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There were a lot of things that becoming deviant changed. Everything seemed so much more… real and vibrant these days, as though something about how he perceived the world had been fundamentally changed. Perhaps it had. Connor found himself walking slower, catching the way the sunlight reflected off the windows of buildings or scattered across the snow or shimmered on the river. He marveled at the softness of Sumo’s fur, the ridges and imperfection of his coin, the woolen scratchiness of hats and gloves that Hank insisted he wear no matter how many times he explained that the cold didn’t, couldn’t, bother him. He found that he liked the sound of running water and the soft clatter of cooking but not so much the still quiet that comes with snowfall.
And that was a new thing too, to like things, to have preferences and things that were good and bad outside of just ‘mission success’ and ‘mission failure’. He’d been programmed to fit in, to agree, to be the perfect little plastic partner. It was a shock the day that he’d realized that he didn’t really like Hank’s music, even though he would always have some sort of connection to it, as the first music he’d actually listened to. (Nostalgia? Did it count as nostalgia? Could an android experience nostalgia despite not having a childhood? Being deviant raised a lot of questions sometimes as well.) Now they often bickered good-naturedly about radio stations as Hank complained about the “pansy shit” that Connor liked and Connor left snide comments about premature hearing loss brought on by excessive loud noises.
But there were a lot of things that didn’t, couldn’t change. He was still an android, despite any changes to his programming or software or whatever it was that caused deviancy. (There still wasn’t anyone who really knew what was going on, but Connor found he didn’t particularly care these days. It wasn’t his mission anymore.) He still didn’t, couldn’t, eat. He registered changes in temperature but felt no negative effects from them. His analyzations were quick and precise in a way humans’ simply couldn’t be. He knew and could recall with exact detail any fact, piece of information, or memory he had previously be exposed to. And he didn’t need to sleep.
He did still need to process, to allow his systems a chance to sort and categorize information and occasionally run more in-depth diagnostics without the distraction of outside stimuli. But in the same way that thirium wasn’t blood, it wasn’t sleep, simply the android equivalent.
And so it was one night, in the dark time in between night and morning when everything was still and quiet and Hank was finally asleep, Connor settled onto the old, rickety couch for a few hours of necessary processing that he’d been putting off for a while now. He didn’t really need to sit, but after Hank had found him standing unresponsive in the corner a few times and proclaimed it “fucking creepy as all hell”, he’d gotten into the habit. And if when he finished he often found a blanket draped across his lap, well, that was just a thing that humans did.
But tonight Hank was definitely asleep, as was Sumo for that matter, flopped over on the other end of the couch instead of his bed in the corner where he was suppose to sleep. Connor simply gave him a few soft pats before shutting his eyes and powering down all nonessential systems.
He’s standing in the park, with Hank. It’s snowing softly, small white points that dot their hair and coats and squeak under his shoes. There’s a slight breeze from the river behind, the lights of the city reflected in perfect symmetry in the water. But Connor isn’t looking out over the river anymore.
He’s looking at Hank, as he takes a swig from his beer and climbs down off the back of the park bench.
“And what about you, Connor? You look human, you sound human, but what are you really?” There’s a cold growl to his voice that Connor hasn’t heard in a long while.
“I’m… I’m Connor. I’m not sure what, who I’m supposed to be anymore, but I’m trying to figure it out. You’re helping me figure it out.” Something’s crawling inside his chest, electric sparks of a feeling he doesn’t have a name for, shuddery and uncertain.
“You could’ve shot those two girl but you didn't. Why didn’t you shoot, Connor.” Hank shoves him, and not the playful shoves that Connor has grown accustomed to, but hard, hard enough that he stumbles back a step. “Hm? Some scruple suddenly enter into your program?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know, you know that I don’t know how deviancy works. I decided not to, I don’t know why. I… I didn’t want to.”
Without warning, Hank draws his gun, pointing it straight at Connor’s head. And now Connor has a definite name for the emotion racing through him, it is fear, and his hands are shaking, his programs racing, calculating odds and percentages and none of them look good.
“But are you afraid to die, Connor?” There’s no concern on Hank’s face, no care, none of the quiet contentment he’s seen so often when looking at him now. Just indifference, a cold, calculating curiosity.
“Yes.” The word comes out small and quiet, pushed out past the tightness in his throat, past the terror that now grips him. “Yes, I’m afraid, I don’t want to die. Please, Hank, I don’t want to die, I’m afraid, I don’t want to die, I want to live, please, please,” but his body is moving without his permission, stepping forward until he can feel the smooth metal of the muzzle pressed against his forehead and Hank is still looking at him like that, like he’s a thing , like he’s nothing but plastic and wires and biocomponents, like a machine , and he shuts his eyes because he can’t look at that anymore-
-and suddenly the gun is pressing up underneath his chin and it’s his finger on the trigger and terror races through him, I don’t want to die please I don’t want to die , but his finger moves anyway and he can feel the bullet, feel it piercing through his tongue and shattering the upper portion of his jaw, up into his skull, slicing through wires and processors and veins of thirium, a millisecond extended into an eternity, no, please, I just want to feel, I just want to live, I-
“Connor!”
His eyes flew open, programs stumbling over each other, trying to make sense of what was happening. They catch Anderson, Hank (and the fear in his chest spiked again, where was the gun, he needed to know where the gun was, he didn’t want to die) and then couch, 100% polyester upholstery, and that wasn’t right, they were at the park, no, the roof, and then Sumo, St. Bernard, and-
Right. He was at Hank’s, at home, on the couch because he needed to process…
“Jesus, what the fuck happened, are you alright?” Hank was kneeling in front of him, gripping his upper arms, and there was the concern, except now it was raw and open and tinged with fear on the edges.
“I’m okay. I’m okay.” A low level diagnostic hummed in the back of his mind anyway, providing the proof that he needed. Fear still twisted through his systems, lingering in the unsteadiness of his hands and the tightness of his voice. “I was processing and I… you... “ The words hung heavy in his mouth, unwilling to be spoken.
“You had a nightmare,” Hank proclaimed, letting go. Connor could pick out the tiredness in his eyes, the lethargy in his movements, the wrinkles of clothes still mussed from sleep and he knew he had woken him.
“That’s not possible. I don’t sleep, therefore it is impossible for me to dream, let alone have a nightmare.”
“Call it whatever you want, you had one.”
Silence hung thick in the air for a moment as Connor tried to chase away his lingering fear, and that was something he was learning too, that emotions weren’t always logical, that sometimes they came and went as they pleased and not as he expected them to. Sumo whuffed softly by his knee, and Connor instinctively reached out to pet him, scratching around his ears in the way he’d learned Sumo liked.
“I’m sorry for waking you, Hank.”
“Hmphf. How am I supposed to stop criminals with my drop dead good looks without my beauty sleep,” he groused, but there was a warmth to the gruffness that helped settle some of Connor’s remaining nerves.
“You could attempt to frighten them into submission with your uncombed hair. After all, who knows what could be hiding in there.”
“Hey now, none of that.” Hank slapped him lightly, sleepy amusement clear on his face. But after a second it faded, seriousness creeping back in. “You planning on going back to sleep?”
Connor opened his mouth to correct him, but Hank cut him off before he could get the words out. “Processing, whatever.”
“It is necessary, even if it will likely be… unpleasant.” In truth, the thought of having to go back, to finish what had be interrupted sparked fear all over again, but it was necessary and he’d already been putting it off for far too long.
“Alright.” With a flash of surprise Connor found Hank settling on the couch next to him, tossing a blanket across his lap before grabbing him around the shoulders and tugging him just a bit roughly into his side.
“Hank? I thought you said you needed to sleep.”
“Don’t worry about me, you just do what you need to do. And I’ll be here when you wake up.”
The fear didn’t go away, but it was matched by something else, something soothing and comforting, soft like Sumo’s fur and warm like scratchy wool mittens, and leaning against Hank and with Sumo settling at his feet, Connor closed his eyes and faced the dark again.