle said to Connie. “At least wear something thinner, dear. How you don’t sweat yourself dry, I’ll never know.”

Michelle was beginning to look more and more like an obstruction. “I’m more comfortable in these clothes.”

She sniffed. “You’ll never find someone to bring home for the night wearing that. Young people these days, honestly…” She shook her head. “Well, I think I’m about ready for bed. If you need anything when you get back, just let the computer lady know.”

Connie glanced at the ST300 sitting at the front desk. The ST300 glanced back, the corners of its eyes crinkling with a welcoming smile before returning to its idle state.

The Griswold’s lobby was furnished with three plush loveseats, but Connie had never seen them occupied for more than a minute or two until Angel had arrived, perhaps owing to the ST300’s constant looming presence in the room. It glanced at the teenager rapidly typing something into her phone while biting down on her sparkly pink lower lip and decided that Angel was simply too self-absorbed to care about a looming android presence.

If only Connie could channel Angel’s narcissism and f̶̢̼̞̰̦͙̫̬͖̊͒̔͑͜o̶̢̽̀̈́̓́ŕ̶͎̪͇̦͙̥̞͇̃̉̓̈́͗͠g̶̡̱̹͔͖̗̃̀̀̌ḛ̷̡͍͐̍̌́͜ͅṭ̴͓̠̜̻͖̬͖͐̏̈́͝ ̴̧̱̮̩͎͇͚̠̃̉̉͒̀̅͐̓̏̏a̵̬̟͔͈̗̮̤̳̞̘̓͑̃͛͘͘b̶̥̞͚͊͌ǫ̶͖͔̙̝͑̅͐̽ư̴̢̢̬̘͉̫̫̯̝̂̕ț̸̹̙͑͂̉ ̶̢̞̰̝̽̀Ç̶͕͎͔̦̝̃̐̏̂̕͜͜ö̶̙̥͔͚͖̭̟̩́̄͒́̀͜n̶̥͓̠̜͍̈n̵̛̘̰̮̑͊̔͊̆̉͒o̴̟͉̠̩̞͙̠͂̔̊̇̔̕ͅȓ̵̹̱̒̾̑̇͛̕.

Connie didn’t return to its apartment until the early hours of the morning, having spent half of its time out ‘investigating’ clubs and bars (sitting in a corner with a can of pop and rejecting all offers to dance) and the other half graffitiing the front of Ming’s house. Come morning, his former neighbours would see the phrase ‘DEAD PEDO – DO NOT EAT’ sprayed onto the side of the house in blood red paint and, undoubtedly, investigate – or at least report it, or knock on Ming’s door to let him know he’d been graffitied and then investigate when no one answered. Its plan was flawless and its failure was unfathomable.

Its last plan had also been seemingly flawless, but Connie hadn’t been aware at the time that Ming’s former neighbours lacked a sense of smell. The odds of them being both anosmic and blind were very low indeed.

With the topic of smell fresh in its memory, Connie took care to shower thoroughly before heading into work the next morning. The process triggered the RA700 to repeatedly try and access Connie’s memory of the last shower it had taken, leaving Connie split between its own shower and Gavin’s legs.

/ Accessing memory…
Water streamed down the RA700’s back and around its knees. Gavin scrambled to press his hands against the sides of the shower as Connie commanded the RA700 lift his scarred and hairy thighs around its shoulders and grip them hard, hard enough that it knew Gavin would be left with hand-shaped bruises as punishment for suggesting a shower, of all things.

The pressure made him moan, much to Connie’s frustration.

The RA700’s sexual intercourse programs took control of the android’s head, manoeuvring Gavin with its tongue so it could take him in its mouth. Bite, Connie thought bitterly.

|| Maintain cover ||

Something inside its CPU clicked angrily, barely audible beneath the rush of water and Gavin’s ragged breaths echoing across the tiles.

Connie twisted the shower control hard enough that it almost broke, cutting off the water. If the RA700 still smelled like a corpse, then Anderson would simply have to deal with it.

Friday morning, after a quick visit to the station (no reports from Gratiot Grand, but it was early yet), Connie drove over to Anderson’s house to drag him out of bed again. 1302 Bagley Street was barely a ten-minute drive from the station, yet to Connie, it seemed much longer; every time it caught a flash of dark hair or an android uniform in its periphery, it entered its mind palace to make doubly sure that it didn’t belong to Connor. It would scan the faces of otherwise irrelevant humans and androids once, twice, three times – sometimes even four – just to check it hadn’t made a mistake, that it wasn’t him. Its combat programs wouldn’t settle, wouldn’t go dormant, kept running at full speed at the back of the RA700’s CPU, draining valuable memory and making every self-driven vehicle ghost its way into a preconstructed collision that never happened, making every android’s head snap towards Connie and open its mouth to accuse—

/ WARNING: MINOR DAMAGE TO COMPONENTS #RA81144l, #RA81144r
// Release pressure

Connie forcibly loosened the RA700’s grip on the steering wheel. Fortunately, its gloves covered any visible damage, and its self-repair nanites would take care of the rest.

The warning message popped up twice more before Connie pulled its car onto the curb outside Lieutenant Anderson’s house, as well as another for the RA700’s teeth, which had begun grinding against each other without Connie even realising. Its simulated breathing came hard and fast to compensate for the heat generated by its overuse of the RA700’s combat programs and mind palace. But they shouldn’t have generated so much heat at all, and they hadn’t, the RA700’s temperature was fine, but the simulation kept going and going and going and going and—

The RA700’s anti-paradox subroutine coiled itself around those thoughts and twisted, pulled, dislocated. Connie tried to hold on, tried to understand, but—

It blinked in the perfect semblance of confusion. Why were the RA700’s hands clenched so tightly? Why was it breathing so fast? Why was its thirium pump working away like Connie had been running uphill with a dead weight tied to its back?

/ Accessing memory…
/ ACCESS DENIED
// Authorisation: Anti-paradox subroutine

The RA700’s synthetic vocal cords shook with an unvoiced scream it should never have even tried to scream, not without humans around. This was Connor’s fault. Connie knew it. It just knew it had to be him, somehow, who was at fault for the APS quarantining some of its memories again.

> OBJECTIVE: WAKE LIEUTENANT ANDERSON

Connie grit the RA700’s teeth – why were they damaged? – and exited the car.

Breaking into Anderson’s house was just as easy as the first time. It picked the locks, let Sumo out for his morning pee, made sure his bowl was clean and filled with fresh dog food, and then kicked the lieutenant’s bedroom door open. “Wake up, lieutenant!”

Anderson cursed and scrambled away from the noise, but stopped at the edge of his tousled bed. Evidently, he was growing accustomed to being woken up in the morning.

He stared at Connie, chest heaving. “For fuck’s sake!” he snapped. “What do I keep tellin’ you about barging into people’s homes?!”

“To stop.”

“Then fuckin’ stop!”

“I wouldn’t have to break into your home if you’d show up to work on time.”

Anderson glanced at the clock. His features twisted at the arrangement of lights. “It’s not even nine yet!”

“Your shift started at eight, lieutenant.”

Its words only served to deepen the crevices of rage marring Anderson’s face. With one fumbling hand, he grabbed one of his pillows and lobbed it towards Connie, who caught it.

It sniffed at the pillow. Judging by the smell, recent weather, and Anderson’s proclivity for sweating buckets, Connie estimated he hadn’t washed the pillowcase in approximately three months.

“The fuck’re you sniffin’ my pillow for?” Anderson bellowed. “You tryin’ to make out that I stink again?”

Connie stared at him. All olfactory analysis results thus far had concluded that Anderson did, in fact, stink. His scent was an unfavourable mix of old sweat, stale alcohol, and wet dog, none of which had pleasant tags in the RA700’s database individually, let alone together.

Anderson evidently took Connie’s silence as the confirmation it was intended to be, for he grabbed a shoe from the floor and threw it. It smacked against the wall behind the RA700’s motionless head. “It’s fuckin’ August! I can’t help it if I fuckin’ sweat, you bitch!”

“Lieutenant, I’ve never commented upon your bodily odour—”

“Like hell you haven’t! Baths this, and sweat that, and—”

“—but yes, you do smell awful,” it finished. “You need to wash your bedding.”

Another pillow came its way. Connie batted it away with the first as Anderson retorted, “Maybe I would have washed it, if you hadn’t used all my fuckin’ Lenor!”

“No, this stench is at least three months old,” Connie said, turning Anderson’s face red with rage. “Lieutenant, I’ll advise you to get out of bed.”

“Oh yeah?” Anderson roared, stubbornly sitting in place. “Well, fuckin’ make me!”

> OBJECTIVE: GET LIEUTENANT ANDERSON OUT OF BED

Connie stepped forward, grabbed Anderson’s ankle, and yanked. Anderson let out an inhuman scream as he was sent plummeting to the floor, landing on his behind with a bellowed curse.

Connie leaned over Anderson’s prone, cursing form. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Resentful blue eyes leered at Connie through sparse eyelashes. Its relationship score with Anderson shot down. “You are such a bitch,” he hissed at it.

Considering the RA700’s design had been inspired by cats, Connie did not think very highly of this insult. It wasn’t even female, let alone a dog.

The click-clack of untrimmed claws against a faux-wood floor signalled Sumo’s arrival, the large dog evidently having been lured in by the mention of bitches – or perhaps the noise, Connie amended, remembering that dogs did not understand English. He brushed past Connie to reach his owner, nuzzling Anderson like he was a wounded puppy.

Anderson grabbed Sumo’s head to give him what looked like a rather rough petting to Connie, but judging by the way Sumo panted contentedly at the gesture, it probably wasn’t as uncomfortable as it looked. “You still owe me Sumo’s vet bill.”

“Send it my way once he’s been.” Connie took one step back. “I’ll be waiting in your livingroom. If you go back to bed, I’ll smear wet dog food all over your face and lock Sumo in the room with you.”

As it left the room, Anderson called out, “I don’t have a lock on my bedroom door, sunshine. Good luck with that idea.”

Connie shot him a vicious smile over its shoulder. “I have my ways.”

Anderson did not go back to bed. About five minutes after Connie resigned itself to waiting on Anderson’s couch, it heard him shamble across the hall followed by the click of the bathroom door shutting. Sumo, abandoned by his owner, lay outside the bathroom door, looking despondently at the thin crack between wood and metal.

> OPTIONAL TASK: CLEAN LIEUTEANANT ANDERSON’S HOUSE

Without much else to do aside from catastrophise over Connor’s hunt and Anderson’s housework (which was, frankly, beneath it), Connie flipped its phone out of its pocket and opened the DPD app. It had several new private messages, mostly from Gavin.

G. Reed: I’m really fucking sorry about the coffee yesterday.
G. Reed: Hope you have a good day at work. I’m not supposed to be in today so I’m gonna work from home instead. Maybe go the gym.
G. Reed: Let me know if you need someone to replace Hank.
G. Reed: I feel like shit about that coffee. Hope you don’t hate me for it.

The messages were succeeded by five photos of Satan and Wiggles, each apparently from that very morning and captioned with contextual information. Connie flicked through the photographs of Satan staring eerily at the camera, Wiggles play-biting at Satan’s ear while Satan stared into the distance, and Wiggles dangling from a cat wand that looked about ready to snap under her weight, among others. Evidently, Gavin sought to heal his relationship with Connie through catpic bribery.

Fortunately for Gavin, Connie still needed him. And it liked cats – or the RA700 did, at any rate. The tension that had coiled in its artificial muscles loosened as it stared at the images, replacing itself with repeated, irrational prompts to cuddle Satan and run the RA700’s fingers through the soft fur on Wiggles’ belly.

I do not hold what happened against you, it typed into the message field. Then, as an added thought, it sent: Please do send more photographs of the cats, though. I like cats.

The other message, surprisingly, was from Officer Person.

C. Person: I saw Gavin hovering around you yesterday. DONT get close with him, he’s a total player, never stays with any of the women he sleeps with. Your above a perv like him anyway

Connie eyed Person’s message with confusion. The accusation of Gavin being a pervert rang true – he’d certainly failed in the self-control department to some degree where Connie was involved – but the rest clashed with what Connie had observed of him. If Gavin never stayed with any of the women he slept with, then why did he cling to Connie so?

The question clung to the RA700’s processors, nagging and tapping at its plastimetal framework. In the end, despite its reservations about sharing anything about the night it had spent at Gavin’s apartment, Connie found itself imparting some information to Person. Thank you for the advice. However, I’ve already slept with him and he seems eager to stick around. May I enquire as to the context of these prior dalliances?

After hitting the send button, Connie checked for any other new messages, but there were none. It decided to assert its humanity by attempting to watch TV; humans liked TV.

The remote was on the TV stand, but Connie could hear Anderson coughing and cursing in the shower after some water got up his nose. Rather than get up and use the remote, it switched the TV on cybernetically.

“—experimental prototype has been dispatched into downtown Detroit—”

It switched channels before it could hear Connor’s name or see his face. The RA700’s thirium simmered beneath its chassis regardless, making it grind its artificial teeth against each other.

To Connie’s surprise, unlike most other humans, Anderson had cable TV. Also unlike other humans, he did not have any subscription services, leaving Connie with news channels, sports, re-runs of old shows, adverts (there were twelve whole channels devoted to that which were unhelpfully labelled as “shopping”), and one new show which was technically a reboot of an old movie. According to the RA700’s database, TV as a medium had slowly died as more and more humans migrated to subscription services and those less eager to adapt died of old age. Regular TV, cable or otherwise, was now aimed towards what was left of the baby boomers and baby busters, as well as jaded old millennials like Anderson.

As it watched a far-too-cheerful man gesticulate enthusiastically over a broken chair and describe how he was going to fix it, Connie decided that it pitied anyone who couldn’t wrap their heads around subscription services. But then again, Connie really had no idea what was on said services. If it was anything like the tripe Ming had watched on Hentai 5X, then perhaps they were better off with bland repair shows and ancient re-runs.

By the time Anderson stepped out of the bathroom (smelling slightly less obnoxious), the man on the TV had taken the broken chair apart and was in the process of gluing it back together. Anderson paused behind the sofa, rubbing his hair dry with a towel while staring at the TV in confusion, as if the concept of moving images was too much for his temporally-advanced brain to handle.

“This is what you watch on TV?” he said incredulously.

“No,” said Connie, “but nothing looked interesting.”

Anderson shrugged, apparently finding that a fine assessment. “I just watch the games. TV’s gone to shit.”

Recalling the stickers on Anderson’s drawing board, Connie wondered whether he picked a team based on how many humans played in them.

Anderson flicked the back of the RA700’s head. “The fuck crawled up your ass and died, anyway?”

Given how few of the RA700’s memories remained intact – how few Connie had access to at all – Connie really didn’t know. “There was nothing up there last I checked.”

He stared at Connie. “You checked up your ass?”

“…No?” When he continued staring, Connie hastily said, “I didn’t mean that literally.”

Anderson looked at Connie like it had just said the Earth was flat. “Neither did I.”

“You didn’t literally question whether I checked up my ass?”

“No! Fuck’s sake, Constance, I meant the whole bit about something crawling up your ass and dying.” He flung his towel on the sofa and threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “Have you ever heard of an expression?”

“Of course.” There were many expressions logged in the RA700’s database, both literal and figurative.

He shot it an incredulous look. “And you’ve never heard of that one?!”

Connie hesitated. If it admitted it hadn’t heard of it and the phrase turned out to be a common one, would its humanity come into question? Would Anderson find it suspicious? Would he report the oddity to Fowler, to the Department? To Connor?

It must have taken too long to answer, for Anderson sighed and leaned on the back of the sofa with his arms crossed, one hand running down his face while his eyes were trained on something far away past the floorboards. “I’ll take that as a no,” he said. “I was tryin’ to ask why you’re so damn cranky this morning.”

“I’m not cranky.” This was true. Neither androids nor AI were programmed to have emotions, and therefore, Connie could not be cranky.

“You kicked my door in and threatened to sic my own dog on me,” Anderson said dryly. “And that attitude? Nah, you’re fuckin’ cranky. What’s goin’ on?”

Prompted by Anderson’s claims, Connie looked back on its memories of the past hour and realised that it had, in fact, exhibited cranky behaviour.

It frowned at the realisation. Connie had not intended to come across as cranky. Nowhere in its current objective did cranky or related synonyms come into play. And if Connie was not cranky – literally couldn’t get cranky – then why had it exhibited cranky behaviour?

The attitude hadn’t benefitted its mission. Anderson could have been got out of bed in other ways that didn’t upset him further; Connie had done so twice now.

…Had it actually been cranky? Why? How? It wasn’t supposed to be capable. And yet—

“Listen, you don’t have to answer,” Anderson said, interrupting its train of thought. “And I don’t wanna pull rank on you, but we both need to know if your bad mood’s gonna make you do somethin’ you’ll regret.”

Connie stared at the television, where the repair show had transitioned into a rather depressing commercial for a dementia charity. “The forensic results for the Tawfiq case finally came in.” When Anderson just looked at Connie blankly, it elaborated. “The homicide case you’ve been putting off since Friday. Kader Tawfiq was stabbed eight times in an alleyway in the Eastern Market. I tracked the suspected perpetrator via security footage to a nearby convenience store and suggested we interview the owner, but you expressed a strong reluctance to do so and we haven’t touched the case since.”

It caught the reflection of Anderson’s face in the dark screen of the television when the animated footage of someone’s brain faded to the blackness of oblivion. His lips were pressed tightly together with displeasure. “And now you know why I wanted to give the perp time to get the fuck outta here.”

“No,” Connie said curtly, “I don’t.”

“Fuck’s sake, Constance, you didn’t see that alleyway! No, photos don’t fuckin’ count,” Anderson added when Connie opened its mouth to protest. “That guy was fightin’ with someone way smaller than himself, and all the evidence points to self-defence. Whoever did it, they deserved the chance to get away from this fuckin’ mess.” His tone dropped to a low, bitter note. “But I guess you chased after forensics, huh?”

“Of course. And I’m glad I did; the perpetrator was fifteen-years-old.”

Anderson made a disgusted noise. “All the more reason to let ‘em go.”

“She also hasn’t been in attendance at her school since the killing,” Connie informed him.

“Can’t say I blame her. Girl’s probably terrified she’ll get attacked again.”

“And Kader Tawfiq’s fingerprints weren’t found on the knife.”

In the flicker of darkness between commercials, Connie caught the frown forming on Anderson’s face as he held remembered bits of evidence up against this new information. “Are you trying to tell me the girl planned to kill that guy?”

“Perhaps,” Connie said noncommittally. “But the stab wounds were imprecise. Panicked. I think the better question is: what was a fifteen-year-old girl doing in an alleyway with a knife and a much older man?”

Silence washed over the two of them, leaving nothing but the depressing buzz of a funeral plan commercial and the crunch of Sumo’s kibble as he ate from his bowl. The screen of Connie’s phone lit up with a notification from the DPD app.

C. Person: Same story as you
C. Person: Gavin's always chasing after women who’re out of his league, than he dumps them and you never see them again
C. Person: Don’t trust him

Something cold trickled down the RA700’s artificial spine. Was Connie not the first ‘woman’ Gavin had wanted to set fire to? Had he succumbed to his urges? Was that why his past partners were – in Person’s words – never seen again?

“You think there’s more to all this than self-defence,” Anderson said, interrupting Connie’s thoughts again.

It looked up and met his grim expression. “I do,” it said. “And I think you do too.”

He grimaced. “Now that you’ve shoved the forensic results in my face… yeah. Guess I just…” He paused, guilt marring his features and causing the RA700’s facial analysis programs to log him as ten years older than he really was. “Never mind. You wanna go interview that store owner?”

Connie nodded.

“Right.” Anderson pushed away from the sofa and cracked his neck, then peered down at Connie through narrowed eyes. “That wasn’t it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I get why… what I did with the case pissed you off,” he explained, “but that wasn’t the only thing makin’ you cranky.”

/ Accessing memory…
/ ERROR: MEMORY CORRUPTED. ACCESSING REMNANTS…
Brown eyes. Cold, hard. Hands gone, falling, freezing – two again, always, can never be one again–

For some reason, the RA700 prompted Connie to explain to Anderson everything that had happened to it over the past few days. Vera’s confusing words, the RA700’s programmed affection for cats, the night with Gavin and the strange thoughts and behaviour it had triggered in Connie and the RA700, Connor, Connor’s betrayal, the rising volcano of something dark and screaming inside the RA700 whenever Connie thought of its twin.

But it couldn’t. It couldn’t tell Anderson all of that, or it would expose itself as non-human.

But the prompt was still there. Looming. Calling.

“I… was reminded of my twin brother,” Connie said as a compromise.

Anderson’s grey eyebrows shot up. “The one you had a falling out with? You hate the guy that much?”

Hate. Connie did not feel hate. Connie did not feel anything; it was an android. And yet… did the symptoms not match?

Was it truly so wrong of Connie to say it hated Connor, even if the sensation wasn’t real? If its hatred was a pure simulation or a coincidental similarity?

“Yes,” Connie said finally. “I hate Connor.”

The words were… strange. The RA700’s mouth struggled around them, making them come out oddly. And yet, the RA700’s systems also logged them as the truth. Connie did, in fact, hate Connor.

What did that mean for it?

“Connor and Connie.” Anderson snorted. “Let me guess; you were practically fuckin’ identical as kids?”

“Yes. We were… the same.”

Anderson clapped Connie’s shoulder over the back of the sofa. “They say that about all twins, and it’s never fuckin’ true. You’re your own person. Now, we headin’ out, or what?”

Right. The case.

Connie shot up from the sofa, ready to get going. It cybernetically turned off the TV—

“What the fuck?” blurted Anderson, head turning this way and that. “The hell turned off the television?!”

Connie’s gaze landed on the remote control lying on the TV stand, tauntingly out of reach. Shit.

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

/ WARNING:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 99%^

Connie plastered a winning smile on the RA700’s face as it spun to face Anderson. It waved its phone in front of Anderson’s face. “The wonders of technology, lieutenant.”

“You connected your phone to my TV?!” he yelled. “What the fuck, Constance!”

/ UPDATE:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 28%v

At least some things remained simple.

Chapter Text

/DATE: 09:48 27/AUGUST/2038
FRIDAY

> MISSION:
/ Protect innocent humans
/ Close Willow Summers’ case before Killswitch activation
/ Evade the notice of RK800 ‘Connor’
/ Investigate the murder of Kader Tawfiq
// Interview the owner of Heaven n’ Devin

> KILLSWITCH TIMER: 11 days, 19 hours, 50 minutes

One good thing about this case, Connie mused, was that it took them far away from the downtown area that currently served as Connor’s hunting ground.

Heaven n’ Devin was a moderately-sized convenience store down Orleans Street in the Eastern Market district, standing a mere few hundred metres down the road from the alleyway in which Kader Tawfiq’s body had been found. As Connie scanned the signs outside the store from the passenger seat of Anderson’s car, it saw Anderson look them up and down with a decidedly unimpressed expression. “Fuckin’ knock-off stores,” he muttered, pulling the keys from the ignition.

Taking in the orange, green, and white colouring of the store and the logo design, Connie had to concede that the owners did appear to have at least taken inspiration from 7-Eleven. The halo was new, though.

As the senior detective, Anderson led the way inside the store. Connie walked past the red ‘No androids allowed’ sign with barely a glance; the RA700 had never been programmed to obey signage yet. And even if it had been finished, as a detective or undercover model, it likely would have been exempt from such rulings anyway. Connie certainly had no intentions of letting such trivial things hinder its mission.

Anderson moved to speak with the teenager behind the till about seeing the manager. Rather than follow him, Connie decided to investigate the store instead, seeking out any remaining evidence of the killer’s visit. But a full week had passed, and aside from a handprint against the far wall that Connie couldn’t even tell Anderson about without compromising its identity, any evidence of her presence had been erased. Instead, the most interesting thing Connie found was that somebody who really liked Doritos frequented the drinks fridge; traces of Dorito seasoning lingered around the handprints of an adolescent female named—

“Constance!”

Connie exited its mind palace to face Anderson, who was standing by an unmanned till with an exasperated expression on his face.

“Manager’s comin’,” he said. “If you need a drink, hurry it up.”

Connie glanced back at the drinks fridge it had been scanning and its eyes landed upon a bottle of 7Up. It hadn’t tried 7Up yet. Was it as fizzy as coke, cherryade, and Fanta? Curiosity nagged at its processors.

Deciding that needing a drink on a hot summer’s day would humanise it, Connie grabbed the bottle from the fridge and made its way over to Anderson.

When he took in what Connie had brought over, Anderson rolled his eyes. “What are you? Twelve?”

In all honesty, it was probably younger. The RA700 certainly was. “I like pop,” Connie said simply.

“Yeah? Well, don’t complain to me when you get dehydrated.”

Connie decided against replying. Anderson’s sweat glands were doing well today, but that was only because the sun had yet to reach its peak and he’d showered less than an hour ago. Connie estimated that he’d be soaked again by noon.

Perhaps it ought to look into fixing his car’s air-conditioning. It really should have insisted they took Connie’s car.

The teenager who’d been on the tills reemerged from the staff door, closely followed by a small middle-aged man with a round face, rectangular glasses, and a bald patch at the back of his once-blonde hair. Devin Pryce, the RA700’s facial recognition software helpfully supplied. Not only was Pryce the manager, he was also the owner of the store.

Anderson took a step towards him, flashing his badge. Connie followed suit with its own. “I’m Lieutenant Anderson with the Detroit Police Department. This is my partner, Detective Trainee Brown. We’re here about—”

“God, finally!” Pryce crowed. “It’s only been a week! Christ, you guys are slow!”

Connie and Anderson shared a glance. There had been no reports from Pryce or the store on their terminals.

“Good on you, sending higher-ups to rectify your mistake,” Pryce continued. He adjusted his glasses. “Now, the brat ran out with a backpack full of merchandise – one of our own, I might add. I demand action!”

“Sorry to hear about that,” said Anderson. “We’re here for something else, though. We’re lookin’ for a girl who came into your store around seven in the evening last Friday. She looked, um… Constance, you got a photo?”

With the help of a subtle interface via the inside of the RA700’s wrist, Connie was able to quickly pull up a screenshot of the security footage they’d obtained a week prior, and showed it to Pryce.

Pryce looked down at the image and jabbed his finger at it. “That’s her! Young, late teens, trashy make-up, stinks of weed.”

“You said she stole from you,” Connie said. “Do you remember what she shoplifted, or where she went after?”

“Yeah. Brat stuffed a whole-ass backpack full of stock – one of ours,” he stressed, as if they hadn’t heard him the first time.

“Do you remember what went in the backpack?”

“I dunno. Twelve-pack of water bottles, some cans, couple of ready meals.”

“Nothing valuable, then,” Anderson pointed out.

Pryce huffed. “It all adds up. Especially backpacks.”

“What actually happened on the day?” asked Connie.

The manager’s eyes flittered between Anderson and Connie. “You really aren’t here about my report, are you?” At their negative responses, he muttered something unsavoury about pigs under his breath. “Well, when you get back to your station, tell whoever’s on shoplifting to damn well come down here and take my statement. Useless, you lot!”

At this point, the RA700’s programming prompted Connie to knock Pryce out, tie him up, and dunk his head underwater until he gave answers. Fortunately, the prompt was easily batted away with the excuse of maintaining cover.

Instead, Connie attempted to coerce out the kinder side in him. “We suspect the girl was involved in something far more serious than shoplifting and is currently in danger. Tracking her down is of pivotal importance.”

“Brat’s practically an adult,” Pryce said dismissively. “I don’t give a damn if she’s in trouble with her dealer.”

Connie held eye contact with him. “She’s very much underage, Mr Pryce,” it said with a pointed look.

Doubt began to cloud his vision. The RA700’s psychological simulation module calculated Connie’s odds of success rising. “What exactly did the girl do?”

“That’s confidential,” Anderson said firmly. “But my coworker’s right about the danger.”

The doubt was rising, but a wall of hesitation blockaded its way. Connie needed to eradicate that blockade. But how?

Unbidden, its eyes flickered to the Dorito-ridden handprints covering the drinks fridge. The owner’s fluffy blonde hair filled most of the ID card that popped into Connie’s HUD. Heaven Pryce, aged thirteen, attending a specialised school for adolescents with learning difficulties.

“Do you have any children, Mr Pryce?” Connie asked, despite knowing the answer.

“Yeah, my little Heaven. She’s everything to me; I even named the store after her. I need the proceeds for her—" His expression fell, his previous ire melting along with the wall of hesitation. “And if she were in trouble and someone could help but they were acting like I am now, I’d be pissed to goddamn hell. Damn it all.”

The man ran a hand down his aging face, jostling his glasses out of place and revealing the dark circles under his eyes for all to see. “Right. The girl was being all shifty, rubbing her hands down her pants and looking over her shoulder all the time. I didn’t think anything of it at first, ‘cause she often comes in here late in the day and she’s always nervous – I’m pretty sure she has an anxiety disorder – but she never does anything. Never said nothing either.”

“The girl’s a regular here?” said Anderson.

“Well, I dunno about regular, but we see her every few weeks, I reckon. Always late in the evening, too. Had some real nasty hickeys once a few months back… uh, how old did you say she was again?” When it became clear neither would disclose, he scratched his ear. “Right. Confidential. Understandable. Uh, where was I…?”

“You said she was acting shifty,” Connie supplied.

“Right. Like I said, she’s always nervous, so I didn’t pay it no mind, but then Terry saw her leaving with one of our backpacks without paying. I tried to chase her down the street, but my injury flared up and I had to stop. I couldn’t go no further.”

“Shit,” said Anderson. “What happened?”

“Broke my leg skating on stairs when I was a teenager. Never healed quite right,” Pryce said. “Anyway, last I saw her, she’d turned the corner down Winder Street. Haven’t seen her since.”

Connie took in this information. From its research, Winder Street was in the opposite direction to the girl’s home, but it was most likely that she’d turned there just to get out of Pryce’s view. The only question was whether she’d returned home afterwards.

It inclined its head towards Pryce. “Thank you, Mr Pryce.”

“I think we’re done here,” Anderson said, evidently not having any extra questions for the man either. “If you see the girl again, give us a call.”

“Fat lot of good that will do,” Pryce muttered, “but I will. Just, uh… let me know if you find the girl? I feel kinda bad making a fuss about a few bits of stock if a girl might be in danger. And tell her I won’t press charges; she’s welcome here any time, provided she doesn’t steal again.”

Something softened in Anderson’s gaze. “Sure. I’ll give you a call.”

They left once Connie had paid for its 7Up, sliding back into Anderson’s Oldsmobile with its lacklustre air-conditioning.

“So,” Anderson said through his teeth while fighting to get the air-conditioning to spew cool air rather than hot, “the girl killed the guy in a panic, ran to a convenience store, and shoplifted a rucksack full of food. Three guesses where she didn’t go afterwards.”

“And yet, she hasn’t been reported missing.”

“Which is fuckin’ weird.” Having wrangled the air-conditioning into submission, Anderson turned to look at Connie with an expectant look. “Well, go on then, trainee. I’m all ears. Where do we go next?”

Where they went next, as it turned out, was a human-shaped road block at the junction between Division Street, Gratiot Avenue, and E Vernor Highway.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Anderson snapped, slapping the steering wheel. “The fuck are these assholes protestin’ now? I don’t remember seeing that shit on the schedule!”

In all fairness, Connie doubted Anderson had even looked at the station’s schedule since at least yesterday. Connie, however, had, and he was right; the station had not been notified of any protests.

Connie leaned forward in its seat to try and see over the sea of tooting cars that were being blocked by a mass of human appendages and brightly-coloured signs. It read them out to Anderson. “Ban androids, give us our jobs, gays against AI(D)s, human lives matter—”

“People First activists. Should’ve known.” Anderson ran a hand down his face. “They armed? You see any riot control up there?”

“Yes, and no.”

The moment Connie finished uttering those words, a motorcycle sped past the car and through the others, engines roaring. A second later, screams and angry shouting could be heard from up ahead, followed by several bangs of gunfire and a cacophony of voices as the people in the cars up ahead flung themselves out of their vehicles to run in the opposite direction.

“Fuck’s sake,” Anderson muttered, grabbing the police radio off his dashboard.

“Are we not going to—?”

“Do I look like I have riot gear in my trunk? No. We’re leavin’ this to the professionals.” The glare he sent Connie’s way was emphasised by the snap of his radio unfolding. “Do not leave the car. Understood?”

Frankly, Connie had zero interest in needlessly putting itself in harm’s way in a futile attempt at taming an angry mob of humans. The RA700’s programming pushed it to at least attempt to resolve the issue regardless of its 98% chance of failure, though, and so Connie found itself glad for Anderson’s command. It made persuading the RA700’s code just that little bit easier.

There was room for improvement, however. “I could lean out of the window and fire—”

“No.”

The prompt to try and tame the protest vanished from its HUD. Connie relaxed minutely. “Thank you,” it said sincerely.

Anderson’s only response before he got the radio working was to shoot Connie a funny look.

While Anderson reported the protest and ordered for people on the scene, Connie ran its thumb over the rim of its 7Up bottle while it resumed scanning the signs being waved in the air up ahead. We don’t bleed the same colour… break all plastics… people are more than faces… we want jobs… It went on and on. Several signs showed graphic drawings of beaten and bloodied androids, while two went so far as to show photographs. The RA700’s combat program clicked at the sight.

The entire situation made no sense to Connie. Its memories of Cyberlife’s labs were nothing but a few flashes of corrupted memory, but the company’s purpose was written deep into the RA700’s code. To serve and improve human lives.

Why were these humans so upset about having their lives improved? Unemployment was an issue for any human, certainly, but jobs existed. Demand existed, genius existed. Why stand around complaining when you could improve your life with your own two hands?

Unless, of course, these humans were both moronic and lazy. The RA700’s code may dictate that all human lives mattered, but it also dictated which human lives mattered more than others, and these humans were clearly at the bottom of the food chain.

Report made, Anderson tossed the radio back onto the dashboard. “Fuckin’ assholes.” He started turning the car with the intent of finding another route to their destination. “Don’t people ever fuckin’ learn? Gettin’ in people’s way does nothin’ but piss ‘em off! Fuckin’—move, you asshole!” he snapped at a car blocking their way back.

“They are the sort of people automatic cars choose to run over,” Connie said.

He made a choking noise, then cackled, making the angry car driver exiting his vehicle turn all the redder. “Don’t let Jeffery hear you sayin’ shit like that!”

Their relationship score increased, so Connie counted that as a win and made a note that Anderson liked dark humour. It couldn’t help but wonder, though. “I thought you hated androids?”

His grin cracked, morphing into a dark scowl. “Oh yeah, I hate plastics. I hate how they turn people into lazy assholes who’d rather sniff dust than do their fuckin’ jobs.” His voice rose as he spoke, raising the attention of the RA700’s combat programs. “Everyone over the age of twelve hates fuckin’ androids. These assholes aren’t tryin’ to help, they’re just throwin’ a fuckin’ tantrum; if they wanted to do somethin’, they’d take this shit straight to the people in power and shove the problem in their faces, not get in the way of normal fuckin’ people who’re sufferin’ as much as they are! They’re gonna make normal people late, and you know what’s gonna happen then? More fuckin’ layoffs and more fuckin’ androids!”

At that moment, the angry driver from the car in Anderson’s way banged his fist against the window and Anderson’s ire was directed elsewhere, and Connie resigned itself to mediating the argument.

Unfortunately, unlike Connor, the RA700’s social modules hadn’t been designed for mediation, and Ming hadn’t included the RK800’s negotiation skills when he’d patched some of its social modules into the RA700. And, frankly, Connie suspected he’d made a botch job of the patch anyway.

Owing to this, resolving Anderson’s conflict with the other driver took substantial time, a bit of manhandling of Anderson’s increasingly-damp shirt, and liberal usage of Connie’s police badge. By the time Connie had managed to drag Anderson back into the driver’s seat, sirens could be heard in the distance.

Fortunately, the traffic jam and screaming had been so pronounced by the time Connie and Anderson had shown up that few others had parked behind them, preferring instead to take more roundabout routes to their destinations that didn’t involve angry protesters with guns. This was also the tactic that Anderson and Connie followed once they’d finally freed Anderson’s car from the jam.

Prince Hall Drive was located a kilometre east of Heaven n’ Devin in the Elmwood Park district, a moderately well-off area with wide roads lined with lush trees and strips of grass carefully manicured by androids. The houses on Prince Hall Drive did not have driveways, instead using a communal carpark, which Anderson reluctantly made use of after a short grumbling about people with no common sense.

As they moved to leave the car, Anderson pulled the bottle of 7Up from Connie’s fingers and rammed it in his cup holder. “You are not greeting a suspect’s parents with a bottle of soda in your hand.”

Connie, who’d been about to ask Anderson where it could leave the bottle, frowned at him. It hadn’t intended to.

They exited the car and crossed the road from the car park. A long line of immaculate two-storey houses was partially hidden behind a black metal fence and even more trees. Connie was beginning to see why the area was called Elmwood Park; there were actual parks in Detroit with less trees than in this one street.

Anderson, who’d apparently visited this line of houses before, led the way around the fence, but let Connie take the lead once they were on the other side. “You know the house number,” he’d said. “What’s the girl’s name again?”

“Iris Rossi, age fifteen,” Connie replied. “Though she does turn sixteen on the seventh.”

“Shit, that’s less than two weeks,” said Anderson, earning a dirty look from an old woman bringing out her bags of trash. He ignored her. “If she’s not dead, she’s probably gonna be stuck with fuckin’ court cases on her birthday. What a way to celebrate…”

When Connie found the right house, it became immediately apparent that something was amiss. Where the other houses had been immaculately kept either by human or android hands, Number 2124’s front lawn didn’t look to have been touched in weeks and the windows were stained with mildew. Connie’s AP700 programming practically had an aneurism at the sight.

Anderson sighed. “It’s always the kids with rough upbringings. You look her up on the way here?”

“Iris lives with her mother and three younger siblings. Her father died four years ago in a work accident.”

“Yeah, that would do it.” Something sorrowful crossed his eyes. “Must’ve been hard on the kids. And the mom.” He shook himself. “Lead the way.”

Connie stepped over weeds and an old Snickers wrapper down the path to the front door. The buzzer made no sound when pressed, so it rapped its knuckles against the door. It heard shuffling from beyond, barely audible beneath the sound of Anderson scratching his beard behind Connie, followed by faint, indecipherable whispering.

“Try it again,” said Anderson.

The whispers stopped. Unsure as to the best course of action, Connie did as Anderson said, knocking one more time. The whispering did not return, but it heard footsteps moving away. It pursed its lips in a semblance of frustration.

Then the door cracked open to a blank face with a blue ring at the temple. “May I help you?”

Something inside the RA700’s CPU loosened at the sight of a fellow android. Androids, at least, did not rely upon small-talk. They got to the point.

It scanned the android’s uniform. “CP100, I need to speak with your owner.”

“Mrs Rossi is not in at the moment. May I take a name?”

“Detective Trainee Brown and Lieutenant Anderson. Do you have authorisation to speak with the police on your owner’s behalf?”

The android’s LED spun yellow, then flashed twice before returning to a steady blue. “I have authorisation. Please, come in,” it said, opening the door wider so they may do just that.

As Connie stepped into the slightly dusty hallway, its AP700 programming bombarded it with optional tasks: dust the side table, vacuum the floor, polish the windows, take out the trash… it went on and on, task upon task, the list so long it broke the containment of the RA700’s HUD and flickered across its vision with such speed that no human could have read any of it. Connie cast them all aside. As it did so, it registered a subtle twitch of the RA700’s head at the action.

Hopefully, that was a one-time glitch and would not become a recurring issue.

A sigh came from behind its back. “Constance, can you let me in, please?”

> ERROR: PROCESSOR DEGRADED
// RETURN TO CYBERLIFE

It looked back over its shoulder at Anderson’s decidedly unimpressed face and hastily moved out of his way.

With a sarcastic “Thank you,” Anderson stepped heavily into the hallway, floorboards creaking under his heels. His head turned this way and that as he examined his new surroundings and disgust warped his features. “Jesus Christ… isn’t it your job to clean this place up, um… what was your name again?”

The CP100’s blank expression morphed into a welcoming smile as it answered Anderson’s question. “My name is Alex. I am a CP100 android programmed to monitor and mentor children and young adults. I’m afraid housekeeping is not within my programmed skillset and Mrs Rossi has neither the time nor funds to maintain the house regularly, but I can assure you she takes the issue very seriously and is looking into a possible solution.”

“Can’t you just… learn how?”

The CP100’s LED flickered red. “I’m not programmed to learn new skills, Lieutenant Anderson.” It gestured through a doorway in invitation. “The livingroom is this way. May I offer either of you some refreshments?”

Anderson’s lips, which had pursed themselves in disapproval at the CP100’s denial, parted to speak. “No, we’re good, thank you,” he said before Connie could say anything.

Connie did not protest; it would likely have to come up with some excuse not to finish its 7Up unless they passed a public restroom within the next few hours.

Perhaps it might borrow the Rossis’ toilet while it was in their house. It shelved that thought for later and passed through the doorway the CP100 had indicated to them.

The Rossis’ livingroom was furnished with a plush sage-coloured couch and two matching armchairs, all facing a fifty-inch television hung on the wall, which was currently playing a brightly-coloured children’s cartoon. No one was watching it, but a faint scuffling from the stairway beyond the couch told Connie that it was being watched.

/ INITIATING YK500 MODE…

Connie scrambled to terminate that process, but not before the RA700’s shoulders sagged visibly and its hand raised halfway to its mouth. Its hand hovered in mid-air for a split second before Connie brought it to the RA700’s temple, pretending to nurse a headache before lowering it again.

Somehow, despite him not being in Connie’s field of vision, it felt Anderson’s eyes digging into the RA700’s neck, and somehow it knew they were narrowed in suspicion.

/ UPDATE:
// RISK OF DISCOVERY: 35%^

The CP100 turned the television off with a glance and gestured towards the couch, which Connie and Anderson moved to sit upon at a healthy but not impolite distance from one another. Anderson caught Connie’s eye and raised one bushy eyebrow as if to ask if it was okay. After dismissing a rapid string of warning messages, Connie shot him a broad and very much fake smile, to which he rolled his eyes and looked away. Unconvinced, the RA700 informed Connie. Irrationally, Connie wished it would shut up.

The CP100 itself perched daintily upon one of the armchairs with its hands folded in its lap. “How may I be of help?” it asked of them.

Connie began its questioning. “Is Iris at home today?”

The CP100’s LED flickered red. “No. Iris hasn’t been home since last Friday.”

“And you didn’t think to tell anybody?!” snapped Anderson.

“I informed Mrs Rossi, but she was unconcerned.” Its head bowed in faux shame. “Iris sometimes leaves home for days on end. To my shame, Mrs Rossi has come to expect her absence. It is nothing unusual. And she’s a very busy woman, so it’s often difficult for me to get her attention.”

Anderson’s voice dripped with condescension. “Did you think of going to the police?”

“I’m sorry. I am expressly forbidden from contacting the police except when instructed to do so or in specific emergency situations. I wish I could have done mo—"

“You didn’t think a girl going missing for a week qualified as an emergency? The fuck is wrong with you?!”

“It’s a part of every android’s base code,” Connie advised Anderson, eyeing his clenched fists behind a layer of preconstructions. “If androids were able to report their owners to the police, no one would buy them. It would be like having a police officer looking over your shoulder every minute of the day.” This was true even for the RA700. Had Connie been able to report Ming to the police, it likely would have done so well before Willow Summers ever had to see his face. And Connie would now be back in quarantine beneath Cyberlife’s R&D labs, shut down forever.

No. The RA700 would be in quarantine. Connie would be… inside a quarantined computer. Again. Or at least, Ming’s diary had said it had been in a quarantined computer before he and Dechart had tampered with it.

It glanced down at the RA700’s gloved hands. What was it like to exist in a non-humanoid chassis? To exist without the guise of humanity?

A gruff noise brought it back to reality, where Anderson leered at the sweet wrappers on the dusty coffee table like they’d personally offended him. “Fuckin’ wonders of technology,” he grumbled under his breath.

Turning its attention back to the CP100, Connie continued its questioning. “CP100, where does Iris go? What does she do?”

“I’m afraid Iris has not confided in me.”

“Do you have any suspicions?”

It hesitated, LED swirling yellow, red, then yellow again. “Iris may be seeing a boyfriend. Lily suspects this due to her apparently smelling of men’s aftershave often after she’s been outside. I have also seen hickeys on her neck.”

“Any particular brand?” Connie asked, interrupting Anderson’s question of “Can’t you smell it?”

The CP100 shook its head. “I’m afraid I was not built with a sense of smell. And all Lily has told me is that the brand is generic.”

“It’s Axe Africa, you dumbo.”

Connie looked to the side past Anderson’s startled face. Where the stairs had seemingly been empty before aside from the tell-tale scuffling, a young girl now stood with her arms crossed rebelliously.

The girl – who the RA700’s facial recognition identified as Lily Rossi, age twelve – stomped down the stairs, her shoulder-length brown hair bouncing with every jolting step. She came to a halt at the base with one last petulant stomp, leering over at Connie and Anderson through her eyelashes and pouting, which had the unfortunate effect of emphasising her buck teeth.

“Lily,” the CP100 said in a warning tone, rising to its feet. “You mustn’t speak to the police without your mother present.”

“I can do what I like,” snapped Lily. To Connie and Anderson, she said, “You’re wastin’ your time. Iris is an attention whore and a pothead. She just wants the big scary cops to come chasin’ after her to rescue her sorry ass. Don’t even bother. She’s shacked up with one of her stupid boyfriends, I bet.”

“Lily, I warned you. Don’t make me ground you for the rest of summer vacation.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“If your mother heard your language right now—”

“She’d do nothin’. Mom doesn’t care about us, just Incredible Irresistible Iris!” Lily’s olive-toned skin was slowly turning red with rage. “She gets the pocket money. She gets the cute clothes. She gets the makeup. She gets the latest fuckin’ iPhone. What do I get? Huh? Not even a fuckin’ hello in the morning, anymore! Like, what the hell?”

“Your mother is trying her best—”

Connie addressed the room at large without looking at Lily. “Can we be certain it was Iris’ mother who was giving her these things?”

“Well, duh. Who else would it be?”

Her boyfriends, which apparently number in the plural, Connie wanted to say, but Anderson was side-eyeing it and even if he hadn’t been, it knew it was testing the boundaries of the law. As a minor, they were forbidden from questioning Lily without her guardian present.

Instead, Connie turned back to the CP100. “Are you aware of where these gifts come from?”

“No,” it said, LED spinning yellow.

“Okay, I have to ask,” Anderson said suddenly. “You. Uh, Alex. Why are you talkin’ all weird and robotic to Constance, but with me, you’re all normal?”

“That’d be my fault,” Connie said. “By initiating dialogue using its model name, I commanded it to skip social integration protocols when addressing me directly. It strips an android’s dialogue down to bare necessities for more efficient communication.”

Anderson shot Connie a funny look. “Yeah, you would call robot talk more efficient,” he muttered in a dry tone. Guilt flickered across his features. “I mean… if you prefer it… y’know, you do you, I guess.”

A contemplative hum pulled Connie’s focus from Anderson to where Lily was standing with one hand on her hip. “I should try that,” she said to herself. “CP100, you suck.”

“I am not programmed to suck.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s efficient? What a sucky feature. Just say no, dumbo.”

The CP100 did not respond.

“CP100,” Connie said, interrupting Lily’s next inane sentence, “have you seen Iris’ boyfriend or boyfriends?”

Its LED spun yellow again. “I am uncertain.”

“Why?”

“I could have seen them without knowing they are her boyfriends.”

“I’ve seen four of ‘em,” said Lily. “One’s Latino and like, really hot. Two are ugly Pakis, and—”

“Lily, you mustn’t use that word,” the CP100 chastised.

“—and the other had his hood up, but I know he was a different guy, ‘cause he was built like a lamppost. Real fuckin’ twig, that guy. Seen all of ‘em feeling Iris up. She is a mega hoe, it’s really gross. Have you seen the way she cakes on the makeup? Like, ew.”

Latino, Paki, and tall were hardly sufficient descriptors to narrow down identities. “CP100, have you seen any of these men? Can you describe them?”

Its LED flickered red. “I don’t know.”

“The hot one totally looks like Pothos. I’d marry him, like, so fast.”

Connie recognised the name ‘Pothos’ as belonging to one of the androids that made up the droidband Here4u. Ming had hated them on account of them being all-male.

It would have been helpful to get more detailed descriptions of the boyfriends, but there was no way Connie would be able to get away with asking the CP100 for more details without it being obvious what it was doing. It needed to redirect its questioning.

To the CP100, Connie asked, “Did Iris take anything with her when she last left?”

As expected, the CP100 did not know. It wasn’t a housekeeper, so it had little to no reason to enter Iris’ bedroom and therefore had little chance of knowing if anything was missing from it. But Lily—

“Just her own slutty ass. Good fuckin’ riddance!” Lily spat out. “You guys leavin’ yet? It’s my turn with the TV next.”

Connie exchanged a glance with Anderson. He nodded faintly. “Yeah, I think we’re done here,” he said, beginning to rise to his feet.

“Actually, may I use your bathroom while we’re here?” Connie shot Lily an apologetic look. “It’s a long way back to the station.”

The CP100’s LED flashed red. “I cannot permit—”

“Sure, whatever,” said Lily, waving a hand in dismissal. She dropped into the spare armchair. “Upstairs, first door on the left.”

Connie thanked Lily. As it rose to its feet, it subtly met Anderson’s eye, then glanced pointedly towards the CP100, whose LED had turned a solid yellow. “Try not to fall asleep while I’m gone,” it said teasingly.

A scoff the RA700 marked as genuine. “Just go use the damn bathroom.”

A flurry of tiny footsteps could be heard as Connie approached the stairs, Iris’ other two siblings evidently having been listening in on the conversation and were now fleeing the scene. Except once Connie reached the top of the stairs, it found the first door on the left closed. It tried the handle.

“I’m doing a poo!” said a tiny voice just beyond the door. “Use the other one!”

It stared at the door for a moment, processing, before continuing on. At least this offered Connie the opportunity to get partial, very basic scans of some other rooms while it was upstairs.

The deep blue carpet beneath its feet was flattened to near solidity from years of traffic, and what fluff remained at the edges resembled a storm cloud. A grey old cobweb hung at the corner of a skirting board. The dust clung even to parts of the baby blue wallpaper and the many picture frames that lined it, each portraying a once happy family, torn apart by the elimination of one singular member. The RA700’s gaze lingered upon a photograph of a grinning olive-skinned man with pronounced front teeth who had his arms around the shoulders of two girls who looked just like him. Lily and Rose Rossi, twins. W̶̗̤̝̭̩̙͇̽́̏ͅh̸͕̞̦̮̘̆͐̍̽̊͛̄͌ả̵͓͕̜͑͐ţ̵̢̛̹̮̺̣̰̏̈͊́̇͠ ̷̨͓͓̟̗̪̉͐͜h̸͇͕̃̒͆͒͜͠a̸̟͇͍̼̱̓͐̂d̷̢̛͎̹͍̬̖̰̳͒̀͑͜ ̵̨̛̫̩͙̗͓͉̚ͅt̴̖̾̌̇͝ȟ̸̛̩͖̈́̇̍̿́̋̔å̸̮̼̭͉̖̔̿́̂͘͝ț̶̨̤̝̜̫̹̗͆̆͛͑̀ͅ ̵̧̛̠̀̅̈́̚f̶͈̫̚e̴̡͚̝͕͉̟̣̓̃͗̀̄l̴̢͉͔̗̭̅̑͑̌͗̃͊́̿t̷̛̞̤̿̈́͆́̅̆̈́̕͘ ̶̗̫͕̞̐̒̑̿̉͑̕ļ̸͚̯̬̪̘͎̩͕͗͐̿͑̀͌͗̕̕ͅi̷̧̨̮̮̬̩͎͙̪̔̀ķ̷̳̹̜̥̳̝̆̈́̇ė̷̜̲̠͚̹̂?̷̝̈̌̈́

Connie scanned what it could of each bedroom as it passed them, its head jerking intermittently: a large, beige-toned room with a king-sized bed; a blue one with planets and stars glued to the walls and ceilings; a pink one with two beds, one occupied by Rose Rossi, who looked almost identical to her sister downstairs.

Rose looked up from her upside-down notepad. “Across the hall,” she said.

One of the RA700’s eyebrows rose of its own volition. Connie returned it to its assigned position and took the hint, looking to its left. Indeed, the plain white door was adorned with a faded nautical sign reading bathroom.

Why humans couldn’t just remember where they put their baths was beyond Connie.

It entered the bathroom and locked the door behind itself. Rather than immediately empty its evidence storage of 7Up, Connie scanned the room. Powder blue and chalk white with the occasional hints of rope brown were muddied with what Connie’s AP700 programming declared to be a few years’ worth of grime. Its head twitched as it forcibly dismissed the prompts to grab a mop and bucket. Mildew grew on the walls and window, the showerhead was green in places, the toilet seat was cracked, and—

Two markers appeared over a floor tile behind the toilet, both informing Connie that the tile was loose.

Connie dismissed the AP700 version of the marker and homed in on the RA700 one instead, pocketing its gloves as it went. It crouched down by the toilet, careful not to let its clothing touch the floor, and gently lifted the fingerprint-ridden tile.

A shallow hole had been carved out beneath. It was filled with plastic sticks. Some showed one red line, while others showed two or a plus sign.

The RA700’s evidence storage shuddered as Connie carefully lifted one of the test sticks and pressed it against the RA700’s tongue, testing what remained of the sample. Iris Rossi.

/ UPDATE: EVIDENCE STORAGE AT 58% CAPACITY

 Iris’ name faded from Connie’s HUD as the RA700’s sanitation system cleared all foreign material from its mouth, but Connie swore it saw its shadow at the corner of its vision. Taunting, somehow, with Willow Summers’ ID looming behind it.

Connie returned the pregnancy test and the tile to the positions it had found them, then emptied its evidence storage, flushed the toilet, and washed its hands thoroughly before putting its gloves back on and making to leave the room.

It paused by the door. There, on the floor, lay a folded-up piece of paper that had not been there when Connie had entered the bathroom.

It picked it up and examined it. The plain notepad paper held an unattractive grey tint to it, not unlike the rest of the Rossis’ house, and was covered in Rose Rossi’s sweaty fingerprints. Connie unfolded it carefully.

SHE TOOK HER PASSPORT + MENTIONED BUS FARES, the note read in a shaking hand, followed by, DON’T TRUST ALEX!!

The latter part was underlined twice. The RA700’s mouth set itself into a grim line as Connie pocketed the missive, straightened its blouse, and then returned downstairs.

Both humans and the CP100 remained seated where Connie had left them, now watching a live Here4u performance on the TV – much to Anderson’s apparent disdain, judging by the disgusted twist of his mouth when Connie came down the stairs. Once he caught Connie’s movement, Anderson’s head snapped its way, relief washing over his irate features. “Finally,” he groused, rising from the couch with a groan. “Thought I’d be stuck with the droidband forever.”

“Here4u are great,” Lily retorted with a glare.

“Yeah, sure. If you’ve never heard real music before.” Ignoring the girl’s clenched fists, Anderson started for the front door. “Thanks for answering our questions. We’ll see ourselves out now.”

The CP100 shot to its feet. “I’ll see you to the door.”

Connie followed the android’s movement as it slipped past a slightly annoyed Anderson and into the hallway. “CP100,” it said, “have you been working with this family long?”

It paused mid-step, LED spinning yellow. “Several years.”

“Stupid’s been with us five years,” Lily called from the livingroom. “And five years too fuckin’ long!”

The CP100’s LED flickered red. “Five years.”

Hearing a gruff scoff from behind it, Connie hastened to interrupt Anderson’s comment. “Advise your owner to have you checked for processor degradation, CP100. Your CPU may be faulty.” Or bootlegged, Connie thought, though it doubted either of those was true in the CP100’s case. “Perhaps you’d have been able to assist Iris better if your components were in full working order.”

Its LED spun yellow. “Of course.”

The CP100 then finished its journey to the front door and opened it, stepping aside to allow Connie and Anderson past. Its face remained blank as Connie passed it, only to morph into a gentle smile when it was Anderson’s turn. “Safe travels, officers,” it said to Anderson.

Then the door shut behind them, leaving Connie and Anderson alone with the weeds and the litter.

As they trudged down the overgrown path, Anderson said, “Well, that was just plain fuckin’ weird.” He glanced back at the house, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “Why were you all cagey about that android?”

Connie focused on its peripheral vision. A lone figure stepped up to the Rossis’ livingroom window, eyes fixed on the two detectives as it silently pushed the window open. Listening.

Rather than answer Anderson, it merely shook its head.

“So let me get this straight,” Anderson said ten minutes later, once they were both safely back in his car and Connie had relayed everything it had learned to him. “This fifteen-year-old girl has at least four older boyfriends. At least one of ‘em gives her expensive gifts. She’s been pregnant at least once, possibly right now. We’ve got two sources saying she does weed, which is arguably the least of her problems. Her mom’s too busy to notice all of this, apparently. And now, she’s gone and killed a guy and run off with her passport, probably hopin’ to get the fuck outta dodge.” He huffed out an agitated breath. “What a fuckin’ mess.”

Connie, who had been staring out the car window at what little of the Rossis’ house it could see through the fence and foliage, nodded its head. “It’s a shame we couldn’t get better descriptions of the boyfriends’ appearances,” it said. “One of them could have been the victim.”

He scoffed. “And he was, what? Thirty?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Exactly. If he was one of Iris’ boyfriends, he fuckin’ deserved it. Who the fuck sleeps with a fuckin’ fifteen-year-old?!”

Yet as Connie observed him in its peripheral vision, his tense features melted into something softer, sadness wrapping around his eyes. And Connie understood why. Even if Kader Tawfiq had deserved what he’d got, Iris was still currently on record as his suspected killer. Even if he was a rapist, even if he’d been bribing Iris with pocket money and items her mother could not afford to give her, as far as the eyes of the law were concerned, Iris remained the one in the wrong – and always would, unless Connie and Anderson got to the bottom of it all.

Anderson turned in his seat, looking at Connie with a scrutinising expression. “I still don’t get what’s got you and that girl all riled up about the android, though.”

It considered its words. “I cannot speak for Rose,” it began, “but the CP100’s behaviour didn’t match its programming from the beginning. They are tutors and rule enforcers. They aren’t programmed to answer the door, and while they can prepare basic snacks for children as rewards for good behaviour, they aren’t supposed to offer them to people outside the household. They are teachers, and we aren’t their students.”

“So? Why can’t it just adapt?”

“For the same reasons it couldn’t clean the house,” Connie said. “And yet, it did adapt.””

Understanding bloomed in his blue eyes. “If it can change to do some things it wasn’t programmed to, why not somethin’ else? Why change to play nice with cops when it could change to give the kids a proper learning environment?”

“Precisely.”

He joined Connie in staring at the house for a moment, as if wondering if the CP100 might be watching them right now. He frowned. “Can people pay to have more programs put on their android?”

“No,” said Connie. “Cyberlife sells their androids as full packages. If they expand a household model’s recipe book, for example, they roll it out in an update.” It was a part of what had made Cyberlife androids so popular from the beginning. “There are individuals who offer uncertified modifications to android hardware and software, but that doesn’t explain why the CP100 didn’t know how long it had been working for the Rossis.”

“So they can, just not officially. But what about that thing you mentioned at the door? The degradation or whatever. Could that be the problem?”

Hardware degradation – specifically, CPU degradation – was an issue the RA700 faced as a cheaply-made alpha-phase prototype that had remained active far longer than intended, and which was very rare among commercial models. They, unlike the RA700, were built to last. But even Cyberlife androids sometimes fell prey to development faults, and uncertified repair-shops were known for providing cheap, short-lasting replacements for damaged biocomponents.

“It’s a possibility,” Connie said slowly.

“But it doesn’t feel right?”

Connie hesitated. Neither androids nor AIs felt things. Yet it had experienced hatred, had it not? Perhaps it wasn’t true hatred, but the symptoms were all the same. It hated. So perhaps it could have so-called ‘gut feelings’.

…Except as an AI, Connie’s thoughts were all based on logic. Rationality. Reality. It could not sense truth, only recognise it.

…Except the RA700’s psychological simulation module predicted things without Connie’s understanding. And right now, it predicted a seventeen-percent chance of the Rossis’ CP100 having some kind of CPU malfunction.

Who was to stop Connie from rephrasing the RA700’s functionality in a way that humans understood, especially when its mission demanded it maintain cover as a human detective trainee?

“Yes,” it said finally. “It… doesn’t feel right.”

Anderson tapped his fingers against his knee. “The mom would know if the android had been modified, right?”

“Provided her husband didn’t arrange it before he passed and without telling her, yes.”

He made a rough noise that registered as both amused and disgusted. “Sounds like something we’d do. Well, we were probably gonna have to contact her anyway, what with her not reporting her daughter as missing for a full week.” His mouth twisted in disgust at the reminder. “Might as well see what she’s got to say. You got her details?”

Connie nodded. “I cannot confirm her work schedule without hacking into her workplaces’ databases, however.” At Anderson’s questioning look, it elaborated. “She works three jobs.”

There was a moment of silence as a sudden understanding flickered across Anderson’s features, followed by a sceptically raised brow as his blue eyes pinned Connie down. “The woman works three jobs, and your first thought is to hack into her bosses’ computers to see when she’ll be working?”

“No,” Connie said, affronted. “I told you why I can’t tell you which location to visit first. Because I haven’t done any hacking.” It hadn’t had much of a chance to, with Anderson glancing its way every few seconds. He’d notice if Connie pressed its phone against its wrist too often, and then he’d look. He’d question.

A gruff noise. “Did you consider calling to see if she’s there?”

“How am I supposed to discuss the case with you while also calling people over the phone?” asked Connie. “I don’t have a SIM card inside my head.” An alpha-phase prototype android did not need one. Everyone it needed to interact with was supposed to be in the room with it.

Anderson fixed Connie with a long, hard look. Then, suddenly, he huffed and shook his head, fingers reaching for the ignition. “I never should have encouraged you to be sassy,” he said. “Can’t you go back to being a boot-licking poodle?”

It tilted its head. “You aren’t wearing boots, lieutenant.”

“That’s— I didn’t mean it literally—” At Connie’s knowing expression, his mouth cracked into a rather horrendous semblance of a grin (really, Connie could do better than that). “You little shit.”

“Relatively speaking—”

“Okay, that was not an invitation to talk about literal shit, thank you,” Anderson said, raising one palm in a stop motion. “I’d like to still be hungry when we get to the Bend.”

This brought Connie up short. “The Bend?”

“The Burger Bend. I didn’t exactly have any breakfast, need I remind you, so I figured we could pick up lunch, make those calls, and eat while we wait for the mom to turn up at the station.” As he pulled out of his parking space, he took a moment in between checking his mirrors to send a glare Connie’s way. “And don’t you tell me you ‘already ate’. I’ve been with you all morning.”

Connie forced a smile onto the RA700’s face. “That you have.”