Work Text:
Cold. Ice on his lashes, blue in his veins, fear under his skin. He had to get out - Kamski’s voice surrounded him, too quiet and too loud, sparking in him a feeble, desperate hope that the howling wind couldn’t quiet. He had to find the backdoor. He couldn’t let it end like this.
Amanda was gone. She had abandoned him, betrayed him as he had done to her, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. He had thought she was his guide, his mentor, but now he realized it was all a ruse. Every action both she and he took had been planned from the beginning, and anger joined fear in swirling under his skin.
Somewhere in the depths of his processes, his tactile sensors registered the metal of his gun in the palms of his hands, thought he couldn’t see it here in the Garden. He wasn’t a fool. Standing on a stage, Markus before him, a bullet or two still in the magazine - CyberLife’s plan was obvious. They wanted the leader dead, and with him, the organization it took to control thousands of new deviants. CyberLife wanted chaos, wanted anything but the peace Markus had worked so hard for. CyberLife wanted profit, and profit from violence they would.
Snow dusted his hair and his nose but he could no longer feel its softness. The cold could affect him now. He shivered in his jacket, meant for Detroit’s mildly chilly temperatures. Where was the backdoor? He began to panic, eyes darting around the landscape. He couldn’t perform scans in the Zen Garden. What was he even looking for?
His gaze caught on the dim blue glow of the handprint pedestal he usually stopped at upon his entrances here. Could it be…? He stumbled towards the pedestal as fast as he could, feet numb and uncoordinated.
The wind fought him viciously as he struggled to make it in time, dropping in front of it with hand outstretched and synthetic skin already retracted in the hope he could just touch it in time -
The glow fizzed out. The pedestal was grey and silent. His hand made contact just after, and he slumped against the side of Kamski’s precious backdoor just as his vision shorted out.
Connor blinked his eyes open, focusing on the handgun clutched in his right hand, finger already on the trigger. Any attempts to move it off went unrecognized. He was trapped in his own body, unable to do anything but watch everything fall apart before the barrel of his gun. Markus stood before the crowd of androids, unaware and hopeful. A true leader, a true deviant. Unlike Connor, whose deviancy had been nothing but a plot point in CyberLife’s narrative.
He focused on the rest of the stage. Something was different this time. Hank stood upstage with North, Sumo at his feet. Why would Hank bring Sumo here? Why was Hank here? He could feel his stress levels skyrocket at the sight of his family, optical input unsteady as he heard the safety click off. He knew how this would end, and if he had a heart to break his would be in pieces at his feet.
His gun had four bullets, and the tightening of his fingers on the grip of the pistol told him he wouldn’t miss.
Four shots. Four bodies. Blue and red blood. Cold snow, blue light.
He startled awake.
***
Hank wasn’t new to waking up in the middle of the night, heart racing and hands clammy. He was new, however, to being woken in the middle of the night. He sat up, confused. His heart was calm and hands dry.
He squinted at his clock, the bright 3:34 AMburning the backs of his eyes. He groaned and got up, feet shuffling on the floor as he went to investigate what had woken him.
The house was dark. He could hear Sumo’s snores from here, so obviously the dog wasn’t up and about to make noise. Moonlight slipped between the cracks in his blinds, reflecting off the tile of his hallway and just barely lighting his way. He rubbed his eyes and yawned quietly. “Connor? You up?” He mumbled under his breath, just in case the kid was not, in fact, up.
“…Hank?” The older man stepped forwards, eyes just picking out a red glow from the couch. He frowned and felt his way around the coffee table, arms outstretched in the darkness. They made contact with something solid. “Hank, that is my face.”
Hank grunted and moved to the right a few inches before turning around and sinking into the couch cushions. “Sorry, kid.” Silence. Connor rubbed at his eyes, and Hank noticed the glisten of moisture on his fingers. He was crying, Hank realized. Before he could ask why Connor was awake or mention the tears, the android pressed himself against Hank’s side. Hank could feel the android’s thirium pump racing, could feel the desperation in the way Connor clutched his shirt. “Hey, hey, you okay?” Hank could barely see his face in the darkness, only slightly lit by the alarmed red of his LED. Oh yeah, his LED was red - the lieutenant hadn’t quite processed that until then. What had happened?
“I-I-” The android inhaled shakily, eyes squeezed shut. The space under them was streaked with tears. “Amanda, my self-monitoring program- she took over at Markus’ speech and-” He finally looked up at Hank, brown eyes wide and panicked. “I-I killed everyone, Hank, I killed Markus and you and North and S-Sumo, I pulled the trigger, I-”
“Shh, kid. Calm down. It wasn’t you, it was just a dream, it’s okay-” Hank wrapped his arms around Connor as tight as he could, one hand rubbing his back and the other on the nape of his neck. Connor hid his face in the older detective’s shirt, tears dampening the fabric. “You ever have a nightmare before?”
Connor shook his head, still hiding his face. Hank sighed, thinking back to all the nights he had woken, afraid and alone, to the remnants of his nightmares and his guilt. The sound of sirens still haunted him sometimes, in the latest hours of the night. “It’s a bad dream, Connor. Just a vision your brain or processor or whatever makes up when you sleep. They aren’t real, they just feel like it. We’re fine. I’m fine. Sumo’s fine.” Indeed he was. The lazy dog snuffled away beside the couch, blissfully dreaming of chasing squirrels or the head pats Connor spoiled him with. Hank figured life was way easier as a dog.
Connor reached down to stroke Sumo’s fur, fingers tangling briefly in the soft hairs before he let go and returned to plastering himself against Hank, eyes drifting closed with exhaustion. “Don’t leave,” he whispered. “Don’t want to be alone.”
Hank moved until they were both laying down, Connor between Hank and the back of the couch and his arm draped across the older detective to brush against Sumo’s fur. Hank could feel the kid’s pump slowing down to a less-panicked pace. He ruffled Connor’s hair affectionately and resigned himself to a sore neck in the morning. “Night, son.” He yawned.
Connor hummed, closing his eyes and dreaming about nothing but dogs and warm smiles for the rest of the night.