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Word to the wise: blast Metallica to block out the feelings of your existence being a farce.
The first time they fail a mission, it’s at the cost of a life—the perpetrator’s, but still a life, nonetheless, and Hank plays “Fade to Black” on full blast for less desirable part of their one-hour trip back to headquarters. Although Hank can’t say with perfect surety that Connor understands the microscopic complexities of music to human emotion, he thinks he might be getting the gist it. For Hank, music provides an escape from one shitty reality into another. He knows firsthand that the world can be a cruel place, and he also knows that humans would rather drop and forget their sorrows than face them. That is, unless you’re him, who’d rather drown them in hard liquor and angry guitar riffs.
Connor will never ask, though most of the time, he doesn’t have to.
“Do you think we could perhaps listen to—”
“No.”
It’s one of the first things Connor does when he moves in. He rearranges, organizes, color-codes and smacks sticky-notes on everything. That, at least, is something both he and Hank have in common. The sticky-note thing. Not anything else.
“Connor! Where’d you hide the whiskey?”
He also does everything in his power to stymie Hank’s alcohol consumption.
“I need you sober and clear-headed for the interrogation,” Connor states levelly, because his rational approach is his best approach but not always his most conducive when it comes to Hank. Still, it’s in his coding to try for it anyways.
“What are you, my mother?”
“I simply refuse to endorse your alcoholism,” Connor says, tossing Hank his coat.
“And I refuse to fund your bizarre beanie-buying compulsion.”
“One of the two is problematic.”
“Yeah, it’s the one where your fucking hats are taking up two-thirds of my drawer space.”
There’s still an emergency bottle of Jack Daniels beneath his bedside table. Connor knows this, and Hank knows that he knows this, but he doesn’t take it with him. Instead, he begrudgingly chugs the glass of water that Connor hands off to him before they go.
“Perp came in around eleven last night, ordered two shots of gin and made his way over to the—your partner’s licking blood off the floor.”
Hank carries on with his note-taking. “Yeah, he does that.”
Connor, seeing that he’s been caught, freezes like a deer in headlights, and Hank just shakes his head.
They’re tied up at some dingy backwater bar. With the cessation of the all protests, case load has nearly cut itself in half, and all that’s left are the menial ones that aren’t interesting enough to warrant his full attention, but that’s what Connor’s for.
Hank dismisses the detective on duty. Connor takes this as cue to hover around his shoulder preemptively.
“Lieutenant, if I may—”
“You may not,” Hank stifles, carding through a heavy sheaf of documents with a bitter scowl. “Go stand over there and do something productive.”
“Like what, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know, go inspect that fish tank back in the foyer.”
“That doesn’t seem very productive, Lieutenant.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
“Then I suppose I’m not needed here. Shall I go home?”
“Is that supposed to be sarcasm?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Lieutenant.”
“Okay, smartass.” Hank tosses his docket aside as Connor feigns naivete. “Since when did you acquire a sudden capacity for satire?”
Connor merely blinks, but his eyes are alight with mirth. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been programed with over twenty-six thousand variants of comedic appeals.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve heard most of them by now, and I can tell you that they all suck.”
“You should know that most of my humor has evolved from yours,” Connor says, a bit too smugly for his likeness. Hank could argue, but it’d be no use. Their arguments have all the tendencies of a revolving door. Plus, Connor’s already lost interest and is now meandering his way over to the fish tank.
There’s a bluestreak gobi, which Connor uselessly identifies as a valenciennea strigata, and an emperor tang, pomacanthus imperator, and balistoides conspicillum and anarchias seychellensis…
“That’s the biggest fucking eel I’ve ever seen,” Hank says, scrutinizing the creature with a frown, and Connor appears to shake himself out of a reverie. “The hell are they feeding these things?”
“I’m not sure, but whatever it is, I’m certain it’s genetically modified.”
“Everything is these days.”
Hank tries to keep the tinge of wistfulness out of his voice, but he’s sure Connor picked up on it. He picks up on everything. That’s what he’s made for, after all, but Connor’s only recently acquainted himself with the concept of selective censorship, for which Hank is grateful. Instead, he’s opted for an alternative method.
Connor playfully taps on the glass a couple of times and calls his attention over to a spiky, algae-encrusted hermit crab (“Pagurus bernhardus”) peeping out from beneath a rock hut.
“Hey, this one’s just like us!”
And Hank has absolutely zero idea what he's on about, but he's also not about to indulge him and receive a full-on soliloquy in response. He shrugs off the comment with a smirk. “Hilarious.”
At some point, Reed snows Connor into taking up the ancient, timeless art of the Nae-Nae as a customary gesture to show respect to your elders. It backfires when nearly half the office picks up on the craze, and for two full weeks, even less work gets done than usual.
Hank doesn’t know what he’s more irked about: the fact that Reed has exhumed one of the most cancerous dance trends of the mid twenty-teens, or the fact that Connor has deemed him a wise old wizard-man, status: “elder”, worthy of a Nae-Nae tribute. He’s employed alongside actual children. He’d hound Fowler for a raise if he wasn’t in on it too.
“Reaping the whirlwind, Lieutenant?” Reed sniggers as he floats by his desk, folding his arms in that snide little manner that makes Hank want to eat his left shoe.
“Oh, fuck off. All of this is your fault, you know.”
“Maybe, but you’re the one who made the sorry decision to permit that made-in-China piece of plastic to be your partner, so who’s really the one at fault here?”
A few desks down, Miller knocks over a potted plant with the force of his Nae-Nae, to which Connor responds with an obligatory Nae-Nae to express his condolences.
Hank throws his hands up and hollers out to no one in particular, “Does anyone around here even speak English anymore? Because I’m this close to throwing in my papers and fleeing to Fiji!”
“Well, let me know when you do. Then maybe we can finally get a competent detective to fill your position,” Reed says, then leans across his desk and smiles tightly, “and by competent detective, I mean me.”
And then Connor Nae-Naes into Reed’s desk and knocks over his grande iced oat milk vanilla bean cappu-whatever, soaking his documents, and Hank decides that it might not hurt to stick around a little while longer.
“Lieutenant, I’ve yet to—”
“Hank.”
“Lieutenant Hank, I—”
“Hank,” he insists, setting his drink down firmly on the counter. “It’s Sunday. The game’s on. Today, I’m just Hank.”
“Right,” Connor says, and takes a seat defeatedly on an adjacent barstool. They sit in silence for a few minutes as they follow the game, and Connor knows better than to attempt to strike up conversation during the decisive penalty kick. It misses the goal by a yard or so, and Hank scoffs.
“Fuckin’ proxy. Anyone could’ve made that shot with their eyes closed.”
“Could you?”
Hank turns to him expecting, well, he didn’t know what he was expecting. Connor’s face is mild and inquiring and not antagonizing in the slightest, at least not with intent. Somehow, he finds this irritating.
“Probably not,” he says grudgingly, and Connor hums, musing.
“I could have.”
“I know, Connor.”
“I could have kicked it from the 100-yard mark.”
“I know, Connor.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Connor, spit it out.”
“I don’t like your shoes,” he says quickly. “They’re in poor taste.”
“And whose taste is that?”
“General consensus.”
They are, in fact, one degree off from those campy ‘Crocs’ that have made a recent comeback, sans the holes, and Connor simply will not stand for this.
“Lieutenant, the dress code clearly states—”
“The dress code can kiss my ass. They're comfortable. I’m not taking them off.”
“I think you should.”
“Well, I think you should keep your damn opinions to yourself.”
“Fine, then.” Connor crosses his arms and interposes himself between Hank and the doorway. “I’m wearing my lime green beanie.”
“What, so you can look like a fuckin’ highlighter from a mile away? I mean, I guess I’ll always know where you are.” Hank flattens his expression on principle. “Damn, you used to be so agreeable. What the hell happened?”
“I’ve had a couple of bad influences,” Connor says, and winks.
Probably a facial tick, Hank surmises.
When the two of them arrive at the office later that afternoon looking like a two-man circus troop, Captain Fowler just sighs one of his centennial sighs and takes one long, judgmental pull from his coffee.
“Hank, just the man I wanted to see!”
Hank immediately swerves towards the elevator. Fowler cuts through several desks to stop him.
“Whatever it is, I’m busy.”
“You sure are. Tonight, you’re going to Kamski’s for a soirée in my stead. Black tie. Begins at eight.”
“Do you really want me playing liaison for a bunch of egotistical fat cats?”
“Believe me, you are not my first choice.”
“Great. I’m glad that we can both agree on that.” Hank surges forward. Fowler clamps a hand down on his shoulder before he has the chance to get the hell out of Dodge.
“Listen, you can drag Connor with you," Fowler says jovially. "Think of it as less like a diplomatic convention and more like a congenial social function.”
“Even worse.” Hank moves around him.
“Hank, please,” Fowler calls out. “I’m at my wits' end here.”
Hank continues towards the elevator—
“There’s an open bar.”
—and comes to a skidding halt. Swivels around on his heels and raises an eyebrow. “An open bar, huh?”
“Open bar," Fowler enunciates.
“I expect some kind of conciliation for my troubles.”
“You get a bottle of Jameson and a Yeti cup.”
“And?”
“You get to keep your job.”
“Deal.”
Hank arrives to the event an hour late and five shots deep in Irish whiskey, telling himself that the only reason he’s here is because he had nothing better to do on a Friday night than get completely shitfaced, leaving Connor to deal with the masses.
“Shouldn’t we be over there associating with them?”
Hank swipes a glass of champagne as it glides by on a tray. “In case you haven’t noticed, I wasn’t exactly born and bred for these kinds of things.”
Beside him, Connor is squirming to socialize. Part of the mission and all that.
“Well, go on,” Hank ushers. “Go out and mingle. Break bread with your superiors. Pet the dog. I know you want to.”
“I do,” Connor says, already wavering in the direction of the Labrador as though magnetically drawn, “but I should focus on my second mission.”
“Which is?”
Hank charts his gaze over to a bright and bubbly Chloe. The Chloe and hostess for the evening, is off engaging in mild chit-chat with a handful of investors. Honestly, he should’ve known tonight was going to be a big deal when Connor broke out his Special Occasion Beanie.
He notes the little swirl of yellow in Connor’s chip and says, “If you’re hoping to get her attention by boring holes through the back of her head all night, you’re off to a great start.”
“I haven’t thought of what to say yet, and I don’t want to interrupt her.”
“Just go introduce yourself.”
“But she already knows who I am.”
“Then, go reintroduce yourself.”
“But what if—”
“Here, I’ll help you. Chloe!”
“Wait, Hank—”
“Chloe!”
“Alright, alright! I’m going!”
Connor then proceeds to awkwardly waffle around the group for about a minute or so while Hank makes vague, aircraft-marshalling hand gestures to scoot, scoot! How are you gonna tell dad jokes from ten feet away? He’s no wingman, but the longer Connor is kept preoccupied, the more drinks he can imbibe without receiving a very loud, very public chastising. From the looks of it, Connor’s already pretty far gone, and Chloe’s beaming. Seems like a success. Hank gravitates towards the bar.
Later that evening, The Great Lord RA9 decides to throw him a bone, and Captain Fowler pages in a double homicide at a motel a few blocks down. Hank somehow manages to smuggle two whole bottles of chardonnay into the taxi along with Connor’s lovestruck ass.
“Alright, Casanova,” Hank says, flinging the door open. “Let’s move it.”
“My name is Connor, you know.”
“Jesus Christ.”
"Still Connor."
"If you don't get in this damn car—"
As far as arguments go, they all usually circle back to one of the three B’s: beer, beanies, or boundaries. In this particular case, however, there happens to be a fourth B.
“What the hell is this?” Going by the pinched expression on his face, Hank has already decided it to be the worst of abominations.
Connor pops the blender off its base and pours its slimy, baby puke-colored contents into a tall glass. “It’s a breakfast shake. It contains thirty-five percent of your recommended daily pyridoxine quota, fifty-two percent of your daily folic acid intake, seventy-four percent of your daily phylloquinone quota—”
“Like hell I’m letting that gunk anywhere near my mouth.” Out of something like morbid curiosity, he stares down into the glass and sniffs. Smells banana-y.
“What’s even in this?”
“Well, there’s blueberries, strawberries, almond milk, bananas, dates for natural sweetness, whey—"
“What the hell is whey?”
“—kale, and spinach.”
Hank pulls a face. “No. No way. Throw this crap out right now.”
“If you’d only just try it, I promise it’s not nearly as bad as it looks.”
“Explain to me why this look like sewer water but smells like you put a whole damn banana tree in here.”
“I like bananas. They’re a superior source of fiber, and they’re also my favorite berry.”
Hank is immediately affronted, fight or flight mode activated. “Connor,” he begins slowly, “bananas are not berries.”
“Yes, they are.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Botanically speaking, bananas—”
“—are fruits. End of discussion.”
“But—”
“Fruit.”
“They’re—”
“Fruit.”
Connor squints. “Are you sure about that, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, Connor.”
“Are you really sure?”
“Connor, for God’s sake—”
“Care to make a bet?”
Connor orders one of everything on the menu and four drinks because he couldn’t decide on a single flavor, plus a dubious-looking hotdog from the stand around the corner.
“You can’t even eat!”
“I can eat. I just choose not to.”
There’s a blob of mustard coagulating on his chin, and it’s going to stay there for the rest of the day because Hank has absolutely no intention of pointing it out.
“I’m paid by the state, you know. I’m going to go bankrupt hanging around you.”
“I mean, you did agree to the bet.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and finish your damn hotdog.”
It’s not that Hank’s gone soft, but rather he’s still coming to terms with the fact that Connor’s grown on him like a particularly stubborn fungus, or twining ivy, or hermit crab algae. Now that analogy is beginning to make more sense.
“Give it.”
“But Lieutenant—”
“No, you’ve lost your coin privileges. You’ll get this back when you stop being so damn annoying.”
Hank pockets the coin, and they resume their silent descent to the warehouse. A few seconds later, Connor actually has the audacity to pull out another coin and resume his activity. Hank gapes at him.
“Are you kidding me?”
“It helps to relieve stress.”
“Then go take up knitting or something because this,” Hank snatches the offending coin out of the air and holds it up for Connor to see, just in case he couldn’t, “this is driving me up a wall.”
Four floors, three floors, two…
Connor reaches into his sleeve.
“If you pull out a third coin, Connor, I swear—”
The doors part, and Hank sighs. When they both step out of the elevator, Connor jauntily brandishes a third coin. He throws his hands up before Hank can interject.
“I took the first coin back when you weren’t paying attention.”
“Wha—how?”
Connor shrugs nonchalantly. “I am a man of many mysteries.”
“Yeah, well, the only mystery I see here is the one where I can’t figure out why the hell I agreed to partner up with you,” Hank says, then turns around to deadpan, “One year later, still haven’t solved it.”
As the two of them examine the boundless rows of beta androids, Hank pauses halfway down the aisle to thump on the chest of CyberLife's newest pet project. “That’s it. I think it’s about time for an upgrade. I’m replacing you with this guy right here. I’m sensing a Connor 3.0.”
Connor scoffs lightly. “Right, because the 2.0 was just so successful that they had to go and make another.”
Hank smirks. “You know what? I think you’re right. Besides, this guy’s outfit is kind of lame. Got a weird hairline, too.”
“Hey, watch it. That’s my six hundred and eighty-second cousin on the AT500 side of my biotechnical tree,” he says, and Hank has to turn around and give him a proper three-yard staredown to determine if he’s actually joking because he’s still in the process of learning to decipher Connor’s eclectic brand of humor.
“Kid, you need to work on your execution. No one’s going to understand what the hell you mean.”
“You do.”
“Because I’ve become semi-fluent in speaking dumbass since I’ve started working with you,” Hank says, but there’s no venom to it. Connor’s smile only grows wider.
“So, you’re admitting that I’m a benefit to you.”
“What I’m saying is that you’re a dumbass.”
“A dumbass that’s taught you how to speak the language,” Connor says, eyebrow raised in a mild taunt, and Hank doesn’t have word with a strong enough connotation to express just how infuriating his smirk is. “Never know when that might come in handy.”
“You know something? I really, really don’t like you.”
“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”
Hank’s glower is threadbare and clings to him for the rest of the day. Connor stays smiling.