Chapter Text
The inconspicuous cardboard box didn’t look so unassuming once placed on his unusually-clean work desk. The latter chore was somewhat unavoidable, given its dimensions. But for the moment, Hank Anderson could think of no safer place to keep it - and it’s ridiculous contents - than right next to his elbow. It certainly was an improvement over wondering if it had held up at home over the course of eight hours.
On second thought, maybe he should have found an even larger box to put this one in, slide it under the desk, and keep a shoe planted on its lid for the better part of the day.
Then Gavin Reed wouldn’t have noticed its presence. He wouldn’t have demanded to see what was inside. The proverbial cat wouldn’t have been let out of the bag.
And the man might still have his eyebrows.
——-
"What the actual fuck, Hank? Why the fuck do you have little fuckin' - ” Lost as to the proper word for a moment, Gavin threw his hands up in anger. It wouldn't have looked nearly as funny, if his eyebrows hadn't just been singed off. "What even are they? Dragons? The fuck?"
For once, they might actually agree on the ludicrousness of their situation. This was one idea he never would have thought would see fruition. But then again, CyberLife was notorious for trying to effectively remodel the world with android technology.
Said ambition apparently extended into the realm of Westeros, a la Game of Thrones.
Gavin nailed what ‘they’ were on the first guess. No reason to disagree with him.
There was reason to disagree with the sheer stupidity his subordinate was demonstrating, though.
“Brilliant deduction, asshole. Now answer me this: can you not read plain and simple English?” Ignoring the tirade of nonsensical squawks surrounding them, Hank pointed to the side of the ruined cardboard container. “In fuckin’ permanent marker: DO - NOT - TOUCH.”
All he had done was step away for a cup of water.
"Well, that kind of only invites the temptation, man! Why couldn't you have just said fucking - I don’t know, 'dragons, don't open', or somethin' like that?" Pointing at finger at him, Gavin glared as if this was all Hank's fault. In a way, it was, in part. A bit. "How was I supposed to know just what would be in there? And - can't you make them shut up?"
As if in response, the overlapping cries pitched upward in volume.
A second later, one of the wing-armed, sinewy creatures launched itself off the desk. The red wings and crests made it instantly recognizable.
“Dennis, no .” Moving with speed he didn’t think he still had, Anderson reached forward to snag the dragonlet by the back of the neck. His fingers closed on what felt like a scale-covered hose, attached to a wriggling ferret.
Christ, and he once thought Cole was a handful.
Brought up short, the former RK800 shrieked and flapped his wings, trying to wrench free. Papers caught up in the rush of wind careened sideways and onto the floor.
Effectively startled silent, the remaining two wyverns froze in place, huddling against each other as if instinct had set in.
Then the blue-crested specimen appeared to think twice, sparing its green counterpart a look and a get-away-from-me shove.
Typical Connor. Any excuse to be rough with Nick.
Letting out a squeak, the green wyvern shuffled away from him, shaking himself loose of whatever fear had set in, wandering to the edge of the desk to continue to squawk at Hank as he held onto Dennis, seemingly ready to launch himself into the air.
"Jesus fuckin' - " Taking a step back from them all, Gavin lifted a hand up to shield his (mildly toasted) face from whatever incoming attack could be coming. "The fuck did you just call that thing, Hank?"
“You heard right. For - whatever reason - agh, stop. Cool it.” Wrestling the reformatted android into a mostly-still state, hands clamping it’s winged limbs against itself, Hank returned the affronted glare before lifting it up to eye level. “You see that? CyberLife sent them back like this. Fuckin’ collars and everything.”
Twisting around to look back at Gavin, Dennis’ neck curled back in a tight S-shape. At the base of his splayed throat was a thin black band. Hovering in neon blue holographic letters was his name.
With a bark-like chirp, the remaining two wyverns stood up as high as their hind legs allowed, heads cocked like birds in a nest.
Staring at Reed a moment longer than was considered comfortable, smoke began leaking from between Dennis’ minuscule fangs.
"Hank! Get your fuckin' - dragons under control!" Letting out a yelp, Gavin tried to get out of the line of fire, jumping to the side as he did so, right in front of the other wyverns. Almost without thinking, Nick grabbed at him best he could with his tiny webbed claws, face buried into the detective’s hoodie, letting out a muffled squeak.
"What the fuck?" Ripping himself away from the desk, Nick fell back to a hunched over position as he did so, Gavin letting out a shout as he did so. "Seriously! Put them back in that fucking box!"
You opened it, jackass. Had to make sure you suffer a little for it.
Hank scoffed, setting Dennis down so that the three might regroup. “I’ll loan you the marker, too. You can draw your eyebrows back on.”
Standing back from the chaos, Connor seemed to pause and regard Gavin with a poignant look, evidently deciding how silly the man appeared. Chirruping in an improvised laugh, he summoned one small cough of flame to get the idea across.
We’re not getting back in the box. Piss off.
Glaring at the three tiny dragons, Gavin turned it to Hank after a moment, letting out a huff of anger. His already-red face darkened a shade. "Shut up, that's their fault! Seriously, there's no fuckin' way you're allowed to bring them in here!"
No way besides pulling rank, no. Hank knew better than to broadcast any smugness. This arrangement was fucked and a half, or CyberLife’s idea of a prank against the 7th precinct for reasons unknown. The best he could do was manage and try to minimize any collateral damage.
Gavin Reed’s mug was the exception to said rule.
“Watch me. You’re more than welcome to leave if you think it’s somehow more than you can handle.”
Compared to being shot more than a few times in his line of work, were three miniature firespitters really the worst Reed had ever dealt with? He didn’t miraculously wake up one morning with all those scars.
Set down on the desk beside his partners, Dennis put off any heckling in favor of taking a place between them. Nipping at Connor’s tail, he hissed and snarled back as the primary spun around to growl at him. Facing off like a disgruntled pair of robins, they snapped and beat their wings, quarreling over whatever pecking order they used to maintain.
Scrambling to the side of them, Nick let out a series of squeaks as he watched on, stretching up onto his hind legs before lowering himself again. Evidently, whatever he was trying to say was meant to calm his squabbling partners down.
Letting out a scoff, Gavin rolled his eyes as he watched what was unfolding. "Fuck, almost wondered if you lost your mind, but yep. Those are definitely them."
As if names on collars weren’t clear enough.
Perhaps Reed was going illiterate in his impending old age.
——-
Jeffrey Fowler was even less of a fan of the office’s new mascots. It wasn’t on par with the occasion of a green Chris Miller bringing a shoebox of baby mice in from the cold, but those blind, wiggling nubs were considerably more quiet than three yapping, grumbling winged lizards.
Put back in the box, with the lid off, all three of their scaly noses were angled up at the police captain. Eyes wide, keeping completely still, they looked appropriately cowed by his mere presence.
And the loudness with which he was shouting.
" -solutely not! I don't know just what CyberLife was thinking, but we don't need dragons, of all things running amok, especially this variety! And you, Hank, why bring them here, if they brought them to your door? How is this our problem, now?"
Peeking up at Fowler from behind the box’s edge, Nick let out a quiet mhrm sound at the question, as if adding his voice to the proceedings.
Arms crossed, Hank spared them a weary glance. He could admit to a little selfishness with this move. Maybe the RK800s reported to him, but as to who they were assigned to, that was the Detroit Police at large. If CyberLife was going to insist on this fracas of a mixup, there was no reason to think Central Station wouldn’t be a safer place for them.
Until further notice, the collective eye of the station would do better keeping an eye on them.
“They’ve been our problem all along, Jeffrey. Lest we forget why CyberLife loaned them over in the first place.”
Blinking slowly, with a bemused head tilt to match, Dennis bowed out of the staredown first. Slowly he dropped back out of sight. The raspy sound of wings brushing the charred cardboard sounded off.
Gaze twisting one way, then the other, and back again, Connor didn’t dare add so much as a chirp to the conversation. The dime-sized LED above and behind his right eyebrow blinked bright blue.
He could tell the conversation had taken a turn for the serious.
"No. CyberLife loaned us three humanoid androids for investigations. Not three miniscule - dragons, who can't even communicate! They didn't leave them with the station, either." Pointing that fact out yet again, Fowler glared at the box, before crossing his arms. "They are your responsibility. I can… understand, you bringing them here. But don't expect us to be happy about it."
“I didn’t think anyone would be. Which is why I tried to keep a lid on it. Not my fault if Reed can’t keep his hands to himself.”
Err!
Apparently in agreement, Connor scoffed, a ring of smoke puffing from his mouth at the thought. The three of them had been dozing quite contentedly before being so rudely upturned. Someone else, whom had already been named, made a ruckus where there hadn’t been one prior.
Ergo - fireball to the face.
"Something tells me these three would have found their way out, with or without Gavin stumbling onto them." Letting out a sigh, Fowler seemed to calm down by a bit, rolling his eyes as he did so, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Well, I’d know I would be a little rattled if I woke up one day in - another body.”
——-
Perhaps it wasn’t the most resolute of compromises ever reached. But Fowler was at least not too tempted to stuff the three wyverns into a plastic tote and snap a lid on it, latching handles and all. So long as the mayhem of having hatchlings underfoot was somewhat controlled, they would be permitted free reign of the bullpen.
Dennis broke the treaty first.
On any given day, at least six open boxes of O’Mansley’s doughnuts were strewn between the break room and the squad. Ben Collins could always be counted on to claim two for himself and those plaintiffs he interviewed at his desk.
The moment the man stood up and went around the corner to the nearest file cabinet, Dennis made a gliding leap from one desk to the other. Landing beside the flimsy cardboard box, he started nipping at the corner, mouthing at it in an attempt to flip the container open.
Sitting atop the divider window like some bizarre parrot, Connor took one look and ratted him out with an indignant screech.
Immediately wandering closer to see what was happening, Nick let out his own cross squeak at the sight, launching himself over to where Dennis was. Instead of joining in just yet, he kept to the edge of the vacated desk, letting out a few more squeaks that seemed almost questioning as he watched the red-winged wyvern struggle to try and open the box.
Hank noticed the crime occurring behind his back the moment Dennis sprung back over. With one glazed cake donut firmly caught between his teeth, weighing his head down like a pendulum, he made the jump the only way he could.
Clumsily.
He landed atop the stack of files and went sliding across the tabletop keyboard.
That was a little too much ignore.
“Dennis! For the love of - ” Connor interrupted the tirade with a shriek of outrage, leaping down to pounce upon his smaller trinemate. Jaws snaking forward, he bit into the stolen pastry and tugged.
Dennis managed only a gurgling growl and writhed, simultaneously trying to throw off the new competition and keep ahold of their prize.
Why? It wasn’t like they could enjoy eating the crumbly thing.
Hopping back over to both of them, Nick merely watched for a moment as the two of them played some sort of tug of war, before turning his head towards Hank with a questioning look, as if asking what he was going to do about it. When no answer was given, the wyvern turned back around with a hiss, giving up what little composure he seemed to have been holding onto, and grabbing at the donut with his own mouth as well.
Of all the things Anderson positively never saw himself doing in his profession, this was top of the list.
“All right, all right , that’s - hey, no! No biting! That’s not - for any of you to mess with.” Ignoring the unavoidable mess that would ensue, Hank threw caution aside to try and wedge his fingers between the three sets of teeth. This intrusion was met with another round of muffled chirrups. “For fuck’s sake, you don’t - have to be like this. You’ve been downgraded into three little hellions. Doesn’t mean - you lost all common - Dennis, knock it off!”
Giving up his argument for the moment, he resorted to thwacking said wyvern across the top of its head.
Yelping, Dennis let go, breaking away from the fight to scurry over to the far end of the desk. Defensively, he curled up, eyes flashing a furious blue. Crumbs stuck to his lips.
They’re not dragons - they’re rats, in dragon bodies.
One third of the way there, Hank slammed a hand against the desk. His potted Japanese maple jumped with the impact. “That goes for both of you, too. Stop!”
Shaking his head around the donut, Nick vented a sigh for his troubles, before reluctantly letting go of it and backing away, squeaking at Hank with some annoyance at being forced to let to of such a 'prize'.
Flinching at the loud bang of a cease-and-desist, Connor dropped the chewed-up morsel without further ado. Forcing a sneeze, dislodging impacted crumbs from his nose, he reached up with one hind foot to try clawing the rest out.
Christ. An android that picks its nose?
As if their gross, practically feral misbehavior wasn’t enough. CyberLife really was setting a high bar.
——-
Ben Collins, like the good sport he was, didn’t have anything negative to say about the pilfered doughnut. The worst he did by way of punishment was find a bit of tape to bind the box shut. The rest of the office followed suit.
Crestfallen, arms pulled into his sides, Dennis stood glaring through the plastic window of the nearest box. One could almost imagine the funnel cloud of frustration rising from the top of his head. The only real sign of unrest were the occasional twitches of his barbed tail.
“Your loss, kid. That’s what happens to thieves.” Content one out of the rambunctious three was under ‘control’ for the moment, Hank glanced over at the desk cornered against his own. “Same goes for you two.”
Connor wasn’t paying attention. After somehow finding the power button to the terminal, he was shuffling back and forth between screen and keyboard. Using a combination of his nose and thumbclaws, nudging and poking, the once-dependable RK800 did his best to bring up an active case to review.
Apparently miniature wyverns were not equipped with tactile interface technology. So. Making an enemy out of the login screen was the least offensive crime he had committed yet today.
Off to a different corner of the desk, Nick merely gave an uninterested squeak at Hank's words, content to just sit there and watch as Connor grew increasingly frustrated with his self-appointed mission.
The frustration culminated in the form of him hissing at the newest ACCESS DENIED to stamp itself over the screen. Rearing up, he placed both thumbclaws against it and thunked his forehead into the glass. The interface glitched and beeped its disapproval.
Still plugging away at his own assignments (if only to bring some semblance of normalcy to today), Hank could only shake his head. The kid was tenacious, he had to admit. Privately. Just this once.
“I don’t suppose you could lend him your thumbs, Nick?”
Letting out another deadpan squeak, Nick rose up to his hind legs, before dramatically flopping back down onto the desk, wings splayed to either side and legs pointed straight back. Without articulating it with words, it was definitely a no.
“Nah? Was worth a try.”
How funny would a case report filled out in clawmarks have been?
Probably would have better luck sticking a stylus in Connor’s mouth.
If it didn’t immediately dissolve to ashes first.