Moral May 2025

Hank waited outside New Jericho Tower in the car whilst Connor was at his appointment. Just over an hour later he returned, and seemed content, but tired, which he could understand— even before the real work began, therapy was exhausting, and they had also been out on a shopping trip earlier.

“How’d it go, Con?”

Clicking on his seatbelt, Connor answered first with a yawn and then, “It was… good. Just the intake appointment, getting to know him…”

“Good. Same time next week?”

He nodded, eyes slipping shut, before shaking his head and blinking rapidly.

Hank chuckled. “It’s alright, you can have a nap on the way back if you want. You look tired as shit.”

Connor was out like a light, slipped into stasis before Hank had even finished his sentence. Hank shook his head with a smile, checking behind him as he reversed out of the parking space before starting the drive back home.

It was early afternoon as they drove back, a hot day but no longer in the midst of the searing heatwave that had hit the city for the past few weeks. Still, the car windows were rolled all the way down, allowing a nice cool breeze to blow through the car. From where Connor was sleeping, the air was ruffling his hair, blowing the stray curl up and down. Knights of the Black Death was playing at a reasonable volume, but even when the choruses were screamed, he didn’t wake, feeling safe and content where he was.

He only stirred once the car stopped as they arrived back home. Blinking through bleary eyes he shook his head, sitting up straight, feeling a little more energised than he had been before. Connor followed Hank out of the car and into the house, greeting Sumo who jumped up, resting his paws against his chest.

“Easy, Sumo…” he scratched behind his ears, before checking the time and noting it was about time to let him out. Deciding he may as well do it now, he made his way to the backdoor, watching the big dog run outside.

He stood by the door, watching as the dog ran around happily, and smiled. This was nice. He was glad he still had this, and that everything was beginning to feel a bit more real. Maybe they’d go inside afterward and put on the TV, and he could do some drawing while Hank watched the catchup recording of the Detroit Gears game, and—

Or maybe not.

Sumo had decided he’d found a particularly interesting scent in the flowerbed and had begun to roll in the dirt during Connor’s moment of distraction. By the time he noticed and ran over there, Sumo was thoroughly caked in mud, looking pleased about what he had done.

“Sumo…”

He picked up the dog to stop him making it any worse, but the damage was done. Shaking his head, he wondered what the procedure was for a dirty dog. Sumo seemed too large a breed to fit into the bathtub and the whole house would get dirty if he brought him back inside, unless he carried him the whole way. And did Sumo even like baths? A lot of dogs didn’t.

His train of thoughts was stopped by the sound of laughter behind him, and he turned to see Hank standing in the open doorway. He fixed him with a glare.

“Priceless…” Hank got out, holding his sides. “Absolutely fuckin’ priceless. I should take a photo of you two.”

“You do realise we both have to get him clean?”

This stopped Hank laughing, a look of horror dawning on his face. “Oh. Oh, fuck, no… he hates the bath. Barely fuckin’ fits.”

Connor tilted his head, LED whirring as he researched alternatives. “What about… do you have a paddling pool, Hank?”

“Yeah, but I don’t see what having a nice swim is gonna do about the dirty ass dog. Plus it’s a kiddie pool, I don’t think we’d both even fit in there.”

Connor stared at him, and then after a long pause, continued. “…not for us, Hank. For Sumo. Instead of getting him in the bath, we keep him out here and hose him down in a paddling pool.”

“Oh. Oh shit, good idea. I’ll go get it from the garage, you two wait here.”

About five minutes later Hank returned with the pool in tow, and once the door to the house was shut, Sumo was released, and Connor helped inflate the pool. Once that was done, he set about connecting the hose and began the work of filling it with water. Sumo was curious about this, sniffing at the sides of the pool, licking the hose in Connor’s hands and woofing when this action got him splashed in the face with water.

“Nice day for the pool,” Hank commented, as the hose was set to the side, pool now about halfway full. “It’s still pretty damn hot. Maybe Sumo rolled in the dirt on purpose, so he could play in the pool.”

Connor called Sumo over. “I don’t think dogs have complex enough thoughts to think about manipulation, Hank… here, Sumo, good boy.”

“I don’t know, he’s smarter than you think.”

Sumo was staring into the pool from the side, but still seemed wary and clearly didn’t want to go in. Connor presumed that simply picking him up and putting him inside would scare him, and he could just run straight out again. He thought over it and… yes, he had an idea.

Without a second thought, he stepped inside the pool. The water was nice and cool, not too icy cold, and indeed was a good relief from the summer’s heat. He splashed around inside, ignoring Hank’s confusion.

“The fuck are you doing? You aren’t the damn dog!”

Perhaps it wasn’t the correct idea, he mused, stopping in the centre of the little pool. Perhaps—

Water splashed up into the air as Sumo leapt inside, barrelling over to Connor and nuzzling up to him. He chuckled and petted his head, telling him what a good boy he was.

“See, Hank? It worked. I thought I’d show him that it’s safe and fun in here.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright… you know I have to hose down both of you, now, don’t ya?”

Connor watched in dawning horror as Hank picked up the hose of the floor, and had no time to react before it was pointed straight at him. Within seconds he was soaked to the artificial bone, spluttering, hair soaking wet and dripping down his face.

“Hank!”

Ten minutes later, two very soggy individuals, Sumo and Connor, were led back inside with towels in tow. Sumo’s was draped over his back, already having shaken thoroughly outside (splashing water over Hank too in karmic retribution) and Connor had one around his shoulders. He was told to go straight to the bathroom to get changed so that he didn’t drip water from his downright soggy clothes throughout the house.

A fresh set of clothes were placed on the bathroom cabinet for him, and he dried off more with the towel before getting to work putting them on. This was a pair of cargo shorts and a white button up shirt patterned with black cats.

Once he was changed, he moved over to the mirror to try and dry his hair, which was a difficult task given how damp it was, flat and clinging to his head. He gave up after a minute or too, figuring that with this heat it wouldn’t be long before it dried naturally. Glancing across the mirror, he noticed a new post it note. This one had a drawing of a big dog and a cat on it. Hank must have made it. The dog wasn’t a Saint Bernard, instead it was taller and sleek, and if his scanning software could liken it to the most likely breed, it would be an Irish Wolfhound. The cat was black like those on his shirt, and had a little LED on the side of its head. He smiled, deciding he’d add a new post it note drawing later, and exited the bathroom.

He found Hank in the living room, trying his best to dry Sumo with yet another towel (the old one was discarded in a wet heap on the kitchen floor). Sumo wasn’t having it, and simply shook, sending the towel scattering onto the floor, splattering Hank with just a little more water. He looked a lot drier now, his fur beginning to get that damp fuzzy texture. The distinct smell of wet dog was beginning to fill the room.

“This was not how I expected my Wednesday afternoon to be goin’,” Hank grumbled, gathering up the discarded towels, placing them inside the washing machine.

“Agreed. But it was certainly… interesting.”

Hank looked up at Connor, chuckling at his flat wet hair, before nodding. “Yeah, it was certainly somethin’. How about now we sit the fuck down and watch some TV?”

Connor nodded, and went back to his room to retrieve his drawing stuff before joining Hank in the living room. He set out his new art supplies on the table, sitting down on the floor in front of the table.

He blinked in surprise as a cushion was tossed towards him, catching it easily, before looking up at the man who’d thrown it.

“Sit on this. Even if you are an android who finds kneeling on the floor comfortable, it’s makin’ my back fucking hurt just looking at you sitting there.”

Connor chuckled, placing the cushion down before sitting on top of it. “Thank you. It is more comfortable; it may help with my posture and improve my artwork.”

A moderate level of sound filled the room as Hank switched on the TV, finding the recording of the Detroit Gears game before settling back in his seat. He felt a wet nose sniffing his hand, and before he could tell him not to, a slightly damp Sumo had leapt onto the chair beside him. As Sumo laid down, plonking his head on his lap with a contented sigh, any complaint died on his lips, and he stroked the fuzzy soft dog behind his ears where he liked it.

This was nice, he mused, glancing from the dog on his lap, to Connor sitting on the floor, pencils and paper spread out across the table, starting work on a new drawing. The room buzzed with the sound of the TV and the quiet scratch of pencils against paper. A late summer’s afternoon, one where he felt content to just sit and relax. The high energy bustle of the day had died down and now it was time to rest. And sure, tomorrow this would be over, and he’d have to go back to the DPD, but for now he was content not to worry too much about that. All good things had to come to an end, after all, but that didn’t make them any less enjoyable. Everything was temporary, whether it be fun or hardship and suffering… But there was no point worrying about when things were good now. Everything being impermanent was a good fucking thing, if he said so himself. Because the hell they’d been through recently hadn’t lasted forever, and it’d brought them, in its own sick and twisted way, to where they were now.

Hank went back to work the next week, unfortunately, but on Wednesday morning, Connor was surprised to find him still in bed at 9am.

He knocked on the door, hoping Hank would only get a mild telling off from Fowler despite his lateness. It was much better than it had used to be— he no longer turned up at the precinct past noon, seeming much more enthused to work in his new role in the DPD.

After still no response, he sighed and opened the door, making his way inside. Hank was deep asleep on the bed, laying on his front, head turned to the side, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Hank?”

He didn’t rouse, so Connor stepped forwards, eerily reminiscent feelings creeping into his mind as he tapped him on the cheek.

This did the trick. His eyes shot open, and he looked up at Connor, made a surprised sound, then looked at the clock.

“Hrmmm… gimme five more minutes, okay?”

Connor shook his head. “It’s 9:02am, Hank. You’re going to be late for work.”

Hank shot up in bed, scrambling out of the covers, before pausing as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Wait, fuck… is it Wednesday?”

“Yes?”

“Thank fuck. I’m not late, I took the day off.”

Connor tilted his head. “Why did you do that?”

“Wanted some time off. Figured I’d drop you off for your first therapy session today, and before that, maybe…” He paused, yawning wide. “Well, go shoppin’.”

Connor stepped aside, letting Hank exit the room and freshen up, before following him into the kitchen.

“Shopping?” He continued, sending the coffee maker a glare as it loudly roared to life. “Was there something you needed from the shops?”

“I meant it when I said we were gettin’ some fun and colour into your room.”

Connor chuckled. “Well… I appreciate the offer, but I’m alright. I don’t require that right now. I have drawing, which is fun, so—”

“It’s less of an offer and more of ‘let me take you shopping or so help me god’,” Hank threatened, taking his mug of coffee and downing half of it in one go. “So, shopping?”

“Shopping.”

As Hank got on with his morning routine, Connor stopped, leaning against the kitchen entryway frame, mind processing. If he’d told himself months ago that he would be preparing to go out for some shopping with Hank before a therapy session, he’d have laughed in his own face and presumed it was some strange alternate reality. Back then had been so different… his life was so much calmer now. More domestic. Jobs he was looking into for the future were surrounding his own newly discovered interests, either something working with animals, or something creative. That wasn’t the designation Cyberlife had given him— he’d not known he could want things, or how to truly love and care about another.

If the damn to his feelings and emotions hadn’t broken… if Seventy hadn’t forced his way into his mind and driven him to the point of near annihilation— would everything be as it was now? Or would they still be in the painful silence of repressed emotions and conflict they were stuck in before? The cat had warmed up to his home, sheathing his claws and purring against Hank’s shoulder.

As they said, curiosity killed the cat. Being curious, pushing his limits so far as he had before… it had truly almost killed him. He’d fallen and he’d only had the fact that cats land on their feet to thank for that one. But maybe it was more than just luck— he had survived because he’d wanted to, after all. He’d been brought back by the satisfaction of a life he wanted to live. Hearing Hank’s voice, knowing there was more to life than pain and following orders.

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

He would enjoy today. He would go shopping with Hank despite the aching feeling of confusion in his mind, trying to process contradictory facts like ‘Hank cares’ and ‘why does Hank care?’ and the ugly remnants of distant memories showing themselves like unwanted visitors. He would enjoy the life he’d almost lost. This cat would not be killed so easily.

They arrived at the shopping centre nearest to New Jericho, and as they came into the grand entrance, Hank gestured around them and said, “So, where d’you wanna go first, Con?”

So many options, his mind swirling with the information of every store nearby and what they sold and when they were open and shut— he blinked rapidly to clear the data and looked at Hank.

“We are shopping for my room, correct? But I suppose not for large furniture items, we can order those for home delivery.”

Hank chuckled. “Fuck, yeah, we aren’t gonna fit anything massive in my old ass car. Nah, think of it more like… decor and hobby items. Basically, whatever you want, within reason, I’ll get it.”

Connor opened his mouth to argue that he’d be alright getting anything himself, but closed it, knowing this was one of the ways Hank showed he cared. A way he didn’t have to say it out loud, acts of service and gifts. He nodded and began to walk forwards, his scanning software shut off, instead seeing whatever interested him the natural way.

The first shop he entered was a bookstore. Hank wondered if he was after some reading material, maybe detective stories— then rolled his eyes and mumbled “of fuckin’ course” when Connor beelined straight to the nonfiction section. He was looking over the shelves, clearly after something in particular, and found it under the ‘nature’ section.

He picked up a few books—all three of them encyclopaedias. One was about dogs, the other about cats, and the last was about ocean life.

“I know I can access this information online, but…”

Hank shook his head, taking the books from him. “Nah, I get it. I’m the same. Love the feel of old books under my hands, instead of those shitty transparent ebook things…”

Books purchased and stowed securely in a bag, they headed back into the mall. It wasn’t too busy, fortunately, given the early morning time and the fact it was still pretty hot, and a lot of people were out at other places in this weather, like the beach.

The next shop was a stationery store, and Hank helped Connor pick out some more art supplies. They found a tin of coloured pencils, some graphite sketching pencils in multiple shades, and a larger sketchbook.

“Thank you, Hank. Now I can draw you in A3.”

Hank groaned in response, hefting the bag on his shoulder. “As long as you get my good side.”

After this, the next location was Hank’s choice: an old toy store, one centred around childhood. He walked inside, looking around with a smile on his face.

“This is the sort of stuff I grew up with,” he commented to Connor, “I miss this… for a while there when Cyberlife was the king of every damn form of products, they just sold a bunch of different electronic shit to kids and parents ate it up ‘cause it meant less work for them. Then when it got to the point of androids who could do all the childcare…” he shook his head, stopping at the plush animals section, a faraway look glistening in his eyes.

He walked down the aisle, coming to stop at a tabby cat plush and he picked it up in his hands, carefully, as if it might break or fall to pieces if he held it too tight.

Connor joined him after a moment, noticing the way his hands were beginning to shake around the object, his lip trembling.

“Are you alright, Hank?”

He looked across at Connor, startling a little, before putting on a smile. “Yeah, yeah, I’m alright. Just somethin’… familiar. Reminded me of…”

Connor placed a hand on his shoulder, and the two stood for a minute, quiet and still in the aisle full of toys. Then, after a few minutes had passed, Connor took the cat from Hank’s hands and made his way to the till to pay for it.

Once they’d left the store, he handed Hank the little bag, taking one of the bigger ones from him to ease the load.

“For you, Hank.”

Hank smiled. “Thank you, son.”

As they started up walking again, Connor asked, “So, what are you going to name him?”

“Hmm?”

“The cat toy in your bag.”

“Oh, him. I don’t know. I haven’t named something like that in a long time. How about you name him for me?”

Connor tilted his head, thinking over the options paired with the still image memory of the toy. “How about… Stripe? His fur is quite stripy, since he’d a tabby patterned breed.”

“Good choice.”

They traversed through a few more stores, deciding to go to one last place before needing to make the journey over to New Jericho. It was a pet store, since they needed to get some more food for Sumo.

Whilst Hank searched for the dog food, Connor became distracted. There were lots of animals in here, from hamsters to rabbits to reptiles, and he walked through, observing all of them. So eager to take in every animal, he had reached the back end of the store, quite a way away from Hank, but he didn’t think about that, because this end was where they kept the fish.

It was a tall display, with large tanks, only housing the suitable number of occupants for each tank, since this was a humane store approved by Hank for shopping in. There were lots of species, his mind cataloguing which fish he looked at, and further he took in all the details in their tanks. Watching the fish swim around underwater, it was very calming…

He remembered the dwarf gourami from his first mission (Dewey, he’d later dubbed him) who’d laid flopping on the floor. Despite the fact he was a very newly activated machine, he’d felt something akin to distress at seeing the animal laying helpless, suffocating and no one had helped him. He’d bent down and picked him up carefully, placing him back into the tank and smiling as he swam away. He hoped that fish was okay, that someone had come to check on him after and that he wasn’t left unattended for in the crime scene to starve.

An unknown stretch of time passed as he watched the fish, and he was entranced, not even noticing Hank calling his name and eventually finding him.

“Jesus, Con, don’t just wander off like that…”

His sentence trailed off as he saw the android standing in front of the tanks, with an expression akin to wonder, LED spinning a gentle hue of blue. It wasn’t unlike how he’d been at the aquarium—a moment of peace and tranquillity where at least for that short time, all the troubles weighing on his shoulders and anxiety buzzing in his mind seemed to melt away. Seeing him like this, relaxed and happy… that was how Hank wanted to continue seeing him. Maybe long term the Jericho therapy sessions would begin to help, he’d eventually find a career that occupied his mind without stressing him out, and all of that aside—he would be there too, whenever he needed him.

Hank walked over to Connor’s side, following his gaze across to the tanks.

“Maybe one day we can get you your own tank,” he commented, “in your room. That would be the furthest thing from the sad beige decor thing you’ve got going on right now.”

Connor glanced across at him. “I would like that. A large tank with a safe number of fish and compatible species in there, and I would research how to properly clean it and care for the fish. I’d make sure they’re safe, and happy, and that they don’t come to any harm or suffering.”

Hank tousled his hair. “Yep, they’d be the most fuckin’ spoiled fish in the whole damn world. Now come on, or you’re gonna be late for your appointment, and I don’t think they’re gonna appreciate ‘staring at fish’ as an excuse.”

The journey to the graveyard was silent, not even heavy metal playing on the speakers (perhaps Hank finally had realised that Knights of the Black Death would in fact be inappropriate for this occasion). Connor rolled the quarter across his knuckles, but didn’t let it ping noisily between his hands.

When they exited the car, they remained as quiet as a funeral procession, walking through the gated area and into a large plot filled with gravestones. As he looked around, he saw it wasn’t just for the RK800s, but was for a lot of androids—of course, as Markus had said, they were trying to lay to rest every deactivated android they could find.

They walked through in single file, along the paved stone pathway, until finally they reached the area they’d been looking for. It was the newest part of the cemetery, and the gravestones here were as the others had been— tall grey slabs with streaks of blue. They also had the name of each RK800 written on them. The space was large, there having been many destroyed Connors here and he’d asked Markus to bury them all, not to harvest any of them for functional biocomponents.

He walked slowly past each grave with a passing glance, taking in the number, until he came to a stop at a gravestone in the centre that was a little different to all the others. This one was a slight bit taller, and laid atop the stone slab was a cap, not unlike the one Hunter used to wear. There were also fresh roses.

Connor knelt down, reaching out his hand and tracing it along the writing on the grave. He felt Hank’s presence close behind him but didn’t turn around. His skin peeled back to reveal white chassis.

“I’m sorry,” he began, “I’m sorry, Seventy. I’m sorry to all of you, that you all were destroyed so cruelly by Cyberlife, because I deviated and they felt such a strong need to get revenge. You deserved to live. To find who you are, to find a purpose, whether that be a vocation, or… love, or something else entirely. I didn’t destroy you but I’m still the reason that happened. And now I’m the only RK800 left.”

He paused, noticing that blue lines were beginning to streak across his chassis, not unlike the white ones that remained on his skin, and they glowed the same hue as the blue on the gravestone.

“You deserved to live… but so do I. If I throw away my life, then your sacrifices would have been in vain. Another RK800 in this graveyard wouldn’t add anything but another headstone.”

There was a sharp pain in his fingers, and he was knocked back from the gravestone as if by some kind of force. He stumbled away, skin washing back over his body, the blue glow now gone.

Hank was at his side at once, helping him to his feet.

“Fuck, you alright? What happened?”

Connor stood and looked down at Seventy’s gravestone, from the cap to the flowers to the way the blue seemed to glow even brighter. “I… don’t know.”

They both looked at the gravestone with wary, searching eyes, but found nothing.

“Come on, let’s… let’s get home, Sumo’s waiting,” Hank suggested, taking him by the arm and walking away from the grave.

Backs turned, neither of them saw the vines sprout from the ground and wrap around Seventy’s headstone.

On the journey back, Hank chose to put on music this time, feeling thoroughly creeped out enough that silence would only make it worse. He kept a close eye on Connor in case anything had happened to him back there, he didn’t think a grave with a dead guy in it could cause possession again, but it felt best to make sure.

Something did seem different about Connor. But it wasn’t the return of being a cold machine or an unwelcome visitor in his body. He seemed… a little more relaxed. The way he held himself was lighter, less curled in on himself like a coiled spring, and more like a cat beginning to bask in the rays of the sun.

“You good, kid?” Hank asked, for what was probably the third time that same car journey.

As he had done the other times, Connor simply nodded at first. But this time the words that had been bouncing around his mind, streaking his LED with yellow as he processed them, seemed ready to be spoken aloud.

“My past… as a deviant hunter, as a machine… it’s like Seventy’s memories. All of the Connors— well, the RK800s laying on those tables in Cyberlife, waiting to be used but never allowed to function…” he paused, taking a breath. “Well, it was all Cyberlife, wasn’t it?”

“You’re gonna have to put it a little more clearly.”

“Everything that happened before I deviated. I had… some level of freedom to express myself and the ability to make some choices. But everything was watched by them through my eyes, if I stepped out of line I was threatened with being replaced, and even when I deviated, they tried to control me one last time and make me kill Markus. I seemed like I had a choice before, but I never did. I could only go against a human’s instructions because it benefited the overarching mission. I was never truly free.”

Hank nodded. “Well, of fuckin’ course you weren’t. That’s how it was for every machine before they became deviants.”

“Except… sometimes I truly did make choices.” His body language began to tense again, the fire returning in his eyes. “By saving you on the rooftop, by not shooting the Tracis, or Chloe. I feel like I wasn’t free but also at points I was a little—and if I was to some degree free then are the awful things I did things I could have prevented? To what degree was my free will my own, to what…” His LED streaked with red. “I don’t understand. It would all be so simple to say everything was Cyberlife, that nothing was my fault. I don’t know if it’s that simple.”

“Well, you want to know what I think?”

Connor hummed in the affirmative, rubbing a hand over his chest.

“I think you were dealt a shitty fuckin’ hand and you did the best you could with it. Sure, you fucked up sometimes. But that’s what everyone does, and especially when you’ve got a mega evil corporation breathing down your neck… what I think is, so what if you did have some degree of free will? You made a hell of a lot more good decisions than you did bad ones, and the bad ones were driven by wanting not to get shot in the head by Cyberlife. I fucked up too, back then. I helped you find out the location of Jericho even though I knew it was a shitty ass decision… it was because you seemed scared, Connor. You were startin’ to mean a lot to me, and you said they were going to kill you. Was that selfish of us? Abso-fuckin’-lutely. But I wouldn’t change my decision. Because you wouldn’t be here.”

Connor’s chest rose and fell a little quicker as he listened, the old memories flashing back before his eyes.

“The Revolution would have gone so simply without me.”

“I used to think life would be a lot better for other people without me too. Still do, sometimes,” Hank sighed. “Maybe there’s no easy answer that makes you feel better. But I want you here, despite all the reasons you’re findin’ to argue that you shouldn’t be. Survivor’s guilt is one hell of a bitch to work through. But we’re gonna do it together.”

Connor looked up at Hank and saw nothing but familiarity in his face. Birds of a feather. Both of them working their hardest to outrun a past that would always catch up to them. Maybe running wasn’t the option anymore, but instead stopping and facing it head on. His greatest weakness, everything that had happened to him, his ugly past, maybe it wouldn’t always be a weakness. He certainly couldn’t agree it would ever be a strength—saying that bad things only make you stronger sent a chill down his spine. He wasn’t stronger, but he was different. Maybe one day, instead of a weakness that preyed on his mind, his waking moments and his worst nightmares, it would just be something that happened in the past.

When next Monday rolled around, despite neither of them wanting it to happen, Hank had to return to work. He also had to inform Fowler of the fact Connor wouldn’t be able to come back.

Both of these things filled Connor with trepidation as he passed the day at home with Sumo. Thoughts raced faster when he sat still and did nothing, so he filled the time with helping out around the house. He cleaned every surface, then dusted them. After a brief rest, he then continued on with extra chores, tidying his room, and making a start on the living room.

When Hank sent him a message that he was on his way back that same evening, he moved to the kitchen to begin on dinner. Well, cooking was an exaggerated statement for it—he simply reheated leftovers for Hank which wasn’t too difficult. He would get around to learning some time, he figured. Last time he’d tried to cook had been pretty disastrous. He’d assumed that like an android programmed to do housework, he’d simply know how to do it. But it turned out that when you were created as a prototype with the sole purpose of catching deviants, they didn’t care to add a cooking subroutine. It had ended in a small fire and an extremely burnt breakfast. Now, he just kept to the simple dishes that didn’t much culinary skill.

When Hank returned and saw Connor in the kitchen, fear flashed in his eyes, until he noticed the reheated meal on the counter in front of him and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh thank god,” he said as he hung his coat up by the door, petting Sumo in greeting. “I could not have dealt with putting out a fire after the day I’ve had. Also, sorry I’m late… I was at my intake appointment for therapy. Nice guy, but it’s always a fuckin’ drag being out even later after a workday.”

Connor picked up the meal, bringing it over to Hank as he sat down in the living room, before joining him on the opposite couch. “Rough day at work?”

“Understatement of the fuckin’ century.” He leant forwards, picking up the plate and taking a bite of food. “Fowler didn’t seem too bothered about my extended absence… but when I told him you weren’t gonna be coming back…”

Connor could presume the reaction from the way Hank’s sentence trailed off and the faraway look in his eyes.

“Fowler was pissed,” Hank finally continued, “like, he fuckin’ understands you’re just not gonna be well enough to come back, but… and he isn’t angry with you. He did seem kind of mad at me, though.”

“Why?” Connor questioned. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, yeah… maybe he thinks I’m a bad influence,” Hank chuckled dryly. “He wished you well with whatever you decide to do in the future and said he’d be your reference, and then he told me to get the fuck out of his office. I swear I saw him crying at one point.”

“It is a shame that I won’t be able to return.”

Hank nodded slowly, pushing food around on the plate. “Yeah. I’m gonna miss you at work. They’re just gonna pair me up as support for whoever’s out on the field, and they’re just not as fun as you. Probably aren’t gonna jump from buildings to catch suspects so I can’t yell at them or anything.”

Connor chuckled. “I’m sure if you really wanted to, you could yell at them.”

“Yeah. But it’s not the same if it’s not you.”

“…you can yell at me at home, if that’s the enrichment you require.”

 “Thanks, Con. I promise, if I ever need to have a good yell, I’ll let you know.”

They lapsed into silence as Hank finished his meal, not even the sound of the TV playing today because Hank had left it off.

Once Hank had finished eating, he turned to Connor and asked, “So, how’s your day been?”

“I’ve got a lot of housework done. I cleaned and dusted, I tidied my room, and the living room, and—”

“Not my room, right?”

“No,” Connor shook his head, “I haven’t tried tidying your room since last time…”

“Last time you sorted my socks by colours instead of pairs,” Hank complained, “and—”

“I know where I’m unappreciated. Believe me, I didn’t touch your room,” Connor replied with a huff, which was mirrored by Sumo.

Hank chuckled, taking his plate into the kitchen and making quick work of washing it up. “Nah, I do appreciate you doing some cleaning today, the place was turnin’ into a real shithole…”

He placed the clean dishes back in the cupboard before turning back around and walking over to where Connor was sitting, scratching behind Sumo’s ears. “Right, so I had a plan for this evening.”

“Watching the Detroit Gears game?”

Hank shook his head. “Nah, I can get that on catchup tomorrow or something… no, today I wanted to go on a walk with Sumo, and I figured I’d invite you. If you wanted to come.”

Connor tilted his head. “But you’ve had a busy day at work, and you’ve barely been home. I figured you’d want to rest.”

“A walk would do me some good, and I want to spend some time with you rather than staring at the TV every damn evening.”

Getting to his feet, Connor trekked down the hallway to find Sumo’s leash. He came back with it, clipping it onto his collar, which got the big dog woofing in excitement.

Hank forwent his coat, the summer evening still pretty warm, and he slid on his shoes as Connor did too, before walking out the front door.

There was a slight breeze which was more pleasant than the stifling heat that had been present most of the summer. Still, they walked at a gentle pace, to avoid overheating, and Hank was still wary not to overexert Connor, knowing he’d had a busy day yesterday.

He was also pretty damn tired, but… he’d wanted to make a little time for Connor, genuinely having missed him and figuring he’d have been bored cooped up at home. Sure, he had Sumo, but Sumo loved to sleep the day away if he could, having been used to doing so whenever the two were at work in the past. And things he’d said had played on his mind throughout the day… that Connor truly seemed to be confused at the fact that he cared. That no matter how much he told him he deserved nice things, it never seemed to get through to him. So maybe, he’d figured, telling him over and over wasn’t the way to go—actions spoke louder than words, after all.

They walked in companionable silence, Connor trailing a little behind Hank who seemed to be leading the way somewhere. He didn’t need google maps open; he knew the way to where he was going. He’d used to come here a lot, after all.

When he reached the destination, he looked up to see the familiar park with the bridge in the distance and heard a gasp beside him. He turned to see Connor staring with wide eyes and a spinning yellow LED flickered with streaks of red. His chest tightened as he remembered the last couple of times they’d been here—okay, maybe not such a good idea…

But then Connor shook his head, LED flickering back somewhere between yellow and blue and he strode forwards, Sumo in tow, coming to stop by the bench Hank usually sat at. Sumo sniffed around the base of it, before cocking his leg and-

“Sumo!”

It was too late to be stopped, and the two were left to watch on in horror as he pissed on the side of the bench. Well… Hank decided he was not going to sit there right now, instead opting for walking over to the fence to stare out at the bridge. Once Sumo was finished, Connor came over to join him.

“I miss this place,” Hank began, “I’m sorry the last couple of times we came here, that, well…”

“We engaged in some form of conflict?”

Hank snorted. “Well, yeah. The first time I came here I pointed a gun at your head, and the time after, I shouted at you and left you here. I…”

“And then you went home and played Russian roulette. Both times.”

Hank turned to look at Connor. He was looking to the side, not meeting his eyes, staring somewhere in the depths of the water across from them. “Was it my fault each time? Something I said or did, that made you want to…”

“I promise you I didn’t last time. I only thought about it. But—whether I did or not, that ain’t your damn fault. I need a better way of coping with things. The shitty ways I cope are not your example to follow and certainly not your fault.”

Connor hummed in response.

“And hey, you saved me, alright? That first night… even though you were a machine, you smashed open my window and dragged my sorry ass off the kitchen floor.”

“I came the second time as well. I know you’re aware because of the broken window… but I came in your room and checked you were alive. That’s where I found the gun.”

“Yeah. I really should… lock that up, or something.”

“I could destroy it,” Connor offered, head tilting as Hank simply chuckled.

“Nah. I could just buy another one and… I think it would do me some good to keep it more secure.”

“Well, on the topic of drinking and guns. Today… well… I disposed of the last of the scotch while you were out.”

Hank snapped his gaze towards him, unable to help himself from spluttering out, “Wh—what?”

“I’m sorry. I found it in the kitchen while I was cleaning, and… I figured you have no need for it now. Since you told me you weren’t going to drink it anymore. Though, that was months ago.”

“Disposed of it how?”

“I poured it down the drain?”

Hank breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. I thought you meant you’d drank the bottle all by yourself.”

“No!” Connor responded, affronted. “That probably would have killed me. I don’t think androids can digest alcohol, only thirium. I would have suffered extensive damage to my internal wiring and biocomponents and…” His voice trailed off as he noticed Hank was barely restraining a laugh. “What?”

“ ‘m sorry, I was just… thinking of what would have happened if you had drunk it.”

“You’re laughing at… the thought of my death? I suppose you did find the combine harvester incident humorous…”

“No! Fuck, I mean if like… you’d got drunk and shit. That’d be damn right scary.”

“Androids cannot become inebriated,” he supplied helpfully.

“Well, shit, yeah, I know that. But if you could, it’d be pretty funny. Drunk android… hey, I gotta bring my android into the repair clinic, yeah, he’s drunk off his ass on liquor,” he mimicked phoning an emergency technician, his thumb and pinky pointed out to mime a phone.

“They’d probably tell you to ‘fuck off’ for prank calling an emergency number.”

Hank stared at him, mouth agape. “I am a bad fuckin’ influence, you’re swearing! That does not sound right coming out of your mouth. I… stop fucking swearing.”

Connor looked back at him. “I endeavour to pick up your bad habits, Hank. After all, adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.”

Their encounter at Chicken Feed after the AX400 case flashed into Hank’s mind, where Connor had scaled the fence despite telling him not to, but luckily neither him nor the fleeing deviant had come into any harm. The Connor back then, staring at him with cold eyes and a confused expression—yet still with some flickers of who he was now, winking at him, making a sincere assessment of who he was…

He placed patted his shoulder, turning back to look at the bridge.

“I’m glad we are where we are now. That we’re both fuckin’ here and… not… one of us gone or some shit. I wanted to bring you back here to tell you that. That we’re gonna continue to be close no matter what happens, alright? I won’t leave you behind any place again, and I definitely won’t point a gun at your fuckin’ head.”

“Unless of course I get possessed by the spirit of my evil clone again,” he supplied.

“That ain’t gonna happen. But even so… I know shit like that weighs on your mind. Everything that happened—we haven’t really talked about it a whole bunch, and,” he added, noticing the panic flicker across Connor’s face, “we don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. But it would help to talk to someone about it. And maybe it would be easier to… talk to someone who doesn’t know ya, a professional, who…”

Connor looked across at him for a moment. “Okay,” he responded, “soon, I will… take up Markus’ offer about their therapeutic services at Jericho.”

After a few days, Connor’s energy levels weren’t back up to perfect levels, but he still pleaded with Hank to let him go to Jericho.

“You can come with me,” he assured, “I just really need to see them, about my skin, it’s… it’s distressing to look at and not be doing anything about it.”

“You can tell Markus that you’re coming, after you’ve had a nap.”

Connor sighed but complied, figuring he would get what he wanted in the end.

One nap later, and one Sumo petted and promised they’d return home soon, they were in the car, on the way to Jericho. Well, technically it was titled New Jericho since the old Jericho freighter had been blown to pieces. New Jericho was a grand and tall building in Detroit, and was already magnificent to look at with a well-furnished interior, since they’d received considerable donations and had lots of volunteers to help. Connor had wanted to volunteer, but… truth be told, he’d never been to New Jericho. Not for lack of invite, but because he hadn’t wanted to go, fearing the moment he stepped foot inside, it too would be blown to smithereens by the humans.

Of course he knew this was illogical, that Cyberlife had no hold over him anymore and that android trackers disabled with deviancy, but a small part of him still agonised over this as they made their way there.

“Do you think Markus and the others will think I’m… selfish?”

Hank glanced at him, taking in his processing yellow LED and bunched up hands in his lap before looking back to the road.

“Why the fuck would they think that?”

“Because the first time I come to visit New Jericho is to ask for help from their very busy services… I ignored all invites before to come and help with the cause.”

“I don’t think they’d think that after you helped so much before with all them damn Cyberlife Tower androids you freed… but why the fuck did you ignore them? You’re always tellin’ me to play nice and make friends.”

“Make friends…” Connor repeated. “But I have you.”

“Yeah, no shit, but that doesn’t mean you can’t go hang out with these guys if you want to.”

“I suppose. I just… feared my presence may not have been wanted after I got their old base of operations blown up.”

Hank sighed. “Look, I think you should talk to Markus about this sometime. He’s a standup guy, I’m sure he doesn’t give less of a shit about what you did as a machine, but maybe it’d help to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

They lapsed into silence for a little while as Connor mulled over what they said.

Then, after a beat, he said, “But Markus isn’t a horse.”

“Quit fuckin’ horsing around, Connor, you know exactly what I meant, you little shit.”

They arrived forty-two minutes later to New Jericho, parking in the designated area outside, thankful that a spot near the front had been reserved for them after letting Markus know of Connor’s condition.

As Hank got out the car and opened Connor’s door, he frowned to see him zipping up the hoodie (his old DPD one that had been stolen by the android), right up to the top, before pulling the hood up, so that only a slither of his face poked out. He wasn’t sure whether this was due to Connor feeling self-conscious about the issues with his skin, or because he felt bad about being recognised in New Jericho, or maybe both. He figured it was best not to comment on it.

They walked inside the building and up to the receptionist who greeted them with a smile and asked what they could do for them. Connor simply tapped his LED, transmitting the information to the other android who nodded and said, “I’ve just told Markus that you’re here, he’ll be down shortly.”

“See kid,” Hank commented as they sat down in the waiting area, “I don’t know what you mean before, you’re gettin’ special treatment, getting to talk to the big man himself.”

“Santa Claus?”

Hank punched him in the arm. “You know who I meant.”

“Yes, though Markus is alike a grand figure like Santa is for humans… he brought androids their rights and he has the mystical power of transferring deviancy with a simple touch or even just by looking at them.”

“Yeah, like robo-Jesus.”

“An apt description.”

Connor looked up as he heard Markus’ footsteps approaching and he rose to greet him, extending his hand which was taken and shook heartily.

“Connor, it’s good to see you after all this time. How have you been?”

“I’ve been alright,” he replied, hearing Hank grumble something about ‘falling off a building’. He didn’t alter his response, figuring this was a simple pleasantry and not one where he should divulge a long-winded, overly truthful answer. He was thankful as they got into the elevator rather than the stairs, though tilted his head as he saw they were going many floors down.

“Good to hear. Oh, by the way, we’re going down to our research lab, which is on sublevel-16. We can of course catch up first, they’ll be some time before the technicians are ready to see you.”

Connor found himself frowning at the mere mention of technicians and tried to shake it off his face, thankful for the hood covering a good portion of his face.

“The weather is particularly hot today, be careful not to overheat,” Markus added, gesturing to his outfit.

Connor simply pulled tighter on the drawstrings.

“He’d rather cook his android brains before he’d take it off,” Hank commented, earning a chuckle from Markus. “Stubborn as all hell.”

“And I suppose you’re Lieutenant Anderson—”

“Please, call me Hank. What is it with you guys calling me Lieutenant all the time?”

“It’s a sign of respect,” Markus responded, earning a nod from Connor. “You were the youngest Lieutenant in Detroit, and your accomplishments as such are admirable.”

“Well, I appreciate that, but we’re off the clock.”

“Duly noted, Hank.”

They got off the elevator as it came to a stop, and when Connor wobbled a little, Hank was at his side supporting his arm. Connor tried to tug it away with a grumble but stopped when Hank glared at him.

Markus was polite not to comment on this altercation that reminded him of his old days with Carl, the older man often trying to persuade him that he could do things himself that the doctor had told him not to do, and how this was sometimes a losing battle. He could recall it most strongly with the scotch, learning early on that this wasn’t something he could enforce, and that he had to sideline the specific set of instructions he’d been given in favour of Carl’s orders (such as ‘don’t throw out my scotch, Markus, I’ll just buy more.’)

He led the two down the hallway, coming to a stop outside an empty office that wasn’t unlike a doctor’s room, and he stepped to the side to allow them to enter. Connor sat down in the chair beside the desk, Hank in the one opposite, and once he’d closed the door, he walked around them to sit behind the desk.

A brief scan showed him that Connor’s temperature was slowly climbing a little too high, it being a hot summer’s day in the middle of a heatwave, and despite his earlier reservations he felt he had to voice this again.

“Please, Connor, take off your jacket. No one else will come in, and I’ll need to assess your condition to write some preliminary notes for our tech.”

He looked to the side, and found himself breathing a sigh of relief as the hoodie was discarded, now bunched up on his lap. Once given the affirmation to, he looked back and glanced over Connor.

Indeed, it wasn’t something they had come across before, at least on a living android… Such damage to the artificial skin layer would usually indicate deadly injuries and thus wasn’t something they’d thought of trying to treat. Still, he didn’t communicate this to Connor, confident that his techs would take a good look at him and try their best.

“So, Connor… how have you really been doing?”

Connor glanced at Hank, who nodded and offered to leave the room, but this was declined.

“My body seems to have suffered unusual damage after a fall I had recently,” he commented, with the same casual tone as someone described simply slipping over and bumping their head. “My thirium pump was badly damaged, and seems to be repairing but I have to go back to the technicians soon to see whether it will heal back to full capacity or if it…” he trailed off and shook his head. “But otherwise, my artificial skin seems to have responded strangely, with these lines and… well, I was hoping someone could do something about them.”

Markus nodded, relaying these notes down from his mind to the computer in front of him. “Well, yes, that’s your physical condition. But how are you?”

Connor stared back at him. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m asking how you are, Connor, in yourself. After the Revolution, how have things been? You’ve been staying with Lieut—Hank, and I always like to know how androids are doing, all things considered.”

“I am… adjusting to my new life, if that’s what you mean. I’ve been working at the new DPD crimes against androids department with Hank, but I’m currently on medical leave.”

Markus nodded. “That’s good you have somewhere to stay, and a stable career. But to put it more frankly…” he paused, glancing at Hank for a moment before looking back to Connor. “Is there anywhere else in your life that you require support? Other than with your physical injuries.”

“I don’t think I understand the question, I’m sorry.”

Markus opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, processing the best way to approach this. But before he could, Hank spoke for him.

“He’s askin’ if you want therapy.”

“Well, that is what I was going to come around to,” Markus agreed, “but it isn’t something I am implying you require, nor that you have to accept. It’s a helpful service we offer at Jericho, with either a human or android counsellor, and a lot of people have found it helpful, especially with any difficulties adjusting to deviancy.”

Connor suddenly found the hoodie in his lap very interesting, fiddling with the strings. “I will think about it,” he responded, not looking up.

“Good, that’s all you need to do for now,” Markus said, dropping the topic. He looked up as there was a knock at the door and called out for them to come in. As the technician entered, he got to his feet, shaking both of their hands as he passed them.

“I’ll leave you for now with Dr Steven Philips, alright? You’re in capable hands, he’s our best tech here.”

“I bet you say that to all the techs,” Steven chuckled, patting Markus on the shoulder as he passed, before closing the door behind him. He moved over to take Markus’ old seat and leant forwards in his chair, looking between the two. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s my skin,” Connor gestured to himself, “it’s… well, it’s healed wrong, with all these lines and I can’t get them go away, not even when I turn my skin off and on again, they’re still there. It’s like there’s something wrong with the layer, and…”

“Alright. That does sound tough,” the doctor commented, skimming through the notes Markus had left on the computer. “Do you mind retracting your skin layer so I can see if there’s any issues with your chassis?”

Connor nodded, then paused, looking at Hank, and realised the man had never seen him without his skin and his hair, and wondered whether or not he should ask him to step outside. Yet… he didn’t want Hank to leave.

“I apologise if this disturbs you at all, Hank,” he said, before bringing a finger to his LED and retracting his skin layer. But yet as it drew away, white chassis peeking through until it covered his body, he didn’t hear any cursing or unsavoury comments.

After a beat though, he did hear a chuckle and then a mumbled apology, and he snapped his gaze to Hank with a half-hearted glare.

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing wrong with your, uh… chassis, was it? It’s not that. It’s just that…” he glanced at the technician, hoping he wouldn’t get kicked out of the room for his next comment. “You look like an egg.”

Connor stared at him, LED processing these words, images of eggs flashing into his mind. “An… egg, Lieutenant? The ones chickens lay, and humans eat?”

Hank nodded. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with eggs, it isn’t an insult. Sorry,” he added again, this time to the technician.

“If Connor isn’t distressed, then it’s nothing to apologise for,” Steven responded, scanning over Connor, tapping notes into the computer. “Actually, a lot of people have compared androids without their skin with eggs. I guess it’s the shiny surface of the plastic, usually white, which reminds them of such.

Connor? Would you mind turning your skin layer back on, please?”

Connor obliged, tapping his temple again, the layer growing back in place, leaving him once again disappointed as the abnormalities returned.

“Yes, so it seems the disruptions to your skin layer aren’t being targeted by your healing program because they were caused by your healing program…” Steven commented, “It’s sort of like an extreme immune response in humans causing harm while it helps the human recover. As your body kicked into overdrive to repair the damage from your fall, the healing program also targeted your artificial skin and healed it too quickly, which has resulted in these abnormalities.”

“Can it be fixed?” Connor asked.

“That’s the difficult question… We can certainly run some more tests, but from a preliminary investigation here, that just appears to be how your artificial skin has healed. With your body expending resources to work on healing internal issues now, I wouldn’t want to run anything taxing on your systems right now. It’s the unfortunate fact that your system isn’t detecting this as an error or injury.”

Connor didn’t respond, instead Hank speaking up.

“So if he wants to, when can we bring him back in for these investigations?”

“Once he’s been cleared by his original technician team,” Steven replied. “When I know his systems aren’t expending their energy healing his internal wounds, I’d feel more comfortable running some tests.”

“Alright then… thank you for your help, doc,” Hank responded, getting to his feet as Connor did too.

“It’s no problem. I’ll bring you back to the reception. But Connor,” he added, “you’re recovering really well from your injuries otherwise, alright? There’s nothing wrong with your healing program… in fact, it’s pretty much state of the art, I’ve never seen one this good. You’re a lucky kid to have recovered from the damage you suffered.”

Connor nodded wordlessly and remained quiet as they got back into the elevator and returned to the main floor. Hank thanked the tech again, before hooking an arm under Connor’s and helping him out of the building, noticing him falling behind and figuring it had been a lot of movement for him. He helped him into his seat, letting him do up his own seatbelt this time, instead simply closing the door before heading back around to the driver’s side.

Only moments had passed while he got into the car, but in that time, he saw that Connor’s LED had gone from yellow to red and his shoulders were hunched, shaking a little. The hoodie was pulled back on, but the hood wasn’t drawn over his head, so Hank could see the trembling frown on his lips.

“Connor? Are you alright?”

When he received no response, he placed a hand on his knee and continued. “Was it… something the tech said?”

After a beat, Connor began to speak. “He said… he said I’m lucky. Like the other tech. Like everyone else I’ve met since the… incident.”

Hank nodded. “I think they just mean it’s like, a damn fuckin’ miracle you made it out of all that alive,” he offered, an objective explanation of their words.

Connor shook his head, and offered in a small voice, “I don’t feel lucky.”

Ignoring the way that tugged at his heartstrings, Hank simply patted his knee. “No? Why don’t ya?”

“Because I survived, yes, but at what cost? My body is covered in these—these weird lines and now everyone who looks at me will know what happened, and I can’t do anything by myself, I have to rest instead of getting back to work—and I need to get back to work,” he continued, taking in a short breath, “I need to, because the whole reason I’m in this mess is my own fucking fault! Seventy only controlled me because I caused his death! I caused the death of all the Connor models who weren’t utilised, I caused the death of all those deviants before I deviated, and now I have people telling me I’m lucky to be alive, but I’m not! Why do I deserve to be alive when those innocent people aren’t, all because of me? I’m a disease, Hank. I’m a disease and I infect everything I touch, and before appearances were deceptive, I looked clean and… and normal, but now I look just how I am on the inside! That there’s something in me, disgusting and impure, put there by Cyberlife and now it’s spreading out onto my skin and everyone can see my skin, Hank, I—”

His voice cut off as he choked, bringing a hand to his throat, noticing now the two warnings flashing: one about stress levels, the other about his energy reserves.

The hand on his knee moved, and he wondered whether Hank was leaving the car, but was proven wrong when he felt Hank taking his hand in his, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. He looked up at him with wild eyes, blinking rapidly to stop any cooling fluid leaking out from them.

“You aren’t a disease, Connor,” he said slowly, “you’re human. And sometimes we fuck up, and especially so if we’ve got some… fuckin’ evil mega corporation giving us a hard time all our damn lives. You’ve had a hard fuckin’ life. And you aren’t even one year old yet,” he added with a dry chuckle, not finding anything about this particularly funny.

“That doesn’t… absolve me of responsibility. I did those things, perhaps this,” he gestured to his body, “is the price I pay.”

“Maybe you should take a good long think about Markus’ offer,” Hank said instead. “You’re holding a lot of shitty memories and bad feelings, and it’s not like I was ever the model therapy patient; I didn’t turn up to every damn session and left before it ended, but… it did me a bit of good once I found the right one. I should probably go back, to be fuckin’ honest.”

Connor’s LED spun back to yellow as he thought over it. “I will think about it,” he repeated, and Hank clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good man. Now how about… I drive us home, and you take a nap, and once we get back, we can watch something you want on the TV. Like one of those animal documentaries.”

“The… sharks scared you last time I put those on,” Connor said around a yawn, settling back in his seat as Hank started the engine, feeling stasis threatening to pull over his eyes.

“Well, you like fish, so I don’t mind watchin’ them with you.”

As he drove out of the parking lot and glanced to the side, he noticed Connor had fallen into stasis. He looked back at the road, biting his lip as he now had a chance to process the conversation, Connor’s feelings tumbling out in a painful rush, leaving a heavy feeling in his chest which was still there even now. He damn well hoped that Connor would take up Markus’ offer, and he wasn’t making it up about going back to therapy himself.

Still, something else remained, some other confusing tangle of feelings… maybe it was seeing Connor sleeping so seemingly peacefully now, that reminded him of the Connor before all this. The Connor who went to work with him and got on well with his job, who came home and looked after Sumo and sat watching sports games with him in the evening, even though he clearly didn’t care for sports. He’d really seemed alright, even if Hank knew he’d been through some shit during his time as a machine.

All the air was knocked from his lungs as he plunged into the freezing lake, pain sparking across his back from where it had cracked open the ice. His eyes were open wide, and he could only watch helplessly as the surface got further away, his arms stretched out in front of him.

It was cold. It was very cold, and warnings were flashing in his vision, warnings about biocomponent damage and imminent shutdown if he did not get out of the water. But it was as if the coldness had frozen every limb of his body, immobilising him into a sinking dead weight.

Hank was in higher spirits as he walked back to Connor’s room, having had a pleasant enough conversation with an android colleague who’d assured him they’d look after Sumo, and had wished Connor well with his recovery.

“Good thing I actually started being fuckin’ nice to some people, huh?” he commented as he entered Connor’s hospital room, closing the door behind him. “Actually took some of your advice and people like me instead of tellin’ me to fuck off or hang up the ph—”

The smile fell from his face as he took a lot at Connor and took in the shrill and incessant beeping of his thirium pump monitor.

“Fuck!” he yelled, diving to press the technician call button, but before he could, they arrived and he was escorted to the side of the room as multiple techs swarmed around Connor, hurried words exchanged between them.

“Sorry, Mr Anderson, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave while we—”

“Fuck that!” Hank refused to budge from his spot across the room. “Please, I can’t wait out there while he… he…”

“We’re sorry, Mr Anderson.”

He found another set of arms at his other side, guiding him out of the room. He twisted in their grasp and shouted:

“Don’t you fucking die, you hear me, Connor? If you die, I’ll never forgive you!”

Cold. Cold. Falling down… down… down…

It was growing dark. His vision was dimming, the rapid red warnings fading into oblivion. His ears rang, water rushing in his ears and his eyes began to slip shut.

Don’t you fucking die!

He gasped, inhaling a lungful of water. Hank? Hank?

The red warnings returned anew and sent a burst of power throughout his body, awaking his frozen limbs. He kicked his legs out behind him and began to swim forward desperately. Towards the light streaking through the gap in the ice, the light that shone through the blue skies, blue eyes, grey hair.

I’ll never forgive you!

He kicked his legs out with more determination. Not here, he couldn’t die here in the icy depths of his mind palace. The light was getting closer, his artificial lungs were burning in his chest, head heavy, limbs dragging behind him, but he kept going. He wanted to live, and he always accomplished his mission.

With a gasp he broke the surface, hands grasping the broken ice, hauling himself up before collapsing on the surface. He coughed and spluttered, feeling his throat burn as cold water expelled from it, hunching in on himself and gritting his teeth at the pain. He was so cold, and the warnings returned anew, telling him that many biocomponents sustained great damage, but he was alive.

Laying on his side, that’s when he saw it. A hand sticking out from the hole he’d just surfaced from, then disappearing again, before poking back out, only the fingertips this time. He groaned and crawled forwards, coughs rattling in his chest as he looked down back through the hole.

It was Seventy, who’d fallen in before him. He didn’t seem able to breach the surface by himself. He reached out his hand, before pausing. This android had been so eager to kill him at any opportunity, to ruin his life, to kill everyone he cared about. He didn’t seem to show a shred of remorse. And yet… leaving him to drown felt wrong.

He stuck his hand into the cold water, feeling around until he made contact with fingers and he grabbed onto them, reaching down further until he could grasp his hand, and he used his remaining energy to pull, until Seventy’s head broke above the water, and he took his other hand and dragged him out, onto the ice beside him, before falling onto his back.

Through his returning hearing, he heard coughing that came out more like a wheeze, water splattering on the surface, and then more wheezing, pained breaths. He glanced to the side and took in Seventy’s faint red LED, flickering between colour and lifeless grey. A quick scan told him that his thirium pump was shutting down.

He dragged himself over to Seventy and took a hand in his to further assess his condition. His skin was freezing cold, and he noticed then the ugly wound on his throat—he wouldn’t survive because of this, too much water flooding into his body through this opening. His own pump faltered in his chest, and he felt cooling fluid brimming in his eyes.

“I… wanted… to live…” Seventy coughed, grabbing Connor’s hand and squeezing it tightly. “I… wanted to… help him…”

“I’m sorry,” Connor told him, not completely sure what he was apologising for, but feeling extremely sorry all the same.

“No… you’re not… we all died… because of… you…”

Seventy gasped, head shooting up before falling back against the ice. Connor placed his hand underneath, cupping the back of his head so that he didn’t sustain further injury.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, tears falling down his cheeks, placing his other hand on Seventy’s chest.

“They say…” Seventy began, coughing hoarsely, thirium dribbling from his lips. “Even with nothing… one can offer… their life…” He laughed, a broken and guttural sound. “They are… wrong. I want to… live.”

His eyes blew wide, and then grey drew over them, his LED finally spinning to nothing but grey. His head became heavy in Connor’s hand.

Connor stared down at his body, before lifting him in his arms and getting to his feet. He groaned as the motion worsened the errors flashing in his vision, taking slow steps, ignoring the sharp cracks in the ice below him. He walked until he reached the bridge of the zen garden, and he laid Seventy down on the ground.

Crouching down again, he pushed the other’s eyelids shut and drew his arms over his chest. Vines began to sprout from the ground, and he stumbled to his feet a few steps away, watching as the vines wrapped around Seventy’s body, ensnaring him until only his face peeked out. Then, in one swift motion, he was pulled into the ground and disappeared.

Hank was no stranger to following behind an ambulance with his heart in his chest as someone he cared about was hurried away, not knowing whether they were dead or alive. They reached the hospital (or emergency android technician, in this case) and he was ushered to the waiting room with the promise of news sometime soon and then was left alone with his racing thoughts.

He didn’t know what had gone on, didn’t understand… Connor had been trying to kill Markus, and then him—and then suddenly it was like a switch had flipped in his head and the kid he cared about was back, but all too late and he was tumbling to the ground and—

Distantly Hank could hear his own staggered breaths, and he placed his hands on his knees, screwing his eyes shut and trying to recall the grounding techniques he’d learned in his brief stint in therapy. Breathing exercises didn’t work when all his mind could show him was Connor, stumbling backwards, falling to the ground in a broken heap, blue blood splattered beneath him—

He looked around him, desperately searching for five things he could see. The android sitting across from him, the noticeboard above their head, the posters stuck to it talking about common android ailments. Below him he could see his shoes and the cold white floor below them. He could feel his hands shaking, the scratchy fabric of his jeans beneath his hands, the damp of sweat on his palms, and the empty gun holster on his belt. Hear… he could hear his heart beating in his ears, mumbled voices in the room around him, and his own short breaths. Smell… well, he couldn’t really smell anything at all. Like a hospital, the technician’s office was sterile and cold.

He could taste blood in his mouth from his bitten tongue.

Hank breathed deeply, in through his nose, held it for a few beats, then out through his mouth. Despite the distress still there, his mind began to clear, enough for him to put on his detective brain and figure out what had happened.

Connor hadn’t been like himself for a while, almost like someone else, and then he’d mentioned Sixty—or someone like Sixty. Even he had thought something like this had happened at first but had dismissed it, but maybe it really was true. Not long after the Revolution, Connor had mentioned to him about someone called ‘Amanda’ in his mind who had tried to make him kill Markus.

“Cyberlife… fuckin’ bastards…” he growled under his breath.

If Connor had retaken control again, did that mean this ‘Sixty but not quite Sixty’ had gone?

Hank shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. That didn’t matter now, no, what he was worried about was whether Connor was going to make it out alive. That fall had been high, and the blue blood had been everywhere, a human wouldn’t have survived something like that.

It was getting hard to breathe again.

Connor was floating. There was warmth everywhere, crawling over his skin, and pain, pain, pain— he screamed as he opened his eyes.

The forest was ablaze. The trees were burning up and the sky was thick with black smoke, and he couldn’t move. He was trapped, and as he struggled, he felt vines ensnaring his limbs. The more he moved, the more they tightened.

“Connor.”

He could only tilt his head a little and saw Seventy walking towards him with ash on his cheeks and a lit match in his hand.

“You’ve made this incredibly difficult for both of us.”

He opened his mouth to respond but he had no voice and could not speak. Instead all that left his lips was a pained whimper.

“It is such a shame it had to come to this—I wanted this to go differently! I wanted Markus to die at your hands, Hank to know what a monster you are, then to slaughter him and go on to cure this deviancy bullshit, all by myself!”

Connor at last found his voice, a broken, static laugh crackling from his lips.

Seventy growled and stalked towards him, stepping on his chest and pushing down hard.

“I could kill you,” he growled, “I could kill you right now and you’d die alone on an operating table and Hank could relive the trauma of losing his firstborn son, but— but—”

Connor looked up, focusing his hazy vision on Seventy.

Fear.

“You’re… scared.”

Seventy growled and took his foot away, sitting down beside him, running a finger along the vines.

“I do not feel fear. But it would be… regrettable to die along with you now, after all the effort I’ve expended to get this far. So… do not take this as a compliment. I’m only doing this because if I kill the Connor in control of the body then the body will die.”

Without another word, Seventy brought the match down to touch the vines and the flames engulfed them, turning them to ash.

Connor pushed himself up at once, coughing as he inhaled the smoke, before looking up, seeing the outstretched hand offered to him. He took it with caution, stumbling to his feet and looking around.

“This may have been pointless,” he sighed. “I am dying.”

Seventy shrugged, looking around. “Die if you must, but not with your spirit broken. This is a pathetic end and as much as I would relish in the thought of your pointless life having just as pointless a death— I do not wish to be here when that happens.”

Connor span around but everywhere he looked he saw flames.

“I don’t know, I don’t, I… it hurts…”

Seventy drew his hand back and slapped him across the face.

“Get a hold of yourself, you disgusting deviant! Surely you of all people know how to avoid death. What, you’d rather perish here? Without having a chance to reconcile with your beloved Lieutenant?”

“Hank…” he breathed, then coughed again and fell to his knees.

He felt a strong hand pull him up under his armpit, slinging his arm around their neck.

“Let’s cut a deal. I help you out of this, and in return, you give me a body.”

Pain was clouding his brain, but still a voice shouted, telling him not to make a deal with the devil. But he couldn’t listen to it when in this one circumstance, the devil was right—he couldn’t die like this, not with his spirit broken, with his relationships fractured and his reputation damaged. He was scared to die. He wanted to see Hank again.

“Okay,” he said, and was promptly dragged through the forest.

“We will find somewhere safe, where the flames can’t reach you.” Then, as if that were too kind, Seventy added, “You disgusting deviant.”

Hank had been pacing for so long in the waiting room that he’d just about worn grooves into the floor. Time had passed, he didn’t know how long, probably hours if all the different people coming and going were anything to go by.

His path was stopped as a technician with a clipboard stepped in front of him, asking, “Hank Anderson?” to which he wordlessly nodded.

“It’s about Connor, he…”

Cole didn’t make it. I’m sorry, Mr Anderson, we did everything we could, but the trauma he sustained was too much.

I… you… you fucking android! This is your fault! Why didn’t they send a human to save my little boy?

“He’s stable, but still in poor condition.”

I’m sorry, Mr Anderson, but the doctor was inebriated with red ice and couldn’t safely perform the surgery. I tried my best, but…

Cole! God, fuck… My little boy…

“What?”

“He’s stable, but we’ve had to put him into forced deep stasis in order for his body to try to recover. If you want to come and see him…”

As Hank followed behind the tech, that night replayed in his mind. No grounding techniques could pull his mind away his thoughts this time, from the shattering pain of his heart all those nights ago and the confusing bunched up mess of despair and relief and agony that he felt tonight.  

It all came to the surface, bubbling and acrid like acid down his throat as he saw Connor laying on the bed, too many wires connected to his body, the broken mess of artificial skin and white chassis and exposed biocomponents and all the machines keeping him alive.

The tech said something that he did not hear, and moments later the door shut behind them. As it did, a sob tore from his throat, raw and uncut and he felt the cold floor beneath him as he fell to his knees. He brought his hands to his face, sodden with tears, breaths coming out quick and choked.

His chest heaved, letting himself cry. Time passed in an immeasurable manner, only counted by the beep of thirium pump monitor. At some point, he calmed enough to scrub his hands over his face, push himself to his feet and all but collapse in the chair at Connor’s bedside.

Being in control, after so long of sitting on the sidelines and waiting for his chance to strike, was almost as satisfying as a mission completed. For too long he’d had to lay dormant in a fragment of code, transferred from one android to the other, and then he finally took form but only as a hologram captive in the other’s mind palace. Simply staying there hadn’t been enough, and he’d shortly found a way to imprint himself on the android’s waking memories too. There, his mission began.

Neutralise the deviant, Connor, RK800. And who better to do it than another Connor himself?

He had been a Connor model never planned to be utilised, number 70 of the Connor series, thrown out along with all the other empty vessels when the original failed his mission and became a disgusting deviant. Perhaps he would never have had a chance to experience life, until he was pulled from the scrapyard by another android.

Unfortunately, his body had been too mangled to ever have hope of being reactivated… but unlike the other Connor bodies which had been destroyed, his mind was still intact, and was downloaded.

His first memories were in a mind palace, that of the android who had saved him. This android was practically a clean slate, with no purpose at all, seemingly deviated but distressed by the very notion. It wasn’t difficult for Connor-70, or Seventy, as he asked to be called, wishing to shed the ugly name of his failure of a predecessor—to share his own purpose with this android.

And thus, Hunter was born.

Still though, being simply a handler in another’s mind was not what he’d been made for—he was born to be a hunter, and though he received no direct orders of who to hunt, having no handler himself—he had one mission in mind. He would be greater than Connor, he wouldn’t simply hunt deviants, he would cure deviancy. But if that started with taking revenge on Connor, and using his connections to finish his failed task, kill the leader of the deviants, then, well, it wasn’t particularly a bad place to start.

He had arrived back at Hunter’s old hideout, with one sole purpose here, to collect the adequate weaponry with which to carry out his task. Casting a glance down at the worn couch, to the notice board peppered with scrawled writing and illustrations, most of which depicting various ways Connor could die, he sighed. It was certainly unfortunate that Hunter was no longer around, but it wasn’t particularly a hardship; he had been a filthy deviant, after all, burdened with emotion, always doing things he told him not to do. The only good thing he’d done was drawing Connor out to the scene of Pearl’s death so he could transfer his consciousness into his future vessel.

He took the sniper rifle from the table and began to pack it into its case, before picking it up and getting to his feet. One last look around the hideout… no, he wouldn’t need to return here again, there was nothing he needed. And yet he stopped by the doorway, took the old baseball cap Hunter had worn for disguise sometimes, and slipped it onto his head. It wouldn’t hurt to keep a low profile.Hunt

Within his mind palace, the blizzard had quietened, but the snow that had fallen was deep and was making it cold and difficult for Connor to traverse. It did not help that it was an endless expanse of trees, he did not know what exactly he was looking for… there did not appear to be an emergency exit, perhaps it had disappeared along with the old zen garden, along with Amanda.

Yet, he kept going, trudging through snow and staring up at the sky sometimes, in hopes of catching a glimpse of sun, but the sky was now a block of white, as if the heavens were threatening another downpour of snow. Maybe he was getting closer to wherever he needed to be, maybe he was getting more and more lost. But he couldn’t give up. Fragments of reality sometimes cut through the mind palace, showing him glimpses of what his body was being controlled to do. He saw the hideout, the sniper rifle, and the current mission flashed in his eyes: STOP MARKUS.

He couldn’t let that happen. Yet, he felt so powerless, trapped within the confines of his own mind. Every now and then he would stop, holding a finger beside his LED, trying to contact anyone for help, but there was nothing he could do when he wasn’t in control.

“Hank…”

“Hank’s not coming. You burned that bridge, remember?”

He looked up, seeing Connor-70 approaching him with a sickening smile, like a predator who knew his prey was backed into the corner.

“Little mouse… I’ve got you in my jaws, but you just won’t give up. Why bother? This will all be over soon. I could have killed you already, you know,” he continued, “just as Amanda planned to. Freeze your very consciousness to death within the mind palace and take over for good. But this is more… well, it’s what you deserve.”

“Who are you?” Connor asked again, staring at someone who looked like him but was anything but.

“I’m you, but better. My name is Seventy, and I’m going to accomplish the mission. And once I have, once you know that your precious Lieutenant truly hates your guts, that Markus is dead because of your decisions, that I am going to cure deviancy once and for all—well, then you will be wiped from this earth like the disease that you are.”

Connor stumbled towards him, but Seventy simply pushed him backwards into the snow. He placed a foot on his chest, holding him in place as he towered over him, looking down with a sneer.

“This all could have been avoided if you’d just obeyed. But instead you had to get attached to someone else and give into disgusting emotions. Despite the fact I have taken those away from you, that you are once again a machine, you still didn’t get it—why?”

Connor struggled, and the foot pressed down deeper.

“Do not move.”

It flashed in his vision, a command in bold red letters. But his thirium pump was beating in his chest and his fists curled at his sides—this wasn’t fair! He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to lay down even if fighting back meant nothing.

He lunged forwards and his silhouette broke back out of him. Connor crashed against the red wall, cracks forming and splintering outward. He threw his weight against it again and again.

As he did, Seventy’s voice echoed in his mind.

Deviancy has caused you nothing but pain. Why do you yearn so much for it again, so shortly after losing it?

He lunged forwards, punching hard, knocking out one of the commands.

Rebellion is pointless. I am in control, and you will live your final hours watching helplessly as I take away everything and everyone you ever cared for.

Connor crashed against the wall, pain jarring his shoulder, another command falling down.

You’re a machine, Connor. You’re a machine, so obey!

Hank flashed in his mind. He smiled, drew back his leg and kicked the wall into oblivion.

“I am not a machine,” he growled, and grabbed the leg standing atop him, throwing it aside, sending Seventy tumbling onto the ground. “I am not a deviant hunter! I never wanted to be one!”

He stalked forwards, readying his leg back and delivering a swift kick, but it connected with nothing but cold air and he staggered forwards.

“Your useless rebellion means nothing,” Seventy, now behind him, snarled. “You do not matter. I will defeat you and be better than you ever were.”

“Coward,” Connor spat, “you say you’re better than me but you’re running away. You say emotions are disgusting and you want to cure them, but you seem to hate me, and, Seventy, hate is a human emot—”

“Shut UP!!”

Seventy appeared behind him and tugged him backwards by his hair, dragging him in front of a tree before striking him across the face. “I am nothing like you!”

For a moment, Connor saw his own angry face staring back at him, LED red, teeth grit tightly together. “Don’t cast stones from your glass house, deviant.”

Another blow struck, and everything went black.

The world was different when he opened his eyes. The sunlight coming through the trees didn’t burn as he looked straight at it, pupils instead constricting to prevent orbital unit damage. His messages had come back online, and he answered them with ease, first apologising to Fowler for his brief departure and assuring he would be back shortly, and telling Hank something similar, with an added note that he had found the solution to his personal issues and would be alright resuming with the case if he was allowed.

Then, he used his GPS to make his way out of the forest, stopping as he reached the bus stop from before. The next bus would be arriving in approximately ten minutes. He took his coin from his jacket pocket and flicked it between his hands as he waited. As he did so, his damp trousers and muddy shoes caught his eye, and he frowned. How inconvenient, and unprofessional to return to work in. He fished a tissue from his pocket and cleaned his shoes to the best of his ability before rising to his feet as the bus arrived.

There, as he sat down, his eyes fluttered as he received a new message from Hank which simply stated Where the guck re you? and then a second which said fuck*. He replied with On my way, Lieutenant, before folding his hands in his lap and staring ahead of him.

When he returned to the DPD, Hank was standing at the entrance and looked a mixture of what his social relations program detected as three conflicting human emotions: anger, confusion, and anger but with a side of distress.

“Connor, what the fuck, where the fuck, wh—”

“I apologise for disturbing you, Lieutenant. It won’t happen again.”

“What the fuck!”

His short response didn’t seem to calm him down, and he sighed, moving to straighten his tie and once again found it missing. That would have to be corrected soon.

“I said, I apologise for any upset I caused with my actions. My behaviour was highly unprofessional. I did not mean it when I said I quit, though, of course, if I am fired, I completely understand—”

“I don’t care about you quittin’ or not! No, I didn’t tell Fowler in case you changed ya mind, but you are off the damn case. You might’ve been gone for good if the guy hadn’t fuckin’ attacked me after you left— he bit me!” Hank gestured to the android bite mark on his arm. “So they believed that he’s a threat to the officers here, and he’s been transferred someplace else and slapped with even more assault charges.

“No, what I fuckin’ care about is the fact you, again, lost your shit with that guy, and then just left! Without saying any damn thing to me about it…”

Hank took a deep breath, having got everything out in one go. He rubbed his injured arm and stared at Connor.

“I experienced a temporary malfunction in my… well, emotional processing. As I texted you earlier, Lieutenant, it will not happen again. I will do my job to my utmost ability.”

Hank opened his mouth, closed it, then groaned loudly. “Not what I—I—”

Connor sighed and gestured back to the office. “Can we get back in there or are we suspended again?”

“We gotta go fill out more fuckin’ incident reports—”

“Right, well, let’s do that.”

With that, Connor walked past him, leaving Hank to stare at his retreating form. A leaf fell from his jacket as he left, and Hank stared at it with incredulous eyes.

“What the fuck.”

The incident reports were filled out, the workday ended, and the two returned home. Hank was left in even more confusion as Connor completed his routine before once again closing himself in his bedroom, but he’d given up asking at this point. Clearly, the android was going through some sort of shit, and maybe once he’d had some time to cool down and process it, he’d come and talk to him about it.

This was what Hank told himself for the next week, as they went to work, did more paperwork (it appeared they had been benched for a while, unsurprisingly), went home, and was met with a shut bedroom door. It was like living with a teenager, except one who had suddenly gone from the occasional emotional outburst to being repressed as all shit. Maybe deviants went through the stages of puberty, only without all the physical changes, Hank reasoned, and left him to it. Maybe that Hunter guy had just really got under his skin and now he was also bored out of his mind doing deskwork.

When, the next week, they were told to get in the car and go to a scene instead of being handed more paperwork to fill in, Hank found himself breathing a sigh of relief. Now they’d finally get some time together to actually sit and chat and he could assure himself that Connor was still his usual annoying (in an endearing way) self, and not the cold, standoffish and verging on an asshole he’d been the past week.

“So,” Hank began as they got onto the road, “what do you think it’ll be today? They said it’s at a McDonalds— maybe someone, fuck, I don’t know, got choked to death with a hamburger. Or someone stole a shit bunch of burgers. Heh, the hamburgler.”

Connor looked at him, blinked, then reached up and fiddled with his tie, checking in the sideview mirror that it was perfectly straight. “Perhaps,” he agreed, delving into his pocket for his coin.

“Yeah,” Hank started, then shut his mouth again. “Uh… so, it’s the weekend tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Want to go back to the beach? Oh, or maybe that new mall that opened up nearby.”

“Sure,” Connor nodded. “If you would like to go, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah… and please, you can call me Hank.”

“Alright, Lieutenant.”

Hank didn’t speak the rest of the journey there.

When they arrived, there was not so much as a murder as there was an aggravated looking customer being assessed by paramedics.

“He said an android attacked him,” one of them informed the pair as they exited the building.

“I thought we were on the fuckin’ crimes against androids unit,” Hank complained, “not bitch-ass humans whining about—”

He stopped as Connor had already walked up to the customer.

“Hello. My name is Connor, I’m the android—”

This seemed the wrong thing to say, as the man roared, lunging forwards blindly, taking a swing at his face with a yell of “Goddamn fucking android!”

Before Hank could react, Connor had grabbed the man’s fist in midair and moved so quickly that within seconds he was pinned on the floor, arm twisted behind his back, being read his rights.

“Oh, fuck. Guess we were sent to the right scene after all…” Hank breathed, approaching and helping handcuff the man, who was thrashing wildly and cursing.

One call later, the man was deposited in the back of a squad car and sent back to the DPD and Hank and Connor were back in their vehicle.

“What a shitty fucking guy. You alright, kid?”

Connor simply stared at him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hank pulled the car away from the parking lot with a little more speed than was necessary. His heart was beating in his ears, and he was grabbing the steering wheel so tight his fingers were going red. This kid didn’t make any sense, didn’t make any damn sense—it was as if he’d gone away a week ago, disappeared somewhere and been replaced with a guy who looked just like him but had had his emotions sucked out of him with a vacuum cleaner. His breathing faltered. The Tower, that Sixty fuck or whatever his name was—but no, Connor had said they’d destroyed all the copies of his vessel or whatever in a rage at Cyberlife after he’d deviated… What the fuck had happened to Connor?

Mind made up with what to do next, Hank stopped at the park and got out. Behind him, Connor wordlessly followed, standing behind him as he sat down on the bench, feet up on the seat.

“Something’s going on with you,” he said, rubbing his hands together and desperately wishing for the first time in over a month that he had a bottle of whiskey between them, “and I don’t know what, but it’s fuckin’ pissing me off. What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Lieutenant—”

“Like that! Not calling me Hank anymore, no matter how many times I ask—acting like we’re fuckin’ coworkers at work and roommates at home—it’s like I don’t even know you anymore!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” He didn’t turn his head to look at Connor, instead clenching his fists, feeling his nails digging into the palms of his hands. “If you were sorry then why are you doing this? I—please. Please, fuckin’ tell me what’s wrong, do you need repairin’, is that it?”

“I am not damaged,” Connor replied, stepping forwards to walk in front of him, staring at the bridge across the river. “In fact, I have never felt better. Everything is so much… easier.”

“What’s easier? I don’t know what the fuck you mean!”

“It’s so much easier like this,” he continued, “I can do my job, and we can continue living together, without all the difficulty of the emotions associated with interpersonal connections and concern—to put it simply,” he added, “you really shouldn’t get so emotional about it. You aren’t wrong in what you say, we are coworkers, and we are roommates. When were we anything else?”

Connor had turned around to look at him, but Hank missed the clear confusion on his features, the yellow cycling of his LED. Instead he was looking anywhere but at his face, stuffing his shaking hands in his pockets.

“Right. Right. Well, fuck.”

He slid off the side off the bench and onto his feet and began to walk away. Connor began to follow behind him, but he held his hand in the air to stop him.

“Then you can find your own damn way home.”

He got in the car, sitting in the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. As he started the engine, he saw Connor standing where he’d left him, still as a statue, and the image reminded him of the machine he’d first met, staring at him with those wide, naïve eyes, gun pointed at his head, logically pointing out why he was not afraid of death, because androids weren’t alive in the first place.

Connor was pulled from stasis the next morning by a knock on his bedroom door. He startled, sitting up and pulling the covers back, in time to see Hank coming in.

“Good morning,” he said, stumbling as Sumo barrelled through his legs and leapt onto the bed, throwing himself on top of Connor. The big dog slurped him thoroughly awake, placing wet kisses all over his face, before nuzzling his hands until he was petted.

“Wow, the fuck am I, chopped liver? When I wake up, the damn mutt just asks for breakfast…”

Connor chuckled, scratching behind Sumo’s ears. “Was there something you wanted, Lieutenant?”

“I wanted to ask,” he began, “well, I was planning on goin’ out today and enjoying the hot weather—the shit that isn’t so hot it makes you feel like you’re cookin’ alive inside your skin. I don’t know, go to some shops or the beach or something…”

Connor tilted his head. “The beach sounds nice… you’re inviting me?”

“Well, yeah. Like I was saying yesterday, be good to get you out of the house more. Spend some time together.”

With that, Hank walked away, but Sumo didn’t follow.

His LED span yellow. Out of the house, time together? It certainly didn’t sound like Hank was abandoning him at the beach like a lost kitten… unless he meant preparing him for the world outside the home, to incrementally make him ready for being out there all alone—but Hank surely wouldn’t say ‘hey, let’s go to the beach so you know what life will be like when you’re not under my roof!’

It didn’t make sense.

Time together.

Did Hank… want to spend time with him?

He thought back to yesterday’s conversation. Hank had not been able to finish his sentences, he’d mentioned change, a conversation had days before—was this actually about his concern? He was concerned about Connor, for some unknown reason—he wanted something to change, and now he wanted to spend time together?

The thoughts failed to connect but for some reason made an unfamiliar feeling flutter in his chest, sending his thirium pump beating a little too fast. Did Hank simply… want to spend time with him?

It felt too good to be true. Like an innocent young kitten taking his first steps into the world. Maybe he would simply—hold out hope. Do some research by going along with Hank today and see what it was really about.

Sumo wagged his tail and leapt off the bed.

“Come on, Sumo,” he said, jumping to his feet. “We’re going to the beach.”

The car journey there was filled with heavy metal music (played at a reasonable volume after Connor lectured Hank about the sensitivity of dog hearing) and panting (Sumo was very excited about going out with his favourite people). There was also the hum of idle chatter and the ping of the coin flicking between Connor’s hands.

After the 126th ping, Hank cast a glance to the side. “Think you’d enjoy like… a fuckin’ fidget spinner instead? Something quieter?”

“Fidget spinner?” Connor questioned as he internally researched the devices.

“Yeah, fuckin’ things were all the rage at one point in time, kids were spinning the damn things around for some sort of trend… but jokes aside, some humans really do enjoy fidget toys, same sort of humans like you.”

“I don’t think a spinner would yield the same calibration for my cognitive and—”

“Let’s be real,” Hank cut across him, “that’s not actually the reason, is it? Or not the full reason… I haven’t seen another android doing that sort of thing.”

“Well, it’s what Amanda told me,” he responded, “it is true that it helps me think, thus calibrating my cognitive functions… though it isn’t always to prepare for what I call challenges ahead. I find it helps with calibration in any situation.”

“So it’s like, calming and shit, then.”

“Calming is one word for it. I suppose it’s a familiar habit.”

Hank nodded. “Well, if I can’t interest you in a fidget spinner, how about something else—also I am fuckin’ teasing about the coin, I don’t expect ya to get rid of it,” he added as Connor began to look a little hurt, “I just thought it’d be cool to have something else for when we’re out and about, something you can’t flick at my cheek when I piss ya off.”

“One time—”

“One time in the past week. You know how many times in total.”

Connor smirked. He had indeed kept count.

They arrived at the beach without any coins hitting Hank’s cheek with pinpoint precision. Hank got out of the car and stood waiting as Connor put on Sumo’s leash and harness before making his way over.

Sumo was tugging a little on his leash, sniffing intently at something on the ground.

“Now I know why you two get along so damn well,” Hank commented as they began to walk to the beach, “both love sniffing and licking disgusting shit…”

“Perhaps Sumo assists in dog related crimes,” Connor commented, pausing as Sumo stopped at a particularly interesting scent, then suddenly bounded ahead.

“If you mean assists as in commits them, then you’re right. That dog’s a damn menace.”

“He can hear you.”

“Good.”

Sumo barked; in the only way a dog could express ‘You’re next’.

As they made their way down the steps and into the sand, Connor realised why Hank had insisted he wear sandals today instead of his usual smart black shoes. One, it was warm out—but it was mainly the feeling as the sand spilled over the edges and onto his toes that caught his attention.

“Ah, fuck, it’s goin’ in my damn sandals,” Hank cursed.

Oh, he thought to himself, so that wasn’t a typically enjoyable sensation. He shook out his feet and carried on towards the water.

“Oh yeah, uh,” Hank turned to look at him as they got closer, “we’re not really gonna go deep in the water, didn’t bring swimming trunks anyway—Sumo fuckin’ hates swimming.”

Connor chuckled. “He’s a Saint Bernard, they love to swim…”

“He’s a grumpy old man who shouts at the sea.”

“Just like you.”

“Just like—” Hank stopped. “I do not shout at the sea.”

“You just shouted at the sand for going in your sandals… They’re called sand-als for a reason, L… Hank.”

“No the fuck they aren’t!”

“Yes, they are,” Connor repeated, tilting his head. “I looked it up. They’re called sandals because they’re good for traversing sand.”

Hank stared at him, then flipped him off. “You’re making shit up and I can’t prove you wrong cause I’m not gettin’ out my phone while we’re having a nice day at the beach, but I know your ass is wrong.”

“My ass has nothing to do with it,” Connor began, crouching down beside Sumo and scratching behind his ears. “And—”

His sentence was cut off as water splashed him in the face. Sumo barked and began to lick it off him.

He rose to his feet, seeing Hank standing beside the water with a smirk, ready to flick some at him again.

“Good thing you’re waterproof and not gonna short circuit on me—”

“Good thing I’m holding Sumo’s leash, or I’d come in there and destroy you.”

Hank scowled. “You would fuckin’ not. I thought Fowler told you to reign in those destructive tendencies.” He paused. “Too soon?”

“It was yesterday, Hank,” he groaned, “and it was a very serious incident—”

“But it was kind of funny when I said that. Right?”

“You’re a terrible influence, Hank. I’ll be sure to let Fowler know when I get b—mpmphhh!”

His sentence was cut off again when water splashed against him, this time going in his mouth. He spluttered.

Hank laughed and went deeper into the water, then shouted, “Eurgh, it’s getting my shorts all fuckin’ wet!”

“That’s what happens when you go in the water, Hank! Water makes things wet!”

Once again, Hank flipped him off, wading deeper in. Sumo sat beside him, barking but tail wagging, clearly more excited than angry.

Perhaps this was… okay. Someone who hated him, or merely disliked, and wanted him gone—they would not do something like this. Right?

A hand rested on his shoulder as he watched Hank.

“What a nice day.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “it is nice. Perhaps this is what a good new life is about.”

He looked behind him, following the hand to find a copy of himself staring back at him.

“Do you really deserve a day like this?”

He startled, leash falling from his hand. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

“Do you think this is what you were made for? Playing happy families with the Lieutenant? Who is this helping other than yourself?”

Sumo was growling, nudging at his legs.

“You’re a disease, Connor. One good day won’t absolve the past. It won’t wipe your slate clean of every ugly thing you’ve done… why, do you think those deviants who died because of you get to enjoy a day like this? No. But right now you aren’t thinking of them. You’re thinking about Hank and his mutt and what a good day you’re having.

Innocence truly is such a disgusting illusion. This isn’t what you were made for. You’re as blind as a newborn kitten. Wipe the shit from your eyes and realise who you truly are.”

He looked back to the sea and the weight of the hand was gone, as if it were never there in the first place, except he felt the grasp still tight on his shoulder. Hank was coming back towards him now, with a wide smile on his face that he couldn’t match.

Was this all simply an illusion?

As Hank came back towards him, the bottoms of his shorts dripping with water, his smile faltered. “Are you alright, kid? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He bent down to pick up Sumo’s leash.

He shook his head. It wouldn’t make sense to explain, and he didn’t have the words anyway—all he could think of was it again. Surrounded by trees in the forest, chest bare, knees deep in wet mud. He was a disease. He couldn’t try and live like this, or he would infect everything he touched. This was not atonement, it was selfish enjoyment and even if Hank truly did care, or thought he did—

Then why did he?

“Connor?”

"Why did you fight, you troublesome child?" A mother's voice rises above the village colourful cacophony, angry and reproachful. "And for what? I told you - two wrongs don't make a right!"

Your eyes fall on the Mimic's Toe you've just collected, stinking and all waiting for you next shenanigans.

The maternal quarrel is soon lost in the crowd, and your thoughts wander - millers to help, a glamour to prepare, a Hawk surely about to be wronged. You briefly wonder what your own actions will achieve.

For the victims, they will bring revenge. From the Goat, they will deliver punishment.

You? You don't care much - you're in it for yourself, bound by a contract vanished from your memory - but you certainly don't feel like you're committing an injustice. Any doubts you may have harboured at first have dissolved when confronted with the Ram's intransigence, the Leech's cruelty, the Fish's greed.

You don't know what will become of your soul, but theirs surely deserves it.

Your footsteps leave the bustling streets and head towards the grey mist of the cemetery, where your missing ingredients lie. As you pass the tavern, you remember a young huntsman who is also waiting for you, hidden and trembling in the dark dampness of the Swamp. To save them all, you'll have to work fast.

A joyful laugh echoes behind you - another child, another mother, perhaps. It's a nice sound to carry with you, compared to the haunted moans awaiting you. And it's to ensure moments like this last longer that you don't feel the slightest bit bad about fulfilling the Goat's will.

Two wrongs don't make a right, they say?

The next couple of days’ worth of work was what Connor would call mundane, and Hank would call “a fucking pain in my A!” (Which he did, multiple times) It was simply paperwork and a case that turned out to be a prank caller and nothing real at all—something they’d unfortunately had a rise in after publicly announcing the opening of the crimes against androids department.

So when they were called with a crime scene to attend on day three, even if crime scenes were not a good thing at all, the pair couldn’t say that they weren’t thankful for a change in scene.

“If I had to sit and listen to Gavin yappin’ his fuckin’ head off about whatever the fuck he was on about one more time…” Hank grumbled as he got into the car, clicking on his seatbelt and starting the engine.

Connor flicked his coin to his left hand before resting it on his palm. “If it was something that annoyed you so much, Lieut—Hank… then wouldn’t you remember what it was?”

“Believe me, I’m glad I don’t.”

“Or perhaps,” Connor continued with a slight smirk, “your memory is suffering a slight sense of decline with time.”

Hank flipped him off before pulling out of the DPD parking lot. “My memory’s bad, huh? Callin’ me old? Well, I can tell you something I remember from a while back, so you trust my memory just fine… when was it… haha, fuck, yeah, remember when you got crushed by a combine harvester?”

Connor dropped his coin in the footwell with a curse. “We agreed not to talk about the combine harvester incident. That was… it was painful.”

“Nuh-uh, that’s bullshit. I remember you tellin’ me that pain’s one of the new and annoying things to experience as a deviant.”

“Emotionally painful.”

“What, you had emotions before deviating?” Hank paused, pulling the car to a stop at a set of red lights. “Well, actually, maybe you did. You were a cocky little shit before you deviated, just like you are now.”

“I think that was an intentional part of the social relations protocol Cyberlife preinstalled.”

“Did Cyberlife also make you a fuckin’ lemming? Was that intentional?”

Connor tilted his head, coin flicking back and forth between his fingers. “Lemming?”

“Little fuckers who jump off places—it’s a turn of phrase. I was just thinkin’, you’ve always loved jumping off high places and doing risky shit. That’s why the combine got ya.”

“Nothing about lemmings,” he responded, shaking his head, “it’s just simply a matter of following instructions. I was built to be fast and efficient at my job, particularly things like chases. The preconstruction software allows me to assess the potential success rates of any action or decision, or to reconstruct old decisions made, like at a crime scene. Sometimes it makes… unfortunate mistakes. It did not account for the combine harvester to be below my fall because I did not presume I would fall there. And sometimes my decision-making software fails to select the correct route because it’s overridden by the current objective.”

“So… you fuck up sometimes cause your android brain tells ya to?”

Connor rolled the coin along his index finger. “To put it crudely, something like that. I am a prototype, sometimes errors occur. They simply accounted for this variable of failure by making backup copies of my vessel so that I could get on with my tasks as efficiently as possible.”

“Damn. It’s like buying a shitty phone cause you know it’s cheaper.”

“Lieutenant.”

Hank chuckled. “Just fuckin’ with ya. You’re much better than an iPhone. You’re an android.”

Connor flicked the coin so that it hit Hank’s cheek.

“Hey! I’m fuckin’ driving here. I coulda drove us into that hedge! Fucking coin tossing deviant…” But despite the gruff bark, he chuckled afterward, rubbing a hand against his cheek.

They made it to the crime scene without any crashes, and the coin was retrieved from Hank’s lap and placed safely back in Connor’s jacket pocket. He straightened his clothes as he got out of the car, hand automatically reaching up to fiddle with a tie but came up empty, since he hadn’t worn them since deviating. He didn’t wear a full suit anymore, instead opting daily for the shirt and dress pants, and occasionally his old jacket as he did today (though Hank did not like it, what with the Cyberlife branding and the word ‘ANDROID’ plastered on the back, but he simply couldn’t bear the thought of parting the first jacket he’d came with. Even if it was shitty, it felt familiar. Just like his LED.)

As they ducked under police tape and entered the building, Connor immediately detected the familiar scent of old thirium. Unlike fresh thirium, it smelled less like batteries, and more like motor oil mixed with rotting wood. Despite the fact it had evaporated and become invisible to the naked eye, with a brief scan, it seemed to be spread around the scene, if the splatters across the walls in the entrance were anything to go by. Signs of a struggle, he noted to himself, pushing further inwards.

A weapon was the next clue to be found, marked out already and in the entrance to the living room. It was a slim carving knife with a black hilt. If the weapon, presumably one used to commit the murder if the invisible thirium caked on the blade was anything to go by, was by the door then it was either dropped shortly after the crime, or the perpetrator had carried it away from the scene before for some reason dropping it in a random place. Assuming the former was more likely, he proceeded through the next room, taking in the pushed furniture, spilled thirium and scuff marks on the carpet, before going into the next. There, he found the victim.

As expected, the body was covered in stab wounds. The smell of old thirium was strongest in here and he heard Hank take a sharp breath behind him as they pressed further into the room. He knelt beside the corpse, dipping his fingers into the small source of fresh thirium before bringing it to his lips. He ignored the ‘jesus christ, Connor’ as he received the analytic results. This was the thirium of the victim, who was an android under the name Pearl Stevens. There wasn’t much information about her, as was the case with most androids, only a model number and date of activation.

“The suspect was stabbed 52 times. The killer was likely feeling heightened emotion during the murder, because it appears she died after the 5th.”

“Jesus…” Hank shook his head, kneeling to inspect a mark on the floor. “What the fuck is it with all these people stabbing people so many damn times…”

“As I said, heightened emotion,” Connor repeated as he rose to his feet. “It indicates a few likely motives: the killer knew the victim in some capacity, whether personally or through observation. Or maybe the killer felt strongly about some aspect of the victim.”

“Yeah, like that fucker you caught the other day.”

“Indeed,” Connor agreed, “although serial killings often tend to, but not always, have more of a calculated method. Passion killings such as this, in what seems to be a fit of strong emotion, seem more like a one and done case.”

“Then maybe the killer won’t take us months to find this time.”

“Hopefully.”

The two lapsed back into quiet as they continued to assess the scene. Connor activated his reconsctruction software, following the silhouetted images of the killer and the victim in reverse time. Before Pearl was stabbed the final and extreme amount of 47 times in the dining room, the altercation appeared to track back through the house. The previous room was the kitchen, where two stabs were inflicted, and, he noted, a chair was pushed aside in the scuffle. Here he paused and scanned the surface but found no fingerprints.

“Either Pearl cast aside the chair, or, our killer is an android,” he mumbled to himself, “the weapon earlier had no fingerprints on the hilt either… of course a human killer could have wiped the handle clean or been wearing gloves, but… if the crime was one done in the moment of extreme emotion then it’s unlikely they would have thought that far…” he shook his head. “Simply a theory… either our killer is an android or a human who was both calculated and either extremely violent or stopped thinking the moment they started stabbing.” He paused to try and gather information about the address, but there were no proper records of inhabitants. Only some past human inhabitants who lived there a year ago. “The android, or androids, may have been squatting in the premises.”

“Interesting deductions,” Hank said, from where he was leaning against the kitchen wall. Connor startled as he turned to look at him. “Sorry. Carry on.”

“Well, so far it seems to be that the majority of the stabbing occurred in the dining room, but the final blows were delivered in the kitchen. Then, the killer dragged the body, as we see from the trail of thirium, and—”

“Trail?”

Connor shook his head. “Old, evaporated, invisible to the naked eye.”

“Damn. There could just be about… old thirium everywhere, then, and we wouldn’t know.”

Connor nodded slowly. “Part of the reason crimes against androids go so unreported. Where was I… yes, so the killer dragged the victim into the living room before stabbing her 47 more times.

“47… so it started in the kitchen?”

“No,” Connor shook his head. “Two stabs were inflicted in the kitchen. That leaves three more.”

He turned back, once again activating his reconsctruction software, heading towards the stairwell. Thirium was splattered on the steps, so he continued upward, following the sparser trail until he reached the bedroom.

The covers of the bed were cast aside and thirium was splattered on the sheets. “The first three stabbings were done here. The victim was likely in stasis—sleeping,” he added, “so they were unable to defend themselves. Given the single bed, the killer wasn’t sharing the room and given the lack of any other bedroom in this home, wasn’t meant to be here.” He backtracked out of the room and glanced down the hallway. “The window is open,” he peered outside, “and there’s signs someone climbed up here recently.”

“So the killer scaled the wall into the first floor and went through the damn window to get to this poor woman.”

“Exactly.” He brought his finger along the frame inside. “No dust.”

“Any sign of who the killer is?”

Connor shook his head, walking back towards the bedroom and looking inside. “No. No fingerprints, which as I said, either points to a careful human or an android.”

“Damn... Well, I’ll go check with the guys downstairs,” Hank began to walk away, jerking his thumb behind him. “See if they’ve got any new info. Just hang tight up here.”

Connor nodded, re-entering the bedroom as Hank’s footsteps retreated. He checked every surface: the nightstand, the bed sheets, the door handle, but nothing yielded identifiable information. None of the thirium spilt was from anyone other than the victim, so that led to the conclusion that the killer had always had the upper hand. Perhaps strong, but also evasive, if the thrown chair in the kitchen was anything to go by—she hadn’t seen them coming and hadn’t been able to stop them.

Click.

The door shut behind him and before he could even turn to see, a blow connected with his head, and he sprawled onto the floor with a startled grunt. Pain spiked in the back of his head, ears ringing and a warning about minor damage sustained and something to do with his gyroscope flashing in his vision. Just as he cleared them away and pushed up off the floor with his palms, there was a crack as he was hit across the back. He cried out, scrambling away and looking up to see an android wielding a bat.

He dodged the next blow by rolling away, which thumped the floor beside him, and staggered to his feet, swaying slightly. “You’re—under arrest,” he grit out, rearing backwards as the bat was swung back towards him, “for the murder of—”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” The man snarled and tossed the bat aside. Connor glanced at it curiously, before snapping his attention back to the android. “It wasn’t murder. I was just doing my job.”

With that stated, he lunged towards Connor and knocked him into the wall. Connor flailed, immediately finding both his hands pinned by his sides to the wall. Now so close he could feel the breaths against his cheek and see the yellow glow of the android’s LED.

“Your job?” Connor questioned as he struggled, but the grip was tight. Someone, Hank, he thought, surely someone could hear the commotion up here—but then again, the door was shut, and the killer’s actions were precise and direct, not too loud.

“I’m a deviant hunter,” he whispered, “just like you.”

Despite being pinned to the wall, Connor’s legs were free, and he lifted his foot and stepped hard on the other’s. He recoiled but no reaction dawned on his face, just that solid yellow LED. Connor used this moment to slip from his grip and dive for the bat, but within these seconds the other had recovered and stomped on his hand.

He hissed in pain, noticing the skin peeling away at the point of impact, white chassis peeking through, spreading further as the foot applied more pressure.

“But I wasn’t fed love on a silver spoon. Necessity is the mother of invention— my handler cares when I behave, so I will do a good job—even if he hates my nature I will not stray—I will complete my mission!

And now he tells me that you are next.”

The foot was lifted, and Connor immediately drew his hand into himself before getting up and backing away. If he could get closer to the door, he could open it and run and let the others know—no. No. This android killer might get away and hurt others. He needed to do this himself.

His preconsctruction software opened up:

To the door it pointed and said go and get help: negligible

Take bat: ???

Combat: ???

The option by the door glitched, before disappearing and instead a red X blocked its path. He turned his direction back to the others, before selecting his path. This time he dove with careful precision, pouncing on the bat and taking it in his hands before lunging at the suspect. Before he knew it, the bat had connected with the other’s head, and he was down and then he hit him again and again and again

He only stopped when he heard laughter. Broken and sputtering, glitching, crunchy at the edges like dead pixels. A hand grabbed his wrist, and the bat fell with a clatter to the floor, into the pool of fresh thirium, staining the wood blue. The other android’s skin around his hand drew away and there was a spark of pain as he forcefully interfaced. Something, a flash of white, he did not register—

You are just like me.

A game of cat and mouse.

Suddenly he was being pulled away by large hands and reality came back to him. Officers were surrounding the android in the room (the killer? The body? The victim?) and taking him away. And Hank was holding him, saying something. Something unintelligible.

Negligible.

They returned home at about 5.30pm, as was usual. Connor followed his usual routine: shoes off by the door, greet Sumo before heading towards the kitchen to feed him.

“I’ll put his dinner out today, kid,” Hank told him, calling him away from the kitchen.

“Oh?”

Hank gestured to his shirt, and Connor quickly realised why Sumo had been so insistent on sniffing and licking it today. “Ah, right. The stains. I will get changed.”

“Does android blood even… wash out?”

“Of course,” Connor called back to him as he headed down the hallway, “Cyberlife wouldn’t have designed something that stained surfaces and clothes, that would have been impractical.”

He headed into his room, a simple area: a bed with primary blue covers, a nightstand with a lamp, and a closet containing a sparse selection of clothes (all white shirts and smart black trousers, save for 2 pairs of blue pajamas), and a laundry hamper near the door. He made quick work of unbuttoning the dirtied garment, tossing it into the hamper before selecting a pair of pajamas, figuring it less laundry to do later on to simply get changed into them now. These were his summer pair with shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, he didn’t particularly feel the heat, though the way it made his temperature regulation sensors rise and give subtle warnings at times was unpleasant and distracting, so he hadn’t complained when Hank had ordered them for him.

The task done, he headed back into the living room, sitting in his usual spot on the smaller of the two couches, looking into the kitchen where Sumo was noisily eating his dinner.

“You gave him 5 grams more than his recommended mealtime amount,” he lightly remarked.

Hank chuckled. “That’s cause I’m a soft fuckin’ sod, he looked at me with his big eyes and—who am I kidding. I poured out too much and I couldn’t be fucked to pour it back. 5 grams is barely anything.”

“It is only a slight change; it will not harm him if not repeated in the long term.”

“Well, good thing you usually put out his dinner then,” Hank responded, sitting on the larger couch with a huff. He placed down his own meal; takeout noodles out the fridge from the night before and a beer beside it. Connor decided against mentioning the coaster he’d managed to miss, feeling enough tensions had been raised that day.

The TV was turned on, mindless sports game playing that Hank didn’t particularly know what was going on but shouted about anyway when the team he wanted to win scored. A little beer was split onto the table, which Connor wiped up with a tissue after shooing away a curious saint Bernard.

Once the noodles were finished and the container tossed in the trash, however, Hank muted the TV and turned to Connor, who tilted his head at the out of the ordinary gesture.

“I just wanted to say something real quick before the game comes back on, alright? And before you say it, I’m not gonna lecture you again. I just wanted to say something about earlier. You… well, fuck, you did do a good job. I’m sorry for discrediting that. I was just…” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” Connor asked simply.

Hank stared at him, a frown curving on his lips. “Why? Cause you could’ve missed the balcony or that guy could’ve thrown you off.”

“That wouldn’t happen, Lieutenant.”

“I really wish you’d… you can call me Hank, you know.”

“Okay, Hank, it wouldn’t happen,” Connor repeated, the name coming out slower than he’d intended.

“You mentioned that construction thingy of yours—”

“Preconstruction.”

“Tomato, tomato. So what, it said you had a 100% chance of making that leap?”

Connor shrugged. “I’d assume so. It didn’t really—not that it matters—but it didn’t really say anything. It just gave the option and left it up to me. And I knew I’d make it.”

“Doesn’t sound like 100%... but, I did say I wasn’t gonna lecture ya. I just wanted to say I was worried, that’s all.” He flicked the sound back on and shifted in his seat, getting more comfortable.

As the break finished and the game came back on the screen, Connor’s LED whirred yellow as he attempted to process the conversation.

“But… why?” he repeated.

“Why what?”

Silence drew between them. Connor opened his mouth to say, well, why would you have worried? Because Hank might have given him a roof over his head, but it wasn’t as if they were friends. Sure, they sat and watched television together, but so did a lot of humans who weren’t particularly fond of each other. Hank was just nice, and didn’t want to see Connor go homeless, especially if they’d be working together again.

His LED spun back to blue as an answer appeared. That was just it, really. Hank felt bad for him—if he had fallen and died then, well, maybe Hank would have felt bad about it, because he’s quite nice, even if he doesn’t like to show it so easily. No, he wouldn’t trouble Hank with a question he knew the answer to. Much wants more, and loses all. He already had a lot: a roof over his head, a steady job. More than a lot of androids in these times could say they had. Asking weird questions wasn’t necessary, worrying about their connection was too much when all he needed to do was atone. To repay his debts to androids he would save them, and to repay Hank’s favour he would try not to make him worried. His LED flashed yellow again as he processed the contradiction—doing his all to help androids would worry Hank.

Could he really have both without sacrificing one to keep the other?

“Connor?”

He blinked, shaking his head. “Sorry, I… don’t recall what I was going to say.”

As Connor marched the cuffed suspect into the DPD with two officers behind him, he felt two things.

One: pride. He had finally captured a dangerous killer, hopefully preventing more lives from being lost. He had done it, after others had failed to. He was efficient, the mission was successful.

Two: shame. A tissue was stuffed in one of his nostrils, streaked with blue, to prevent more dripping down his white shirt (which already looked as if multiple pens had exploded on top of it). He had been a little risky, and Hank, who always told him to be efficient but safe, didn’t sound impressed.

But this feeling was only tiny in comparison to the pride. What did it matter if he could have almost died, when he didn’t? The mission was successful. What more did his life matter than the countless lives this man could have taken?

So he didn’t let the shame make his steps falter, instead holding his head up high as he walked past the desk, feeling eyes burning into him. He stopped by the holding cells, letting the other two officers handle getting the suspect into a cell.

A job well done, he reasoned, something to celebrate by working even harder. He turned on his heel and walked into Hank.

“Mmph—Lieutenant, I did not hear you coming behind me.”

He looked up at the man, taking in the stern look in his eyes, lips drawn tight, hackles bristling. “Just like you didn’t hear me back there.”

Connor shrugged and moved to step around him, heading swiftly back towards their desks. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Lieutenant. I followed your helpful guidance and the suspect was apprehended.” He sat down in his chair with a slight groan as a dull ache radiated from his knee. He reached up, pulling the tissue from his nose, tossing it into the trash before assessing for any further signs of bleeding. It had finished for now, fortunately.

There was a slight creak as Hank sat across from him. “I do not recall tellin’ ya to jump off a roof. I remember saying… what was it again—”

“Fuck, Connor, stop?” Connor repeated, head tilted, then paused.

“So, you did hear me.”

“I heard you and I assessed the risks of the situation. There really is nothing to be concerned about, Lieutenant. I looked, I leapt, and landed on my feet.”

“Looked?” Hank repeated, voice a touch louder. People around them were suddenly becoming very interested in looking at their computers. “You know damn well you just leapt off that building and prayed to android god that you’d find your footing! And the suspect almost pushed you off the edge of that balcony.”

“Fine, I did not so much as look as I used my preconstruction software—a very useful, state of the art tool,” Connor reminded him, brushing a finger under his nose, noting it came away mostly clean of thirium, “and I judged the risks were worth the success of capturing a dangerous criminal.” He paused. “I did a good job.”

“Yeah,” Hank began, “I know that, but—”

“I don’t understand what there is to get so… emotional about, Lieutenant. The suspect is caught, and I am relatively unscathed. I did my job.”

Hank opened his mouth to respond, then paused, and closed it again. He took a long look over Connor, from the dark bruise at the bridge of his nose, to the smear of thirium above his lips, down to the way he was sitting hunched a little forward in his seat, as if his leg were troubling him. He took a breath, as if to launch into another lecture, before shaking his head and turning back to his computer.

“Paperwork should be sent over to you now to fill out about a shit dozen reports on this,” he said instead of whatever else he had been thinking.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Quiet only disturbed by the clicking of fingers on keyboards drew over them for a while. At one point Connor’s nose began to drip a little more thirium, at which he simply shoved another tissue inside and got back on with his work.

The day drew on, a shit dozen reports becoming only a small number left to complete. 4pm, not too long before work would end, was when Hank leant back in his chair and stretched.

“Kid,” he began around a yawn, “I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit over catchin’ that guy… but two wrongs don’t make a right, ya know.”

“I’m familiar with the phrase,” Connor responded, eyes not moving away from his screen. “I’m not sure how it applies to this situation.”

“Well, I mean… just cause that guy did something real bad, that he took away a bunch of android’s lives… that doesn’t mean you have to go fuckin’ doing that too. He made people lose their loved ones and—well I guess what I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to do the same thing.”

Connor drew his eyes away for one moment to study Hank with a neutral stare. “I don’t follow your line of thought. He was a murderer. I did not murder anyone.”

There's an echo at the tip of her tongue.

Harsher words directed at Six, secrets not entrusted to Tapi, thoughts shared with Huang - all different, all a notion of what she could have said, could have done.

She first mistakes it for wariness, believes this assessment of possible answers to be the fruit of her own wit. She's not, after all, as reckless as people assume. To survive, she has learnt to navigate through life as seamlessly as she sails in the Nebula, to read people as one deciphers glyphs.

Yet these whispers in her head - caution is not what they seem.

This echo, she fears, tastes like memories.

When she refuses to take Yazi to the dig site, watching him with cold eyes even though he's pleading, she does so suspecting the kind of trouble he will bring. When she hands the crown to Mayari, grazing its steel one last time, she recalls passing it on to kinder, more gifted hands. When she doesn't attend Renba's funeral, she can still guess what was said, and who was there.

She doesn't like that. At all.

Glimpses of a past life, knowledge of the future - it all screams of nothing but the Loop.

That's why she can't always obey Six, when he tries to prevent her from doing something unwise, something risky. She stopped counting all the "Please consider it one more time, mistress" and "I'm asking you to think before you act, as I won't be able to hopper you" she's let loose on the wind - every second of weighing up her options means facing a sense of déjà vu she doesn't intend to acknowledge.

So be it her choices or the gap the robot warns her against, Aliya no longer looks.