#moralmayday3

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.”

Greed lurks in every corner of the kingdom.

It shines in Leg Eater's clutching hands, repairing at a cost while dreaming of a crown - in Sly's covetous eyes, hidden in his shop and always raising prices.

It lies in a banker who steals, a fool who fights, a merchant who demands payment in a ruined land where trade no longer makes sense. In forgotten chests, brimming with riches when their owners have long since passed on - avarice, it would appear, does not prevent one's end.

This urge to possess and want more reflects everywhere - a desire for knowledge lost in the electrified mist, a bug's pursuit of immortality at the top of the Sanctum, the dream of a fallen King.

Yet it often ends up being about Geos.

Perhaps it is a similar yearning that compels a voiceless knight to attempt one last jump - to grab the meagre reward left behind by a vanquished foe, six Geo that cannot be ignored. Its vision blurred, its mask cracked, dripping black liquid.

Its Shade, shape of a past, mark of a previous death, awaits him in solemn silence at the other end of the cavern. Caution would suggest reaching it first - but what of those six Geos to collect along the way.

A misstep, a fall. A skull fracturing on spikes. A spirit dissolving, ready to reappear on a bench.

A little further away, the Shade closes its white eyes and evaporates forever - and with it, three thousand two hundred and sixty four Geos. All lost because a wounded knight could not turn away from six more.

Higher beings, they should inscribe on some new stone, these words are for you alone. One much wants more, all loses all.