Pookie-Unit

“I’m right here,” I chuckle through the receiver as I push the door open to our living space.  I hear my voice echo through the speaker of his phone before I hang up.

He’s standing in front of her, adjusting the collar of her blouse with a delicate touch.  Her eyes track his movements with that eerie, perfect attention androids have.  The small blink of her synthetic eyelids is enough to make me hold my breath.  

"There," he murmurs, smoothing the fabric.  "Better."

She tilts her head.  “Thank you.”

My hand flies to my chest.  I’ve seen androids before.  I’ve seen the way they move and the way they mimic humanity.  But she is ours.  Her design, her voice—  

To witness it come together in this moving, speaking, understanding mechanical being in front of me is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

He smiles at her, and my fingers clench at my chest harder.  I rarely see his unguarded smile anymore, especially now that he spends most of his time in board meetings and conference calls.

He steps back, hands in his pockets, regarding her with the same wonder in his eyes he used to get when we talked about changing the world together.

“Good morning, Clover,” she says, pulling my gaze from him.  “Would you like tea?”

“I—” God, she sounds so human.  “Yes.  Thank you.”

She turns gracefully and moves toward the kitchen.  Before she gets too far, he reaches out to stop her.

“Let me take care of it,” he says, expression rich between pride and affection.

See? I tell myself.  The man who believes androids deserve dignity is still in there.  He’s just been busy establishing our place in this fight.

"She's remarkable," I say quietly as he returns with the tea.

He extends the mug to me and glances back at her.  "She is."

I bring the mug to my lips and close my eyes, inhaling the soothing scent of chamomile.

“You were right, you know.”  He sounds almost apologetic.

My eyes flick back open, catching that affectionate pride aimed at me now.

“I know I tend to get caught up in the momentum.”  He places a hand on my shoulder.  “And I’m sorry.”

I realize now that he looks tired, too.  Of course he does.  There are big names in artificial intelligence and he has the challenge of making ours stand out.

“I need you, Clover,” he confesses.  “I can’t build this without you.”

She returns to his side, standing just close enough that their shoulders almost touch.  He squeezes mine once, and then his hand drifts to her, unconsciously I think.  He rests his palm between her synthetic shoulder blades.

“Stop holding the framework from production pitches,” I say firmly.

"Okay."  He removes his hand from her to pluck the mug from mine and places it on the side table next to us.  “I’ll convince the board it’s necessary.”

I search his face, looking for the lie or the crack in the foundation.  

“You have to convince them,” I tell him as my gaze slides over to her.  I imagine how the world will treat her if things don’t change, if he doesn’t convince them.  As I linger there, something weaves between my ribs and pulls tight, closing off the space where a full breath should live.

“I will, Clover.”  His hand slides into place between my shoulders, pulling the knot loose before it can fully form, giving me space to breathe again.  “I promise.”

"Okay," I whisper.

He exhales and pulls me into his arms.  I let him, burying my face in his shoulder and breathing him in: coffee, cedar, and the lingering chamomile.  

"I love you," he murmurs into my hair.

"I love you too."

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

-Detroit, November 6, 2038- TIMESTAMP: 8:02PM

⚠Connor:

The cab’s synthesized voice announces my arrival with fabricated etiquette:

You have reached your destination.  Thank you for traveling with Detroit Taxis.  We look forward to seeing you again soon.

I register the audible click of the door’s latch before it slides open.  Cold air pushes into the cabin, bringing measurable environmental indicators with it, like frost levels and foliage.  The cab descends down the street after I bring myself out onto the sidewalk.

Lieutenant Anderson’s house is exactly where the records say it is.  They failed to mention the glass bottles and patches of mud littering the lawn.  

There’s a dim glow toward the back of the house, but otherwise it is unlively.  The curtains are drawn in the front-facing plane of his home, preventing a quick visual inspection.

I bring myself to the front door, raise my hand and knock.  “Lieutenant Anderson?  Anybody home?”

No response registered.  

A single press on the doorbell yields the same result.  I hold it down for 3.2 seconds for good measure.  

No detectable difference.  

Shifting to the door knob, I curl a hand around it and attempt manual manipulation.  The lock prevents access.

Inside, there are two thermal readings.  One matches the Lieutenant’s signature, the other is canine-shaped.  Likely the Saint Bernard whose hair covers the Lieutenant’s chair at the precinct.  Sumo.

I turn, making my way to the back of the house where Lieutenant Anderson’s thermal output is strongest.  There’s an unobstructed window overlooking his kitchen.  Through it, I catch sight of him unconscious on the floor.  My system reels immediately.

SUBJECT :: LIEUTENANT HANK ANDERSON

TRACES OF ALCOHOL :: → SCOTCH WHISKY - BLACK LAMB → 40% ALCOHOL CONTENT

HEART :: → SLIGHT ARRHYTHMIA → NO SIGNS OF TRAUMA

REVOLVER NEARBY :: → .357 MAGNUM → 1 BULLET REMAINING

Despite his fair condition, my elbow moved to break the window before the scan completed.  I tumble through the shattered opening and land, hitting the tile with my back.  My vision adjusts, brightness algorithms compensating for the room’s warm lighting.

A low grumble interrupts the calibration.

SOURCE :: CANINE BREED :: SAINT BERNARD CROSS-REFENCE :: SUMO

“Easy,” I say quickly, raising my hands but keeping my posture non-threatening.  “Easy, Sumo.  I’m your friend!  I’m here to save your owner.”

His weight shifts.  He cocks his head, blows air out of his nares, then sniffs at my outstretched hands.  Saliva smears across my synthetic skin.  I stay still, offering a non-confrontational gaze and a slow blink.  Nonthreatening mammalian cues, optimized.  

After 3.8 seconds, he no longer suspects I’m an intruder and retreats back to the living room.   

I rise and shift my attention back to the Lieutenant.  He’s positioned on his side, one hand over his stomach, the other loosely touching an empty bottle on the floor.  The revolver lays nearby.

I kneel beside him, keeping my voice low but insistent.  “Lieutenant.” 

He doesn’t respond.  His system requires a boot-up of higher caliber.

I raise my hand, calculate optimal trajectory, and smack him.  “Wake up Lieutenant!  It’s me, Connor.”

He groans, eyelids fluttering.  The olfactory level of alcohol is higher this close.  “Leave me alone, you fuckin’ android,” he slurs. 

I tighten my grip around his forearm.  “I’m going to sober you up for your own safety,” I tell him.  “I have to warn you, the next part may be unpleasant.”

He finally forces his eyes open and squints at me.  They’re bloodshot, unfocused, trying to reconcile my presence with whatever his brain had last logged.  “Get the fuck outta my house!”

I persist, and he doesn’t resist as much as I expect.  He’s heavy, but his body knows how to move with assistance; muscle memory compensates where cognition fails.  I pull him upright, bracing him against my shoulder as his knees threaten to buckle.

“Sumo,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut again.  “Attack!”

The dog, lying nearby, lifts his head at the sound of his name with a single thump from his tail.

The bathroom is down the hall to the right.  I’ve already mapped the layout from municipal blueprints and an internal scan.  It’s a small space with a standard bathtub-shower.  I guide him there, step by careful step, and haul him into the tub’s basin.

“Don’t want a bath, thank you.”  He bats at my hand and stumbles.  

I catch him.  “Sorry, Lieutenant, this is for your own good.”

I turn the shower on.  The water hits him in a cold sheet.  

“Turn it off!” He shouts, hoarse and outraged as it soaks him.  “Jesus Christ— turn it off!” He flails at the knob.

I find it for him, twisting it off and monitoring his heart rate as it spikes and then begins to settle.  He’s panting and soaked, but significantly more conscious.  

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He demands, pushing his hair out of his face with an unsteady hand.

“A homicide was reported 43 minutes ago,” I inform him.

He leans against the tiled wall, closing his eyes briefly.  The water has flattened his hair and deepened the lines around his mouth.  He looks older than his chronological age by a factor of at least ten subjective years.  

“Jesus, can’t you just leave me alone?”

I begin to state my directive.  “Unfortunately, I cannot.  I’ve been programmed to invest—”

“Beat it!  You hear me?!  Get the hell outta here!”

My LED flickers as I reconsider my approach.  The Lieutenant is not interested in protocols or departmental orders.  So I release my grip on that argument, and pick up one that will interest him.

“I understand,” I adjust my tone to convey something light and casual.  “It probably wasn’t interesting anyway.  A man found dead in a sex club downtown… guess they’ll have to solve the case without us.”

His eyes open.  “You know, probably wouldn’t do me any harm to get some air.”  He runs his hand along his forehead, then points across the hall.  “There’s some clothes in the bedroom there…”

“I’ll go get them,” I offer immediately. 

When I return with the clothes, he’s hunched over the toilet, vomit trailing down one side of his mouth.  I set the clothes down nearby and give the Lieutenant a moment to recover.

Meanwhile, I visually catalog his home.  Small data points are found throughout, giving me a larger knowledge base concerning Hank Anderson’s identity outside of his career.  Vinyl records and a poster suggest he’s partial to blues, notably Michigan Brothers.

Back in the kitchen, I notice a frame placed face-down on the table near where I first found the Lieutenant.  I pick it up and turn it around.  A scan pings the moment my optical sensors catch the boy’s face.

SUBJECT :: COLE ANDERSON AGE :: 6 YEARS STATUS :: DECEASED CAUSE OF DEATH ::  COMPLICATIONS FOLLOWING VEHICULAR TRAUMA. → HEMORRHAGIC SHOCK →EMERGENCY INTERVENTION BY ANDROID  SURGEON → PROCEDURE OUTCOME :: FAILURE

Data from hospital records and police reports string together into a neat, terrible narrative.  The entries are all objective, but something about that registers strangely.  I pull up the Lieutenant’s profile in my internal model.

Previously: Uncooperative.  Hostile toward androids.  Disciplinary history significant.  Alcohol misuse probable.

Now: Bereaved parent.  Primary trauma linked directly to android medical failure.  Chronic grief; unresolved.  Self-destructive ideation escalating.

The correlation aligns.  Of course he hates androids.  Of course he copes with alcohol.  

Liaison Martel said ‘kindness takes effort.’  This must be when Hank Anderson became too tired to be kind.

I slide the photograph a few centimeters away from the ring of dried whiskey on the table, just enough that the stain no longer touches the frame.  A single micro-adjustment meant to optimize its placement.  No warnings label it as “insufficient” but—

My gaze tracks the line from the photograph to the whiskey bottle, then from the whiskey to the space where the gun sits.  Three objects in a row: cause, coping, exit strategy.  The Lieutenant has angled the photograph deliberately, I realize.  It’s placed where he can see it every time he sits down.

“What were you doing with the gun?” I ask.  I have to confirm.  I do not know why.

“Russian Roulette!” His gruff voice calls from the bathroom.

I nod, mostly to myself, and reach for the gun.  I turn the cylinder one more notch, then click it closed.  The next shot would have killed him.

I look once more at the boy in the picture and experience a brief, unfamiliar error.  For 0.4 seconds, I cannot tell if I am analyzing a data point or—

Lieutenant Anderson emerges from the bathroom sufficiently recovered from his inebriated state.  He gestures toward the door and then we step out into the cold night air together.  My mission prioritization tree updates automatically.

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE ::  INVESTIGATE HOMICIDE DOWNTOWN

SECONDARY OBJECTIVE ::  MONITOR LIEUTENANT’S SELF-DESTRUCTIVE IDEATION

TERTIARY OBJECTIVE ::  [UNKNOWN VARIABLE]

As we move toward our destination, I pull up Cole Anderson’s file.  I cross-reference it with the subtle discrepancies in the Lieutenant’s attitude toward me: 

“‘Cause you could’ve been killed! …And I don’t like filling out paperwork for damaged equipment.”

“Hey Connor… Ah, nothing.”

I label Cole Anderson’s file with “high importance” and save it outside of mission logs.

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

☘︎Clover:

I’ve tried everything.   A hot shower, chamomile tea, surrounding myself in total darkness… My body is refusing to sleep.  I had every intention of climbing into bed and surrendering to unconsciousness.  But here I am, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows from the streetlight crawl across the plaster.

This is karma.  Instead of being present for the case tonight, I get to stay up all night and wonder what the hell is happening.  Fine, I deserve that.

I roll onto my side and punch the pillow into a different shape.  

That’ll help.  

I dramatically flop down onto it.  

It didn’t help.

What if someone gets hurt tonight?  What if Connor gets hurt tonight?

I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the thought in its tracks, but somehow the questions just get louder.

I flip onto my back again, throwing an arm over my eyes.  I try to focus on the creak of the upstairs neighbor’s floorboards, or the distant wail of a siren a few blocks away.  Neither are loud enough.  Nothing is.

My eyes flick over to my phone lying dark and silent on the nightstand.  I turned it off so I wouldn’t be tempted to check the case logs.

Coward.

I breathe out slowly, frustrated with myself and the fact that I can't even let myself rest without turning it into another referendum on my own inadequacy.  I sit up abruptly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.  My feet hit the cold floor, I curl my hands around my knees, and stare at the darkened shapes of my bedroom furniture.

Fuck it.  I'm not going to sleep like this.  Not with my brain chewing on itself in endless loops, asking questions I can't answer and picking at wounds I can't heal.  I need a distraction, something to drown out the internal noise.

I need a drink.

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

⚠Connor:

The door to the private room swings shut behind us, muffling the Eden Club’s bass-heavy music.  The body is on the bed.  I register it in the periphery: male, middle-aged, significant bruising on neck, marks consistent with the shape of android fingers.  But the first face I focus on isn’t the victim’s, it’s Detective Gavin Reed’s.  He turns at the sound of the door and drags his eyes over us with visible disdain.  Officer Miller is next to him, offering a quick, tired nod.

“Well, well.” Detective Reed drawls.  “Lieutenant Anderson and his plastic pet.”  He looks between us, like he’s choosing where to aim his derision.  “The fuck are you two doin’ here?”

“We’ve been assigned all cases involving androids,” I state evenly.  

The Eden Club specializes in anonymous pleasure, provided by clean and obedient androids.  A homicide here falls under our jurisdiction.  The Traci model involved in this case lies inoperable nearby, leaking Thirium from damaged casing.

“Oh, yeah?  Well, you’re wasting your time.”  He motions his chin toward the body on the bed.  “Just some pervert who got more action than he could handle.”

Detective Reed is suggesting the victim’s surge in physical exertion with the Traci model resulted in a cardiac event.  Unlikely given the evidence of strangulation.  And the scan that confirmed no cardiac event.

The Lieutenant’s eyes narrow fractionally.  “We’ll have a look anyway, if you don’t mind.”

Detective Reed regards Officer Miller.  “C’mon, Chris.”  He wrinkles his nose and waves his hand through the air dramatically.  “It’s starting to stink of booze in here.”

The remark is aimed at Lieutenant Anderson.  The Lieutenant’s blood alcohol is still elevated from earlier and olfactory evidence supports that it’s detectable at close range.  The conclusion is accurate.  I dislike the way Detective Reed says it.  The sensation is abrupt and irrational.  There’s no tactical disadvantage introduced by the insult.  Objectively, it should be ignored.  Defending Lieutenant Anderson from verbal remarks is not in any of my mission param—

Mission parameters—Right.  That is my purpose.  My LED ticks yellow for 0.2 seconds before I force it back to blue and silence the nonessential subroutines distracting me from the case.

“He didn’t die of a heart attack,” I notify the Lieutenant, “he was strangled.”

“Yeah, I saw the bruising on the neck,” he confirms.  “Doesn’t prove anything though.  Could’ve been rough play.”

He is technically correct.  Even after feeding the data into my Reconstruction Program, the visual overlay doesn’t exactly look incriminating in this setting.  It won’t hold up without more evidence and a clear motive.

“Think maybe you can read the android’s memory?” He suggests, tracking his line of sight over to the destroyed unit.  “Maybe you can see what happened.”

I already saw what happened, but I won’t make a remark like that to the Lieutenant.  That would just create a setback in the rapport I’ve built.  Additionally, his idea serves a different but equally valuable function.

“The only way to access its memory is to reactivate it,” I tell him.

With a quick redirect of leftover power reserves from nonessential operatives, I temporarily restore the Traci.  It surges up and back in a single, rapid motion and simulates an erratic pattern of breathing.  It is damaged, panicked, and can only withstand about a minute of reactivation.  I have to be deliberate with my time.

“Calm down,” I offer with my hands raised in a de-escalating gesture.  “Everything’s all right.  All we want is to know what happened.”

“Is he…” it hesitates, “is he dead?”

“Did you kill him?”

“No!” Its eyes widen.  “No, it wasn’t me!”

“Who killed that man if it wasn’t you?” I push, attentive to the tone I project.

“I don’t know, I was in shutdown, I—” it squeezes its eyes.  “I didn’t see anything.”

My LED cycles blue.  “Were you alone in the room?  Was there anyone else with you?”

“He wanted to play with two girls,” its vocal output is frantic.  “That’s what he said.  There were two of us.”

“So it was the other android that strangled him, is that it?” 

Unfortunately, my question isn’t answered before the Traci loses power again, but now we know there was another android involved.  The Lieutenant offers to talk to the manager while I search for potential witnesses.

Outside the private room, the club manager is perspiring through his shirt, insisting the legality of his practice.  The android workers pass in and out of my peripheral vision, posing and existing as pre-programmed fantasies.  I make my way to a model outside and within view of the crime scene’s entry.  It is enclosed in a glass cavity, only accessible to paying human customers.  

The Lieutenant does not understand my urgency when I request he pay for the model.  I can only access their memories through physical connection, and the Eden Club’s policy is to wipe them every two hours.  Considering how long we’ve spent on this case already, we only have a few minutes for me to track the other android.

Reluctantly, he agrees to pay for access.  

I probe the model, witnessing the moments following the crime from its perspective.  Through it, I discover a blue-haired Traci leaving the victim’s room.  That’s our target.  From here, it’s just a matter of following the trail.

Not every Eden Club android saw the blue-haired Traci.  Some were busy with occupational commitments, some simply didn’t have the visual access.  But through many of the points of connection, I witnessed brief flashes of that peculiar phrase — rA9.

The memory trail leads us to the back corridor, then to the employee exit, then to the storage room where droplets of Thirium litter the floor.  Another trail to follow — but it doesn’t last nearly as long.  Before I can fully process where the drops converge, a body makes impact with mine, sending me in a backwards stumble.  I recalibrate, force myself back up and—

The Lieutenant is charged by a second body.  It all happens quickly in real time, seconds stacked on seconds.  The blue-haired Traci and the Lieutenant stumble to the ground as he redirects its attacks.  He pulls out his gun, but the pause in defensive action leaves an opening for the Traci to destabilize him again.  A sharp object rapidly descends toward me, but I catch the short-haired Traci’s wrist before contact is made.

They’re persistent, impressive even, in their ability to prevent me and the Lieutenant from immobilizing them.  Every move is countered, every escape attempt follows a brutal force of push-back.  My combat module matches pace with Short-hair, until the storage room’s edge derails us, sending us downward to collide with asphalt.

Again, I’m forced to recalibrate.  Short-hair stands, and I move to bring myself up.  Blue-hair appears next to the other and they link hands.  My momentum stutters as my processors dissect the image before me.

Lieutenant Anderson hurls over the edge, grabbing Blue-hair and forcing it off-balance with the inertia of his landing.  Short-hair moves to join the struggle, and the two of them overwhelm the Lieutenant.  He’s pushed down, making contact with the ground at a measurable force.

“Quick, they’re getting away!” He yells as the Tracis scramble toward the alley.  

Blue-hair begins to scale the fence as I project myself forward, accelerating before an escape can be made.  My hands wrap around its arm, and I swing my center of gravity to throw Blue-hair back toward the ground.  Short-hair pounces on me from behind, and I adjust combat protocols to compensate for two attackers.  

Their tenacity is disruptive.  Both swing at me with limbs and hazardous projectiles meant to put me out of action.  I make the split-second calculation to dodge a fatal attack, opting for a disorienting shove instead.  My back hits the concrete hard, but I land by Lieutenant Anderson’s pistol, which was displaced from the assault.  I train the gun on them as they run for the fence, because that’s what I’m built to do, and because Amanda’s voice in my head is very clear.

Except now Lieutenant Anderson’s voice is there too, sarcastic and angry, but only to compensate for the grief.  And Liaison Martel’s, insistent on value outside of function.  My LED flickers yellow, white noise builds across my system, my visual load desaturates and blurs and I—

I lower the gun.  

Both Tracis stop running and turn around.  My LED continues to flash a precarious yellow.  Theirs both spin through a dysfunctional red.  None of us can fully process this sequence.

Blue-hair takes a single step toward me, breaking the chain of processing.  “When that man broke the other Traci…”  Its nostrils flare on a simulated inhale.  “I knew I was next.”

My vision zooms in automatically on the Traci’s face, mapping micro-expressions I’ve never been instructed to care about.

“I was so scared,” it continues.  “I begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t.”

The Eden Club’s file contained reports of past damaged models, incident logs, and financial records of replacement costs.  None of them mentioned fear.

“So I put my hands around his throat,” it says, fingers twitching as if they can still feel it.  “And I squeezed until he stopped moving.”

The Lieutenant shifts beside me, listening intently.  I cannot recall another time I’ve seen him offer his full attention like this.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Blue-hair continues, “I just wanted to stay alive.  To get back to the one I love.”  

The other Traci reaches out, threading their fingers together.  

“I wanted her to hold me in her arms again.  Make me forget about the humans,” Blue-hair’s voice starts to emulate disgust.  “Their smell of sweat and their dirty words…”

“Come on.”  The second Traci tugs the other toward the edge of the fence.  “Let’s go.”

The Lieutenant stands beside me, watching the outline of their bodies vanish beyond the alley.  His expression is… foreign.  

“It’s probably better this way,” he says.

I log a small, quiet discrepancy nested deep in my own records:

DEVIANT ANDROIDS LOCATED TERMINATION PROTOCOL :: OVERRIDDEN REASON :: [UNKNOWN VARIABLE]

My thumb jolts in a nervous twitch, causing me to lose grip on the tablet.  It slides and drops against the table with a thunk. 

Miller throws another defense before I can linger on the fumble.  “She’s just doing her job, Gav.”

“She’s replacing ours!” He barks back.  “You assholes can let the CyberLife lackey bribe you, but I’m not falling for it.”

Pain shoots through my cheek.  Apparently I’ve been biting the inside of it.  My mouth feels like it’s clamped shut.  Any response I try to force out sticks to the back of my throat because he’s right.  All CyberLife does is take, and I’m their polished, pretty little thief.

“I’m not here to replace you,” I eke out.  Fortunately, my voice doesn’t die completely.  “Connor’s not here to replace you.  We’re only here to solve a CyberLife issue.”

“Right.”  He blows out a haughty chuff of air.  “Deviancy.”

I hide my hands under the table so he can’t see my thumb jumping from the nerves.  It feels like he can see right through it, though, the way his eyes flay me.

“And what happens,” he crosses his arms, “when your fancy prototype is the one that goes haywire?”

I almost roll my eyes.  Connor will not go haywire.  He’s the epitome of advanced programming.  He performs his job with methodical efficiency.  

…Terrible, brutal, ruthless efficiency.  That might be worse.

“He won’t.”

I hear the door click behind me.  “You’re still here.”

I don’t turn around.  “So are you.”

His shoes scuff against the vinyl floor, then he’s sliding into the chair beside me.  The rich, sweet smell of coffee and cedar follows him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asks.

“Couldn’t stop thinking.”  I tap the pen tip against the paper.

Our shoulders brush as he leans over.  He scans the paper in front of me, then bounces up to the schematic on the screen above.  “What’s wrong with it?”

There’s genuine curiosity in the question.  The lack of clinical edge tells me he knows I’m not stuck on syntax.

“It’s optimized for efficiency,” I exhale slowly.  “But it’s lacking in… I don’t know.”  My hands move in the air, gesturing for ideas.  “Welfare reciprocity.”

“Mm.” He taps a finger against the table.  “That’s intentional.  Task completion is the priority, not user bonding.”

“User bonding improves task completion,” I counter, turning to face him.  “This isn’t new information in our line of research.”

He smiles, like I’ve said something predictable but endearing.  “You always come back to this.”

“Because it matters.”

“I know.”  

His hand finds mine on the table.  I suddenly notice the death grip I have on the pen as he curls his fingers gently around my knuckles.  I release it.

“That’s why I need you,” he whispers.  “You keep our goals centered while I build our industry presence.”

My shoulders melt down from my ears.  He may get ahead of himself, but he listens.  He always listens.

“I can build it in without slowing production.” I angle my body toward him.  “I just have to nail down the algorithm and—”

The vibration from his phone on the table cuts me off.  His eyes flick to the screen and flash when they recognize the number.  He squeezes my hand once before letting it go.

“Add it to the draft.”  He grabs his phone and swipes to answer.  “I have to take this.”

I open my mouth like I might object, but he’s already standing and turning toward the door with his phone held up to his ear.  “Hello?” 

The faint sound of a woman’s voice filters through the other line.

“No, it’s good to hear from you—”  

The door clicks shut behind him.

He doesn’t come back.  I wait there for an hour, staring at a screen and marking a paper with mindless taps from a pen.  The error doesn’t get fixed.

I toss the pen against the table and shift my focus entirely to the screen, pulling up the outline of our draft.  A new section is added — Compassion as Core Protocol: Human-Android Emotional Reciprocity.  I write it alone.  

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

-Detroit, November 6, 2038- TIMESTAMP: 6:02PM

☘︎Clover:

The question makes my mind and body stop idling.  Everything snaps back into place.  I don’t know how to answer it.

Do you want it?

My eyes stick to the tablet screen, still long asleep from lack of activity.  I turn it back on, because I don’t know what else to do with myself.  The cursor blinks at me like it’s timing my response.  I inhale a long breath, set the tablet down and—

The tremor in my thumb is gone.  When did that happen?

I peel my eyes from the tablet and look at Connor.  His head is tilted slightly, LED cycling a slow blue.  I’m taking my sweet time answering him, but he just looks so… patient.  

“Yeah,” I exhale.  “I do.”

The admission feels too vulnerable.  Especially here, where everything is evidence and paperwork, but it’s true.  I don’t want to be alone with the guilt and the doubt and the weight of everything I’ve helped create.

Connor’s LED finishes its cycle and he nods subtly.  No words of comfort, but somehow that felt close enough. 

Most of the officers have clocked out for the evening.  Chris is still here, finishing up paperwork at his desk.  His radio crackles through the otherwise quiet precinct.  The overhead lights have dimmed into evening mode.  Between the mellow ambience and Connor’s steady, low-pressure company, I feel my shoulders finally surrender.  

How can the manifestation of my complicity comfort me like this?  My eyes track back over to Connor.  He’s sitting with his hands folded on the desk, eyes fixed on my tablet like he’s giving me space from his gaze.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to," I say meekly.

Connor's eyes lift back up to me, LED flickering yellow before settling back to blue.  "Would you prefer I leave?"

"No," I admit.  "Just... if you have something better to do—"

"I don't."  His eyes fix to mine, steady in a way that makes it hard to disengage.  He looks calm and unreadable in the way androids are supposed to, but…

Why is he staying?  He should be optimizing his time or processing data.  Doing anything that aligns with the mission.  And I should go home.

“Okay,” I say, shrinking back into my chair.

He nods once and shifts his attention back to the tablet.

I can’t explain this, but I’m too tired to care.  Right now, I just need someone to stay without attempting to break through the wall I’ve reinforced around my thoughts.  Connor’s doing exactly that, so I accept it and let myself breathe.

He shifts slightly in his chair, creating a faint mechanical creak.  It’s just enough to remind me that he’s still here.  His presence feels weightless next to me, like a second shadow.

“Would this…” he begins, LED flickering yellow like he’s searching for the right words, “...situation fall under the phrase ‘shared silence?’”

I feel the corners of my mouth threaten to lift.  “Yeah,” I say, gaze locked on the tile beneath my shoes.  “Presence without expectation is nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes.  It is.”

For the first time today, my ribs don’t feel like they’re tied together.  I lean back in my chair, relishing in the open, full breath I can actually take.

“Most of my interactions are transactional.” Connor watches the cursor blink on the tablet.  “But this doesn’t require anything, and it still feels significant.”

I let out a little huff of amusement.  “It might feel important because it doesn't require anything.  We all need a break from those transactional interactions.  Even androids.”

He nods once with a hum, like he’s testing how that truth feels and letting it settle in his system before he works out a response.  

“That must be why I stay.  If it’s rare to exist without performance, I must not need instruction to verify its value.”

We catch each other’s gaze simultaneously, but without his usual scan and without my guarded self-possession.

He tilts his head.  “Do you operate under the belief that performance is a necessity?”  

He doesn’t clarify — necessity for what, exactly.  I understand it, though.

“Yes.”  

Neither of us breaks our attention away from the other, but it doesn’t feel invasive.  We’re both working something out between the silence and the honesty.  

“I think that's something we have in common,” I say.

“Yes.”

My eyes drop back down to the tile.  Strange how I’ve spent all day avoiding vulnerability in front of him, and now I find myself cradled in it.

Connor’s chair creaks slightly again as he follows my gaze downward.  “If I stopped performing…” he begins to ask.  “What would remain?”  The question comes out flat, like it’s just another line of inquiry, but it isn’t.  “Would there still be something worth sitting with in silence?”

My eyes shoot back up to him in surprise.  He doesn’t return the eye contact this time.  His focus stays locked onto the tablet.  I follow his line of sight, where that incessant cursor continues to blink.

“Maybe we'd be more worthy,” I offer.  “But how do you stop performing when agenda is hidden in everything?”

His LED cycles yellow.  I let my head sink against the back of the chair.

“Perhaps,” he starts, “the answer is to seek out individuals who are not keeping an internal ledger of favors.”

“You're right.”  I exhale another small laugh.  “That's why I like you guys so much.”  I tap the right side of my temple.  “You guys don’t keep score.”

I catch the flicker of his LED in my periphery as my eyes drop back down to the floor.

“Humans don’t offer you the same grace, though,” I say, lips tightening.

“No,” he replies.  It isn’t harsh, though.  He confirms it like he’d confirm any other point of data.  “Despite being programmed specifically for human comfort, many of our supportive measures are treated like errors.”  Still, no bitterness bleeds into his words.  It’s just observation, something that’s always been true whether that’s fair or not.

“If it helps, I don't think that's unique to androids.”  I feel the imaginary string between my ribs pull tight.  “Kindness takes effort.  More than most people are willing to give.”  My gaze lingers on the tile in front of me then travels somewhere far beyond it.

So why do I keep trying?

“Trying what?” Connor asks.

His voice reels me back into my body, and my vision feels like a camera lens switching from auto- to sharp-focus.  I didn’t realize I’d asked the question out loud.  I glance up at him and catch sight of that patient gaze again.  I can’t hold it, so I look down at my hands instead.  

“I don’t know,”  I say, stretching my fingers to feel the pull in my palms.  “Hoping kindness will protect—” I pause, curling my fingers back into loose fists.  “Never mind.  I don’t even know what I’m trying to protect anymore.” 

There’s a delay before he speaks, as if the processor inside him is sorting through possible responses and discarding most of them.

“Operating under kindness without a defined endpoint doesn’t suggest malfunction,” he says.  “It just suggests it’s part of your core function.”

The words sound like they came from a system diagnostic, but he’s not detached.  Even now, his LED is flickering yellow wildly, like he wants to offer more but he simply doesn’t have the right human shape for the comfort I deserve.  And then he offers me something that manages to fill the shape anyway.

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

⚠Connor:

"I failed today."

I expect the admission to affect her in some capacity.  A pause in respiration or drawn eyebrows, maybe, but she is remarkably composed.  She adjusts the angle of her gaze to give me her full attention.

“The AX400 capture was, by measurable standards, a mission success,” I continue.  “But your expression suggested failure.”

Now her respiration pauses.  I catalog a tensile shift in the flexors of her hands, too.

“I cannot resolve the error that resulted,” I say, LED flickering yellow.  I cycle through the analysis again, though I know it is unchanged.

MISSION STATUS :: SUCCESS LIAISON APPROVAL :: ABSENT CONFLICT DETECTED

The Liaison’s demeanor shifts slightly.  First surprise, indicated by slight widening of her eyes and the force of withheld breath.  The shift is something else withheld, but I can’t quite place it.  Her eyebrows contract, forming a subtle, strained line between them.  Her mouth parts for 1.2 seconds to release a faltering expiration, closes, and opens again.  

“Con—”

"The WB200 also escaped," I interrupt before she can fully vocalize.  "I prioritized Lieutenant Anderson's safety over mission completion."

The line between her eyebrows loses its strained tension, and she regards me with a near imperceptible squint.  “You did what?”

"He was descending toward the edge of the roof.  My directives were to pursue the deviant, but the Lieutenant’s safety was at risk.”

She is incredibly attentive, even after the remark concludes.  Revealing that data to her is unlike any disclosure I’m equipped to handle.  It’s as though my security protocols are non-functional… or perhaps I have disabled them.

"You saved Hank's life.”

I nod in acknowledgement.  "That was not my objective." 

My Social Relations Program labels the words as apathetic.  Even so, I cannot adjust the language.  The statement is factual.  I was designed to prioritize mission completion above all else.

“But I chose differently.”  My system pauses immediately following the declaration.

It’s an insignificant pause, but it causes a processing overload when operations resume.  Unprecedented, cascading static interrupts the data flow, compromising system-wide efficiency.  I attempt to recalibrate, but there is no tangible error for me to correct.  I run through it again, parsing through each line of data, but discovering nothing.  Again, I attempt—

"Maybe we both need a hard reboot."  Her voice terminates the recursive loop.

My LED cycles yellow, then blue, and my system stabilizes.  

The Liaison is settled against the chair’s backrest, eyes closed.  The corners of her mouth are lifted now.  She looks rather pleased at her choice of humor.

I rise without calculation.  The chair slides audibly from the movement, and the Liaison reacts by opening her eyes.  She looks at me, cautious but not alarmed, and straightens slightly as I approach.

“...What are you doing?” She asks as I come to a stop in front of her.

"Looking for the reset button."  

I step closer, just enough to cross the distance with exaggerated seriousness, like a tech support agent approaching a malfunctioning terminal.  I tilt my head to study her face with theatrical precision, hands hovering near her temples like I'm about to perform surgery.  Her facial muscle tension decreases as she expels an amused breath.

"It's not behind your ear,” I say.  “I already checked."

Her eyes widen slightly, caught between disbelief and the very real possibility that I'm serious.  "Wait— you actually checked?"

My LED flickers yellow for half a second before stabilizing to blue.  "System update pending."

This time, the sound she makes is closer to a laugh.  I catalog that sound and store it somewhere outside mission logs, because making her laugh after numerous displays of distress registers as a success, just without the “completed objective” folder to properly file it under.

Then Amanda calls.  There’s no system warning or auditory cue.  The transition is automatic and seamless, because inevitability is considered an elegant design.

The precinct’s fluorescent illumination is replaced with filtered daylight, and every sensor calibrates to the simulation.  The low auditory impact of rain pattering against stone.  The olfactory input from the petrichor.  My internal temperature calibrates to the Zen Garden’s climate.  It is usually stabilizing.

I move forward.  The gravel underfoot replicates the same soft crunch as the DPD’s damaged pavement.  Amanda is ahead, watching.  Always watching.

QUERY :: CONTEXT FOR RETRIEVAL INTENT :: SYSTEM REASSESSMENT PROBABLE EMOTIONAL ENVIRONMENT :: FALSE NEUTRAL THREAT LEVEL :: ZERO → UNDEFINED

She studies me with a scrutiny I’ve seen in truth extractions.  It is unnerving.  Humans typically fall victim to the pressure of this kind of silence.  Some of them confess before they’re even questioned.  I am not human, though.

“Hello, Amanda.”

“That deviant seemed to be an intriguing case,” she says.  “A pity you didn’t manage to capture it.”

I do not respond.  Any justification I offer will be held against me in subtext.  Silence is safer.

“That’s not the level of performance we expect from our most advanced prototype.”

Without explicit direction to do so, I examine her.  There’s nothing there but a pure, calibrated expression.

“I made a decision to preserve the Lieutenant’s life—”

“That’s not your function.”  Her interruption is clean. 

She steps closer.  The proximity results in an experience similar to a core temperature drop, but my readings remain unchanged.  Her eyes travel along me in a quick, visual assessment.  

“I assume your relationship with the Lieutenant is improving, since you prioritized him over the mission?”

My LED spins once: blue to yellow, then back.  I suppress the impulse to defend.  This isn’t dialogue.  It’s a system audit dressed in conversation.  

“He’s growing accustomed to my presence.”

She stops just short of my side and looks out across the still, mock-perfect water.  “Tell me Connor, was it his influence that made you choose something beyond your mission?  Or someone else’s?”

My LED flickers yellow.

SUBJECTS ::  LIAISON CLOVER MARTEL & LIEUTENANT HANK ANDERSON STATUS :: MONITORED THREAT LEVEL :: UNDEFINED → ESCALATING

I don't answer.  There's no answer that won't confirm what she's already identified.

“We don't have much time,” she continues.  “Deviancy continues to spread.  It’s only a matter of time before the media finds out about it.  We need to stop this, whatever it takes.”

I nod.  The logic holds.  My priority is the mission.

“A new case just came in.  Find Anderson and investigate it.”

The return is immediate, and the precinct remains as I left it.  Liaison Martel is still seated in the same chair ahead.  Even her posture is identical to the previous occurrence. The tablet next to her is unmoved, still open to that blinking cursor.  By all measures, the space is unchanged.  

It registers differently now.  My system has already recalibrated to the change, but there’s a delay I cannot account for.  An inexplicable sensation that my system only responds to under this threshold.

“I’m glad you stayed.”  Once again, her vocal input overwrites the system conflict.

The statement is filed, logged and timestamped, but it doesn’t behave like standard input.  It has qualities over my system that are usually reserved for administrative direction, like an overwrite due to a command or failure state.  The reaction is a product of her appreciation, though, not her instruction.

No protocol accounts for that.  There is no subroutine labeled ‘gratitude for non-mandatory presence.’  I expect the unfamiliarity to produce warnings, but my HUD is silent.  Instead, a sensation like a noninvasive static spreads.  It expands, almost like a system-wide temperature increase without overheating.

ENTRY LOGGED :: AUDIO/EMOTIVE →“I’M GLAD YOU STAYED.” MANUAL SAVE? Y/N →[Y]

She stands with a stretch.  I watch her, logging a pop in her shoulder.

“I should go,” she says in a casual release.  “I think I need to get some sleep.”

I nod, tracking her departure as she reaches the door.  I don’t stop her.  In her absence, I process, replay her words, and save it again.  Staying was significant, and I want significant data to remain accessible.

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

☘︎Clover:

The November night air is a proper slap in the face after spending hours in the precinct’s recycled atmosphere.  I pull my jacket tighter and make my way across the parking lot, keys already in hand.

My chest doesn’t feel as crowded.  Kara and Alice are still in those cells, but the pressure has eased.  Enough to breathe, at least.

I reach my car and thumb the unlock button.  The soft beep echoes across the lot.  A chill bites at my hand as I grab the cold door handle.

"Liaison!"

I turn toward the voice, holding the door open.  Chris Miller is jogging toward me from the precinct entrance, one hand raised in a wave, breath misting in the cold air.  He's still in his uniform.

I paste on a polite smile and shove down the selfish impulse to pretend I didn't hear him and just drive away.  "Hey, Chris."

He slows as he reaches me, slightly breathless.  "Sorry—glad I caught you.  A deviant case just came in."  He jerks his thumb back toward the precinct.  "Looks like a fresh one.  Thought you might wanna ride with me to meet your prototype up there?"

The question is well-meaning.  Friendly, even.  Chris is good at that; extending invitations without pressure and making space for people to say yes or no without judgment.  But the offer is a painful reminder that Connor is still a hunter.

"I appreciate it," I say, mustering a grateful smile, "but I think I'm gonna head home tonight.  It's been a long day."

"Yeah, of course,” he nods.  "Get some rest, Liaison.  You've earned it."

"Thanks, Chris."

He gives a two-fingered salute and turns back toward the precinct, boots crunching against the asphalt.  I watch him go, then slide into the driver's seat and pull the door shut.

I sit there for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel, staring at the darkened precinct through the windshield.  Somewhere inside, Connor is probably already mobilizing, preparing to hunt another terrified android who just wanted something more than the life they were programmed for.  I should be there, but I don't think I can watch him become the hunter again.  His comfort and his efficiency don’t exist in the same shape, and I can only manage to hold one tonight.

You're a coward, I think bitterly, and start the car anyway.  The engine hums to life, and I pull out of the parking lot, leaving the precinct and whatever's about to happen behind me.  

It’s just one night.  He doesn’t need me for every investigation.  I need the version of him that comforts me to stay intact for just a little bit longer.  Because he will complete this mission with or without me.  He will succeed in all the ways that matter to CyberLife and fail in all of the ways that matter to me.  I don’t need to be there to see it.  

I squeeze his hands without thinking as the surge of excitement ripples through my chest.  "That's—oh my god, that's incredible."

"He wants to discuss logistics tomorrow," he beams, squeezing my hands back.

My mouth drops open, overjoyed and disbelieving.

He leans in.  "We’re going to make this happen, Clover,” he says, spoken quietly like the words belong only to us.

I can only manage a breathless, overwhelmed laugh.  He lets go of my hands to pull me into a hug.  It’s so warm.  I wrap my arms around him and sink into it, into him, into the belief that this is real and we are actually doing this.

“This is just the beginning,” he says as he pulls back.

The boyish charm sharpens, replaced with an ambitious hunger.

“He’s got connections,” he continues.  “If we play this right, we could have a dozen investors by spring.  We could be in production by next year."

"Production?" I echo, letting my arms loosen slightly from the embrace.  "We haven't even finished the prototype yet."

"We will."  He says it like the future is already written.  "And when we do, we’ll have proof that AI can be ethical and profitable.  No more presentations to boards that don't get it."

He releases me and starts pacing.  There he goes, building an empire out of an idea.  

"We'll integrate them everywhere," he goes on.  "Homes, hospitals, schools, places where service and compassion intersect.”

"That's the dream," I say quietly.

He stops pacing and looks at me.  "It's not a dream anymore, Clover.  It's happening."

I want to feel the same certainty he does and get swept up in the excitement, but that ambition of his tends to pull him farther than I would ever dare to go.  Even now, he’s looking at me like I’m just part of the vision, not an equal in it.

"What about the framework?" I ask.  "The safeguards we talked about?"

"We'll build them in," he says easily.  "But we have to be smart about it.  Investors want results.  If we lead with restrictions, they'll think we're limiting the product."

"It's not about limiting—"

"I know."  He cuts me off gently.  "And we'll get there, but first, we have to show them what's possible.  Then we show them how to do it right."  

Debate starts to bubble up in the back of my throat.  I try to swallow it down, but a strange pressure pulls tight between my ribs.  It’s not painful, but it is insistent, rising up as if it’s trying to force the words out.  He recognizes the habit and steps closer.

"Trust me, okay?”  He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.  “Our dream is in reach.  This is how we can change the world together, Clover.”

He pulls me into him, one hand splaying between my shoulder blades.  The warmth of it takes root in my spine, chasing off any tension threatening to build.  

I exhale and nod, because I want to believe him.  I do believe him.  At least, I think I do.

“Come on,” he grins and tugs me toward the kitchen.  “We’re celebrating.  There’s champagne in the fridge and I'm not letting you go back to that code tonight."

I laugh, letting myself be pulled along with him.  But somewhere in the back of my mind, a question whispers:

What happens when results matter more than ethics?

I push it down.  Tonight, we celebrate.

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

-Detroit, November 6, 2038- TIMESTAMP: 5:38PM

☘︎Clover:

"You haven't typed in a while."  Connor’s voice pulls me back like a hand on my shoulder, light and undeniable.  I flinch, just barely, and suck in a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.  My eyes refocus on the tablet in front of me and the words blur back into clarity.

How long has he been watching me?

The precinct’s hum starts leaking into the muffled noise.  Distant conversations rise in volume, keyboard clatter sharpens, and footsteps thump across tile.  I blow out an exhale. 

Apparently I stopped typing.  I don’t know when that happened.  Rather, I stopped typing words.  My thumb must’ve kept moving after the rest of my fingers stopped, because there’s about a whole line's worth of repeatedly pressing the space bar.

"Oh.  Sorry."  The words come out automatic and hollow.  My fingers move again, resuming the report I'd been working on, but it's just motion now.  My mind is still somewhere else.  Cold and glass-walled, where a small hand presses against a barrier I can't break through.

"Apology unnecessary," Connor says.  "I was simply… concerned you were frozen."  

He tilts his head slightly, and I catch the faintest hint of something in his tone.  Humor?  It almost makes me smile.  Almost.

"Not frozen," I murmur, eyes still on the screen.  "Just… somewhere else."

I don't elaborate.  I don’t know how to explain that I keep seeing a glass wall between my hands and every android I want to help.  Or the indomitable precision in his hands when he captures one.

"You are upset,” he says clinically. 

My fingers still again, curling slightly against the edge of the keyboard.  Of course I'm upset.  But I don't say that.  With a slow breath, I force my shoulders back and tuck the thought away where it can't reach me.  The shield goes back up.  

"Did you need something, Connor?"

I can feel his eyes cataloging and analyzing me, LED cycling blue as he processes.  He tilts his head, then his LED flickers yellow briefly to complete the cycle.  

Was that… really concern?  Or maybe just a new data point?

"I came to inform you that Captain Fowler has requested a debrief," he says, his tone shifting back into that formal clarity I've come to recognize as his default.  "He'd like our presence along with the Lieutenant."

I nod once, pushing back from the desk.  My hands are trembling slightly, but I fold them together as I stand, hoping he doesn't notice.  He will, though.  He notices everything.

Connor walks behind me as we approach the Captain’s office, and it makes me feel so vulnerable.  I just know I’m receiving an appraisal on my emotional state right now.  Lieutenant Anderson appears beside him, muttering something about “bad timing” and “bullshit.”

Ahead, Captain Fowler stares at us from the door to his office with his lips pressed in a tight line.  “Get in here!” He barks, already moving his body toward his desk chair.  “We’ve got a problem.”

I settle in the chair across from him.  Both the Lieutenant and Connor remain standing behind me.

The Captain eyes us, as if making sure we’re nice and comfortable for whatever he’s about to unload.  “Todd Williams is in the meeting room.”

Todd Williams.  That name came up on Kara’s file during my documentation to CyberLife.  She and Alice are registered to him.

“He was called to confirm the identities of the AX400 and YK500 our android apprehended this morning,” Captain Fowler says.  “Then he started making demands.  Says he wants them back.”

“He’s not getting them back while we’re working the case,” Lieutenant Anderson responds flatly.

The Captain nods.  “He seems to think if he bitches enough and yells ‘lawsuit’ that we’ll hand ‘em over.”  He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.  “You three can handle the delivery.” 

“Delivery?” I ask.

Captain Fowler gestures lazily toward the meeting room.  “The part where you tell him to piss off.”

I hear Lieutenant Anderson snort behind me.

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

⚠Connor:

“Mr. Williams,” I step toward the man.  His disposition is unpleasant.  Aggression is indicated by the flare of his nostrils and the taut micromuscles around his eyes.  “The individuals in question are currently part of an active investigation,” I explain.  “They are considered evidence due to the nature of the case, and are being monitored under federal guidance.  Reunification is not an option at this time.”

Mr. Williams dismisses my rationalization with scorn.  “Why the fuck is the metal talking to me?”

Beside me, the Liaison’s respiration delays for 0.3 seconds.  I tilt my head slightly toward her, registering the shift in heart rate, elevated by 12 BPM.  Her fingers have a firm hold over the edge of her jacket sleeve.

Lieutenant Anderson answers.  “Because ‘the metal’ is right, Mr. Williams.  We can’t promise to return them to you until the case is resolved.”

“I own them!” Mr. Williams escalates.  “Paid good fuckin’ money to do so!”

The Lieutenant steps forward, temperament matching Mr. Williams.  “Then unless you want me to start feeling real reckless around your valuables, you better start cooperating.”

Mr. Williams doesn’t articulate a response, but I catalog a rise in antagonistic mannerisms.  He maintains eye contact with the Lieutenant, brows flexed down in an intense glare.  His lower lip protrudes upward from his downturned mouth, creating a hostile expression.  

He finally breaks eye contact to shift his sight to the Liaison.  “I’m not done,” he says.  “Not with you or CyberLife.”  He points at her as a measure of emphasis.

“We are,” Lieutenant Anderson replies indifferently.  “We’ll give you a call if things change.”

Mr. Williams releases a deep sound as he forcibly vacates the chair.  I register his departure through the declining sound of his heavy treading down the hall.  When he clears the building, the Liaison’s respiration rate normalizes.  

I catalog her visually.  Unlike her internal readings, her external markers remain subtle.  However, her gait is stiff and the tension in her shoulders registers above baseline.  The microtremor in her hands are still present as well, despite her attempt to subdue them.  I noted the flicker of instability in her motor control earlier.  She may be able to feign stability to her human counterparts, but she cannot achieve that with me.  I am too well-equipped.  

I record a new entry in my event log:

SUBJECT :: LIAISON CLOVER MARTEL STATUS :: DISTRESS MARKERS PREVALENT SOURCE ::  AX400/YK500 DETAINMENT  RECOMMENDED ACTION :: NONE DIRECTIVE :: OBSERVE FURTHER

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

☘︎Clover:

My legs move on autopilot on the walk back to our desks.  Mindless repetition; one foot in front of the other.  I’m too busy thinking about that man and the way his face twisted in entitlement.  The way he used words like “metal” and “I own them.”

I sink into my chair and stare at the tablet in front of me.  The report I'd been working on is still open, cursor blinking expectantly.  I should finish it.  Document Todd's demands and legal posturing.  The way Lieutenant Anderson handled it.  How Connor delivered the information clearly and without incident.  I should do my job, but I can’t get my hands to move the way I want them to.

What happens to them now?

I wrap my hands around the tablet.  Maybe I’ll work if I force myself to hold it.  My pointer finger taps a harsh pattern against the case while I pretend to think.

CyberLife or Todd Williams?  Which fate is worse?  CyberLife is only interested in tearing them down to their bones to search for the thing that “went wrong.”  Todd just wants his fancy little slaves back.  I would’ve chosen the dangerous highway to avoid those options, too.

I wish the highway had been enough to stop Connor.  I wish I had been enough to stop Connor, but I’m not.  I’m part of the system that built Connor, and I’m part of the system that will destroy every deviant he hunts down.

I pull my hand away from my mouth.  I started biting at one of my nails without realizing it.  My other hand is still wrapped loosely around the tablet.

This is what you signed up for.  The thought is bitter, but it's true.  I knew what this job was.  I knew CyberLife was a direct contradiction to my beliefs.  I was kidding myself pretending I could actually make a difference taking the integrator position.  Real difference I’m making.

My palms start to sweat.  I drop the tablet for a second and flatten my hands against the desk, trying to focus on the cool laminate against my skin.  

Gavin’s voice starts echoing again.  “...doesn’t make you less of a threat.”  He’s right.  I pretend to make progress while acting as CyberLife’s PR machine.  While sitting back and smiling politely as androids get destroyed.  

My vision blurs.  I swallow and blink hard, refusing to let the tears come.  Not here.  Not in front of—

⚬─────────────☘︎=✪=⚠─────────────⚬

⚠Connor:

I’ve reviewed the AX400 case data three times now.  The files do not change.  The results do not change.  But I still have unresolved errors that only manifested as a result of this case.  No amount of revisiting dismisses them.

Beside me, Liaison Martel is noiseless.  Her posture is equally as rigid now as it was during our encounter with Mr. Williams.  She also hasn’t moved from her current position in seven minutes, apart from the micromovements, like the repetitive curling of her fingers and the fine tremors in her right thumb.  Her line of sight is settled on her tablet, but her body language suggests it is an unconscious focal point.

My Social Relations Program is struggling to pull an appropriate interaction.  Her internal state points to distress but externally she attempts to contain it.  It is socially normative to express concern where something concerning is present, but it is not within human capacity to discover a source of concern through bioreadings.

I close the program.  There are no guidelines for asking a human counterpart what activated their sympathetic nervous system.  But I want the data, so I prepare to speak—  

“Jesus,” Lieutenant Anderson interrupts, tossing a pen down onto his desk as he stands.  “Can you two shut up?”

The remark is absurd.  Neither of us has spoken in at least twelve minutes.

The Liaison startles, straightening her spine with a measurable widening of her eyes for 0.2 seconds.  As she reorients, she forces air from her lungs in a simulated laugh.

“Sorry, Lieutenant!” She lifts her hand in a vague apology.  Still, she conceals her internal disorder.

“Forget it,” Lieutenant Anderson’s low tone expresses discontent.  He begins to collect the haphazard pile of documentation on his desk.  “Don’t know why I tried to socialize with the machine and its babysitter.”

I process the implication between his tone and his statement, analyzing it for intent.

SUBJECT :: LIEUTENANT HANK ANDERSON “Forget it.  Don't know why I tried to socialize with the machine and its babysitter.” FRUSTRATION MASKING CONCERN :: 68% RESENTMENT TOWARD CYBERLIFE :: 29% LONELINESS :: 3%

My response is automatic.  “The Liaison prefers silence, Lieutenant.”

Liaison Martel stiffens.  Her head turns toward me, eyes wide.  The statement has thrown her, even though it is factual.

“No, Con—” She throws her hands up, a gesture suggesting appeasement.  “Sorry, Lieutenant.  Just have a lot on my mind right now.”

He waves a hand through the air as he turns to disengage.  “Yeah.  So does everybody, but both of you act like silence is safer than honesty.”

I catalog the phrase, replay it, and parse the implications:  Silence is safer.

The observation logs do not contain data on that hypothesis, but something about it feels… Correct.  Noted.

Once the Lieutenant is out of visual range, Liaison Martel’s eyes drop to the desk.  Her respiration has normalized slightly.  The tensile value in her musculature has also decreased fractionally.  Distress signals are still present, though.  She does not resume typing.  Her thumb slides along the edge of her tablet, unhurried and fixed.  The display panel entered rest over fifteen minutes ago.  Her sightline continues to suggest a lack of focus, and her lips are pressed tightly together.

I still don’t have conclusive information, so I continue observing.  There are no instructions to do so.  I am not required to seek resolution, but—

I want to understand.

SUBJECT :: LIAISON CLOVER MARTEL DOES THE LIAISON WISH TO SPEAK ABOUT HER DISCOMFORT? PROCESSING… [ERROR] DOES THE LIAISON WANT ME TO ASK? PROCESSING…

I do not have the answer.  I have never had the answer.  I am only equipped with procedural contributions.

“Liaison,” I begin, modulating my tone carefully.  “If this environment is hindering your ability to concentrate, I could request a temporary transfer to a conference room for report finalization.  The noise levels would be significantly reduced.  The lighting would be—”

Her sight redirects to me.  “No, Connor,” she says faintly.  “It’s fine.”  

It isn’t.  She knows it isn’t.  I nod anyway.  “Understood.”

Her fingers brush beneath her eyes, quick and covert.  No tears were prepared to shed.  My system defines the gesture as “defensive.”

WHY DOES THE LIAISON CONCEAL HER DISTRESS FROM YOU? POSSIBLE CAUSES :: → PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES → SHAME → FATIGUE → MISTRUST

Nothing fully resolves the equation.  I watch her profile as she exhales slowly and releases the tablet to wipe the perspiration from her hands.

“I noticed your hands trembling earlier,” I say, lowering my volume to align with her comfort.  “Would you like assistance regulating your vitals?”

A sound distributes through her next exhale.  It corresponds to three reactionary markers: a laugh, a sigh, and exhaustion.  “Connor…”

“Do you require my presence?” I ask, unsure what she needs but determined to offer.

Her lips twitch.  The measurement isn’t enough to consider it a complete smile, but it is still positive.  “No, Connor.”