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Date: November, 12th, 2038. Time: 19:58:01. Location: Lieutenant Anderson’s 1966 Ford Mustang.
Funnily enough, a city-wide human evacuation equalled bad traffic. Every major street that led out of the city was clogged up, lights on and horns blaring. DPD cars lined every corner, men and women in uniform shouting out orders over loudspeaker.
And, from their position in the smaller, inner-city roads, Connor watched it all go by with moderate quickness. The speedometer of the mustang read that they were going just over 40 in a 50 zone, an unnatural steadiness to Hank’s driving. He got better the more sober he went, leaving Connor running less probability matrices of how likely it was for him to go careening through the windscreen.
Not that Connor didn’t understand why Hank was taking more caution when driving nowadays. He did. It was the unspoken thing between the two of them, as it had been before the Tower – openly talking about it hadn’t removed the layer of awkwardness.
Sometimes, Connor thought nothing would remove it.
“You’re quiet,” Hank commented, “and your light-thingy is yellow, which is never good.”
“Yellow indicates thought or emotional response,” Connor said, “and it’s my LED.”
“Most of the other androids I saw – at that camp, they had taken theirs out,” Hank frowned, pushing down on the brakes as the light ahead of them turned red, “so, why not take yours out? You’re a deviant now. You have free will.”
Connor shuffled in his seat. It was the twenty-seventh time someone had asked that today. North was responsible for five of those occasions. He stared out of the stationary window, reading the names of the shops. At the far end of the street lay a CyberLife store, abandoned and lights turned off.
“Connor?” Hank pushed, inquiring rather than demanding.
“I...” he let out a stream of air through his nostrils, throwing his shoulders back against the seat with perhaps more force than necessary.
“Hey!” Hank warned, “be careful! This car is older than I am!”
“I didn’t think that was possible,” Connor muttered.
Hank’s eyes slid down onto Connor’s, narrowed in a steel-eyed gaze that spoke of unknowable pain and torment. The light turned green ahead and Hank slowly slid so that he facing forwards, pushing on the gas with vigour.
He was angry.
Great.
Connor sighed to himself. This was not the desired result. He did not want to antagonize Hank.
“I’m...” he’d never done this before. Not properly with feelings behind it, instead of a forced attempt at reconciliation, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you fucking should be,” Hank said, annoyance pooling in his words, “like, listen, kid. I get it. You’re awake. You’re finally a fucking person. You have emotions and shit. But you know what emotions bring? Dealing with them. You’re upset and confused at the world but you still gotta treat others with respect, okay?”
“Okay,” Connor quickly agreed. Mortification rose up from within. He hadn’t been expecting a lecture. “I am sorry, Lieutenant.”
“You also don’t have to revert back to my old title whenever you’ve done something wrong,” Hank said.
Connor winced. If newly-born androids were allowed to have sore spots, that would be his.
Unfortunately for Connor, his partner was one of the most keenest humans he’d ever met. Hank noticed the wince and stared over, ignoring the fact that he was driving.
“Okay, what the fuck was that-”
“Eyes on the road!” Connor insisted, clutching at the seat so hard his fingers would’ve turned white if they had blood running through them.
Hank made a show of looking at the road, asking in a forced casual voice, “what the fuck was that about? Connor.”
“I got you fired!”
Probability of Hank ignoring his admittance of guilt: 0%.
Connor cursed under his breath as the other man’s knuckles did turn white.
“You can’t honestly-”
“But I did, Hank,” Connor earnestly began, “I asked you for that distraction. I left without helping you. You got fired because me! That job was your life, Hank, and now what? You’ll help me? Why, because you want to or because there’s nothing else for you to do?”
Once it had started, Connor quite literally couldn’t find the off switch to his vocal synthesizer. His ‘voice box’ went suspiciously tight at the end, which he’d never experienced before.
With a sigh, Hank pulled the car over. They were still over an hour away from Hank’s bungalow, which made it a tactical error. The engine ticked over, heat wafting over Connor’s face as Hank shook his head softly, hair swishing about.
“Alright. You did not get me fired. My fist breaking Perkins’ fucking nose got me fired. You were not involve-”
“I was the one who asked you to do that,” Connor said.
Hank clenched his teeth, “no, you asked for a distraction. I could’ve done anything. I went for Perkins ‘cause he’s a fucker who deserves a lot more than just what I gave him. I got fired because I accepted that punishment. Honestly, Connor, I had no future left there.”
Connor listened to Hank’s words. He didn’t believe them, but he listened.
“Now,” Hank dragged a hand over his face. He didn’t seem to be looking forward to this anymore than Connor was, “listen. The job… was my life. But so was Sumo. And drinking. A lot.”
Connor made a questioning face, wondering if ‘a lot’ was truly a big enough way to describe Hank’s recent alcohol-themed purchases.
“Shut up,” Hank said, despite the fact Connor had never spoken, “today’s been so fucking weird. The weirdest fucking day ever – including yesterday. And you fought your fucking clone for Christ’s sake!”
“He wasn’t my clone, he was another RK800,” Connor corrected. Hank began glaring at him. “Not that that’s important.”
“See… thing is… Connor… I… I need more than just my job, if I’m gonna live, y’know?” Hank shrugged his shoulders, looking out onto the frosty street, “and, shit, I’m not good at this stuff. Especially not with a kid who barely knows how to feel, much less how he feels.”
Truth was a hard pill to swallow.
“I was surviving for a long time,” Hank said, “but you need help with CyberLife. That’s as good a life as working for the DPD was.”
Connor didn’t need a fancy probability matrix to understand the meaning behind that one.
Silence settled in the car. He recalled his own words in the DPD station, encouraging Hank to… find the courage to move past the tragedies he’d faced. Just a plastic cop’s opinion.
A smile began to stretch across Connor’s face. Hank had… listened. His words had made a difference. He recalled that moment – uncertainty stretched out before him, emotions bubbling up before he… before he knew what that felt like. There had been a great pressure in his chest that had forced those words out.
It was good to know it was worth it.
“We should get some food,” Connor said, “some healthy food.”
Hank pressed on the gas again, “well, I’m gonna guess my favourite take-out place isn’t open tonight.”
“Being open would be inadvisable and bad for-” Hank’s grin made Connor roll his eyes, “my humour needs work. I’ve only been alive for two days, so sue me.”
“I don’t think the settlement would be worth it, kid,” Hank said.
Date: November, 12th, 2038. Time: 22:27:36. Location: Hank’s Bungalow.
Dinner was cooked and served by Connor – sweet and sour chicken with boiled rice. A simple meal that he found somewhat enjoyable to make. There was a rhythm to cooking that he hadn’t experienced before.
And it was somewhat encouraging when Hank literally licked the plate clean.
But then came the requisite hours associated with sleep; desperately needed for Hank, who had the look of a man who’d gone for too long with too little sleep. Connor kept himself busy on the couch, scratching at Sumo’s ears.
Sumo was a good dog. He constantly slobbered over Connor’s jeans and demanded constant attention, but it was attention Connor was all too happy to give. There were no deeper ‘questions’ with Sumo; he simply was. He didn’t care that Connor was struck by insecurity and doubts. He just wanted belly pats.
Something soft was thrown at the back of his head; Connor flinched, then scowled at Hank’s telling laughter. Connor glanced over his shoulder, finding it laden with an old pair of sweats emblazoned with… Detroit Police Academy.
“What are these?” Connor asked, because his records held no useful knowledge.
“Pyjamas,” Hank said, like it was obvious.
“I… why… pyjamas,” Connor said the word slowly, testing it out.
“Pyjamas,” Hank repeated, “you know what they are, right?”
“Yes,” Connor snapped, shaking the sweatshirt out, “I’m just wondering why you gave me – an android who doesn’t sleep – clothes to sleep in.”
“They’re not for sleeping in,” Hank said, “they’re for idling in. Which we both know is a completely different thing.”
Connor stood, gathering the clothes over his arm. Sumo whimpered and Connor gave him an extra scratch on his chin, which made Sumo’s great tail thump on the floor.
Idling.
Idling didn’t mean charging his battery.
That was done with either a wireless charger – common – or a plug.
Neither of which Connor could access at Hank’s house. Neither of which he was sure he wanted to access.
“Come on,” Hank said, leading Connor down the corridor. Sumo followed at Connor’s feet, sitting patiently when Hank opened the door and gracefully shoved Connor inside, “here’s your new space. Keep it clean.”
It was… basic. A bed against one wall, basic cream walls, and storage boxes that collected on top of one another. Another door that led to the garage. It was empty of character.
Connor could make it his own.
His own room, in his house, with his… family.
“Thank you, Hank,” Connor said.
Hank shrugged, “s’nothing. Can’t have you sleeping on the streets.”
It wasn’t enough. There was more Connor wanted to say – wanted to tell Hank – but it was… too much. His chest was too tight. The words seized up in his throat. Emotions too volatile to express.
“We should awaken early tomorrow,” Connor informed Hank, “we have a lot of work to do.”
“Great,” Hank was already moving away, back to his own room.
The door creaked open and Connor’s impulsiveness – which impulsively arrived – forced him to spit out, “Hank!”
He stopped in the other doorway, frowning with concern. There was obviously something wrong with Connor’s face, because Hank took a step forward, “you alright, kid?”
“I...” he nodded with a sigh, resigning himself to a restless night, “goodnight, Hank.”
And then his only source of comfort was gone. To sleep. Which humans needed.
Connor gently shut the door to his own room, resting his head against the cool wood. It gave some relief, but not nearly enough to bring calm. His pump jumped over every few beats, thirium rushing through too quickly to be normal.
Stress Level: 45%.
Battery Level: 81%.
Connor could go three or four days without charging. It’d be tough and hard on him, but he could force himself to last. He just needed to find an alternative way of charging – wireless wasn’t going to happen… so he needed to find a corded charger. Which were extremely rare; androids weren’t even made with cords any more. Older models were upgraded to become wireless.
A needle in the haystack of Detroit.
Connor turned on the spot, eyeing the bed. He could idle for a few hours, make some room in his memory. It’d been a while and much longer would begin having adverse effects. But did he want to just lie there, wasting time, when he could be investigating?
Firstly, there were the boxes in the room. Hank’s property, which he likely thought was safe from prying eyes. Which was stupid, really, because Hank knew that Connor snooped everywhere he could.
The first box held… plates. Crockery. Knifes and forks – all expensive looking. A quick scan told Connor their cost $1700 dollars and were bought by… Mary Anderson, twenty years ago. For Hank’s wedding.
Connor opened the next box with more trepidation – he wanted to explore, wanted to learn about Hank’s past (because Hank was never going to willingly talk about it, and if Connor knew which buttons to avoid, he wouldn’t accidentally step on them), but a part of him was still… hesitant.
A photograph and a football. The photograph was of Cole Anderson, aged five at the time, in the arms of his father – less grey, hair shorn short with a clean jaw – at a park of some kind. There was more warmth in Hank’s eyes there than Connor had ever seen.
More life.
This was wrong, Connor realised, with a sinking feeling deep inside.
Hank may not talk about his life before Connor, but perhaps that was for good reason. Cole was dead. Maybe the man that Hank once was… maybe he was also dead.
Perhaps, Hank would never be happy like that again.
Connor couldn’t exactly say for certain.
But he knew that Cole Anderson wouldn’t want his father to live like this. And neither did Connor.
He packed away the photograph and football, pushing the lid down and moving it back into place. As he did, the box beneath snagged on the corner and began to tilt off the desk – Connor swooped in and caught it at the last minute, only a single photograph falling out. It landed on the carpeted floor with a soft clatter, too quiet for Hank to hear yet Connor panicked regardless.
He plucked it up from the floor, careful with the glass; it was an old type of frame. From before the holo-frames used now. Connor turned it over in his hands, curiosity once again getting the best of him, and promptly stopped breathing. He recognised her.
It was a wedding photo, on the steps of Saint Augustine’s Church. Mary Anderson, along with her husband and daughter, stood at Hank’s side – young, grinning with shining teeth at the camera, dressed finer than Connor could believe. In his arms, wearing a simple if elegant dress, was his wife.
She had long auburn hair, eyes pinched – from needing glasses and refusing surgery – and face agleam. In her hands was a bouquet of white lilies, her favourite flower, and she seemed… pure. Happy. Human.
Hank’s wife was Doctor Jillian Crawford. Connor had first met her when he was only a day old. She overlooked the entire project. She created him.