Chapter Text
Very little of being a Deviant has been easy. The world is so big, there’s so much to look at now that Connor’s not hard-wired to focus only on what pertains to the mission. And Connor wants to take it all in, truly he does; to experience everything, drink up all this world has to offer. Drink but not drown. And sometimes it does feel like he’s drowning. He was programmed to take in far more information than the average human. He could lose himself with a single look if he allowed it, analysing the make-up of the dust-motes, the fractal angles of the light streaming in a window, the things other people don’t necessarily see. It’s beautiful, and it’s overwhelming.
Maybe this is what it means to be tired.
He tries talking to Hank. Hank wants to help, Connor knows he does, but there’s gulf a between the experiences of a sapient super-computer and an aging (albeit recovering) alcoholic Connor can’t fully explain. “Try taking a break,” Hank says pushing a pair of headphones over Connor’s ears, “block it all out, that’s what I do. Shut your eyes”. Connor obeys and Hank presses play on the music player, the volume is up high. A few moments later there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back into his chair. He allows himself to be maneuverered into a more relaxed position, the player is placed into his hand.
Connor listens to a few more songs before opening his eyes. Hank is sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. He glances over as Connor makes his way towards him and there’s a question on his face. “Thank you Hank,” Connor says pushing the headphone back across the table with a small smile, “that helped.” And it had, to an extent. He’d struggled not focus too much on analysing what he was listening to, to hear the melody and not the scale degrees, metre and dynamics, but even that act of only concentrating on one thing had been calming. He sees Hank’s shoulder relax slightly.
“As surprising as this is going to sound, I’m not the biggest fan of other people.” Hank smirks and gestures towards himself, “I know, who would have suspected such a thing of this asshole?” He sighs, “Living in the city, well it isn’t always easy for me. But when I feel like everything’s getting on top of me, that’s what I do. I find something I can control, something familiar and safe, and use it block out everything else. And maybe music isn’t going to be your thing, but maybe you can find something and use it to cope with everything else.” Hank’s staring into his almost empty coffee mug now, truth be told neither are them are good with emotion. While Connor is learning to feel, Hank’s getting used to having emotions again after years of numbing them away. It makes Connor appreciate the effort even more.
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It’s been a long time since Connor visited the Zen Garden. He hasn’t wanted to since that last time Amanda dragged him in, almost made him shoot Markus, almost wrestled away his fragile sense of self. But CyberLife no longer have any claim over him, and not all his memories of that place are bad; he used to feel safe here -as much as he felt anything.
Maybe he can find comfort in the lack of surprises offered by a programmed space. There’s nothing here that hasn’t been designed to be here, nothing he needs to analyse. It’s all as it should be. In the garden he hopes to find quiet, peace; to have the space and time to think. Time to truly process everything that’s happened over the past weeks.
Last time he was in the garden it had been snowing, a furious and dense blizzard. It’s not snowing now. It’s not…anything. The sky is just grey, not overcast, not dull or cloudy, simply empty – a different shade of impenetrable. The trees are bare and the water is still. Connor pauses a moment; autumn, he thinks he like autumn. A shimmer and the trees are a riot of colour, the sky is bright with the occasional cloud. It’s the perfect, crisp October day. He smiles, he could get used to having a modicum of control in his life again. He sits on the grass and allows himself to have this moment just for him.
The rose-bush is gone.
--
After that first time Connor returns whenever things start to feel as if they are becoming too much, it helps. Hank notices the change too. “Maybe you should take a nap more often,” he says one morning, after finding Connor resting on the sofa. He ruffles Connor’s hair fondly, “you’re looking a lot better, kid.”
Connor’s starting to think of it as ‘his garden’, and has made some changes to suit his tastes. The first thing to go is the gravestone, that’s one reminder he certainly doesn’t need, but he keeps the emergency exit. He fixes the path as well, it’s shingle and shale now, and places flower beds instead of sand. Things look a lot less carefully composed now, but Connor likes it this way.
He appreciates the influence he has over this space. He’s found he can add almost anything he thinks of, which could explain why there’s an armchair under one of the largest trees. It’s an exact replica of the one in Hank’s living room both of them have decided is ‘his’. The illogicality of an upholstered chair in a garden in something Connor likes, he sees it as proof of his growing personality. It’s not something a machine would ever think of. He also enjoys tending the flowers, he knows he could place them perfectly with a thought if he chose, but the hands-on approach is soothing. Moreso, he admits quietly to himself, without the possibility of failure.
All seems well until he finds the secateurs.