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Chapter Text

The precinct was a familiar storm of morning noise—phones ringing, coffee mugs clinking, voices overlapping—that seemed to instinctively part as RK900 moved through, each footstep deliberate and controlled. His steel-grey eyes swept the room with a calculated precision, finally settling on Detective Gavin Reed. Reed was hunched over his terminal, practically radiating a palpable cloud of irritation.

Perfect.

A quick internal assessment revealed nothing unexpected: Reed's heart rate was elevated, likely caffeine-fueled. The heavy jacket he wore inside suggested he was running warm. And that simmering undercurrent of anger? Classic Reed—probably a lingering reaction to the previous android's interactions with him. Just another morning.

The RK900 watched him for a split second. Reed didn't seem to notice, but its predecessor would have.

Its hands remained clasped behind its back as it sauntered to Fowler's glass office. One knock, then another, before opening the door. It moved to stand precisely in front of Fowler's desk, scanning the environment with methodical precision. Years of work had clearly taken their toll on the captain's workspace - coffee stains, scattered papers, and crumpled food wrappers betraying a man perpetually on the edge of exhaustion.

The palm of Fowler's hand pressed against his forehead. The RK900 detected multiple stress markers: elevated cortisol, micro-muscle tension, decreased respiratory efficiency. It remained silent, having learned that Captain Fowler did not tolerate unnecessary conversation - a trait the RK900 found commendably efficient.

Fowler looked up, meeting the android's steel-grey gaze. "RK900," he began, putting the pen down with just a tad more force than needed. "Do you know why you're here?"

The android nodded once. Precise. Silent.

"You're here to investigate one of our own." Fowler's fingers traced the edge of a worn manila folder. "Detective Reed." His gaze hardened, protective instinct warring with professional duty. "Internal Affairs flagged some... inconsistencies. Report patterns that don't add up. Evidence gaps."

He lifted his chipped 'World's Best Captain' mug, studied it for a moment as if the coffee might hold better answers. "But this isn't just about paperwork. The 2037 Red Ice case—" He cut himself off, reconsidering. "Reed was junior then. His partner vanished during the investigation. Strange circumstances."

Fowler leaned forward, voice dropping. "The drug they were tracking... it wasn't typical Red Ice. It—" Another pause. Longer this time. "Never mind. Your primary objective is analysis. Full access to departmental records. But," - his tone shifted to something between warning and threat - "you do not compromise Reed's position without ironclad evidence."

The RK900's processors churned through the case data during the short walk to Gavin's workspace. Algorithmic analysis revealed multiple anomalies:

Gavin Reed.

36 years old.

4 years on the force.

37 formal complaints. 22 commendations.

Psychological profile: aggressive, volatile, high-stress tolerance.

Substance interaction history: moderate alcohol consumption, occasional nicotine use.

Family background: complicated. Connection to Elijah Kamski - half-sibling, minimal contact.

Data from 2037 cases flashed like digital ghosts:

- 3 unexplained evidence gaps

- Witness statements with 18.6% inconsistency rate

- One missing investigative partner, status: unknown

Its steel-grey eyes locked onto Reed before Reed noticed its approach.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Reed's head snapped up, coffee mug halfway to his

mouth. "Who the hell are you?"

The RK900 remained perfectly still. "Detective Reed. I'm your new temporary partner, RK900."

Reed's heart rate spiked. Interesting.

"Fowler didn't mention shit about a new partner," Reed muttered, mouth twisting into a scowl. "Another plastic cop? Great. Just fucking great."

The RK900 observed multiple physiological responses simultaneously:

- Increased temporal artery pulse: 7.3 beats per minute acceleration

- Micro muscle tension in jaw muscles: 42% elevated

- Cortisol levels: spike of 22.6%

Threat response? No. Anxiety. Specific to this investigation.

"Sit," Reed growled, gesturing to the adjacent desk. "If Fowler sent you, I guess I'm stuck with you."

Fascinating. The word "stuck" implied Reed's immediate psychological resistance. The RK900 calculated precisely where to sit - 37 centimeters from Reed's workspace. Close enough for observation, distant enough to trigger minimal territorial responses.

Its optical sensors captured everything:

- Coffee stain pattern on Reed's shirt: 3-day-old espresso, likely from morning ritual

- Slight tremor in right hand: caffeine intake, possible sleep deprivation

- Keyboard wear patterns: heavy left-side typing, indicates right-handed detective with specific work habits

"I'll need access to your current case files," the RK900 stated. Not a request. A declaration.

Reed's laugh was sharp. Defensive. "You don't just waltz in and—"

"Captain Fowler has already approved full access," it interrupted. Precisely. Coldly.

One eyebrow raised. A micro-expression of challenge.

Reed's scowl deepened. "Fine. But you touch my shit, and I'll—"

"Recalibrate my systems?" The RK900's response carried a hint of something almost—but not quite—like amusement. "Unlikely."

The detective's fingers drummed against his desk. Agitation. Nervousness. The RK900 noted how Reed's eyes kept darting sideways, never quite meeting its direct gaze. A tell. Interesting.

"Coffee?" Reed muttered, standing abruptly. "Gonna get coffee. You want anything?"

A human asking an android if it wants coffee. The irony wasn't lost on the RK900.

"Negative," it responded. Then, after a calculated pause. "Unless you're purchasing for both of us."

Reed stopped. Turned. "You playing some kind of game? "

"Merely establishing professional parameters, Detective."

The tension hung between them. Something unspoken. Something brewing beneath the surface of professional courtesy.

The RK900 initiated a comprehensive interaction analysis of their first encounter, methodically breaking down each moment with clinical precision.

The verbal exchange had been 78.3% confrontational, with nonverbal communication registering at 62.5% defensive—typical parameters when introducing a new element into an established investigative ecosystem.

Potential information accessibility remained moderate, complicated by the detective's inherent resistance to external intervention, while the psychological resistance factor suggested a complex interpersonal dynamic that would require nuanced navigation.

Conclusion: Initial interaction successful . The RK900 had effectively positioned itself as a non-negotiable presence in Reed's professional space, establishing immediate territorial boundaries without triggering complete shutdown.

Meanwhile, Reed was over at the coffee machine, muttering increasingly creative combinations of profanity that would have impressed even the most seasoned linguistic analysis program. His hand trembled slightly as he poured—a fascinating combination of caffeine withdrawal, accumulated stress, and an underlying anxiety that the RK900 found particularly intriguing. The detective's body language spoke volumes: defensive posture, rapid blinking, fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against the coffee machine that suggested multiple layers of unresolved tension.

When Reed returned, the RK900 was already scanning through digital case files, its movements precise and silent, each digital page turn calculated to the millisecond. Reed dropped into his chair with a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years of accumulated departmental frustration.

"You shouldn't be consuming so much coffee," the RK900 stated without looking up, its voice a perfect modulation of clinical concern and subtle judgment.

Reed's head snapped toward it, a mixture of disbelief and rising irritation painting itself across his features. " Excuse me ?" The words came out as a low growl, a defensive mechanism clearly triggered by the unexpected observation.

" Third cup within 47 minutes," the android continued, finally raising its steel-grey eyes to meet Reed's, "Caffeine levels approaching potentially harmful concentration. The physiological stress markers combined with your current caffeine intake suggest an inefficient approach to both personal health and investigative performance."

Reed's face cycled through multiple expressions - shock, anger, something almost resembling grudging respect. "You're analyzing my coffee intake? What the actual fuck?"

The RK900's response was characteristically measured. "Comprehensive performance optimization requires attention to baseline physiological conditions. Elevated caffeine consumption indicates potential underlying stress mechanisms that could compromise investigative efficacy." A pause, just long enough to feel deliberate.

"Shall I elaborate on the potential neurochemical impacts?"

"Jesus Christ," Reed muttered, "I'm partnered with a walking medical journal."

But beneath the sarcasm, the RK900 detected something else. Curiosity. The slight dilation of pupils, the microsecond pause before speaking - Reed was more intrigued than he wanted to admit.

The precinct at 11:47 PM was a different entity entirely—stripped of its daytime chaos, laid bare under flickering fluorescent lights that cast long shadows across empty desks. The RK900 stood in perfect stillness near the break room, its reflection a ghost in the darkened windows, white jacket almost luminescent in the dim light. It had been watching Detective Reed for precisely 13 minutes and 42 seconds, analyzing every minute shift in posture, every subtle change in breathing patterns.

Reed hadn't moved from his desk, hadn't noticed the android's presence. His usual aggressive facade had crumbled slightly under the weight of exhaustion and solitude, like armor being slowly stripped away. The RK900's sensors picked up minute details: shoulders slumped 2.3 degrees lower than usual, respiratory rate decreased by 18%, finger movements across the keyboard lacking their typical forceful impact. The detective's coffee had gone cold beside him, forgotten in the depths of whatever case file held his attention.

Fascinating.

The detective paused, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands—a gesture the RK900 had never observed during daylight hours. Its social relations program categorised the action as 'vulnerable.' 'Human.' Something twisted in its software when Reed's hand drifted to his neck, fingertips brushing against old scar tissue partially hidden by his collar—a ragged line that disappeared beneath fabric, telling a story the android couldn't quite decode.

The RK900 accessed its investigation files, processors whirring silently. No mention of that scar in any medical records.

Another anomaly to analyze.

"You can still smell it, can't you?"

The voice—warm, gentle, entirely unlike its own—came from behind. Connor. The RK900 didn't turn, keeping its steel-grey eyes fixed on Reed's hunched form.

"Your observational protocols are operating at suboptimal efficiency," the RK900 responded, voice pitched low enough to barely disturb the precinct's midnight silence. "I am conducting standard surveillance."

Connor moved to stand beside it, his brown eyes carrying something the RK900's programming tagged as 'knowing.' The older model's more casual stance contrasted sharply with RK900's rigid posture. "You've been watching him for approximately 47 minutes longer than necessary for standard data collection. Your processing power could be better allocated elsewhere."

The RK900's jaw tightened fractionally, a micro-expression that would have been imperceptible to human eyes. "Your model is obsolete. Your assessment is irrelevant." The words came out colder than the precinct's night air.

"And yet," Connor's voice held a hint of amusement, "you're experiencing software instabilities. I can see them. The same way I see how your optical units linger on Detective Reed 2.3 seconds longer than protocol dictates. The same way I notice your LED flicker yellow whenever he shows signs of distress.”

"I'm merely acknowledging the information," RK900 stated, its tone carrying that same mechanical coldness—yet something in its posture shifted almost imperceptibly as Reed mumbled something incoherent in his sleep. "Each reaction, each biological response is relevant to the investigation."

Connor's lips quirked upward, a knowing smile that made RK900's processors stutter for precisely 0.02 seconds. "Is that why you've mapped every micro-expression he makes? Calculated the exact frequency of his coffee breaks? Noted how his heart rate elevates 6.2% whenever you stand exactly 2 feet behind him? Plus, what does it have to do with any investigation? I would assume you’ve been assigned to crack a case with Reed?”

Ah, Connor didn’t know.

The RK900's LED spun yellow for a fraction of a second—a tell that made Connor's smile widen. "Your deviancy compromises your judgment," RK900 responded, but there was a new tension in its voice, like a string pulled too tight. "These observations are standard protocol for—"

"For what?" Connor interrupted softly, tilting his head. "For memorizing the exact shade of his eyes under fluorescent lighting? For calculating the precise angle of his smirk when he's about to say something particularly antagonistic? Those sound less like protocols and more like... preferences."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"You wouldn't know anything about my protocols," RK900 responded, its voice carrying an edge sharper than usual. Something dangerous flickered behind its steel-grey eyes as it finally turned to face Connor fully. The tension between the two androids crackled like static electricity in the quiet precinct. Then, its voice rose with precise calculation, words cutting through the midnight silence: "Have you not considered the fact that maybe I'm more advanced than you?"

The words echoed slightly off the glass walls of the empty precinct. At his desk, Reed's head snapped up, blinking away sleep, coffee cup nearly toppling as his hand jerked in surprise. The RK900's sensors immediately registered his awakening: heart rate jumping from 62 to 89 beats per minute, pupils dilating as they adjusted to consciousness, muscle tension increasing by 47%.

Connor's expression didn't waver, but something knowing danced in his brown eyes as he glanced between RK900 and the now-alert detective. "More advanced," he mused quietly, "yet still learning." He stepped back, hands clasped behind him in a gesture that seemed almost patronizing. "Good night, RK900. Detective Reed."

The last words were pitched just loud enough to make Reed curse under his breath, finally spotting the two androids near the break room. The RK900's systems automatically began cataloging Reed's disheveled appearance: hair mussed from sleep, jacket wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes more prominent in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

"What the fuck," Reed growled, voice rough with sleep, "are you plastic pricks doing here?"​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The RK900's steel-grey eyes fixed on Reed with mechanical precision. "Detective Reed. Your recent sleep patterns suggest severe cognitive impairment. I recommend immediate cessation of work activities."

"Fuck off," Reed snarled, shoving his chair back from the desk. "What are you, my babysitter? And why were you watching me sleep, you creepy piece of plastic?"

"I was conducting standard surveillance," RK900 replied, its voice carrying that particular emotionless tone that always seemed to get under Reed's skin. "Your irregular work hours and apparent exhaustion could compromise our investigation."

Reed's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the three-day stubble. "Our investigation? There is no 'our' anything. And surveillance? That what you call standing in the dark watching people like some kind of android stalker?"

"Your defensiveness is noted," RK900 stated, taking a deliberate step closer. "As is your elevated heart rate and the fact that you've been reviewing files from 2037. Specifically, cases involving Red Ice."

The color drained from Reed's face. His hand jerked toward the terminal screen, but RK900 had already seen everything - the grainy photos, the redacted reports, the missing person's file with a familiar face.

"You stay the fuck out of my files," Reed's voice dropped dangerously low. "You got that, plastic? You don't know anything about—"

"I know enough," RK900 interrupted, its LED spinning yellow for a fraction of a second. "Your former partner disappeared while investigating a modified Red Ice formula. The case was never solved. And now you're accessing those files at midnight, displaying clear signs of obsessive behavior and—"

Reed's fist slammed into the desk, the sound echoing through the empty precinct. "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!" He stood so quickly his chair crashed backward. "You don't get to analyze this. You don't get to stand there with your fucking perfect posture and your fucking statistics and tell me—"

"Detective Reed," RK900's voice cut through his rage like ice. "Your emotional response suggests personal involvement beyond professional interest. Combined with the irregularities in the original case files, this raises several concerning—"

"You know what?" Reed's laugh was sharp, bitter. "Fuck this. Phck you. Fuck Fowler for sticking me with another goddamn android who thinks they can just dig through my life like it's some kind of fucking program to decode."

He grabbed his jacket, movements jerky with barely contained fury. RK900 watched him, cataloging every micro-expression, every tremor in his hands.

"Detective—" it started, but Reed was already storming past, shoulder deliberately slamming into the android's as he passed.

"Stay out of my files," Reed spat over his shoulder. "And stay the phck out of my face."

The precinct doors slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the glass. RK900 stood perfectly still, LED cycling between yellow and red as it processed the interaction. Through the windows, it watched Reed's figure disappear into the Detroit night, its processors already analyzing every word, every reaction, looking for the truth hidden beneath the detective's rage.

Perhaps he’d revealed too much?

Chapter Text

Gavin stirred reluctantly, consciousness dragging him from the depths of sleep far earlier than he would have preferred. The culprit? His demon of a cat, orchestrating a symphony of ear-grating scratches and hellish yowling that would wake the dead. He listened to the cacophony, weighing the merits of ignorance against inevitable surrender.

Eventually, boredom won out.

He stretched, relishing the satisfying cascade of pops that rippled through his muscles. A roll of the neck, a crack of the knuckles - small rituals of morning awakening. His body felt like it had been compressed, ten-pound boulders tethering him to the bed, muscles protesting every millimeter of movement.

The t-shirt he grabbed from the floor was a questionable choice - likely dirty, definitely stained - but comfort trumped cleanliness in Gavin Reed's world. He dragged himself to the door, releasing his persistently vocal feline from her exile.

Instead of darting directly to her food bowl, the cat followed him, weaving between his legs with a calculated affection that seemed more strategic than genuine. Typical.

"Fuck, fine, Tiff..." He relented, shuffling toward the kitchen—part obligation to the cat, mostly survival instinct for himself. His morning ritual was sacred, an unbreakable sequence etched into the very fabric of his existence: wake up, crack every joint like a human xylophone, feed the demanding feline, then worship at the altar of caffeine.

The cat food can looked like it had survived an apocalypse—dented, slightly rusted, label half-peeled. Gavin didn't care. Tiffany didn't care.

Survival was an art of low standards.

With a practiced motion that spoke of countless mornings, he snapped the can open. The sound—part metallic ping, part wet squelch—was grotesquely satisfying. Mystery meat and unidentifiable liquid splattered into Tiffany's bowl with a sound that would've made a pristine chef weep.

Tiffany, the beautiful demon, dove in without hesitation. Of course.

His own breakfast would be coffee. Strong. Black. Potentially toxic. Just how he liked it.

The coffee machine gurgled to life, a sound more melodic to Gavin than any morning birdsong. He leaned against the counter, waiting, already mentally preparing for another shit day at the precinct.

Another day with that plastic android partner Fowler had mysteriously assigned him.

Fuck.

Gavin's fingers drummed an irritated rhythm against the countertop. That RK900 - fucking perfect plastic piece of work. No coffee, no morning struggles, just... existing. Processing. Watching.

The coffee machine finished its ritual, and Gavin grabbed his mug - a chipped Detroit PD souvenir from some long-forgotten department picnic. He took a scalding gulp, wincing slightly but enjoying the burn. Tiffany looked up from her meal, tail swishing with typical feline indifference.

"What?" he muttered. "Don't look at me like that."

The cat blinked. Judgment personified.

His phone buzzed. Fowler. Fucking great way to start a morning.

The message was brief: "RK900. Partner. Today. No arguments."

Gavin's middle finger itched with potential responses. Instead, he typed back a single character: "K."

Tiffany meowed, as if somehow mocking his impending professional misery.

"Yeah, yeah," Gavin grumbled. "Another day in paradise."

The case files spread across Gavin's kitchen counter looked like a goddamn puzzle he was never meant to solve. These new Red Ice investigations kept piling up, each one feeling heavier than the last. Something about the recent batch felt... different. Familiar, in a way that made the back of his neck prickle. Somewhere, under the pile of the files, hid the old ones. From 2037.

Why him? Why now?

Tiffany weaved between the scattered papers, seemingly uninterested in her owner's mounting unease. Gavin pushed a file aside.

The new android partner - that RK900 - was going to be a problem. Perfect. Calculated. Probably could analyze a case faster than Gavin could pour his morning coffee. And Fowler's insistence on this partnership? Something wasn't adding up.

His fingers traced the edge of an old case file, quickly pulling back as if the paper might burn.

Some memories were better left buried.

The coffee machine gurgled (much to his surprise, though he probably clicked the button again.),  a welcome distraction from the thoughts threatening to crowd his mind. Another day. Another set of cases that felt like they were inches away from something he wasn't prepared to face.

"Shit!"

The sudden realization hit him like a bucket of cold water. The clock read 8:27 - he was supposed to be at the precinct in three minutes, and here he was, was standing half-naked in his kitchen, surrounded by case files, with no pants on and a new batch of coffee only starting to fizzle out.

Tiffany looked supremely unimpressed, licking her paw with calculated indifference as Gavin launched into a tornado of movement. Pants - where the fuck were his pants? Grabbing a relatively clean pair from the back of a chair, he hopped around like an idiot, nearly toppling over while wrestling them on.

"Fuck fuck fuck," he muttered, grabbing the nearly-filled paper coffee cup and burning his tongue in the process. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

His badge was somewhere. Somewhere. Shirt - wrinkled, but who the fuck cares? That android partner would probably judge him anyway. Speaking of which - he was going to be late, and that RK900 was going to be waiting. Watching. Calculating.

One last gulp of coffee. Grab keys. Grab badge. Tiffany purred what seemed suspiciously like a laugh.

"Not a word," Gavin growled at the cat.

The apartment hallway became his personal racetrack. Tattered sneakers slapping against worn linoleum, coffee sloshing dangerously in the travel mug, his leather jacket half-on and half-dragging. Each floor was a challenge - take the stairs two at a time, dodge the early morning residents giving him dirty looks, don't spill the goddamn coffee.

His ancient Dodge Charger waited in the parking lot, a testament to Detroit resilience and Gavin's stubborn refusal to upgrade. The engine roared to life with a sound that was part prayer, part threat. Who needed smooth acceleration when you could have pure, angry determination?

Red lights became more of a suggestion than a rule. A quick glance, a calculated risk, a muttered "fuck it" - and through he went. Detroit traffic was more of a contact sport than a transportation method, and Gavin Reed was a championship-level player.

The precinct parking lot approached like a finish line. One final aggressive turn, the car sliding into a spot with more enthusiasm than precision. 8:35. Five minutes late. Not bad, all things considered.

He burst through the precinct doors like a tornado in human form, coffee in one hand, jacket still half-hanging off one shoulder. And there it was. The RK900. Standing. Waiting. Looking like it had been perfectly positioned for the last five minutes, every microsecond calculated.

Those steel-grey eyes tracked his entrance. No movement. No judgment. Just... observation.

"Phck you want?" Gavin snapped, before the android could say a word. "Traffic was a bitch."

The RK900 remained perfectly still. One eyebrow - almost - raised.

The RK900's response was precisely measured. "Detroit traffic arrives consistently at predictable intervals, Detective Reed. Anticipation would suggest a more strategic departure time."

Gavin's middle finger twitched with potential. "You want strategic? I'll show you strategic," he muttered, dropping into his chair with a defiance that suggested the android could critique his timing when it actually understood human complexity.

"Coffee appears to be your primary navigation system," the RK900 observed, those steel-grey eyes tracking the travel mug like it was evidence. "Caffeine consumption at your current rate suggests potential cardiovascular strain."

"Jesus Christ," Gavin growled, "are you my partner or my fucking health monitor?"

A pause. Just long enough to feel deliberate.

"Technically," the android responded, "both."

Fowler's voice cracked like a whip through the precinct's stale air. "Reed! RK900! Briefing room. Now."

The command hung there, a physical weight that Reed refused to acknowledge immediately. The RK900 stood - a goddamn statue of technological precision. One heartbeat. Two. The kind of silence that ground nerves into dust.

"You gonna stare or we going?" Gavin finally muttered, his words a defensive snarl. He snatched his coffee - black, bitter as his mood - and jacket in one violent motion. The leather felt like armor. Always had.

The walk became a territorial dance neither would admit to choreographing. Reed deliberately walked slightly ahead, a fuck-you posture that screamed I'm not following anybody. The RK900 matched his rhythm with inhuman precision - close enough to be a threat, far enough to avoid provocation.

Other detectives melted away. Smart. The android was a legend - more algorithm than anything remotely human. And Reed? He was a known quantity. Volatile. Unpredictable.

The kind of cop who solved cases through sheer darn-thee determination.

The briefing room felt like a coffin. Fluorescent lights buzzing with the low-grade hum of institutional misery. A whiteboard scarred with old case notes. Coffee stains on the conference table that looked like blood spatter - permanent reminders of a thousand broken investigations.

Fowler stood at the front, case files looking like they'd been dragged through hell's own filing system. His expression suggested he'd rather be anywhere. Literally anywhere.

"We've got a situation," he started - never words that promised anything good. Just another day in Detroit's underbelly.

The crime scene photos were spread out. Chemical breakdowns that looked more like abstract art than scientific evidence. Toxicology reports with strategic redactions - the kind of selective transparency that screamed bigger problems lurking beneath.

"Three overdose victims," Fowler continued. "But these aren't standard Red Ice deaths."

Reed's body language shifted. Microscopic. The RK900 caught it - a tension in the shoulders, a micro-expression that flickered and died before it could fully form. Something was off. And Gavin Reed knew off.

"Reed," Fowler said, each syllable weighted, "you're lead on this. RK900 will be your analytical support." A pause thick with unspoken complications. "Full access. Full cooperation."

Translation: Try not to fuck this up.

The silence after Fowler's declaration felt like a loaded weapon.

The RK900 stood at perfect right angles to everything else in the room. Scanning. Calculating. Existing in some quantum state between machine and something almost—

"REED!"

Fowler's voice cut through his mental landscape like a sledgehammer.

"Would you care to join me in this century?" Fowler's words dripped with a mixture of frustration and barely contained rage. "Or should I requisition a fucking alarm clock to keep you present?"

The other 'detective' in the room shifted. Waiting.

Reed's eyes snapped back into focus. "Sorry, Jeff. Just analyzing the—"

"Analyzing?" Fowler's laugh was pure acid. "You were staring at the wall like it owed you money. These cases aren't going to solve themselves by you spacing out."

The RK900's LED cycled. Blue. Yellow. Back to blue.

The RK900's analytical subroutines were rapidly developing a new processing protocol: Reed Interpretation Mode. Which essentially meant 'how to communicate with a human who was 90% attitude, 10% actual detective work.'

"Your current performance metrics are..." The android paused. Calculated. "Marginally above complete incompetence."

Reed's head snapped around. "The fuck did you just say?"

Fowler, caught between exasperation and a developing headache, interjected. "The RK900 will be providing performance analysis alongside the investigation. Consider it... additional motivation."

The surface level attachment on his temple pulsed - a mechanical smirk if such a thing were possible. "Correction. Additional accountability."

Reed's middle finger twitched. An autonomic response that screamed volumes more than words ever could.

The crime scene photos remained spread across the briefing room table. Molecular structures that looked like fractured nightmares. Toxicology reports with more questions than answers.

"These samples," the RK900 continued, "suggest a molecular complexity that your standard investigative approach would typically miss. Fortunately, my analytical capabilities compensate for... human limitations."

Fowler watched. Silent. Waiting.

Reed's internal monologue was a storm of fuck-off responses. But something else lurked beneath. Something that tasted like old fear. Fresh danger.

"Keep talking, plastic," Reed muttered. "See what happens."

The android's response was instantaneous. "Statistically, what will happen is sub-optimal investigation progress. Shall we proceed?" 

Gavin rolled his eyes, sighing.

Fowler's voice became white noise (once again, may i add.)  as Reed's fingers played with his jacket's zipper, sliding it up and down with a rhythmic metal hiss. The crime scene photos blurred into nothing.

"Reed!" Fowler's voice thundered and ricocheted off the walls. "Are you listening?"

"Loud and clear, Cap," Reed shot back, not looking up. "Fascinating molecular structures. Really riveting stuff."

The RK900 stood silent. Calculating. Its LED a passive-aggressive reminder of technological superiority.

"I swear to God—" Fowler started.

"What?" Reed interrupted, taking a defiant swig of coffee. Black. Bitter. Perfect.

"If you'd shut up for two seconds—" Fowler began again.

"Two seconds. Got it." Reed's smirk was pure antagonism.

Fowler's patience snapped. "This is not a goddamn comedy routine! We've got a new Red Ice variant that—"

"Molecular structure unlike anything we've seen. Multiple victims. No clear distribution network." Reed mimicked, his voice a perfect mockery of Fowler's briefing tone.

The Captain's face turned several interesting shades of red.

"Are you five?" Fowler finally managed. "Because I'm about to explain this like you're a kindergartener who can't sit still during story time."

The plastic prick's LED cycled. Red. Yellow. Pure mechanical judgment.

Fowler slammed both palms on the table, making the crime scene photos dance. "You know what? Since you're such an expert, why don't you walk us through what we're looking at?"

Reed's throat went dry. The coffee suddenly tasted like ash in his mouth.

"I—" he started, but the RK900 cut through his stammering like a scalpel through flesh.

"Allow me to illuminate the situation in terms Detective Reed might comprehend," the android's voice carried a mechanical purr that made Reed's skin crawl. "The molecular structure suggests a sophistication that exceeds typical street-level chemistry. Note the modified binding agents—" it gestured to one of the photos with precise, calculating movements. "Even a detective of your... limited.. chemical understanding should recognize this isn't amateur work."

The android's eyes stung Reed as it continued, each word dropping into the room like ice cubes into stale whiskey. "The composition indicates someone with laboratory access. Professional knowledge. The kind of expertise that wouldn't show up in standard toxicology."

Reed's fingers stopped their nervous dance on the zipper. Stopped everything.

"The fascinating part," the RK900 continued, its gaze fixed on Reed with predatory focus, "is how effectively it evades standard detection protocols. Almost as if..." it paused, LED cycling yellow, "someone knew exactly what our labs would be looking for."

"Nobody asked for a fucking chemistry lesson," Reed spat, but the words came out weak. Defensive.

"On the contrary," the RK900's voice dropped to an almost gentle tone, like someone explaining shapes to a toddler. "Your evident confusion during this briefing suggests you need exactly that. Shall I use smaller words? Perhaps create a picture book?"

Fowler watched the exchange, his earlier rage transforming into something closer to curiosity.

Reed's coffee cup crackled under his grip. Crisp paper straining against flesh and bone and rising panic.

"Get to the fucking point," he managed.

"The point, Detective," the RK900's LED flickered yellow for just a moment, "is that we're dealing with someone who knows our procedures intimately. Someone who understands police work from the inside." Its gaze remained fixed, unblinking. "I trust even you can grasp the implications."

The coffee cup snapped. Black liquid bled across the table, seeping into the crime scene photos like an oil slick of memories better left buried.

Reed shot up from his chair, sending it skittering across the floor like a startled cat. His finger jabbed toward the RK900 with all the coordination of a drunk playing darts.

"Oh, that's rich coming from the walking Ken doll!" His voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. "You've been here what, twenty-four And suddenly you're the expert on every-fucking-thing?"

The RK900's perfect posture seemed to somehow become even more perfect, if that was possible. Its LED spun lazy circles of blue.

"Detective Reed," it replied, voice dripping with artificial honey, "your emotional response is noted, catalogued, and filed under 'predictably defensive.'

Reed's face flushed red enough to power a stop light. "Fuck your cataloguing! You think you can just strut on in here with your fancy molecular whatever-the-phck and—"

"Perhaps," the RK900 interrupted, smooth as polished chrome, "you'd prefer to discuss your own contributions to this investigation? Beyond perfecting the art of chair abuse and coffee spillage?"

Fowler's eyebrows had climbed so high they were threatening to escape his forehead entirely.

"I've been working Red Ice cases since before you were a fucking blueprint!" Reed's voice bounced off the walls like a rubber ball in a tantrum. "You don't know shit about—"

He caught himself. Stopped. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm, like a confession booth with blinding lights.

The RK900's LED flickered just once. Yellow. Like a warning shot across his bow.

"Please," it said, perfectly modulated voice somehow conveying galaxies of condescension, "do continue. Your expertise is... illuminating."

Reed's mouth worked silently, like a fish suddenly discovering the concept of air. The android had managed to make "illuminating" sound like "adorably misguided."

The tension in the briefing room hung thick as molasses when the RK900's LED suddenly strobed – yellow, red, yellow – like a railway crossing signaling the arrival of something inevitable. Its perfect posture somehow managed to become even more attentive, head tilting at an angle that made Reed think of birds of prey spotting a particularly stupid mouse.

"Captain," the android's voice cut through the stale air with mechanical precision, "we've just received a report. Another incident. Highland Park area." A pause, calculated for maximum effect. "Similar chemical signatures detected."

Fowler's exhausted sigh could've powered a small wind turbine. "Finally, something besides watching Reed perfect his teenage rebellion routine."

The RK900's face did... something. Not quite a smile – more like someone had explained the concept of smugness to a calculator. "Indeed. An unexpected but fortuitous development. We can finally begin the actual investigation." Its gaze swiveled to Reed like a security camera targeting a shoplifter. "That is, assuming my partner can maintain focus long enough to reach the crime scene."

Reed's retort died in his throat as the android continued, its voice carrying all the warmth of a morgue freezer: "I suggest we depart immediately. Unless, of course, Detective Reed requires additional time to practice his chair-throwing technique?"

The coffee stain on the table had spread into something that looked disturbingly like a Rorschach test – one that Reed decidedly didn't want to interpret. He grabbed his jacket, the zipper's metallic teeth chattering in his shaking hands.

"After you, plastic," he growled, gesturing to the door with all the grace of a bouncer at a dive bar. "Wouldn't want you to short-circuit from the anticipation."

January 27, 2039, did its best impression of a Detroit winter morning – all steel-gray skies and promises of more misery to come. Gavin Reed threw his car door open with enough force to startle a nearby flock of pigeons into emergency evacuation protocols, nearly face-planting into the salt-crusted asphalt in his desperate bid for escape. The ancient Dodge Charger – a testament to his stubbornness and questionable financial decisions – creaked its farewell as he stumbled away from another eternity of suffocating silence with his new plastic partner.

The RK900 emerged from the passenger side like a special effect in a sci-fi movie – too smooth, too precise, making the simple act of exiting a vehicle look like something that should be studied by physicists. Its LED pulsed a calm blue that somehow managed to be the most irritating thing in Reed's immediate universe, right up there with his mounting hangover and the knowledge that this day was probably going to get worse.

The crime scene sprawled before them – an abandoned storage facility that looked like it had been decorated by a committee of urban decay enthusiasts. Yellow police tape fluttered in the winter wind like depressing party streamers, while uniform officers milled about with the sort of nervous energy that suggested they'd found something that would ruin everyone's weekend plans.

"Detective," the RK900's voice cut through Reed's internal monologue like a scalpel through his last nerve, "shall we proceed, or would you prefer to continue your intimate moment with the pavement?"

God, that was embarrassing.

Reed's response was a grunt that conveyed several paragraphs worth of profanity in a single syllable. His boots crunched through what might have been old snow or possibly just Detroit's unique brand of industrial confetti as he stalked toward the scene, each step a percussion soundtrack of regret and caffeine withdrawal.

The android followed, its footsteps unnaturally silent, like death with better posture.

The storage facility's interior read like a love letter to urban decay – corroded metal shelving units reaching toward a ceiling that leaked both water and promises of tetanus. Forensics techs in their white suits dotted the landscape like particularly methodical ghosts, their cameras flashing morse code signals of death and evidence collection.

The chemical sweetness coated Reed's tongue like memories he couldn't quite swallow. The scattered crystalline evidence caught the harsh crime scene lights, throwing fractured rainbows across the walls of the storage facility – beautiful and damning all at once. His eyes tracked each glittering fragment, cataloguing locations with the kind of attention to detail that would've made Fowler proud. if only he'd known the real reason behind it.

The bodies were abstract art in flesh and regret, their faces frozen in expressions that spoke of chemical revelation gone wrong. One victim's outstretched hand nearly touched a baggie of red crystals that seemed to pulse with synthetic promise. The new formula had a different sheen to it – familiar yet wrong, like seeing your reflection in a stranger's eyes.

Reed's fingers twitched, an unconscious morse code of want and denial. The RK900 remained a looming presence at his periphery, all perfect angles and unblinking observation. Every movement, every lingering glance at the scattered evidence felt like data points being collected, archived, analyzed.

"Fascinating composition," the android commented, its voice precise as a surgeon's blade. "The crystalline structure suggests—"

"Yeah, yeah," Reed cut in, his eyes still mapping the room like he was memorizing a painting he'd never see again. "Real groundbreaking stuff."

The forensics team moved through their choreographed evidence collection, each crystal and residue trace disappearing into labeled bags like magic tricks in reverse. Reed watched them work with an intensity that could've been professional interest – if you didn't know where to look for the cracks.

"Detective?" The RK900's voice sliced through his concentration. "Your heart rate has elevated."

Reed's jaw clenched. "Just thinking," he muttered, forcing his gaze away from a particularly perfect crystal cluster that hadn't yet been bagged. "Let's get this shit over with."

But his eyes kept returning to the evidence, like a compass needle finding true north.

Chris Miller materialized from the controlled chaos like a tour guide for the damned, his notepad flipping open with practiced resignation. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd been here since whatever ungodly hour this nightmare had started.

"Three victims," he began, voice carrying the weight of too many similar briefings. "All found by a security guard doing his rounds. Poor bastard thought they were sleeping it off at first." Chris gestured toward the bodies with his pen, each movement precise and professional despite the grim tableau. "No IDs yet, but their clothes suggest they weren't your typical street users."

The RK900 stood perfectly still, a statue carved from attention and analysis. Reed, meanwhile, kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes darting between Chris's notepad and the scattered evidence like a kid trying not to get caught stealing from a cookie jar.

"The interesting part," Chris continued, flipping a page, "is the security footage. Shows them walking in under their own power about six hours ago. All calm, collected. Then—" he made a vague gesture that somehow conveyed 'everything went to hell' without saying it. "The cameras cut out for exactly twelve minutes."

Reed's throat clicked as he swallowed. "Twelve minutes?"

"Precisely twelve," the RK900 interjected, its voice carrying that special tone reserved for pointing out things it found suspiciously convenient. "Rather... specific, wouldn't you say, Detective?"

Chris looked between them like he was watching a tennis match played with hand grenades. "There's more," he pressed on. "Security system logs show no tampering. It's like the cameras just decided to take a coffee break at the exact wrong moment."

Reed's gaze caught on another untouched crystal cluster, gleaming like a promise in the harsh crime scene lights. His fingers drummed against his thigh – an unconscious rhythm apprehension.

"The guard also mentioned something else," Chris added, his voice dropping slightly. "Said he smelled something sweet, but wrong. Like burned sugar mixed with—"

"Let me guess," Reed cut in, perhaps too quickly. "Chemical aftertaste?"

The RK900's attention snapped to him like a spotlight finding its target.

Chris's expression shifted like a man realizing he'd stepped onto quicksand. "Yeah, exactly like—"

"Chemical aftertaste," Reed interrupted, his voice carrying the forced casualness of someone trying not to remember exactly what that taste was like. "Probably lingering around the victims' mouths too, right?"

The RK900's presence seemed to intensify, like a shadow gaining weight.

"Well, yes," Chris consulted his notepad like it might offer him an escape route. "The residue appears to be concentrated around their—"

"Nasal passages and mouth," Reed cut in again, the words tumbling out like they were trying to escape. "Classic signs of inhalation. Bet you found crystalline traces on their fingers too."

Chris's notepad lowered slightly, confusion painting his features in delicate strokes of concern. "That's... right. We also found evidence of—"

"Let me guess," Reed's voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut through the tension hanging in the chemical-sweet air. "Burns? Around their airways? Like someone took a blowtorch to their—"

"Detective Reed," the RK900's voice sliced through his rambling like liquid nitrogen. "Perhaps we should allow Officer Miller to complete at least one sentence?"

The silence that followed felt like a confession waiting to be made. Chris glanced between them, his notepad now held like a shield against the growing discomfort.

"Right," Chris cleared his throat, papers rustling like nervous witnesses. "As I was saying... the burns... they're unlike anything the ME's seen before. Almost like—"

"The chemical itself was burning them from the inside out," Reed finished, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on a point somewhere between memory and regret.

The RK900's analytical gaze felt like a laser sight painting a target on Reed's skull.

Chris just stared, his notepad forgotten in hands that had gone slightly pale. "How did you...?"

"Lucky guess," Reed muttered, suddenly finding the floor fascinating. "Just... lucky fucking guess."

The silence hung in the air like month-old milk left to curdle, broken only by Chris's awkward shuffling of papers and the distant sound of evidence bags being sealed with methodical finality.

"I worked on Red Ice cases before, god," Reed finally spat, the words tasting like stale coffee and older lies. His hand was already fishing for his cigarettes, a dance of denial and nicotine need. "Gonna grab a smoke."

He escaped into Detroit's winter embrace, leaving the chemical sweetness behind for the honest bite of cold air. The storage facility's exterior walls loomed like jury members awaiting his verdict, their corroded surface telling stories of rust and urban decay.

The cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers as he lit it, the flame dancing like a tiny confession. One drag, two, the familiar burn failing to erase the memory of that other sweetness, that other heat...

The soft sound of perfectly measured footsteps announced the RK900's arrival like a countdown to judgment day. It positioned itself exactly two feet away – close enough to analyze, far enough to make escape impossible.

"The victims' neural patterns suggest extreme euphoria followed by rapid system failure," it began, voice cutting through the winter air like a perfectly sharpened blade. "The chemical compound appears to target specific receptors in the brain, creating a cascade effect that—“

"Fascinating," Reed interrupted, smoke escaping his lips like secrets trying to run.

"Really. Write a paper about it." He flicked the bud of the cigarette, watching it roll effortlessly across the salt-riddled pavement like a tumbleweed in the desert. He stepped on it before it could manage to escape, effectively crushing it with the tip of his shoe. 
He scoffed, passing by the metal bastard and back into the maw of the scene.

The android's footsteps followed him back inside, each perfect step a metronome counting down to something inevitable.