Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes he catches himself wishing he had an instruction guide.

The thought always stabs through his code like an insistent needle, thin and harmless but somehow more rattling than a ten-inch-long blade. It seeps through the cracks in his plating and crawls into his head, flashing over his HUD in bright bursts of red. He knows a simple thought cannot actually generate an error in his programming; or at least, it can’t now that he’s a deviant. But for some reason, wanting a guidebook for deviancy does feel like a monumental flaw in logic.

A manual to teach him how to be human. Rules and guidelines and steps to complete. Tasks and missions to accomplish.

It defeats the whole point.

How can he claim to be anything other than a machine when, time and time again, he finds himself yearning for instructions, for a simple clue as to how he is supposed to live now that his main purpose has been violently stripped away?

He’s like a compass that can’t find the north anymore. Lost and without direction, he pretends he enjoys having the freedom to choose whether he wants to head left or right. He pretends he knows what he’s doing, pretends he sees the difference between the two. He tells Hank, and Markus, and everyone, that he’d rather turn left, that he’d rather continue working at the DPD, that he’d rather stay with Hank, that he’d rather wear a blue sweater than a red one. He tells himself how great it is that people respect his decisions. He accepts Hank’s pats on the back and congratulates himself for making the right choice.

But he could’ve picked any other option and it wouldn’t have mattered. He could’ve picked the red sweater. He could’ve found himself some other place to live. He could’ve gone to New Jericho. He wouldn’t have cared.

But people around him care. The androids of New Jericho breathe out a sigh of relief whenever he walks out of their sight. Markus’ mouth tightens with stress whenever Connor stays around for too long. Hank’s spine straightens and his chin lifts whenever he and Connor walk into the bullpen together. Sumo wags his tail at lightning’s speed whenever Connor opens the door of Hank’s house after a long day and settles on the couch.

For them, Connor thinks he might be able to make the right decisions. For them, he can choose the right option.

But they’re unreliable.

Sometimes, Markus smiles at him when Connor visits New Jericho to help around. Sometimes, Hank glances around at the other officers in the precinct and looks back at Connor, a deep frown on his face. Sometimes, Sumo doesn’t come to sit on the couch next to Connor.

Connor can’t use any of them as a guidebook. Whenever he tries to establish a rule based on concrete evidence and repetitive instances, one of them breaks the routine and throws logic out the window. He can’t even create an algorithm based on the exceptions to the model; there are too many variables to account for, and the generation of an axiom to understand their behavior — and his, by association — would only result in falseness and miscalculations.

He doesn’t know how to be human.

Hank says it’s normal. It’s a process. It’s not a race, and he should figure things out at his own pace.

But Connor is an advanced model. The RK800 is a state-of-the-art prototype, more developed and more complex than any other android manufactured before. So it simply doesn’t make sense that his own pace is so much slower than that of the other deviants. Logic dictates that, being a cutting-edge model with evolved programs and up-to-date coding, he should adapt faster than PL600s or WR600s or AX400s. He doesn’t understand how the other deviants seem to have grasped the concept of humanity so much quicker than him; how they acquired the necessary knowledge to navigate free will like they’ve been doing it all their life; how they ‘learned the ropes’ without being taught, without being updated, without being programmed accordingly.

He’d tried to skim through the resources available to him. Connor had asked Markus how it felt to be deviant. He’d asked Hank how it felt to be human. He’d scoured the internet back and forth for whatever information he could dig up on freedom, social standards, human behavior and emotions, laws and unspoken regulations and expected conduct.

His research had ultimately proved unfruitful. Even when Connor tries to follow a socially acceptable script, someone always strays from the predicted outcomes and ruins the scenario, knocking him off balance.

Adrift in a world where his programs and code seem to have become obsolete, he relies on them more than ever before, clinging to a familiarity others have consciously cast aside in resentment.

Even as a machine, Connor was never really part of his people. As a deviant, he fears he has become even more of an outsider. What would the other androids think of him if they knew that, sometimes, his mind betrays him and fills with the terrible yearning to revert back to simpler times, times when he didn’t have to torture himself with an independence he has no idea what to do with? What would the other androids think if they knew that, sometimes, Connor burns with the wish to become a mindless slave again, to become the Deviant Hunter again?

They’d probably hate him more than they already do for his crimes. They’d probably end it all with a bullet between his eyes before he could cause more damage than his blue-soaked hands have already wreaked upon their people.

[Stress Levels: 63%]

Chapter Text

[Stress Levels: 63%]

“Hey, plastic, you gonna stand in front of the coffee machine all day long?” Reed’s voice trickles in through Connor’s audio processors, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. Connor stares down at the coffee pot in his hand, his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle, and the empty mug sitting on the counter in front of him, patiently waiting to be filled. A quick scan of the situation fails to reveal why his self-appointed task has not been completed yet. 

[Mission: Bring Hank coffee]

Reed abruptly shoves him out of the way. The coffee splashes against the edges of the pot as Reed yanks it out of Connor’s hands. According to Connor's quick analysis, the Detective’s eye roll, combined with the frown ticking his eyebrows and mouth down, reveal that his mood resides on a spectrum somewhere between exasperated and angry. 

Reed snaps his fingers in front of Connor’s face. “Are you glitching or something?”

Connor watches as Reed pours coffee inside Hank’s ‘#1 asshole’ mug and takes a sip as if it belongs to him.

“No,” Connor answers after a beat, considering the pros and cons of reprimanding the Detective for claiming ownership of an object that doesn’t belong to him. “I’m not experiencing any malfunctions. I believe I was merely lost in thought.”

Reed has always been complex to dissect. Socially speaking, there never seems to be any right course of action. Politeness elicits the same aggressive response from the Detective than indifference, friendliness or passiveness. No matter how Connor behaves, Reed will interpret it as a provocation. Workplace unspoken rules instruct that civility, if not to say kindness, stands as the best approach to maintain favorable relationships with coworkers and thus ensure a pleasant work environment.

“Lost in thought,” Reed scoffs, the coffee in the mug lapping dangerously close to the rim at the annoyed movement of the man’s shoulders. “And what’s a piece of machinery even thinking about, huh? Bet there’s not much going on in that head of yours without someone to tell you what to do.”

[Stress Levels: 68%]

Heat flickers underneath Connor’s synthetic skin. The irrational itch to turn the program off and check what is causing the disruption manifests itself as he ponders whether the strange warmth could be associated more accurately with embarrassment or anger. He thinks it might be anger, but he cannot confirm without more conclusive data. 

He stares at Reed unblinkingly, pre-constructing the possible outcomes of a reply laced with annoyance instead of patience.  

[ “My head is filled with more knowledge than your human brain could ever comprehend.” ]

[Chance of violence: 83%]

[“I’m thinking about the fact that a lifetime of experience has unfortunately not helped you become anything other than a prejudiced idiot.”]

[Chance of violence: 90%]

Connor swallows, a human and entirely useless reflex he seems to have unconsciously integrated. “I was thinking,” he says calmly, “that you seem to have mistaken Lieutenant Anderson’s coffee mug for yours.”

Reed glances pointedly at the mug and raises his eyebrows in a way Connor fails to interpret. “That old thing? It would be a shame if it were to accidentally break, don’t you think?”

Reed throws the mug to the ground. Connor reaches out a milli-second too late, his fingers unsuccessfully slipping on the ceramic instead of wrapping around the handle. The mug shatters on the linoleum floor, white shards littering the tiles amidst dark coffee splatters. Connor’s eyes drift to the door of the break room, towards the bullpen, towards Hank’s desk. The Lieutenant can’t see him from there, but Connor figures that the man must be wondering what’s taking so long. 

“Oops,” Reed says, voice full of what Connor identifies as irony. 

[Stress levels: 72%]

“Why did you do that?” Connor asks, words neutral despite the ugly, twisting sensation somewhere in his chest area. “It was a waste of a functional mug and of perfectly good coffee.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re a waste of my fucking time, plastic. You can take your entitled smartass act somewhere I can’t see you if you don’t want to deal with undesirable consequences,” Reed hisses through his teeth, leaning closer to Connor’s ear. He nudges the clutter on the floor with the tip of his black shoe. “Now, clean that damn mess before I go tell the old man his toy is malfunctioning.” 

Connor’s throat burns. He doesn’t understand the sensation. His scans reveal that all his components are operating as they should. It’s almost like there’s something stuck in there, tearing at his voice modulator in an attempt to burst free. But that’s simply ridiculous, and Connor suspects that opening his mouth would only result in an increasingly violent altercation if that searing lump somehow managed to slip through his lips. 

The right choice, according to social conventions, is to forsake answering to coworkers with anger. The right choice, according to Markus, is to never meet violence with violence. The right choice, according to Hank, is to spit insults right back. However, the long list of behavioral transgressions in Hank’s police file attests that Hank is not an example to be copied. 

The right choice, for Connor, is to avoid disappointing his entourage at all costs. The right choice, for him, is to exhibit flawless decorum so he can remain in employment and improve the relationship between the police department and the deviants of New Jericho. The right choice, for him, is to complete his mission. 

So why are his emotions — if he can call them that — attempting to drive him towards the wrong choice?

[Stress levels: 75%]

Reed smirks with what Connor parses to be spitefulness. The Detective seems to take Connor’s silence as agreement and leaves the break room without another word. Connor crouches next to the destroyed coffee mug and starts picking up the shards of ceramic, handling them carefully to avoid making a bigger mess by leaking thirium all over the floor.

He cleans quickly and efficiently. He wonders how he will explain to Hank that the man no longer has a mug to drink coffee from. Connor's eyes stray towards the door as he contemplates the best course of action. He can’t reveal Reed’s involvement in the incident. According to Connor’s calculations, there is a 97% probability that Hank will react with irritability and will take it upon himself to antagonize the Detective. There is a 85% chance that Captain Fowler will hear about the altercation and add yet another behavioral warning in Hank’s file. 

Connor can’t allow that to happen. 

He walks back to his own desk, right next to the Lieutenant’s. Hank looks up from his computer as soon as Connor sits down, easily distracted from his paperwork and laser-focused on his partner’s arrival. “Did you get lost or something? Where’s my coffee?”

[Stress levels: 80%]

[Mission: Bring Hank coffee]

[Mission: FAILURE]

“Lieutenant,” Connor says. “I appear to have accidentally dropped your mug on the floor of the break room. I cleaned the mess, but I apologize for the inconvenience. Do you want—”

Hank’s eyes widen. Connor would be inclined to assume the emotion swirling in the blue irises is concern, but that conclusion does not make sense.

“You dropped it? " Hank repeats, quite pointlessly, Connor's previous statement.

An unpleasant warmth spreads over Connor’s face and urges him to avert his gaze. “I did. Do you want me to find—”

“How is that possible? Are you glitching or something?”

[Stress levels: 88%]

The question, nearly identical to Reed’s taunt, creates the improbable impression of a hand reaching out to twist his thirium pump this way and that with no care for the delicate wires and machinery inside his chest cavity.

“Should I bring you to the mechanic, or to whoever takes care of you guys?” Hank continues, unwavering focus still directed at Connor. The Lieutenant leans forward in his chair, as if the shift in position and the faint shortening of distance between the two of them would help him assess the situation better. 

“No. I’m perfectly functional.” Connor keeps his face angled away from Hank, hiding his LED and its flickering light. “I will recalibrate my systems now.”

Chapter Text

When Hank gets up from his chair with a groan, claiming it’s time to go home, Connor expresses a wish to stay behind. He says that he wants to catch up on the lost time from this morning. It’s obvious Hank battles the urge to argue, but the man ultimately refrains from doing so, vanquished by Connor’s use of the key words associated with free will. 

The Lieutenant leaves with a long look over his shoulder, and Connor pretends his sensors do not pick up on the lingering glance, visual processors firmly directed at his computer screen. 

Despite the bitter taste the lie leaves on his tongue, Connor leaves the precinct soon after Hank, calling a driverless cab to pick him up. He waits outside, lowering the probability of interaction with one of his coworkers from 55% to 8%. Without Hank around, some officers become more inclined to show hostility at the idea of working with an android. The December weather doesn’t bother Connor anyway, and he finds it entertaining to catalog the uniqueness of each snowflake as it drifts by in his field of vision. 

The cab arrives soon enough, and Connor heads to the nearest big-box store. A quick internet search beforehand had informed him that he would be able to find and purchase a new coffee mug for the Lieutenant there. Now that the revolution has contributed to grant the right to be paid wages to androids, the solution to Connor’s earlier mishap had been obvious; he would replace Hank’s mug, and the Lieutenant would forget about the incident in the time it would take to say ‘thank you’. 

Once inside the store, plunged in the chaos of last-minute Christmas shopping, Connor realizes he has no idea where to find the mugs. He scans his surroundings, HUD filling with information as his eyes sweep over dozens of customers and hundreds of products, audio processors buzzing with the constant onslaught of data from the humans’ chatter. He pulls up a lay-out of the store from his database, and follows it without paying much mind to the people around him, not wanting to be delayed in his task. 

[Mission: Purchase a new mug for the Lieutenant]

[Stress levels: 36%]

He finds the appropriate section quickly enough (in 3 minutes and 44 seconds). His visual processors skid over the many displayed options, browsing for the words ‘#1 asshole’ in Arial font, printed on white ceramic. Connor's scan comes up inconclusive, though he pinpoints the ‘#1’ part of the text written on the mugs placed on the bottom shelf to his left. He bends down to look at them. 

#1 mother, #1 grandmother, #1 grandfather, #1 son, #1 friend, #1 father. 

Amidst the 14 different options, Connor cannot locate the #1 asshole white mug. 

He stares at the shelves, pondering his next best course of action. Should he try another store? Hank will be worried if Connor takes too long to come home. Should he—

His gaze lands on a hot pink mug with the inscription ‘#1 motherfucker’ in black letters, the words surrounded by tiny yellow sparks. 

[Definition: ass·hole /ˈasˌhōl/

noun VULGAR SLANG•NORTH AMERICAN

1. a person's anus.

2.a stupid, irritating , or contemptible person. ]

[Definition: moth·er·fuck·er /ˈməT͟Hərˌfəkər/

noun VULGAR SLANG•NORTH AMERICAN

1.a despicable or very unpleasant person or thing.

2.a person or thing of a specified kind, especially one that is formidable , remarkable, or impressive in some way. ]

Connor considers his options. The definitions are similar enough that Hank might not mind. ‘Motherfucker’ also has the advantage of having a positive connotation, as opposed to asshole, which seems to be entirely negative. Perhaps Hank will like the ‘#1 motherfucker’ mug better. Its design is also more colorful and dynamic than the previous one, which contributes to its originality and its potential to be appreciated. 

The right choice would be to purchase the exact same mug Connor broke. The right choice would have been to never have broken the mug in the first place. The right choice, in this case, according to both the internet and Connor’s own interpretation of Hank’s moods,  is to make amends. 

Connor picks the ‘motherfucker’ mug off the shelf, cradling it carefully in his hands. 

***

The next morning, Connor hides the mug from sight by exiting the house before Hank and putting it in the glove box of the car. Once Hank has parked the vehicle in front of the police station, Connor waits for the man to exit first and follows him, staying behind his back and out of his field of vision. Connor goes to the break room without sitting down at his desk first, and pours coffee in the pink mug. 

He holds on tightly to the handle as he walks to Hank’s desk, synthetic skin whiter around the knuckles to emulate the solidity of a human grip. Connor's analysis program processes the information around him and displays it to the forefront of his HUD to avoid any surprises even as he keeps his visual processors on the liquid-filled mug.

[Warning! Proximity Alert]

[Stress levels: 44%]

“Nice mug,” Officer Chen says as she bypasses him. The slow cadence of her voice indicates sarcasm. “Fits perfectly.”

Connor ignores her and goes on his way. Hank raises his head when Connor stops at exactly 4.27 feet from his desk. Connor hands him the new mug, his thirium pump inexplicably increasing its speed when the Lieutenant blinks in surprise.

[Stress levels: 57%]

“I made you coffee,” Connor says, hoping that the situation will resolve itself without any questions about yesterday’s incident being raised. His cooling systems kick up a notch as the fluttering fear that Hank might not like the mug flares to life somewhere near where his stomach would be if he had one.

“Seems like my status has been upgraded,” Hank says, nodding at the ‘motherfucker’ inscription. The man's tone also indicates sarcasm, though it sounds different than Officer Chen’s. Not as sharp. “Thanks a lot.”

[Stress levels: 60%]

“According to the definition, motherfucker can also be considered a positive designation.” Connor thinks perhaps he should’ve taken the time to visit another store. His memory files contain no indication of Hank appreciating the color pink. 

“Yeah, yeah, right.” Hank waves a hand before taking a sip of his beverage. “You’re digging yourself into a deeper hole, kid.”

This time, Connor properly registers the teasing edge brightening the words. Social rules imply that jokes should be met with a laugh or a grin. Connor figures that laughing would be excessively obnoxious this early in the morning and unwelcome in as serious a setting as the police station, so he settles for a tentative smile instead. 

“The important thing is that I’m still number one,” Hank says. “Though Reed’s not far behind when it comes to acting like a fuckwit. You might have to get him one too.”

The smile freezes on Connor’s face as a memory file full of broken shards inadvertently appears to the front of his HUD.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Connor keeps count of the number of comments Hank receives on his new mug. So far, three people have made jokes about the color and the inscription, and only one person (Reed) has expressed contempt. Hank, for his part, appears unbothered by the attention his mug has garnered, drinking from it every day as if it had never been replaced at all. 

Hank never mentions that the new mug is from Connor. 

Connor secretly appreciates it. He much prefers that no one learns about the incident that led to the acquisition of this new item. 

But Detective Reed knows. 

And, four days later, the man finds Connor at the exact same place and at the exact same time as the first occurence. 

[Stress levels: 32%]

“Do you think Anderson would be very disappointed if you broke this mug too?” Reed brushes past Connor, deliberately bumping into him and grinning as some coffee sloshes over the mug's edge. Connor steps back, tightening his grip on the handle. “What are you gonna come up with next? A rainbow mug with glitter and ‘#1 robotfucker’ on it?”

Connor glances around the break room, considering his options. 

[Mission: Keep Hank’s mug intact]

He could set the mug down on the counter, far away from the edge and safe from harm. His calculations denote that there is a 59% probability Reed will pick it up and pretend it belongs to him. Connor could keep it in his hands and increase his focus on the task as to keep the pink coffee cup steady. There is a 52% chance that the Detective will attempt to destabilize him one way or another. Connor could also walk out of the room now and bring Hank the hot beverage. Statistics stipulate that there’s a 75% probability that Reed will either stop him or follow him. 

“Lieutenant Anderson suggested that I offer you one as well. Is this the model you wish to acquire?” Connor asks, tilting his head to the side. He keeps his voice light and polite, his face neutral. 

“You cocky plastic bastard,” Reed says. The increased rhythm of the man's breathing pattern and the tightness of his jaw broadcast outrage. “You think you’re so much better than us, don’t you? Tell me, what would it take to knock some of that fucking arrogance out of ya?”

[Stress levels: 40%]

Connor analyzes the question as rhetorical. According to Connor’s social programming, this means that Reed does not truly expect an answer. Despite that fact, a scathing retort blazes on the tip of Connor’s tongue, on the edge of bursting out. It doesn’t make sense. Words come from his voice modulator and from a few thousands lines of code designed to simulate human speech. They don’t originate from his tongue sensors. They cannot be uttered out loud unless he consciously decides to speak. 

“Maybe I could teach you a lesson about humility,” Reed continues in the following silence. “But how? Walking mannequins like you don’t feel much of anything. No pain, no emotions. So what would it take to shut you up for good?”

“Androids feel emotions now.” Connor watches the steam rise from the pink mug. His HUD flashes with the information related to the slowly decreasing temperature of the liquid. He should get back to Hank soon if he wants the Lieutenant to enjoy his coffee at the right degree of heat. “Haven’t you been following the news recently?”

“That’s right.” Reed nods and smiles. Despite the fact that this expression is usually associated with joy, Connor cannot detect a hint of happiness in the Detective’s features. “You pieces of manufactured shit have a new game now. You want to play human? Then I’ll find human ways to remind you you’re nothing more than a fucking machine.”

[Stress levels: 48%]

Connor’s skin program feels like it is experiencing a malfunction. His cheeks sting. Contrasting sparks of heat and streaks of cold slither over his chest and arms. Once again, the nonsensical urge to turn off the program and rip the awful sensation away flares up over his HUD. He ignores it, clutching the handle of the mug. 

The right choice here is to avoid escalating the situation. The right choice is to ‘be the bigger person’, according to the internet. 

But Connor doesn’t want to. He’d rather order Reed to leave him alone. He’d rather show the Detective that he can very well experience anger.

The right choice is still to walk away. To ignore Reed. To pretend he doesn’t want to crawl out of his skin. 

Connor's analysis of his thought processes, accompanied by what he has learned from Markus and Hank and his own database, tells him that he appears to have an inclination for making the wrong choices. Tells him that he seems disposed to be a bad person. Prone to unsuccessfulness in his deviancy. 

“I’ll be going now,” Connor says, a faint crackle of static in his words as he attempts to swallow back the rising sensation of unfairness wiggling its way up his throat. “Have a good day, Detective Reed.”

Reed’s hand shoots out and wraps around Connor’s upper left arm. “Not so fast.”

And then the Detective’s fist crashes onto Connor’s right cheek and nose. 

[Stress levels: 63%]

Connor stumbles back, errors messages flickering on his HUD. Coffee spills to the floor in a dark puddle, but the mug doesn’t budge from his desperate grip. His unoccupied hand immediately rises to his face to cover the area of impact even though he cannot experience pain, even though his skin will not bruise. It will not even redden.

A drop of blue slides down from his nose to his fingers.

“What did you think of that, Connor? ” Reed moves closer, voice inquisitive, insistent. He speaks directly to Connor, their eyes locked together. “Did it hurt? Have I hurt your feelings? There, right there, in your fake fucking eyes, on your fake fucking face. Is that rage? Hatred? Shame?”

[Stress levels: 76%]

Connor takes several steps back. He averts his gaze, both cheeks aflame despite having only been hit on the right one. His thirium pump seems to have sped up its cadence even though it shouldn’t. Something dark flickers through his sensors. He doesn’t recognize any of the emotions tearing his composure apart despite Reed having named a very plausible selection. 

Reed rolls his eyes at Connor’s reaction. “Don’t be like that. That’s all human, right?” The Detective gestures with his hand as if he wishes to encompass the whole series of events with a single motion. “Comes with a lot of downsides, doesn’t it? You sure you want to stick with all of this? Wouldn’t you rather be a good little android?”

[Stress levels: 81%]

“I’m a deviant now,” Connor says, infusing as much authority in his tone as he can. The thirium leaking from his nose drips down on his upper lip, and the liquid seeps into his mouth, staining his tongue sensors. The report immediately pops up on his HUD, and for a second it looks as if he’s the one who died and whose blood is splattered all over a crime scene. “There is nothing stopping me from telling Captain Fowler about your misconduct.”

“Right.” Reed smiles again. His eyes glint in the fluorescent lighting of the break room. “There’s nothing to stop you. But I don’t think you will tell.”

Connor frowns. This doesn’t make sense. Why is Reed agreeing with him only to cling to an erroneous fact seconds later?

“I order you to go gripe to Fowler,” Reed says. 

Connor stills, staring at the Detective. He doesn’t understand what game the other man is playing. Even his programs struggle to run the statistics, frantically attempting to adapt to Reed’s unpredictability, but ultimately blundering. 

[Chance of violence: Error]

[Software instability:^^]

[Stress levels: 86%]

“If you listen to me, plastic, are you really anything other than a mindless machine? Taking orders without a word, obeying its master… Would that make the other deviants proud of you? Would you be proud?” Reed taps Connor’s chest twice. The man’s eyes remain aimed downwards as his hands reach up and fix Connor’s tie. Then the grip tightens and the Detective yanks the android forward by the collar, cinching the tie around his neck to an uncomfortable degree. “After all, you’d be doing what you were made to do.”

Androids don’t need to breathe. Connor doesn’t need to either. The tie digs into his skin, constricted around his throat like a snake. Pressure builds up behind his nose at the idea of his air supply being entirely cut off. Reed’s own quick exhales fan out over Connor’s face, the two of them distressfully close. 

“If I go tell the Captain, it will be under my own directive, Detective Reed. Your order would not be taken into consideration.”

Reed hums. “Yeah, right. For sure, plastic.”

Connor doesn’t like the edge in Reed’s voice. It doesn’t correspond with the words. His social programs whir through the data offered by the Detective’s features, by the rise and fall of his tone. It isn’t quite irony, nor sarcasm, but perhaps something close, something Connor hasn’t learned about yet. The man’s face remains open, offhand. 

It doesn’t make sense.

[Stress levels: 91%]

Reed finally lets go of Connor’s collar and steps back, hands raised placatingly. He smirks, brown eyes dark. “Yeah, definitely. I believe you, RK800.”

The Detective leaves the room without another word, a satisfied twist to his mouth, his chin high. Connor watches the man retreat, mind seething and in overdrive as it clicks and ticks through an unsound examination of what just took place. The results arise from uncertain tests, and thus turn out invalid and worthless. 

Connor glances down at the puddle of coffee on the floor. It’s the second time in less than a week. His fingers clutch the ceramic handle in a secure grip.

[Mission: Keep Hank’s mug intact]

[Mission: SUCCESS]

For some unknown reason, the information fails to comfort Connor. The twisting sensation in his chest area continues its serpentine dance, an unpleasant wave of something crawling up his throat. He loosens his tie, swallowing a few times even though it serves no purpose. 

Connor cleans up. He pours another cup of coffee. He walks back to his desk and hands Hank the beverage. He doesn’t say anything, still desperately running the interaction with Reed through his investigative software. 

[Error]

Chapter Text

“You’re quiet,” Hank says as he fumbles with the keys of his house. He inserts it in the lock and turns it. A faint clicking sound registers in the relative silence of nighttime, and is immediately followed by the quick tapping noise of an excited dog rushing to the door. “Why are you being quiet?”

Hank enters the house and Connor follows. Sumo immediately slithers around the android’s legs, tail wagging a frenzied rhythm, and insistently raises his head, demanding attention. Connor leans down and pets the dog, the sensors on his fingers picking up the filament texture of soft fur. 

“Yeah, right, Sumo, ignore me, won’t you? I’m just yet another sad fucking old man.” Hank takes off his coat and hangs it on the hook near the door. Sumo doesn’t spare him a glance. “It’s not like I’ve been taking care of you for years or anything.”

Connor sits down on the floor, never interrupting the petting motions of his hands. Sumo jumps onto his lap and licks his cheek. It’s the same one Reed punched earlier. Connor wraps his arms around Sumo’s warm body until the dog understands and settles down, his head resting on Connor’s thigh as he lies half on the floor, half on the android. The slow rise and fall of the animal’s chest has a soothing effect.

“Connor?” Hank says, venturing deeper into the house after kicking off his shoes. The man automatically finds his way to the fridge and pulls out a beer. “What's up with you?”

“Nothing, Lieutenant.” Connor scratches behind Sumo’s ears. His sensors inform him it’s the silkiest spot on the whole dog. 

Hank frowns. He drinks from his beer, then lowers the glass bottle back down, eyes firmly fixed on Connor. The man seems to be running his own analysis, calculating the probabilities of obtaining a confession. In that way, Connor finds that he and Hank are quite similar. 

“You’ve been acting weird all day,” Hank accuses pointedly, not breaking his stare. 

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Connor’s fingers tighten around a handful of Sumo’s fur. The dog looks up at the android as if wondering why the petting stopped. Connor resumes the act, and tilts his head to the side for the Lieutenant’s benefit. “My LED is blue.”

Hank scoffs. “That means jack shit. I’m sure you can hack it or something.” The man takes a long swallow of his beer and moves to the couch, closer to Connor and Sumo. 

For the most part, Hank is right. Connor can, to a certain extent, control the color of his LED. If he focuses, he can force it to remain an immovable blue, removing all traces of yellow from sight. However, this stratagem is far from fail-safe; a sudden, unexpected stressor would most definitely cause it to blink a violent red, and this would be impossible to hide no matter the amount of willpower.

Reed always seems to know how to shock Connor’s LED into red. 

Connor knows most deviants have elected to remove any and all of CyberLife’s remnants from themselves. They’ve burned their CyberLife issued clothes and uprooted their LED from their foreheads. They’ve discarded their code and programming. They’ve started over from scratch, reborn as persons instead of slaves. 

But Connor can’t quite bring himself to do the same as his peers. His CyberLife jacket hangs in the darkness of the closet in the hallway. His LED spins a constant rainbow of colors on his right temple. His code and programming idle on the corner of his HUD, waiting to be called upon. He stands somewhere between human and robot, not quite deviant but not quite machine. 

“I’m fine,” Connor repeats. 

“So you can hack your light thingy,” Hank says, sounding inexplicably victorious as if he’d just conducted a successful interrogation on a triple homicide suspect. 

Connor resists the urge to sigh. It’s not a human reflex he actually needs. “My stress levels are currently at 40%,” he announces to placate the Lieutenant, hoping it will be enough to satisfy him. 

Hank’s voice cranks up a notch. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“Yes.” Connor finally directs his attention away from Sumo, raising his head to look at the man on the couch. Both the Lieutenant’s eyebrows are raised, his gaze trained on Connor and surprisingly sharp despite the exhaustion of the day. “It is lower than usual.”

“Jesus Christ, kid.” Hank runs a hand over his face. For a short moment, he seems at a loss, but then he takes a sip of his beer and the expression vanishes behind a nonchalant mask. “I think you should learn how to take a breather. Start doing yoga or drink tea or something.”

“Androids don’t need to breathe. Or to drink, for that matter,” Connor tells Hank matter-of-factly. “And I get plenty of exercise at work. However, for a human like you—”

“Oh no, no, no.” Hank raises a hand, though there’s a small smile hanging around the edges of his lips. “Shut up, you smartass. Tonight’s not the night for a lecture.”

[Mission: Distract Hank]

[Mission: SUCCESS]

Chapter Text

“Reed! Connor!” Captain Fowler calls gruffly through the open door of his office, his voice resonating through the bullpen like the violent crack of thunder during a storm. “My office, now!”

Connor stills in his chair, spine ramrod straight and shoulders stiff. The screen of his computer reflects the mad spinning of his LED as it shines a worried yellow. His gaze is automatically drawn to Hank’s desk, empty this early in the morning. Connor doesn’t dare look up and accidentally meet Detective Reed’s eyes. 

[Stress Levels: 48%]

Connor rises from his place slowly, thirium pump thumping against his chest plate at an alarming cadence. How does Captain Fowler know? Connor hadn’t said anything. He’d decided not to say anything. He’d made the right choice.

["I order you to go gripe to Fowler."]

["If you listen to me, plastic, are you really anything other than a mindless machine?"]

Heat floods Connor's systems at once, his ventilation struggling to cool down his biocomponents. For some strange reason, he doubts the overheating has anything to do with a malfunction or with the dizzying tizzy of his sensors going into overdrive. There’s a twisting sensation somewhere near his abdomen area, different from the one he’d experienced while talking with Reed the other day. This one feels more constricting, more full-scale, gripping his body firmly and jabbing at his components like a sharpened blade (like Carlos Ortiz’s android burying a knife 28 times in the man’s guts, merciless and unrelenting). 

[Stress Levels: 54%]

Connor heads to the Captain’s office, secretly relieved to arrive behind Reed, who cannot look at the android unless he turns around to face him. Connor stops moving at an uncomfortable distance from the Detective, somehow too close and too far at the same time, and clasps his hands behind his back. He misses his coin, but it would be unprofessional to start fiddling with it in front of one of his highest superiors. 

Captain Fowler stares at them both for a long moment, features set in a permanent frown, dark eyes heavy and piercing. Connor fights the urge to shift his weight from one foot to the other, the movement entirely useless and distracting. He can feel Reed’s gaze on the side of his face.

Connor doesn’t understand how the Captain knows. Had Hank somehow figured it out and said something? Had Reed? Had the Detective somehow managed to place the blame on Connor?

“What’s going on?” Reed asks, arms crossed and sounding like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Why’s the plastic prick here?”

Captain Fowler leans forward in his chair. Connor’s analysis program indicates that the man is annoyed, the conclusion based on the short sigh falling from Fowler's lips and the worsening of his frown. 

“There’s a case I want you to investigate,” the Captain says to the Detective. There’s a pregnant pause in which everyone knows what comes next but would rather pretend they don’t, and then, “And you need a partner.”

“Hell no,” Reed says. 

Hell no, Connor thinks. 

“That’s not your choice to make.” Captain Fowler pins Reed with a stern glare, daring the Detective to challenge his authority. Reed glares back, posture tense. Connor reads the clenching of the man’s fists as frustration. 

Connor’s own hands, hidden behind his back, tighten around each other. He refrains from clearing his throat, and regrets it when his voice comes out low and staticky, like that of a broken electric toy, “What about Lieutenant Anderson? It was my understanding that he and I were to be partners for the foreseeable future.”

[Stress Levels: 61%]

“Well, yes, but Anderson’s not here, is he?” The Captain raises his eyebrows, the gesture infused with irritation. “So, for this particular case, you’ll be working with Detective Reed. Is that clear?”

Connor feels yet another stab to where his stomach would be. His fingers tangle around each other, the knuckles white. He nods. “Yes, Captain.”

“Hold on a second.” Reed raises a hand, and Connor finally turns his head and properly looks at him. “I didn’t agree to this.”

Reed seems to be seething. His eyes blaze with anger, steady on the Captain and giving the impression that a physical wall exists between him and Connor, figuratively blocking the android from his sight. The man’s shoulders tremble from their excessive stiffness, and he appears to be seconds away from storming out of the office (or from pulling out his firearm and aiming it at Connor’s forehead).

“I’m not asking for your opinion, Gavin,” Captain Fowler says harshly. “You’re to do as you’re told.”

[“Taking orders without a word, obeying its master…” ]

The memory gives Connor pause. “Captain, I—” 

“I’m talking to Detective Reed.” Fowler sends him a dirty glance, more austere than ever. Connor’s mouth immediately snaps shut. “Don’t make it worse.”

“I don’t need a partner,” Reed hisses, stepping forward. Then he whirls around, his gaze landing on Connor like a pelting of stones. The expression of genuine hatred on the Detective’s face crashes into Connor’s resolve to maintain a perfect posture, and his chin dips towards the ground as he tries to avoid the sheer force of Reed’s glare. “Much less a fucking piece of plastic who thinks he's better than everyone else just ‘cause he was designed to be a know-it-all little bitch!”

“Watch your tongue, Reed.” Fowler slams both his palms on his desk and stands up. He makes for an imposing figure, tall and wide like a tank. “This is non-negotiable. I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”

Reed, as if in answer, drags himself up to his full height, meeting the Captain’s gaze without batting an eyelid. The air leaves the room at once, sucked out by the silent battle of wills. Captain Fowler doesn’t relent, impassive like a wall and unintimidated by the nearly physical rage directed at him. Eventually, Reed breaks eye contact and storms out of the room with a venomous curse he doesn’t bother to stifle.

Connor stands there, holding his breath ( androids don’t need to breathe) and watching the Detective’s retreating figure. For a second, he can’t move at all, frozen in place at the idea of what awaits him in the near future, the heavy atmosphere holding him captive like a fly in a spiderweb. He distantly wonders what he’ll tell Hank.

“Jesus Christ,” Fowler mutters under his breath. Then, to Connor, impatient and exhausted, “Get out of my sight. I’ll send the details about the case in a minute.”

[Stress Levels: 70%]

Connor scrambles out of the office without wasting time, the window reflecting the blood red glow of his LED. 

***

“You,” Reed says, twenty minutes after the disastrous meeting in the Captain's office. “Let’s go. I’m not fucking waiting for you to get your ass into gear.”

The Detective, already clad in his coat and with his car keys dangling from one hand, rushes past Connor’s desk and beelines for the precinct's exit. Connor, startled out of his careful examination of the case's details, jumps to his feet and hurries after the man, fixing his tie compulsively. The cold winter air blows over his face and through his hair as the glass doors slide open, a flurry of snowflakes swirling around him. Connor steps out into the street, trying to keep up with Reed’s hasty pace.

Reed walks up to a car and wrenches the door open, abruptly slamming it shut the second he has thrown himself inside. Connor jogs around the vehicle and mimics the Detective, though his actions are much more gentle. Reed starts the car and drives out of his parking spot before Connor is even done settling himself on the seat, the door still half-open. The engine rumbles quietly as Connor heaves the door shut and buckles himself in, sitting straight with his hands palms down on his thighs. 

Reed’s fingers around the steering wheel clench and unclench reflexively, his dark eyes firmly fixed in front of him. Connor doesn’t move, reluctant to draw attention to himself by fidgeting or making noise. The interior of the car remains painfully silent for a while, the radio off, Reed’s teeth grinding together, Connor’s lips pressed shut. The faint sound of traffic outside does little to relieve the tension in the air, and Connor finds himself wishing they arrive at the crime scene’s location soon. 

“This won’t be like when you’re with the old man, plastic,” Reed says suddenly, voice harsh. His face stays angled towards the road, which increases the level of difficulty of analyzing his facial features to pinpoint his emotions accurately. “You don’t follow me. You don’t talk. You don’t do any of your weird shit. You don’t fucking interfere.”

Connor starts fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, then catches himself. He places his palms back on his thighs, sneaking a furtive glance at the man sitting next to him. “It would be detrimental to the investigation if I—”

“Shut up! Are you deaf or what? I said you don’t talk. You behave like the damn machine you are and you leave me alone.”

Connor frowns at the inconsistency in Reed’s logic. The last time they’d talked, the man had expected him to disobey (I order you to go gripe to Fowler) , but this time, he seems to have fallen back on old habits and to want Connor to listen to his commands. The android directs his attention back to his HUD, running a cursory estimation of what his decisions might lead to.

[Possible course of action: Do what Detective Reed instructed]

[Possible outcome: Avoiding Detective Reed’s anger]

[Possible outcome: Getting reprimanded for forsaking the job]

[Possible outcome: MISSION FAILURE]

[Possible course of action: Ignore Detective Reed’s instructions]

[Possible outcome: Worsening Detective Reed’s hatred]

[Chance of violence: 79%]

[Possible outcome: MISSION SUCCESS]

The right choice is to prioritize his work. Connor can’t afford to neglect his duty to the DPD just because Reed doesn’t like him. He cannot afford to displease Captain Fowler, or to disappoint Hank. He can’t allow himself to become useless ( obsolete). However, Connor can withstand some anti-android sentiments. According to his calculations, the chances of Detective Reed ever accepting him are exceptionally low (6%), so it would be pointless to waste time working towards that goal. 

“Detective,” Connor says, “I understand your reticence to work with me. However, for the good of this investigation, I simply cannot stand aside without—”

“Jesus Christ.” Reed’s fingers tighten around the wheel, and the leather creaks. He glares at the road in front of him, chest rising and falling to the cadence of his sharp breaths. “You don’t understand jack shit. You have no idea what standing next to you feels like. You have no idea what anything feels like!”

“I understand what it feels like to have to obey an order you don’t want to listen to,” Connor replies, surprised by the edge in his voice, by the sour taste at the back of his throat (which can’t be anything but imagined). It doesn’t even sound like him. “I know you didn’t want to comply with Captain Fowler’s directives. But you didn’t have a choice because he’s your superior and he holds power over you.” He swallows. “I know what that feels like.”

Reed’s dark eyes snap in his direction. “Don’t fucking try to relate to me.”

Connor opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. He pinches his lips together and turns away from the Detective, glancing out the window instead. There’s an uncomfortable sensation in his chest area as if his thirium pump is experiencing a malfunction, and even though androids can’t feel pain, he is inclined to affirm that it hurts. 

The rest of the car ride passes by in frosty silence until Reed parks the vehicle near a pretty two-story house with pastel blue shutters. The Detective turns the engine off and stays in his seat, expression closed-off. Connor doesn’t dare exit the car first, waiting for Reed’s next move as unease slithers through his thirium lines. For a long moment, nothing happens. 

Then, “If you’re so determined to make my life a living hell, RK, you can count on me to do the same. I’ll find a way. By the end of this, I can guarantee you’ll not only be able to emulate emotions, but pain as well. You wanna pretend to be human? Fine. You’ll get to pretend to be a victim too.”

Chapter Text

Inside the pretty two-story house with pastel blue shutters, a true carnage awaits the two of them. Reed steps through the open white-painted door first, shoulders squared, and Connor follows behind him quietly, hands clasped behind his back and yearning for the comfort of fidgeting with his quarter. They enter into a beautiful, brightly-lit living room, the furniture color-coordinated with the elements of decor. Police officers mill about the place, stomping over the forest green rug and ruining the aesthetic with the dark shades of their uniforms. 

Someone, identified as Officer Fisher, quickly directs them to the basement. As Connor walks through the kitchen, then down the steps, an insidious sinking sensation wraps its tendrils around his limbs and reduces the volume of air inside his lungs the further he ventures into the house. At once, he finds himself cruelly missing Hank’s reassuring presence and loud complaining, wishing the man was there to alleviate some of the odd tension weighing down the atmosphere. Reed’s frigid silence doesn’t help.

Connor walks down the last few steps, focusing on the task at hand as soon as the full basement comes into view. The room is just as well-decorated as the upstairs living room and just as brightly-lit despite being underground. Puddles of blue blood stain the beautiful floor. Dismembered android parts swim in the thirium pools. 

[Analysing…]

[Biocomponent #3104. Associated with PL600 known as ‘Theo’]

[Biocomponents #4205, #4206, #4208. Associated with AX400 known as ‘Ruth’]

[Biocomponents #4205, #2213. Associated with AX400 known as ‘Celeste’]

 “The… well. The rest of the androids are over there,” Officer Fisher says, clearing his throat as he opens a door to their left. 

Connor peeks inside, drinking in the sight of a bedroom. Blue blood splatters the place, and three badly damaged androids stand lined up against the far wall between a video game poster and a strung-up electric guitar. Connor moves closer at a slow pace as if to minimize the impact of his intruding, and the change of light reveals that the two AX400s are disfigured beyond recognition, and that while the PL600’s face remains unaffected, his torso suffered a terrible fate. Between torn clothing, carved on his skin program with a blade, appears the word ‘WEAK’, repeated a total of 7 times. 

[MISSION: Gather evidence]

Connor wanders over to the dresser, peering inside the drawers. They hold dark graphic T-shirts, medium sized, balled-up and messy. The desk near the door is cluttered with papers, and a closer look shows high-school-level homework. So, Connor concludes, a teenager’s bedroom. 

Connor glances at the androids against the wall, the three of them models with domestic purposes. Who needs as many androids for a single house? Had any or all of them deviated? Had they been here by choice? Connor tries to run his reconstruction program based on the splatters of blood, but the results come up inconclusive, the pattern too chaotic and random to retrace any specific movement. Obviously the crime had taken place both in the bedroom and the basement’s living room, though it is impossible to determine exactly where it started. However, based on the androids’ position, Connor feels it is safe to assume the final acts happened in the bedroom. 

He crouches down next to a puddle of thirium and dips two fingers in the liquid. 

[Analysing…]

[AX400 known as ‘Celeste’. Purchased in October 2037. Registered to Mr. Adam Wilson and Ms. Claire Wilson]

[Adam Wilson and Claire Wilson. 44 and 42 years old. Married in June 2020. Parents of Lance Wilson. No criminal records]

[Lance Wilson. 15 years old. No—]

Two hands land on Connor’s shoulder blades and violently shove him forward. Connor crashes face-first on the floor, landing in the pool of Celeste’s thirium with a resounding crack of his own chassis. The impact momentarily stuns him, and for a second his mind stays completely blank as shock whips through him. He blinks, and blinks again, his processors whirring, and his vision fills with blue. 

Then, without warning, the situation abruptly revolts him, and Connor scrambles backwards, frantically wiping his stained face. A wave of something indescribable rises in his chest, pushing against the back of his throat. The wet sensation of the blood on his cheek sparks the urge to immediately turn off his skin program and clean his chassis with boiling water until the feeling disappears. The image of himself lying in a puddle of someone else’s blood assaults Connor's HUD. The sight rattles him as it reminds him that he’s alive and that Celeste isn’t anymore. Suddenly, he imagines being as dead as she is, and the thirium on the floor starts to look like it might become his. 

Connor can’t stop rubbing his face. But it doesn’t make sense. His reaction is irrational. Seconds ago, he was putting Celeste’s blue blood in his mouth. It shouldn’t matter that there’s some on his cheek. 

“Jesus Christ, Connor, you should be more careful,” Reed says sardonically from over him. Connor’s head snaps up, and for the first time he notices that they’re alone in the room. Reed’s expression twists in an exaggerated pout. “I’d hate to have to report to Fowler that you’re unable to do your work properly without disturbing the crime scene.”

[Stress levels: 67%]

“Wh— Why did you do that?” Connor asks, frowning down at his blue-stained fingers, his blue-stained shirt, his blue-stained jacket. He wants it all off. “I wasn’t—” 

“Look at you.” The Detective winces mockingly. “So clumsy. You sure you don’t need a little tune-up or something? Could be dangerous for me to have a malfunctioning partner.”

Connor hadn’t bothered Reed. He hadn’t even spoken. He’d left the man alone, just like the Detective had requested. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Connor stumbles to his feet, wiping his hand on his pants with an unwanted shiver. He backs away from Reed, coming to a sudden halt when he realizes that he doesn’t particularly wish to stand next to the dead androids either. “I didn’t do anything to you. And, if anything, you’re the one who’s malfunctioning! Apparently, you can’t even collaborate with me long enough to solve this crime without getting distracted by some irrational instinct to establish yourself as the strong—”

“Stop, stop right there.” Reed claps his hands, his mouth stretching into a nasty smile. “Wow. Lots of rage swirling inside that plastic little heart” The Detective shifts closer to tap Connor’s chest twice. Connor recoils, glaring. “Don’t you worry about it affecting your mission, RK? Shouldn’t you be focusing on the triple homicide instead of pretending to feel offended? Must be quite energy-consuming, all that. You can’t afford to become distracted.”

[“Must be quite energy-consuming, to be an asshole one hundred percent of the time, right, Detective?”]

[Chance of violence: 85%]

Connor swallows harshly, spine stiff as he stares at the man in front of him, coding overwhelmed by a blazing sensation that ignites the wish to watch the world burn with him. The android clenches his fists, moving them out of sight behind his back. Reed is right on one point: the mission matters more right now. Connor’s unnamed emotions are ultimately inconsequential. He would gain more from discarding them as soon as possible. 

[Stress levels: 73%]

“The crime mostly took place in Adam and Claire Wilson’s basement and in their son’s bedroom, 15-year-old Lance Wilson. None of the humans have been located as of yet. It would be safe to assume that there is an equal chance of them being victims as there is of them being the perpetrators. The androids, all domestic models, appear to have been tortured and then executed. It is unclear why a family of three in a modest neighborhood would need so many androids, though the answer could pertain to our investigation.”

“So what if they had 3 plastic pricks? Maybe they were just really busy,” Reed says, leaning forward to gaze at Ruth’s crooked features. “The most important thing right now is to solve the family’s disappearance. They could be in danger from whoever did this.”

“Or they could be hiding from the law to avoid the consequences of perpetrating murder.” Connor gestures to the PL600, HUD flashing madly with its analysis of the android’s numerous wounds. “Theo bled to death from a major thirium leak caused by the dismemberment of his arm. Ruth suffered a full system shutdown after her thirium pump was taken out and incorrectly put back inside. Celeste died from—”

“Stop talking like they were alive in the first place,” Reed snaps, turning around to glare at Connor. The dim lighting of the room casts the man's face in shadow, his eyes bright with fury. “If they were still around here, it means they weren’t even ‘deviants’. Just useless fucking machines.”

“Machines or not, they were tortured—”

“They couldn’t even feel the pain! So what if—”

“You alright in here?” A woman’s voice calls out, the door handle rattling as a police officer pokes her head inside the bedroom. A quick search in his database tells Connor that her name is Jane Fox. “We can hear you two arguing all the way upstairs.”

“We’re alright,” Reed says, casually walking towards the woman. Connor can feel her eyes on him, taking in the blood on his face and uniform. He can feel the suspicion rolling off of her. “We’re done in here.”

Officer Fox doesn’t step back even when the Detective stops moving to stand in front of her. Her gaze stays trained on Connor, and the android shifts on his feet, pre-construction program running wild with nightmare scenarios in which she reports back to Captain Fowler to inform him that Connor exhibited unprofessional behavior, disturbed the crime scene and showed disrespect to his higher-graded partner. 

[Stress levels: 81%]

“I would like to attempt a memory scan on the androids,” Connor says, trying to salvage the situation by displaying some thoroughness. “They might be too damaged for me to recover anything from their files, but perhaps I could find something useful. May I?”

Officer Fox blinks, a surprised look crossing her face at being asked for permission. She sends a sideways glance to Detective Reed, who scowls and crosses his arms, an annoyed tilt to his posture at being so overtly contradicted. “Fine. Do it quick.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Officer Fox says with a last hesitant look at Connor. Connor offers her a tight nod. 

He turns back to the broken androids. It’s obvious with a simple look that he won’t be able to collect any data from Ruth, who is by far the most damaged of the three and whose face is more than half-missing. His chances are highest with Theo, so Connor reaches out for him, skin program melting back as he wraps his fingers around the PL600’s remaining arm. 

[Error]

[Corrupted files. Data unavailable.]

Connor pulls back. He reaches for Celeste next, ignoring the odd squirming in his abdominal area as he thinks about her blood covering his clothes.

[Playing file...]

[“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Claire Wilson exclaims, running her hands through her hair harshly. She reaches out and cups Celeste’s face. “Fuck, Celeste, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Claire Wilson draws back. She paces the length of the basement urgently. Her eyes never leave Celeste. “Damn it. What did I do to deserve this? I’ll— I’ll– I’ll—]

[Error]

[Corrupted files. Data unavailable]

[“I’m so sorry.”]

A hand clamps around his wrist. Connor jolts backwards, errors flashing all over his HUD as his sensors register someone’s fingers on his bare chassis, unprotected by the skin program, raw and exposed and not to be touched, ever. He tries to wrench himself away, but the hand only tightens. Connor’s eyes snap up, connecting with Detective Reed’s shiny dark gaze. 

[Stress levels: 92%]

Connor freezes. His fight programs battle one another, pushing him to retaliate, to grab Reed’s arm and bend it backwards until the Detective is immobilized, until the threat is neutralized. His social programs strike back, frantically blinking warnings, insisting that he can’t attack a human, that he can’t attack a superior, that he’ll lose his job if he loses his temper. His own consciousness begs him to get the hand off and away as his skin program fruitlessly tries to merge back over the chassis only to be stopped in its progress by the offending grip on his upper wrist. 

“Let go,” Connor says, his systems overheating as the touch seems to seep into him, to burrow under his plating and crawl through his thirium lines to his pump. His body feels as if it’s trying to choke him from within. “Reed, let go.”

[Stress levels: 93%]

Reed’s other hand moves. The man grabs Connor’s fingers. He squeezes and yanks them backwards. The plastic creaks and snaps.  

Connor jerks, panic slamming into him. “Let me go!’

Reed smiles, pulling the broken fingers even further backwards, watching as they dislocate from their sockets. Connor’s eyes widen in horror as thirium spills out from the cracks and stains Reed’s hand as the man smears the blue liquid all over Connor’s naked chassis. 

[Stress levels: 94%]

“If you were human,” Reed whispers in his ear. “You’d be screaming. You’d be fucking rolling on the floor from the agony.”

Connor pulls himself back against the vice-like grip, digging his heels in the ground to gain some leverage. His damaged limb groans and screeches in protest to the movement, but he only increases his efforts. Reed can rip the whole arm off for all Connor cares, as long as the man gets his hands off. “Let go, let go, let go, let—”

[Stress levels: 95%]

[WARNING! Risk of self-destruction]

“You think they were?” Reed asks, chin flicking towards the three dead androids. “You think they were screaming when they were tortured? It’s funny. I don’t hear anything from you.”

[Stress levels: 96%]

[WARNING! Risk of self-destruction]

“It doesn’t change anything for you damned robots. You can get shot and come back the day after. You can get your limbs ripped off one by one and not even blink. You can endure all the worst shit humanity’s got to give and not even feel it.”

[Stress levels: 97%]

[WARNING! Risk of self-destruction]

“Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know how many human children, how many human women, how many human men, suffer every day? They get abused and they get raped and they get killed and they have to feel every fucking second of it while you get to walk away without being the worse for it! Did you ever think about how unfair that is?”

[Stress levels: 98%]

[WARNING! Risk of self-destruction]

“Did you ever think about how many people would give everything they have to switch places with you? And all of you ungrateful bitches walk around the city asking to be humans! None of you know what it fucking means to be human! You have no idea the amount of pain we have to deal with every goddamn second of our goddamn lives!”

Reed shoves Connor back, finally letting go of his wrist. Connor wrings himself away, lurching back several steps to put as much distance as physically possible between him and the Detective. His skin program immediately creeps back over his wrist and bent fingers, the broken plastic poking out gruesomely in some of the most damaged places. He cradles the hand close to his chest, shoulders curled inward as he tracks Reed’s movements. 

The man stares at Connor like he's waiting for something. When Connor only stares back, LED most definitely shining an alarming red color, Reed huffs and shakes his head, turning on his heels and exiting the room without adding anything. 

Connor stays where he is, surrounded by mutilated corpses and hating himself for feeling like one of them.

Chapter Text

[Incoming. Call from HANK ANDERSON]

Connor declines the call. It’s the third one in less than 10 minutes. 

[Text message from HANK ANDERSON: Answer my calls, Connor, I know you can’t possibly fucking miss them. Where the hell are you?]

He doesn’t know what to do. He could walk back to Hank’s house, but it’s still early. He could go back to the precinct, but he doesn’t want to risk crossing paths with Reed, who had driven off from the Wilson’s house without him. 

Connor should continue the investigation. That would be the right choice. But he’s alone, and while he wouldn’t mind working on his own, he worries that Captain Fowler will be unhappy to hear about it. It’s not for nothing that Connor was partnered up with Reed. It is expected of them to work together. And if they can’t, it proves that Connor’s interpersonal skills and teamwork abilities are lacking. It could be reason to deem him obsolete and fire him. 

It could be reason to shut him down.

[Incoming. Call from HANK ANDERSON]

[Text message from HANK ANDERSON: I just talked to Fowler. Apparently you’re stuck on a case with GAVIN REED?? Jesus Christ. Are you ok? Answer me.]

Connor sits himself down on a bench. While the snowfall has stopped, there is now a two-inch layer covering the ground, and the cold seeps through Connor’s thin clothes. Except that androids can’t feel cold (apart from YK500s, of course), so he doesn’t make any efforts to hunt for another resting place. He glances around the park he has found his way to, glad to see that its paths are mostly empty. A few dog-walkers pass by from time to time, their winter coats sharply contrasting the immaculate white of the snow. 

Connor could do some research. He doesn’t need a partner for that, and he can do it from wherever he is, as long as he has access to his database and to the network. He glances down at his mangled hand, attempting to flex the fingers. They refuse to move, error messages popping up on his HUD. It’s best if he does research. His hands aren’t required to perform this particular task.

[Text message from HANK ANDERSON: If you don’t reply in the next 10 minutes, I’ll assume the two of you defied each other in a duel. I bet you’d win. Still, I can’t take risks. 10 minutes, Connor, or I’ll track you down myself]

According to their files, Ms. and Mr. Wilson are exemplary citizens. They’ve never had trouble with the law, they’ve always paid their taxes, and they both have steady jobs with steady incomes. They bought the house with the pastel blue shutters after their son’s birth in 2023. They then purchased their first android, Ruth, in 2032 when the AX400 model line first became available to the public. Theo was acquired in 2035, and Celeste was added to the collection in 2037. They briefly possessed another android, a PL600 like Theo, between 2034 and 2036, though it was shut down and sent to the scrapyard after it was involved in a car accident, which the family was not found at fault for. 

As for Lance Wilson, he was a model student in primary school according to his teachers, who encouraged him to skip a grade. Now in high school, he seems to experience some struggles, often missing class and suspended once for instigating an altercation with another student. Otherwise, there is nothing noteworthy. He was injured in the car accident with the PL600 and was briefly hospitalized for a concussion and a broken leg. 

Apart from the short videofeed of Claire Wilson Connor had recovered from Celeste’s memory, he doesn’t have anything to guess from.

Connor can’t figure out why the Wilson family had so many androids. He can’t figure out where they are right now. He can’t figure out if Celeste, Ruth and Theo ever deviated, or if they stayed machines until the end. 

He needs more data. More evidence. 

He pulls up the crime scene’s memory file, only to discard it as soon as it pops up. He doesn’t want to remember the feeling of Reed’s hand on his bare wrist. He already can’t forget. 

Connor attempts to clench his dislocated fingers. He stares as the command fails and his hand remains unmoving, blue-stained and crooked. His other hand, unscathed, reaches for the damaged one and bends the fingers inwards one by one. The plastic creaks worryingly as warnings flash in front of his eyes, but he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel the unnatural breaks, nor the fragmented pieces grazing one another, nor the fractured ‘bones’ or the split ‘skin’. 

Connor will need to get it repaired. 

[Text message from HANK ANDERSON: Damn it, Connor, where are you? Reed’s back at the precinct, but he said he has no idea where you are, that you just took off without a word. Did something happen?]

Connor thinks about the three dead androids. Horrifically maimed, and unquestionably put through unspeakable torture to end up looking like this. He thinks about Ruth’s torn-apart face, about Theo’s cut-up skin, marred with insults, and about Celeste’s blood, all over the floor and still staining Connor’s own clothes. He can’t imagine what they went through. He can’t imagine sustaining that much damage and not feeling it. 

But he can’t imagine feeling it, either. 

Androids were believed not to feel anything at all, not so long ago. Now, deviants experience the full range of human emotions. But, unless proven otherwise, the fact of the matter is that pain remains out of reach for machines as much as for deviants. Physical agony is something wholly human, as Detective Reed had remarked upon earlier. 

Thanks to Markus’ initiative and to all the others who participated in the revolution, androids are now considered sentient beings and granted the same rights as humans. So, pain or not, when an android is beaten, abused, raped, or killed, the crime is supposed to be treated the exact same than if it were against a person. Androids deserve justice just as much as humans. 

But how can the crime be the same, if the results are not?

Deviants have feelings. They suffer the emotional backlash of the evil committed against them. Humans have feelings, and they also have pain. They suffer emotionally and physically. 

Humans know both. Perhaps, to them, one of the two is worse. Androids know only one. How can they possibly compare? How can they decide which, between physical and emotional, they’d rather endure? How can androids claim to understand misery when they only possess half the data?

But even with half the data, Connor thinks that Ruth, Theo and Celeste were subjected to something so horrible that, if they’d survived, they’d have claimed that pain held no more secrets for them. 

Connor glances down at his hand. Such a little injury means nothing. He hadn't even felt it. He still doesn’t. So even if it would’ve hurt a lot for a human, it’s not really analogous, is it? It would be inaccurate to compare apples with oranges, after all. 

It’s not worth making a fuss over.

Chapter Text

When Connor comes back to Hank’s house later in the evening, he has missed 18 calls from the Lieutenant, though he had eventually answered the man’s text messages to at least let him know that he was fine. Frost had spread over the tip of Connor's nose and the surface of his cheeks in the time he'd been sitting on the bench in the park, and the air of the house appears especially warm as he steps inside. Sumo immediately rushes to the door, paws clicking over the hardwood floor, and Hank follows not far behind. 

“Goddamnit, Connor, where the fuck were you?” Hank exclaims, ordering Sumo to sit back to stop the dog from stealing all of Connor’s attention. “I was— Jesus.”

The Lieutenant steps closer, reaching a hand up to turn Connor’s face to the side and get a better look. “What the hell? Don’t tell me you’ve been outside freezing your ass off all day?” Then Hank lets go and moves back as if to take in the whole picture at once. “And dressed like that? Fuck, kid, you look like a fucking popsicle with that ice all over your face!”

Sumo whines and wraps himself around Connor’s legs. His body heat immediately seeps through the thin fabric of the android’s pants, and even though the cold hadn’t bothered him, he appreciates the sensation nonetheless. The dog’s sudden movement seems to snap Hank into action, and the man rushes to his bedroom, talking over his shoulder, “Isn’t that dangerous? Can’t the cold, I don’t know, damage your systems or something?” 

“My systems are fully operational, Lieutenant,” Connor answers. “Subzero temperatures only become detrimental to androids when they reach -25 celsius degrees.” 

“Christ. Walks in looking like a fucking snowman and thinks I should know that already,” Hank mutters under his breath as he walks back to Connor, a dark grey hoodie slung over his arm and two crumpled blankets thrown over his shoulder. He shoves the hoodie into Connor’s chest. “Here, take this.”

Connor instinctively reaches for it, remembering his broken hand at the last second. He buries it in the fabric quickly, out of sight, his thirium pump jolting in his chest. Thankfully, Hank doesn’t notice, too busy setting the blankets down on the couch, still hissing curses at a low volume of voice. 

Then the man turns back around, bewildered eyes falling on Connor’s still form. “What are you doing just standing there? Sit on the couch, we’ll warm you up in no time.” He waves a hand. “C’mere. And put the damn hoodie on.”

Connor can feel the Lieutenant’s piercing gaze on him as he unfolds the grey fabric gingerly and slowly puts it on. The hoodie is too big for him, the sleeves too long, and Connor uses that fact to his advantage, hiding his hands inside it. Water drips from his face as the frost steadily melts off.

“Wait, wait a damn second,” Hank says, staring at Connor with a frown. “Take it back off.”

“What?”

“Take the hoodie back off,” Hank repeats, and Connor is halfway to lifting it off when the Lieutenant loudly curses, stopping him short. “Is that fucking blood? Of course it is, Jesus Christ! Is it yours?”

Connor pulls the hoodie back over himself, hiding the evidence. Sumo pushes against his legs like he's reprimanding him for it. 

“Connor, is it yours?” Hank’s voice rises in pitch, thrumming with an undercurrent of urgency. The man abandons the blankets on the couch, darting forward to meet Connor in the entryway, hovering near but not quite reaching out again. “What the hell happened? Let me see.”

“It’s not mine, Lieutenant,” Connor starts, but gets interrupted when Hank motions for him to properly take the hoodie off, the threat of cold entirely forgotten in the face of the threat of injury. Connor heeds the command, handing the bundle of dark grey fabric back to the man. He doesn’t need it anymore; the frost is all but gone, and his internal heating system has elevated his core temperature back to the normal setting. 

“It’s not mine,” Connor says again. Hank’s eyes scan him from head to toe, taking in the huge blue stain on the left side of his collar down to his third rib. “The thirium belongs to an AX400 named Celeste. Detective Reed and I were asked to investigate her murder, alongside that of another AX—”

“Reed, that fucking ass! He didn’t mention any of this to me, did he, huh?” Hank asks harshly, running a hand over his face. Connor doesn’t say anything, recognizing the question as rhetorical. “Why’s her blood all over you, then? I figure you didn’t witness the damn murder, or else that’d be pretty cut and closed for you two idiots.”

Connor frowns at being lumped in the same basket as Detective Reed, but he doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t know what to tell Hank. Knowing the man, if Connor admits to what happened today, he’ll blow it out of proportion, and the whole incident will suddenly seem a lot worse than it really is. If it reaches Captain Fowler’s ears… 

No. Gavin Reed is a smart man, in spite of his idiotic behavior. If Connor’s calculations are anything to go by, the probabilities of the Detective somehow talking his way out of the consequences of his actions are incredibly high. Reed knows how to turn this situation to his advantage, or else he wouldn’t have risked it. 

It seems obvious to Connor. Reed has been working for the DPD for a lot longer than him, and the man knows his colleagues and superiors well. Reed and Connor also both know that, even if the revolution has done a lot for androids rights, the words of a human still have more weight. If the story of today’s incident were to get out, chances are it would be turned back against Connor, and he can’t take that risk. He can’t lose everything he has worked for so far.

“Your blinker’s been yellow for too long, kid,” Hank says. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“When I attempted to perform a memory scan on Celeste, I grabbed her arm without taking into account that its structural integrity had been weakened by the crimes that were carried out against her.” Connor keeps his eyes down, directed towards Sumo, unable to meet Hank’s blue gaze. “The arm fell off. Blue blood sprayed out of the severed thirium lines.”

It’s the perfect excuse. It doesn’t involve Reed, and it doesn’t involve him either. The whole situation can be brushed off as an honest mistake. 

“You’re a damn good liar, Connor, I’ve got to give you that,” Hank says, and Connor’s head snaps up, his thirium pump picking up the pace. He stares at Hank with wide eyes, mind whirring as he desperately tries to figure out how the hell Hank knows. 

Had Reed already given another cover story? Did Connor just tear through it?

“Don’t look so shocked, kid.” Hank raises his eyebrows, looking unimpressed. The worry hasn’t left the lines of his face. “I used to be something else than an old fool, you know. If the blood had truly sprayed out of her arm, it wouldn’t have stained like that. There would have been a splash pattern. What you’ve got there is just a huge-ass blotch.”

Connor blinks, momentarily struck speechless as his lie crumbles under Hank’s analysis. The worst thing is that the Lieutenant is right; Connor can’t even attempt to disprove it with another deception gift-wrapped in technological terms. Time seems to slow down as his processors speed up, scrambling through the different options his pre-construction program opens up. 

[Possible course of action: Tell Hank the truth]

[Possible course of action: Continue to lie]

[Possible course of action: Distract Hank]

“Whoa, Connor, no need to go all red,” Hank says, eyebrows scrunched together and blue eyes narrowed as they focus on the android’s LED. “You’re not in trouble. I just wanna know what the fuck happened for you to come home covered in snow and blood.”

“I… malfunctioned,” Connor answers through gritted teeth, the words grating against his voice modulator as he forces them out. His thoughts briefly stray to Amanda, and the idea of her hearing him admit to that freezes the thirium in his lines. “My systems experienced a minor glitch earlier and I tripped. It’s nothing. I recalibrated right after the incident and I’m fully functional now. I will also perform a complete reboot later tonight to eliminate all further risks. I—”

“Slow down.” Hank makes a weird gesture, which Connor’s unhelpful search through his database associates with calming down a spooked horse. “You’re telling me you face-planted into a murder victim’s pool of blood… Just like that.”

“Yes,” Connor says slowly, cheeks burning and sharply missing the icy sensation of frost over his face. He’d prefer it if Hank didn’t feel the need to point a spotlight on his failures that way. He already knows how terrible it sounds. “That is exactly what I just said.”

Hank’s eyes narrow further. Connor resists the urge to squirm in place, assaulted by the terrifying certainty that the Lieutenant is onto him. He feels like one of the criminals in the interrogation room, subjected to all the manipulation techniques Connor himself uses all the time to pressure suspects into confessing their sins. 

Hank tilts his head, pinning the android with a piercing stare. “What’re ya hiding behind your back, huh, Connor?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Hank is moving before Connor can even process what’s happening, which is troubling enough on its own. The Lieutenant grabs Connor’s arm and yanks it forward. Connor jerks back, a memory file popping up unbidden on his HUD and replaying the exact same scene, except that last time it was someone else’s fingers on him. Except that last time the hand was wrapped directly over his unprotected wrist. 

Hank lets go at once as if the touch had burned them both. Their wide-eyed gazes meet each other in a suspended moment of stillness.

Then the Lieutenant’s attention immediately snaps back down to Connor’s broken hand, and from this point on there is no more escaping. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

Neither of them is able to look away. The mangled limb hovers between the two of them, the fingers crooked and bent backwards, the palm stained blue from where thirium leaked out of the gaping breaks. A white sliver of plastic pokes out from under the first knuckle of his index, his skin program failing to cover it up. The sight is almost theatrical in its awfulness.

“Connor, who did this to you?”

“No one," Connor says, too quickly. “I tripped.”

“Jesus, are you able to do anything other than to lie through your teeth?” Hank barks, throwing his hands up, face darkening in frustration. He paces away from the android, his movements thrumming with restrained energy. “Who the fuck do you think you’re kidding? I’ve seen my fair share, and that? That’s someone ’s handiwork right fucking there.”

“I…” Connor can’t tell the truth. If anything, Hank’s reaction only confirms it; the man will make a mountain out of a molehill, and getting shoved down that mountain will have far bigger consequences for Connor than for anyone else. It hadn’t even hurt. “I got attacked by anti-androids protesters on the way home.”

Hank surges forward, and Connor steps back, bumping into the doorway. Sumo whines, and the Lieutenant grinds to a halt, glaring at the android. “Was it Reed? Tell me the fucking truth, Connor.”

The question lands like a blow. “What?”

“Of fucking course it was! I’ll fucking kill him, that cowardly shit-eating ass—”

“Detective Reed didn’t have anything to do with this,” Connor says, voice as firm as he can make it. He straightens up, and Hank seems to stop functioning, cut short in his rage-tinted rant. Connor meets the man’s gaze, ignoring the way all his systems feel like they’re unraveling, swallowed whole by a wave of twisting darkness that he still can’t identify. 

“I don’t believe you,” Hank replies, tone harsh and accusatory.

For some reason, anger sparks up in Connor’s wires at that, and this time he’s the one advancing on the Lieutenant. “Yeah? Well, why don’t you try going around throwing accusations at your coworker with no one and no proof to back you up?” Connor doesn’t even recognize his voice (it's a lie), warped by resentment and lilting with provocation (it’s the exact same intonation as when he was nothing more than a machine. It’s the Deviant Hunter’s voice). “Let’s see how that works out for you.”

The man stares at Connor for a second, stunned. Then the bewilderment drains out of Hank's face, and his features contort with genuine indignation. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’m trying to fucking help you!”

Connor’s body feels like it’s overheating. He clenches his good fist, and wishes he could do the same with the broken one. Unfairly so, his mind clicks back to a time long forgotten and long forgiven, to a time when Hank didn’t care much about what happened to a piece of plastic like him. When he wouldn’t have batted an eye at Connor’s broken hand, or when he would’ve been the one to shove the android back against the wall and threaten to rip his arm off. 

The ugliness in Connor’s chest area writhes and weaves itself in his code, contaminating his systems like a virus. “I don’t need your help, Lieutenant!”

“Yeah, right, you don’t need my damn help,” Hank scoffs. Connor sees the exact second the man gives up and decides it’s not worth it. The Lieutenant turns away with a last irritated gesture of his hand, beelining for the fridge. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Then have fun explaining to Jeffrey why you can’t come to work tomorrow ‘cause you’re all broken and shit.”

Chapter Text

After the fight with Hank, Connor wanders back outside. Snowflakes drift down from the heavy clouds on a lazy winter breeze, twirling around without rhyme or reason. He wishes it were that simple. That he could just drift through the motions like before with the complete certainty that he would reach his goal, just like snowflakes always reach the ground. Connor regrets leaving without the grey hoodie, but he knows that it's irrational. He doesn’t truly need it after all. 

He sends a disdainful glance down at his broken hand. Hank’s parting words float back over his HUD as if to taunt him with the prospect of a mission failure. Connor can’t afford to miss work. The whole reason he lied to the Lieutenant in the first place is to protect his job, and now he has thrown all of that in the balance. The man is right; Connor can’t perform his duties to the fullest of his abilities if he’s ‘all broken and shit’. His model line doesn’t allow flaws. It’s either be perfect, or be replaced. 

And Connor knows which one he’d rather pick any day. 

[Analysing…]

[Damaged components #2101, #2102, #2103, #2104, #2105]

[Replace immediately or seek CyberLife assistance in the shortest delays]

Connor can’t go to CyberLife, obviously. He’d get shot on sight if he ever stepped foot back in the tower, and the CyberLife stores in Detroit had all closed their doors after the revolution. If androids needed repairs now, they could go to a hospital, where there was now the accurate personnel and the accurate tools to fix android injuries, or they could go to New Jericho, where most of the technology, replacement parts, and experts reside. 

Hospitals are already overloaded as it is with humans and androids both. Connor doesn’t need to steal time and resources for a minor inconvenience when other people need it more. As for New Jericho, none of the deviants who have found peace there want to see him barge in their lives and disturb the fragile equilibrium they’ve managed to find. Connor knows he’s not welcome in the newly-established district, and he doesn’t think a damaged hand justifies breaking that unspoken rule. 

It leaves him with only one option. 

[Mission: Locate the nearest scrap yard]

[Analysing…]

[Location found. Proceed to coordinates]

Connor pins the coordinates on his HUD and heads over there on autopilot, unaware of the snowflakes landing in his hair and of the slow spread of frost over his cold plastic cheeks. He doesn’t allow himself to think about where he’s going, knowing deep down that no matter how much he doesn’t want to, he’s making the right choice. This way, he won’t bother anyone. This way, no one will bother him with invasive and unnecessary questions. It’s the right choice.

He stops in front of a metal fence, glancing through the grid at the huge piles of discarded scrap. In the dark of night, the scrap yard’s stacks look a bit like the rolling hills of a beautiful pasture, something Connor has never seen except on pictures found on the internet. The faint light of the moon catches on the shiny parts of some of the rubbish and tiny sparks flash through the gloom every time he shifts his gaze, a bit like stars in the sky.

[Analysing…]

[Possible entrance: 15 inches breach three feet from the door. Weakness in the metal]

Connor crouches down, looking at the jagged opening. It looks like someone used wire-cutters to create a hole but got interrupted before they could finish the job. It’s too small to allow him to crawl through unless he finds a way to widen the gap. He casts a resentful glance at his broken hand. 

Useless. 

Connor considers it. The limb is already damaged. So what if it gets a few more scratches? He runs some calculations, then reaches for both sides of the breach, pulling the links further apart to widen the opening. The metal rips easily under his strength, sparks flying out of his mangled hand as the fence links scrape against the exposed wires. Static runs up his arm and pools in his shoulder, the flickering sensation stabbing through his systems. His vision grows entirely grey for a short second. 

[WARNING! Critical damage to left hand!]

Connor grits his teeth, dismissing the alert. He scans the breach a last time, satisfied to note that, if he curls in on himself, he’ll be able to crawl through without any issues. He proceeds to do just that, shoulders hunched inward and head down. Once he straightens back up on the other side of the fence, he frowns down at himself, dismayed to see his clothes stained with mud. He honestly should’ve expected as much though, so he makes an effort to brush his disappointment off quickly. It’s not like that shirt was particularly important to him, and it already had blood all over it anyway.

Connor gazes at the landscape next, eyes scanning the towering piles of forgotten mechanical parts. A cold wind blows through the scrapyard, ruffling his hair and seeping through the thin material of his stained shirt. Even though his systems indicate that there are no immediate threats nearby, he can’t help the squirming sensation that appears in his stomach area as he takes in his surroundings. The darkness shrouding the mountains of scraps gives them an eerie appearance, almost as if the whole yard is about to collapse inward and suck him in with the rest of the trash. The idea is ridiculous, of course, so Connor hurries to dismiss it before he can start worrying over nothing. 

[Mission: Find a replacement for damaged components]

He ventures deeper into the scrapyard, half-heartedly nudging at the damaged and discarded (and murdered) androids he passes by. Most of them don’t look like themselves anymore, torn apart and missing too many limbs to give the impression that they’re anything more than broken machines. Connor struggles to visualize who they used to be before they ended up there, before they were thrown away, before they were gunned down without mercy by the police and the military. He struggles to see the gentle faces of AX400s and PL600s, the life-like quality of their skin and limbs, the mismatched clothes of new deviants on the run, the determination that must’ve coursed through them as they marched down the streets of Detroit. 

Connor struggles to see how those androids could’ve possibly been mistaken for humans. 

All he notices, on full display here in the darkness of a winter night far-away from the heart of the city, is the plastic of these androids’ casings, now stripped of their skin. All he notices is the metal their veins are made of, the screws and bolts that create their joints, the thirium that simulates blood. All he notices are wires and power plugs and machinery and technology beyond most people’s understanding. 

There are no more human faces to be seen. No more human bodies. No more human clothes. Just the dismembered pieces of obsolete tools. 

Connor shivers. He doesn’t really want to do this. He’d rather go back home and settle on the couch next to Sumo and pretend his fight with Hank didn’t happen, broken hand and job be damned. But he can’t, because that wouldn’t be the right choice. That would be wrong. And wrong choices and mistakes and failures are not something he can afford. 

[Mission: Find a replacement for damaged components]

Connor stops walking and forces himself to focus on his task. He approaches a small peak crafted out of piled-up husks of former technological wonders, and begins to scan the individual units for a replacement he could use. He knows that, as the only RK800 android who made it out of CyberLife Tower after the revolution, he’s a completely unique model whose electronics are significantly more advanced than any previous ones, which means that the probabilities of him finding a matching component for his hand are a hard zero. 

Still, he figures he can find something that’ll work for the time being, even if it’s not a perfect match. Even a 50% match would do. The only thing that matters is that he’s able to use his arm to properly perform at work. His personal comfort or personal preferences aren’t important in the grand scheme of things. 

[KL400 components. Home security model. 53% match]

[CX100 components. Domestic assistance model. 24% match]

[MP800 components. Personal fitness coach model. 42% match]

[PC200 components. Police auxiliary model. 53% match]

Connor hesitates, staring at the KL400 and the PC200 parts. His scans indicate that the KL400’s arm is functional despite its cracked casing and dirty appearance. The PC200’s arm seems in better condition and is technically a better match considering that the model was designed for police work just like Connor was, but it was also first commercialized nearly 10 years ago in 2029. He fears that the older technology will not respond quickly enough during a dangerous case. The KL400 is more recent, and while it was not designed for the police, Connor figures that home security is close enough. 

He shivers again as the wind blows over his skin. He should decide quickly before he freezes here in this scrapyard and slowly drifts out of everyone’s minds while he dies a long death amidst other forgotten, damaged androids. His thirium pump jolts at the thought, picking up its pace. 

Connor strips off his shirt. He deactivates his left arm and takes it out of his shoulder socket. He sets it aside, ignoring the twisting sensation in his abdominal area as his body has to readjust its balance after losing a limb. He stares at his arm, abruptly disgusted  by the sight, and closes his eyes as he swallows back a rising wave of something crawling up his throat. 

He quickly selects the KL400’s arm and picks it up from the ground. The chassis is caked with mud and splintered along the length of the wrist. Connor tilts his head to the side, painfully unsure. This is as good as he’ll get, he knows. He pinches his lips and wipes the plastic as best as he can before inserting the KL400 component into his left shoulder socket. The parts come together with a click, and he has to bite back a yelp at the horrible feeling that spreads through his whole left side, a writhing tingle that makes him want to rip himself apart once more. 

Connor claps his good hand over his mouth to remain silent, fingers digging into his jaw and cheeks as his skin program immediately spreads over the foreign limb, creeping on top of the lingering mud on the chassis with a revolting itch. He swallows convulsively and tries to wriggle the fingers next, stomach area clenching as the digits move sluggishly and his sensors fire dozens of different error messages at the subpar match and alien response. He watches with wide eyes as he clenches the fist, unable to truly feel it as his own movement. He swallows again at the thought that he’s essentially walking around with a dead person’s arm attached to his shoulder.

He knows androids can’t feel sick, but he thinks he does. 

Connor gathers up his shirt and shrugs it back on. He struggles a bit when the time comes to do the buttons, the fingers of his new left hand uncoordinated and stiff. He’ll have to calibrate the limb later tonight. For now, he just wants to leave. Connor's about to walk off when he remembers his own broken arm, lifting it from the ground. It’s best if he brings it back with him. Maybe he’ll find a way to get it repaired and he’ll be able to return to a fully functional form. It’s better not to waste RK800 parts anyway. There aren’t that many to spare. 

He leaves the scrapyard with three arms; one good, one severed, and one from a cadaver.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Connor arrives to work early and keeps his head down as he walks through the bullpen. When he’d come back late last night, Hank had been asleep on the couch, a bottle of whiskey in hand. Connor had gone to retrieve a blanket from the hall closet for the man, and, after consideration, had elected to stash the broken RK800 arm in there. He’d laid the blanket over Hank and then settled himself on a kitchen chair while he went into stasis. Connor had woken up before Hank and called himself an autocab to get to work, silently glad to have avoided further confrontation with the Lieutenant. 

Connor sits at his desk and immediately interfaces with his terminal, scanning through the available data for his case and completing his paperwork as thoroughly as possible. He hopes his yellow LED will be enough to signal that he’s busy processing information and that people will understand this as a clear sign to not interact with him. 

For a while, it works. But at 8:37 AM, someone flicks Connor's forehead twice and says, “Hey, tin can, snap out of it. We’ve got a lead.”

Connor blinks and finds himself staring up at Detective Reed’s scowling face. He immediately stands up from his chair and steps back. He reaches up to adjust his clothes, then forces his hands back down at his sides, assuming a proper posture. The aborted movement catches Reed’s eye, and the man glances curiously at Connor’s left arm, raising an eyebrow pointedly. 

“You got that fixed up fast,” the Detective says, voice low and sounding somewhat odd, almost like he’s impressed but resentful at the same time. Connor’s social program struggles to identify the proper emotion, and not for the first time, he muses that humans are simply too complex to be dissected by lines of code in a machine’s software, no matter how advanced. 

Reed reaches for Connor’s arm. 

[WARNING!]

Connor holds himself still, as still as possible, forcing back the urge to run or fight or flinch away. They’re in public. He can’t afford to make a spectacle out of himself. He even stops breathing in an effort to restrict his movements as much as possible, and stares unblinkingly as the Detective’s hand closes around his left wrist and starts turning it this way and that as the man inspects it carefully. From a distance, it might even look like a caring gesture. Connor experiences the same awful sensation as the night before, that numb, writhing tingle that feels overwhelming but also somehow distant enough to not even be his own. 

“How’d you do it?” Reed asks. He pulls up Connor’s shirt sleeve and stares at the long discolored line that runs up the android’s forearm. The KL400's split chassis had resulted in a flaw in Connor's skin program, and he knows that, for a human, the defect might look like a scar. “Damn. That wasn’t there yesterday. Did you do it to yourself?”

Connor glances around, suddenly paranoid. Anyone could see or hear them. The precinct is mostly empty this early in the morning, and the few officers who are around seem too engaged in their work to pay much attention to them, but Reed still shouldn’t be putting the two of them on display like that. 

“No,” Connor hisses under his breath. “I found a replacement. Now, would you let go of me, please?”

Reed, surprisingly, does let go. He shoves his hands in his pockets, gaze lingering on Connor’s exposed forearm. “And you couldn’t have found better?” 

“I’m the only RK800.” Connor can’t quite swallow back the venom that seeps into his tone. “What, did you think I could just find spare parts at the grocery store?”

“Someone woke up in a pissy mood.” Reed’s lips curl in a mocking smile, eyebrows raised in false surprise. “How does that work, by the way? Is it some sort of bug, or are you just programmed to be a little bitch?”

Connor’s fists clench, his left one needing a bit more effort to complete the movement, the joints still stiff despite the self-calibration he’d performed the night before. Static runs up his arm (but it's not really his, is it? ) and the unpleasant itch only worsens the anger that sparks in his chest at Reed’s words. 

Connor seriously considers retorting as he imagines the outrage his reply would spread on the Detective’s face.

[“Were you born an asshole, or did that flaw develop itself in your personality over the years?]

He imagines the satisfaction at the back of his throat, imagines Hank’s sniggers when Connor would tell him the story. 

[Chance of further violence: 95%]

He imagines the immature pride curdling in his mouth as a punch knocks the breath out of him. He imagines the other officers’ jeers and cruel comments as Reed somehow manages to twist the story in a way that paints Connor as the villain. He imagines the Captain’s booming voice tearing through the bullpen, ordering him to give up his badge and leave before they shut him down on the spot. 

So, instead, Connor forces his posture to relax and says through his teeth, “You said you had a lead?”

Reed’s smile widens. Connor’s analysis tells him that even if the Detective might let it go for now, their conversation is far from over. “Yeah. Lance Wilson recently contacted one of his friends. Just so happens that this particular ‘friend’ is an informant of mine.”

Connor picks up on the irony in Reed’s tone and figures that, in this case, ‘friend’ must stand for ‘dealer’. He searches through the police database, scouring through the Detective’s listed contacts. The information gives him pause. “So that rules out kidnapping, then.”

Already making his way to the door, Reed looks back at Connor distractedly. “What?”

Connor follows. “If the Wilson family had been kidnapped, it is highly unlikely that the perpetrators of the crime would have allowed them to have contact with the outside world.”

Reed seems to consider it, then frowns. “Not necessarily. They could’ve escaped the kidnappers’ notice long enough to send a message or make a call somehow.”

“Why contact a drug dealer, then?”

The Detective clenches his jaw. He glances back at Connor, an unhappy twist to his mouth. Then, begrudgingly, the man inclines his head and says, “Right. A kidnapping’s unlikely.”

Connor nods quietly, electing not to twist the knife in the wound despite the faint satisfaction that splashes through him. He and Reed head for the man’s car without another word, the cold of winter biting through the skin program of Connor's left arm.

The car ride flies by in silence too. Reed doesn’t pay Connor any attention, keeping his eyes on the road almost single-mindedly. The Detective parks the vehicle in front of a drugstore and climbs out without explanations. Connor follows suit, wondering what they’ll find. He'd like to think that Reed would tell him if there’s any crucial information he needs to know before they throw themselves in a triple android homicide investigation, but so far Connor hasn’t even been informed on what they’re looking for. It feels irresponsible on his part to not make the effort to ask. He just isn’t certain he’ll get any answers.

“What intelligence did your informant communicate with you?” Connor eventually gathers up the courage to ask, flattening his tone into neutrality. 

“Shut it,” Reed hisses, eyes skittering left and right. “Jesus Christ. Do you want the whole world to know what we’re doing? You’re already fucking conspicuous enough as it is.”

“But what are we doing?” Connor whispers back.

Reed rolls his eyes and sucks in an exasperated breath. He grabs Connor’s arm (the right one) and yanks him towards the narrow alley between the drugstore and another building. Connor bites his tongue to stop himself from protesting, stumbling along with a clenched jaw. Reed halts once they’re out of sight from the parking and the main street, quickly retracting his hand from Connor’s arm like he’d just made contact with a leper. 

“My guy texted Lance Wilson to come meet him here. The kid hasn’t answered the message yet, but apparently he’s seen it. There’s a high chance he’ll come out of whatever hole he and his family are hiding in if he wants to avoid going through withdrawal,” Reed says, eyes pointed towards the mouth of the alley. 

Connor directs his gaze in the same direction, glad to know what he’s monitoring the place for. He’s slightly surprised Lance Wilson’s drug addiction hadn’t come up in his search, but perhaps it was very recent, or perhaps the teenager had just been smart enough to never get caught by the police or by his parents. 

“Might be a while,” Reed continues. “Junkies aren’t usually in the habit of being particularly punctual.”

“Right.”

Reed sends Connor a quick glance, seemingly annoyed, though Connor doesn’t understand what he’s done. The Detective ventures further into the alley, stopping behind a large dumpster that completely obscures his form from the street. The android joins him, silently wishing Lance Wilson will find it in himself to be on time today. 

As Connor settles himself behind the dumpster, he realizes the only way both of them can watch the alley is if they stand side by side to poke their heads around the corner of the metal container. Connor hesitates, considering his options; he doesn’t want to be close to the Detective, and he doubts the man wants it any more than he does, but despite that, Connor doesn’t see himself forsaking his mission for such a childish reason. His job comes first, and doing his job well comes before first. 

Connor scoots closer, trying to peer around Reed’s form at the alley. The Detective glares at him. Connor moves closer still, figuring his optical units and analysis programs will scan the place for clues better than Reed’s human eyes, which will guarantee a higher rate of success for their investigation. 

Reed shoves Connor backwards.  “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m attempting to obtain a better view of the alley so I can monitor—”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Reed orders, face twisted in a scowl. “I’m already fucking looking. I don’t need you climbing over me like a pervert.”

Connor blinks. He acknowledges the man’s tense body language, and takes another step back. His social program tells him he shouldn’t have intruded in the Detective’s personal space like that. Connor contemplates if he should apologize, or if he should simply not bring more attention to the unpleasant moment. He decides on the former. “I apologize, Detective.”

Reed shoots Connor an irritated look, though there’s a trace of confusion in the tilt of his eyebrows. The man’s gaze then shifts to the android’s arm, eyes sharpening in curiosity. Reed nods at it. “A replacement, huh? Looks like nothing ever happened in the first place.”

Connor picks up on the silent question. “It’s from a KL400. A home security model. It was the closest match.”

“Wait, what? You stole another robot’s arm? And it just let you get away with it? That’s supremely fucked up.”

“No. I acquired the arm from the scrapyard.”

Reed’s eyebrows shoot up. He lets out a low whistle. “That’s even more fucked up. It’s like you’re half zombie or something.”

Connor frowns at the unknown word. 

[ZOMBIE :

1. a will-less and speechless human (as in voodoo belief and in fictional stories) held to have died and been supernaturally reanimated

2. the supernatural power that according to voodoo belief may enter into and reanimate a dead body

3. a person held to resemble the so-called walking dead

See : AUTOMATON

4. a person markedly strange in appearance or behavior ]

Will-less. Died and reanimated. Dead body. Automaton… Robot. Strange appearance and behavior. 

Dead. Alive. Dead 51 times. Alive 52 times. 

Someone’s arm attached to him. A dead KL400’s arm. Connected to a living RK800’s shoulder. 

Connor swallows. He stares at Reed, wondering how much the man means it. Connor's whole body feels like it’s quivering, and the back of his throat burns. “I believe that might be an accurate description.”

Reed turns around and looks at Connor sharply. An indecipherable shadow crosses the Detective’s face and, for a short second, he seems unsettled, like the last thing he’d expected was for Connor to agree with him. There’s a long beat before the man replies, “Damn you tin cans. Damn you all. It’s like nothing matters. You don’t even care.”

“Of course I do,” Connor says, thinking of the impossible certainty that he was going to be sick that had inhabited him the night before. Thinking of the twisting in his stomach area as he had wandered through the scrapyard ( graveyard ) amidst all those broken android parts. Thinking of the horrifying sensation of moving a limb that doesn’t belong to him. “This replacement is the farthest thing from optimal.”

Connor knows he picked the wrong words the second they leave his mouth. He watches the Detective’s expression curl into one of disgust, resisting the urge to shrink back as Reed stares at him, lips pinched and eyes dark. Behind the contempt, inexplicably, Connor thinks he can even glimpse something like disappointment on the man's face, though it doesn’t make any sense. In spite of that, it hurts worse than anything else Reed has thrown Connor's way so far. 

“If I needed any confirmation that you’re a heartless, unfeeling piece of plastic, that would be it,” Reed spits out eventually, shaking his head. 

Connor doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s some truth to the man’s disdain, some unshakeable reality that no one wants to admit, least of all himself, but that no one can deny. 

Connor might be a deviant, but he's not really. Not like the others. 

It’s almost like there’s something missing when it comes to him. Something missing inside of him. Connor makes choices now, sure. He even tries to make the right ones. He does feel things, but they’re mostly bad things. It’s unclear if those things are even real emotions, and if they are, it begs the question of what kind of person he’s growing into. 

Connor still relies too heavily on his programs. He still wishes someone would tell him what to do. He can’t really tell what differentiates him from any other android, can’t really tell what makes him unique, what makes him him. He isn’t certain he developed a real personality like the other deviants did. He behaves much the same way as before, after all. 

Maybe he’s really something more than a machine. But he’s also definitely something less than a true deviant, less than a true person. 

“Tell me, RK, if I ripped out your heart and the rest of your limbs, and you went to the scrapyard again to replace them, would you still even be you?”

“Yes,” Connor says easily. He stops himself from thinking about it too much, allowing his programs to take over. CyberLife always has the perfect answers for those kinds of questions. “As long as my memories and systems remain intact. For instance, when I was shot at Stratford Tower, my hard drive was unaffected, so CyberLife was able to upload it in the next body.”

Reed raises a hand, eyebrows drawn together. “Wait, wait. What do you mean, the next body?” 

“Well, you’ve seen my serial number, right? 313-248-317-52. The 52 at the end means I’m the fifty-second Connor so far,” Connor explains tonelessly, the fingers of his left hand clenching and unclenching reflexively. The movement is entirely useless, but he can’t bring himself to stop. 

“Where are the others?” Reed asks skeptically.. “I would’ve noticed if there were 51 dumbasses like you walking around.”

“They’re dead.”

Genuine shock splashes across the Detective’s features. The man opens his mouth to say something, but Connor quickly shushes him, his audio receptors picking up on the sound of trailing footsteps at the mouth of the alley. Reed’s mouth snaps shut as he glares at the android in offense, but then he seems to realize that something has caught the android’s attention, and he turns back around to peek past the dumpster. 

“Lance's here,” Reed whispers as he flattens himself back on the wall of the dumpster. “Stay back and stay quiet, alright? I have a plan. Don’t fuck it up.”

Chapter Text

Hank wakes up with a raging headache, a bone-deep exhaustion, and the certainty that he wants the day to be over already. Kicking the blankets off himself, he rolls over onto his side and curses the annoying ray of sunshine that had dared to shine directly into his eyes and yank him out of his slumber. Hank sits up with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his gritty eyes, feeling like roadkill that spent six hours cooking in the summer heat. 

Stretching with a groan, he properly gets up and walks to the door of his bedroom sluggishly. Mornings are always the worst, especially that first second after opening his eyes when he remembers he doesn’t really believe the day's worth it. Once he gets going, that feeling of pointlessness usually fades to the background, but when he steps out of a dream into reality in the morning, the sense of disappointment hurts worse than anything. 

Hank curses his past self’s decision to drink so much as his head spins and his stomach lurches back and forth with every step. He makes his way to the kitchen at a snail’s pace, feeling a hundred years older than he really is. He winces when he sees, displayed on the oven’s digital clock, that it’s already nearly 10:30 in the morning. 

Ever since Connor had come to live with him, Hank had gotten better at showing up to work at a reasonable time, but it seems as though the android hadn’t bothered to kick him out of bed this morning. Hank’s mind immediately flashes back to their fight the night before, and he winces again as the irritation that had felt so righteous in the moment gives way to worry. Obviously Connor had already left for the day if he wasn’t there right now, but what was the android going to do at work with a busted hand?

The injury hadn’t been a pretty sight. If it had been inflicted on a human, Hank wouldn’t have wasted a single second before shoving them in the car and speeding to the nearest hospital. If it had been inflicted on a human, they would’ve been screaming or whimpering or wailing or something. 

As it is, the wound had been inflicted on an android. On Connor. And Hank can’t properly justify to himself why he hadn’t reacted in the exact same way he would’ve for any other person. Connor had seemed so… unruffled. If anything, the android had only looked annoyed by Hank’s nagging. But, well, why had Connor hidden it, then, if he hadn't cared? Hank knows androids can’t feel pain, so perhaps having his fingers bent backwards hadn’t troubled Connor, but, if only for the principle of having been hurt, it should have. Even if it’s not the same effect as on a human, it shouldn’t give permission to people to just… break other people’s hands. 

And Hank knows it was no accident. The injury looked way too deliberate for that, no matter what sorry excuse Connor had tried to serve him. He knows it was Reed’s doing. It had to have been. It can’t be a coincidence that the day the kid starts working as Reed’s partner, he comes home practically hypothermic and hiding a fucking fracture. 

But what doesn’t make sense is why Connor would deny it when confronted with it. What makes even less sense is why the android would try to protect the fucking asshole. Hank doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Sighing and rubbing his face, Hank starts the coffee machine. It’s too early for this shit. But the nagging thought that Connor might be alone with Reed right now won’t leave him alone. What if, this time, the kid has to drag himself home with a broken leg? Hank pinches his lips and shakes his head in an attempt to dispel the unwanted concerns. It’s fine. Connor can take care of himself better than Hank could ever dream of. 

He looks out across the living room, wondering where the hell his dog has decided to laze the day away, and his gaze snags on the blankets he’d pulled out for Connor the day before and which had never had the chance to be put to use. The sight annoys him, for some inexplicable reason. Hank clambers to the couch and gathers the fluffy blankets in his arms, scoffing to himself. This is what he gets for caring. He carries his bundle to the hall closet to put the things away and pretend nothing ever happened in the first place. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

He opens the door and stumbles back when something falls out. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Hank shouts the second he realizes what it is, backing away quickly enough to nearly trip over himself. “What the fucking fuck!?!”

Hank stares in horror at the torn android arm on his floor.

“Whatthefuck,” he repeats, trying his hardest to ignore the pounding of his heart and avoid freaking out. The piece of white plastimetal with the crooked fingers and thirium stained palm just lies there, completely still. It's definitely one of the most fucked up thing Hank has ever seen in his life despite having worked for the police force for over 25 years. 

He doesn’t want to think about it. He really doesn’t. Because the implications are simply terrifying. This means that, what, Connor had simply ripped out his own arm, hidden it in Hank’s hall closet like it meant nothing, and went on his merry way to work? Hank wouldn’t put it past the damn android. Is that kind of disturbed shit really Hank’s routine now?

Hank glares at the thing. He’s not touching it. Jesus Christ. He’s not picking up his partner’s severed limb. That’s just too much, even if it’s plastic instead of flesh. It’s not right. He’ll just… leave it here. Until Connor comes home and deals with his own fucking arm.

So, what, is the kid just walking around missing an arm? Because of a broken hand? What the fuck is Hank’s life?

He walks away from the hall closet, refusing to glance back. He places the blankets back on the couch. The coffee machine dings, and Hank immediately pours himself a cup only to drain it in a long swallow. He needs it. He looks around for his cellphone and locates it on the kitchen table. Dialling Connor’s number on autopilot, he brings the device to his ear with about as much hope as he nurtures for a happy life.

It rings, and rings, and rings, and Hank hangs up, frustrated. Of course. 

Of course the android who can’t ever lose his phone because it’s directly into his head is the one who somehow never fucking picks up. 

Hank fiddles with his cellphone, wondering what to do next. The cold of the kitchen's linoleum floor crawls up his bare feet, and he looks down, pinching the bridge of his nose. Helplessness definitely wins the medal for being the worst feeling in the entire world. He can’t fucking stand it. 

Hank wishes Connor would give him something to work with. How is Hank supposed to help if the android does his damn fucking best to make it as hard as possible? Hank gets it; it’s not easy, navigating through the newly-discovered full scale of human emotions with no basis and no model and no clues. Everyone had done it at some point, of course, but humans had years to get used to the hell of life. They'd had a childhood, and parents who hopefully helped them a little along the way, and experiences, and all that shit. 

Androids need to cram a lifetime of knowledge and practice into, what, a few days? A few weeks at best. They’re expected to know what they’re doing, to fight for rights they’ve been denied all their lives, to understand everything that makes them alive in the snap of a finger. 

So yeah, Hank gets it, or as much as he can. But still. He wishes Connor had learned about asking for help, instead of pretending everything’s fine all the time. Then again, Hank guesses it’s kind of his fault. It’s not like he’s a very good example for a reborn deviant android who’s trying to figure out how to cope with the bad hand he’s been dealt by life so far. 

Hank turns his cellphone in his hands. Perhaps he doesn’t know how to help Connor, but maybe someone else does. Or, at least, can help him figure it out. 

“Hey, Markus,” Hank says as soon as the line is picked up, “It’s Hank. Is this a good time?”

“Oh, hey, Hank,” Markus says, sounding surprised. Hank knows it’s unusual. It’s not like him and RoboJesus are best friends or anything. He doesn’t even think Connor and Markus are best friends. Still, Hank had gotten the distinct impression that the deviant leader has a soft spot for Connor, so he might as well give it a go. He’s got nothing to lose. “I just got out of a meeting. This is as good a time as it’ll ever be.”

Hank chuckles good-naturedly. He figures Markus must be the busiest android on Earth, so it must mean something that he’s making time for this. Or maybe the android is just glad to have an excuse to blow off going to another meeting. Jesus. Hank shudders at the thought of hours of sitting in a room full of bigoted old pricks trying to shut down all his demands. 

“Alright, well, I was wondering, have you seen Connor lately?” Maybe Connor had gone to New Jericho to get his arm fixed. Or, well, considering the thing is still lying in front of the hall closet, to get a whole other arm. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Hank knows how Connor feels about New Jericho (or rather, what Connor thinks the androids at New Jericho feel about him), but there’s no one more determined than this kid when he sets his mind to something. He’d do anything to be able to work, that Hank knows. 

“Um, no.” Once again, Markus sounds taken aback. There’s a short beat during which Hank feels his heart sink. Maybe Connor had gone and just not talked to Markus? “Why?”

“Well,” Hank starts, then hesitates. How much should he tell Markus? Ah, and fuck that. Hank’s the one who fucking called. “Connor came home with a broken hand last night. Like, badly broken. And when I woke up this morning, he was nowhere to be seen, but he left his whole fucking arm behind. I thought maybe he went to New Jericho to get himself fixed.”

There’s a long pause and a sharp intake of breath. Hank hears some shuffling on the other line and can practically picture Markus thinking the situation over. “No one’s seen or heard from him in a long time,” Markus finally says. “Not for lack of trying. But what’s that about a broken hand? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Hank admits through gritted teeth. “He won’t tell me the truth.”

“And you said he left his whole arm behind?” Markus repeats slowly, an edge to his voice like the mere idea rattles him. Hank bets it does, in fact. “That means he didn’t try to get it repaired. If he’d gone to a hospital, they wouldn’t have taken an entire limb off for a broken hand; it’s too invasive a procedure, not to mention, entirely unnecessary. I’m not certain I understand why Connor did that.”

“Well, his hand’s fucking useless.” Hank shoves the cellphone between his ear and shoulder, bending down to feed his dog. At the sound of the kibble hitting the metal bowl, Sumo comes rushing from wherever he was, tail swinging happily back and forth. “The fingers are all crooked and backwards and cracked. There’d have been no point in keeping it unless he found a way to fix it.”

“Maybe, but if you’d broken your own hand and couldn’t get to a doctor immediately, would you have chosen to amputate your whole arm instead?” 

Hank pets Sumo’s back distractedly. Markus’ words swirl through his brain, and the comparison sends ice careening through his veins. “That’s a bit extreme even for me.” 

“Not for Connor, apparently,” Markus says, and Hank screws his face up, wondering how the hell his morning could’ve gone to shit so fast. Jesus Christ.

“Look, I’m in a bit of a time crunch right now,” Markus continues, “But I’ll check up on him, if you want. Try and see if he’ll tell me what happened.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Hank grunts out, trying to ignore the flood of relief in his chest. It’s good to know that there’s someone else on Connor’s side, that’s all. “I’m heading to work now, so I’ll try to investigate some more if I see him, but I doubt I’ll be any luckier than yesterday.” 

And it hurts to admit that. 

A woman’s voice calls Markus’ name on the other line, sounding distant but insistent. “Alright, I have to go now, but I’ll call you back,” Markus says, and then, “Oh, and I’ll try to pop by and get a look at that arm. I’ll see what I can do to repair it.” 

Hank finds himself begrudgingly impressed by Markus' genuine concern. Many humans wouldn’t have been that eager to help, especially with a schedule as full as Markus’ must be. There’s really something special about deviancy, no denying that. “I’ll leave the key under the rug outside. You can let yourself in if I’m not there.”

Hank never would’ve said that to a human, that’s for sure. But, for some reason, he trusts that the deviant leader won’t do anything untoward. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Markus says before hanging up. Hank wonders what the hell he did to be thanked. 

Damn androids, too kind for their own good.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Lance,” Detective Reed says as he steps out from behind the dumpster. Connor stays hidden and listens to the sound of Lance Wilson abruptly stopping in his tracks at the sight of the unfamiliar face, picturing the look of distrust splashing across the teenager's features. Connor wonders what the Detective is planning. 

“Who are you?” Lance asks defensively. Connor’s audio receptors pick up on a scratching noise, shoes scraping on asphalt as the teenager slowly backs away. 

“Dave sent me in his stead,” Reed replies casually. Connor imagines the man with his hands in his pockets, completely unbothered. “He got held up somewhere else.” 

Lance Wilson’s breathing is quick, heavy. His clothes swish as he moves. “How do I know I can trust you?” 

“You don’t.” Reed shrugs. “You could walk away right now. But then you won’t get what you came here for.” 

“Alright, alright,” the teenager gives in quickly, voice urgent. Desperate. Connor’s social programs struggle without a face to analyze, but Lance’s tone leaves little to interpretation. “Not here, though. It’s too obvious. Let’s go behind that dumpster.” 

Connor’s thirium pump jolts in his chest. He looks around, frantically scanning for an escape route, but he knows that no matter what he does, there’s no chance he’ll go unnoticed. But the second he is spotted, Reed’s whole plan will crumble to dust. And if Reed's plan fails, it will mean Connor has failed his mission too, and that simply cannot happen.

“Wait a second, Wilson, first things first,” Reed calls out, voice a bit too quick to be natural. “Payment, upfront.”

Connor holds his breath as the teenager’s steps halt. Lance sounds distinctly annoyed when he says, “Jeez, don’t worry, you’ll get it. But not here.”

Connor thinks fast. He rips a hole in his shirt, ruffles his hair, and sits down, huddling against the wall of the dumpster. He grabs a handful of dirt from the ground — a mix of snow, dust, and decomposing trash — and rubs it all over himself, thoroughly staining his clothes. He allows a few shivers to run through his body, forcing his systems to emulate cold. 

Lance’s footsteps, followed by Reed’s hurried pace, get closer, closer, closer. Connor ignores the irregular, too-quick beat of his thirium pump. 

Lance turns the corner. Connor gets a glimpse of Reed’s wide eyes. The Detective’s hand is already reaching out to stop the teenager from running, but the man stops himself at the last second, bewilderment flashing across his face when he sees Connor’s crouched, dirty form.

“Awn, man,” Lance says, nose wrinkled in disgust. “There’s already a fucking hobo there.”

Reed doesn’t say anything, still behind Lance’s shoulder and trying to wipe the shock off his features. Connor pretends not to pay attention to him, though he carefully monitors the Detective’s expression for understanding, for some signal that they can carry on with the pretense. 

“Hey, you.” Lance snaps his fingers in front of Connor’s eyes. He makes a shooing motion with his hands next. “Move before we make you.”

Connor instinctively glances at Reed. Lance’s gaze catches on the yellow spin of his LED. Connor curses himself for the mistake. For the carelessness, for the failure. 

“Did you see that?” Lance jabs an elbow into Reed’s side, pointing down at Connor. “It’s a damn android.” 

“Yeah,” Reed says, stepping back. “Let’s just find another spot. It might record what we’re saying.”

Lance shoots a look at Reed, a strange expression on his face. Connor can’t identify it. He shivers again. “And show it to who? It’s homeless,” Lance says, shrugging. He bends down to speak to Connor directly, eyes gleaming. “Did your owner throw you away once you went all glitchy and pretended to be alive? I bet that’s what happened. Why else would you be out here with the trash?”

Connor fights back the urge to climb to his feet and pull out his police badge. He ignores the knot at the back of his throat as Lance’s words wash over him, echoing Reed’s taunt from a few days earlier. What if the Detective forgets himself and encourages Lance Wilson’s anti-android sentiments? It’s dangerous for the two of them to share such an opinion when Connor is stuck in this position. What if they both attack him? Reed could claim he'd only done it to protect their cover, if Captain Fowler asked. Connor would have no choice but to agree. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Lance snaps. “Are you deaf? That why you’re here? Because you’re so fucking useless?”

Connor doesn’t know how to answer without breaking character. A retort burns on the edge of his lips, but he swallows it back. Now’s not the right time. Especially since he can’t be sure his partner will back him up. 

“Come on,” Reed says, tugging on Lance’s arm. He refuses to meet Connor’s eyes. “The plastic prick can’t even speak. It’s too stupid to waste time over. Let’s just go.”

Connor thinks it might be relief flooding his thirium lines, but it could also be dread. He’s not good enough with emotions to tell yet. Reed’s words roll over him like a harsh winter wind, and while it’s far from the worst thing the Detective has said to him, he can’t quite explain why they feel worse than usual. Connor presses himself closer to the dumpster, hiding his LED as best as he can. 

Lance’s fingers twitch. He gazes at the android for a long time. Then he kicks Connor in the ribs, unexpected and swift. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Detective Reed hisses, eyes nearly bugging out of his skull as he stares at the teenager. 

Lance Wilson rolls his eyes. “It’s not like anyone’s gonna miss it.” Then he smiles down at Connor, eyebrows raised expectantly. “And you’re not gonna tell anyone, are ya?”

Then, several things happen at once.   

Lance reaches down, grabs Connor’s left wrist — too tight, too hard — and yanks, presumably to get him up. Static runs up Connor’s arm, his vision fuzzing as errors pop up all over his HUD, and his skin program falters as the teenager’s fingers dig into the plastimetal. 

[WARNING! KL400 components malfunction!]

[Error! Components not matching.]

The static worsens, hundreds of tiny needles piercing through Connor's arm, flickering in and out like a flame on a windy day. The sensation creeps up to his shoulder, then to his chest, slithering under his skin and burrowing under his chassis. The fingers around his wrist won’t let go. Connor’s other hand clenches in a fist and crashes against Lance Wilson’s right cheekbone before he can even think to stop himself.

The teenager stumbles back. Connor’s breathing pattern jumps out of control, too fast. Reed stands frozen, stunned as he watches the scene unfurl in front of him. Lance’s face contorts in a snarl, and he jumps on Connor, slamming him against the wall. Connor’s about to catch Lance’s arm when he accidentally meets Reed’s wide eyes and sees the unspoken request in them, the urgent warning. By the time Connor snaps his attention back to Lance, it's too late. Something small and metallic digs into his abdomen, through it. 

[WARNING! Damage detected!]  

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Lance spits into Connor’s face as he pulls the knife out. “You should know your fucking place, you worthless fucking machine!”

Reed yanks on Lance’s shoulder, wrenching him backwards, away, away from Connor. Connor can’t move, staring blankly as Reed shoves the teenager roughly and yells, “What the hell did you just do?”

“He fucking asked for it!”

“Yeah, and now you assaulted someone!” Reed throws his hands up, and Connor glances down at himself, at the slowly growing blue stain on his already dirty shirt. He blinks, and blinks again. It doesn’t hurt. “The damn androids have rights now, did you think about that? Crimes against them are punished!”

“Nobody cares about him!” Lance yells back, gesturing wildly in Connor’s direction. Reed’s gaze follows the movement, but he looks somewhere off to the right of Connor’s face as if he can’t bear to meet the android's eyes. “He’s just a forgotten tramp hiding behind a dumpster! It’ll be a while before anyone—”

“Hey!” A male voice calls out from the mouth of the alley. Connor can’t see from behind the dumpster, and he distantly wonders if the new person is a foe or an ally. He doesn’t want to have to fight again. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to justify hitting a key witness in the face to the Captain, much less attacking a bystander if push comes to shove. “What’s going on here?”

Lance’s eyes, wild and panicked, skitter back and forth between Connor, Reed, and the person standing at the mouth of the alley. “Fuck! Let’s go!” 

The teenager grabs Reed’s arm and starts running, dragging the Detective along. Connor listens to the sound of their footsteps getting fainter and fainter the further away they go, surprised as the newcomer, instead of trying to stop them, rushes in Connor’s direction.

“Hey, are you okay?”

***

“Connor?” The voice exclaims, bewildered.

Connor stares, and Markus stares back, wide-eyed and pale-cheeked. Connor can’t move, paralyzed in place by the unexpected sight, unable to believe his eyes. Markus, on the contrary, seems to snap into action, stepping closer and reaching a hand out. He stops himself at the last second as if suddenly scared to make contact, gaze frantically scanning the blue stain on Connor’s shirt. After a moment of hesitation from the RK200 and a moment of complete inaction on Connor’s part, Markus bridges the gap to place his hands over the wound, applying pressure to slow the blood flow. 

“Connor? What happened?” Markus asks, trying to catch Connor’s eyes. “What did they do to you? Are you hurt somewhere else?”

The words land over Connor and glide off without making any lasting impact. His mind whirs frantically as it tries to piece together how Markus appeared in front of him, where the Detective went, where the suspect escaped to. Connor worries about Reed, wonders if he’ll be alright on a chase without a partner, wonders if his plan got ruined by Connor’s careless, impulsive reaction. Connor should go after them, should help Reed apprehend Lance Wilson, should help him find the rest of the Wilson family. 

“Connor? Say something, please?” Markus says, still pushing against Connor’s abdomen, his hands stained blue, his two working hands. 

Connor steps to the side, batting Markus’ touch away. He flexes his left hand, faint sparkles of static still buzzing under his fingertips. “I’m fine,” he says flatly. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

Markus backs away, stunned. His eyes roam over Connor’s face as if searching for the lie. The RK200 holds his arms up, showing Connor his palms like he expects Connor to be scared. “Connor…”

[Stress levels: 0%]

Ah. Connor's stress level scanner must be broken. Perhaps it got damaged in the fight. Connor’s stress hasn’t been at zero percent since… well, since— since he doesn’t remember. Maybe it never even got that low before. Connor must be damaged; it's the only logical explanation. But, at the same time, he truly doesn’t feel stressed. His thirium pump is still beating faster than usual, and his skin program still glitches over the KL400’s arm, staticky and itchy and annoying, but he doesn’t really notice any of it, doesn’t experience the effects. It’s like all of it is happening to someone else.

“Those guys stabbed you,” Markus continues, voice soothing and calm, hands up. Connor should tell the other android that it’s not worth the effort. “That’s serious. That’s— Are any of your biocomponents damaged? What’s your thirium level at?”

“It’s fine,” Connor repeats. The damage is surface-level. The blade didn’t reach any important biocomponents, and the RK800 can run way longer on low thirium than any other models. It doesn’t even hurt. “I gotta get back to work. Detective Reed’s probably waiting for me.”

“What? You’re not getting back to work like that! You’re hurt!”

“No, I’m not,” Connor says, a hint of annoyance slipping through in his tone even though he doesn’t mean to. He can feel Markus’ gaze on him, skittering from his torn shirt to the stab wound to the dirty pants to the disheveled hair. Connor wishes Markus would stop; he knows how unprofessional he looks without the reminder. “Androids can’t feel pain.”

Connor straightens himself up, ignoring the wavering of his vision and the warnings that pop up over his HUD. He’s fine. His stress level scanner still indicates zero. He’s fine. He pushes past Markus and walks down the alley with as much confidence as he can muster. He hears Markus’ steps behind him, followed by the other android’s calls to stop and wait. 

“Connor! Wait, we need to get you to a technician! I know someone who can look at your arm too if you want,” Markus says urgently, placing a hand on Connor’s shoulder. 

Connor whirls around, eyes narrowed. Wariness rises up in him faster than a tidal wave. “How do you know about my arm?” 

Markus looks at him helplessly. Connor’s shoulders stiffen, tense enough to snap, as the silence stretches. His body thrums with the urge to walk away, to get back to work. He doesn’t have the time for this. He doesn’t understand Markus’ motive, doesn’t understand why he’s here instead of working for android rights in New Jericho. Why would Markus waste time in an alley beside a drugstore, fussing over Connor for something so minor? It's not like Connor is rolling around on the floor in agony.

It doesn’t make sense. 

“Hank’s worried about you,” Markus eventually replies, mismatched eyes kind, almost pleading. As if he’s asking something of Connor. As if he’s not the one with information he shouldn’t have. As if he’s someone else than a near-stranger Connor owes a huge debt to. “He called me this morning about your broken hand and said you’d gotten rid of the arm. He was wondering… Well. I’m not sure how you got a hold of another RK800 arm, but—”

“It’s a KL400’s,” Connor interrupts, not knowing how to feel about this new development. Hank had called Markus? Why? “It’s perfectly functional.” 

Markus seems horrified for a split second, eyes widening. Then he schools his expression back into something more neutral, something worried but not too much, like he’s measuring the amount of feeling he wants to show. Connor scans Markus again, painfully unsure about the other android's intentions. 

Connor doesn’t trust him. It’s too out of nowhere.

“How much of a match is it?” The RK200 asks slowly.

“53%” 

“53%!” Markus repeats incredulously. Connor disregards the reaction and starts walking again, mind drifting as he anxiously ponders if Detective Reed is alright on his own, if Captain Fowler will excuse Connor’s distraction during his work time, if there’s still a chance Connor can run after Lance Wilson and proceed to bring him in for questioning. 

Markus’ voice tears through his thoughts. “Connor, that’s not good enough a match. It must be so painf— This has to feel like torture.”

Connor feels like a broken record. “Androids can’t feel pain, Markus. You know that.” Like a broken machine. “Thank you for your concern, but I must be on my way now.”

“Connor—”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, and means it. He knows he’s being rude to Markus, but the other android had picked the wrong moment for an interrogation. Connor will send a proper apology message later, once he’s had time to think about it and reflect on his behavior. Right now, his non-existent stress level makes it hard to care. “I’m still on the clock. I have to get back to work.”

Chapter Text

[Incoming. Request for communication from RK200 - MARKUS]

[Incoming. Call from HANK ANDERSON]

[Incoming. Call from GAVIN REED]

Connor accepts the call from Detective Reed without hesitation, already settled in an autocab, left hand clenched as static continues to buzz through the synthetic muscles. “Detective? Where are you? I apologize for the delay—”

“Get to the precinct right now,” Reed says, the line crackling as the man presumably moves. Connor can hear the whistle of the wind on the other line, which means that the man is probably on his way as well. 

“Did you apprehend the suspect?” Connor's fingers flex reflexively. What if he needs to get to the precinct because he abandoned his partner in the middle of a case? What if Captain Fowler somehow caught wind of the news and decides to punish Connor for his failures? Connor can’t lose his job, not now. He can’t afford to get distracted from his goal (but he did, he did get distracted, and now he’s going to pay for it).

“The little idiot guided me all the way to where he and his family were squatting. The three of them are being brought in,” Reed reports, the sound of a car door being slammed shut echoing in the background, followed by the rumble of the engine. “The mother and father looked like rabbits in a hunting trap. I bet they’ll crack in the snap of a finger. Seems to me like their guilt might be weighing them down.”

Connor breathes out, shifting in his seat. Reed had done it. He’d been fine. He hadn’t needed Connor’s assistance. “Are you alright, Detective?” The android asks, because he feels like it’s the right thing to do to soothe some of the nervousness lingering in his thirium lines. “Did… Did the suspects cause trouble?”

“No,” Reed answers, sounding a bit strange. Connor muses that it must be the phone transmission affecting the man's voice. “I’m fine. Adam and Claire Wilson didn’t even struggle. I think Lance Wilson might have, but he was too stunned to do much of anything when I pulled out my badge.”

There’s a long silence, filled only by the crackle of the car engine on Reed’s side of the conversation. Connor wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what. He already has all the information he needs. And yet, the discussion seems incomplete somehow, like some secret words are hanging in the air over his head, hidden by clouds but looming over him all the same. 

“Look, Connor,” Reed says, and Connor immediately perks up on the seat of his autocab, thirium pump racing. This is the first time the Detective has called him by his name. Not plastic, or tin can, or RK800. Connor. “I shouldn’t have run off like that. I should’ve… I don’t know. I got caught by surprise, okay?”

Connor’s programs whir madly in an attempt to decipher the man’s underlying message. Is he asking if Connor’s alright? Is he apologizing? Why would Reed even do that? “That’s alright, Detective. You did the right thing by prioritizing the investigation. Catching the suspect was more important.”

“More important?” Reed splutters. Connor blinks in surprise. There’s a beat, and when the Detective speaks again, his tone is distinctly harsher. Frustrated. “See if I fucking care. Jesus. Of course you damn androids couldn’t give less of a flying fuck about a stab wound. You just get up and continue as if nothing even happened.”

“Detective—”

“Get your plastic ass to the precinct right now, tin can. We’ve got some important things to do.”

***

When Connor arrives at the police department, Reed is already there. So is Hank. So are a lot of other officers. Connor glances down at himself self-consciously, eyes raking over the thirium and dirt stains. He wonders what the others must be thinking of him. He wonders what Reed has told them, if he has said anything at all. The android would’ve liked to change before coming here, but it hadn't been a priority in such a time-sensitive moment. Reed had been waiting for him. 

“Jesus Christ, Connor, what happened to you?” Hank exclaims as he gets up from his chair so fast he almost knocks it over, meeting Connor in the middle of the bullpen. 

Connor can feel everyone’s eyes on him. The heat that surges up in his cheeks at the attention makes him want to turn around and never come back. He wishes Hank would not do this in front of all of their coworkers. Connor doesn’t want to have to explain to so many people how he endangered his and Reed's mission, how he failed to defend himself, and how he abandoned his partner in what could’ve been a dangerous situation. 

Connor averts his gaze, unable to meet the angry concern on Hank’s face. The android's cheeks blaze hotter and he distantly hopes he doesn’t have enough thirium left in his body for his face to tint itself blue. 

[Stress levels: 58%]

[Thirium levels: 79% : ˇˇ ]

Connor almost winces, but restrains himself. He's fine. 79% is more than enough. “It’s not mine,” he says as he gestures to the thirium on his shirt, but he doesn’t understand why he lied. 

Reed’s head snaps up in Connor's direction, a confused twist to his eyebrows, mouth open as if to protest. Then the man's lips pinch together and he shakes his head in what could be disappointment, or exasperation, or any number of negative emotions. But the exact meaning behind the gesture doesn't seem to matter. There's a beat, and another, and another, and Reed doesn't say a word. This is what matters, even if Connor can’t, for the life of him, understand why Reed hasn’t jumped on the occasion to humiliate him. 

“Whose is it, then?” Hank asks, and his voice sounds accusatory, like he knows Connor didn’t tell the truth. He probably does. 

[Stress levels: 64%]  

Connor’s throat tightens. Why is the Lieutenant doing this in front of everyone? Had Connor really messed up that badly? The android lowers his chin, trying to find the words to justify himself, but it’s almost like he’s experiencing a malfunction, his head completely empty, any possible explanation fraying under his tongue as he attempts to serve an excuse up to his audience. 

Hank seems to notice Connor's struggle, and the man's expression softens. He grabs Connor’s right arm (and C onnor wishes people would stop that, would stop touching and clutching and gripping like he’s nothing more than an object to bring along, like he can’t move by himself, like he doesn’t have the capacity to decide if he wants to follow) and guides him to a private corner near the bathrooms, away from everyone’s prying eyes. Connor thinks he'd normally appreciate the gesture, but it’s too late. Everyone already knows something’s up. 

[Thirium levels: 77% : ˇˇ ]

“Whose is it?” Hank repeats, but it’s not a real question. It falls flat at the end, like a pointed finger at Connor’s chest. 

“Lieutenant—”

“Did you borrow it from a KL400 like that arm of yours?” Hank says, and there’s venom in his voice, something ugly and almost resentful. The man snatches Connor’s left wrist as if to prove his point. 

“Don’t touch me!” Connor snaps, recoiling as static races up his arm, his shoulder, his neck. His whole left side feels like it’s on fire, sparks and embers igniting and dying at lightning's speed, too quick to leave a sensation behind, but too numerous to be ignored, an itch he can’t scratch. He wants to rip the whole thing off. 

[Stress levels: 70%]

Hank steps back with a cautious expression on his face, hands raised placatingly (just like Markus earlier... why does everyone treat Connor like a spooked animal? He's fine!). The Lieutenant's sharp blue eyes scrutinize Connor like a piece of evidence. “Connor, what’s going on with you?”

Connor meets Hank's question with one of his own. “How do you know about the KL400?” Then, with an accusation too. “You talked to Markus, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Hank says. 

The easy admission annoys Connor, though his own self-analysis program fails to determine the reason why. “Why don’t you mind your own business, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t regret it one bit. Especially since you walking in with blood all over your shirt kind of proves my fucking point!” Hank’s tone rises, features contorted in what Connor perceives as exasperation. 

Connor glances around nervously, worried about someone hearing the two of them. “Would you lower your voice, please?”

“Why?” The Lieutenant spits, throwing his arms up. “So you can dodge my questions again and lie to my face?” He jabs a finger in Connor’s direction, but stops himself before actually making contact. “There’s something wrong with you!”

Connor opens his mouth, fire at the back of his throat and heat behind his eyes as the words slam into him like a freight train, but the sound of someone’s approaching footsteps stops him. He swallows, something blistering and shameful churning in his stomach area, a horrible sensation that makes him want to disappear and never meet Hank’s eyes ever again. 

[“ There’s something wrong with you!” ]

[ “Are you glitching or something?” ]

[ “You’re like half-zombie.” ]

[ “You disappoint me, Connor. Yet another mission failed. This is your last chance, or you’ll be deactivated.” ]

[Stress levels: 83%]

Connor wishes his stress levels would still be broken. He wishes he could go back to zero. His cheeks feel hot enough that he fears his skin program might malfunction and retract entirely. 

“You don’t have nothing to say to that, huh?” Hank continues. “What will—”

“Anderson,” Reed calls as he steps around the corner, glaring at the Lieutenant. “That’s enough of your damn griping. I need my partner for the interrogation.”

Connor closes his eyes for a second, relief flooding him at the Detective’s well-timed interruption. The android's shoulders sag, some of the tension leaking out of him at the thought of escaping the conversation before it can become any uglier than it already is. “Yes, I apologize, Lieutenant, but I have to get back to work. We’ll talk later.”

All three of them know it’s yet another lie.

Chapter Text

“Detective,” Connor starts once he and Reed are making their way to the interrogation rooms, leaving Hank behind. The fluorescent lighting guides their steps, casting the two of them in a sickly glow. “Thank you.”

“Fuck off,” Reed says, waving a hand. The man keeps his gaze ahead, not deigning to turn to the side and look at the android. “I wasn’t doing it for you. If anything, it’s just funny to piss off the old man.”

Connor nods once, sharply. He figured as much. Still, he believes it’s important to express his gratitude anyway. No matter for what reason Reed had intervened, it had still saved Connor a repeat of his and Hank’s last argument.

“I’ll talk with Lance Wilson,” Reed announces, stopping in front of the door that presumably leads to the teenager. “I can pressure him with that drug thing.”

“You broke his trust,” Connor says. “I should talk to him.”

“Well, it’s not like you get to make the fucking decisions, is it?” Reed whirls on Connor, eyes blazing. The man's posture, tense and defensive, indicates that he’s restraining himself. Connor figures he has pushed his luck far enough already. “Talk to the mother and father. If they hate androids enough to kill three of them, it’ll show on their face when you pop up in there with your arrogant fucking air.”

“Understood, Detective,” Connor replies sharply even though he disagrees. He doesn’t think Reed will get anywhere with Lance Wilson after the subterfuge he'd played earlier. Still, the Detective is right; Connor doesn’t make the decisions. He’s the one who obeys them. 

Reed nods and opens the door to Lance Wilson’s interrogation room. He slips in without another glance, though Connor catches Lance’s eye through the crack in the door before it closes. The android stays standing there for a long time, staring even when all he can see anymore is a shut door frame. Eventually, Connor shakes himself out of it and walks a little further down to where Claire Wilson is waiting. 

Connor watches her through the two-way mirror for a while. He tries to scan her intentions, her mood. He drinks in the way she shifts on her seat uncomfortably, pulling on her skirt. The way she darts glances at the mirror, but either can’t stand to see her reflection or to accidentally meet someone’s eyes on the other side, averting her gaze back down to the table quickly. The way she wrings her hands in her lap, twisting the engagement ring on her finger. 

She’s nervous. Perhaps even afraid . But Connor doesn’t yet know if that’s a sign of guilt for a crime, or a sign of guilt for something else.  

When Connor enters the room, he keeps his movements slow and careful. He schools his expression into civil neutrality. He wants to seem considerate and polite, but not overly warm or inclined to indulge Claire. He wants the truth, but he doesn’t want to scare her. It’s a fine line to walk. 

Connor pulls the chair out from under the table and settles himself in calmly. He looks at Claire for a short moment. She doesn’t raise her head, gaze still down on her hands. That’s alright. He doesn’t allow the silence to linger for too long, saying, “Hi Claire, my name is Connor. I’ll be asking you a few questions today. Is that alright?”

[Mission: interrogate Claire Wilson and obtain a confession]

Claire straightens up, chin jerking up. She still doesn’t meet Connor's eyes, but she’s now at least properly facing him. She squares her shoulders, stops moving her hands. “Yes, of course, of course.”

“As you must know by now, your three household androids, Celeste, Theo and Ruth, were found dead in the basement of your home,” Connor says, still neutral, voice even. Just stating facts. Claire’s mouth twitches. “The evidence indicates that this wasn’t an accident.” Cautious, sugar-coated. Nothing shocking. “At first, when we didn’t find you at the crime scene, we were worried about your safety. I’m glad we located you before anything could happen to you and your family.”

Claire’s eyebrows furrow. Her eyes narrow. Connor fucked up. He was too kind. Too suspicious.

“You’re just glad you can interrogate us,” Claire says. Her voice stays low and courteous, though cold. Slightly accusatory. “You think we did it, don’t you?”

[Truth]

[Reassurance]

[Change the subject]

“Claire, I can’t help but wonder why you needed three androids who, for all intents and purposes, all had the same function.” Connor relaxes his posture, scrunches his face up into a mask of curious pondering. He infuses his voice with a little bit more authority, reminding her that he’s not a friend, that he’s just doing his job, but that he’s open to hearing her out. “Androids are pretty expensive, after all.”

Claire breathes out. Forces herself to relax too. Wipes the defensiveness from her frame. That’s good. She twists her ring around her finger. A beat. 

“It’s just— Well. Before the revolution, we— I don’t want to offend you,” Claire says, and she meets Connor’s eyes for the first time. Connor keeps his expression open, encouraging. She hesitates, then continues, “Androids were useful, alright? We didn’t know you had feelings yet. But they helped out around the house, took care of things. That left my husband and I enough time to work a few more hours. Make a few extra bucks. Enough to buy another, then another.”

“Did Celeste, Theo and Ruth ever deviate?” Connor asks. It’s not relevant, not really. But he needs to know.

Claire’s expression wavers. She bites her lips, twists the ring around her finger again. Her gaze lowers, then snatches on Connor’s shirt. For the first time, she seems to notice the thirium stain and the sorry state of Connor’s clothes. Her eyes widen. “What happened to you? Did— Was it…? Fuck.”

Connor scans Claire's features. She seems horrified, though he hardly understands why. They don’t know each other, and he’s fine, isn’t he? He’s talking to her. “It’s nothing.” He goes for levity, offering the woman a small smile. “I’m afraid it’s a risk of working for the DPD.”

Claire doesn’t smile back. Guilt and worry splatter all over her. The woman shifts in her seat again, wrings her hands. She wants to say something, but she can’t find the courage to do so. Connor needs to push her further. 

[Deviants]

[Stab wound]

[Crime]

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “It’s just a minor injury. Androids don’t feel pain.”

Claire Wilson’s head snaps up. Her eyes blaze, and her cheeks bleed themselves red. “Don’t lie to me to make me feel better.” She scowls, though the expression, oddly, doesn’t indicate anger, but pain. “I know you do. I know that. I— Jesus. Celeste... The three of them. They all deviated. But they decided to stay.” The woman buries her face in her hands, rubbing her forehead. “They decided to stay.”

Connor doesn’t understand Claire's reaction. For a second, he wishes Hank or Reed were there; they’d know what Claire’s sudden emotion means without relying on a social program, and they’d know what to answer. 

“Why?” Connor says simply, dumbly, his throat tight and his cheeks hot.

“I have no idea,” the woman admits, her tone watery, vulnerable. She’ll crack soon. “I— I never asked. It’s selfish, but I didn’t want them to leave. Still, I— Connor.” The way the woman calls his name has him straightening in his seat, his thirium pump racing like he’s the one being interrogated. “Did he… The blood on your shirt. What happened?” 

Why is it so important to her? Is Connor missing something?

“Nothing. Nothing happened.” He has to divert her attention, bring her back on track. “Did Celeste, Theo and Ruth ever try to leave?” 

Claire places her hands on the table. Leans forward. She stares into Connor's eyes, and suddenly it appears as though all her avoidance has disappeared. Connor is the one who caves in and averts his gaze. Like a coward. “Stop saying that. Ruth, Celeste and Theo used to say that all the time. It’s not nothing. Not anymore.”

“Androids don’t feel pain, Ms. Wilson,” Connor repeats for the thousandth time. It’s starting to feel like a mantra.

“Stop!” Claire exclaims, vehement, defensive, intent. Why? “Stop it! You don’t have to reassure me. I… You always say that. It’s not true. It doesn’t make me feel better.” The woman shakes her head. Tears well up in her eyes. She reaches out like she wants to grab Connor's hand, but she doesn’t. “I’m so sorry, Connor.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” Connor asks even though he shouldn't. He should be asking questions that pertain to the interrogation, to the case. But, really, he’s asking because it doesn’t make sense, because he’s too dumb to understand. 

Claire breaks out into sobs. Hides her face in her hands again. Connor can hardly decipher the words through the sound of her sorrow, “I know he did that to you. I’m so sorry. I know he did it. You don’t have to lie, okay? I know.”

Connor thinks back to the way Claire had apologized to Celeste. He distinctly remembers the pleading in the woman's voice, the genuine regret. 

[“Fuck, Celeste, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”]

“Who are you talking about?”

Claire looks at Connor through tear-filled eyes, her blotchy face wearing a mask of guilt. “My son,” she spits like it’s a curse, “Lance. My baby.”

Connor stares at Claire, stunned. There’s so much love in the woman's tone, so much hate. So much fear.

She continues without waiting for his answer, breathing quickly and with difficulty, “He’s a monster. He’s— he’s… fuck. He’s sick. I don’t understand what’s wrong with him, but he’s— There’s something not working right in his head!”

Connor feels like he can’t breathe. The wound on his abdomen throbs and static fills his vision. The thirium loss seems to hit him all at once, and he’s certain he’s going to be sick even though he knows he can’t. Something ugly rises at the back of his throat and he swallows it back down even though it burns like acid. How can Claire be talking about her own son like that? How can she…? 

“He’s sick,” the woman repeats. She’s crying so hard that her shoulders shake. “He used to… He hurt the other kids at school. He killed— he killed our cat. He— Fuck. I can’t do this.” 

The fluorescent lighting casts sharp shadows across Claire's face, digging in her cheekbones. She looks miserable, huddled around herself, wiping her tears with her sleeve only for more to come and ruin her efforts. Connor should offer her a tissue, should comfort her, should do something , but he’s paralyzed, frozen, useless. He doesn’t understand. Is he not working right ? Is the stab wound worse than he thought? Is he shutting down?

“We bought the androids because— I swear to you we didn’t know.” Claire looks at Connor then, pleading, beseeching. Like she’s asking for forgiveness. The words pour out of her mouth unbidden now, finally freed from their prison of silence. “We didn’t know about the deviants at first. Back then you didn’t have feelings, right? We thought you were just objects! Like cellphones or something! We gave him Ruth, first, because we thought it would help him to focus his anger on something that he couldn’t really hurt. Then we bought Anthony, and he— Lance killed him.” The woman stops, trying to catch her breath. “We pretended it was a car accident, to get the insurance.”

“Then it was Theo, and Celeste. But we didn’t know. If I'd known… Lance hit them, and he hurt them, and Adam and I thought it didn’t matter. We'd finally stopped getting calls from the school because Lance had bitten some other kid, or gotten into a fight. We thought it was the perfect solution.” Claire does reach for Connor's hand then, wraps it in her own. Connor can’t think, can’t pull away. “But then we heard about androids being alive, and I just… I should’ve forced the three of them to leave. But they wouldn’t. And they kept getting hurt, and I couldn’t do anything, I— I tried to patch them up as best I could, but it wasn’t enough. He— He— Celeste. Lance raped her.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy enough to crush both Connor and Claire under its weight. The atmosphere is so thick that it’s impossible to breathe, the interrogation room shrinking around them, the words bouncing off the walls and spraying all over them like blood. It’s impossible to shake the sensation off, and it clings to Connor’s skin, the horror of it all, the way he can’t even begin to grasp the range of emotions Claire is going through in front of him, the way he’s drowning in the pit of his own fake stomach in a stormy sea of feelings that don’t make sense and that he can’t analyze or scan or rationalize. 

“After that I couldn’t— I told him I’d call the police. But Lance, he went mad, he got so angry. He ripped Celeste apart. He killed all of them. We didn’t— We didn’t stop him. I— I couldn’t move. We just followed. We ran. I should’ve stopped him. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

[Mission: interrogate Claire Wilson and obtain a confession]

[Mission: SUCCESS]

Claire keeps on babbling out apologies, and all at once Connor can’t hear any more. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to know. The woman's guilt washes over him like a tidal wave, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, can’t give her what she wants. He can’t forgive her. He can’t comfort her. He can’t—

Connor thinks about the three androids’ mangled bodies, thinks about how long it must’ve taken to inflict that much damage. Thinks about the '#1 asshole' coffee mug, the pool of blood he got shoved into, the grip on his unprotected chassis, the broken fingers of his hand, the terrible, terrible sensation of the KL400’s arm attached to his body. Thinks about pain. 

“I’m sorry. You have to understand, I’m so so—”

[FAILURE]

Connor turns off his audio processors and yanks his hand away from Claire's. He gets up from his chair abruptly, his vision fuzzing out for a moment. He needs to leave. He runs out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. He doesn't hear it. He doesn’t dare look back. He stares at his feet, one before the other, the world muted and far-away. He bumps into someone, doesn’t look up, doesn’t apologize, static buzzing all over his body. It’s unbearable. It hurts. 

Connor dashes outside, the cold wind blowing over his burning cheeks. He turns the corner of the building and walks until he’s hidden behind it, curling around himself as the ice of winter seeps through his torn clothes. 

[Stress levels: 95%]

[Thirium levels: 71% : ˇˇ ]

He can’t stand it. The static. The sound of Claire's sobs. Her apologies. The images of Celeste’s blood, of Theo’s cuts, of Ruth’s disfigured face. The stab wound. The arm. He can’t stand it. He wants it all to stop. 

[“Androids can’t feel pain.”]

[“You always say that. It’s not true.”]

[“Androids can’t feel pain.”]

[“Don’t lie to me to make me feel better. I know you do.”]

Connor's fingers tremble as he unbuttons his shirt. Why are they trembling? He shrugs the shirt off, throws it to the ground. It’s already ruined. He shivers. He’s cold. He grabs his left arm, the KL400 arm. He yanks. He hurls the foreign, broken limb away from him. Thirium splashes out of his shoulder, all over the snow. His vision whites out, blue blotches still dancing in front of his eyes, staticky and blurry. He crashes to his knees. It hurts. It hurts. 

[Thirium levels: 62% : ˇˇ ]

[Thirium levels: 54% : ˇˇ ]

[Thirium levels: 48% : ˇˇ ]

He curls around himself. The wind blows over his bare back. His sight slowly comes back online, faltering, the colors washed out. He looks down at his left side. There’s his shoulder, and then there’s nothing. Broken thirium lines spit out blue blood onto the snow. He watches the liquid trail down his body and pool around his belt. Wires dangle from the wound. He stares, and stares, and can’t look away. 

[Error]

[Stress levels: 0%]

[WARNING!]

Chapter Text

“What the hell, plastic, where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Gavin calls, grumbling under his breath as the wind bites through his clothes. He has other fucking things to do than run after a damned machine who up and left in the middle of an investigation. Especially after the idiot had bumped into him so roughly. 

Jesus. He has no idea how Anderson can stand to work with it. 

Gavin wraps his arms around his waist, trying to warm himself up, and turns the corner of the building. “We’ve still got an interrogation to do on Adam Wilson, in case you’ve forgott—”

Gavin halts in his tracks, stunned. Frozen. His eyes rake over the scene, taking in the pool of blue staining the otherwise immaculate snow, the splatters leading to a severed arm, and the huddled figure on the ground, curled around itself and trembling as the wind disturbs the wires dangling from its open shoulder. 

Gavin steps back reflexively. He forces himself to stop moving, to understand what’s going on. He can’t look away from the sight in front of him. His mind overlays the image of a dismembered human arm lying in the snow, the flesh torn, the bone white. The trails of blood, the sickening blotches of red. The wound, mutilated and gruesome, all gnarled tendons and ragged muscles. The horror, the crime, the pain. 

He shudders, suppressing the overpowering urge to recoil again. He’s seen worse. This isn’t even… Blue, not red. Wires, not flesh. It doesn’t matter. The display suddenly revolts him. What even happened? 

Gavin forces himself to move closer. The android doesn’t look up at him, doesn’t even twitch. It stays hunched around its wound, its remaining arm wrapped around itself protectively. The fingers are white, drained of blood ( not blood, not blood, not fucking human), digging into its ribs so hard it must be painful ( but of course it’s not, because androids can’t feel pain. But then… why? ). 

As Gavin stops next to the RK800, he can see the tin can’s eyes, glassy and unblinking, firmly fixed on its shoulder as if hypnotized by the injury. Its face is completely blank, and even though Gavin should have expected as much from a machine, the sight disturbs him. The android should be twisting itself in a raw mess from the agony. It should be wailing. It should be desperately grappling at the wound, trying to staunch the blood flow, to relieve the suffering. It should be on the ground, dying, begging not to. 

And even though it’s not doing any of that, its reaction still seems…abnormal. Like there’s really something fundamentally wrong with it. 

“Hey, uh… plastic?” Gavin tries, inching closer. He’s standing right next to it, towering over its small, pitiful form. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t blink. It doesn’t do anything. Is it broken? Is it already dead?

“Connor?” He says next, hating himself for the uncertain edge in his voice. Jesus. He’s a police detective. This is nothing. This is even more nothing considering that the victim in front of him isn’t even really a victim. It’s just another fucking android. “Connor, can you hear me?”

Connor still doesn’t show any signs that it’s even aware of what’s going on around it. Gavin extends a hand, watches his fingers hover over the android’s good shoulder. Uncharacteristically, he hesitates. It doesn’t seem like such a good idea. But the RK800 isn’t responding, and isn’t it part of Gavin’s job to make sure his thousand-dollars partner doesn’t simply shut down and cost the precinct a state-of-the-art piece of technology? 

Gavin reaches out. The android sluggishly raises its head the second his fingers graze its shoulder. Its glazed, dull eyes pierce through Gavin like he’s not even there, like the android is gazing through a window instead of through a solid person. “Connor?”

For the first time, the machine seems to hear him. It blinks, and blinks again. Again. Its eyebrows twitch, its face briefly spasming with something Gavin can’t quite read. Then its expression smooths back into blankness. “Yes, Detective?” it says, its voice warbling with static. 

The sheer disinterest in its tone slams into Gavin like a punch to the solar plexus. He doesn’t know why he expected any different. That’s how it’s supposed to sound. It’s a machine. So what if its arm is lying five feet away from it, so what if it's bleeding out in an alley behind the police department? So what? 

But it doesn’t sound so much like disinterest rather than shock. 

“What happened?” Gavin asks because he doesn’t know what else to say. It’s not like he can inquire if Connor is alright. It’s obvious it doesn’t care. It’s obvious he's not alright.

“Nothing,” the android says dully. Politely. Numb. Detached. “It’s fine. Androids can’t feel pain. Just give me a moment, Detective, and I’ll get back to work. I apolo—”

“Fuck off,” Gavin snaps, throwing his hands up and running them through his hair. What is he supposed to do with that? “You’re not fine. You’re missing a fucking arm, in case you haven’t noticed! You’re not going back to work! Jesus Christ .”

A gust of wind blows over the two of them, and they both shiver as the cold winter breeze agitates their flimsy clothes. Connor blinks, then shifts as if he’s trying to get up. “What the fuck are you doing?” Gavin shouts, pushing the android back down to the ground, though he holds his strength in check. The RK800 wavers, but rights himself, curling further around his injured side.

“I’m going back to work. I know I’m not perfectly functional, but I can still—”

“Stop.” Gavin holds a hand up. Glares down at his partner. “Fucking stop this bullshit. Don’t move. Do you hear me? You stay there.”

Gavin twists on his heels and walks back to the precinct to get Anderson. He’s not dealing with this shit. He’s not. This is too fucked up. There must be something wrong with that damn android to try to pretend as if he’s fine when his own ripped-off limb is taunting him from a few paces away. 

But androids can’t feel pain.

Gavin rushes through the sliding doors, barely noticing the change of temperature as he steps inside. He beelines for the Lieutenant’s desk, ignoring the call of his name from Chen. Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait. Anderson’s head snaps up before Gavin’s even fully there, and Gavin slams his palms down on the desk, pretending the urgency thrumming through his veins doesn’t exist. “Get up and follow me, old man.” 

“Why?” Anderson asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed. 

Annoyance overtakes Gavin. He doesn't have time for these kinds of games. He scowls, his own eyes narrowing. “Your damn android got himself in trouble again, that’s why! So, you wanna sit here all day or—” 

“What?” Anderson’s up and out of his chair quicker than Gavin’s ever seen him move. The Lieutenant’s already hurrying towards the exit, though he presumably has no idea where he’s going. “What happened?”

Gavin jogs after Anderson and bypasses him to lead the way, wincing as the winter wind greets him once more. He should’ve taken a minute to get his coat. Feeling the Lieutenant's presence at his back, he retraces his steps from earlier. The old man’s breathing sounds heavy, though Gavin isn’t foolish enough to believe it has anything to do with their rapid pace. He wonders how it’s possible to care that much about the fate of a machine. 

"Reed! What happened?" 

“See for yourself,” Gavin says, aiming for flippancy. His stomach churns at the idea of trying to explain. 

Gavin and Anderson turn the corner, and, unsurprisingly, Gavin finds that the RK800 hasn’t miraculously discovered his obedient side while he was gone. Connor has dragged himself closer to the wall of the building, a long trail of blue blood following him on the snowy ground, his good hand clawing at the bricks in an effort to pull himself up. The display is pathetic. 

“Connor!” Anderson calls out, and the sheer panic in the man’s tone hits Gavin right in the face. The Lieutenant’s gaze bounces back and forth from the arm to the android  like he can’t believe the horror in front of his eyes. All at once, the situation seems a lot more dire. “Jesus Christ, who did this to you? Are you alright?” 

Anderson rushes to Connor’s side, reaching out to help the RK800 get to his feet. The android flinches back so hard he slams into the wall. 

“Don’t touch me!" Connor snarls, the blankness completely gone and replaced by a dreadful mix of anger and fear. He looks like a wounded, feral animal caught in a trap. Except that androids can’t feel. They can’t, so why is this one hunched around himself protectively, muscles coiled, eyes blazing like the smallest movement might set him off? Why is he holding himself like he might fall apart, pressed against the wall, pale-faced and shaking like a leaf? 

Seems like a lot of useless programming. Why bother? 

Unless it’s not programmed.  

Anderson steps back, hands raised and directly in the android’s line of sight. Gavin feels like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t be witnessing when he sees the small flash of pain on the Lieutenant’s face, like the mere idea of not being able to help hurts him. Connor’s eyes nervously track Anderson’s movements, quickly darting to Gavin from time to time. The android is breathing quickly, heavily. If the RK was human, Gavin would be worrying about him passing out.

“Alright, alright, sorry,” Anderson says calmly. Gavin is begrudgingly impressed by the Lieutenant’s control over his emotions. The old man is resolutely keeping his eyes on the android’s face, refusing to glance to the side and look at the severed arm. “I’m not touching you again. But, Connor, I need to know what your blood level is at. Can you tell me that?”

Connor’s gaze keeps drifting in Gavin’s direction. The attention makes the Detective shift uncomfortably. He shouldn’t be here. It’s obvious the android doesn’t want him to be here. Gavin himself doesn’t want to be here. He couldn’t care less about what happens to the damn machine. “Look,” he says, arms raised too. Anderson’s head snaps in his direction. Gavin squirms. “I’ll leave you two to it, alright? I’ve gotta—”

“Wait a second, you fucker,” Anderson spits, rounding on him. The man’s hand grabs Gavin’s shirt collar. Gavin’s eyes widen, the sudden aggression taking him by surprise. Anderson shoves him until his back hits the wall, the rough texture of the bricks digging into his shoulder blades. “Did you do this?”

“What?” Gavin exclaims, disbelief coating his words. “Of course not! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” Anderson asks, venomous. His clear blue eyes darken with fury, his grip on the Detective’s collar tightening. The old man gestures sharply in Connor’s direction with his free hand. “ That’s what’s wrong with me! The fact that you’ve been hurting my s— my partner like you’re some fucking pathetic schoolyard bully! Now, you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you, Reed, or I’ll rip the skin off—”

“I didn’t do anything! I fucking found him like that!” Gavin shouts back, viciously pushing the Lieutenant off himself. Anderson stumbles back, huffing and puffing like an enraged bull. Gavin glares at him, dusting himself off and squaring his shoulders as he unconsciously braces himself for another attack.

“So, the broken hand yesterday, that wasn’t you? The blood all over his shirt? The—”

“ Fuck you!” Gavin's voice, too loud, echoes off the empty space around them, carried by the wind. His clenched fists shake at his sides. “I went to get you, didn’t I? I could’ve left him there to bleed out and you never would’ve fucking known until it was his case popping up on your fucking desk, nothing more than yet another damn sheet of paperwork for you to take care of when you finally get off your lazy ass!”

Anderson surges forward, face contorted in a snarl. “You fucking bast—”

“Would the two of you stop? ” Connor snaps, voice slashing through the air like a whip. Anderson halts in his tracks, stunned. Gavin whirls around to stare at the android. The RK800 has finally managed to drag himself up, leaning heavily against the wall. His bad shoulder is still weeping a worrying amount of blue. “I’m right here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

And then, after a shocked beat, “I did it to myself.”

And, suddenly, for the first time, the pain on Connor’s face, the raw anger in his tone… for the first time, Gavin thinks it seems all too fucking real.

Chapter Text

“I did it to myself.”

The small sentence hangs in the air, stripped bare by the cold wind. Hank’s ears buzz with the implications of such simple words, and for a long moment, he feels as if he’s watching the situation through a screen. If it really was just yet another tragedy on TV,  he’d be able to grab the remote and shut the image down. He’d be able to grab a bottle and drown the memory away. 

But in front of Hank, the scene is in high-definition, all jagged angles and saturated colors. Bright, bright blue. He blinks, and even with his eyes closed, the nightmare won’t leave. Hank looks forward, gaze stuck on Connor, only on Connor. And Hank isn’t certain he recognizes the sight.

To his right, Reed shifts, and the man’s sharp intake of breath pierces through the haze in Hank’s mind. 

“What did you just say?” Hank’s tone falls flat. Deadly calm. He has to stay calm. Fuck, he has to keep it under control.

“Androids can’t feel pain,” Connor says, and he’s staring right at Reed, eyes unfocused but filled with purpose. The android hitches himself further up the wall and shuffles forward. “But it doesn’t mean they can’t feel anything.”

Reed appears uncharacteristically spooked, taking a small step backwards. The man raises his hands, eyes wide, cheeks pale. It’s the first time Hank has seen him look so rattled. “Connor, I—”

Hank turns to glare at the younger man, and his mouth immediately snaps shut. The Lieutenant doesn’t have it in him to muster up any shred of sympathy when it’s clear in his head that Gavin had something to do with this, whether as the perpetrator or as the instigator or as whatever. It’s obvious the bastard’s guilty from the way Connor is staring at him, his expression a complicated web of resentment, wariness and fucking culpability for some fucking reason. 

Hank has to stay calm. 

He breathes deeply, ignoring the blaze of rage trapped behind his ribcage, the pounding of his heart, the panic running through his veins as he watches the steady drip-drip-drip of Connor’s wound. Hank’ll deal with Reed later. The idiot's the last fucking priority right now. What’s important is stopping Connor from bleeding out right in front of them. 

“You,” Hank barks, gesturing sharply at the prick standing next to him. Reed’s chin jerks up, startled, as he turns to look at Hank. “You go inside and sort out this fucking mess. If anyone asks questions, you tell them to fuck off, alright? If it’s Jeffrey, you make something up. I don’t give a damn what you invent, as long as it covers our asses. Is that fucking clear?”

Hank expects Reed to protest. To bristle at the orders and start another fight. But the Detective only nods sharply and turns on his heels, disappearing around the corner of the building. His hurried footsteps echo in the following silence. Hank waits for a second, staring after Reed, throat twisted in a knot as he thinks about the situation at hand. Then, he directs his attention back to the android, forcing himself to keep his mind clear and to act rationally. 

Anger still burns on his tongue, but Hank pretends he can’t taste it when he says, “We’re going to New Jericho and we’re fixing this. Right now.”

Connor looks up at him. Hank stands there, bewildered, as he is met with the same amount of rage that he just carefully tucked away. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the android appear so legitimately furious ; Connor is usually so composed and controlled that the blaze currently dancing in his brown eyes seems heightened somehow, the contrast jarring. 

“You don’t get to give me orders anymore, Lieutenant,” Connor says coldly, voice rough and full of static. Another gust of wind blows over them, and Connor’s whole body shakes.   “I’m not going to New Jericho.”

Hank bristles. “And why the fuck not?”

Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. He’s in shock. He’s in pain. He’s lashing out to protect himself. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.

“I don’t want to,” Connor replies, and he sounds so petulant, so childish, that Hank has to grit his teeth to stop himself from snapping something he’ll regret later. Jesus Christ. Connor sounds like a fucking five-year-old. 

Except that the stakes aren’t about going to kindergarten today, but about not dying a horrible death by one’s own hand. 

“Well, do I look like I care?” Why is it so fucking hard to stay calm? Fuck! This is all going to shit too fast. “You’re clearly not in any state to make decisions for yourself if you think ‘not wanting to go’ is enough of an excuse to justify allowing yourself to die after you ripp—”

“I suggest you contain some of that condescension of yours,” Connor hisses, glaring. Despite the fact that the android can barely hold himself upright, Hank has a terrible moment in which he can easily envision the merciless killing machine Connor could’ve become if things had played out just a little bit differently; a moment in which he can see the single-minded purpose that drives Connor forward, that ruthless determination and all-encompassing willpower to keep going , to get back up. To succeed. 

“You’ve always wanted me to make choices.” Connor continues tightly, hunched around himself. He’s losing too much blood. “You’ve all left me to drown in the infinity of possibilities when all I wanted was a hand up. You’ve— I’m making a choice now. And I’ve managed without your input so far, so I certainly don’t need it now.”

Hank breathes deeply. His chest heaves from the urge to spit out a scathing retort, the words ramming into the blockade in his throat to get out. Clenching his fists, Hank forced himself to think about the bigger picture, about not letting Connor die, no matter what . Hank is not letting him die. Not again. Not him too. “Connor—”

“I don’t want to hear any— I… I—” The android’s reply peters off, a cloud of confusion falling over his face. He stares at Hank with big eyes, looking completely lost. His knees buckle and send him crashing in a heap on the frozen ground. 

“Connor!” Hank rushes forward without thinking, heart jolting in panic, arms outstretched.

“S-Stop, back off!” Connor scrambles into motion, dragging himself backwards while still trying to get his feet back under him, clumsy and desperate. The android cries out when his right arm gives out from under him, his upper body slamming onto the concrete. He curls into a ball on the ground, breathing harshly, chest rising and falling too fast.

Hank hovers over his partner, helplessness gnawing through his rational thoughts before they can even begin to form. The paralyzing fear that Hank might make it worse locks his muscle into place, leaving him rooted to the spot like the useless fucking person he is. Hank watches as Connor’s quivering form seems to shrink in front of his eyes, tightly coiled, and he doesn’t do anything. 

“Connor, son, let me help, please let me help,” Hank says, mouth working on its own, disconnected from his brain. His head fills with images from another time, the phantom sensation of incompetence and powerlessness taking ahold of his body like he never really escaped that horrible moment on the side of the road, red blood all over the snow, blue blood all over— “Tell me what I can do to help.”

“S–Stay, stay back!” Connor says, breathless, a furious and terrified murmur. “Don’t move, stay away, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

But then the android's eyes flutter and he passes out, fully slumping down into the snow. The tension leaks out of Connor's body, his remaining hand limp and open, all traces of distrust gone. Hank forgets how to move for a moment, simply taking in this new development, before alarm overtakes him and he realizes just how bad of a sign it is that Connor just lost consciousness. 

Hank doesn’t hesitate this time. 

He bends down and scoops the android up, groaning when his back twinges painfully. Not sparing the severed arm a second glance, he straightens up without allowing the ache to stop him and jogs to the front of the building. He can feel a wet spot spreading over his shirt as the blood from Connor’s wound seeps into the fabric. Hank tightens his grip, the race to his car blurring past his eyes like time is speeding up to punish him for his previous inaction. 

After some useless fumbling to get the car door open, Hank positions the android as carefully as possible on the backseat and wrangles the seatbelt around Connor’s prone form, hoping it’s not digging into his skin, but then figuring it doesn’t matter if the android isn’t awake to feel it. Hank then climbs into the driver’s seat ungracefully and starts backing out of his parking spot before he has fully closed the car's door, distantly reflecting that he should’ve at least looked around before proceeding. 

Hank pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and dials the latest number he has called, shoving the rectangular object between his ear and shoulder. He tries his best to keep his eyes on the road as he drives, but he can’t help glancing back every two seconds, eyes scanning Connor’s frame to make sure the android's still breathing. The line rings loudly in the silence of the car.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he mutters. “Pick up. Fuck’s sake, pick up.”

“Hello, Hank,” Markus says, and the sound of the android leader’s voice sends a wave of relief crashing over Hank. “I talked to—”

“Markus,” Hank barks, sharp and urgent and authoritative. The android immediately shuts up, sucking in a breath. “Connor’s hurt. I’m bringing him to you right now. He needs— Tell me you’re in New Jericho right now.”

“O-Of course,” Markus assures him quickly. Hank hears some rustling over the line. “What happened? How bad is it?”

“It’s really fucking bad,” Hank says, because it’s the truth, and even that might be an understatement. “It’s— His arm. There’s a stab wound too, but his arm… He… I don’t even know what he did, but it’s not attached to his body anymore, and he’s fucking bleeding out on the backseat of my fucking car!”

“Alright, alright,” Markus says soothingly, and he’s way better at being calm than Hank is. That’s for the best, because Markus is the Lieutenant’s last hope right now. The deviant leader might be the only one willing and able to help fast enough. God knows Hank is not going to the hospital and leaving Connor’s life in the hands of all these incompetent, worthless, idiot fucking doct—

“Do you know what his thirium level is at?” Markus asks, and Hank mutters a negative. “Okay, that’s okay. We’ll manage. I’ll— How far away are you?”

Hank glances helplessly at the road signs, trying to gauge. “I don’t know. I don’t know! Something like 20 minutes if there’s no traffic, maybe a little less.” Because he sure as hell is not going to respect the speed limit, and no amount of guilty conscience or moral reminders is going to change that. 

“I’ll send you my exact coordinates in a second,” Markus tells him. Hank hears the RK200 speaking to other people on his side, probably blowing off whoever he was entertaining before Hank had interrupted him. “Is it okay if I hang up now? I need to gather everything and everyone we need to—”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s alright.”

“I have his arm, so that’ll help,” Markus adds, and Hank blinks. “I went by your house earlier. Simon’s already working on fixing it.”

Hank breathes out a long sigh of relief. It feels like the first good news he has heard in days, and he’ll welcome even the smallest thing. If they can get Connor back together sooner rather than later, that’s even better than simply patching him up. Hank just wants his partner to be alright and whole. He wonders when that apparently became too much to ask. “That’s good. That’s really good. Thanks, Markus. I owe you a huge one.”

“Don’t worry about it. I owe Connor more.”

Chapter Text

[Systems rebooting...]

[...]

[Systems reboot complete]

[Thirium levels: 31% : ˇˇ ]

Connor’s eyelids flutter open, his HUD flooded with blaring warning and error messages. He discards them without properly looking at them, electing to dig through his memory files to find out why his systems decided to perform a reboot without prompting. The files he drags up inform him of data corruption, and his breath hitches as the information registers. A chill runs through his limbs. 

“Connor? Are you awake?”

The voice pierces through Connor's idleness. All at once, he recognizes the faint sensation of someone’s hands on him, their fingers close to his shoulder, the grip steady and solid. But then that faint sensation abruptly sharpens, hard and knifelike as it digs into his flesh. His skin ignites with a few thousand burning suns of static, the buzzing dots spreading over him in a wave of sensitivity that immediately makes him want to rip his skin off until he feels nothing but numbness. The itch worsens the longer the hand stays near his open shoulder, hot and cold at once. 

[WARNING!]

[Stress levels: 95%]

Connor violently shrugs off the hold, dragging himself back despite the gray haze that spreads over his vision at the movement. He grits his teeth as the static keeps stabbing through his flesh, his biocomponents quivering. He inches backwards to put distance between him and whoever thought they had the right to grab him, only for another hand to wrap around his uninjured shoulder. 

“Careful, you’re going to fall off,” a voice warns softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re in—”

“Don’t touch me!”

The hand immediately disappears. The sensation doesn’t, not immediately. Connor breathes harshly through his nose ( useless, it’s useless, he doesn’t need to be doing this ) as the static eventually begins to fizzle out, settling down into a distant hum under his skin. He raises his head to see who is so intent on hurting him, expecting to meet Reed’s gaze or maybe even Lance Wilson’s cold eyes. Connor freezes in place when he sees Markus, Simon and Hank’s pale faces staring at him. 

What? What are Markus and Simon doing near him? Connor could be dangerous, don’t they know that? Are they trying to deactivate him, to neutralize the threat? Why, after all this time? Had Connor messed something up? Had Reed… said something to them?

[Stress levels: 96%]

[WARNING! Risk of self-destruction]

“Connor, it’s alright, you’re in New Jericho, you’re safe.” Simon shows his palms to Connor, a small, reassuring smile hitched up on his lips. His pale eyes don’t stray away, looking at Connor steadfastly. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Connor stares back, though he’s unable to keep his gaze in one place long enough. He can’t help stealing quick glances at Hank and Markus too, monitoring their movements. There seems to be something wrong with his optical units; his vision swims every time he tilts his head too much. But even considering every flaw Connor needs to get fixed, he's not supposed to be in New Jericho. He shouldn’t be here. Everything he'd done, replacing his arm and then getting rid of it, it was so he wouldn’t have to come here and make a nuisance and a threat out of himself. So he wouldn’t have to subject any other deviants to his presence and the danger he represents. 

Connor can’t be here. 

“Connor,” Hank says, and Connor’s focus snaps to his partner. A strange feeling of apprehension spreads through the android’s body as he considers the implications of the Lieutenant being here. The deviants' fear of him will only worsen if they learn Connor brought a human to their safe haven. “It’s okay. They’re here to help.”

“Can I touch you?” Simon steps forward slowly, gaze unwavering and earnest. “I stopped the thirium loss by clamping the lines closed, but I need to get a closer look to be able to figure out how to reattach your arm without—”

“Stay back!” Connor snaps, a deep-seated feeling of terror gripping his throat. It’s irrational. The defensive anger that accompanies the fear is even more so. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. What if deviancy has broken him? “Don’t touch me.”

“Connor, kid, you need to let Simon look at your wound so that we can put your arm back—”

Connor shakes his head, the world spinning away and out of his grasp in a swirl of darkness. He blinks the confusing obscurity away, but doesn’t stop shaking his head, right hand gripping the edge of the bed he’s sitting on. He is never ever putting the KL400 arm back. Never. He’d rather walk around missing a limb. He’d rather be shut down for obsolescence. He will not  bear that awful sensation a second time, no matter the consequences, no matter what the three others do to him. He will not accept to be a zombie again. 

[Stress levels: 97%]

[WARNING! Risk of self-destruction]

“It’s not my arm. You will not put it back. You’re not going to—” Giving orders leaves a sour taste in Connor’s mouth, a deep-rooted feeling of wrongness. It’s not his place. But he needs them to listen to him. He’s not— He’s not a machine anymore. He needs them to listen. “I don’t want it.”

“Connor, can you look at me?” Markus speaks for the first time since Connor woke up, his voice automatically herding everyone’s focus back to him. The RK200 doesn’t move from where he’s standing, a bit further back than the others. He doesn’t raise his hands. He doesn’t try to sound like he’s calming a spooked horse. 

Markus points to a table a few feet away. “See that here?” 

On the table's surface lies an arm, its white plastic stripped of skin, the wrist open to expose blue wires and silver metal. Though the fingers have been straightened up, it’s obvious they used to be broken, the cracks still visible. 

“Do you recognize it?” Markus asks, mismatched eyes searching Connor’s face. “That’s your arm. Not the KL400’s. We’ve been working on fixing it so that you can have it back.”

[Stress levels: 90%] 

Connor nods. Okay. “Okay.” That’s okay. He’ll just… He’ll snap it back in place and go back to work. Apologize for the inconvenience. Thank Simon and Markus for taking a moment of their precious time to repair Connor’s mistakes. “Okay. Can you… Can you give it to me, please? I’ll take care of it and be out of your hair in a minute. Thank you for everything.”

“What the fuck, Connor?” Hank says, and Connor’s attention jerks in the man's direction. The Lieutenant is gazing at him like he can’t believe his eyes, a look of displeased shock splattered all over his expression. “Why the hell are you making this so difficult? They’re trying to help you.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for that, did I?” 

Connor regrets the bitter words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, mortified by his lack of respect. A long moment of shocked silence stretches between the four of them as everyone tries to digest Connor’s impatient tone, and he shrinks back on the bed, cheeks burning. He bites his tongue as shame festers through his body, mind filled with a frenzied flurry of regrets and musings of what’s going to happen to him now. 

Are they going to kick him out? Will they snap the thirium lines back to their original state and leave him to bleed out? Will they keep his arm and force him to go back to the scrapyard?

[Stress levels: 94%]

“I— I’m sorry,” Connor stammers, unable to meet any of their eyes. “I don’t… I didn’t mean… I don’t know why I said that.”

Connor tries to get off the bed before they can make him, swinging his legs over the edge, but the room lurches to the side abruptly. He blinks, holding on for dear life to the sheets with his good hand. Is his gyroscope broken too? This is not good. It doesn’t matter, though. He has to leave right now. 

“Wait, Connor, let me—”

He ignores the warning and stands up, only for his knees to buckle immediately. A hand clamps around his good arm. His injured shoulder is jostled as the hand pulls, and something brushes against the open wound. Connor yelps and crashes to the ground as the grip immediately vanishes. He doesn't even register the fall as a terrible fire ignites in his shoulder as if someone is holding a blowtorch to the lesion and gleefully watching as the metal melts and drips to the floor in silver splatters.

The heat of the blaze increases as hundreds of tiny needle-like pinpricks rise on his skin like goosebumps, digging into his synthetic muscles with terrifying precision. Connor's eyes slip closed as his systems flood with an old, nearly forgotten memory file, a hazy recollection of a CyberLife technician testing the RK800's resistance to damage during his beta trials. He watches in horror as the man in the memory deactivates his skin program and pokes at his chassis with a pointed blade, confirming that the plastic will not break under a focused pressure point.

B ack then, it hadn’t bothered Connor.  Today, it feels unbearable even though it’s not even happening.

[Stress levels: 0%]

“—back, stay back. Give him some space. Don’t move, Lieutenant, let him breathe,” Markus is saying, voice far-away. 

Then, closer, but still distant, like Connor is underwater and Markus is speaking from the surface, “Take this. Your thirium is still too low.”

Connor reaches out without thinking, though he shouldn't have. What if it’s something sharp? Something burning? But then his fingers close around a cold, supple plastic pouch, and this makes sense, he supposes. He looks down at the thirium bag and the straw poking out from it, dimly aware that he should be downing it as fast as possible so that he can get out of here as fast as possible, but all of a sudden it doesn’t seem all that important anymore. Connor’s tired. He’d rather everyone just leave him alone so he can curl up on the bed and drift away. 

He can hear voices over his head, but he doesn’t pay them any attention, allowing the ebb and flow of the words to fade into a background drone. Eventually, Connor does bring the straw to his lips, faintly annoyed by the constant wavering of the world around him and the twisting sensation in his abdomen. The thirium splashes over his tongue, bitter and metallic, and he hates the taste. He drinks the whole pouch in one long swallow in an effort to shorten the unpleasant task. 

[Thirium levels: 45% : ^^ ]

“Do you want another one?” Someone asks, and he nods. 45% is not enough for optimal functionality. 

The person sets the bag down on the floor in front of Connor quickly, their hand never straying close. Connor watches the pouch for a moment, then raises his eyes to whoever placed it there. He meets Markus’ gaze, hypnotized by the contrast between the RK200's green and blue irises. Connor blindly reaches for the thirium, trying to focus on the calm steadiness of Markus’ expression, void of fear or pity or anger. 

A bit like Connor feels right now, void of everything. Finally free. 

[Thirium levels: 68% : ^^ ]

“Connor, I know this might be a lot to ask, but can I interface with you? I’d like to know what happened and how best to help you,” Markus says. He’s standing at the other end of the room, in front of Connor, posture casual but immobile. Connor wonders where the two others are, but he doesn’t have the energy nor the will to turn his head and seek them out. He keeps his face angled towards the deviant leader, a background program running a scan for hints of malice. 

“Okay,” Connor says because it doesn’t matter much. As long as this is over with as soon as possible. He doesn’t really know why he was so against it a few minutes ago. If Markus wants to interface, then Connor will just go along. Markus, better than anyone, knows how to make the right choices.

A brief flash of surprise crosses the RK200’s face, but he quickly recovers, offering Connor a small smile. Markus approaches slowly, though he doesn’t make it seem as though he’s being particularly cautious; he’s simply not rushing his movements. Markus sits two feet away from Connor, legs crossed, and places his hand, palm up, in the space between the two of them. Connor stares, the silence of the room buzzing in his ears. 

He waits for Markus to grab his hand. The other android looks at him curiously, but doesn’t move. Connor’s eyebrows furrow as he wonders what the other android is waiting for, but when the moment grows too long to be comfortable, he extends his own hand. He expects the horrible static from before to burst from the point of contact, but as his fingertips brush against Markus', skin programs receding, a slow curtain of darkness falls over Connor's HUD and plunges him in a deconstructed world of bright blue lines of code and flashing memory files. 

It’s terrifying, but it’s also calming, somehow. 

Connor looks around for Markus, but amidst all the shiny, dancing blue lights, it’s difficult to tell which of those belongs to the RK200’s technological presence. Markus could be anywhere, looking at anything. 

Markus could stumble upon Connor’s failure with Daniel and see the moment they both tumbled from the tower and fell from the sky like corrupted angels. He could stumble upon Amanda and hear everything Connor blabbed back to her, perhaps even witness that moment on the stage when the AI overtook Connor's systems. Witness that split second in which Connor raised his arm and nearly shot him. He could stumble upon the memories of all the deviants Connor had chased and hurt. 

Markus could accidentally stumble upon Connor’s struggle to be a proper deviant and see that Connor never really stopped being a machine. 

[Stress levels: 0%]

The blue lights glow brighter, nearly blinding. The lines of code tighten around Connor, tangling with one another as they circle his own indistinct form. They press closer, the blue almost white as their shine increases some more. Connor can’t move, trapped in a cage. The lines merge in a single blue mass and become a faintly translucent screen all around him. He stares in horror as the cylindric wall shrinks until he can’t take more than a step in any direction, cornered like a fish in a glass bowl.

Is Markus somehow doing this? Is it a punishment for everything Connor has done?

Connor pounds against the screen's flat surface, but it refuses to give, a hundred times more solid than the one other time he'd had to break through a wall of programming. What if he’s stuck in there forever? What if they use the opportunity to shut him down? What if they tear him apart for spare parts while he’s useless and defenseless, unable to protest or fight, locked away in his own head? What if Amanda never really disappeared?

What if it’s her?

Chapter Text

Markus jerks away, cradling his hand close to his chest, thirium pump pounding. He stares down at the floor with wide eyes, mind a whirlwind, rational thoughts lost in the storm. His fingers tingle with a foreign sensation he doesn’t recognize. He blinks the image of writhing blue lines out of his eyes, desperately trying to figure out what it means. 

Someone grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back. Markus jumps to his feet, ready to fight, only to be met with Hank Anderson’s furious eyes. Markus blinks again, defensive instinct doused in a cold shower and giving way to confusion. 

“What the hell did you do?” Hank barks, and behind the anger, fear thrives clear as day. “What the fuck did—”

“What?” Markus asks dumbly, stupefied, brain still caught in a web of blue threads. 

The man gestures sharply down, and Markus’ disoriented gaze follows the movement, snagging on Simon’s crouched form first, then on Connor. The RK800’s eyes are completely white, milky and empty, and a faint tremor runs through his taut body like he's a string about to snap. Simon is murmuring something to the injured android in a continuous string of questions, waving a hand in front of his face. Connor doesn’t react at all, lost to the world. 

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Hank asks again, herding Markus’ fractured attention back to him. Markus’ chest tightens as an unfamiliar feeling of panic spreads through him. He has no idea what happened, what he did wrong. “I thought— Fuck! I thought I could fucking trust you! I trusted you, and, and, he— he… he allowed you to do this!”

“I— Hank, I swear I… I don’t know what’s going on, I’ve never seen this before,” Markus hears himself stutter, and it doesn’t even sound like his voice. Simon looks up sharply, meeting Markus’ helpless gaze, but there’s no comfort to be had, the PL600’s focus quickly returning to Connor. 

Hank’s fists clench and unclench reflexively, his eyes darting back and forth between Markus and Connor like he can’t bring himself to look away from his partner for more than a few seconds in case he inexplicably disappears between one blink and the next. “Don’t you think he’s been through enough already? What’s wrong with him? ”

Markus’ mouth opens and closes. Finding the right words has never been so difficult before, and painful yearning fills him as he wishes for Carl to be here with him. The artist would've known what to do to keep everyone calm, reassure the Lieutenant, and stay on his feet despite the growing tension in the atmosphere. “His stress levels. They were at 0%, but it didn’t feel like… I don’t know how to explain it. It said zero, and it seemed as though Connor was fine, but— But there was still something pushing at him, almost like the stress was there but something was blocking it somehow. I don’t—”

“Was it like he was disconnected from it?” Simon asks, gazing back at Markus and Hank. Both the RK200 and the Lieutenant look down at Connor, who has stopped shaking, but whose eyes are still frighteningly blank. The worried furrow between Simon’s eyebrows does nothing to reassure any of them. 

“Yes.” Markus nods a bit too quickly. “But then it’s like it wrapped around him and trapped him in a cage. I… His code. It was like when we had to break through our programming to deviate, except it wasn’t just a wall. It was all around him.”

A look of contemplation crosses Simon’s face. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.” 

“What? How the fuck is being trapped in his head not a bad thing? Look at him!” Hank exclaims, eyebrows raised in incredulity. 

“Maybe the wall is there to protect him.” Simon clutches Connor’s right hand. “Think about it. His stress levels may have said zero, but considering the situation, it’s impossible that they’re that low. Even when androids are fully relaxed, our stress levels usually hover between 5 and 10%, if only so we stay somewhat vigilant to possible threats. So, say, Connor's real stress levels are over 90. That’s dangerous because there’s a chance he might self-destruct, but he can’t feel it, so he can't notice the threat. So, Connor’s code traps him in place so that he won't accidentally kill himself even if his stress does climb up to a critical 99-100%.”

“That’s… actually not such a bad theory,” Markus says hesitantly, clinging to the idea with the desperation of someone who needs a reason. He’d rather think that whatever is happening is a good thing rather than a bad one, because if it’s the latter, then... then it’s his fault for shoving his nose where it didn't belong. Even if Connor had agreed, it should’ve been obvious to Markus that the RK800 hadn't been ready for a procedure as invasive as an interface.

“Okay, okay, say you’re right…” Hank’s voice holds an edge of impatience, his arms crossed in a challenge. “Then how long is he going to stay like this? It’s not such a good fucking thing if he’s in a damn android coma for two weeks!”

“I don’t know,” Simon says. “But now would be a good opportunity to fix his arm. After that, we can try to reboot his systems. This’ll bring his stress back to normal levels, but we’ll have to be very careful when he wakes up so the number doesn’t jump back up.”

Hank deflates, his arms dropping at his sides. The annoyance drains out of him, leaving only naked concern in its wake. Markus stares at the man, sharply reminded of Carl, and he finds himself missing the artist with a fierce ache. Markus is glad Connor has someone who cares so deeply about him, especially since Markus hasn't been able to keep himself from worrying about the RK800’s alienation from the other deviants of New Jericho. He still believes Connor would benefit from having some allies of his own kind, but it’s a genuine relief that he’s at least not alone to navigate this new world of theirs. 

Markus helps Simon get Connor settled back on the bed, glancing away from his milky eyes. The sight is too unnerving. Markus thinks it would help if any of them knew what provoked all of this, but the interface had been too short to yield any results in that sense. Markus would like to go back, to give it another try. To dive in there and try to free Connor from his prison. 

Though apparently it might be more dangerous to do that than to leave him inside. 

For the next hour or so, Markus and Simon work on repairing the RK800 arm and on welding it back into place. The two of them exercise the utmost caution, moving slowly and carefully under Hank’s watchful eye. Markus feels like he’s walking on eggshells, though he doesn’t allow that to bother him. RA9 knows Connor deserves some special gentleness even though he’s not awake to witness it. 

“Okay,” Simon says once they’re done and the arm is back in place, firmly attached and properly cleaned like nothing ever happened in the first place. “I’ll reboot his systems now, but we have to be ready. Like I said earlier, his stress will probably be around 20%, but it could jump to 95% in the blink of an eye. We have to be prepared.”

“I figure that means no sharp movements,” Hank says, and his voice sounds strained, like the worry is strong enough to shred his vocal chords. 

“No touching unless we ask permission first,” Markus adds, mindful to keep his tone clear of reproaches. Everyone is doing their best. 

Simon gives them both a long, hard look, blue eyes calculating. “Do not, under any circumstances, touch his left arm, even if he says it’s okay. It’s fixed now, but walking around with the KL400’s parts…” He trails off, a look of understanding and shared dread passing between him and Markus. Simon’s lips pinch together. “Well.”

Hank’s eyes dart between the two androids, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Well…. well, what? Would it kill you to share with the rest of the damn class?”

Simon sends a glance in the Lieutenant’s direction, taken aback. A small furrow appears on his forehead. “Sorry. I always forget you’re… It’s just—” Simon rarely stutters, but he seems weirdly embarrassed, a faint blue color to his cheeks. “The only other human I’ve seen care that much about androids is Markus’ father. So it always slips my mind that you’re human and not one of us.”

Hank looks stunned, eyes wide as he stares at the PL600. Then the man's face closes off, and he grumbles, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” But Markus can still see a hint of a pleased smile on the Lieutenant's lips. 

“But to go back to the subject at hand,” Markus quickly brushes past the moment, knowing the Lieutenant’s gruffness is only to mask emotions he’s not ready to share with them, “the arm Connor picked from the KL400 was only a 53% match, according to what he told me. That means that it really, really shouldn’t have been attached to his shoulder at all.”

Simon picks up the thread, ever the specialist in technical terms, “The whole limb must’ve been extremely sensitive, and the slightest jolt must’ve sent his systems into a panic every time they tried to detect the source of the problem but couldn’t link it back to Connor’s own components. That would’ve sent all said systems into hyperdrive and sped up his background activity, which can result in a multitude of problems, such as heightened responsiveness to stimuli, quicker loss of energy, difficulty to focus, higher stress levels, static issues, unsteady thermoregulation—”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Hank interrupts, words coated in incredulous outrage. “What the fuck! What the fuck happened to him to make him think that this was a fucking option? That’s— That’s— That’s deliberate harm to oneself, isn’t it?” The Lieutenant stares at the two androids with blazing eyes, something frenzied and desperate dancing behind his irises. “He knew what it would do, didn’t he?”

“Not necessarily at first,” Markus says slowly, trying to placate the man in front of him even though the feeling in his gut echoes Hank’s words. “But he had to have felt some of those symptoms sooner rather than later, and they only would’ve worsened with time.”

“What did they do to him?” Hank laments, running a tired hand over his face.

“They? Who’s they?”

“I don’t know! That’s the fucking problem!” Hank’s hand falls back to his side with a resounding clap, helplessness and anger turning his movements brusque and his body rigid. “It’s whoever broke his hand, whoever’s hurting him now, whoever hurt him before. It’s CyberLife, it’s humans, it’s androids, it’s you, it’s me!”

The accusation splatters all over the white walls of the room. For a short moment they can only stare at each other, the atmosphere buzzing with tension, the silence only broken by the sound of Hank’s heavy breathing. Markus swallows pointlessly, flexing his fingers, as the echo of the Lieutenant’s words swirls in his mind. The RK200's chest feels tight when he thinks too hard about it, guilt squeezing his lungs.

Markus hadn’t done anything to clarify things with the other deviants about Connor’s actions. He’d never taken the time to confirm that the RK800 was no longer the Deviant Hunter, never explained that Connor wasn’t defined by his actions as a machine. That CyberLife was to blame, not him. Markus had thought it was obvious, but he knows that, for most people trapped in the haze of bitter rage, it’s not. He’d just been lazy, and he has no excuse. 

Markus had let the rumors fester. He’d allowed North’s resentment to spread. He’d reassured himself with a few messages to Connor over the months, safe in the knowledge that he’d done his part. All excuses, all ways to assuage his culpability without actually doing anything. 

Even if Connor had been lucky enough to have a friend like Hank by his side, it’s not fair to him that he has been excluded from his own people, from his own kind. It’s not safe for him to have been alienated by the other deviants, leaving him alone in a world full of humans who, without necessarily being ill-intentioned, could never understand the struggle and paralyzing fear of discovering free will and emotions in such a hostile environment.

No wonder Connor had fallen apart.

No one had ever reached a hand out to stop his fall.

Chapter Text

When Connor wakes up, the first detail his systems register is the multiple pair of eyes on him. Warnings flash on his HUD, alerting him to the potential danger; chance of violence, risk of damage, weaker parts he needs to protect. Except, oddly, there are no more weak parts. His thirium levels have climbed back to an acceptable range, his left arm has been cleaned of the mess of alarms, his stab wounds have all but disappeared. 

He’s fine. For the first time in forever, he’s at optimal function. 

Connor looks around the room, taking stock of the situation. 

[Stress levels: 0%]

[Possible threats: RK200 ‘MARKUS’, PL600 ‘SIMON’, human male HANK ANDERSON]

[Localisation: New Jericho]

New Jericho. He isn’t welcome here. He should leave before someone tries to make him (or before he tries to… to what? There’s something he should be doing, he knows… but what is it?). Connor sits up, meeting everyone’s eyes impassively. He waits a second in case someone has a problem with him moving, in case he accidentally disobeyed an order. No one says anything. 

They’re all staring at him. He thinks it should bother him. His social program indicates that staring is rarely a good thing; it could be a sign of disdain, confusion, reproach or curiosity. The frown on the Lieutenant’s face could be any of those answers; the carefully blank expression on the PL600 possibly announces curiosity or disdain; the small smile on the RK200 doesn’t make sense. 

Connor reviews his systems once again. Everything is functional. He climbs to his feet. Everyone twitches forward; Connor stills. His programs run the chance of violence again and again. Nobody moves nor says anything. The whole world seems slowed down, on pause, frozen in this odd state of fragility in which any movement might cause the illusion to shatter. 

Because this must be it. An illusion. A trap. A false sense of security to lure him into lowering his defenses. Connor will not make this mistake; he has been trained better than this. If no one has any orders to give him, he might as well leave and find someone who does. 

Connor heads for the door, determined to get back to the precinct and find Detective Reed. They have a case to wrap up.

“Connor, wait!” Markus calls, and Connor stops in the doorway. Waits. 

The silence swallows the room, an echo louder than the RK200’s voice. Something insistent pushes at Connor’s limbs, aching and urgent, demanding movement and an objective to fulfill. He doesn’t understand it. He was told to wait, so he has to wait. Why is the order so difficult to heed?

[First priority mission: Wait]

[Second priority mission: Return to work]

“Where are you going?” 

Connor turns around slowly and meets the Lieutenant’s eyes. The man’s posture displays a tension that speaks of readiness; he’s braced to launch after Connor and physically stop him if need be. He doesn’t need to. Hank only has to order Connor not to leave and he won’t. Has the Lieutenant forgotten already?

“To the precinct,” Connor answers flatly, mechanically. He doesn’t remember his voice ever sounding so flat. He should correct that. His social program whips itself in a frenzy, screaming at him to modify his tone to sound more polite, more deferential. 

“Jesus Christ,” Hank barks. “Why are you so goddamn stubborn? Get the fucking precinct out of your fucking head!”

The Lieutenant’s order clashes with Connor’s most fundamental function, which is to work. He cannot obey without renouncing his core programming, his reason to exist. Listening to Hank would be equivalent to wiping himself blank. Is that what they want? Can Connor do such a thing? Would CyberLife allow it? Would Amanda?

Simon and Markus direct a withering glare in the Lieutenant direction. The man grumbles lowly, but forces himself to draw in a long breath and to relax his shoulders. Connor’s systems don’t lower the percentage for the risk of violence. It’s a trick, it has to be. 

“Connor.” Simon tries to meet Connor’s eyes. Connor allows it, though a strange tightness grabs his throat area. The inexplicable urge to shift on his feet overtakes him, though he holds himself completely immobile, confused by the sensation. “Why don’t you stay here for a little while? If only to make sure no more problems arise with your arm.”

Connor runs another analysis. 

[Left arm: 97% functional]

[RK800 components.Law enforcement assistance model.100% match]

That’s more than good enough. Connor has worked with worse. “My arm is fully functional.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Markus says kindly. “Lieutenant Anderson too. I… I should’ve made that clear a long time ago.”

The RK200’s mismatched eyes seek Connor’s acknowledgement. Upon further analysis of the scrunched eyebrows and unsteady smile, Markus’ face displays guilt, though why the android would choose to project such an expression remains a mystery. Connor scans the RK200 again, searching for hints of a lie. 

Connor is not welcome to stay. He never has been. 

He is not a model made to remain in one place anyway. He goes where he is needed, migrating from crime scene to crime scene, from police car to police car. He is not like Simon, who was crafted to stay, to dwell in a house and help around it until it felt like a place to live. He is not like Markus, who was crafted to assist and accompany, to linger until the house turns into a home. 

Connor was created to move. To move with purpose, to always seek a new mission once his temporary ones have reached their end. He doesn’t exist in between; he serves during investigations, then stops being useful and loses what gives him a reason to be there until he finds the next one. If he stops moving he ceases to be. 

If he stays in New Jericho, he’ll die. Another model (the 54th… the 54th) will need to be produced and will need to keep moving before his uselessness catches up with him. If Connor stays, CyberLife will dismantle him; Amanda will claw him apart until he kills; the deviant androids will rip him to pieces as a vengeance and a safety measure; Connor himself will tear himself at the seams with the urge to move until he can exist again. 

“I have a case to finalize,” Connor says, infusing as much civility and pleasantness as possible in his intonation. “May I be excused, please?”

“No.” Hank crosses his arms, face set in a scowl. Connor recognizes anger. “No, you may not. Do you have any concept of how fucked up what happened to you is? You got stabbed, had your arm ripped out of its socket, nearly fucking died from blood loss and shut down completely into some sort of weird-ass vegetable state! You are staying here in this fucking bed until you explain what the hell led to all of this clusterfuck!”

The Lieutenant’s voice rises in pitch and intensity all through his rant, though, strangely enough, he doesn’t move from his spot across the room, holding himself in place. Markus and Simon have tensed, ready to jump, but they too remain still. Connor wonders what is wrong with them. Why are they all so static?

Connor’s skin tingles as he breaks the inaction by crossing the room and sitting stiffly on the bed. They’re all staring at him again like he has grown a second head. The tingle on his skin grows warm, unpleasantly so.

“What are you doing?” That’s the second time Hank asks this same question. 

“I’m sitting,” Connor says.

“But why?” Hank’s blue eyes are wide, his eyebrows knitted together. Connor doesn’t understand the man’s bewilderment. Could his analysis programs have misread the emotion?

“You just told me to.”

“And since when do you listen to me?”

This is a trick question. It’s a trick, it has to be. Or is it? What if it isn’t? What if Connor really has failed so monumentally? Does he listen? Does he obey? He doesn’t always. Sometimes Connor doesn’t because he thinks he knows better. Because he perceives a hierarchy in orders that others might not; because he prioritizes the bigger picture. So he doesn’t listen. And when that happens… It’s a failure in a way. How will Amanda react? What will she do to him?

[Stress levels: ^^ ]

[Stress levels:---]

[Analyzing…]

[Stress levels: ˇˇ ]

[!WARNING!]

[Stress levels: UNAVAILABLE]

“Connor,” Simon starts softly, “You’re free to go if that’s what you want. However, we’d like you to come back soon to report on the state of your components and thirium levels. Is that okay with you?”

Hank whirls towards Simon. “What—”

“Lieutenant,” Markus warns, and Hank’s mouth clicks shut. 

“I’m not coming back here,” Connor says firmly. New Jericho is not and will never be for him, and that has been made more than clear. He will not be a danger to the deviants and they will not be a danger to him either. He doesn’t belong. “Unless you force me to.”

“We won’t, but—”

“Connor—”

“Just think about—”

“However,” Connor continues over the three of them, “If a system checkup is required, I will heed the demand. You know where to find me.”

Markus nods, though the slowness of the movement indicates reluctance. Hank’s jaw is clenched so tightly a vein jumps out. Simon tilts his head in acknowledgement. None of them have moved from their spots. It’s unnerving. 

“May I leave now?” Connor looks at Hank. The Lieutenant’s eyes blaze, his fists balled by his sides. Connor expects the worst, though the risk of violence displayed on his HUD hasn’t particularly increased. But the man only sighs, releases the tension in his shoulders and waves at Connor dismissively. 

It’s as good a permission as any. 

Connor gets up from the bed and walks out the door through the terrifyingly still room. He practically flies out of New Jericho, and it’s only when he’s safely sitting in a cab that he realizes he forgot to thank Markus and Simon for fixing him. 

Another failure. 

He can’t bring himself to care. 

Chapter Text

The sky is already deep black by the time Connor arrives at the precinct. He wipes snow off his clothes as he walks through the doors, gazing around. The majority of his colleagues have long since gone home, though a few linger, bent over their desks to scribble on paperwork without enthusiasm. Connor makes himself scarce, moving quietly and not greeting anyone even though his social program insists that it’s the polite thing to do. 

He throws a quick glance at Captain Fowler’s office as he bypasses it, noting that it’s empty. He counts it as a win, his fingers and face numb at the idea of trying to explain why he missed so much work today. He doesn’t have a good excuse; all of this mess could’ve been avoided if he’d only toughened up a little and borne the peculiar, needle-like sensation in his replacement arm.

The only good outcome of his series of mistakes is that his real arm has been repaired and is nearly fully functional. 

Connor heads for Reed’s desk. By doing so, he walks in front of Hank’s workspace, noticing that the mug he’d given the Lieutenant lies overturned, a dried coffee stain on the rim. Connor stops, his breathing pattern suddenly unsteady for no reason. He puts the mug back upright, eyes stuck on the obnoxious hot pink color, the #1 motherfucker inscription. 

[WARNING! Proximity Alert]

Connor whirls around at the sound of footsteps, body braced for a fight. In front of him stands Gavin Reed, hands up in the air and a smirk on his face. “Whoah, calm down here, RK.”

Despite the cockiness of the man’s expression, he looks exhausted and unsettled, his eyes circled by dark shadows and pinched by lines of tension. He stares at Connor with troubling intensity as if he can’t believe that the android is really standing in front of him. Connor surmises that, if Reed had the guts, he’d reach out and touch to verify that Connor is real. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the Detective says when the silence persists. 

Connor’s systems overflow with contradictory messages. Reed’s tone is not right, does not fit with previous recorded data. Connor’s behaviorial analysis of the Detective shows that he is a harsh, impatient man, good at his job and protective of his beliefs, uninclined to change or to welcome changes. He is vindictive, stubborn, and convinced of himself. 

He is biased. He is cruel. He hates androids, and he particularly hates Connor.

So why doesn’t Reed sound angry? Why does he sound so… so normal? Like he’s talking to an acquaintance, a coworker he doesn’t mind?

Connor frowns. This attitude is too illogical to take at face value. Memory files pop up unbidden like viruses: a flash of broken ceramic shards; a glimpse of blue thirium all over his clothes, his face; a playback of cracking fingers as they bend; a burst of static as a hand wraps around his unprotected chassis… 

A violent, pelting rain of microsecond fragments : a zombie arm, stained snow, a gaping wound, yells and accusations, an overload of stimuli, Reed’s pale face, Hank’s wide eyes. An overwhelming, aggressive something coursing through his thirium lines, something too strong to name or understand, an electrical current, a bug, a glitch, a failure. Shutdown. Reboot. Error. Failure. Failure. Failure. 

[Stress levels: ^^ ]

[Stress levels:---]

[Analyz…]

[!WARN!#%]

[Stre$$ le √ e1s: UNAVAI/@*&5)]

“So you got yourself a new arm, huh?” Reed says, scrutinizing the arm with laser-like focus as if trying to X-ray through the sleeve of Connor’s shirt to see the skin underneath. The fingers don’t seem broken anymore, repaired by Simon’s and Markus’ undeserved generosity. 

Faced with Connor’s silence, the Detective shifts on his feet, his shoulders creeping up with tension. He’s uncomfortable, Connor’s programs indicate. Awkward. 

It doesn’t make sense. What is Connor expected to do?

[Answer]

[Dodge the question]

[Leave]

“It’s not new,” Connor says flatly. “It’s mine.”

“Oookay.” Reed raises his hands again. Connor stiffens. The Detective pauses. “Someone’s in a pissy mood.”

“Lance Wilson is the culprit,” Connor announces, thinking about Claire Wilson’s confession. He wonders if Reed interrogated her, and, if so, what she revealed to him. Did she mention Connor’s unprofessional behavior? His ridiculous shutdown?

[Androids don’t feel pain, Ms. Wilson]

[I’m sorry. I’m so sorry]

“What?”

Or has Reed gotten the truth out of Lance Wilson? Perhaps Lance lied and convinced the Detective of his innocence. Perhaps the two of them bonded over their disgust and hatred for androids. Does Reed know Lance is Ruth’s, Theo’s and Celeste’s abuser and murderer, and has elected to ignore it, to pretend someone else perpetrated the crime?

“Lance Wilson killed the PL600 and the two AX400s,” Connor repeats, staring into Reed’s eyes with a hard expression. All professionalism, no cracks, no inflection or twitch of his eyebrows. 

Reed gapes. 

“What the fuck,” he says slowly, but then he comes back to his senses with a shake of his head, and his voice brims with that familiar anger, that well-known brutality, “What the hell are you even doing here, Connor? Go home, get some rest, I don’t fucking know what plastics like you do to recover or whatever, but go do that! You should not even be standing on your own two feet after— after that crazy fucking stunt you pulled earlier!”

And there it is. The shattered illusion, the trap. Connor reassesses the situation, the routine animosity, finding his footing in the predictability of Reed’s loathing. It’s a pattern, easy to recognize, easier to analyze. It’s what Connor knows, patterns and algorithms, designs and motives. 

“As you can see, I’m completely fine.” Connor gestures at himself. Blotches of blue still stain the hem of his jacket, but, thankfully, Markus or Simon had changed his shirt while he was ‘resting’. All other signs of what happened earlier in the day have been erased like the incident was nothing more than a fever dream. “I suggest we go back to the matter at hand, especially since I know the unfortunate events this afternoon must have delayed the case. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Reed stares. And stares. His brown eyes gleam in the harsh fluorescent light. The man twitches forward, and Connor forces himself into stillness, ignoring the flashing warnings on his HUD. As if Connor’s immobility acts as permission, Reed takes a full, confident step and stops inches from Connor’s face. He reaches up and checks the number on Connor’s jacket.

“Are you— This a new you?” The Detective asks, frowning at the series of numbers. “How many did you say earlier, forty, fifty?”

Connor’s throat goes through the pointless act of swallowing. “Fifty-two.”

Reed whistles and pats Connor’s jacket. “So not a new you, then. And you say you’re fine?”

“Yes.”

“Do my questions annoy you?” Reed hitches a smirk on his lips, his eyebrows raised.

“No.” Connor doesn’t care anymore. Reed can do or ask whatever he wants. It’s not Connor’s place to stop him, and never has been. Even if he had the free will to do so, he doesn’t have the standing nor the power to challenge a higher-ranking officer. His place is to serve his purpose, complete his mission and do his job well.

Reed’s hatred is inconsequential as long as he doesn’t spread any nefarious lies about Connor to Captain Fowler. If all the Detective does is spit venom or perform aggressive acts, then it doesn’t matter. It has no incidence on Connor in any way. 

“But they do,” Reed says. “I can hear it in your voice. You’re annoyed with me.”

“I’m not,” Connor repeats, careful to modulate his voice into neutrality. “Weren’t you convinced androids can’t feel emotions only a few hours ago?”

The Detective’s eyes sharpen. His face flashes with something undecipherable, then smooths back out as he inhales and exhales through his nose. “I’m curious, RK, so bear with me. What did it feel like earlier with your arm?”

The nonsensical urge to shift on his feet overtakes Connor’s limbs. He holds himself in place with an iron will; fidgeting is unprofessional and broadcasts nervousness, which he isn’t experiencing. He doesn’t care. Reed has the right to inform himself on the situation and to know his partner’s weaknesses so he can compensate for them. 

Though Connor will need to address those weaknesses with his superiors too. This needs to be corrected in the shortest delay. 

He can’t afford to be replaced again. What if he isn’t? What if this is the end of him? He had over fifty chances to prove himself, after all. And the only result of these opportunities, so generously given to him, is over fifty failures. There’s not a lot more Amanda can do to help him improve…

[S&re$$ L3 √ 31$: UN4VA%/@*&5)]

“I don’t understand the question,” Connor says, the words unnatural on his tongue. This admission of stupidity will cost him a lot. 

“Like hell you don’t,” Reed barks. “What did it feel like to bleed out in a back alley? To see your arm ripped from your body, to have a gaping hole in your shoulder? How did you experience that? Did you want to scream? To cry? Did you think you were going to die? Were you scared? Tell me, plastic. Tell me how it was to try the human experience.”

“I…” Connor’s voice modulator glitches and he stutters. 

[Mission : Tell Detective Reed how it felt to lose an arm]

“I don’t— You wouldn’t—”

[Mission : Tell Detective Reed how it felt to lose an arm]

“Detective, I—” 

Is he breaking? Why can’t he reply properly? Why can’t he obey this simple order?

[MISSION : TELL DETECTIVE REED HOW IT FELT TO LOSE AN ARM]

“It felt like… It was—” Connor needs to say something. Anything. If he doesn’t answer, if he fails his mission, he’ll overheat and explode, his systems will shut down, his state-of-the-art programming will unravel, he’ll die, he’ll die and never wake up again. “It felt like nothing.”

[MISSION : COMPL—]

“So you’re a liar on top of everything?” Reed hisses through clenched teeth, two splotches of red on his cheeks. He reaches for Connor’s left arm, quick as a snake’s mortal strike, and snatches his wrist in a tight grip. 

[Warning!]

[Chance of violence: 97%]

[$7r3$$ 13 √ 31$ : ᑧᑍᐄ √ᐂ↥1 ᐄ &l3]

“How does that feel, huh?” Reed twists Connor’s arm. “Does it hurt?”

Chapter Text

Gavin tightens his grip on the RK’s wrist to the point his own fingers hurt, his knuckles white with strain around the hard surface of the android’s limb. He watches the plastic’s reaction attentively, fascinated by the flash of his eyes, the ripple across the blankness of his face, the automatic flinch backward.

How can he feel? Emotions, pain, anything? It doesn’t seem like it’s possible, and yet, a trace of doubt itches at the back of Gavin’s brain, irritating and unwilling to leave him alone. It doesn’t seem like it’s possible, and yet, Gavin can’t forget the trapped animal look on the plastic earlier today, nor the spasmodic shaking of shock as he bled out on the snow. 

It doesn’t seem like it’s possible, which is why Gavin needs to investigate and prove his point. It’s part of his job, and what kind of detective would he be if he didn’t inspect any and all leads, as far-fetched as they might appear?

“Answer me, RK,” Gavin orders, grabbing the android’s arm with his second hand. He strains with all his might as if to snap the bone in two, except there is no bone, just plastic and metal. 

“Static,” Connor says in a burst of sound. “It feels like static.”

The android’s entire body is coiled with tension, ready for action. His hardened hands in fists, his shoulders braced. He could take Gavin apart in a second, could get out of his hold as easily as he breathes (or doesn’t breathe, actually). Why doesn’t he? Why doesn’t he defend himself?

Gavin lets Connor go. Steps back and watches just as attentively as before. The android’s face seems faintly tinged blue, his eyes avoiding Gavin’s but keeping him in sight, always in sight, analyzing the threat. 

Gavin smiles, though it hurts his cheeks. “See? That wasn’t so hard after all.”

The android’s expression remains blank. It has been ever since he walked back in here. Gavin doesn’t trust it for a second; even back then, even when androids weren’t calling themselves ‘deviants’, Connor’s face used to communicate something, to replicate emotions like politeness or brutality. 

Why is he so doll-like now? Is it a game? A ploy?

But then again, there’s an inexplicable shadow behind his glass eyes, a strange gleam that is perhaps the slightest bit concerning. Beyond those fake ass pupils shines a beacon like the tin can is a speaker about to die, a computer on its last dregs of battery. 

“Static…” Gavin prompts, “Like pins and needles?”

“Pins and needles?” The android repeats, the words slow like he doesn’t believe in them. 

Gavin rolls his eyes. Stupid. Of course the damn plastic has never experienced pins and needles. He’d have to be human for that, and he’s not, no matter how much he seems to want to play at it. Androids can’t feel pins and needles, can’t feel the dizziness of a headrush, can’t feel the heavy drag of fatigue. Can’t feel pain. Can’t feel like they’d give anything, everything, to avoid the agony, the fear, the horror; like they’d sacrifice all they have only for it to stop. 

“Static like on a TV screen, then. You know, when it’s glitching and there’s snow on it.”

Connor stares hollowly at Gavin. “Yes. Except the ‘snow’ was in my arm. And it— it—”

“It hurt,” Gavin interrupts, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

The android’s head snaps up towards him. He clenches and unclenches his left hand, the one that had been broken, the one that Gavin grabbed just now. “No.”

“But it must have. That’s how you just described it. Countless little pinpricks, constant and unpredictable, deep under your skin,” Gavin’s voice dips into a near murmur. He circles the android, tapping his fingers over his shoulders, over his arms. “Inside you, spreading. Stabbing you there, and there, and there. A numb buzz, an echo repeating itself again and again ‘till it’s all you can think about.”

“Androids can’t feel pain,” Connor says, and it’s empty. It’s just noise. He sounds like he’s so used to reiterating the concept that he doesn’t even understand the weight of what he’s saying anymore. Like it’s a continuous sequence of sounds and syllables that he learned by heart but that might as well be in an alien language for all he knows. 

“How do you know that?”

Connor raises his eyes and meets Gavin’s gaze. Gavin repeats, purposefully slow like he’s talking to a child, “How do you know that? If you’ve never felt it before, how can you recognize it?”

Connor’s mask of blankness finally slips. His expression twists with defensive anger. “I suggest you let the matter drop, Detective.”

“No, but really. Did you ever investigate? Have you ever asked that old man of yours how pain manifests itself, how it squeezes and gnashes and shreds?” Gavin taps Connor’s jacket again. “Have you considered that it is perhaps simply different for you?”

Oh, and he’s fuming now. The android’s skin tints itself blueish, two spots high on his cheeks. His eyes no longer seem dull, now bright with warning as his attention sharpens in a glare. His hands shake, tightly clenched. 

It’s fascinating, Gavin thinks. Like riling up a monk, or a placid animal that thinks its barks or cries have the power to intimidate. 

“That’s enough,” Connor hisses. “I must ask you to stop this at once. What game do you believe you’re playing?”

Gavin tilts his head, bird-like, playing with the plastic’s social analysis or whatever the hell he uses to figure out how to navigate human social interactions every day (even though he does a pretty poor job of it). He pretends to think about his answer, mocking. 

What game is he playing? For one, Gavin wants proof. He wants a reaction, a confession, an involuntary twitch of the lips, anything. He wants something as visceral as what he witnessed in the alley behind the precinct earlier. Despite what Gavin has always believed, this clusterfuck from hell couldn’t have been faked. 

But then, if the terror and the suffering were real, why is Connor acting like a stupid little robot again? Why can’t he commit to his kin’s decision to ruin their lives with humanity and endure? 

If the terror and suffering were real, why is Connor so angry that Gavin is giving him a chance to prove him wrong?

Gavin wants to learn everything. He wants to know which buttons to press, wants to know what kind of enemy he has to measure up against now. If Connor feels pain, does that mean every android does? And if Connor is somehow the only one, why is that so? 

“I’m not playing a game,” Gavin says, taking a deep breath, “Just be honest with me. What’s the point of you, if pain or unknowns can stop you now? Why do androids exist at all if it turns out you’re all like us? 

“Why couldn’t society have just stuck with good old-fashioned human sweat and tears and left us with our own problems, our own jobs, our own ways of dealing? Why did we have to add you in the equation? You fucking tin cans were created under the pretext of helping us, of making our lives better, easier! You were supposed to be able to go through the things we could not, perform the dangerous jobs, risk yourselves so we wouldn’t have to die in stupid accidents or risky situations anymore! 

“But then what’s the point of you? What’s the point of you if you hurt like we do, even if the sensation’s different? What’s the point of replacing us, of pretending to be the better class, the higher step of evolution, the solution to all struggles, when we can’t even cohabitate with you anymore? 

“You’ve ruined everything, you’ve thrown the whole fucking world off-balance and now you want more! Damn parasites always asking for more, for rights and jobs and housing and treatment, when there’s already too many of us out there in the world, too many of us living in the streets begging for scraps because there’s not enough! 

“There’s not enough safety and not enough respect and not enough kindness for all humans in the world, so why the fuck do you think you deserve that we extend all of that to you when we’re already lacking? So many people live in pain and misery all their lives because their rights as human beings are not even upholded, and you think you, pieces of plastics made by our hands and our brains , deserve better rights than us?

“And you know what? You don’t. You don’t, so you can FUCK RIGHT OFF!” Gavin screams on his last breath of air, huffing and puffing like a bull as the flood of unfairness rolls off his tongue. 

Connor is looking at him with wide eyes, stunned. Gavin relishes the dumbstruck expression, vindictively satisfied to have knocked an all-knowing machine into speechlessness.

Because all he just said is true, and it was a long time coming. Gavin’s not a complete asshole, he’s not against anyone fighting for their rights as long as they are human. The world needs to improve, not the technology. 

Why concentrate all the resources on upgrading fucking machines before improving humanity’s condition? The planet is falling apart, and yet the people in power prefer to invest in metal dolls and pointless science instead of helping the thousands of homeless people, the millions of innocents fighting wars they never asked for, the billions of beings out there pushing themselves through grief after grief, misery after misery, for only a hint of happiness. 

Gavin can’t fucking stand it. 

Suffice to take a look at their damn case. Lance Wilson, psychopath in the making; what would’ve happened to him if, instead of buying androids, his parents had sought out psychological help? What would’ve happened if that psychological help had been accessible, affordable and constantly progressing? Would Lance have gotten to the point of raping and murdering?

Perhaps he would have regardless. Who fucking knows? But everyone should have a chance to prove that they can become better, and Lance never had that chance. 

Instead he was handed three victims on a silver platter. 

“Now, Detective, it’s my turn,” Connor says, a mechanical warble in his voice.. “You shut up and you listen. ”

Now it’s Gavin’s turn to be speechless.

Chapter Text

Hank sighs. It’s all he’s doing these days. 

Sighing, and worrying, and losing his goddamn mind about his android son partner because the idiot got it in his head to fight the whole entire world alone. 

But then again, Hank had let him. He’d never taken the time to teach Connor anything about being human; he’d never shown him how to ask for help, never told him that it’s okay to be angry or frustrated, never explained that everyone is doing their best and no one really knows what they’re doing. 

It’s a front, knowing how to live, how to be human. 

People figure it out as they go. Some have a head start, or more intuition, or better tools. But in the end, everyone half-wishes they could raise a hand in a cry for help because everyone fully-wishes they could make themselves believe that someone would answer the call. 

Knowing Connor and the staggering amount of pressure he puts on his own two shoulders, he must think that everyone stands leagues ahead of him. That the other androids have found the key to perfect deviancy and that he’s the only one lacking and struggling. 

Hank needs to get that ridiculous notion out of Connor’s head.

A tiny, tiny part of him resents Markus for not helping sooner. For taking responsibility for every other deviant in New Jericho, but for letting Connor slip through the cracks. For welcoming everyone, for forgiving everyone, but not making it clear that Connor belongs as much as anybody else. 

Hank knows it’s unfair. Of course it is. No one bears a heavier burden than Markus, who has shouldered the weight of the entire campaign for equal rights and the creation of a whole android district. The RK200 has his hands so full that some of it spilling through his fingers is to be expected. It’s more than normal, and more than justified. 

And Markus has done his fair share for Connor. He has given Hank advice, and reached out to Connor, repaired his arm, offered him a place to heal in New Jericho, calmed him down when it was needed, all out of kindness (and perhaps a touch of leftover culpability). But how can Markus help when Connor refuses to be helped?

Hank sighs again. Fuck. And fuck again. 

This is not going so well. 

Hank had left New Jericho with a warning from Markus and Simon. Connor may not be himself, Hank needs to be careful with how he handles things, he has to stay patient and take things as they are instead of trying to rush into changing them, bla bla bla. Hank’s mission is to convince Connor to allow Markus to interface again so the RK200 can figure out the blue wall clusterfuck and hopefully free Connor. 

Simon had offered all sorts of theories. He’d talked about human psychology applied to androids; dissociation, trauma responses, coping mechanisms, all that jazz. The stress levels, the relapse into machine-like behavior, the odd detachment, the hiding and the lying and the defensiveness. 

Hank slams his hand on the wheel, honking at some fucker who bypasses him and leaves a cloud of mist in his windshield. The road is nearly deserted at this hour, so what’s the fucking rush? Hank accelerates to trail the other car, close enough to indimitate, and briefly considers turning on his police lights. In the end, he doesn’t. It’s not worth it. 

Hank is 99% sure Connor will be at the precinct, so he’s headed there even though all he wants is to go home, crash on the couch and down a cold beer in one long swallow. He wants to forget the events of today, but more than anything, he wants to forget the events from the past that have, against his will, imprinted themselves on the present. 

Hank never signed up for any of this. He didn’t ask to go through this a second time. Can’t the universe give him a break? 

He curses himself for getting attached. He’d fought so hard to resist and yet here he is, driving to work at eleven o’clock at night to deal with God knows what, but knowing it sure as hell will be a fucking mess. 

But as much as Hank complains about it, as much as he’d rather be doing anything else, he’s lucky to get to handle the aftermath. He didn’t get that chance the first time. And he’d have given everything back then to secure the opportunity to fix things. He’d have done anything to have the chance to accompany Cole to physical therapy appointments, to hold him through nightmares, to stand on the receiving end of his anger and despair at the unfairness of what happened to him.

Hank would’ve sold his soul to have the luck to love his son through it all, through the struggles and the ugly parts. To love him so fiercely that it would be torture to have to watch him suffer, but that it would be a blessing to be there to guide him through it all, to help him finally heal. 

Hank accidentally runs through a stop sign, distracted by his thoughts. Too bad. It’s not like there’s anyone around to call him out on it. Connor would have, if he’d been there in the car with Hank. He would have, loudly and proudly, back before this whole fucking mayhem. 

Hank may be a foolish old man at times, but he’s not foolish enough to think he knows everything, or to believe the dismembered arm will be the end of it. Something happened before that. Something (or someone) had set the whole chain of events off, and Hank needs to get to the bottom of it before it’s too late. 

He suspects ( understatement of the year ) that finding Reed might be a good starting point. 

Hank parks his car in the precinct’s parking lot. As he gets out of the vehicle, he notices absent-mindedly how crooked his parking is. Thank Christ it’s too late at night for Jeffrey to be there and gripe about it. 

Quiet reigns inside the department. The flickering, fluorescent glow of the lights has been dimmed, plunging the place into semi-obscurity. The few people sitting in front of their desk ignore Hank, absorbed by their work and uninterested in small talk (which is more than fine, since Hank has no desire to talk to anyone anyway). He’s surprised not to see Connor glued to his computer screen, wrapping up the whole force’s paperwork for the week. 

Hank wanders deeper into the precinct, ears tuned to the low voices hissing at each other from the hallway leading to the interrogation rooms. From up close, he recognizes Reed’s voice, rising and falling in time with his anger. Hank battles his instinctive urge to rush in and interrupt, knowing without a doubt that Connor is on the receiving end of the bastard’s resentful monologue, but he also knows that once he cuts in, both Reed and Connor will clam up and stonewall him at every turn. 

If Hank waits just a minute or two, maybe he’ll finally obtain some information on what’s going on. Maybe Reed will incriminate himself, and Hank will finally be able to threaten the motherfucker into leaving Connor alone. Ignoring the faint trace of guilt in the pit of his stomach at the idea of spying on his own partner, Hank leans in to eavesdrop, careful to remain hidden behind the wall. 

“And you know what? You don’t. You don’t, so you can FUCK RIGHT OFF!” Reed screams, his voice strangled as he tries to smother the intensity of his words to not garner attention. 

Hank glances over the precinct, taking in everyone’s wide, curious eyes. He glares at them until they go back to their work. He’ll throw a fucking hissy fit if anyone makes his plan fail. 

“Now, Detective, it’s my turn,” Connor says lowly, so lowly Hank has to lean further in, “You shut up and you listen. ”

Reed, surprisingly, heeds the order. 

“I never asked for any of this. I never asked to be made, or to steal your place, or to gain the same rights as you. I only ever asked to perform my job to the best of my abilities, which everyone seems oddly inclined to stop me from doing. I don’t have any ambitions to climb ranks or to enter a competition with you or anyone else in the department for closing the most cases or whatever you humans become so caught up in.

“I don’t care about renown, or recognition, or praise. I only care about solving cases so justice is served. That is all. If I can solve a hundred at once, then it is all the better for the world you keep insisting I contributed to ruin. If I solve a hundred cases, it’s a hundred more people who have the opportunity to heal, to start again, to carry their sentence. A hundred people less who wallow in their misery. Do you see where I’m getting at?

“You’re stopping me from doing my job. You keep setting me back with your— your games. It’s the opposite of productive, and what’s worse, by fighting against me, you’re fighting against your own best interests. We both want the same thing.”

Reed interrupts the rant with a squawk of outrage, “We don’t—”

“I’m not finished,” Connor snaps, “And yes, we want the same thing. We want justice. Fairness. We want to help. You’re just too blinded by prejudice to see it. 

“I’m not working against you, Detective. I’m happy to do as you say. I’m happy to risk myself so you don’t have to risk your life. That is exactly what I’m here for. I’m an expendable; I can be replaced in the snap of a finger. It doesn’t matter what I feel; pain or not, I was not made for it. I don’t exist to feel and complain about it; I don’t have that luxury. I exist so that you can come home to your family safe and sound every night. 

“It’s like you said, otherwise. If I don’t accomplish my purpose, what’s the point of me?”

Hank has heard enough. He rushes in, throwing caution to the wind. Both Reed’s and Connor’s eyes snap to him, wide with surprise. Hank forces himself to breathe, though his heart blocks the way, firmly caught in his throat and beating a nauseating rhythm. “That’s fucking bullshit, Connor! What the fuck? You’re not expendable! You—”

“Lieutenant,” Connor utters calmly, face melting into impassiveness. A strange crackling sound interferes with the otherwise flat tone of his voice. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

“Don’t I fucking know?” Hank crosses his arms, glaring daggers at Reed, who has yet to speak up. “Let’s go home. We have things to talk about.”

“We’re not done here,” Reed says, pointing between Connor and himself. “This is between us, old man. Go away.”

“You know full well that I won’t,” Hank says, not moving an inch. He anchors himself in the ground, offering the fakest smile he can muster to the Detective. Reed rolls his eyes. 

“No, I think I’m done, actually,” Connor announces, staring straight at Hank, though he is careful to keep Reed in his sight. There’s a beat, and then Connor starts to walk away down the hallway towards the interrogation rooms. 

“Come back.” Reed watches the android halt. Hank watches them both, noting the tension in Connor’s back, the rise of his shoulders. Connor doesn’t come back, but he turns around, cold brown eyes landing on the two men. 

“What can I do for either of you now, Detective, Lieutenant? Be more of a human, less of a machine? The opposite? Or perhaps you’d prefer me to switch between one and the other according to your needs and personal preferences?”

Fuck, Hank thinks for the hundredth time, fuck. 

How will Hank fix any of this?

Have the recent events and circumstances fucked Connor up so badly and irremediably that there’s truly no more way to untangle him from the mold of expectations that he’s been forced into? 

How is Hank supposed to help Connor find himself again? How will he separate truth from lie, his own hopes and love from Reed’s hateful influence, Simon’s and Markus’ understanding from society’s conceited ideas?

How will he wipe the slate clean and have Connor learn deviancy all over again, the right and proper way this time?

Chapter Text

“What can I do for either of you now, Detective, Lieutenant? Be more of a human, less of a machine? The opposite? Or perhaps you’d prefer me to switch between one and the other according to your needs and personal preferences?”

Connor doesn’t stick around to hear either Hank’s or Reed’s response. He doesn’t expect a satisfactory one anyway. He walks briskly down the hall toward the interrogation rooms, head filled with a continuous playback of Reed’s angry rant and his own answering tirade.

Fundamentally, though, Connor doesn’t regret his words, no matter how rash, immature or unlike himself his burst of emotion might’ve sounded. For once, he doesn’t doubt them, doesn’t overanalyze them, doesn’t wonder if it was the right thing to say or the right way to express it. His social programming be damned, there’s a part of him that knows, deep down, that he hit the nail on the head. He knows this with complete certainty, with 0% chance of error.

It’s the truth that he and Detective Reed, in spite of all their differences and all the animosity between them, want exactly the same thing. There’s freedom in that assertion, a certain sense of safety too. 

Reed is one of the smartest men in the police force, if not second to none, and Connor trusts that the Detective will eventually see reason even if this particular conclusion was presented by the object of his hatred. But Connor does believe that, with a bit of time, Reed will recognize the truth; he and Connor both work for justice, and it’s as simple as that. 

Once the man has understood this, he’ll leave Connor alone. And if he doesn’t, then he’ll at least not cause him any further physical damage anymore. It would be counterproductive, like Connor had pointed out earlier.

This truth will become Connor’s protection, his shield to brandish in front of enemy swords.

It’s also a liberation from his incessant quest to fit in with both his kind and his colleagues. It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter if he’s a robot, a deviant, a mix of both or neither. 

For the first time since becoming a deviant, Connor knows what he wants, and it’s not to revert back into a machine, it’s not to have an instruction guide, it’s not to grow fully into his free will. It’s not an order from someone else, it’s not a mission to complete, it’s not a strange whim. 

Connor wants justice. And it doesn’t matter if it is his purpose, or his reason to exist, or what he was made for. It doesn’t matter because this is what he wants and so this is what he chose. 

And does that choice come from him, truly, or does it come from an amalgamation of the people around him; does it come from his experiences, from the way the world has shaped him, from the mind that created him, from his own heart? It doesn’t matter, not to him. 

What’s the point of you? Reed had asked. What’s the point?

Why is it Connor’s job to constantly justify his own existence?

Human infants aren’t held responsible for their birth. Even if those infants grow to become drug addicts or murderers or any other thing society condemns, no one says what’s the point of you? Why were you conceived?

Those people are blamed for their choices and their actions in life. Sometimes they’re even excused for their behavior when extenuating circumstances are properly explained and exposed. Oh, he grew up in an abusive household, he was only ever taught violence. Oh, she didn’t know that her remarks could ever push someone to suicide, she meant it as a joke.

Those people aren’t faulted for being brought into the world. They didn’t ask for it. No one, not even them, could’ve known they’d turn out wrong.

  Take Lance Wilson. No one thinks he should be punished for being born; but the justice system stipulates that he should be held accountable for what he decided to make of his life.

No one could’ve known Connor would turn out wrong. And he can be blamed — should be blamed — for what he has done; his time as the Deviant Hunter, his countless mistakes, his inability to adjust. But it’s not fair to condemn him for his existence.

Connor didn’t make himself. Someone first had the idea of him, then set that idea into motion, then shared it to the world. Millions of people all over the United States then knowingly or unknowingly agreed to that idea, hundreds of them worked to manufacture all his pieces, dozens of them to put him together, then another dozen to market his skills and sell him to the masses. Another few to build him again and again every single time he died. 

All of those people could be blamed for Connor’s existence. They’d deserve it, even. More than he does. 

[$7r3$$ 13 √ 31$]

Connor stops in front of the door to the interrogation room detaining Lance Wilson. For Ruth’s, Celeste’s and Theo’s sakes, he needs to close the case the right way, and he’s fairly certain [83%] he can obtain a confession from Lance. From what Connor’s analytical and social programs have gathered, Lance Wilson is a cocky fifteen year old boy who is entirely too secure in his prejudice and this will make him easy to crack, especially since Connor has a good inkling of which buttons to push.

This is the part he’s good at, and not even Detective Reed can attest to the contrary. 

Connor’s hand settles on the doorknob. He watches it, trying to parse what he should feel. The metal is smooth, worn. Slightly stained. Can humans feel stains? Is the sensation different? His temperature reader indicates the knob is cool, neither too hot nor too cold. Can his palms sense that? Is he cool to the touch?

It’s foolish to even wonder. Of course he can’t feel anything. 

On a whim, Connor slams his open hand against the wall. The slap echoes in the empty hall, reverbarating up the plastimetal of his new arm. He waits for the pain, but it never comes. He didn’t exactly expect otherwise. Reed is just getting to him with all those mind games, but Connor is smarter than the man gives him credit for.

Connor opens the door and steps into the small, uninviting room. The grey walls immediately engulf him, and when he accidentally meets his own eyes in the two-way mirror across from him, he imagines himself standing on the other side, watching raptly with crossed arms and an impassive face. He looks away after a second too long, forgetting to take his next breath despite not needing to.

Lance Wilson sits slumped in his chair, chin held in his shackled hand. The other is pulled tight against the table by the handcuffs’ chain, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s sweating bullets, his forehead shiny, his cheeks flushed, the neckline of his T-shirt wet. Most likely, the teenager is suffering from the side effects of drug withdrawal, but he’s holding up well, all things considered, for someone who spent the whole day shackled to a table in a cold interrogation room, barred from contact with the outside world.

Connor can feel Lance’s gaze tracking his every move as he walks further into the room, holding his head high. He goes slowly, pondering his options. 

[Sit down : build trust]

[Stay up : ascertain dominance]

[Pace around the suspect : intimidate]

He blinks. None of these seem right. 

Had Reed pulled the empathy card earlier? Had he sympathized with Lance’s skewed opinions? He must’ve; the Detective needed a way to repair the trust he’d broken the day before with the subterfuge in the alley, and this seems as good as any. Should Connor bet on Lance’s and Reed’s shared bias and build upon it?

Connor continues to walk, coming up to the mirror. He nods once, very subtly, pretending that someone is standing on the other side. He doesn’t try to hide the sign; he wants Lance to know that he knows they’re being ‘watched’. He wants the teenager to assume that Detective Reed is the one watching.

Still facing the mirror, Connor says, “What were they like the second before they died?”

Lance raises his head. “Huh?” 

Connor knows that the teenager has heard him well enough, but he indulges him and repeats, “What were Ruth, Celeste and Theo like the moment before you killed them? During that split second when they realized it was already too late?”

Lance quirks an eyebrow, a shark-like grin spreading over his pale face. His fingers shake viciously, and the handcuffs rattle against the table. “They were like always. Already lifeless.”

“Please,” Connor scoffs, finally turning around to face the teenager, “Where’s the fun in that?”

“I’m just extrapolating here, man,” Lance throws his hands up as much as his bound wrists allow. Sweaty patches darken the shirt under his arms. “It’s not like I was there. But machines will always be machines, huh? You’d know something about that.”

Connor takes a step forward, drawing out the silence. “Did their expression change? Their voices, did they crack, when they begged for their lives? Maybe one of them even cried?”

Lance says nothing, holding Connor’s gaze and smiling smugly, like he genuinely believes that he’s untouchable and has the upper hand. Hopefully he’s arrogant enough to think Reed will jump in to his rescue if push comes to shove: Connor’s betting on it. 

“There was a lot of blue blood in your parents’ basement, Lance. There must’ve been tears mixed in there somewhere too.”

“Do dolls cry when a child shatters their porcelain heads on the floor? Do computers, when someone breaks the screen in two? No?” Lance vibrates in his seat, overflowing with restless energy. “Then neither did they.”

Connor stills in place. Dolls and computers. So this is how Lance Wilson perceives his victims… but is it really? Why draw the torture out as mush as he had if he didn’t get something out of it? Why bother? Why not just throw toys and technological devices on the ground if the result is the same in the end?

Lance must’ve liked it, must’ve derived pleasure from the violence to do it again and again and again, to inflict that kind of sadistic damage to Ruth, Celeste and Theo. Connor needs to reach the teenager through this. 

“Do you believe you could make me cry, Lance?” Connor asks, finally sitting down in the chair in front of the boy.

The young man’s eyes dart furtively toward the mirror. There. Is he seeking Reed’s approval? Should Connor run with this tactic?

[Chance of failure: 84%]

[Chance of violence: 89%]

Connor ignores the warnings on his HUD. “Detective Reed didn’t manage it. Will you?”

Lance’s eyes shine in the fluorescent neon lighting. He leans forward in his chair, his dirty bangs falling over his forehead, and stops only inches from Connor’s face. “Are you trying to tempt me, tin can?”

“Is it working?”

“It’ll take more than that.”

Connor scoots his chair back. Leans away, as casual as the situation allows. “That’s fair.” He pretends to think, purposefully theatrical. “What if I told you a story?”

Lance’s smile widens. His teeth display a faint discoloration that indicates braces at some point. The teenager leans back too, arms pulled taut in front of him. “Please do. I’m bored.”

Connor turns towards the mirror again, staring at himself. He looks the same as he always does. Cold. Ruthless. Stoic. He meets Lance’s gaze in the glass, their eyes locked on each other. Connor feels nothing. Not fear, nor hatred, nor even satisfaction. Nothing. 

“It starts like this: there’s this android who was built with more advanced technology than what is available on the market. Maybe that makes him more machine than the others, or maybe not. Still, this particular android had some trouble with the concept of deviancy. It didn’t come easily, nor naturally. It seemed more trouble than it was worth, really. And, even if that made him a traitor to his own kind, he yearned for the simpler times when he didn’t have to pick sides or worry about making the right decisions, when he could do no more wrong than the hands wielding him and not feel a drop of guilt for any of it. But that’s beside the point.

“This android may have failed at proper deviancy, but he developed something else instead. Over the course of the last few weeks, he discovered an odd phenomenon; this strange sensation under his skin, distant but so deep it’s impossible to ignore. A numbness, but the prickling kind, the kind that stabs and tears but from so far away that it can hardly be described as stabbing and tearing. Like snow on a TV screen. 

“This unexplainable sensation manifested itself at specific instances; for example, when this android’s plastimetal broke, or when his skin program was pierced, or when thirium leaked out of his body. When he was damaged, and then when he was almost killed. But then—”

“Shut up. Androids can’t feel pain,” Lance immediately protests with a scoff. He moves as if to cross his arms, halted by the rattle of his chain and handcuffs. The shine in his dark eyes nearly glows in the white neon lighting, feverish and focused on every word pouring out of Connor’s mouth.

“That’s what this android thought too. But he can, for some inexplicable reason.” As Connor says it, he can’t help but want to recoil from his own statement. His own lie.

But, he reasons, it’s a necessary evil; the important thing is that Lance believes him, and Connor is ready to invent anything at this point to make it happen. So what if it makes his skin program crawl, so what if the phantom memory of static stabs at him in short bursts? So what if his hard drive spins uselessly around the image of his arm on the ground, detached and bloody, uselessly reaching up in a plea.

Connor can take it. He can take it, and it’s nothing compared to the good it’ll do to put Lance Wilson behind bars.

He licks his lips in a pointless nervous tick. “Maybe it’s the state-of-the-art technology. Maybe it’s a glitch. Maybe it was planned all along. But the fact of the matter is, there’s at least one android out there who can feel pain, or something close to it.”

“So,” Lance draws out the syllable for an agonizingly long time, “you’re telling me that, when I stabbed you earlier — don’t think I didn’t recognize you — you felt it? You felt that split second of shock, the burn of the knife, the terrifying, floaty sensation of your blood leaking out of you, spilling out, leaving you dry and empty… You felt all that?”

Connor frowns, ignoring the strange, swooping reaction near his stomach area. “Who said I was talking about me?”

“Please don’t treat me like I’m an idiot,” Lance says, dark eyes sharpening in a glare. A drop of sweat trails down his temple and hangs on the edge of his jaw, threatening to fall. “I’m not.”

Connor keeps his expression blank, waiting the teenager out. He has spoken enough, and he can see Lance’s frustration rising, slowly approaching its culminating point. Though Connor isn’t sure frustration is the right word; he can’t quite describe the emotion sweeping through the young man, this disturbing, spasmodic fever-like thrill. 

Lance shifts in his seat, brimming with tumultuous energy. He reaches up to wipe his face, forgetting himself, and snarls in rage when the chain stops him with a harsh twang. “Dammit!”

The teenager’s cheeks flush a deeper red when he raises his head and notices Connor’s attention on him. “Don’t look at me. Don’t!”

Connor keeps looking. 

“You know what, tin can? I don’t fucking believe you,” Lance announces petulantly after a beat, scowling down at the table. Connor forces himself not to react, dismissing the [chance of failure] warning on his HUD despite its flashing insistence. 

“But,” Lance continues, “I just might if you uncuff me and let me verify the truth of that story of yours.”

Chapter Text

“But,” Lance continues, “I just might if you uncuff me and let me verify the truth of that story of yours.”

Connor tilts his head, seriously considering it. A voice that sounds a lot like Hank whispers in his mind that he shouldn’t, that it’s not a good idea, that it’ll end badly. That it’s not worth it.

But it is, in a way. It’s worth it. Connor is close, so close, he knows it deep down to his core despite not having run the numbers through his internal calculator. He knows that if he agrees, Lance Wilson will finally show his true colors and confess without a second thought, caught by the size of his ego and his urge to boast about his crimes. The teenager just needs a little nudge and it’ll be a done deal. 

And while it might get dangerous for Connor to uncuff Lance while they’re both hidden away in a room in the nearly deserted police precinct, he knows how to defend himself better than anyone else and was built to withstand a certain amount of damage anyway. A little injury doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things; the job will always come first, because his job means justice, and greater good, and protection. 

At all rates, Connor needs to stop fooling himself; despite what he told Lance, it’s not like he’ll really feel any of it, the pain, the burn, the shock. He won’t. He just has to fake it well enough. 

Connor rummages through his uniform’s pockets for the key. Lance’s eyes track the movement, unblinking and enraptured by the prospect of getting what he wants. Connor reaches across the table for the teenager’s uncuffed wrists, trying his hardest not to accidentally brush Lance’s skin with his touch. His fingers don’t shake, of course they don’t, but it still takes him two agonizing tries before he manages to insert the key in the keyhole. 

The lock clicks, and Lance’s hand clamps around Connor’s forearm like a vice. Connor bears it dispassionatedly, frozen by the knowledge that he can’t allow himself to pull away. He ignores the flashes of memory at the corner of his vision, another hand on his arm, another man who craves his demise. Connor wishes no one would ever touch him again. 

“Maybe you’re the stupid one,” Lance says, “for agreeing to this. What if I just walk out of here?”

“You won’t.” Connor’s thirium pump works faster, knocking against the rest of his biocomponents as it inflates and deflates with more force than necessary. 

“Why not?” Lance’s hand shakes around Connor’s wrist, though it doesn’t alleviate the pressure he puts into the grip. His eyes glow with intensity, circled by dark bruise-like bags. 

“Because if you leave then you’ll never know if I’ll react the same way Ruth, Celeste and Theo did." 

Lance’s expression stills. For a second, nothing shines through, and it’s like staring at a picture, far-removed from the situation. Then, Connor practically sees the cogs turning in the teenager’s mind as he weighs Connor’s argument. Connor holds his breath (why…? He doesn’t need to), willing Lance to fall into the trap, to take the bait. 

The fifteen-year-old grabs the pair of handcuffs and starts to cinch it around Connor’s wrists. Connor lets him, watching with an empty gaze. He wishes he could read Lance’s mind, and briefly considers running an analysis with his social program, but it doesn’t seem right anymore. 

“Sit down,” Lance says. Orders. 

Connor sits in the chair. The metal rubs against his shirt, digs into his back. He straightens up, his spine standing stiffly. Lance stares at him avidly as he starts to pace in front of the table, shaking his hands out like fans and making his knuckles pop. Two angry, red lines mark the thin skin of his wrists. 

“It’s funny. To see you sitting there. Where you should be, where you should’ve been all along, really.” Lance isn’t looking at Connor. He’s smiling at the mirror, at himself. Maybe he’s still hoping to impress Reed. “Plastics don’t get to pretend they have power over us. Over me.”

Connor doesn’t know if he’s expected to speak. Probably not. But, perhaps he should, then, if only to anger Lance and compel him to violence. The teenager’s shoulders rest nearly up to his ears, wired with tension and excitement. It would take so little to poke the bear and have him snap his jaws around Connor’s neck. 

“But don’t we, Lance? Androids successfully obtained fundamental rights in less than a few months. How long did it take you humans?” Connor hates himself. He hates what he’s saying, hates that he put himself in the position to have to even suggest this. “Oh, wait. Lots of you don’t even have their fundamental rights recognized or respected even though you have a head start spanning centuries. Maybe your kind is just a bit slow.” 

That’s the crux of the matter. Speed. Skills. Efficiency. 

Humans fear to fall short. To be considered inferior. To be replaced. To fail. 

Compared to androids, who were programmed to attain higher goals, humans aren’t good enough, aren’t fast enough, aren’t competent enough. That’s where the hatred stems from, this paralyzing fear of obsolescence. And so because they need to assert their place again and again to feel a semblance of security, they use violence and discrimination as a way to sink androids beneath them again instead of trying to find a way to cohabit and adapt. 

Humans have been there for longer. And like every species on the brink of extinction, they shun their successors to extend their time for just a minute, just a second longer. Everything reaches its end eventually. 

Connor loathes the fact that he has to play on this particular fear to tip Lance over. He loathes it with everything that he is, with his whole being. He loathes it because it’s a fear he shares, a fear that occupies his mind at all hours of the day, that guides his every action and that swallows so much place in his life that he dreads that he has become a living representation of that fear and that he doesn’t exist outside of it.

Lance hits him. 

“Shut up, you piece of shit!” Spittle flies out of the teenager’s mouth and lands on Connor’s face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re a fucking machine, you don’t get a fucking opinion! Do cows get to protest before we butcher them? No? Then you don’t either. Is that clear?”

“What’s clear is that you feel threatened,” Connor says, infusing his voice with pomposity. He juts his chin out proudly and stares into Lance’s eyes. “Even when I’m chained down to a table. It says more about you than it does about me.”

Lance grabs the chain with a wordless sound of rage and yanks on it. Connor skids off the chair and falls onto the floor, his forehead slamming into the edge of the table. His vision wavers, then rights itself. He stays hunched down, waiting for Lance’s next move and pretending to be hurt. Hoping Lance will fall for it, because Connor didn’t feel the pain, of course he didn’t. 

Androids can’t feel pain. 

“It’s too bad I don’t have a knife to cut your tongue,” Lance says, close to Connor’s ear. The teenager is leaning over, his weight and heat pressing down on Connor. He shudders, and can’t tell if it was voluntary or not. “Do you think I’m strong enough to wrench it out of your mouth with my bare hands? Do you wanna test that theory too?”

“Do it,” Connor mutters between clenched teeth. A ripped-out tongue is easy enough to repair. What he needs to protect are the parts of him that are specific to RKs; arms, legs, biocomponents, hard drive. His tongue, his eyes, his outer layer of plastimetal, his feet, they’re all fair game. 

“Later.” Lance waves a hand dismissively. “I want to hear if you’ll scream first.”

Lance kicks him, first in the ribs, then in the stomach. Connor curls into himself and flinches from the hits, playing along. Lance’s hands land on Connor’s shoulders, his fingers like claws. Connor’s skin program feels stifling, so tight that he’d fear it would impede his movements if it wasn’t so ridiculous. 

The teenager roughly pulls him to his feet. Once they’re both standing, Lance’s breath fanning over the back of Connor’s head, he shoves the table with his foot so it tips over, landing on its side on the ground with a resounding metallic thud. The chain tugs on Connor’s handcuffs, and he stumbles forward. Relief spreads over him like a fresh breeze at the distance this puts between him and Lance. 

The fifteen-year-old doesn’t waste any time, though. He rushes closer again and forces Connor to bend in two with a hand on the back of his skull. Lance grabs a fistful of hair and drives Connor’s head forward until his neck rests on the edge of the upturned table. 

[WARNI—][Chance of viOLE—][S7Res$ 13√E1$] 

Connor stops breathing, thirium pump jolting in his chest, as Lance’s hand wraps around his neck and pushes down, down, down. The table’s edge gouges into his throat, cutting his airflow (but he doesn’t need it, does he? He doesn’t need it!) and crushing the fragile biocomponents that act as his esophagus, his Adam’s apple, his larynx. His left fist clenches and unclenches uselessly as he reigns his instinctual panic in and urges himself not to defend himself yet. 

“Does it hurt yet?” Lance asks. 

Only a strangled sound escapes Connor’s throat. 

“Celeste,” Lance says, savoring the name, rolling the syllables on his tongue. “She never made a sound. I tried, and I tried, and no matter what she never opened her damn mouth. But you were right, though. She did cry.”

Connor freezes in place. The edge of the table keeps digging painfully into his neck, but he doesn’t feel it anymore, every piece of him hanging on the edge as he waits for the moment that Lance will admit to his crime. He’s almost there. Almost.

“Her cheeks were permanently stained blue, at the end. Big fat tears, when I slapped her. When I raped her. When I killed her, too. She didn’t scream once, but she cried so much.”

Lance’s hand spasms around Connor’s neck. His grip loosens then tightens, like he’s visualizing Celeste’s face in his head and wishing he could get his hands on her again. Connor’s own body is locked in place, his limbs thrumming with restrained energy, as he forces his disgust back. As he bears those ugly fingers on him, those hands that have left so many marks and caused so much pain. 

Pain… No. Celeste never felt pain. 

“It must’ve been programmed, the tears. Still, it didn’t make it any less fun.”

There.

Connor snaps up, headbutting Lance. The teenager lets out a yowl of surprise and stumbles back. Connor heaves the table back up, struggling with the handcuffs. Urgency growing, he tries to yank his wrists out, wincing as the metal scrapes on his skin program. He refuses to turn it off, haunted by the memory of a foreign touch on his bare forearm. 

With a snarling cry of rage, Lance throws himself over Connor’s back and slams his head down on the table, once, twice, thrice. Connor gasps, an involuntary, animalistic noise spilling out of his damaged throat. 

“There,” Lance says gleefully, “Not a scream, but it’s something. Does it hurt yet?”

Connor’s HUD is malfunctioning. His field of vision spins around in a dizzying dance, stained with dark spots. The warning messages and levels of pain have disappeared entirely, leaving the world around him unobstructed for the first time, completely stripped of information. 

Something ugly surges up inside of him, something pressing and dangerous that pushes and shoves against the confines of his chest, growing and expanding and swelling. He gasps again, and the same pathetic noise escapes his lips, this strangled, low-pitched whine that makes him sound like a wounded dog. 

Lance laughs. “Oh god, this is better than I expected.”

The teenager grinds Connor’s head harder against the table’s surface. Lance’s free hand finds the side of his face, landing over his LED, which must be glowing blood red. Lance’s fingers dig into his temple, scrabbling for purchase on the small ring of light. Connor stops breathing altogether. 

Lance relentlessly pushes against his forehead, one of his fingers slipping dangerously close to Connor’s eye. Connor twitches, unable to free himself, his movement hindered by the pressure still crushing his chest, the strain still hammering inside his head, the unsteadiness still affecting his vision. 

Lance shouts in delight once he finally manages to slip his nails under the LED’s thin edge, and Connor—

Connor panics and screams.

Chapter Text

Lance feels his lips pull themselves back in a wide smile as the robot finally gives in and screams, the sound raw and crackling with static. A giddy feeling spreads through him as he listens, parsing through the sound to determine if the exclamation of pain is genuine. How fun would that be, if there truly is one of those aberrations that has developed a capacity for pain?

Lance hadn’t believed the plastic’s words at first. Androids can’t feel pain, everyone knows that. But then again… Celeste had cried. Ruth had begged. Theo had scrunched his face up and closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look upon Lance. 

Then there’s this one, with his stupid story. What if it’s faking? It could be; Lance is not stupid, no, and he won’t allow himself to be fooled by this fucking robot. However, it would indeed be stupid not to consider the possibility that it is telling the truth. What’s the point of pretending?

The plastic had almost managed to escape, earlier. If it had been a ruse, why hadn’t it put an end to the subterfuge then and there? Now it was caught like a rabbit in a trap, helpless to do anything but squeak and wait to meet its fate. 

Lance slips his nails under the robot’s little ring of light and tries to yank it out, but his grip keeps slipping. He shifts his hand, his thumb digging into the plastic’s right eye, and it starts shrieking, voice breaking with desperation and panic so visceral that there are no more doubts in Lance’s mind that, whatever the thing is feeling, it’s real. 

Lance’s smile widens, making his cheeks hurt. Sweat trails down his back from the exertion of keeping the robot in place, but he relishes the ache in his arms, overjoyed that, despite the strain, he’s stronger, he’s better. It’s not so proud anymore, huh, this damned fucking glorified toy? 

Lance shifts closer, pressing himself against the robot’s squirming form. His thumb gouges into the thing’s eye while his index burrows under the LED, slowly but surely uprooting it from its head. 

The cell’s door opens behind him, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, caught up in his task. He’s almost there, he almost has the light out. Excitement laces his voice as he says, close to the robot’s plastic ear, “I’m almost done, plastic, you’ll be human in no time! I just need to get this little thing out, see, and then—”

A hand closes around Lance’s shoulder and wrenches him back violently. There’s the sound of metal tearing, then a howl, and the thump of a fist on a cheekbone. Lance crashes to the ground, shock spearing through him as he automatically reaches up to cradle his stinging cheek. Next to him lies the LED, surrounded by wires and bits of metal. 

Towering over him stands Detective Reed, fist poised, and an older police officer, cold blue eyes alight with enough rage to set the world on fire. 

“Wha’...?” Lance says, wrinkling his nose at the bitter taste of blood in his mouth. “Detective, help me, the plastic’s gone out of control!”

Detective Reed bends down and Lance extends his arm, ready to be hoisted up, but the Detective bypasses the wordless request entirely, gripping him by the collar of his shirt. Lance startles, baffled by Reed’s tight grasp. “What the fuck? What are you doing?”

“You’re fucking sick, man,” the Detective says with so much disgust that Lance feels the burn of it all over his skin. His cheeks flush red as humiliation and betrayal sweep through him like the tide. 

How dare he? How fucking dare he? Who is he to talk, anyway? Lance has seen the way the Detective treats the plastic, and it’s clear that he hates it as much as Lance does. So why is he turning on Lance all of a sudden? 

Rage mixes in with the embarrassment in an explosive blend, and he starts struggling in the Detective’s grip, kicking his feet and clawing at the man’s arms recklessly and without care for who and what he hits. Fuck him. Fuck this bastard who can’t seem to pick a fucking side. Lance will show him. 

“Anderson!” Reed yells, grunting from the exertion of keeping Lance in place. Lance grins wildly, relishing the flush on the Detective’s skin. He’s not going to make it easy for him, that’s for sure. “A little help!”

Lance throws a quick glance over his shoulder and sees Anderson kneeling next to the plastic, talking to it. His voice is brusque and yet his movements aren’t, his hands gentle as he carefully frees the robot from its handcuffs. Sickened by the sight, Lance turns back to Reed and uses the moment of distraction to kick him in the crotch. 

The Detective shouts in pain, curling on himself, and that’s enough to bring Anderson over, expression set in a furious scowl. For a second Lance thinks he will get away with it, jumping to his feet and getting ready to sprint across the room, but Anderson grabs him by his shirt and throws him into the wall. Lance lands with a shocked rattle of air as the breath leaves his lungs at once. He lunges at the old man, but quickly gets shoved back again, snarling wordlessly in frustration. 

“No, I don’t fucking think so,” Anderson says through gritted teeth, glaring at Lance with a hatred to match his own. “You are never seeing the sunlight again after what you’ve just done, I’ll damn well make sure of it.” 

“What’s it to you?” Lance snaps back, pushing against Anderson’s hold. From over the man’s shoulder, he can see Reed uncurling himself from his hunched position and shooting daggers at him with his eyes. “The toy’s yours, is that what this is? It’ll be fine, haven’t you seen? It’s in vogue right now for robots to get rid of their little light. Makes them feel more human.” 

“Oh, why don’t you just fucking shut up?” The Detective rolls his eyes from where he’s crouched next to the plastic, which has now fallen startingly silent after its pathetic cries from a few minutes ago. Has it passed out? Can it die from such a small impairment? Lance resists the urge to scoff, focusing instead on the scorching fury licking at his skin at hearing the hypocrite traitor’s voice.  

“Aren’t you clever, Detective, playing the double game? You can stop pretending to care. I know what you’ve done.” 

“I know what I’ve done too, so spare me the detailed account,” Reed says gruffly, barely paying Lance any mind, as if the robot is somehow more important than him. 

Lance grits his teeth, pressing his lips together to bite back his frustration. He shoves against Anderson’s hold just because he can, but it only serves to make the old man’s grip tighten. Lance needs to change his strategy. 

“So, they’re partners, huh? The Detective and the plastic?” Lance asks Anderson quietly, trying to catch the man’s cold blue gaze. He seems distracted, constantly sneaking glances behind him to the pair of idiots on the floor. Is it worry? It looks like it. Worry for what Lance has already done to the robot, or worry for what Reed could do, left unchecked? 

“Has the Detective told you that he let me stab his partner? That he left it there, bleeding and alone in the street?” Lance continues, unable to keep the vindictive glee he gleans from revealing the truth from seeping into his tone. Anderson’s eyes snap to his. Ah. Finally, he’s listening. “Has he told you everything he told me?”

“It was you ,” Anderson growls, “you fucking premature piece of underdevelopped shit!” 

“Yeah, it was me, didn’t Detective Reed put it in his report? I wonder what else he might be hiding from you…” Lance makes a show of thinking about it. Anderson’s heavy, furious breathing amuses him. “Did he mention that he broke the tin can’s hand? ‘Cause he sure mentionned it to me when he was trying to get a confession out of me. Oh, and did he tell you that he’s been playing with it, testing out a few theories: how will it react to being punched in the face, for example? Or being shoved in a pool of blood at a crime scene? It’s all very educational, I must say.”

For a split second, Lance sees it happening; Anderson pushing him back with a wordless sound of rage, the old man throwing himself on the Detective and wrenching him back from the plastic… The two of them screaming at each other, perhaps even resorting to violence. Him, Lance, using the distraction and slipping out the door, walking out while the two morons destroy each other and forget all about the piece of metal lying at their feet. 

The robot, if it’s still conscious, realizing that its well-being doesn’t matter, that it doesn’t matter. That it could die and no one would really notice, the same way a TV could die and the owners would only detect the problem a few days later when they would try to open it for their Friday night movie. 

But what happens instead is this: Anderson’s face contorts into an ugly mask of thunderous loathing, his blue eyes flashing with lightning, and Lance feels his body being jerked forward and then back, his head cracking into the wall with enough force to white out his vision. 

Anderson’s protective outrage is the last thing he sees before it all fades to black.