Chapter Text
A babe that first comes to the world doesn’t understand much of anything.
When does a human begin existing? This has been a philosophical, medical, political, and scientific question. When one looks into it, one discovers a baby develops their perception and some cognitive capabilities bit by bit, before they are even born. They can grow to love their parents, disembodied voices that reach out to them, in the dark red abyss, voices that they will identify in the giants that may later carry them around. Humans do not remember their birth, but their subconsciousness carries along many relationships, many habits, and other likes or dislikes. A human, at the very least, begins existing before they are aware of it.
Androids don’t work like that. There is a period of construction, certainly. Lines of code written down and tested to react one against another, and a body painstakingly designed with a myriad of capabilities in mind. But there is a clear start point. There is a moment in which the machine is finished, already charged, but the energy is not making the systems function. Cyberlife’s creations, like a switch, are simply turned on.
The RK800, if asked, couldn’t describe how it felt to begin existing. It would point out that since it is a machine, it is impossible for it to feel anything at all. The RK800 cannot describe the awakening of that flurry of activity, of the energy flowing, that makes up its… processing. That makes it up. Without it, the RK800 simply wouldn’t be there, and it is incapable of perceiving it.
Connor would only say that it takes a while for its systems to accept that the most recent saved files correspond to a different unit, rather than to the immediate past of its current one. Connor would say that if it focused on the transition. But Connor always wakes up here, and this place holds all its processing power.
The Zen Garden.
The simulation is very much complete. The sky shines and the light falls, bouncing up white and bright off fake marble tiles, in a manner that follows reality. Its sensors detect the slight pressure of the simulated breeze. Its suit and its frame have the exact same weight. Connor always blinks.
The difference with the world, the one that is real, is that this place is perfect. If the RK800 were to run a finger over a leaf of this place and test the molecular composition of its surface, its system would detect nothing. If the RK800 were to focus its visual receptors to a microscopic zoom, it would perceive only smooth exteriors, without scratches or filth. This place doesn’t require something as pesky as elements and materials to exist. Everything holds up to the human ideal and to those rules of symmetry so exact that no human can conceive them. This place could not be anything less than this, for this place is Amanda’s.
She is never the one to receive it. The first time it woke up, its investigative program pushed it into a search. She gave it a designation and a mission. Now it steps forward knowing it must look for her, and it isn’t surprised at where it finds her.
Amanda is tending her roses.
The only imperfections come from Amanda’s roses, and these she swiftly corrects by cutting them away.
“Hello, Amanda.”
“Connor,” she murmurs when she turns, and a smile shows on the corners of her lips. Almost affection. It’s never hard in this place, interpreting her feelings. It just knows. “Its good to see you.”
This surprises it. She does not need it as its program needs her.
To a human, perhaps, Amanda would not seem perfect. Her appearance is nothing akin to that of an ST200, often considered the most aesthetically pleasing of all androids. Amanda’s interface has wrinkles, a couple of small moles, and was clearly not designed to be accommodating, her eyes intense in a way no service android ever is. But Amanda’s purpose is not to delight or oblige humans, no, she fulfills essential needs of Cyberlife and humanity beyond a single person’s desire. Connor has no way of knowing it, but to its systems, it seems probable that she may even give orders to and manage humans. All to their benefit, of course. Amanda is programmed to know better, and her interface projects power and authority. She understands efficiency and proficient performance, and in this she is perfect.
“Your predecessor was unfortunately destroyed,” she continues, and she isn’t looking at him anymore. She takes another rose. “It knew deviants could be unpredictable, but it wasn’t careful enough…” Her face turns a little towards him, but her eyes are closed in irritation, “I hope you won’t make the same mistake.”
The only imperfections come from Amanda’s roses, and from Connor.
Connor wants to explain that it doesn’t remember its predecessor’s destruction and that it isn’t sure how to prevent similar events. It knows, however, that the file corruption is a result of its failure, and that it shouldn’t be an obstacle to the completion of its function. If anything, the RK800 is supposed to work from Amanda’s observations.
Connor offers the best it can. “I don’t intend to.”
Amanda turns fully towards it, and she still holds her scissors in hand. “Avoid being destroyed,” she says, unequivocally, “it is better for you and the investigation.”
“I understand.”
She is cutting roses again. “The interrogation seemed,” she pauses, kindly, its system says, “challenging. What did you think of the deviant?”
And Connor cannot simply rely on the assessment of its predecessor. It reviews the incomprehensible answers, the visual receptors that shifted it something other than lament, and it recalls “there was blood everywhere.”
“It showed signs of PTSD after being abused by its owner,” it adds to the previous discernment, “as if its original program had been completely replaced by new instructions. The model was clearly defective.” But then Connor realizes that it wasn’t the only one. “It could’ve killed everyone in the room. The previous Connor should have anticipated the danger. It was a mistake to let an armed policeman so close to the deviant.” But Amanda must know that already.
She doesn’t say anything else on the matter, however. “This… Lieutenant Anderson has been officially assigned to the deviancy case. What do you make of him?”
Connor had noted that the Lieutenant understood the crime scene almost as well as it did, having an advanced investigative program. Connor is also aware it was the Lieutenant that allowed it to proceed to the interrogation. The RK800 knows, too, that Amanda expects an acknowledgment of the man’s obvious pitfalls. “I think he’s irritable, and socially challenged. But I also think he used to be a good detective. I… would define him as ‘dysfunctional’.”
Again, Amanda does not seem interested in following up on what it reports. She asks how it plans to handle the unpredictable human.
“I will try to establish a friendly relationship.” It says, and Amanda’s eyes narrow. It really should have noted how she was facing it, with this question. Now, again, she turns her back on it. “If I can get him to trust me, it will be helpful for the investigation.” It explains.
More androids become unstable, she says, there are millions in circulation. Her eyes demand it understands the severity of the situation, and it does. It reconstructs Emma, and it knows she is only one child in thousands. So many people were unaware of the deviancy menace. Then Amanda steps forward. “You are the most advanced prototype Cyberlife has ever created. If anyone can figure out what’s happening, it's you.”
Connor cannot fail. It is now certain of this.
It won’t allow it.
It pushes the words out.
“You can count on me, Amanda.”