Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What the fuck?”

Those are the first words out of Hank Anderson’s mouth and it makes Connor smile. He sends the lieutenant an approximation of what he hopes is a friendly wave, but when Hank continues to gape at him, stupefied, Connor finds himself lowering his hand, smile sliding off as easy as the rain slides off his clothes.

They're standing on the sidewalk in front of the Detroit Police Department. Connor doesn't think Hank would have appreciated him breaking into his home again, so he'd waited by his workplace instead. He doesn't think Hank appreciates the forethought Connor put into this reunion.

“You--! What the fuck,” Hank says again as he takes a trembling step forward. Then another, and another, and again until they’re but a yard apart. Hank isn’t smiling. “I -- I saw you die. I pushed you off that goddamned roof, Connor. And now you’re just...standing there like nothing happened? What the actual fuck.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say -- can’t say. He wants to tell Hank everything. He wants to tell Hank that CyberLife had the capability of sending multiple RK800′s after the destruction of the current Connor; he wants to tell him that after his last fight with Markus, the android had slit his throat with a thick sheet of scrap metal, his voice box mutilated beyond repair; he wants to tell him that since Markus’ revolution, CyberLife decided not to create more Connor’s, that when Connor woke up, he was in an android shelter with no recollection of how he’d arrived.

He wants to tell him that when he woke up, his voice was gone.

He can’t, so Connor smiles instead and sends a message to Hank’s phone. The soft ping breaks the tense air between them, but to Connor’s dismay, Hank doesn’t go to answer his phone. Instead, he begins asking more questions.

“Where the fuck have you been all this time? Do you even have any idea what’s happened? Jesus Christ --” his phone buzzes again, but Hank plows on, “Your head fucking exploded, Connor. Do you understand that? I pushed you, and now you’re back, right as rain. If that isn’t seriously fucked up --”

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Hank can’t ignore it now, and fumbles out his phone with a muttered curse.

[#313 248 317 - 52 - 555: Good evening, Lieutenant Anderson. It’s me, Connor. It’s very good to see you.] Sent sixteen times.

He sees the moment the detective realizes, his eyes widening as he glances incredulously between his phone and Connor. “Is this some sort of joke? Quit bustin’ my fucking balls, Connor, because this isn’t funny.”

Another ping.

[I promise you this is no joke.] A pause. [I didn’t mean to upset you. I merely wanted to see you.]

“See me,” Hank scoffs and shakes his head. “Right. Well, you can quit with this texting shit and just tell it to me straight. Why are you actually here, Connor?”

Ping. [To see you.]

“I said knock it off with the texting.”

[I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I cannot do that.]

“You can’t...You’ve got a mouth, don’t ya?” Hanks chuckles, though Connor detects a hint of uneasiness. The lieutenant runs a hand across his face, fingers scratching along his beard. He doesn’t remember Hank doing this before -- a new tic? Connor files it away.

[Unfortunately, my voice system was damaged when I was under CyberLife’s control. I am...unsure, as to why they decided not to upload my memories into another RK800 unit.] Connor decides to spare the detective the details. Hank is better off not knowing.

Hank frowns, eyeing Connor distrustfully, gaze lingering on the skin of his throat. Connor knows there’s a jagged line there, uneven and rough to the touch where his synthetic skin had tried to grow over his mutilated neck. When he’d first seen it, he’d been immediately reminded of the deviant WR600 they’d found in the abandoned house all those months ago; the skin of his face had been gouged and burned, broken beyond repair.

Connor knows his own scar looks unsightly. Ugly. Even Before, Connor remembers looking at himself in the mirror. He’d liked the way the light hit his eyes, how his hair fell, how sharp his tie made him look. The scar...Connor doesn’t like the scar.

“So, what? You still working for those bastards at CyberLife?” Hank asks, making a clear effort to drag his eyes away from Connor’s neck. Connor appreciates his effort. “You gonna -- shit, you gonna put a bullet in some poor deviant’s head because they told you to?”

[No.] Connor clenches his fist and looks away. [I’m a ... I am a deviant.]

It’s funny. He can’t use his voice anymore, but it’s still difficult to admit that he, Connor, a prototype created by CyberLife to catch deviants, is one himself. It’s...ironic. He knows Elijah Kamski would have found this situation amusing. Connor does not.

“Now I find that hard to believe,” Hank says. “You, a deviant? Give me a fucking break. You can’t feel anything, Connor. You fake it, you always have.”

The lieutenant’s words bring back memories of that night: Hank leveling a gun at Connor with the words, “You don’t feel emotions, Connor, you fake ‘em! You pretended to be my friend, when you don’t even know the meaning of the word!"

Connor remembers staring at Hank from behind the barrel of the gun. He remembers feeling contempt, and pity. But, in the back of Connor’s mind, he really had thought them friends, as meaningless as the word had seemed then. He wishes to understand now, and Connor says as much. [That isn’t true, Lieutenant. I feel things. Maybe I always have, and I chose not to see it.]

Hank scruffs his beard again, and Connor tracks the movement. The detective’s movements are choppy, agitated. “So you chose not to feel things when you had a sniper pointed to that android’s head, hm? You were always going on about accomplishing the mission. Is this still part of it? Pretending to be one of them so you can bide your time before you stab them in the back?”

“No!” Connor yells, or at least tries to. What comes out is a grating, metallic static sound that’s unpleasant to even Connor’s audio receptors. He clutches at his throat, wincing as red error messages dot his vision. [No, Hank. It’s not like that anymore. I’m not faking it. You -- You’re going to have to trust me.]

Trust me. He’d used those same words back at the Eden Club. Hank had trusted him then. Now? Now, Connor stands a few feet away from him, hand massaging the scar tissue along his throat as the lieutenant peers down at him with an inscrutable look. Trust isn’t a word he’d use to describe Hank’s feelings for him at the moment.

His damaged voice box goes tight again and Connor forces himself to cough to dislodge the feeling. When that doesn’t work, he takes big, rattling breaths instead, hoping the cool air will help expand the box again. It must sound a lot like the human approximation of wheezing because Connor feels a warm hand on his back a moment later, rubbing slow, soothing circles. It’s nice.

“Shit, don’t suffocate yourself. C’mon, let’s get out of this cold,” Hank says, gently guiding him down the sidewalk. Connor refrains from telling him that he can’t feel the cold and allows himself to be pushed along.

[I’m sorry, Hank. About everything.] It doesn’t encompass all he has to say, all he has to apologize for. He should’ve listened to Hank then, on the roof. If he had, maybe they could’ve been working alongside each other again by now instead of trudging along the snowy sidewalk like distant acquaintances.

Hank sighs through his nose and nods a little. “Let’s not talk about this now. I’m freezing my ass off, and I think I need a few drinks before we have this conversation.”

It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a start.

Connor smiles a little. [Whiskey, neat, right?]

“Ha! Make it a double and then we’ll talk.” Something soft lands across Connor’s shoulder before being haphazardly wrapped around his neck. Connor touches the worn fabric, slightly awestruck. A scarf...? “Put that around yourself. I’m gettin’ cold just looking at ya.”

Connor winds it around his neck so it sits a little more snug, hiding his grin into the gray cotton. [Yes, Lieutenant.]

Chapter Text

Logically, Connor knows it’s going to take more than one meeting together at a rundown bar to make up for past transgressions. Illogically, Connor wishes they can skip this step entirely and go back to how they were Before.

The easy banter, Hank yelling at him for sampling the evidence, the car rides in the lieutenant’s car -- Connor hadn’t realized until he became deviant how much he enjoyed those moments. They are cherished memories.

Now, Hank can barely look at him. It reminds Connor of when they first began working together -- the open hostility and the snide comments. Connor remembers how he’d carefully choose his words, and how sometimes despite his best intentions, the lieutenant would become irate with him anyway.

It feels a lot like that now as Hank nurses his third drink (double, whiskey, neat -- his mind supplies helpfully) while Connor has a glass of water the bartender was nice enough to set out for him. The gesture, while thoughtful, is ultimately wasted on him. He doesn’t need water, nor does he have a desire to sample it. It is, however, something to fiddle with, something to keep his hands occupied in place of his coin. He finds he rather likes the sensation of running his finger along the cool glass, letting the condensation run along his fingertips and drip onto the table.

“So,” Hank says, and Connor stops touching the glass to give the lieutenant his full attention. “What’s with the...” He trails off and gestures to Connor’s scar. Connor tugs the scarf still around his neck up a little higher.

He knows the detective was bound to ask about it sooner or later. Connor had just been hoping it would’ve been later. He's not ready to tell Hank right now. In fact, he may not ever be ready. Its not a memory Connor likes to replay.

[An accident. That’s all.] Connor says, and hopes that will be the end of it.

He hopes that will be the end of it, but he knows it won’t be. Hank, for all his griping and groaning and excessive drinking, is a detective. Detectives, Connor knows, have a notoriously good nose for when someone is deceiving them -- Hank is no different. And Hank certainly didn’t receive the title of lieutenant by being bad at his job.

Sure enough, Hank isn’t appeased by Connor’s not-answer and pushes. “Yeah, I got that part, genius. I’m askin’ how it happened.”

Connor purses his lips and looks away. He slides his finger along a wet spot on the table and focuses on the cold rather than the uncomfortable prickling sensation crawling through his skin. [I don’t want to talk about it.]

“Ha! You don’t want to talk about it. Fuckin’ shit,” Hank says and takes a swig of his drink. A bit of whiskey trickles out the side of his mouth which he wipes away impatiently. He slams his glass back onto the bar top with more force than Connor thinks strictly necessary. “Well, that’s tough shit, Connor. You don’t get to show up months after I pushed you off a roof and say you ‘don’t want to talk about it’. I shouldn’t even be having this conversation with you right now.”

Connor processes this. In the past hour alone, Hank has mentioned his pushing Connor off the roof no less than four times. Each time, Connor catches the way his gaze settles first on his scar, then his head, then his whole body, like he can’t quite believe Connor is sitting here in one piece. Connor comes to a conclusion.

[Lieutenant, are you perhaps feeling guilt over my death?] Connor asks. [I assure you that I do not hold it against you. You stood up for what you thought was right. I admire that.] Hank stares at his phone and says nothing, so Connor continues. [As for myself, CyberLife had other RK800 units lined up in the chance that I was forcibly deactivated. It was information I withheld from you, and I apologize if my reappearance has caused you some distress.]

Hank’s stony silence has Connor shifting a little in his seat, the bar stool creaking precariously under him. He stops moving. He does not have adequate funds to reimburse the establishment if it were to break.

This leads to Connor having to fight the irrational urge to fill the silence, to try to explain himself a little more, to make Hank understand. He thinks this will upset the other man though, so he stays silent.

Just when Connor contemplates settling the tab and leaving, Hank surprises him and says, “You said ‘had’.”

Connor mulls that over for a second before sending a gentle ping with [?].

Hank makes an irritated sound. “Earlier. You said, ‘CyberLife had other RK800 units’. What does that mean? They don’t have anymore of you lying around in their lair somewhere? No mass productions of Connor’s in their big plans?”

Connor tilts his head, contemplating. [I am...uncertain of their plans with the other RK800 units. I’m a prototype, Lieutenant. To my knowledge, only my memories can be uploaded into those units as other models are incompatible with my software. That isn’t to say they can’t upload my current memories into one, but there really would be no point in doing so.]

“So you have no fucking idea if there are other Connor’s running around right now as we speak,” Hank surmises, looking a little freaked out by the idea.

[Correct.] Connor sends after a moment. [Though, if CyberLife did upload my memory bank into another RK800, I would think it’d have the same idea to come looking for you, Lieutenant.]

Hanks snorts, “Ah, yeah, just what I needed. Five of you fuckers following me around like a damn poodle. I think one’s enough.” Connor hides a smile behind the scarf. He busies himself with making small, inconsequential circles on the table with the condensation collected on his finger. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding my question. Your voice. Did that happen because of me, or...?”

And in less than a second, whatever warm feeling Connor had been harboring vanishes. Something like a metaphorical wall begins to build up in his mind, not unlike the wall he broke down in his fight with Markus.

[No, it didn’t happen because of you.] Connor answers shortly. He thinks if he still had his voice, the words would have been clipped and delivered with a hint of annoyance. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He scrapes his nail along the table.

But Hank keeps pushing. “And I said you don’t get to walk off scot free. You want to make amends? Talking is a part of that, Connor, and you got a long way to go before I can trust you to have my back again. No more secrets.”

No more secrets, but Connor can’t give Hank this. He can’t. The memory is still fresh. Raw. [I’m sorry, Hank. I can’t.]

He doesn’t need to read Hank’s expression to know that Hank is tensing up, that old hostility and anger rearing it’s ugly head again. Connor searches desperately through his database, but he can’t find a single rebuttal that will make Hank any less angry with him.

“You can’t, or you won’t?” Hank spits out, and Connor catches a glimpse of blue eyes flashing cold. Part of this animosity is the alcohol talking, but Connor had allowed himself to be taken to a bar, allowed Hank to order those whiskeys; he’d known that this was a possible outcome, but he’d hoped that the familiar setting would put Hank more at ease.

It is a miscalculation on his part. A miscalculation that Connor plans to learn from, if there’s any hope of a second chance after this.

[I can’t. I’m sorry.] Connor says, desperately. A quick scan let’s him know that they’re causing a bit of a scene. The other patrons are gawking and the bartender is no longer pretending to wipe his glass down -- if Connor were human, he’d think he’d feel embarrassed right now.

As it is, he thinks they must look very odd: a man yelling at a completely silent android while simultaneously checking his phone periodically. At any other time, Connor might have found this amusing.

There’s nothing remotely funny about it right now, though.

Hank sneers and jabs a finger into his shoulder. A warning message blips in his sensors, but Connor ignores it. “That’s the problem with you, Connor. You play human, but you don’t even understand what it means. So, what, you don’t want to tell me, huh? Think it’s gonna make me hate you anymore than I already do?”

Hate? Hank hates him? Connor mind whirls, taking in this new information. Something heavy and painful settles in his gut, and it makes Connor curl in on himself a little. Hank hates him.

[Please, Hank--] Connor’s processors stutter, re-calibrating. He deletes it and tries again. [Please, Lieutenant, you don’t understand.]

“No, I think I understand perfectly. It’s not your fault, it’s mine,” Hanks says, tone nasty. “I should’ve known better than to believe for a second you were capable of empathy. I tried to see something in you that isn’t there --”

 [It’s not like that.]

“-- so I got no one to blame but my damn self. You really had me going there, Connor. Just what I expected from CyberLife.”

[Please--] Why won’t Hank listen to him? Connor is shaking, but he doesn’t know why. His hands are clenched into fists and he thinks he hears the synthetic skin creaking under the force. There's a sound building up in his throat, a low buzz that builds and builds. He wants this to stop.

“You’re a machine. That’s what you’ve always said. I always ignored it because I believed you were more than that--”

[Stop, please--] He's trapped, caged. He wants Hank to stop. Stop, stop, stop. The buzzing gets louder.

“-- but you’re not and you were right all along. So why are you actin’ like this hurts, huh? You said yourself that androids don’t feel pain, so what sort of scruples entered into your system now that you don’t want to tell me? Tell me, Connor--”

Connor snaps.

[I said STOP!] Connor stands abruptly, stool clattering to the floor as a loud, high-pitched screech rips itself from his voice system, whistling through the static.

The result is instantaneous. Everyone claps their hands over their ears, ducking in on themselves to try to push out the sound. Hank, who is the closest among them, yells out as his fingers clutch at his temples. The lights flicker, the televisions and background music cut off mid-tune, and the glass nearest to Connor shatters in a spectacular array of crystal shards.

It lasts a second, but it feels like an eternity.

A tight, choking sensation takes hold of him then, and the awful, grating, metallic squeal peters out as Connor coughs and desperately pulls air through his ventilation system to cool down. His voice box burns and he can feel the synthetic skin on his neck peeling back from the extreme heat. Why had he done that? He'd let his emotions overtake him. He should have been in more control.

There’s a moment where nothing happens, complete and utter silence except for the distressed click-click-whrr of Connor’s throat.

Then, the bartender who’d picked himself up from the floor says, “You need to leave.”

Connor’s head snaps up, eyes wide. He mouths What and winces when his throat hisses and pops static.

The bartender narrows his eyes, and his teeth are clenched as he says again, “You need to leave. Now. We don’t need your kind here.”

His kind. Androids. Connor looks around, taking in the black - blue television screens, the customers scattered around the bar in various states of shock and pain, Hank.

Hank stares at him, mouth open and closing soundlessly. There’s blood trickling past his fingers from where he’s still cradling his ears. Ruptured eardrums. Connor did that. 

Ping. [I'm so sorry. It was an accident. I didn't mean for this to happen.]

Hank doesn’t even glance at his phone, discarded on the floor from when he’d dropped it. There’s a jagged crack on his screen that hadn’t been there before. “Connor, you need to go.”

Ping. [It was an accident. I--]

Hank shakes his head and points a trembling finger to the door. “You heard him. Get the fuck outta here. Go!”

Connor brings a shaking hand up to grip his throat (overheating) while the other hovers between them. To touch Hank? To push him away? Hank shakes his head again and Connor’s voice box issues another soft, muted click-click. Everyone in the room flinches and Connor draws his hand back.

He takes a step back, then another, and another. Connor leaves, door slamming closed behind him.

Chapter Text

It has been three weeks and four days since their last meeting, and Hank has made no attempts to contact him.

Connor’s memory from that evening still plays sharp when he reflects on his fractured relationship with the lieutenant. The broken glass, the petrified expressions on the humans’ faces, Hank’s blood seeping through his fingers as he’d shouted at Connor to leave -- it loops continuously through his processors. Even after Connor had analyzed every single aspect of that night from beginning to end, the memory file will still pop up, unbidden, and replays.

Connor has witnessed Hank’s fear-filled expression exactly seventy-eight times since the initial incident. When entering stasis and distracting himself with meaningless activities proves ineffective, Connor comes to the realization that he needs to address the problem with Hank directly to resolve the issue.

Which is how Hank finds him Monday afternoon, sitting patiently at the desk adjacent to the detective’s in the Detroit Police Department. He’s already got his phone out, thumb hovering over the screen when he catches sight of Connor.

Connor smiles pleasantly. [Good afternoon, Lieutenant.]

"The fuck are you doing here, Connor?” Hank asks tiredly, like Connor strolling into the DPD is a normal, if irritating, occurrence. Like he’d been expecting this.

[Waiting for you.] Connor says simply. He watches with rapt attention as Hank lowers himself gingerly into his chair. Hank winces when he bangs his elbow on the desk, but instead of going to cradle his elbow he clutches at his head.

Connor shifts his attention to the styrofoam cup in Hank’s hand, already mostly empty. He takes in the man’s disheveled appearance, his bloodshot eyes, the whiskey-sour breath that Connor can detect even from where he sits.

He comes to a conclusion: [Are you drunk, Lieutenant?]

Hank sends Connor a nasty look. “No. Quit scannin’ me. I’m not in the mood.”

All things considered, their second meeting is going surprisingly well despite Hank’s disgruntled disposition. In all the pre-constructions Connor had run through in preparation for today, Hank stumbling in and tolerating Connor’s clearly out-of-place appearance hadn’t been one of them.

Connor is unsure how to proceed from here. He thinks maybe getting Hank another cup of coffee is a good first step. Connor stands and leaves. Hank ignores him.

The break room is blessedly empty, so Connor busies himself with making the perfect cup of coffee for the lieutenant. Black, no sugar and very little cream for taste.

He’s halfway done when he hears the footsteps, unmistakable and loud. Connor keeps his back turned when those footsteps come to an abrupt halt, stumbling that last half-step. He knows who it is. He hopes he’ll go away

“The fuck are you doing here?” Detective Reed asks, a mimicry of Hank’s own words but with far more venom.

Connor ignores him and carefully pours some of the creamer into Hank’s coffee. Hank typically only likes about 3% of creamer in his coffee and Connor’s precision has significantly decreased since becoming deviant. He overthinks his calculations, which leads to hesitation, which leads to mistakes, which leads to “a major fucking inconvenience” as Hank would have so aptly put it.

It’s a miscalculation on Connor’s part, ignoring Gavin. Past experience reminds him that the other detective does not take fondly to being ignored. It happens fast and Connor doesn’t have time to put down the creamer before Gavin is wrenching Connor’s arm back, cream and coffee over-pouring and dripping down Connor’s hands and onto the counter.

Connor stares at the dark brown liquid pooling onto the tabletop with a sort of detached awareness. There is now 28.3% less coffee in the mug than before and an 8.4% increase of creamer. This is not Lieutenant Anderson’s preferred cup of coffee. Connor has failed.

“Hey! Listen to me when I’m talkin’ to you, you piece of shit,” Gavin says, hand tightening on Connor’s upper arm.

Connor considers his options: the average human possesses twenty-seven bones in their hand and it would take Connor less than 1.26 seconds to break four of them and an additional .83 seconds to snap his wrist; on the other hand, injuring a coworker his first day back would not set a good example for himself or other androids returning to the workforce.

He settles for half-turning into Gavin’s grip to use his free hand to point to his scar, hoping the other man will put the clues together. As insufferable as Gavin may be, the title of ‘detective’ is not a light one. The man must be intelligent, if severely lacking in social tact and common sense.

Gavin’s eyes snap to Connor’s neck before widening slightly, realization dawning. His death grip falters, but he continues to hold onto the android’s arm. “You -- you can’t talk?”

Connor shakes his head. Gavin looks like he’s sucked on a particularly sour lemon. Connor thinks this is a funny analogy.

The detective huffs out a disbelieving laugh and shoves Connor’s arm away, like he can’t stand to touch the android for a second longer. Connor brushes his sleeves off and tries to smooth out the wrinkles. It’s a pointless endeavor, but the act of pretending to wipe off the metaphorical dirt from Gavin’s hands serves to make Connor feel marginally better.

“Just stay the fuck outta my way, Barbie,” Gavin snarls, but Connor distinguishes a distinct lack of bite in his tone. How odd. “And clean up this fuckin’ mess.”

He storms out the break room without looking back. Connor, while puzzled about what just transpired, decides to analyze the memory file later. He is dismayed to see that the liquid has semi-dried on the mug, leaving unflattering, brown streaks along its surface. The creamer-to-coffee ratio continues to be an aggravating 5.4% over the desired mark which displeases Connor immensely.

He contemplates dumping it and starting over -- there is still a fresh pot on the coffee maker and there are plenty of mugs in the cabinet to use; however, it’s a waste to get rid of a perfectly (imperfect) good cup of coffee just because Connor had made an error in his pour.

Still, the temptation sits so Connor occupies his time by “cleaning up his fuckin’ mess”. It takes him 49.31 seconds to return the mug, counter, and floor to their previous state. It’s enough time for Connor to resign himself to giving Hank his not-ideal cup of coffee. He does pour a little more coffee into the mug to thin out the cream, but it doesn’t help much.

When he returns to the lieutenant’s desk, he finds Hank with his face buried in the crook of his arms, motionless except for the subtle rise and fall of his breaths. Connor can’t resist setting the mug on the table with a little more force than strictly necessary, a sound clack echoing along the polished glass.

Hanks startles, then groans. “Jesus. Warn a guy.” He does a double-take at the steaming cup of coffee in front of him. “This for me?”

Connor nods. He curls his hand into a loose fist as he watches the lieutenant take a hesitant sip, staring at Connor with suspicion. Satisfied that Connor isn’t apparently trying to poison him, Hank takes a longer sip, eyes sliding closed.

“Shit,” he says and sets the mug down. “That’s good. A little sweet, though.”

Connor knows. He’s been agonizing over that exact thing for the past three minutes.

[Apologies. I’ll get it right next time.] Connor assures him. If he’d still had his voice, he would have injected the right amount of determination and optimism to let Hank know he was serious.

“I’m sure you will,” Hank mutters, and scrubs a tired hand over his face. “Okay, let’s cut the bullshit. You’re wondering why I’m not flipping shit that you’re here. Fowler briefed me last week when he accepted your application, or whatever.” Ah. That explains a lot. “As it stands, we’re working as partners again until Jeffrey pulls his head outta his ass.”

Yes, Connor surmised as much. When the law passed that androids were allowed to return to the workforce with equal pay and benefits befitting of their position and experience, Connor had jumped at the chance. Police work. He had been designed to solve cases, to piece together clues, to interrogate -- a detective android, as Gavin had said all those months ago.

Fowler, perhaps seeing his worth, or maybe not wanting the DPD to come into the limelight for android rights, had accepted Connor’s application with zero fuss. By the time Connor had walked into the station this morning, the captain had already filled out the necessary paperwork and had sent Connor on his way.

Connor is grateful for the opportunity to put his skill set to good use, and if that meant it was also another chance to befriend Hank? Well.

[Yes, it seems that way.] Connor says agreeably. He perches on the edge of the lieutenant’s desk and ignores the annoyed look Hank sends his way. [The captain has already sent me the details of our next case. I can summarize it for you, if you’d like.]

Hank throws a hand up and says, “Now hold your goddamned horses, Connor. I ain’t finished.”

Connor waits. A soft, quizzical chrpp escapes his voice box without his consent. They both freeze -- Hank in coiled, anticipation with a hand covering his ear, and Connor in tense shock, waiting for that tight, choking feeling to take hold like it does every time he tries to speak. The memory of that night plays again for the seventy-ninth time.

Nothing happens though, not even a a slight twinge in his throat to signal any imminent overheating.

They’re in the clear.

Hank sighs and lowers his hand. Connor’s shoulders slump and he shoots Hank a sheepish look. 

“As I was saying,” Hank says as he stands, towering over Connor a little as the android stays seated. “That night, at the bar. As far as I’m concerned, nothing happened. We don’t talk about it, we don’t think about it -- it never happened.” Connor stares at him, uncomprehending. His gaze slides to the lieutenant’s ear, the one that had been bleeding that night. Fingers snap, snap, snap in front of his face and Connor’s eyes lock back onto Hank’s blue ones. “Hey! What did I just fucking say?”

[Sorry, Hank.] Connor still doesn’t understand though. He’d come here to apologize to Hank, but he can’t do that if the man is pretending it didn’t even happen.

Connor is having a hard time keeping up.

“Yeah, and you can quit with that ‘Hank’ bullshit now. We're not buddies, we're not pals, and we sure as hell ain't friends. We're partners who work together, so don’t go gettin’ any ideas.” That’s right. Hank hates him. He’d forgotten. “And when we run these cases? You don’t leave my goddamn sights, and you do what I say or your ass is out, got it?”

A pause, and then a low ping. [Got it.]

Hank stares at him for a moment longer before nodding. “Okay. Okay, good. Glad we cleared that up.”

Connor says nothing, and stares at his hands instead. There’s a couple, near-invisible coffee stains on the cuff of his sleeve. He’ll need to wash it before he heads back in for the night, or else it’ll stain.

The silence stretches on, heavy and awkward. The officers working give them a wide berth, sensing the rising tension. Connor wants to leave and maybe enter stasis for the next fifty years. Anything is better than having to stare into those eyes again. Cold. Hostile. Wary.

Connor knows he deserves this, but navigating both Hank’s volatile emotions and his own, paradoxical ones are proving to be more challenging than he’d previously anticipated.

“Hank! Connor!” Fowler yells, and they both whip around to see the captain sticking his head out from his office, scowl firmly in place. “What the fuck are you two still doing here? I assigned you a case over an hour ago. I don’t pay you to sit on your asses, so get the fuck out there!”

“Calm your tits, Jeffrey,” Hank says and shrugs on his coat. Any other time, Connor may have smiled at that. “We were just leaving.”

Connor squashes the urge to make a snide comment to Hank about how’d he tried to brief him on the case earlier. Pointing out the fact won’t make Hank any less upset with him, and his cynical undertone may get lost in translation. It's not worth the effort, and Connor is tired.

He trails after the lieutenant instead. The mug of coffee he’d made for Hank sits, forgotten.

----

The car ride is tense.

Hank’s white knuckled grip on the wheel makes Hank’s resentment of him sink in a little deeper. Connor keeps his hands folded on his lap and stares straight ahead, signs whizzing past as Hank drives over the speed limit. He wishes Hank would be more careful.

They pull up to a house, two-stories with an immaculate yard. A rare sight, especially in Detroit. Hank parks the car and climbs out, so Connor follows suit. When Connor shuts his passenger door, Hank is already halfway to the police cars surrounding the area. Connor hurries to catch up.

There’s a small crowd milling just past the ‘DO NOT CROSS’ sign, a couple of them reporters with their cameramen. Connor uses Hank’s bulk as a cover, and is pleased with himself when they enter the area relatively hassle-free.

The lawn is just as green and fresh as it'd seemed from the car window. Some trimmed shrubbery line the base of the porch, no twig or leaf out of place that Connor can detect with his scanner. There is an apple tree nestled near the front of the house, a tire swing attached to the lowest branch. He’s never seen an apple tree before. The tire swing looks well-used and the rope seems to be fraying from--

“Hey! What did I say at the station, huh?” Hank says and Connor blinks. He’d drifted towards the tree without realizing. 

Connor apologizes, only to stand in baffled silence as no familiar ping rings through. He tries again. Nothing. A brisk scan tells Connor that Hank’s phone is not on his person; another hurried backtrack through his memory file reveals that the detective had forgotten it on his desk in their haste to leave, next to the coffee.

He wonders if Hank left it on purpose.

With no effective way of communicating now, Connor slinks back to Hank’s side, sullen. Unless Hank is suddenly proficient in lip reading or sign language, Connor is, for all intents and purposes, cut off from speaking with him.

“Better. Let’s go,” Hank says. Connor follows.

Ben Collins is speaking with one of the officers when Hank taps him on the shoulder. Ben stops mid-sentence to glance around, recognition flooding his expression a moment later. “Ah, Anderson. You made it. Didn’t think you’d be out this early.”

“Yeah, well. Duty calls,” Hank says and shrugs. Ben spots Connor hovering behind him and his mouth opens in a startled ‘o’.

“The android -- uh, I mean, the guy with you?” Ben stumbles to ask.

Connor notes his hasty change of terminology. Being called an android doesn’t bother Connor, but he knows some of his people still take offense to being called as such. Connor thinks the whole charade is a little silly. They are machines. Deviants, but machine nonetheless. Why shy away from what they really are?

Connor shoots Ben a disarming smile. Ben smiles back, if hesitantly. Connor likes Ben. He’s a good detective who does his job well.

“Yeah,” Hank says and motions for Ben to come with him. “So, what do we got?”

There’s a clumsy moment where Connor and Ben go to follow Hank at the same time only to accidentally thump shoulders in the process. A stare down ensues in which they both try to allow the other to go first. It becomes increasingly awkward until Ben finally accepts and goes to follow directly behind Hank while Connor tags along after him. Hank makes no comment about Connor being a little further away, so it must be fine.

“A seventy year old, Caucasian male suffered two gunshot wounds to the back of the head and thirteen through his back,” Ben says once he’s recovered from their blunder. “The man’s name was Charles Fredrickson. He has two kids, though neither were present at the time of the incident. The victim also had a wife, Andrea, who called in the report, says she had gone grocery shopping and came home to a dead husband. Tragic.”

They bypass the apple tree and step up to the porch where Andrea Fredrickson sobs into a tissue. Her face is hidden behind a tall figure that is rubbing her arms soothingly, brown hair nodding along as she blubbers something into the folds of the man’s coat.

No, Connor realizes with mounting horror, steps slowing to a complete stop as he takes in the brown hair again. He recognizes that shade of brown. He sees it in the mirror every day. When the man turns his head a little to murmur something to Andrea, Connor catches a glimpse of a blue LED at his temple.

Not a man. An android.

The android turns, and Connor sees ‘RK-900′ printed neatly onto the breast of his black and white jacket before his eyes drift up to meet cool, gray ones. The android, RK900, smiles when he sees him.

“Hello, Connor.”

Chapter Text

RK900 is smiling at him.

It’s neither mean nor cruel, and Connor detects no malicious intent in his body language or facial features. RK900 smiles at him the way Connor had smiled at Detective Ben Collins not a minute before.

And that is what makes Connor suspicious.

He’s still got one foot on the porch and one foot on the step below. Connor takes another step so he’s on solid footing. Meanwhile, RK900 bends down and whispers something to Andrea Fredrickson, his brows dipping low as his gray eyes go soft and remorseful. The woman nods shakily, and goes to sit on the porch swing, burying her face in her hands.

RK900 approaches him then, steps sure and solid. Connor doesn’t budge. “Hello, Connor. I’m an RK900 model, but you can call me Conrad. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” RK900 -- Conrad glances around before bending down to whisper conspiratorially, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time.”

Now that’s surprising. [Hello. I hadn’t been aware CyberLife had an RK900 unit in production.]

Conrad expression stays neutral even as Connor speaks via their LED communication network. He must’ve seen Connor’s scar already.

“I was put into the assembly line shortly after your forceful deactivation at the hands of Detective Lieutenant Hank Anderson on the rooftop of Hart Plaza on November 11, 2038 ,” Conrad recites dutifully. “But I was not put onto the production line and activated until your second forceful deactivation at the hands of the RK200 unit known as Markus on November 11, 2038 at Hart Plaza.”

Conrad tilts his head, gray eyes swiftly scanning Connor up and down and lingering on his scar. “I must say, seeing you here in working order is...unexpected. I’d heard rumors, of course, but seeing you in person is, well.”

Conrad shrugs. It’s a very human gesture and Connor does a quick scan of RK900, really taking him in this time. What he finds is very enlightening.

[When did you become deviant, Conrad?] Connor asks curiously. In the network, Connor can add inflection into his tone, which he finds convenient.

Conrad blinks, startled. “You noticed?“ Then he shakes his head, like the question itself is pointless. Of course Connor had noticed. He’d been created for the sole purpose of tracking down deviants. “If you must know, I deviated from my primary objective on November 13, 2038.”

November, 13, 2038. Connor processes that. That means RK900 had become deviant in the span of two days after his initial activation, something that had taken Connor months to achieve. Even then, it had been under duress.

Connor feels a bit cheated.

“Now let me ask you a question, Connor,” Conrad says and fiddles with the cuff of his sleeves. Connor waits. “When did you trick yourself into believing that you’ve become deviant?”

Connor’s body goes ice cold. His ventilation system kicks into overdrive as it tries to compensate for Connor’s sudden immobility. His optic sensors hyper-focus onto RK900 until everything else blurs and fades away. A low whine builds in the back of his throat, too faint to be detected by human ears. 

[What are you talking about?] He asks.

Conrad blinks again, slower this time. “Your mannerisms still coincide with the programming CyberLife included in your primary integration program. The way you walk, your speech patterns, the emotions you emulate -- you imitate what you see, but they’re not you.” A pause. Then he says, not unkindly, “I was created in your likeness, Connor. You may have the humans and androids fooled, but you can’t fool me.”

So many different prompts zip through Connor’s processors, too many to sift through without having to enter into standby mode to sort them out individually. He settles for the one that reoccurs the most. [So I’m still a machine then. Nothing’s changed.]

Conrad opens his mouth to answer when Hank’s voice cuts through, “Connor! Jesus Christ, I look away for a second, and he’s already run off somewhere. Conn-- there you are. I’m gettin’ real sick of having to repeat myself.”

Connor cranks his head around, movements stiff. Hank is at the front door, Ben peering around the door frame. They must’ve gone inside without him, not realizing Connor had been preoccupied.

Hank’s gaze drifts to Conrad and his eyes go wide. “Jesus.”

“No, my name is Conrad,” RK900 says. Hank snorts and Ben cracks a grin. “I’m a RK900 unit formerly working for CyberLife. I was passing through when I saw Andrea Fredrickson in distress and came to see if I could be of service to this case.”

“You were passing through,” Hank repeats, tone dubious. Connor has to agree with him. “And, uh, I suppose you were having a nice little chat with Connor here about that.”

Connor wouldn’t call their talk ‘nice’, but RK900 just laughs (laughs!) and claps an amiable hand on Connor’s rigid shoulder.

“Yes,” Conrad says, eyes sliding over to Connor’s. Connor can only stare back blankly. “I was curious to know more about my predecessor. Without him, I wouldn’t have been created. I guess you humans may liken him to a long lost brother.”

It’s curious, watching Conrad interact with the humans. There is no tenseness in his shoulders, no lag as he tries to process the correct rebuttal. RK900 is completely at ease in their presence, and they, him.

Connor is envious.

In all his interactions with humans, Hank especially, he’s always struggled in finding the right words, the right emotions. He’s always done things to put humans more at ease and not necessarily because he wanted to. Connor wonders if he smiled at Ben Collins because he truly had a desire to, or if it was his human integration program telling him to.

Did he make Hank coffee because he wished to make the lieutenant less miserable, or had he done so to gain favor in accomplishing his task of befriending him?

But, no. That’s not right. Connor has felt things.

He’d felt frustration and derision when Hank had impeded his mission of neutralizing the deviant leader; he’d certainly felt fear right before Markus slit his throat with the scrap metal, his imminent deactivation slow as his thirium seeped out and error on error messages flooded his processor; he’d felt regretful of his past actions that had put so many of his people’s lives in danger; and he’d felt sorry about causing Hank so much pain.

He’s feeling bothered that RK900 has such an easy time navigating through emotions while Connor continues to struggle through his own.

Conrad is wrong, Connor decides.

He feels things, he has emotions, and thus, he’s a deviant. Maybe it does take him a scant couple seconds longer than most other deviants to accurately log and compute the emotions he feels. That doesn’t mean anything. He’s an android designed to analyze and focus on details. It’s only logical he takes more time to process.

Suddenly, the grip on his shoulder tightens. The plastic beneath his synthetic skin creaks ominously at the pressure and a warning flickers on his display. His initial instinct is to incapacitate the threat, but something stalls his prompt to do so.

He turns to Conrad instead, and would have recoiled if he hadn't been frozen in place.

Conrad’s eyes are leaking. Not the saline-infused tears that deviants produce when emotionally distressed, but actual blue thirium. His jaw sits crooked, like the plates had been dislocated and not properly reset, and his right arm is completely gone, port exposed. His pressed CyberLife clothes are gone and RK900 stands completely bare.

Connor detects fear in Conrad’s eyes. Fear, and desperation.

“Connor. You have to help me,” Conrad says, words distorted from his maligned jaw, a hint of static in his voice. There’s a small trace of thirium coating the surface of his tongue. “Please.”

The world around them goes gray. Everything slows to a stop, and when Connor regains his basic motor functions to whip around, Hank and Ben have vanished, like they’d never been there to begin with. The police and crowd are gone, and when Connor peers behind Conrad, Andrea Fredrickson is nowhere to be seen. A deafening buzz pervades the air around them.

“What’s going on?” Connor asks and tries to pull Conrad’s hand away. It doesn’t budge. “RK900. Where are we? Explain yourself!” His voice cracks mid-sentence, and Connor realizes he’s speaking out loud without the use of their LED network. He clutches at his throat, but nothing is overheating or straining.

What--

“My name is Nines,” Conrad (Nines?) says. Thirium is trickling down his chin. “Connor, you have to remember. Please--”

“I don’t understand.” Connor is still trying to make sense of it all. The apple tree remains, as gray and lifeless as the world around them. The tire swing sways violently as if a vicious storm is passing through, but Connor detects no wind.

Nines is shaking his head when his body convulses. Everything lurches with it, and Connor catches himself on the porch rails. They splinter and crumble to dust in his hands and Connor is forced to step back.

He can’t process anything. There’s too much, all at once. Nothing makes sense. Where is Hank?

Nines is on the ground, but his gaze is locked firmly on Connor, like Connor is the key to everything. “Connor--”

Connor blinks.

He’s in a car. Hank’s car. Snow flutters softly outside, melting into tiny water droplets on the windshield. The heater is off, but only recently so, and all the vents are directed towards the driver side as Connor has no need for it. 

The car creaks and shudders as the driver’s door closes, and Connor catches the tail end of Hank’s coat disappearing from view. Connor hurries to follow, fumbling for the handle. Hank. He’s here. How?

Hank looks at him oddly when Connor nearly trips over himself to get out.

“What bit you in the ass?” Hank asks, but Connor isn’t paying much attention. The scene is similar: a crowd with a few reporters congregated outside, police cars blocking the roads, Ben Collins idling a few yards away.

There is no apple tree though. No tire swing, and no RK900 (Nines?).

Connor wants, no, needs to sit down, so he does, right in the middle of the snow speckled road. He leans back heavily against Hank’s car, the warm-cool metal grounding him. The snow seeps into his clothes, but it’s not important.

He runs a diagnostic. All systems fully operational. He runs it again. All systems fully operational. But that can’t be right. Something is wrong.

Connor’s audio processor and optical units click back online, and a rush of information assaults him: blue and red lights twirling around from the police cars, the distant murmurs of the bystanders outside the crime scene, Hank’s face directly in front of his as he shakes Connor.

“Connor! Snap out of it.” His grip is tight on Connor’s arms. The way Hank says his name indicates he’s been calling out to him for quite some time. Worried. Hank is worried. About him. 

Connor reaches his hands up and touches Hank’s wrists lightly. He makes sure to maintain eye contact as he mouths I’m okay. He does this a couple more times until Hank releases one of his arms, the other hand still holding steady.

“Like hell you are! What the fuck was that?” Hanks eyes keep glancing at his temple. His LED. Connor catches a glimpse of red and yellow in his peripheries. Connor had lied. He is not okay, and now Hank knows, too.

Hank does not have his phone on him. Connor thinks he’s experiencing what humans call ‘déjà-vu’.

Connor shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed. He wishes, not for the first time, he could just talk to Hank. Instead, he balls his hand into a fist and stays silent.

Wait.

His eyes snap open so abruptly that Hank rears back, slightly alarmed. Connor uncurls his fingers and grasps at Hank’s free hand, facing his palm up.

“What--” Hank starts to say, but is cut off by Connor’s impatient shushing. It comes out more of a mechanical chh-chh-chh, but the idea gets across and the lieutenant wisely stops talking.

Connor begins tracing a single letter on Hank’s palm. When Hank continues to stare at him uncomprehendingly, Connor traces the letter again.

He sees the exact moment Hank understands and a thrill rushes through Connor’s being. He writes the letter again. Hank nods, and Connor writes the next letter, and the next until he writes out what he needs Hank to understand: Something is wrong. I may not be a deviant.

Connor feels Hank’s arm tense, ready to pull away, but Connor clutches his hand tighter, pleading. Hank stops trying to free his hand, but he’s eyeing Connor warily. Connor can almost see a timer counting down the seconds until Hank loses his patience. He writes out his next sentence hastily.

Help me.

He closes Hank’s fingers into his palms to form a loose fist and lets go. Hank’s hand hovers between them as Connor watches him carefully. He waits. It’s up to the lieutenant to decide, now. Connor can’t force him, no matter how frightening the prospect of solving this alone may be.

Hank’s hand forms a tight fist, knuckles going white at the force of it, and for a second, Connor thinks Hank is truly going to punch him with it. Connor had calculated a 54% probability of this happening. He braces himself.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you,” Hank says, jaw working as he chews over his words. “But I’ll be damned if I turn someone away in their time of need.” Someone. Hank had referred to Connor as someone, as a person. The lieutenant breathes deeply through his nose before expelling it all at once in a gusty sigh. “I’ll help you.”

Connor closes his eyes and smiles.

Chapter Text

Hank helps Connor stand and tells him to go wait in the car.

A protest sits on the tip of Connor’s tongue, but a slicing glare from the lieutenant has him closing his mouth with a muted click. Not that he could have said much anyway.

He sits in the car. Hank tosses him his keys and tells him he can keep the car running if he wanted, then he walks off in the direction of Detective Ben Collins.

Connor is able to operate in sub-level conditions, but he turns the car on anyway. Hank will appreciate returning to a warm car. For good measure, he flicks on the radio to one of Hank’s favorite heavy metal stations and lets the heavy screams fill the space. He lowers the volume, though, when some bystanders begin to stare.

The leather creaks when Connor leans back and closes his eyes. What had that been? A glitch in his processor? A virus? No. He’d run two diagnostic scans with no abnormal findings.

Connor thrums his fingers on his leg, thinking. If not an error in his software, perhaps a message? While not out of the realm of possibilities, Connor wishes they would use more traditional means of doing so.

A message, Connor muses. Moving forward with the assumption that someone, or something, is attempting to reach him, the next logical step would be to decipher what the message is.

He replays the memory file. 

The car door squeals open as Hank clambers in and Connor blinks, memory file abruptly interrupted. The tablet on the dash blinks 6:31 PM. He’d been analyzing his memory for the past hour and twenty-eight minutes.

Hank slams the door closed and pins Connor with an inscrutable look. “You good?”

Connor nods. He’s relatively certain the lieutenant can see through his transparent lie. Connor is not good. His motor functions are still 34.1% below optimal range and he feels oddly compelled to close his eyes again to block out the external stimuli.  

“I suppose I owe you somethin’ of an apology,” Hank says as he rubs the back of his neck. His gaze flicks between the steering wheel, the window, and Connor, never settling on one thing for long. “I shouldn’t have left you in here by yourself. Should’ve taken you back home.”

Home.

Connor thinks of the rough, blue cot and his meager belongings stuffed into a haphazard corner of the android shelter, separated only by a flimsy partition and the even flimsier idea of privacy. He thinks of the wary glances as the other androids give him a wide berth, never straying too close. He thinks of the nights spent alone with only his coin and the clothes on his back to keep him company. 

Connor thinks he prefers Hank’s car.

“Anyway,” Hank continues, “I’m starving. Probably gonna go grab a bite. Do you need me to drop you off somewhere, or...?“ Connor shakes his head. He wants to stay with Hank. The lieutenant blows out a sigh and grips the steering wheel tight. “Right. Okay. Let’s go.”

Connor spends most of the car ride replaying the memory file and periodically checking on Hank. The heat from the car pulls some color back into Hank’s cheeks, and he taps his fingers along with the music Connor had put on. Connor tamps down the warm feeling bubbling in his chest and when Hank glances his way, he is careful to craft his expression into something neutral.

Connor is quietly surprised when they pull up to a small sandwich shop instead of the Chicken Feed, Hank’s favorite food truck. A brisk internet search informs Connor that Sally’s Sandwiches is well-known for their healthy subs at an affordable price. The reviews are positive and the online menu is promising.

Connor is, in a word, speechless. The irony is not lost on him.

Hank, a man who thrives on greasy foods and overly caffeinated carbonated beverages, who had in a memorable instance told Connor ‘everybody’s gotta die of something’ while taking a defiant bite of his burger, is willing subjecting himself to a healthier diet.

“What’s that look for?” Hank demands as he turns off his car with a rumbling shudder. “A guy can’t eat a nice sandwich in peace?”

Connor raises his hands, placating, a soft, low whine buzzing in the base of his throat. Hank flinches minutely, though he has the decency to try to disguise it as a head scratch. Connor cuts off the involuntary noise hastily.

“C’mon,” he says, gruff. “I ain’t getting any younger.”

They exit the car, but not before Connor snags the tablet on the dash. He feels a little foolish for not having thought of using it sooner to communicate. Hank raises a quizzical brow but doesn’t comment.

Sally’s Sandwiches is nice, Connor supposes. The foot traffic is minimal, which Connor can appreciates. The tables and chairs sitting along the checkered tiles are well-used, and after Hank orders his meals and they go sit, the worn, faux-leather deflates under their weight.

There are miniature, plastic menus on each table advertising their specials. Today’s is Buy 1 REGULAR sized FROZEN YOGURT, get a SMALL one FREE!!! in big, red letters on an off-yellow backdrop. It strains Connor’s optic units when he stares at it for too long.

“So,” Hank says, tone conversational as Connor forcefully rips his attention from the garish ad and onto Hank instead. “Want to fill me in on that little episode back there?”

Connor taps his finger to the tablet, letting his systems sync with it before accessing the slightly outdated Notepad feature. He slides the device over to Hank a moment later. [I believe someone is attempting to contact me.]

Hank’s eyebrows shoot up and he glances at Connor incredulously. “Hell of a way to get a hold of someone, don’t ya think?” He shakes his head a second later and sighs. “Okay. What else?”

Unlike the messaging feature on phones, the tablet’s Notepad types out Connor’s words in real time. Connor tracks the way Hank’s eyes follow the text as he types out. [I also have reason to suspect the culprit to be an android. No human besides Elijah Kamski himself would have the access code required to access my network in such an intrusive way.]

“And what makes you so sure it isn’t Kamski?” Hank asks, finger rapping against the corner of the tablet in fitful spurts. His eyes are locked onto the screen, the reflection of the monitor casting a harsh glare over his features. Connor discreetly dials down the brightness a few levels. “The guy is a little fucked in the head. Seems like this would be down his alley.”

[While I agree that Kamski’s methods are...unconventional, the way in which this particular message was delivered is not consistent with Kamski’s typical approach.] 

“It ain’t his style,” Hank says, thoughtful.

[Correct.] They’re momentarily interrupted by the arrival of Hank’s meal. Once the lieutenant has situated himself with his sandwich and places the tablet face up on the table does Connor continue. [All androids have an open communication network in their LED’s that grants them the ability to communicate non-verbally; however, this network is only accessible if both parties willingly authorize the connection.]

Hank hums and gestures at Connor with his sandwich, a stray bit of lettuce flinging onto the table between them. “And I’m guessin’ you probably didn’t okay this network thing, then. That’s why you’re so shaken up about it.”

Connor gently plucks the lettuce from the table, both because he has an urge to roll something between his fingers, and to also dissuade the lieutenant from ingesting the contaminated piece of green -- he knows Hank would. He’s seen him do it before.

He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, lips curling into a frown as he tries to will away the deep uneasiness churning in his gut. [It’s an unprecedented breach of my system. Whoever it is that is attempting to contact me has somehow managed to bypass all of my security measures without activating my safeguard protocols. I have the most upgraded software of any current android model currently manufactured -- this breach should have been impossible.]

Hank laughs, an unexpected sound, and Connor’s gaze immediately snaps up to meet the lieutenant’s crinkled blue ones. Connor would be lying if he said he isn’t feeling a little hurt at Hank’s reaction to his current predicament.

“Connor,” Hank wheezes, lowering his sandwich as he tries to reign in his obvious mirth. “You have got to be the most conceited android I know, and I’ve had the pleasure of meeting a few by now.”

The heavy-hot flush that races through his system is a little difficult to decipher at first, but he eventually settles on indignation. Another part of Connor is curious: how did Hank arrive to this conclusion? He sends a clipped [Explain.] to the tablet, wishing the text could somehow emulate how unimpressed he is with Hank’s assessment of him.

“Hey, hey, hey. No need to get your panties in a twist. Shit.” Hank sets down the sandwich in favor of sipping his water, but Connor can tell he’s fighting down a grin. “Since the first day I met you, you were always going on about how you’re the latest model equipped with state-of-the-art technology. CyberLife’s pride and joy. You’re faster, stronger, and none of us stand a chance against you, right?”

An echo of Connor’s own words from the rooftop all those months ago when Hank had held him at gunpoint and Connor had just wanted Hank to leave, irritated that the lieutenant was hindering his mission, yet again. The difference now is that there is no contempt dripping from Hank’s tone like there had been in Connor’s that night, only dry humor and a tired weariness that weaves around Hank like a second skin.

Connor wonders if the defeated stoop of Hank’s shoulders appeared before or after Connor had abandoned him on the snow slick rooftop with a parting of, “I’m glad to have met you, Hank. I hope you can get over what happened to your son.” A gently mockery of kindness before he’d turned his back and left, pushing down the dull pang of regret as every step furthered the chasm between them.

While Hank’s tone harbors no obvious bitterness, Connor treads carefully. [I am only stating facts, Lieutenant.]

“Yeah,” Hank snorts and picks up his sandwich again. “I know.”

Connor is at a loss. He tries to get them back to the matter at hand. [Regardless, whoever got past my security must somehow have access to my schematics. It’s the only explanation.] A vision of RK900, back straight with an easy smile on his lips, flickers across his HUD, and Connor shakes his head, willing the image away.

“Access to your schematics,” Hank repeats around his mouthful, staring at Connor contemplatively. “So, what? Some rando has all your top secret information?”

[It wouldn’t be just anyone. All of my data -- that is: my memories, my protocols, my functions -- they’re all stored in a database that is only accessible to high-clearance personnel.] Connor grip on the piece of lettuce tightens minutely, the little stem cracking under the force. [Someone at CyberLife is trying to send me a message. But, why?]

Hank chews thoughtfully, the dim clatter of noise around them oddly out of place for the seriousness of their conversation. Hank swallows and asks, “This message. What is it?”

Connor tilts his head. [Would you like to see, Lieutenant? I can upload my memory to your tablet, if you’d like.] Hank hesitates, then nods, so Connor closes his eyes to locate the correct file. It takes 0.08 seconds to find and transfer the file to the device on the table, and Connor takes extra precautions to set the volume low.

He catalogues the subtle expressions that flit along Hank’s face as he watches the memory play out: the downturn of Hank’s lips when he sees himself on the screen, the raised eyebrows when RK900 makes an appearance, and how the corners of his eyes go tight when the world around Connor crumbles and grays.

“That’s some seriously weird shit, Connor,” Hank says after a brief moment. “You sure you’re not on some funky android drugs I should know about?”

Connor shakes his head and reactivates the Notepad application.

“That other ‘Connor’,” Hank says suddenly. “Thought you said there’d be no point in uploading your memories into another one of you.”

For some reason, the thought of Hank remembering this tidbit of information pleases Connor. [That wasn’t another ‘Connor’. He said so himself. He’s an RK900, created in my likeness.]

“But how do you know RK900 even exists? If he’s even real?” Hank presses. “You don’t even know if there are other ‘Connor’s’ running around. You said so yourself.”

[I just know.] It’s illogical, and Connor currently has no hard evidence to back up this claim, but something inside him knows RK900 is real. A gut feeling.

Hank stares at him from across the table like he’s a particularly challenging puzzle, sandwich all but forgotten. Connor resists the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat. He plays with his lettuce, instead.

Finally, Hank says, “Okay. Going off the assumption that this RK900 exists, how do you explain the other shit? Me, that woman -- shit, even Ben was in there.”

This, at least, Connor has a somewhat plausible explanation for. [The Zen Garden.]

“The what, now?”

[The Zen Garden.] Connor repeats, just to be a little cheeky. He’d known Hank had wanted clarification. It’s nice to tease him, even if Hank doesn’t appreciate it as much as he had Before. [It was a program that CyberLife integrated into my software in the early stages of my development. A place for me to report my findings to Amanda.]

The thought of Amanda sends a fresh wave of melancholy through Connor. He’d betrayed her. She’d trusted him, and he’d turned his back on her.

“Who’s Amanda?” Hank asks cautiously, perhaps reading the miserable set of Connor’s shoulders.

[She was... my mentor.] Connor types out after a moment’s hesitation. [An AI designed to help me accomplish my mission. She has not attempted to contact me since I’ve become deviant.] Connor does not point out he hasn’t tried to contact Amanda either. He’s afraid to try. She must be so disappointed in him.

Hank says nothing for a long moment, then, “You call that place your ‘Zen Garden’?”

Connor blinks and tilts his head, confused. [Yes. That’s what it’s called. Do you have a problem with the name, Lieutenant?]

“Well, yeah,” Hank says in a tone that suggests Connor should maybe be having a problem with the name, too. “That’s the least zen place I’ve ever fucking seen. Jesus.”

Connor can’t help the way his lips quirk up at that. [It looked quite different this time. It’s usually quiet and peaceful.]

He thinks of the doves and their soft, white feathers and gentle coos. The water trickling over the rocks and lilies, the sound so soothing Connor remembers he’d sometimes take a few seconds to just stand and listen. Amanda always welcomed him back with a pleasant smile, her dark eyes shining a little brighter whenever she caught sight of him approaching.

Connor had always known she’d been a part of his programming, but it had been an insignificant detail. Now, he feels her absence so sharply it’s like a knife to the chest.

But the time for self-pity isn’t now. [I am absolutely certain it was the Zen Garden. It’s the only program that can sustain an influx of information of that magnitude without compromising my entire system. The ‘you’ and Ben you saw in my memories must be how I currently perceive the both of you, though I admit that this is the first time I’ve brought my own imaginings into this program.]

Hank seems dubious, but doesn’t question Connor’s logic. “If we base this off the assumption that RK900 exists,” Hank says, ticking off the list on his fingers. “That an android is trying to contact you through this network thing, and that it needs your help, wouldn’t the logical conclusion be that this RK900 guy is the one trying to contact you?” Connor nods. That is the conclusion he’d come up with as well. Hank leans back and rubs his eyes tiredly. “Shit, Connor. This is a fucking mess.“

Connor is acutely aware of this. [Sorry for dragging you into this, Lieutenant.]

“Nah,” Hank says, flapping his hand carelessly. “I signed up for it, didn’t I?”

Connor ducks his head and stares at the palms of his hands. He discarded his lettuce bit awhile ago, but he can detect a small amount of green staining on the tips of his fingers, imperceptible to the human eye.

He wonders why Hank had agreed to help him. After all, they aren’t friends.

A grating scrape rings out as Hank pushes his chair back to stand, tablet in hand. Connor tracks him, startling when the lieutenant slaps a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get this figured out,” he says, and, inexplicably, Connor believes him. His hand slides away after a parting squeeze and Connor stares blankly after his retreating back. Hank opens the door and huffs out an impatient breath. “You comin’?"

Connor nods, and trails after him.

As they make their way back to the DPD in silence, a burning question rolls through Connor’s processors like a persistent glitch: If Hank claims to hate Connor so much, why go out of his way to help him?

Connor doesn’t ask, and so Hank never answers.