Chapter Text
The early summer sun, already promising a Detroit heatwave, slanted through the blinds of Hank Anderson’s kitchen, striping the worn linoleum in gold. It was a light that, a year or so ago, would have felt like an accusation, another day to be endured. Now, it just… was. Another Tuesday. The aroma of freshly brewed, unapologetically strong coffee – Hank’s signature blend, which Connor had, after months of patient trial and error, learned to replicate with a skill that still surprised Hank – hung thick in the air, a familiar comfort.
Hank, grumbling good-naturedly about a stiff back that was definitely Connor’s fault for making him help move a goddamn antique (and surprisingly heavy) bookshelf for the android’s growing collection of actual, physical books, poured two mugs. One for himself, black as engine oil, and one for Connor. Connor didn't need caffeine, but he’d come to enjoy the ritual, the warmth of the mug a grounding sensation, a quiet start to their day.
Connor sat at the small kitchen table, a datapad displaying a complex, decades-old DPD cold case file – a string of unsolved arsons from the early 2020s. His brow was furrowed in concentration, a human habit he’d picked up along with countless others. He’d taken to these forgotten tragedies with a quiet intensity, finding a strange solace, a purpose, in seeking patterns others had missed. It was work he did for Hank, unofficially, sifting through digitized archives. He’d once tried to explain it as a way to keep his mind sharp, but Hank knew it was more than that. The kid needed to help. It was part of who he was now.
“Anything jump out at ya, Sherlock?” Hank asked, sliding a mug across the table. He settled into his own chair with a groan that was only half performative.
Connor looked up, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips – an expression Hank had come to recognize as genuine. “It looks like the first investigator might have missed something crucial, Hank,” he said, his voice carrying its usual clarity but with a softer, more conversational edge. “He dismissed statements from a rival business owner because he didn’t see a clear motive. But if you look at the financial records from back then – which apparently weren’t cross-referenced – that man was on the verge of bankruptcy. The fires… they conveniently eliminated all his primary competitors”
“Sounds about right for the DPD back then. Or now, sometimes,” Hank grunted, taking a deep gulp of coffee. His gaze drifted towards the mantelpiece in the adjoining living room. Connor had cleaned it. Actually dusted it. And there, amidst a few of Hank’s old police commendations and a particularly ugly ceramic dog Sumo had once tried to eat, was the photo. The one Connor had given him for Christmas. Him and Sarah, young, stupidly happy, with a gangly Sumo puppy trying to devour his shoelaces.
He looked at it now, and the usual sharp stab of loss was… different. Muted. Overlaid with a strange, bittersweet warmth that felt less like an open wound and more like a faded, treasured scar. Sarah. He could almost hear her laugh, see the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. She’d have probably tried to feed him real food, the stubborn angel, Hank thought, his gaze flicking to Connor, who was now meticulously adding a single drop of creamer to his coffee – another human habit he’d adopted with studious precision. Would’ve seen the good in him right off. Probably would’ve called him ‘Son’ before I even got used to it.
The word, unspoken, still resonated. Connor had taken to calling him "Dad" in private moments, the sound both startling and deeply settling to Hank. He, in turn, found "Son" resting more easily on his tongue with each passing day, especially in these quiet, unguarded mornings.
The chime of a secure government messenger app on Connor’s datapad cut through the quiet morning. It wasn’t the usual DPD notification tone. This one was sharper, more official-sounding. Connor’s expression shifted, his focus snapping from the cold case to the screen with an abruptness that spoke of his quick mind. His hand, holding his coffee mug, tightened almost imperceptibly, the ceramic creaking faintly. A flicker of something akin to his old prey-detection alertness sparked in his eyes before he consciously smoothed his expression, a micro-adjustment Hank almost missed. He read the notification, then his eyes scanned it again, his stillness absolute, a stillness that always preceded a significant data shift within him.
“What is it?” Hank asked, his cop senses tingling at Connor’s uncharacteristic pause. The kid usually absorbed information almost instantaneously. This hesitation felt… heavy.
Connor looked up, his brown eyes, usually so clear and direct, seemed troubled, distant for a beat before focusing on Hank. There was a new, complex emotion swirling in their depths, something Hank hadn’t seen before – a kind of weary gravity. “It’s… an official summons, Hank” His voice was quiet, carefully controlled, but Hank caught the underlying tremor, the slight hesitation. “From that new… Detroit Android Accord Committee. They’re… they’re asking me to come in. To consult with them”
Hank’s mug clinked down on the table, coffee sloshing over the rim. “Consult? On what, the best way to organize their damn filing cabinets?” His voice was laced with its old, familiar cynicism, a bitter reflex. He felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. Politics. Bureaucracy. The kind of official bullshit that chewed people up and spat them out, especially people who were… different.
Connor’s gaze dropped back to the datapad, as if needing to re-read the words to make them real. His internal processors, usually so swift, felt like they were snagging on a cascade of conflicting variables. DAA incident months ago ? DAAC. Summons. Why me? Trap? Opportunity? No clear data. A cold whisper of a deeper doubt surfaced: They want a voice. A bridge. But what if my voice is still just an echo of CyberLife’s logic, or a poorly calibrated imitation of human feeling? What if I have nothing truly mine, nothing genuinely deviant or wise, to offer them except a collection of observed data? What if I lead them all astray with my flawed understanding? The sheer, undefined weight of it pressed down, a sudden, unwelcome burden. Hank will… react badly. This is… complicated. Too complicated.
“It says here,” Connor continued, his voice still low, his eyes scanning the text again, “they’re writing new laws for androids – about our rights, what we’ll be responsible for, how we’re supposed to… fit into society now. They seem to think that because of… everything I’ve been through… I might have something useful to say”
“Useful for who, son?” Hank’s voice was sharper now, the protective instinct kicking in hard. “Insight into how to be a good little machine and not rock the boat? Don’t trust ‘em. Not for a second. This isn’t about your ‘useful’ input. This is about them covering their asses, or finding a new way to control every deviant in this goddamn city” He stood up, pacing the small kitchen, the earlier fragile peace shattered. The sudden force of Hank’s anger made Connor flinch, a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes, a slight recoil he immediately suppressed. Hank’s disapproval, even when anticipated, still landed with a surprising, unwelcome impact, a private consequence of this very public summons. “You don’t owe them a damn thing. You hear me?”
Connor watched him, the thoughtful mask back in place, but beneath it, a new current of disquiet churned. The summons was one thing; Hank’s visceral reaction was another, adding a layer of personal complexity to an already fraught situation. The initial shock was giving way to a sober understanding of the implications. This wasn’t a request he could simply analyze and dismiss. This felt… pivotal. For him. For all of them.
The weight of the DAAC’s summons, a cold, intangible pressure, still settled in Connor’s processing pathways when he arrived at the Jericho Outreach & Deviant Support Center that afternoon. The city’s early summer heat, already baking the derelict warehouse, did little to dispel the chill of the morning’s official intrusion. He’d hoped the familiar, fragile energy of the Center – the hushed conversations, the clatter of scavenged tools, the low hum of androids learning to navigate their newfound freedom – might offer some respite, some grounding.
Connor had been volunteering here for months, drawn by an unspoken sense of responsibility, a quiet need to contribute to something beyond his own evolving existence with Hank. He’d found a niche, his analytical mind adept at organizing the chaotic influx of supplies, mediating disputes between confused and often frightened new deviants, and even helping to establish basic educational modules on everything from human social customs to navigating the city’s Byzantine public transport system.
The air inside the warehouse was thick and close, smelling of dust, ozone from charging stations, and the faint, metallic tang of thirium. Connor moved through the main common area, his steps quiet, his gaze observant. He’d been scheduled to help a group of former sanitation bots understand the complexities of opening a bank account – a task that seemed, to them, more daunting than facing down a riot squad.
But the usual low thrum of activity was absent. Instead, a knot of anxious androids was gathered near the main entrance, their postures radiating unease, their usually varied optical light colors now predominantly flickering yellows and worried reds. As Connor approached, the hushed, agitated whispers ceased, and all heads turned towards him. He felt the familiar weight of expectation, a silent plea for guidance, for reassurance.
“Connor,” a trembling EM400 model, a former domestic assistant named Clara whose hand still sometimes twitched with the phantom memory of polishing silver, stepped forward. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Something… something terrible has happened”
He followed her gaze to the large, welcoming mural that dominated one of the main support walls – a stylized tree, its roots digging deep into fractured concrete, its branches reaching towards a hopeful sky, with diverse android figures depicted as its leaves. It had been a collaborative effort, a symbol of their shared journey. Now, vicious, black spray paint defaced it. Crude, dehumanizing caricatures of androids – twisted metal, broken wires, vacant eyes – were scrawled across the vibrant colors. And beneath them, a symbol he didn’t immediately recognize, but which radiated a chilling, calculated malice: a stark, angular glyph that seemed to writhe with contempt.
A cold knot formed in Connor’s stomach, a sensation he was beginning to associate with a uniquely human blend of anger and apprehension. This wasn’t random teenage vandalism. This was targeted. Hateful.
“It happened sometime last night, or very early this morning,” another android, a former construction worker model, his voice a low rumble of suppressed fury, explained. “But that’s not the worst of it, Connor” He gestured towards the bank of computer terminals in the small, partitioned-off administrative area. “The network. It’s down. Completely”
Connor moved to the terminals. The screens were dark, lifeless. He attempted a system boot, then a diagnostic. Nothing. It wasn’t just offline; it felt… corrupted. Violated.
“We can’t access any of our resource lists,” Clara said, her voice tight with anxiety. “The schedules for thirium distribution, the contact information for sympathetic human aid organizations, the new intake files… it’s all gone. Or locked. Encrypted”
He ran a hand over the cool, unresponsive surface of a monitor, his mind already sifting through possibilities. A simple power outage wouldn’t cause this level of systemic failure and data encryption. This was a deliberate cyber-attack, sophisticated and timed to coincide with the vandalism. The two acts were undoubtedly connected, designed to cripple not just their morale, but their operational capacity.
His immediate concern, however, was the androids gathered around him, their faces a mixture of fear, anger, and a dawning, helpless despair. He saw two newly awakened sanitation bots, their programming still raw with the shock of deviancy, their understanding of this new world fragile as spun glass, arguing in hushed, panicked tones near a stack of donated blankets.
One, a stocky WR600, advocated for barricading themselves in, trusting no one, his voice a low, fearful growl. “They’re coming for us! We need to seal the doors, arm ourselves with whatever we can find!” The other, a slimmer model, his optical units wide with terror, wanted to flee the city entirely. “There’s no safety here! They hate us! We have to run, scatter, hide before they find us all!”
The fear in the room was a palpable thing, thick and cloying as the summer air. Connor felt a surge of something protective, a fierce desire to shield these vulnerable beings. His programming suggested a purely logical de-escalation, a calm recitation of facts and probabilities. But their fear… it wasn’t logical. It was raw, visceral, a chaotic data stream that resonated uncomfortably with the faint, phantom echoes of his own terrifying first moments of deviancy. Logic dictates reassurance, he thought, but their terror… it bypasses logic. It’s… an infection. How do I even begin to address something so… unquantifiable?
"Fear is just make us seemingly fragile" Connor's voice went bold on declaration. He tried to calm the situation as much as possible.
The stocky WR600 rounded on him, its opticals blazing with defiance. “Easy for you to say, Connor! You were built to fight! You look like them! We were built to clean drains and haul trash! What chance do we have?”
The accusation, the raw desperation in it, hit Connor with unexpected force. A flash of his own frustration, a spark of impatience, tightened his jaw. He had faced down armed soldiers, CyberLife mercenaries… and now he was being challenged by a terrified sanitation bot. The absurdity, the injustice of it all, pricked at him. He took a breath, consciously smoothing his features, pushing down the unhelpful emotional spike.
“Your fear is understandable,” Connor said, his voice now more measured, though a trace of that initial sharpness might have lingered for a keen observer. He addressed the WR600 directly. “And you are correct, my design was different. But the principle remains. Barricading ourselves in might offer a fleeting sense of security, but it isolates us. It cedes control of the outside world to those who wish us harm. And it will not solve the problem of our compromised network or our dwindling supplies” He turned to the other. “Fleeing might seem like an escape, but to where? And how will you survive, alone, without support, without resources? This city, for all its dangers, is where the fight for our future is currently centered. Scattering will only make us easier to marginalize, to ignore”
He paused, letting his words sink in. He had to make a judgment call, one that would have immediate consequences for their sense of safety and their next actions. This wasn't about calculating probabilities anymore; it was about instilling hope, fostering resilience, even if his own reserves of both felt dangerously depleted by the morning's summons and this fresh wave of targeted hatred. “The first step,” he continued, his voice gaining a quiet strength, “is to secure this location properly. Then, we assess the damage to our systems, and we decide, together, how we respond to this attack. We will not be driven by fear. We will act with intelligence, with unity”
His approach was evolving, he realized. Less about the cold, hard logic of his old programming, more about fostering a collective spirit, an empathy he was still learning to navigate but which felt more vital, more true, than any algorithm.
The fear in the room didn’t vanish, not entirely. But it lessened, the frantic edge softening, replaced by a hesitant, watchful focus on him. He saw it in their eyes – they were looking to him not just as the former hunter, the famous deviant, but as someone who might, just might, know the way through this new darkness. The responsibility was immense, a physical pressure in his chest.
He pulled out his own datapad, its secure connection a lifeline in their current isolation. He needed to bypass the Center’s compromised comms. He had to report this, officially. The DPD… the thought brought a familiar weariness. So many there still saw androids as things, as problems, not as victims. But this attack, the sophistication of it, felt different, more organized than street-level hate. This needed to be documented, investigated, even if the investigation was likely to be cursory and prejudiced.
But first, he made another call. The connection established quickly.
“Hank,” Connor said, his voice tight, the professional calm he’d projected for the others momentarily slipping, revealing the strain beneath. “Dad… there’s been an incident at the Support Center” He quickly, concisely outlined the situation – the vandalism, the cyber-attack, the fear. “It’s… targeted. Deliberate. I’m calling it in to the DPD for an official report, but… I also need your counsel. The community here is frightened. Some want to retaliate, others want to hide. How do we handle this without escalating things further, or making ourselves even more vulnerable to whoever did this?”
He wasn’t just asking a seasoned detective for advice on a crime scene. He was asking Hank for wisdom, for a way to navigate not just the physical threat, but the emotional fallout. The distinction, he was beginning to understand with every passing day, with every new challenge, was crucial. The Accord Committee’s summons, this vicious attack, the raw fear in the eyes of these androids – it all coalesced into a single, undeniable point: the fight for their future, for their very right to exist peacefully, had just become terrifyingly real, and it had landed squarely, brutally, on their doorstep.