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Chapter Text

Hank woke up to the muted sounds of traffic and birds with a crick in his neck and bleary eyes at 9am; he didn’t need his phone to tell him the time; the angle of sunlight filtering through his bedroom window blinds was as accurate as one of those old decorative sundials some people still kept in their yards. 

He didn’t own one, a sundial that is, but he’d tripped over more than his fair share of lawn ornaments in his time as a cop—seen plenty of criminals get fouled up by them too.  Always good for a laugh—

The memory of himself as a young man making foot pursuits halted abruptly—cornering a desperate man; rookies making dumb mistakes; ‘red ice tombs’ in the subways; routine stops gone wrong; missing officers; death threats; blood, bodies, crying...

The time and grief worn police lieutenant rammed his palms into his eyes and scrubbed away the vestiges of sleep and snapped brain-locks into place.  That done, and once more in marginal control over his wandering mind, he stretched and yawned, twisting his back until it popped.  He wriggled his sore ankles.  Working for a late day instead of stealing it with a hangover was an almost novel experience. 

Yesterday, he’d supplied testimony at court as an arresting officer.  An embarrassing episode with his old suit resulted in Connor’s off-the-cuff suggestion that he not purchase clothing too small for himself—that self-assured beanpole. 

But then they’d pulled an all-nighter on a serial-android-killer case.  Thankfully it turned out to be an android suffering from paranoia who was stockpiling android parts from a nearby junkyard. 

Reed tripping over an old tire and falling into an open bin of old motor oil had been the last touch for a good case closed.   Hank would cherish that moment forever and he was pretty sure someone had snapped a picture of the arrogant detective’s tumble into a vat of sticky oil.  They hadn’t even needed him there, but Reed had muscled his way into the case, never one to be excluded from a potentially high profile case. 

Bottom line, though, Captain Fowler had given the exhausted lieutenant permission to come in late.  “Not like you weren’t going to anyway.”  Fowler had muttered without real venom. 

Hank yawned again; rolling out of bed, he grabbed an armful of clothes from a chair and trekked to the bathroom. 

“Yo, Connor!”  He paused in the bathroom doorway and called down the hall to the front room where his partner usually loitered in the mornings, playing with Sumo or filing paperwork via his wireless connection, “You still here?”

No answer, but that wasn’t surprising. 

Connor had recently been establishing his own morning routines which often didn’t involve Hank.

A familiar thud told him that Sumo had slugged off the couch.  The sound of untrimmed nails clicking on the floor announced the big dog’s approach. 

“There’s my good boy!”  Hank mock growled at the dog that had been his sole companion for so many dark years.  Nope.  Not going there.  Not today. 

The dog peered at Hank, ears perked, from the end of the hall. 

“Good dog!”  Hank threw the praise despite the sinking feeling in his heart and forced a tiny smile at the way his voice made the dog’s tail wag, bits of dander and loose hair fluffing off and floating around like a doggy-halo.  “Thought Connor was brushing you these days.”  He muttered with raised brows at the mess.  

Sumo ‘boofed’ and his tail wagged faster, thumping like a drummer against the narrow hall’s walls. 

Hank rolled his eyes and flipped on the bathroom lights.  A colorful mural of sticky notes plastered across the mirror greeted him.  After the first few times of not seeing the electronic notes Connor left on his phone or the paper notes by the front door, Hank had finally told him to ‘stick the things on the bathroom mirror.’ 

He surveyed the two most recent: plain yellow notes written in a strict, business-like font.

“Fed Sumo.  At work.”  Hank read the terse statements aloud. 

But then Connor had experimented with a bright green note and more relaxed handwriting that looped boldly in several places and grew narrow and spidery in others. 

“Good morning.”  A few streaks of sticky residue on the mirror showed where the android had repositioned the note several times to get it into alignment with the first two. 

Hank chuckled. 

A dark blue note wadded up in the bathroom trash caught his attention. 

Curious, he retrieved it with two fingers and gingerly spread it out and saw a series of half started words with the letters repeatedly traced.  Whatever pen Connor had used hadn’t shown up well on the darker paper and apparently the kid had finally had enough, scribbled over the entire thing, and tossed out the mangled note.

Judging by how tightly crumpled the paper was, Connor must’ve hit just this side of annoyed.  Whether at the paper or himself or the pen, Hank didn’t know, but he did know his partner well enough to envision the shy hesitancy to even use the notes in the first place and then the annoyance when the ink failed to show up on the paper. 

“Oh, kiddo.”  Hank dropped the note back into the trash. 

---

At the DPD station.

“Hello, Detective Anderson.”   The receptionist android greeted the tall, broad-shouldered Lieutenant Anderson.  She liked him best of all the humans at the DPD.  She’d changed her own hair color to a silvery-grey to match his. 

He answered her greeting with a half-hearted wave.

Hank was about to enter the bullpen, but rapidly stood aside when Ben Collins pushed past with a mumbled “’scuse’”, a hand cupped around his jaw and a smudge of blood in his mustache. 

“Whoa, what happened to you?”  Hank asked.  The older man’s cheek was splotchy and swollen.  “I mean, you okay, Ben?  That looks painful.”

A scowl followed by a wince twisted Ben’s normally good-natured face.  His voice came out garbled and Hank spotted a wad of gauze packed into his cheek.  “Reed.”

“Hit you?”  Hank’s hands fisted at his sides. 

Ben rubbed the back of his hand against his tender cheek.  “Jus’ a ‘accident.’  Flailin’ ‘round like ‘e does.”

“So, uh, where you heading now?” 

“Dentist.  Ape knocked s’thin’ loose.  Ol’ in’ry.”

Hank patted Ben’s shoulder.  “Go get yourself taken care of.  I’ll take care of Reed.”

Ben shook his head.  “Ac’dent.”  He looked like he wanted to say something else, but decided against it and waving his badge at the receptionist let her know he was leaving for the day. 

The receptionist, Hank couldn’t remember her name, looked slightly miffed and her LED spun yellow as she reworked the shift schedules to account for the unexpected absence of: Collins, Benjamin. 

She knew who was responsible for the additional work, and she overlooked the culprit’s shift preferences and seniority.  

---

Cursing Reed for being a blot on what was a designated ‘good day’, Hank scanned the bullpen, looking for the sergeant to tear him a new one for hurting Ben—accident or not.  Collins had been at DPD far longer than any of them.  He’d even partnered with Reed for a few months, but ultimately had to request a new partner, claiming that Reed needed someone who could keep up with him. 

Which was no one.  Reed habitually flouted procedure and often worked solo, only demanding a partner when going into situations that he knew required an extra pair of eyes.  

When the DPD had taken him in as a transfer, both Hank and Jeffrey were ensured by the new kid’s previous captain that he would be an asset to the department. 

‘Keep him in line and he’s good...well...decent.’  The captain had said during a personal phone call with Jeffrey.  The letter of recommendation itself described him as ‘like a pit-bull.’ 

For the past three years, Hank hadn’t had the will or energy to keep Reed in line. 

And so, Reed had come into the DPD and, fresh from a suspension involving a revolving door, toed the line, but it soon became apparent why he was transferred. 

But by the time Fowler realized the mistake, Reed was solidly latched onto the DPD.  Whatever personal failings he had, he was useful.  He took the cases and calls that no one else wanted.  It had been awhile since they had a junior detective willing to go toe-to-toe with suspects twice his size and weight.  As awful as the man was, and as much as he was hated, everyone knew he was an asset.  Especially during those years when Detroit was in an upheaval with the ‘red ice’ gangs and Hank’s taskforce had pulled the best of DPD, leaving Reed practically alone in the homicide division for several years. 

When Reed stepped too far out of line, Fowler dealt out warnings, suspensions and wage garnishes, but after a while, the brash detective would fall back into his habitual behavior. 

Hank crossed his arms.  Maybe it was time for another suspension and some more mandatory anger management classes.  At least it would keep Reed out of everyone’s way for a few weeks. 

Adding a conversation with Fowler about Reed to his already long list of things to do, Hank made his way to his desk through the structured maze of desks and terminals. 

Four data tablets and a cup of coffee waited for him—he assumed Connor had deposited it there along with the tablets.  Workaholic android.

Plopping into his chair, Hank reached for the coffee but a notification on his terminal distracted him. 

By the time he finished reading the priority file requesting his signature and his approval another file logged; this time sent direct from Fowler’s office; Reed, Connor, and coffee were all forgotten as he was swept into another non-stop day of keeping post-revolution Detroit from tearing itself apart as androids settled into the ranks of victim or criminal or concerned bystander.

----

Leaving a suspect in tears, but with a haphazard confession logged in the DPD system, Gavin exited Interrogation Room B and stood at the edge of the bullpen. 

The happy, blue glazed donut in his left hand starkly contrasted the detective’s scowl and disheveled hair.

Two hours for a measly confession about an automated taxi scam that had nothing to do with the homicide case he was working.  The guy shoulda squealed sooner.  Saved them all some trouble.

Just the thought of the hours of question dodging made his eye twitch. 

Shoulda been faster.  Shoulda seen the cracks he needed to pry.

Connor’s record for getting a confession was 5.23 minutes. 

The android had raised the bar not only professionally but socially—his programmed police skills and perpetual good attitude had everyone in the bullpen looking down at Gavin in comparison.

The sergeant knew what they saw when they looked at him: an average detective struggling to keep ahead in a station full of exceptional people.   He’d overheard the breakroom and parking lot chatter.  Even Wilson had been giving the android a ‘pep’ talk once, and ended it with a comment about being ‘more human than Gavin at least.’ 

More of a detective too.  Just because he hadn’t heard it didn’t mean it hadn’t been said. 

Of course it had. 

Gavin rubbed his reddened knuckles, careful not to get any donut frosting on his jacket sleeve.  There were no rules against slamming a fist into the interrogation table.  Jumpy suspects hated when he did that.  They tried to glare at him afterwards, as if that could make them seem braver. 

He chuckled darkly.  Idiots.  He snapped a vicious bite out of the donut.  He wasn’t a particular fan of the sweets, they tended to make him twitchy and sleepy at the same time, but he needed the calories.  Way too early that morning, he’d been dumpster diving for a reported missing cooler from one of his homicide cases. 

Normally, he’d have one of the station androids or some pathetic, starry-eyed rookie do the dirty work, but not with his record the way it was. 

If he didn’t stay relevant, he knew he’d be the first one cut loose when the DPD tightened the belt—and it would.  Fowler’s memos had gotten more and more tersely worded about work expenses and overtime. 

Eh.  His mouth lining began to tingle.  Gavin winced when the tingle turned to a burning sensation.  He stared down at the donut and ran a suddenly itchy tongue over his teeth.  Was O’Mansley experimenting with spicy recipes now? 

He glared at the innocuous pastry and slammed it into a trash bin. 

Fine.  Fine!  Who needed food anyway? 

He glowered at one of the station androids that quickly looked away from him.  He snarled and wiped his sticky fingers on the sides of his pant legs.  The resulting blue smear reminded him of the overflowing laundry pile back at the apartment.  Cat had probably dragged everything around by now...oh yeah...Cat had a vet appointment later.

He resisted the urge to drag his nails across his face.  Domestics...why couldn’t he just be chasing down a hardened criminal?  One that would preferably resist arrest.  He flexed his wrist, and snapping his fingers purposelessly, he glanced around the room again, enjoying the way various officers avoided his eyes. 

A brightly colored shirt caught his attention. 

And then he spotted the cup of coffee unattended on the edge of Lieutenant Anderson’s desk. 

Oh, yes.  Coffee.

You shouldn’t just leave coffee sitting around, old man. 

Annoy the android-lover and get coffee—multitasking was a wonderful thing. 

Running his tongue around his mouth again to try and rid it of the weird spicy taste, Reed sauntered over to the officer’s desk. 

On his way across the bullpen he saw an evidence box perched too close to the edge of...Bob, or Pete, or whoever’s desk.

He didn’t like Bob.  Didn’t remember why. 

A nicely timed swing of his arm set the already precariously positioned box toppling to the ground. 

“Hey!”  ‘Bob’ screeched and leapt up from his desk when the box fell with a loud crash and its objects scattered around his feet and rolled under desks. 

Gavin was already several paces away, but at the confrontational shout he spun around and strode back.  “You gotta problem?”  He snarled, leaning over the desk far enough to get an unfortunate whiff of the man’s excessively applied body spray. 

‘Bob’ recoiled, but he was surprised when Reed did the same.  The aggressive sergeant jerked backwards and buried his face, a sharp sneeze, and a slew of curses into his jacket. 

‘Bob’ took advantage of the unusual reprieve and darted down to the floor to gather up the spilled items, taking his time with the ones specifically under his desk.  He hadn’t really wanted a showdown with the detective. 

He watched Reed’s feet and not until the man’s shoes disappeared away did he venture out into the walkway to retrieve the remaining items. 

A few heads had turned at the beginning of the whole thing, but had quickly returned to their own business when they saw the cause.  ‘Bob’ set everything back into the box; hot tears burned at the edges of his eyes. 

His partner Patrol Officer Mackery whispered, “You should write a complaint for workplace harassment.”

‘Bob’ shook his head.  “That jerk doesn’t need any help ending his career.”  He said. 

Mackery nodded her agreement.  “The sooner the better.” 

Chapter Text

“So where’s plasti-cop?” Reed leaned back against Hank’s desk, propping one foot against it and leaving a deliberate shoeprint on the polished metal.  Wasn’t his desk.  He wouldn’t get yelled at for it.  His desk was clean.  Nobody touched it. 

“Get back to work, Reed.”  Hank forced his tone to remain level. 

Gavin idly watched one of the station androids enter the breakroom and then exit a minute later looking sadly disappointed.  Got caught up in its own fantasy and forgot it couldn’t drink coffee, or what?  

“Just answer the question.”  Reed drawled in the same tone he reserved for interviews with senile old ladies.

Ugly tension stretched between the two men like a muddy tug-of-war rope.  Gavin at his metaphorical end, with a provoking smirk, but Hank refused to even pick up the rope.  

Hank was well aware of the eyes around the bullpen sneaking glances.  Everyone knew where this was heading.  And they all wanted to witness the moment when he put Reed down.  He appreciated their confidence, but he didn’t want to be the man they thought he was...the man he’d become before meeting Connor. 

From the edge of his vision, Hank saw his collection of framed newspaper clippings.  That Lieutenant Anderson would have never become second fiddle to a loud-mouthed bully. 

Hank jabbed the keyboard keys and pulled up another report Fowler had asked him to review. 

“You ignoring me now?”  Gavin stretched out a foot and gave the chair’s legs an experimental nudge.  He’d got ‘Bob’ into tears in record time; he should be halfway to a good verbal fistfight with Anderson by now.

But the lieutenant was doggedly ignoring him.  Reading something.  Gavin leaned forward a bit.  Looked like a report on some sorta security measures for—whatever.    

Gavin drummed his fingers against the desk, deliberately close to the coffee he wanted.  It would be so tasty, in more ways than one.  His finger tapping grew erratic; he swiped the coffee. 

It was cold. 

Hank smirked and finally turned to face the younger man holding the old coffee and glaring at it.  “Go ahead.  Drink it.  I was gonna toss it in the trash, but you’re close enough.”

Reed didn’t need to understand the nuances of the insult.  He’d expected one.  Hank could have said anything and gotten the same reaction.  It took only a second for habitual nastiness to roll a reply off his tongue, too low for prying ears to catch as he leaned further into Hank’s space. 

He jerked back when the lieutenant surged up out of his chair, sending it toppling over with a crash.

Hank froze at the sight of the diabolic glee in Reed’s eyes. 

Reed held Hank’s glare over the cup rim, savoring the moment of victory, cheap as it was.  “What?  Did you glitch or somethin’?”  Reed cackled.

Hank sneered at the younger detective.   “I hope you choke.” 

“Hah.”  Reed chugged the drink.  Ignoring the cold beverage’s nasty aftertaste and the grainy, clotted texture of undissolved sugar and creamer.  He wouldn’t have minded spitting it back out all over the lieutenant, but that would seem too much like fulfilling Hank’s wish. 

He sucked down the last of the mess and seriously considered throwing the empty cup back onto the desk, but Hank’s flinty stare discouraged him.  It wasn’t the look of a half-drunk has-been.  So instead, he launched the cup into the trash bin under Wilson’s desk.  Patrol cops were easy targets.

Wilson huffed a sigh when a bit of brown liquid splashed out onto the edge of the bin, narrowly avoiding his pant leg.  He hated Reed’s antics as much as the next guy, but he wasn’t about to draw attention to himself.  Let officers deal with officers.  Reed had squelched the career of more than one idealistic patrol cop in a fit of petty revenge.  No one was sure how he managed it.  But it happened.

Swallowing thickly and clearing his throat loudly, Gavin ignored Wilson and strode back to his own desk, but changed trajectory to the breakroom, presumably for something to wash down the stolen coffee. 

Halfway there, his phone beeped and he stopped, checked the message and detoured to the exit. 

A possible lead on the missing cooler had just come in.  Head down and focused on his phone, Gavin shoulder-checked someone without bothering to look up.  “Watch it.”  He growled.

--- 

Rolling his shoulder, Connor dropped several dusty folders onto his desk and sat down with a small huff of overheated air. 

Hank looked up and smirked at the dust-bunny covered android.  “Whoa, what happened to you?”  He noticed the files and his smirk widened.  “Going old school, huh?”

Connor paused from brushing himself down and squinted at Hank.  “Most of DPD’s records have been digitalized, but,” he rubbed at a streak of dust on his tie, frowning when an oily streak remained.  “...but, unfortunately, many older casefiles were subjected to...human input...error.  Hank,” he gestured at the now badly streaked tie, “What...how do I—

Hank looked up and blinked at the mess the android had made of the garment.  “Holy—what’d you do to it?”

“Ruined it apparently.”

“Well, don’t be so mournful.  Soap and water’ll take care of it.”

Connor looked semi-indignant.  “It can only be chemically cleaned.”

“Then what’re you asking me for?”

“I thought you’d have a ‘Hankish’ method that would permit me to remove the stain.”

“I gave you a suggestion and you said it was stupid.”  Hank crossed his arms and sunk down into his chair only half-pretending to be offended. 

“Your recommendation was disqualified on the basis of being an impossible solution.”

“An impossible—there’s nothing ‘impossible’ about soap and water.” 

“It will damage the material.”

“Gimme.”  Hank stretched out his hand and snapped his fingers.  Connor loosened his tie and handed it over.  Hank felt a twinge of guilt for what he was about to do to the trusting android.  He just hoped the kid didn’t implode or explode or surge or whatever...

He folded the garment up and put in his desk drawer, slamming the drawer shut definitively. 

 “Spot's gone.”  Hank said spreading his hands, “Ta-da.”

Connor looked from the desk and the disappeared tie to Hank. 

“That isn’t...I...you...it’s...”

“It’ll be fine, kid.”  Hank flapped a hand.  “We’ll take it with us when we go out on lunch and drop it off somewhere to get cleaned.  Just relax.  We’ll get it back in time for roll-call.”

A small smile lit Connor’s face.

Hank shook his head again.  Aside from chasing suspects, roll-call was probably his partner’s next favorite thing about working at the DPD. 

“But seriously.”  Hank refocused on the work day.  “What’s with all the old paper?”

Connor gestured at the stained and age yellowed files.  “I need these for cross-referencing.” 

Hank rolled back a little ways in his chair and crossed his leg over one knee, “And here I thought you were hiding from Reed.”

“Why would I do that?”  Connor did not look up from his arrangement of the folders into a particular order that satisfied his algorithms.  The earlier lightness cut away, leaving a guarded tone. 

“Because he harasses you.”

“You want my actions at work to be dictated by Detective Reed’s poor workplace ethic?”

Hank had been scrolling on his music player, preparing another thirty minute playlist for the next slew of paperwork, but at the icy tone from his partner he looked up in surprise.  “What?  No.  That’s not it.”

The android’s fingers pressed down against the folder under his hand.  “Then what?  Why would you say that?”

“It was a joke, Connor.”  Hank back-peddled.  “I know you weren’t hiding.”

Some tension left his partner’s shoulders.  Hank tried again.  “What’s got you so snippy?”

And the tension was back.  Hank watched the synthetic muscles bunched in Connor’s shoulders. 

“I’m not ‘snippy’.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

Connor’s LED flashed yellow.  “I have an idea.”

“Tell me.”  Hank challenged with a grin.

The LED stuttered.  “Something to do with being ‘short’ tempered.”

“Bingo.”  Hank beamed in victory.  “So what’s got you worked up?”

“I...it’s just...”  Connor picked a stray wad of dust and hair off the label on one of the folders.  “...android stuff.”  He spent more time than necessary depositing the fuzz into the trash bin at his feet.

“Got a biocomponent outta wack?” 

Connor finally met Hank’s concerned expression.  The frustration exuding from the android diminished somewhat.  “No.  It’s not about me.  Not exactly.  The Jericho leaders...Markus,” Connor dusted more imperceptible specks from the desk, “They’re meeting with Detroit’s governor.”

“Yeah.  I heard about that.  Fowler’s been canceling leave requests so we have enough boots on the ground for it.  Tomorrow isn’t it?”

His partner nodded.

Understanding dawned on Hank.  “They asked you to come, didn’t they?” 

Another nod.

Hank set down the music player he’d been tapping against his knee and leaned forward, elbowing his terminal out of the way so he had a clear line of sight to Connor.  “You don’t wanna go?”

Red LED flash, then a forced blue spin.  “Does it matter what I want?  You know how Markus can get when he wants something.” 

There was a pause as they both recalled November. 

“Good point.”  Hank amended. 

Connor’s hands lifted a little before dropping back to his lap, “If I don’t—

“Hey, kid.  I doubt Markus is going to storm the bullpen and make speeches until you do as he says.  Jeffrey wouldn’t stand for it.  Besides,” Hank said, “You can’t go even if you wanted.” 

The android cocked a questioning eyebrow. 

“I just told you, Fowler’s not letting anyone take time off.”  Hank grinned.  “Just tell Markus that you’re stuck at work.”

Connor shrugged.  “I owe him the support.”

“Yeah, well, I owe Reed a punch in the face, but,” Hank waved his hand, “Doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen...not on the clock anyhow.  All bets off if he shows at any of my regular bars.”

“Yeah.”  Connor agreed distractedly as he slid one of the files over to himself and opened it.    

“So blue paper isn’t your thing?”  Hank was not ready to be sucked back into his terminal.  And that was the original question he’d wanted to ask before they were sidetracked with the tie and then...whatever all that other stuff was. 

Connor’s LED pulsed blue as he determined what his partner was talking about.  Then, without looking up, “Why would a respectable company manufacture a product that is unable to perform its advertised duty?”  His voice drifted into a lower register and trailed off entirely by the end. 

Hank wanted to stab himself in the face with paperclips.  Connor could always turn innocent situations into some gut-wrenching reference to himself.  The kid thought of himself as a defective product and an android first, and as an officer and a human only when Hank loudly reminded him.  And even then Hank wasn’t sure his partner considered himself part of anything—that was partially Jeffrey’s fault for bringing Connor into the department as an assist to Hank than as an entity in his own right. 

“Next time try a neon marker.”  The frustrated man pulled open his desk drawer; he pushed aside the folded tie and fished around for a few seconds until he located what he wanted.  “Here.”  He rolled the marker over to Connor’s desk.  “They show up really well.”

Still not looking up, Connor caught the bright neon yellow marker before it rolled off the desk’s edge and placed it in a pencil holder.  “I’ll remember that.”  He propped his chin on one hand and started processing the file. 

Hank had the suspicion that Connor planned to stick to his initial assessment that the blue notes were worthless.

--

After driving halfway across the city, Gavin pulled up to the alleyway indicated by his CI.  This sector of the city had been hit hard by the post-November rioting.  Most of it was still abandoned.  He checked his surroundings using the car’s mirrors.

Everything looked fine.  It wasn’t like he came out here on some dark and stormy night, half-drunk.  It was clear blue...well...he peered up through the towering buildings...sorta ugly grey skies.  But whatever, it wasn’t night. 

He should let someone know what he was doing.  Just in case...

He reached for the DPD radio and held it indecisively as training stalled his impulsive nature, but years of bad habits prevented him from actually making the check.  He wasn’t some patrol cop anymore. 

A detective sergeant should be able to handle himself just fine. 

“DPD Dispatch, that you D69-dash-0?”

Gavin startled and stared at the radio.  “D69-dash-0.  Uh...affirmative?”  He answered.

Dispatch picked up on the confusion in his voice.  “You’re clicking the radio again.”

“Oh.”

“Code four?”

“Code four.”

“We’re here if you need us until then: 10-3.”

“Copy.”  Gavin dropped the radio on the seat.  Dispatch had hounded him for weeks a few years back for filling their headsets with migraine inducing clicking.  It wasn't like he did it on purpose.  The stupid call button was just so...clickable when he was trying to think.  

He swore at himself for wasting time and kicked open the car door.  He could see the dumpster from here.  It was fine.  He was fine.  Everything was fine. 

Shoulders hunched defensively against the cold, he swaggered deeper into the alley to the dumpster described by his CI. 

It was a big ugly thing covered in grease and grime.  Urban farms green with old timer ‘red ice’ graffiti sprayed across the sides.  An old peeling company logo was slapped crookedly across the front end. 

Gavin banged on its side with his foot.  “Yo! DPD!” 

Sure he probably sounded like a moron to anyone listening in from the windows above, but he was not going to repeat the ‘jump scare’ scenario that happened last time he was dumpster diving. 

After listening and hearing nothing but the heavy drone of half-dead flies, he stepped back a pace. 

“Just a cooler.”  He muttered and pulled a set of rubber gloves from his back pocket; he sized up the angle he needed.  “I just need it to be a cooler.  I have enough dead bodies.” 

He snapped out a high-kick and knocked back the dumpster lid, skipping forward quickly to catch the heavy metal lid with one hand as it came back down, keeping one hand free in case someone actually was hiding inside.  He leaned back and held his breath as a small cloud of flies and stink escaped the container. 

One fly landed on his eyelash.  “Gerrof.”  He shook his head to dislodge the insect as it explored his face.  Another harsh head shake and it tumbled to the ground where it spun in pathetic circles until he crushed it under his shoe.

He stood tiptoe to peer inside the dumpster.  It looked to be mostly cardboard and a few sacks of trash.  Nothing too bio-hazard-y.  Still, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it off to the side onto the top of a relatively clean looking box. 

That taken care of, he peered back into the dumpster.  Yeah there was a cooler alright.  Half-buried in trash, on its side and covered in crap and layers of packing tape.  It was the wrong cooler.  He groaned and slapped his hand against the dumpster’s edge.  The cooler was too big to be the one he was looking for.  Wrong color too. So much for that lead. 

Might as well as just leave this mess and get back to the station. 

“Ha ha ha.”  His stilted laugh echoed off the alleyway’s narrow walls.  “Yeah.  ‘cause that’s why I became a detective.  ‘cause I have—

He grunted and jumped to heave the dumpster lid back against the wall so he could have both hands free.  “—no curiosity—”  The lid struck the wall with too much force and came slamming back at him.  “Gah!”  He yelped and barely saved his head and fingers as the lid clanged down inches from his nose.     

Shaking his head even though it did nothing to alleviate the ringing in his ears, he glared around the alleyway for something to—yeah, that’ll work—he marched over to the sturdy looking box he’d spotted a few feet away and soccer kicked it back over to the dumpster, positioning it with his feet and then, once more throwing back the lid, this time with less force, he gingerly heaved himself up and into the dumpster. 

Shoulda had someone else do this.  Shoulda grabbed Chris. 

Gavin gingerly avoided the soupier sections of trash and pulled the cooler free of its nest, careful to only handle it with the edges of his hands to lessen the chance of smudging any prints.   

Something heavy shifted inside, nearly throwing him off balance. 

Christmas.  DPD style.

He heaved the container over the side and back into the slightly cleaner alleyway, rapidly following it himself.  There wasn’t much to see about the cooler’s exterior.  No visible markings or labels.  It was obviously old judging from the fractures running along its seams.  He turned it over.  Nope.  Just looked like an ordinary cooler that someone decided to wrap up like a mummy.  The tape was haphazardly placed, so probably the work of a frantic human...he couldn’t imagine any android making such a mess. 

He thought bitterly about Anderson’s pet and all its fancy features.  That android would have gotten this thing out of that dumpster, checked the cooler and the entire alley for evidence and solved the whole problem within the hour.  With Anderson heaping praise on it as if it had done anything to deserve it.

And here he was.  Struggling to just take in the most obvious details of something that probably wasn’t relevant to anything. 

Too slow, Gavin.

His fingers curled until the nails bit into his palms through the gloves. 

Focus.

You won’t get any faster moaning about it.  Get a move on.    

He carefully pulled one hand free of its rubber glove, flicked it into the open dumpster, and retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket to document the cooler's condition.  Then one handedly, he used his pocket knife to slice away the layers of duct tape, holding the cooler steady with his gloved hand. 

He popped open the lid. 

Welp....that’s disturbing.

An android head stared soullessly up at him. 

Chapter Text

A puff of wind knocked over a dented trash bin sending it rolling down the deserted roadway.  The hollow ‘thud’ ‘thud’ ‘thud’ loud in the silence; the neglected bin vomited trash into the overgrown yards and driveways. 

The gust entered the alley where Gavin crouched over his recent find.  Empty plastic bottles and broken paper cups, old wrappers and half-disintegrated receipts, the dried out hulls of dead insects all pulled together into mad swirls, collapsing once the breeze moved away.  

A chemical odor wafted up from the cooler.  An android smell.

Gavin dismissed the smell with a grimace; but underlying the chemical odor was a musky smell of incense, potent despite the alleyway’s general stench.  He rocked back onto his heels and swatted away a plastic bottle that had rolled to a stop against his boot. 

One of his cold cases had noted the smell of incense at the scene.  Was this related?  Had a human murderer changed targets?  Or was that smell just a popular flavor?  A database search back at the station might turn up a connection. 

He snapped the rubber glove’s cuff against his wrist while he considered the implications of finding the same two scents at two separate crimes, years apart: one human, the other android. 

‘snap’

‘snap’

‘snap’

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds just long enough to reflect off the naked head in the cooler.  Gavin cursed and rubbed his face against his shoulder, trying to remove the sun dot in his eye.  Recalled from his thoughts, he squinted at the object that had stalled what was supposed to be a quick investigation. 

He didn’t mind surprises, but he sometimes—okay, so maybe always—wanted an easy solution.  Working non-stop at a thankless job sucked the life out of a guy.  Fast results got rewards; not creative thinking.  Creative thinking got headaches and ridicule when it turned out to be wrong. 

Gavin stared at the bone white plastic wedged into the cooler.  It was so obviously inhuman, despite the humanoid structure.  Its mouth hung slack and bits of wire poked out along with what might once have been a tongue.  It didn’t look like blunt force trauma—damage.  It didn’t look like blunt force damage.  He didn’t know much about androids, but he’d worked on a few kitchen appliances. 

Come to think about it...

Keeping his ungloved hand in his jacket pocket to keep it from accidently involving itself and contaminating the evidence, he carefully turned the head to the side and studied the ‘jaw’ section.  It sorta looked like someone with an unsteady hand had used a screwdriver or drill to remove the bits that held the pieces to—

He jolted back, nearly losing his balance. 

What was he doing?  Investigating this like it was some sort of crime?  Gavin stood up and backed away from the cooler.  He had real homicide cases to solve, interviews to conduct, and a cat to take to the vet. 

Report it.  It’s a crime against an android.  Call it in. 

He dug his phone out of his pocket and his finger hovered over the dispatcher’s number.  If he made the call, he’d be treating that thing like a human instead of a piece of damaged machinery.  He kicked the dumpster viciously.  Twice.  And once more. 

Call it in. 

He squeezed his eyes shut against the pressure building in his head.  “No person shall be denied the equal protection of the laws.”  His own voice sounded foreign as it parroted the memorized statement. 

But they’re not people!  They’re machines!  It’s trash!  Why do I care if someone wanted to throw out their broken toaster?

He looked down at the cooler and its brutalized content.  An android had been decapitated and its ‘head’ stuffed in a cooler.  Whatever he thought about it, whoever had done this was operating on another wavelength.  People are careless with trash, throwing it wherever.  Even during the height of the ‘revolution’ no one had bothered to hide broken androids. 

November 9^th.  A patrol turned nightmare as the glamour fell away and the familiar hum of smooth technology was replaced by shouting, sporadic gunfire, and...screaming...so much screaming. 

A massive and extremely illegal bonfire. 

Bodies.  Human?  Android?  Both?  Crawling and weeping, blackened and charred.  A mob shrieked.  At the bodies.  At one another.  At him.  Hysterical madness.

The same sort of madness that wrapped heads up inside coolers. 

His headache spiked again and nausea built up in the pit of his stomach.  Gavin leaned against the dumpster where he’d found the thing, the back of his ungloved hand pressed against his forehead.  He was not getting sick again.  Nope.  No.  He’d been sick for the past two weeks with some lingering flu-cold thing.  He thought he’d been better.  He was.  He was better.  He was fine.  But he was sick of androids ruining the one area of his life he could find answers in. 

He slammed his fist into the dumpster. 

Just eat crow, Reed.  Call it in.  Get on with your life.  He half-growled, half-groaned. 

A whirring sound above caused him to look up.  A DPD drone hovered overhead, its multiple scanners and lenses taking in the scene in the alleyway.  Most of the security drones had been damaged or stolen during November leaving surveillance blind spots throughout the city. 

Just his luck one would make its way over here. 

Its bright lens zeroed in on him; the basic AI recognizing his ID as a DPD police officer. 

It would have seen the open cooler and documented the entire scene.  Swearing under his breath, Gavin waved a four fingered salute and thumbed the number on his phone that would patch him in to the DPD dispatch channel. 

“DPD Dispatch, go ahead.”

“D69-dash-0.  Busted ‘A’ on 3^rd Domino Street.  Scene clear.  I’ll hold.”

“Copy.  Unit 975 en route.”

He gave the dumpster one more solid kick before finally peeling off his remaining glove and tossing it between the thing’s flat-lipped jaws.  Swinging his arms, he paced to keep warm in the chilly air. 

Quickly bored after a minute or two, he perched on a fire escape and filled out his report while he waited for the patrol to arrive. 

Five minutes—still no sign of the expected patrol car.  He tried complaining to dispatch but they only said the car was en route. 

He fell into deep and vivid contemplation of how exactly he was going to terrorize the patrol cops and then eventually his suspects later that afternoon. 

Rustling plastic down at the far end of the alleyway startled him.

He dropped his phone, barely registering its clatter as it tumbled between the metal slats and hit the ground.  Jumping down from the fire escape, he yanked his gun out of its backcarry holster and stared along the sights at the tall, blond, and green uniformed android that had stepped into the alleyway.

“DPD!  Hands where I can see ‘em!”  His heart thudded painfully in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

The android stood still with a large black plastic sack held tight in its upraised hands. 

“What’re you doing?”  Gavin barked at it, shifting his fingers for a tighter grip. 

The android moved one of its hands from the sack’s neck, but stopped at Gavin’s order.  “Don’t move!” 

It was speaking, but its voice was too low for Gavin to hear.  He forced himself to breathe deep and evenly.  Watch surroundings.  It hands were occupied with the black sack, so probably not a threat from there.  But what was in the bag?  It shuffled its feet.  Nervous?  Good.  It should be afraid.  Was there another reason?  Was this some android gang setup?  Was it buying time until its pals circled around to the back and cut off his escape? 

His insides twisted.  Was his CI an android?  They’d never met.  He’d just assumed...

Sweat rolled down his back.  He was gonna be murdered by androids.  “What’d ya say?”  He shouted, tightening his grip on the gun.  Ambush or not, he wasn’t retreating.  Maybe it was better this way.  Just go down fighting and—

“Cleaning.”  The android repeated louder. 

Gavin blinked and a wave of hot embarrassment swept over him.  It was a mechanized janitor.  “Okay...why?”

The janitor tipped its head to the side, shifted its weight to its other leg, and looked around at the garbage surrounding them.  “That...that is my function.”

Gavin didn’t lower his weapon.  He sneered at the pathetic machine.  “Oh yeah?  Who told you to do that?  City sanitary got rid of their androids.”  He’d seen a few...at the bottom of the treatment pools while their human supervisors floated above, facedown.

“Yes.” The android’s shoulders drooped.

“Then what’re you doing out here?”  Gavin’s thoughts skittered around and dredged up another suspicion.  Did androids ‘kill’ androids?  He chanced a glance at the cooler resting by the wall.  And the concern about being murdered circled back around in his limited queue of ideas. 

“Cleaning.”  The android looked confused at the repetition. 

“Alright, you know what?”  The detective gestured with his weapon, “Drop the bag and get your hands on the wall.”

The android clutched the sack to his chest and protested the command, “But.  I cannot put trash on the ground.”  His eyes were wide with horror at the notion of such a transgression.  “I’ll throw it—

“Get your hands on the wall!”

It startled.  “I’m not...I’m not doing anything wrong.  Please don’t be angry, DPD.  Don’t be angry.  I didn’t do anything wrong.”

 Gavin’s eye twitched.  “You’re an android.  That’s cause enough.”  He snarled.  Androids did not get to speak to him as if he was their public servant.  “Drop the bag.”  He added, “That’s an order.”

“I don’t have to take orders anymore.  Markus, he said so.  We’re, we’re free—

It was rambling.  It wasn’t a threat.  Gavin’s hand tightened on his gun.  He felt the textured grip imprinting into his hand, the metal warming under his skin.  There was no justification for shooting this thing.  No matter how badly he wanted to sink his fists into its plastic body or to see the explosion of blue splatter across the walls.  He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

He could say it attacked him.  Leave the mess for Anderson and his little pet to clean up.  He could easily set the scene up in his favor. 

Just like a real criminal, huh, Gavin?  Hypocrite.  You had no business trying to stop that bonfire mob.

He adjusted his grip on the gun.  “Drop the bag.”  He motioned with the gun to the ground, “And put your hands on the wall.  This is an active crime scene and I’m holding you as a suspect.  Cooperate and things won’t have to get nasty.”  His voice held no attempt at persuasion. 

“N-no.  I’m not bad.  I’m good.  I didn’t do anything wrong!”  The android recoiled from the advancing detective.  Even a basic scanner could detect the human’s aggression, a desire to inflict pain. 

Mindful of his footing, Gavin trained his weapon on the android and reached back for his DPD issued cuffs as he approached the android.  The cuffs snagged on his jacket lining.  “What the—

As soon as he looked away to disentangle himself, he heard a clack and rustle of bagged garbage, the pounding of artificial feet on pavement. 

The android was coming. 

He’d inadvertently dropped his aim while distracted with the cuffs.  The gun’s safety was still on. 

Gavin aimed, but his cramped fingers fumbled the safety.  His few seconds were up.  A tidy, green uniformed android loomed large in his vision.  A hard shoulder slammed into his sternum.  A hand dug into his ribs. 

The useless gun skittered across the ground and out of sight under a dumpster. 

The janitorial model lifted and threw with the same effort he’d toss a full sack of trash into a dumpster or a waste collection truck.  He couldn’t know to slam the squishy human into the ground as hard as possible—especially this particular human. 

Being thrown was not a new experience for Gavin. 

Stay loose, exhale, roll.

Broken glass cut into his hands and cheek. 

Vision swimming, Gavin saw the android stupidly running past, trying to retreat the way it’d come.  The detective scissored his legs, tripping the android.  He threw himself onto it; slammed its head into the ground once under pretense of subduing it and then again out of frustration.  And again because...because androids deserved it. 

With one knee solidly in its back, he snapped his cuffs around the subdued android’s wrists.  “Now, stay.”  He growled only half paying attention to its crying and stammering while he battled a surge of breathlessness and dizziness.  His fall, roll, tackle had been a basic maneuver, executed a hundred times without breaking a sweat.  Maybe...maybe he was...just a little....

 “You hurt me.”  The android whispered. 

Gavin glared down at it.  Blue liquid seeped down its face.  Gavin reached down and yanked it to its feet, ignoring its whimpers. 

The android shivered in the man’s rough grip.  “I’m bleeding.”

“See that.”  Gavin waved his hand and blinked away the haze in his vision, “That’s why you lot think you’re alive.”  He jabbed a finger into its chest.  “You.  Aren’t.”  The android flinched at each jab.  “You don’t have blood.  You can’t bleed.  Humans bleed.  Not machines.  Got it?”

“But Markus says—

Gavin was suddenly too tired to even put a bullet in the thing.  Speaking of which...

“It fell under there.”  The android gestured with its chin.

The janitor withered under the glare Gavin directed at him.  Not taking his eyes off the machine, Gavin crouched down and with a grimace retrieved his weapon.  That done, he shoved the android in the back.  “C’mon.  Move.”  He picked something goopy off the weapon and wiped it off on the edge of a box at hand.  “I said move.”  He shoved the android again.  He wanted to be closer to his car and the open street.  The alley was too enclosed. 

The devoted android tried to reach for its trash sack despite its cuffed hands.  “P-please.”  It begged.  “At least—

“Shaddup.”  Gavin slapped the janitor upside the head. 

The android spotted the head in the cooler.  He came to a stop forcing the human to do so as well.  He ignored the man’s noises.  He’d heard of humans like this.  This human.  This was one of those bad humans.  The ones who threw trash onto the ground or into the flowers.  Ruining everything with their carelessness.  This human was petty and vicious.  It had killed an android.  And carried the head around like a trophy.  That was wrong.  This human was wrong.

The cuffs snapped loudly.  Gavin only had time to see the broken cuffs dangling from the android’s blue stained wrists before his forearm was gripped in a crushing strength and the gun ripped from his hands.  His back hit the wall.  The android tossed the gun aside; it struck the opposite wall and fell well out of reach.  

Gavin knew what would come next.  He rolled along the wall and avoided the punch aimed at his head.  His evasion was sloppy, but so was this android.  It tried twice to pin him, back to the wall.

Moron. 

Twice Gavin punched and kicked his way loose.

But it was a tireless machine.  And it adapted.  A scarce half minute later, the android had him in a loose chokehold, away from anything Gavin could use as leverage. 

Gavin’s chest heaved as he tried to pull air into his restricted throat and into lungs that didn’t seem to know what to do with oxygen anymore.

“You are a bad, bad human.”  The android said, holding the struggling human’s wrists in one hand behind his back.  The human’s feet kicked empty air futilely.  “I just want to do my job.”  The janitor’s voice bordered on sorrowful.  “I don’t want to fight.”

Distracting, multicolored spots were growing and exploding in the edges of his vision.  Gavin had no idea what the thing was saying.  “Malfunctioning...p-piece of...trash.”  He spat the words at it as venomously as he could under the circumstances. 

The android shook his head at the gurgling, stubborn human that still bucked and squirmed despite its elevated vitals and obvious exhaustion.  “Trash is broken and dirty and damaged and unwanted.  I’m functional, I just self-cleaned, and my friends want me to be with them.”  It stared at the scruffy human.  “You stay.  Don’t try to hurt me again.”

The janitor android released his grip on the human, thrusting the distasteful creature away, and turned and walked away.  A second later, rapid footsteps told him the bad human had no intention of listening.  Turning, the android straight armed the man direct in the chest. 

Gavin couldn’t help the strangled cry when the solid arm impacted his chest with enough force to bruise ribs.  He stumbled back, winded from the force.  Half-blind by pain, he slumped bonelessly against a nearby dumpster and groggily watched the android walk away, trash sack over one shoulder.

Light glinted off his pistol just a few steps away.  Trembling with pain and anger Gavin half knelt, half fell and picked it up.  It took him three tries to thumb over the safety. 

Raise, aim, lead target, squeeze trigger.

The gun clicked without the satisfying crack of a bullet. 

Gavin slumped down further against the ground, pointing the gun away from any surfaces that could cause a ricochet, he removed the clip and ejected the jammed bullet from the chamber.  The bullet flashed in the light and Gavin trapped it under his foot to keep it from rolling out of reach. 

The android was still in sight.  He could still take the shot.  All he had to do was replace the clip in the gun.

He’d have to explain the body and every mistake that preceded it.  He stood; arms at his sides, the clip clutched in one fist, the gun and misfired bullet in the other.

Once the android was out of sight, Gavin trudged, arm curled around his chest, back to his car and fished out his first aid kit and set about putting himself back together.    

His jacket had protected his arms and back from most of the debris, but not his hands and face. 

He cracked off the top of a bottle of water and poured the cold liquid first over one hand and then the other.  Grime slicked off his battered hands and splattered on the ground.  Retrieving a pair of tweezers he plucked the visible shards of glass out of his broken skin.  He dropped the tool twice and had to re-disinfect it, splashing the liquid on himself by accident.

Disinfectant caused a familiar pain that returned a sense of normalcy and control.  Once his hands were thoroughly clean, and now chapped by the cold, he got out the little mirror and started on his face.  It only took a minute or two—not like he had any decent features to preserve.  He was content as long as he didn’t accidently poke out an eye. 

Soulless eyes.  Burned faces.  It was the twitching and crawling that was the problem.  Bodies shouldn’t keep moving after that sort of damage.  Be dead, be gruesome, but be still.

Replacing the tools and disinfectant in the kit, he set the whole thing back into its snug spot behind the emergency blankets and the box of emergency road lights.  He contemplated getting an energy bar out of the glovebox; he glared tiredly at the innocuous looking cooler sitting where he’d left it.  Moving hurt; thinking hurt.  

He shuffled down off the back of the car.  No way he was going to be caught whimpering.  His feet protested along with the rest of his body when they touched the ground, but he forced himself back down to the alley to stand, arms crossed, lord and master over the domain.  And when those patrol cops finally showed up, he’d make them sorry they ever answered the call.  

Chapter Text

The street was relatively clear for the next block, so Chris glanced away from the deeply scored and pothole infected road to check his phone, overruling safety in the hope of seeing a message from his wife.  Disappointed for the tenth time in an hour, he dropped it into the cup holder next to Chen’s bright yellow phone.  He ignored her judgmental stare for the breach in safety protocol. 

She isn’t married.  He thought.  She doesn’t understand. 

He stared out through the unwashed windshield at the mess of a city.  Back in November, the national focus was on CyberLife and Hart Plaza; resulting in an unpleasant shock when it was realized that other sections of Detroit had been brutalized—more so, because of the absence of conscience goading camera crews. 

Technically, Chris knew these streets.  Knew and could easily name each street and every intersection, the shops and even the parks if asked.  He’d been born and raised in Detroit. 

But if anyone had shown him footage or photos of this? 

He would have sworn the once familiar scenes had been warped and recolored with an editing app—Detroit, darker, edgier.  He almost wished it was night.  At least then the city would have a reason to look gloomy and dead without actually being gloomy and...well, dead. 

It was not a place for a young patrolman to raise a family. 

He sighed.  His wife wanted to return to work—and he was cool with that and said so—but he was against putting Damian in one of the pop-up box daycares provided by enterprising civilians whose credentials and licenses hadn’t been thoroughly checked. 

Only a few days ago, a kid had gone missing for an entire panic stricken six hours—stretching DPD resources even thinner and adding to the pressure for the president to send the National Guard back in; a measure vehemently rejected by both DPD and androids.  Chris couldn’t fault them for that. 

At least the Detroit police officers were becoming, for the most part, accustomed to the idea of androids as not-property.  Adding hotheaded newcomers with something to prove to the DPD would only stoke fires. 

The DFD and other emergency service members helped as much as they could with the search for the missing kid, but they lost most of their android help through defection or confiscation.  And the DFD was still putting out gas fires, smoldering bonfires, and the occasional electrical fire.  Not to mention all the debris clearing from looted buildings. 

Android help with the search for the human child would have been useful, Chris thought, but the ‘Jericho’ androids—the news stations’ shorthand for the revolution’s peaceful element under Markus—had issued a statement that they would be vigilant in watching for the missing person, but that there were still pockets of violence against androids that made them hesitant to form any joint search efforts.  

No one had failed to notice that none of the androids were helping with city clean up either even if they were obeying DPD orders to stay out of the restricted zones. 

It didn’t take a social expert to read the underlying—

Anyway, Chris tightened his grip on the wheel, the kid was found sleeping in an abandoned car by a homeless man.  The reporters spun it into a ‘feel good’ story in which DPD was an incompetent entity.

Which we are.  Chris’ thoughts darkened.  Everything from the collapsing back wall in the gym to the leaky parking garage to the officer performance reviews—it was all on the low end of ‘bad’.  Or would that be the high end?...either way, things weren’t good at DPD and there was no sign of improvement despite Fowler’s efforts to hold everything together. 

Chris brought himself away from social and departmental politics that were too big for a lowly patrol officer and back to his own small household problems.  The ‘discussion’ with his wife went round and round half playfully, at least he’d thought it had been playful, until she brought up November and that they should move to ‘a quieter, nicer city where our baby can grow up with a father instead of a memorial plaque’.  He suspected she’d rehearsed that or maybe her parents had fed that line to her. 

Move out of Detroit?  He didn’t join DPD to run away as soon as trouble sprang up.

‘I didn’t get married so I could be a single mother’ had been her response. 

Things went downhill from there.

The young policeman distracted himself from his domestic concerns by attempting to decode the mangled and graffiti covered road signs that ‘clanked’ and ‘clattered’ loosely on their poles.  He was familiar with most Detroit gang signage, but these were all new, and, very much not the android freedom symbols. 

Beside him, Chen stirred out of deep thoughts or a nap.  He wasn’t sure what she did over there half the time.

“Shouldn’t be that hard to get someone out here with a wrench to tighten those bolts.”  Chen muttered.  “I can’t believe how slow it’s taking us to pull the city back together.”

Chris caught sight of her reflected frown in the car’s side mirror. 

“You know what?  Stop, pull over.”  Chen ordered. 

Chris’ survival instincts shrugged at him—he was torn between the need to arrive promptly at Reed’s location and the need to accommodate Chen.  She always did this.  Periods of silence ending with her careening off on some tangential, self-appointed mission while they were in the middle of a routine patrol.  “I think we should—

“And we will.”  His partner said.  “This’ll only take a minute.  I promise.”  Chris bit back a sign of resignation and pulled over to the curb.  Chen fished her cold weather gloves out of the glove box and stepped out of the car, pulling on her hat and zipping up her jacket.

Staying in his seat, Chris watched her circle around to the back and pop the trunk.  He heard the unmistakable sound of their heavy overstocked toolbox and the jangle of tools—things you never knew you needed as a cop until you realized that you needed them.

The next minute Chen, several bolts complete with washers and nuts lodged between her teeth, was struggling to straighten the nearest sign—an animal crossing sign for....ducks. 

Oh.  That made sense.  There was a small park nearby with a little pond, wasn’t there. 

Checking his phone one more time, Chris scooted out of the car and after glancing around at his surroundings jogged over to help his partner. 

It took a few tries and much swearing, but they finally got the sign sitting straight and steady again. 

Both cops hurried back to the car, pulling their gloves back on over half-frozen and bruised fingers from messing with the cold metal for more than ‘a minute’. 

Maybe ‘Chen minutes’ were longer than ‘Chris minutes’.

Chris cranked up the heater and hoped that Reed was in a good mood today.  'Reed minutes' were like seconds.

--

After a few more minutes of driving, a mechanical “Turn left in 300 feet” interrupted the two cops’ thoughts.  The confident GPS was certain of their obedience. 

“Naw, don’t do that.”  Chen said, leaning forward and pointing through the windshield, “There’s some sorta barricade set up down that street.”

“How d’you know?”

“I saw it through a broken fence a few houses back.  Practically impossible to miss, they built it out of orange road signs.  Just keep going down here; I know a different way.”

“Prepare to turn left in 50 feet.”

Chen swiped a finger over the GPS screen to pull up a manual route selection, “Be quiet.”  She muttered at it. 

“Make a U-turn.” 

“You make a U-turn.”

“Huh?  Here?”

“No not you.  I was...ah...talking to the GPS...take a left up here.”  Chen ignored Chris’ grin and pulled up the screen she wanted on the GPS and tapped a few settings to overrule the indignant system that was growing more and more agitated and prompting more and more radical routes as it tried to anticipate the humans’ travel whims. 

Chen continued giving Chris directions while she recalibrated the program.  “After that overturned car, the red one.  Watch that powerline off to the right, twenty feet, one o’clock.  You see it?” 

“Yeah.  Thanks.”  He glanced back down at the phone in the cup holder and repositioned it so he’d see as soon as a message notification came in.  While he was distracted, the curb came up and he took the left turn a little too sharply. 

Chen yelped and gripped the door’s armrest when the front tire clipped the edge of the curb. “If you do get a text, it won’t mean anything if you’re dead.” She snapped once all four tires were back on the ground.

“Sorry.”  Chris eased the car around a pile of garbage bags that had spilled over the sidewalk and into the road.  But by avoiding that, he ended up driving under a low-hanging branch; it scraped the roof of the car making them flinch at the screech. 

“You trying to destroy my baby?”  Chen glared at him.  “It’s bad enough we can’t wash ‘er.  You have a quota of scratches and dents you need to log?” 

Chris didn’t think she wanted an answer so he stayed quiet.  Like he should’ve with his wife. 

Turning into the alleyway entrance, Chris groaned when he saw Detective Reed.  From the tense set of his superior’s shoulders to the look on his face, the patrol officer knew Reed was angling for a fight.   

“Uh-oh.”  Chris pretended to tap the brakes, “I think the breaks just went out.”  It was a weak joke, but he needed something to lighten his mood and combat his rising anxiety. 

“Stop it.”  Chen shook her head.  “He doesn’t deserve that.”

Chris slammed on the breaks and swung around to stare at her.  “Come again?”

From the corner of his eye, through the windshield, he saw the chronically impatient Reed flap his arms out wide in a soundless flare of ire. 

“That guy’s about to verbally abuse us for the next ten minutes and possibly the next ten years of our lives just for the thrill of it.”  Chris switched off the engine and pocketed the key.  “And you’re against running him over?” He was forced to wait for an answer while Chen radioed in their arrival to dispatch. 

“Dispatch.  975. Code Eleven—D69-dash-0.”

“Copy.  Good luck.”

“Copy.  975. Out.”

She clicked off the radio and checked her gear, stylus and tablet, and then stared at Chris seriously, hand on the patrol car’s door handle.  “Two officers were killed last year in a premeditated hit and run.  The year before, a detective on her way home...a hotshot sideswiped the curb.  Lost control of the vehicle." 

“I wasn’t really going to, you know, hit him.”

“Vehicular murder or manslaughter isn’t a joke, Chris.”  Her expression was dark. 

“I’m sorry, Tina.”  Chris realized that this was more than professional sympathy for colleagues, “Did—

A loud thump on the car’s hood made both officers jump in their seats.  Reed slammed his hands down onto the hood again, rattling the entire cab.  “Get out here.”  He snarled, his voice muted through the windows. 

Subdued from their conversation rather than by the sergeant’s hostility, Chen and Chris exited the car, snapping the doors shut in tandem.  Chris straightened his jacket; Chen, her hat.  Not to look presentable for Reed, but to occupy their hands under his belittling head to toe mock appraisal. 

“Detroit’s finest.  Heh.”  Reed’s derision undermined the words.  He wiped the hood’s dead bugs off his palms and onto his pant legs.  In retribution, he scraped alleyway crap off his shoes onto the car's tire. 

Chen clenched her jaw.  Most of the water systems were running again, but washing patrol cars had been indefinitely prohibited and she’d been forced to drive around in a car that practically had its own ecosystem now. 

“They train you to be slow or you born like that?”  Reed redirected his focus from his impromptu grooming session back to the two cops.  His voice rose another notch.  “A suspect got away because you two decided to take a scenic route!”

Chris spun his wedding ring around his finger.  The motion caught Reed’s eye and Chris quickly stuffed his hands into his pockets.   

“Dispatch said the scene was clear per your report.”  Chen’s voice was as flat as possible.  “You could have radioed in an update if you needed help.”  Her enunciation was heavy on the last word.

Chris winced inwardly.  Reed wasn’t to be confronted, he was to be obeyed.  He made that clear to every newcomer.

“Oh?” The sergeant’s movements went from showy wide gestures to tightly coiled aggression.  “Oh?”  Entire body tense, he stalked into Chen’s personal space.  His face inches from hers.  “It’s my fault?  That what you’re saying?”

Standing her ground and acting as if she wasn’t bothered, Chen said, “Sir.  You got a report for us?”   

Reed’s lips compressed to a thin line.  He looked down where Chen’s hand was set over her DPD issued stun gun.  

He scoffed.  “If you’re reaching for it, draw it.”  He flung out one arm, narrowly missing Chris’ nose.  “Otherwise you’re just telegraphing.  And you lose your advantage.  You,” He turned away from Chen and grabbed Chris’ arm and shoved the man to walk first into the alleyway.  “This way.  Go.  Stop dragging your feet.  Waste of time.  All of you.”  Each word was followed by a push. 

Chris tried to give the irritable sergeant the recording tablet, but it was shoved roughly away.  “Get that thing outta my face.”  Reed’s snarl was back in full force.  “You think I’m gonna do grunt work?  That’s what you’re here for.  You an’ slow draw Stacey over there.” 

Chen stepped up.  Chris didn’t deserve to be treated like some, some...android.  Besides, her name wasn’t ‘Stacey’ slow draw or otherwise.  And, and, she’d just finished telling Chris to not pretend to kill Reed.  The sergeant owed her a little civility for that if nothing else.  An internal growl built up inside her chest. 

“If you don’t have anything to add, give us your report and you can be on your way, sir.  We’ll notify Lieutenant Anderson and he’ll take over.”  Reed's back remained stubbornly turned.  Chen kept her voice and words perfectly respectful and added, “His android can have this wrapped up in an instant.”

Until that moment, Chen had only seen one other man spin on his feet that fast without falling over.  But her admiration for Reed’s footwork vanished in the next second. 

The sergeant’s face was ugly with hatred. 

Chen squared her shoulders and lifted her chin defiantly.

Chris was two feet away from Reed, but it might as well been two miles. 

Reed’s arm was already moving. "You—

“Don’t!” 

Chris’ useless shout was cut off by a crackle of electricity. 

--

“Tina.”  Chris squawked. “Wha’d you do?”  He pulled off his hat and rubbed his hands over his head.  He backed away from their superior officer who writhed like a dying snake on the filthy alleyway ground as the last of the electricity dispersed. 

With a nonchalance she didn’t feel, Chen reloaded the stun gun—hours of practice allowed her to slot in the new battery on the first try despite the sudden waver in her hands.  “Did I do that right, sergeant?”  The sneer felt wrong on her face and she quickly wiped it away, along with the cold sweat that had gathered on her face. 

“He’s gonna kill us.”  Chris’ ring was cutting a groove into his finger.  “Our jobs.  We’re gonna lose our jobs.  I can’t be unemployed!”  He leaned against a dumpster.  “Why’d I get married?  What was I thinking?  I can’t do this.  Let the androids take our jobs.  I don’t care.” 

“Take a chill pill, Chris.”  Chen snapped at her patrol partner as she knelt next to the downed sergeant, mindful of the glass stabbing through her uniform pants.

She’d been ready to fight the man to the bitter end, certain of her own defeat—there were stories about Reed being impervious to weapons.  Like a devil or something.

But instead of coming up swinging and giving Chen the fight of her life, Reed only groaned and curled in on himself. 

Chen shifted her weight to relieve the pinpricks of broken glass on her knee.  Reaching around Reed, she unclipped the holster from the oblivious sergeant’s belt and handed it back to Chris.  “Hold that for a minute.” 

She felt the weight leave her hand as Chris slowly pulled himself back together.  “Hey.”  She slapped Reed’s face sharply.  “Hey.  Sergeant!” 

His eyes opened but they were glazed and unfocused.  Chen swore.  The DPD stun guns were only supposed to incapacitate.  She pushed her hat back from her forehead.  Leave it to Reed to die from sheer perversity.  She conducted a swift evaluation of his vitals.  Elevated but steady; his breathing seemed okay. 

Now if only he’d stop staring through her.  She rubbed his sternum roughly with her knuckles.  She hid a sigh of relief at the stream of mumbled curses as he regained awareness, blinking slowly.  She tapped his face again earning a dull but confused glare.  “Hey.”  She moved a finger from side to side.  “You with me?”

Instead of answering, Reed stared at the taser Chen still held uncomfortably close to his head.

“Would you say I had the advantage?”  Chen asked and smirked at the answer she got.  She stood up without offering a hand to her superior and replaced the stun gun on her belt. 

Reed clambered to his feet, one hand splayed against the wall for support.  He eyed Chen and then Chris.  He seemed to struggle to form words and finally spat out a throaty curse.  Then he beckoned to Chris without taking his eyes off Chen.  “You.”

“Sir?”  Chris stepped forward.  He had no idea what was about to happen and he had no idea who’s side he’d take when it did happen. 

He was saved from deciding when Reed snatched the reporting tablet out of his hands and bounced his phone against it twice to initiate the download of his report.  “That’s.”  He swallowed tightly.  “That’s it.  That’s the report.”  Noticing the holstered gun in Chris’ hand, his hand went to his own back, realizing for the first time that he’d been disarmed. 

“Give.”  He snapped out his hand and uncurled stiff fingers.  Chris hesitated.  Reed snapped his fingers awkwardly.  “I’m not gonna shoot you.  Give it.” 

Behind Reed’s back, Chen motioned with her head and Chris handed over the weapon.  But this time, he told himself, he’d be ready if Reed tried to get violent again. 

Strapping the weapon to his belt, Reed leveled another glare at Chen as if to memorize her face, then he turned and headed out of the alley toward his car muttering to himself and cursing everything in sight.

Chris watched the car disappear down the street and then he returned to help his partner prepare the scene for Anderson and Connor.  Dispatch had said it might take a while for Anderson to arrive, apparently he was busy at another scene right now. 

Lunch probably. 

Good for him. 

“Here.”  Chen called.  Her voice far too calm for what had just occurred.  “Chris.”

Still composing his defense for when Reed dragged them before the Captain—technically they were all in the wrong, so wouldn’t Reed get himself into trouble too by mentioning the whole thing?—Chris turned when he heard his name called again. 

He was just in time to catch one of the holographic reflector units Chen lobbed at him.  He set it down and adjusted its angle so it would cover the entire mouth of the alleyway.  This was good.  This was normal everyday cop work.  No drama. 

A concentrated frown marred Chen’s normally placid features as she programmed the police barriers.  The screen kept informing her ‘signal not found’ and to ‘please complete setup’.  “I’m trying.”  She said.

‘para espanol...’

“No.”

‘enter d̸a̴t̶e̸?̷’

“No.”

These old holographic projectors were the bottom of the line when Collins was a rookie, if the older detective’s complaints were to be believed.  She shook the device several times, swearing at it, until it clicked and whirred to life.  “That’s better.”  Patting it gently, she set it down and went to help Chris finish aligning the other perimeter units. 

“Hey Chris.”  She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets and leaned causally against the wall. 

“What’s up?” 

“You’ll back me against Reed, right?  If he goes to the Captain?”

Chris looked away.  “Tina,” he swore at the position she was putting him in.  “I gotta family now.  I can’t be getting involved in vendettas with Reed.  He’ll break me.”

Chen set her jaw.  “So that’s a ‘no.’”

“Look—

Chen cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “No.  Forget it.”  She stared coldly away into the middle distance, waiting for the next person in line to come and take charge of this miserable scene. 

“Tina—

“I said forget it, Miller.”

Chapter Text

“30 dollars for a tie.”  Hank griped and handed over his card.  He tightened his hold on it at the last minute, forcing the other man to tug it free from between Hank’s fingers.

The dry-cleaning shop’s owner merely smiled while he ran the grumpy police lieutenant’s card under the card reader.  “Very difficult to stay open.”  He explained with a pointed look at the thick sheet of polymer secured over the shop’s broken window.  Overhead, the lights crackled and dimmed momentarily as if to support the man’s claim.  “Supplies low, androids gone.”  He bent his fingers down with each item.  “Customers gone.”

Hank was unimpressed.  He wouldn’t be surprised if the man had broken his own window and rigged a wireless control over the lighting.  A restaurant owner a few years back had used the same trick to avoid damage from ‘red ice’ protection racket enforcers.  She would deface her own store and color bruises and wounds on herself with stage makeup—for two years she played the dangerous game.  Successfully maintaining control over the amount of damage inflicted upon her shop and herself. 

But this guy?  Hank glowered at the drycleaner, a tiny elderly man with a face covered in deep wrinkles.  He smiled way too easily.  Hank was willing to bet the guy had an entire storeroom of stockpiled supplies.  The guy was milking this lone customer for every cent. 

Little rip-off artist.

“Don’t try an’ tell me about supply an’ demand.  I know a shake down when I see it.”  Hank leaned down on the low counter.  “What’s to stop me from hauling you down to the station for extortion?”

The drycleaner grinned and held up Connor’s tie with two prosthetic fingers—the result of a workplace accident with an industrial shirt presser.  “This tie.  An’ cops have bigger things to worry ‘bout.”  He smiled again in the face of Hank’s grumbling and he hummed and bobbed in time to the printer’s ‘shuff-shuff’ as it churned out a claim ticket. 

He wasn’t wrong.  DPD’s holding cells were turning into micro-reunion halls for the criminal element.  Hank thought about the headache of a brawl that had erupted a few days prior.  Some blockhead, probably Reed, had stuffed three suspects into the same cell assuming they were part of the same gang that had been stealing windows—of all the ridiculous things to steal. 

Well, whoever had booked and assigned the cells hadn’t bother to check criminal affiliations and rivalries.  Two of the suspects turned on the third within the hour.  What a mess.  At least android ‘blood’ evaporated. 

Hank muttered and snatched the claim ticket, checking it over as he did so.  Across the top, in the shop’s cheerful font was the name ‘CONNOR’.  Below were the order details: 1 man’s tie-stained.  Total: $30.00.  THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS!  WE LOVE YOU!

Disturbed by the happiness assaulting his eyes, Hank thrust the receipt out to his left, expecting Connor to take it from him.  “Here.”  He flapped it impatiently. 

Nope.  Nothing. 

He turned.  No Connor.  That was both surprising and yet not.  Hank, for all his detective skills, had yet to determine what caused Connor to spontaneously wander off without a single word.  It was something of a habit, Hank supposed; but, it was a dangerous one.  Especially when they worked a crime scene.  When conducting boring errands like food runs, it was merely annoying.  Hank would be trying to remember Sumo’s dogfood brand and calculate costs, turn to ask Connor’s advice.  And there’d be no Connor.  Ten minutes wasted only to find the kid in some random aisle, fascinated by whatever had captured his full attention. 

The shop owner jerked his head meaningfully toward the far wall where several clean large and extremely fluffy blankets were airing on an enormous rack.  The android’s back was barely visible from where he was wedged between two of the downy blankets. 

Oh, boy.  Hank rolled his eyes and stomped across the room. 

His partner’s eyes were closed and his LED created a halo of blissful blue light against the fabric that surrounded him as he rubbed his cheek to and fro against the blanket.

“Hey.  Connor.”  Hank called out.  No response.  “Connor, let’s go.”  A bit louder. 

Only last month Connor was easy to keep on track, but, Hank rapidly discovered, the deviant tended to slip into his own little world.  It was a useful work habit; the android would sit silently at his desk or stand, arms crossed, before an evidence wall and data crunch and work out scenarios until he solved the latest crime.

But sometimes—Hank tapped his foot as he gave the android another ten seconds to acknowledge his call—at unexpected moments like this, Connor would completely ignore the entire world—and Hank—for something stupid and insignificant.  Last time it was a gel and bead filled stress ball he’d found rolling in the street. 

He suppressed a shudder at the memory of the horridly ugly, filthy, pale orange sphere.  It’d nearly become part of the partnership before Hank took it away and locked it in his desk.  He tolerated the kid’s coin nonsense.  Wasn’t that enough?

“Connor!”  He snapped reaching out and roughly tapping the android’s shoulder twice.

“Oh.  Hello, Hank.”  Connor blinked into awareness.  “Feel this!” 

Hank didn’t even attempt to resist the powerful hand that gripped his own and pressed it to the blanket.  “Have you ever felt anything like it?”

Actually, Hank had, but as the old lieutenant’s fingers sank into the soft plushness of the fabric under the pressure of Connor’s hand over his, he couldn’t help smiling at the android’s bubbling excitement.

“Isn’t it so soft?  Like Sumo?  But different.”  Connor babbled.  “My tactile sensors barely register it!”  He released Hank’s hand to run both his own over the material, fascinated and perplexed by it.

“Yeah.  It’s great.”  Hank flapped the claim ticket.  “But we’re done here.  Let’s go.”

With a final press of his hands against the blanket, Connor wriggled out from between the softness and strode rapidly to his place at Hank’s side, falling into his professional mode, arms crossed behind his back. Hank slapped the bright pink ticket to his chest.  “This is your responsibility now.”

The tie’s price was outrageous, but Connor’s delighted look when he saw his name on the receipt was worth every cent. 

“Thank you, lieutenant.”  Connor said, hands pressed over the ticket.  “I’ll pay you back....eventually.”  He added with a quirk of his head as he reviewed the problem of not having a paycheck.  Possibly adding up how much he thought he owed the human in total: rent, thirium, dry-cleaning.

“Whatever.  Don’t worry about it.”  Hank said walking away to the exit. 

Connor’s walk slowed and he frowned and came to a complete stop as he read the ticket.  “...lieutenant?”

“Whaaat?”  Hank swung the shop’s door back and forth, making the little door chime squeal its first note over and over.  The shop owner, who had disappeared into the back, had returned at the first chime thinking he had another customer.  He cringed at the noise Hank was making with the door.

“This isn’t right.  It says one ‘man’s tie.’”  Connor turned from Hank to the shop owner and then back to Hank. 

“What of it?  Let’s go.  Chen and Chris are waiting.”

“But...”

“Let’s go Connor.”

The drycleaner watched their interaction.  Typing rapidly on his computer, he made a few changes and printed out a new slip.  “Here you go buster.”  He said leaning over the counter and sliding the new receipt over with the tips of his fingers. 

Connor caught it and noted the revision: 1 android’s :) tie-stained.  “Thank you.”  He said.  Relief colored his voice.  He traced the friendly ‘smiley face’ with his thumb and then folded the paper into a neat square and placed it in one of the secret pockets inside his jacket.  Then changed his mind and transferred it to a different pocket on the other side.  One with a zip closure. 

“Connor!”  Hank’s bellow filled the entire shop. 

“Coming.”  Connor detoured to give the plush blankets one more pat, bestowed one more smile on the shop owner who, with a wide grin, bobbed his head in return, and then the android followed Hank outside into the cooler air. 

As they strode back to the car, Connor repeated his promise to repay Hank, but the man waved off the idea.  “Don’t worry about it.  Uniform work expense.”

“But Fowler cut the budget for uniform cleaning.”  Connor smoothed his jacket and shirt.  He looked at Hank.  “You could get in trouble.”  He added earnestly.  “And the department cannot afford to be spending money on my careless mistakes.”

“I’ve been in trouble before, nothing new there.”  Hank rolled his eyes.  “And how would you know about that budget cut?  It’s not like Jeffrey sends memos to you.”  He regretted his words when he saw the tiny wrinkle appear between Connor’s normally smooth brows; the only indication the android was affected by the reminder of the captain’s attitude of ‘seen not heard’ toward him. 

Connor bore Jeffrey’s cold shoulder with the same stoicism as he endured Reed’s shoulder checks and loud insults about everything from his existence to the color of his socks. 

But Hank pressed Jeffrey repeatedly to change his ways and accept Connor.  Although the man wasn’t as aggressive in his prejudice as Reed, his refusal to acknowledge Connor as an active member of the force was a sore point, among many, between the old friends. 

Hank opened the passenger door for Connor and ushered the android inside before he could become distracted by anything else, saying, “Let’s get to that scene Chen called in about.  Gimme the address?”

Still with the tiny frown, Connor relayed the information.  He was about to make a comment about the similarities and differences between Sumo’s fur and the fluffy blankets, but a message from Markus distracted him. 

He let the deviant leader’s call go to ‘voicemail’....again.   

He wanted to stay with the friendly drycleaner and the soft blankets; he didn’t want to attend the meeting with the governor; he didn’t want to disappoint Markus; he didn’t want to be surrounded by deviants; he didn’t want...didn’t want....

He was a very selfish deviant, wasn’t he?

Chapter Text

“What was Reed doing this far from Central?”  Hank muttered as they passed another mutilated electronic street sign with a chunk of wiring hanging from its paneling.  The spasmodic display was an incomprehensible jumble of letters and numbers.  He guided the car into the other sunlit lane, away from a patch of road shaded by a fallen billboard.

“I don’t know.” 

He glanced to the passenger seat where his partner had sat silently, coin rolling from hand to hand, for most of the drive, speaking only to provide the occasional direction.  Hank couldn’t see the LED from this angle, but he didn’t need a light to understand downcast eyes and features. 

Disquieted by the abrupt shift from the happy blanket-cuddling-deviant of twenty minutes ago, Hank searched his memory for a reason.  “You’re not mad about the whole Jeffrey hates you thing are you?  ‘cause he doesn’t...not really...not as much as some people....I mean...that’s not...nobody hates you, okay?”  Hank blinked at the android’s reaction to his attempt at comfort.  “Did you just ‘scoff’ at me?”

“Did you just lie to me?”

Hank sighed in annoyance.  “Maybe a little.”  He stared ahead at the road, avoiding another dark patch by switching lanes again.

“I ‘maybe a little’ scoffed at you.”

Rolling his eyes, Hank said, “I was just trying to make you feel better.  What’s got you all edged up?”

The vexed side-eye Connor gave him was borderline chilling.  Almost like Hank’s ex’s ‘if you don’t know, then I’m not telling’ look.  The next instant the look was gone, replaced by a distant melancholy.

“Is it, you know, the whole ‘war-zone-apocalypse’?”  Hank gestured to the surroundings with a wave of his fingers so he didn’t have to take his hand from the wheel. 

Connor leaned forward to peer at his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time.  Old, dirty ice and snow partially melted by the afternoon sun, abandoned cars ransacked and gutted for parts, property damage everywhere, and the occasional piece of abandoned luggage spilled out over the road, evidence of a hasty evacuation.  Here and there he detected charred and barren areas where fires had spread out of control, consuming portions of business, homes, and parks before being extinguished by the DFD. 

Even over the slightly musty smell of the car’s heater, his fine sensors picked up the odor of smoke and burnt plastic.  He wished Markus and the other androids would destroy the recycling centers instead of using them for social leverage on the humans.  Maybe...maybe I should answer Markus’ calls and go to the meeting?  But, Hank said I couldn’t because we had to work.  But was that so I wouldn’t ‘feel’ bad for ignoring Markus?

Hank was looking at him again.  Expecting an answer. 

“It is...unsettling...without the traffic and all the people...even the colors seem wrong somehow.”  Connor admitted softly. 

“So that’s what’s got you all uptight over there?”   

Connor leaned back further, smoothing his shirtfront instead of answering. 

“Connor.”  Hank warned.  “You better not be—

“We have arrived at our destination.”

Now Hank couldn’t be sure, but it sounded as if Connor was mocking the memory of the old GPS which had disappeared under mysterious circumstances.  Despite initially grumbling about the kid’s ‘goofy’ voice, Hank grew to appreciate the android’s nearly flawless internal GPS.  ‘Nearly’ because it was absolutely not to be trusted if the...gyro...something or other was screwy. 

Short story shorter: Connor was no longer allowed to spin in office chairs. 

But he was right.  They’d arrived.  Somewhat.  His partner had called their arrival a little too soon.  Hank knew a diversionary tactic when he heard one, but he decided not to push the android too far.  If something was very wrong, Connor would tell him.  And then they’d work it out together.  Like partners.

Down at the far end of the street, a DPD patrol car was parked alongside one of the alleyways; police barriers, dull yellow in the daylight, were in place despite the lack of a curious public or reporters.  But it was indicative of good training.  Hank mentally praised the officers as he slowed the car and plotted out a parking angle so he wouldn’t accidently box in the patrol car. 

“Watch for that low branch.”  Connor tucked away his coin and pointed to the skeletal tree limb while he unclipped his seatbelt and scooted forward to perch on the seat’s edge, poised for action.

Hank gave his partner a stern look.  “Put your seatbelt back on.”  Kid is as bad as Sumo.  He thought.  Always straining and yearning to be in the car, and then just as eager and impatient to get out.  At least, Hank consoled himself, Connor didn’t slobber up the windows.  “I told you before.  Wait until the car’s stopped and the engine is—get your hand off the door latch—just settle down.”

“We’re only a few meters away.”  The android’s casual protest turned into a shout, “Hank!  Watch out!”

Looking away from the road for that brief second had cost him. 

Hank slammed on the brake, throwing the car into a short forward skid.  

‘thump’

The front bumper struck something.  But Hank’s attention was on the android who’d been thrown forward against the dash by the sudden lurch. 

“You okay, kid?”  Hank grabbed for his partner’s shoulder, but missed because Connor was already out of the car and jogging, with a hand rubbing his chest, around to the car’s front. 

The android waved from where he stood at the front fender.  “It’s not bad.”  He glanced down the road, protocols likely prompting him to check for oncoming traffic.

Much slower than his partner, Hank climbed out of the car.  What did he hit?

“A garbage can!  You screamed bloody murder about a garbage can!”  Hank’s shout echoed off the buildings and frightened a flock of pigeons.

Connor watched the birds fly away.  He startled when a rough hand grabbed his arm and jerked him around.  He came face to face with an extremely emotional partner. 

“Look at me!”  Hank’s grey hair swung with the force of his agitated movements.  “I thought I’d hit something!” 

Unperturbed, Connor scanned his agitated partner.  “You did.”  Before he could suggest that the lieutenant calm down, he was shouting again. 

“What were you thinking, screaming like that?”

Connor blinked rapidly in the face of the man’s growing anger, losing some of his own composure in reaction.  Part of him felt small and wanted to do anything to make Hank happy again—or at least less angry—but another, louder, side flared in indignation. 

He wasn’t sure when or how he decided which to obey, but the next second words and actions were bypassing his social program.  He brushed the human’s hands off his arm with an abrupt gesture.  “I shouted.”  He corrected and with the back of his hand, he wiped spit off his face.  “It did not reach the pitch to register as a scream.  And as to my reasons, I didn’t want you to damage the car.  You are always saying how much it costs to repair.”

“It’s not worth your life!”

Connor was genuinely confused at this point.  “I was not in danger.”  He’d only been trying to do the right thing based on the data he’d gathered. 

Hank racked his fingers through his hair feeling greyer by ten years.  “You’re gonna kill me Connor.”

The wide-eyed android spread his hands and raised his shoulders in the perfect, unintentional, imitation of a confused owl. 

With a final curse and a stiff wave of his arm, Hank strode away, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, to the alley to deal with the crime scene; it’d be less stressful, he thought, than Connor right now.  He kicked a plastic bottle out of his way, sending it spinning into a storm drain where it wedged like some malformed tooth. 

“Lieutenant?  The car?”  Connor called out, half poised to follow.

“What about it?”  

“Do you want me to move it out of the road?”  He pointed for clarification despite Hank’s refusal to turn and have civilized communications. 

“Don’t touch it.”

“But it poses a hazard to traffic.”

“Leave it alone, Connor.”   

The tiniest huff came from behind Hank and then a red LED’d Connor strode past in a flurry of greys and glowing blue insignias with rapid, clipped steps.

Great.  Now they were both annoyed. 

--

Chris and Chen had seen and heard the entire squabble between the lieutenant and the android, but they weren’t about to make any remarks on it.  ‘Don’t make waves around detectives’ was the unofficial patrol officer motto around Central Station. 

But the android’s greeting to the two officers waiting by the patrol car was perfectly civil despite the red LED.  “Good afternoon, Officer Miller, Officer Chen.”  Connor nodded to both humans with equal friendliness and the smallest of smiles.  “We came as soon as we could.  We had an errand.”  His social protocols indicated that light and carefree ‘chit-chat’ before work was a useful means of building workplace relationships, but the stress from arguing with Hank was making it difficult to concentrate. 

Chris tried a smile, somewhat distracted by the conflicted message between the red LED and the pleasant words; Chen acknowledged the greeting with a nod so emotionless Connor’s social program couldn’t even classify it under ‘cold.’  Connor waited another few seconds, his smile faltered, and then he turned away and slid through the holographic tape. 

Hank lumbered up, having been left several yards behind.  “Hey guys.” 

“Hey, lieutenant.”  Chris handed over the report tablet.  “Android crime.  Reed called it in about forty-five minutes ago.  The, uh, oh, he found it.”  He gestured to where Connor knelt alongside a cooler.

“Thanks.”  Hank accepted the tablet and leaned against a bent streetlight pole.  A length of frayed cable wrapped around its high, outstretched arms.  He tried not to think about what it’d been used for and angled the tablet to see the screen better.  “Reed didn’t give you too much trouble?” 

“Trouble?”  Chris repeated.  He wasn’t going to get into a mess with Reed if the whole...taser thing with Chen...came out, but he wasn’t going to just throw her into open water.  “No more than usual.”  He hedged, spinning his ring and deliberately did not look at his partner. 

Hank flicked his fingers up and down on the tablet’s screen.  “...a lead...reported by a CI.”  He muttered as he read.  “Does this guy have the education of a child?”  He smacked a hand against the screen in disgust.  “Since when was ‘blahblah’ acceptable in a report?”

Chris shrugged.  Personally, he always used filler in his report drafts.  Just had to remember to edit them out for the final copy...guess Reed forgot. 

Hank continued his rant, “This mess is practically worthless.  Just a bunch of case numbers, emoji, and codes.”  He slung it back to Chris who slid the tablet under his arm.  “Okay.  We’ll check this out and then get you guys cleared to return to patrol.  I’ll deal with Reed later.”

“Don’t you want CSU to go over it?”  Chris asked.  “Androids are like...people now right?”  He ignored Chen’s look. 

“Yeah they are, but everyone’s citing ‘job description’ and saying they’re not ‘qualified’ for android investigations.”  Hank shook his head.  “That’s how people lose jobs, but Connor’s got this handled and he’ll send them a complete report when we finish here.” 

“Lieutenant?  Can you come here for a second...or two...five minutes?”

Hank hid a smile behind a gruff voice, “Whatcha want now?”

“Since your name must be on the reports, I thought you should participate in the investigation beyond the role of chauffeur.” 

Hank was busy walking over to where Connor crouched and Chris’ attention was on the two bickering detectives, so everyone missed the flicker of amusement on Chen’s stony face before it was suppressed.

“TW400.”  Connor informed Hank as soon as he sensed the man’s presence.  “A warehouse model.”

“Timeframe?”  Hank’s shoes scraped against broken glass. 

Connor spotted dots of dried blood on the glass scattered around Hank’s foot.  “Based on the rate of evaporation, this android was damaged shortly after August of this year.”  He gingerly picked up one of the larger shards and studied it closely.  “I’ll need to check local temperature and weather patterns to narrow down the date to something more specific, though.”

“No.”

The android looked up, “No?”

Hank pointed at the glass delicately held in the android’s fingers.  “Not for eating.”

“I wasn’t going to.”  Connor huffed, but he continued holding the glass while he finished his explanation.  Just because humans couldn’t run twenty-plus background operations, didn’t mean he shouldn’t. 

“The cooler would have reduced the rate of evaporation, however.”  Connor said and lifted the head from the cooler and rapidly scanned it.  “There’s a set of fingerprints.”  His LED turned yellow as he scanned the prints and searched several databases for a match.  “Whoever did this has unsteady hands, see all the scratches here...and here?  They even punctured the facial plate here with an industrial drill.”  He indicated the sections. 

With a groan, Hank squatted alongside the box for his own closer look.  There was nothing like a crime scene to bring partners into harmony again. 

Connor took advantage of the man’s distraction to run an analysis of the blood he’d found on the glass, dropping it when he finished. 

Hank looked up at the light ‘tink’ of the falling glass. 

Connor gave him the fakest innocent smile imaginable. 

Choose your battles, Hank told himself.  Let’s work on the whole seatbelt safety thing first.  “I get the feeling,” Hank said aloud, “that whoever did this was not after black marked profit.  Otherwise they wouldn’t have left this bit.”  At Connor’s nod of agreement, he continued.  “Safe to say, we got a crazy person?"

Connor hummed noncommittedly as he picked up a strip of tape hanging off the side of the cooler and scanned it for prints.  “Violence can be inspired by genius.”  He muttered. 

“Genius doesn’t put heads in coolers.”  Hank said, trying to regain the android's attention.  “Connor?” 

The android looked disconcerted as he tried to remove the tape from his fingers.  “Decapitation is usually...eh..."  He shook his hand, but the tape flapped up and wrapped around his wrist, "....uh...a sign of power or a means to...to inspire fear.”

“Yeah.  I get that.”  Hank was now himself distracted by Connor’s increasing frustration with the extremely sticky tape. 

It adhered first to one hand and then the other.  Then its long tail caught on the android’s pant leg leaving behind a sticky residue.  “Think someone was murderin’ androids to make a point before the revolution started?”  Hank asked.

“Violence against androids...before the revolution...”  Connor pulled the tape off his leg and held it out from himself; both ends held between the tips of his fingers, but the middle bowed toward him, attracted by static, “I doubt...that’s...excuse me lieutenant...”  He stood up and called over to Chris and Chen, “Could I have an evidence bag, please?”

The two patrol cops stared at him.  They’d never seen an android so flustered by a piece of tape, especially not this suave android.

“Uh, yeah.  I’ll get it.”  Chris said when Chen didn’t move.  “Hang on a sec.”

When Chris returned, Connor carefully stuffed the tape into the evidence bag Chris held out for him.  The tape caught the underside of the android’s cuff and then the rest escaped the bag when he tried to pull it loose from his clothing.

A little mechanical screech escaped the frustrated deviant.

“Here, here hang on.”  Chris used the bag to hold the tape still while the android freed himself.  Once Connor was free, and had back-peddled away, Chris effortlessly flipped the tape into the bag.

“How’d you do that?”  The android’s eyes were wide with admiration as Chris zipped the bag shut.

The patrol officer grinned good-naturedly at the android’s innocent wonderment.  “Lots of practice.”

“He means,” Hank cut in, “that he got ahold of a tape dispenser when he was a toddler.”

Connor tipped his head to the side.  “I see.  Thank you for the assistance, Officer Miller.”  He dusted his hands off in a business-like manner.  He didn’t really understand the mysteries of human childhood, but he was grateful for their attempts to share.  Even if Chen was still rather dispassionately staring past his shoulder. 

“Yeah.  No problem.”  Chris said.  Instead of returning to Chen’s side, further away, he stayed to watch the android work the scene. 

Freed of the distracting tape, Connor carefully moved the head to the side and inspected the cooler’s interior, running his hands along it.  The delicate tactile sensors in his fingers picked up minute details and formed a perfect 3D model in his personal database for future reference. 

As the model compiled, Connor’s crime database searches reported their findings.  “Oh.  This MO has been used before.”  He declared.  “But it was a human victim.  Same condition, exact same damage to the head, hidden in a taped cooler; the victim was a warehouse employee.  A cold case from back in 2010.”  His eyes tracked down and to the side as he reviewed the incoming information.  “The incense is the link.  It is a unique formula.”

“Incense?”

“I found a residue in the cooler and on the remains.  The original investing detective in 2010 mentions the smell of incense, but never followed up on it.”  He looked at Hank.  “Why would they neglect an important clue?”

Hank shrugged.  “Probably didn’t seem important.  Humans are like that.  We don’t always spot the small things.  Too worried about the big, flashy points.  I’ll bet there was something that detective got caught up on and refused to check any other possible leads, huh?”

Connor’s eyes squinted as he sped through the collections of reports for the past years.  “Yes!  You’re right.  A bloody shoe print.  Apparently the detective spent all his time searching for the shoe.  And so did everyone who attempted to solve the case afterwards.”

“So we done here?”  Hank prompted while Connor’s LED continued to spin yellow. 

“Nearly.  It’s not a complicated case, but the motive for different victims is a bit troublesome.”

“Well, if you’ve got all the info you need from here, you can work it out in the car on the way back to the station.”

“I’d like to study the scene a bit more.”

Hank shrugged, “Five minutes.  The sooner we get out of here the better.” He strode back to the alleyway entrance. 

"Uh."  Chris pointed, and Hank knew by the look on the patrol officers’ faces what Connor was doing behind his back.  He spun around.  “Hey, hey, hey!”  He waved a hand at his partner.  “Spit that out!”

“’m ahn‘zlinging.”  Connor mumbled around his fingers.

Hank glared at him. 

With a deliberately loud ‘slurp’ Connor finished his analysis of whatever unknown thing he’d decided to sample.  “My reconstruction program works more efficiently with more data.  And if we're going to link this to the human homicide, then the more information I gather now the stronger our case will be.”

“Well, ex-cuse me.”  Hank drawled and leaned against the wall while the android explored the alleyway peering at various objects that caught his interest.  And there were a lot of them.  “Connor!  Stop licking the wall!”  He snapped. 

“I detected traces of human blood—

“I’m not surprised.”  Hank grumbled.  “But if you start trying to follow blood trails in an alley we’ll be here all day and never finish any—

“Ex-cuse me, lieutenant.”  Connor smoothly interrupted as he strode back to the little crowd of humans.  He reached for the reporting tablet that Chris still held under his arm.  “May I borrow this?”

Chris was handing over the tablet when Hank elbowed him.  “Not with those fingers you don’t.” Hank said.  “What do you want to know?”

“If Detective Reed mentions a fight.” Connor’s ever active optics picked up the increased anxiety from the two patrol officers.  The tightened muscles, shift of body weight, arms crossed tighter, increased sweat production; he detected the mixed scents from their individual body products as their increased temperature caused the artificial scents to release into the air.  He added the preferences to his personal files on them.    

“Eh?  I don’t think so, but I’ll check.”  Hank held out his hand for the tablet which Chris gave him.  Hank scrolled through the report again even though he was certain of the answer.  “No.  He doesn’t mention anything like that.  Unless it’s one of these ‘blah’ notes.  Why do you ask?”

“I’ve found traces of fresh thirium from a WR600 and human blood matching Detective Reed’s blood type over there.”  Connor pointed to a spot a few feet away.  He noted the two patrol officers’ relief. 

Hank swore.  “What part of ‘don’t assault androids’ does that guy not understand?”  A grin crossed his face and Connor decided that he did not like it.  “Can we find this android he attacked?  Get it to accuse him?”

Connor was shaking his head rapidly.  “Lieutenant.  Please.  First, we don’t know that Detective Reed was the aggressor, and—

He tried to ignore the laughter that erupted from Hank and Chris, even Chen’s facade cracked.  “—and we should get Gavin’s side of the story first.”    

They were still cackling.  His social integration program told him that he should laugh as well.  He didn’t.  And not because he wasn’t sure how.

Collecting himself with a final chuckle, Hank slapped the tablet against his open palm.  “This was his side of the story, Connor.  He had his chance and you know what he did with it?  Nothing.”  Hank shook his head.  “Don’t defend him.  And stop hoping for him to be better than he is.  You’ll just be disappointed.”

I wasn’t before, Connor thought as he observed the police lieutenant’s clearer blue eyes.  

--

The remaining evidence Hank wanted of the supposed fight between Reed and the android was quickly gathered.  Connor helped Chris record, bag and tag the extra evidence, while Chen packed up the police projectors. 

Just before he and Connor left, Hank warned the other officers, “It’s gettin’ late so keep your eyes open.  Don’t go tryin’ to handle anything on your own; especially after dark.  Radio in for backup if you see anything suspicious, got it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright.  See you around.  C’mon, Connor.”

Once they were in the car, Hank pointedly waited for his partner to buckle and then guided the vehicle out into the streets just as the grey skies decided to let down a drizzly cold sneeze-storm of half-frozen rain. 

Connor rubbed away the condensation from his window and peered back to where Tina and Chris were still packing up the patrol car.  Hank had rushed him away before he could offer his help with loading the car; the gusty, wet wind pulled at them and their clothes, making the police officers stagger with the equipment and evidence transportation boxes they were attempting to stuff into the car.  “We should go back and help them.”  Connor said.  “It's my fault they have extra work.”

“Do not unbuckle.”  Hank snapped, as if reading the android’s mind...correctly if the removal of his partner’s hand from the seatbelt mechanism was any indication of motive.  “They’re fine.”  He focused on navigating the street-debris whirlwinds.

A bent ‘PED XING’ sign clattered across the road and stabbed into an overgrown hedge that was already pockmarked with garbage.  Hands tight on the wheel, Hank tracked every movement of the active roads. 

“Looks like we’re in for a storm.”  Hank said.  “Check out those clouds over the river.”

Connor followed the direction of the man’s pointing finger and stared wide-eyed at the enormous black storm clouds that welled up and cast their shadows over the city. 

A crackle of thunder snapped in the distance.  Connor pressed himself back into the seat.  That noise.  His memory banks ran a search for it.  It was familiar.  Where had he heard crackling electricity before? 

He didn’t like it.  “Hank?”

“Wassup?”

“Will Sumo be scared of the storm?”

“Naw.  He’s used to ‘em.”

“Oh.  Okay.”

In contrast to the clattering of trash outside, the roll of thunder, and the rapid ‘tat-tat-tat’ of rain, Connor was quiet in the passenger seat, entertained by a loose thread in his sleeve cuff, probably caused by the tape. 

“Hey wanna put on music?”  Hank said without taking his eyes from the road.  The last time he’d tried to have a heart-to-heart with the kid, they’d gotten into an argument.  So, ‘nuf of that.  He thought.  Save it for another day. 

“Metal or Jazz?”

“Whatever you want.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the android hesitate and then without any of his usual smoothness, jab arbitrarily at the player and lean back into the seat where he resumed picking at his cuff with renewed interest. 

An ancient Miles Davis composition filled the car. 

After the first notes hit his ear, Hank decided he’d wanted heavy metal after all.  This was no time for thoughtful Jazz.  He moved to change the music and caught the searching expression in Connor’s eyes.  The android hadn’t moved, but his eyes had darted over to watch Hank.

No amount of swearing, even if the mental explosion of profanity had escaped Hank, could roll back time and erase the moment when those soft brown eyes shifted from shy discomfort to pointed cynicism and resignation.

“You should watch the road.”  The android murmured to his cuff.  “Next time just tell me what you want.” 

Unsettled, Hank feigned deafness over the rain “Huh?”  He didn’t like the headshake Connor gave him in response.  He realized his hand was still stretched toward the music player.  Hank pretended to wipe a layer of dust off the console and then, his hand still wondering what it was supposed to be doing went up to his hair and idiotically smoothed it back before returning to the wheel. 

---

As they neared the station, Hank noticed that Connor had his hands cupped together.  He raised an eyebrow.  Connor’s intent expression and the LED swirling in a yellow blue pattern told him that his partner was scanning something concealed between his palms. 

“Whatcha got there, Connor?”  The words came out with forced lightness.  He hoped Connor would respond with equal casualness.  It wasn't as if Hank had intended to undermine the deviant's choice of music.  

Connor turned sideways toward his partner.  “Siphonaptera.” 

For a second, Hank thought he was being cussed out, but then the android opened his hands to show his lieutenant what he held. 

A flea.  The kid was holding a flea.  Hank was stupefied. 

“I found it on my sleeve—oops.”

Hank’s old heart was thumping at his chest in indignation at the emotional whiplash he was giving it.  One minute he was concerned about Connor’s emotional health, the next he was all but two seconds away from strangling the kid. 

“Connor did you just release a flea into my car?” 

“Hmph.”  The android twisted and turned, trying to locate the tiny bug in the cracks in the fabric and under the seat.  “Not on purpose.”  He grumbled as he wriggled around, without unbuckling, and leaned over the seat to check the backseat. 

“Hey, hey, whoa!  Turn around!”  Hank scolded. 

“What?  I’m wearing the seatbelt.” 

Oh, that snippy little....“Siddown!”  Keeping his eyes on the road and increasingly foul weather, Hank reached over and grabbing his partner’s belt yanked him down into the seat.  “I cannot believe this.”   He muttered, ignoring Connor’s indignant look at being manhandled. 

Sitting proper again, Connor adjusted his clothes.  “I doubt it wants to stay in here.”  He spread his hands.  “There’s no food.  I mean, there’s crumbs, but they don’t eat people food.  It’ll find a new home.”

“Yeah.  On Sumo.”

The android’s eyes narrowed.  “You think it knows about Sumo?”

“It doesn’t have to know.  It just—oh forget it.”  Hank was watching the road and missed the mischievous glint in Connor’s eyes and the tiny curl of his lips.  “Tell me about the ‘head’ case.”  He said.  “You said it would be easy to solve?”

“Yes. I solved it a few minutes ago.”

“No way.”

“Uh...yes...way?”  Connor’s brows drew together as he experimented with the colloquialism.  “Most of the clues were already available through the databases.  Thanks to my access to the digital files I was able to cross reference all the gathered evidence and crime scene photos as well as the investigating detectives’ notes on potential suspects.  With the new evidence I-we found and the unique incense residue at both scenes, it will not be difficult to connect the killer to both the cold case homicide and to this one.” 

Connor held up his hands and then brought them together, fingers interwoven, “All the pieces fit together perfectly.” 

He settled back in the seat; his clasped fingers wrapped around one drawn up knee.  Voice high with pleasure, he continued, “I’ve already submitted the necessary paperwork for an arrest warrant.” 

Hank whistled.  “So, wait, you know who the killer is?”

Connor nodded and followed with a still too stiff casual shrug, “Yes...well...yes.  I have a potential suspect, but I’m not even sure if he’s still in the city.  I’ll show you on the computer when we get back to the station.”

---

It was hailing by the time Hank pulled into the station parking garage.  At the same time, he saw Reed’s car pulling in at the opposite end—Reed always parked in the little dog-legged section where the garage’s power room created a sort of alcove.  He swore.  “Reed’s here.  Man, I hoped he’d be out for the day.  Or maybe got a piano dropped on himself.” 

‘Piano?’ Connor mouthed while he unclipped the seatbelt and let it snap into place out of sight.  “I’m sure Detective Reed wants to be professional,” he ignored Hank’s snort, “he just gets...frustrated.  Avoiding him won’t solve anything.”

“We’re not trying to ‘solve’ him.”  Hank said as he parked and turned off the engine.  “Don’t make excuses for him.”  He climbed out of the car, pointing a finger at his partner.  “I don’t know what he did to get through the academy and, frankly, I don’t want to know,” he waved his hand, “Fowler an’ I gave him too much chain and now he’s wild.  You stay away from him and let me deal wit—

“You will not be ‘dealing’ with anyone.”  Connor admonished, giving the car’s interior a once over for the rouge flea.  He’d set his scan to a high intensity and dog hairs, crumbs, old burger wrappers, and bottle caps all crowded into his vision with far more detail than he actually wanted.  “Captain Fowler has already warned you about—Oh!”  He pounced, hands cupped to the seat, but when he peeked under them he frowned. 

“It got away.”  He looked around the parking garage as if the insect had perhaps taken advantage of the opened door to escape.  Mouth twisting in annoyance he turned back to the car and stared at it as if plotting an attack plan. 

“Don’t worry about it, Connor.”  Hank said.  “C’mon, I want to get inside before that lowlife tries to start something.” Large pieces of hail bounced through the garage’s open doorways and skittered around their feet. 

Connor pressed his palm against the door and closed it with a definitive click. 

“Hey if—I mean—when, where’d you go...oh, hey,” Hank waved Connor over to walk next to him instead of trailing behind.  “When you do catch the bug maybe we could put it in Reed’s car?”

“It’s an insect.”  The android corrected.  He pulled his own jacket shut against the wind, then shook his head.  “And that would be a cruel joke.  He has cats.”

Hank swung his arms and then tucked his hands up into his armpits away from the garage’s icebox-like air.  “And how would you know that?  The hairs on his chair?”

“No.  I saw him at the vet with two cats when we took Sumo to have those glass shards removed from his paw.”

Hank grit his teeth.  Someone had embedded broken shards of glass into the ground around the back patio of his house and no sooner had Connor let the eager dog outside for an evening romp after work, then the poor thing was yelping, limping and crying.  Hank heard the commotion from the bathroom where he’d just finished his shower.  Hastily throwing on his clothes, he found in the kitchen both a bleeding dog and a distraught android with sliced hands from trying to remove the glass from his friend’s feet.

Hank’s heart lurched at the memory, but he quickly swallowed down the emotion.  They were lucky to find a vet who’d kept her doors open to care for the numerous animals injured or abandoned during the revolution and evacuation—she had even been organizing help to care for the animals abandoned at the zoo and aquarium.  “Huh, I didn’t hear him.”  He said, beckoning Connor to walk faster. 

“I don’t think he knew we were there.”  Connor admitted.  “He was already in one of the exam rooms and we left before he did.” 

“Huh.”  Hank repeated his grunt.  “We might have to switch vets then.” 

With a non-committal shrug, Connor glanced over to where Reed’s car had disappeared around the corner.  I hope everything’s okay with his cats.  Connor thought, remembering the unexpected sight of a quiet Reed being a jungle gym, hands ready in case of a fall, for a constantly meowing, orange and white kitten; it was an enormous black, short-haired cat undergoing the veterinarian’s examination that held most of the man’s nervous attention.  Connor had felt the same way while the assistant veterinarian worked on Sumo’s feet.  At least, he thought he did.   

Chapter Text

Outside the DPD parking garage, the hail blend thunderstorm continued doing its part to tear apart the city.  Power, already unreliable, faded and flared, died and revived in a painful cycle as distant power companies struggled to support their sister city even as Detroit seemed to slide further beyond recovery. 

Since he was parked near the garage’s power closet, Gavin had a front row seat to the orchestra of humming and thrumming it emitted. 

The detective was too deep in his own problems to care about the city’s electrical issues.  He sat in his rapidly cooling car, damp hair dripping down over his forehead, onto his lashes and from there onto the jacket spread out over his lap.  Disposable wipe in hand, he leaned over the garment and blotted away the fresh stains it had gathered earlier that afternoon.

Occasionally a sound or echo in the garage would catch his attention and his head would jerk up.  His eyes tracked the surroundings and his hand pressed over the holstered gun and badge tucked next to him on the seat. 

Hurry, hurry, hurry, Gavin.  Too slow.  Wasting time.    

He pushed the thoughts away.  The scheduled interrogation wasn’t for another few minutes.  “’m not wasting time.”  He argued at himself.  “’s just takin’ a short break.”  He kneaded the back of his head with his knuckles before returning his attention to the task at hand. 

A few stains came away easily, mostly dried crap that flaked off with minimal effort.  But these others must’ve set in the time it took to return to the apartment, check on Cat, and get a quick shower—with low water pressure—and change of clothes before heading back to work. 

The spots would not come off. 

Gavin rubbed harder and swore when his fingers cramped again; the heavy pain in the joints pulled his focus away from the frantic scrubbing.  Incoherently irritated, he threw the shredded cleaning wipe to the passenger side floor.  But instead of landing with the other ten on the mat, it floated sideways onto the passenger seat and stuck to the front edge.

“Fine.  Do that.  See if I care.”  Gavin snapped.  “Whatever.  Not like anybody sits over there anyway.”  He held the jacket up and inspected it with a critical eye.  The scratches could be buffed out later, maybe before dinner while Cat was busy watching old monster flicks on his phone.  Crybaby would want to play though.  Buff the jacket or play with Crybaby? 

Pfft.  Easy.  The jacket didn’t yowl all night if it didn’t get attention. 

Eager to escape the cold that had permeated the whole car in the short time since he’d shut off the engine, Gavin shrugged into the jacket. 

Digging his nails under the center console’s broken latch, Gavin popped it open and rummaged through old coffee shop receipts, broken takeout utensils, half-finished shopping lists, an extra box of blue gloves, and where’d all these rubber bands come from?  

Wriggling his fingers, Gavin worked two, then four and....one more...onto his hand and over his wrist.  He continued digging.  “Nope.  Nope.  Nope. C’mon.  I know it’s in here.”  He rooted through the ‘crap stash.’  His free hand curled around the cuff of his jacket, nails biting shallow moon-shaped grooves into the material. 

Finally, his searching fingers rolled over the familiar shape of the travel sized jar of hair product.  With just enough to accomplish his purpose, he raked it through his hair and persuaded the short, ‘I don’t care about gravity’ waves to lay back flat.  He scowled in the visor’s uselessly small mirror.  Satisfied that he looked like Detective Reed again he flipped the visor back into place.    

Back to the ‘crap stash’ for hand cleaner.  Wait no.  He realized.  It’s in the side pocket, easier to get to.  “In theory.”  He grumbled aloud.  He dug until he finally pulled out what he wanted and quickly cleaned his hands of both the leather cleaner and the hair product. 

Exhausted, Gavin leaned back and closed his eyes; snapping and unsnapping the cleaner’s lid, and dully listened to his awkward heartbeat flapping against his chest—probably a side effect from the cold and flu medicine he’d downed along with....something from a takeout box after he fed Cat her medicine.  Unlike yowling orange crybabies, Cat knew how to take pills like a proper queen of the apartment. 

Cat is the best.  He frowned before the smile had a chance to appear.  Cat is sick. 

He slammed the side of his fist against the steering wheel and bent his head slowly forward until it touched the wheel.  The hand cleaner dropped into the side pocket from his loosened grip.  He stared down at his scuffed shoes and the unwashed floor mat covered in sticky grunge.  He tried to keep the car clean; knew what was expected.  But knowing the expectations was never the hard part. 

A little red feathery cat toy tucked under a corner of the mat caught Gavin’s eye.  It must’ve rolled out from under the seat.  He and Cat had been looking for it the other day.  Well, she watched from her tower while he looked for the missing toy with a crybaby tucked against his shoulder, yowling in his ear. 

Whenever he tried to stop looking, Cat gave him the ‘kissy eyes’ and of course he had to resume the search. 

Gavin plucked the toy up from under the mat and flicked it against his hand to remove the dirt and put it in his pocket—it would get a proper wash later.   He cradled his head in both hands for a minute, thumbs rubbing his temples in rough circles.  Cat was gonna think her detective was a moron. 

But not if she dies. 

He jolted at the horrifying thought.   “No, no, no, no, no.”  He whispered as if thinking had made it real.  Hands threaded through his hair, unintentionally mussing it.  “She’s gonna be okay.  The vet said there isn’t anything wrong.  I did everything right.  I gave her the right food, plenty of exercise, everything.” 

The vet had agreed to run more tests, allowing him to open a payment plan for the bills, but her last word had been ‘she’s not a young cat.’

But 13 isn’t that old!  Gavin thumped his fist against the wheel again.  “It’s not.”  The steering column’s mechanics groaned under the pressure from his hand.  “She’ll get better.  She’ll be fine.”

His chest hurt.  It hurt to think about Cat.  Think about something else...

Gavin uncurled his fist and spread his fingers carefully against the front of the steering wheel.  Flexing them slowly, he winced at the stiffness.  The hot shower hadn’t done anything to alleviate the ache that had settled into his entire body. 

That woman.  He swore.  That woman with the taser....what was her name........Chica or something...

He rubbed his forehead and drummed his fingers against the wheel as he considered revenge options.  It shouldn’t be too hard to make that woman’s life mise—

The impending headache finally detonated forcing a cry of pain from the detective.  As soon as the pathetic sound reached his ears, loathing swelled up in his chest—no, not—

Swearing at and fumbling with the car door, he saved himself from having to clean his car.  Feverishly grateful to himself for habitually parking in the garage’s security blind spot and far away enough to avoid people, Gavin gripped the door’s edge while his system expelled everything he’d attempted to eat.

What a waste of cold medicine; the shades of blue were from that donut.  Times like this, he thought, honed detective habits are not an advantage.  Well, at least I know now what was in the takeout.

He fell back against the car with a low groan of misery.  Ignoring the ache in his stomach, he forced himself to walk steadily to the car’s trunk where he cleaned out his mouth and washed his face with freezing cold water from a water bottle.  That chore done, Gavin closed the trunk and leaned down against it, pillowing his face in his arms, too exhausted to move. 

The cold seeped into him while the cave-like garage noises and the hail storm died down to a buzzing, ghostly headspace noise, like headphone static when nothing’s playing on the other end. 

Go ahead.  Waste more time.  Don’t care about your job.   

I do care!  He argued at himself, not lifting his head from his arms.  I just...

Nausea welled up again, but he swallowed it back and whispered, “I can keep up.  I’ll try harder.” 

Keeping his head down on his arms, he checked the jacket pockets for the keys.  They were in the cup holder.  He lifted his heavy head and worked his way back around to the cab, forbidding himself from leaning on the car.  He climbed wearily back into the car and sat, rubbing cold, stiff fingers together. 

Spotting his badge and gun, he gathered them up with one hand while he fished with the other in the cup holder for the key fob, but somehow he accidently launched it over to the passenger side floorboard. 

Stupid.  Clumsy.  Human. 

“This day.....” he groaned.  “Needs to be over.”  He leaned over and down across to the passenger side, but his fingers just barely brushed against the keyring. 

With a surge of impatience Gavin lunged, ignoring the pain when the console dug into his bruised ribs, and snatched up the keys.  Giving the steering wheel a solid whack with his palm for good measure, he stumbled out and slammed the door and leaned against it.  The back of his hand pressed against his forehead as he forced himself to breathe. 

The air caught in his lungs and he cursed the miserable lingering cold-flu-thing. 

I should’ve scheduled that doctor’s appointment.  He thought, muffling another cough, trying to bury the pain away.  It was either him or Cat, and he made the obvious choice. 

He ducked his head and sucked in another wheezing lungful of the parking garage’s cold air.  A hacking cough tore through his lungs.  “Okay...don’t do that.”  He pinched the back of his neck, roughly trying to destroy the stress. 

He didn’t want to go back into the station.  Didn’t want to deal with anyone.  He still had a minute or two before the interrogations. 

He wriggled his phone out of the jacket pocket and peered down at the screen and the updated coroner’s reports and accompanying photos.  The screen’s glare stabbed at his eyes in the dimness of the parking garage; he rapidly thumbed the setting to darken the screen. 

Which case did these photos even go with?  He zoomed in on the case file number.  Oh.  Huh.  That one.  The one with the dead dog.  Dead dog?  That wasn’t right.  He rubbed his eyes and tried to recall the case details.  That was the other case, wasn’t it?  Or were animals involved in both?  No.

But he had seen an animal carcass somewhere...in the dumpster maybe.  No.  That wasn’t it.

He thumbed the phone again, searching for his case notes.  Stupid phone...always auto-arranged his files. 

The device beeped its ‘low battery’ warning and the screen went black. 

Gavin stared at his scarred reflection in the dead phone’s blank screen.

Ugly.  Average.  Outdated.

He dropped the device and ground his heel into it.

The phone shattered with a glass ‘pop’ that scattered chunks of plastic computer bits across the concrete.  An iridescent splatter from ruptured liquid components dampened the ground. 

A damp chill spread over Gavin’s skin. He was drenched in cold gasoline. A massive bonfire melted flesh and plastic together.  The air filled with the stench. 

The hail and thunder drowned out the flat splatter of vomit against concrete.

--

DPD Central Station and other emergency services were supposed to be preserved from the rolling brownouts, but the lights in Central Station continued to flicker; older lighting popped under the strain. 

By the time he entered the bullpen with extra care to maintain his swagger, Gavin figured he had barely enough time to run a keyword search on the cold case and see if any links with the incense turned up.  He’d do that and then....whatever else he was supposed to do.....his list was on the phone.

He swallowed tightly.  Pain crept up the back of his neck despite attempts to pinch it back.  The overhead lights stabbed at his eyes rendering everything too bright, too loud. 

Huh.  Maybe he should be worried.  Gavin rubbed his face and leaned heavily against the wall trying to look as casual as possible, locking his knees to keep from sliding down. 

He forced his sore eyes to scan the bullpen.  Their faces...he couldn’t identify.  Who were these people? 

Competition.  Prey.  Enemies.  Victims.  Replacements.

That old man...and...didn’t he have something?  A dog...oh, yeah, wait, that’s Anderson....yeah, wait...where was that bit of plas—

That.

That..........android.

The android.  Gavin pressed his thumb against his forehead between his brows.  The android—

What?  What about it?

I hate it.

With that familiar declaration, his thoughts became easier to manage.  Faces started making sense again. 

Careful not to let the undulating floor upset his balance, he strode across the bullpen.  He walked this floor a million times.  He could always fake a good swagger. 

Once he was standing at his desk, he crossed his arms and glared until the memory came floating back.  Cold case.  Cold case connection with an android head. 

Leaning over the back of his chair, he pounded in several wrong password combinations.  Frustration steadily built into rage with each failed entry.  The pain crept into the base of his skull.

[Welcome Det. Sgt. Reed]

Finally.  He squinted when the screen came up with his case queue; he tapped over the file history and found the cold case file.  His eyes shifted to the clock in the screen’s right hand corner.  That’s right....he needed to get to the interrogation room.  Just check—

[Case #002l-1403QD5-CLDC: REASSIGNED]

He stared at the screen as the information seared into his brain.  He came around the chair he’d been leaning over and sat heavily.    

The case had been reassigned to Det. Lt. Anderson, Hank.  

[Case Status: Filed: Pending: Arrest Warrants Requested]

--

After displaying the ’5 minutes of inactivity’ warning, and after the 60 seconds countdown ran out, the terminal flicked to its DPD homepage, log-in screen.

“Hey Reed!”

Someone kicked his chair.

“What.”

“Your suspect is ready in C.”

It sounded like Wilson.  He didn’t like Wilson.  Didn’t remember why.  Didn’t matter. 

“You coming or what?”  Wilson asked after a few seconds.

“What.”

“I said your suspe—

“I heard you!”  Gavin snapped up out of his chair, thrusting it away from himself with enough force to send it crashing over Wilson’s foot.  The noise of the chair striking the ground lanced through Gavin’s head.  He covered the wince behind grit teeth and a snarl.  “You think I’m deaf?”  He didn’t care if his vowels were dropping or that he was spitting consonants. 

DPD’s skeleton crew ignored the fracas.  Too busy and exhausted themselves to bother with the temperamental sergeant and his latest target.  From across the bullpen Hank looked up, saw it was Wilson, and slid his headphone back onto his head.  Wilson could take care of himself.  And if Reed was bothering Wilson, he wasn’t going after Connor. 

Thankful for his steel toe work boots, Wilson forced up a casual eyebrow.  “Wanna help me an’ Lewis with a stakeout?”  It was a longshot threat that could easily backfire, but Wilson enjoyed not being tormented by Reed whenever the man had a bad day or just felt like harassing him.  This was the first time in months that Reed had raised his voice at him. 

The detective recoiled half a step and felt the desk’s edge press into the backs of his legs.  Now he remembered why he didn’t like Wilson.  He glanced furtively around the bullpen.  “Lewis isn’t here.” He sneered, voice uncharacteristically low.

It’s working!  Wilson thought.  He kept the elation out of his face.  If Reed’s volatile nerves swerved back into anger, there’d be no recourse but fists.  And Wilson was not certain he could beat the detective in a fair fight. 

“Yeah he is.”  The tall patrol cop said, arms relaxed at his sides.  “I just saw him a few minutes ago.” His fake confidence did nothing to calm the unease creeping around his spine.  This is wrong.  His conscience warned.  Don’t do it.  Don’t become a monster to fight the monster.  You’re a good man, Wilson.  He shushed his conscience.  It was necessary.  He told himself.      

Reed stared at him, searching for weakness, looking for the lie. 

But Wilson was a good actor and knew how to use the other man’s arrogance against him.  “And this time, everyone will see—

“You wouldn’t dare.”  Reed’s palm was flat against the desk; the other hand gripped the edge. 

“That didn’t stop us before.”  Wilson saw the white-knuckled grip and leaned in.  The whole situation made him sick.  But the only way to deal with Reed was to beat him down—fire with fire and all that.  He’d learned the effectiveness of the cure one late stakeout with Lewis when an extremely abusive and foul-tempered Detective Sergeant had crossed and re-crossed several lines. 

Always just this side of the law.

Reed hadn’t realized that two—or rather two more—could play that game.

But whereas the sergeant never suffered from a conscience, Wilson and Lewis did.  Sweat ran down Wilson’s back and he prayed that Reed did not call him on the bluff.  He never, ever, ever wanted to manhandle a half-insane, screaming Reed again.  “Think anyone here would do anything to stop us?”  He was sure his pounding heartbeat was audible.  They’d only gotten away with it because Reed’s pride wouldn’t allow him to report what’d happened. 

Reed spat a shaky curse that sounded more like a jumble of sounds and pushed past Wilson. 

Gavin heard Wilson shout “Room C!” but he didn’t answer.  He needed to get out of the ‘pen.  Be somewhere he could breathe.  Wilson had invaded his desk.  It was no good.  Restrooms, too far.  Breakroom.  Breakroom was good.  He breathed shallowly, forcing air down a tight throat.

Someone asked if he was “okay”; he proved it with a sharp elbow.  Get away.  He heard a shout of pain.  He hoped he broke their interfering face. 

Breakroom.  Table.  Almost there.  Power was going out.  Lights were dimming to pinpoints. 

Stupid storm.

His hip clipped the breakroom’s doorframe and he stumbled sideways, cursing when his right foot kicked into his left.  Gravity yanked him toward the floor.

Firm, lean hands caught him mid-fall and effortlessly shifted his deadweight to rest securely between strong arms. 

--

Limp like an old sock, Gavin hung in the secure grip for the few seconds it took to catch a shallow breath.  Bracing a hand against the steel-like arm across his chest, he shoved his jacket’s hood out of his face and half turned to peer up against the station’s erratic lighting, curious why he hadn’t cracked his face open on the hard floor. 

Confused, hostile green eyes met inquisitive brown.

Chapter Text

About 20 minutes earlier...

The latest electrical brownout shorted out the DPD’s evidence container system causing it to randomly activate and cycle through the wall-files regardless of commands entered from the console.  Suffice to say tagged and bagged evidence was beginning to pile up on the floor.  No one wanted to deal with the additional aggravation of a malfunctioning wall.  It’d be a cataloguing nightmare later, but that’s what rookies and certain bad-tempered-detectives-on-suspension were for.

Each time a new wall was spontaneously pulled from the evidence container vault, an underground warehouse of several acres, the power draw affected the lighting throughout the building, slowed or crashed the terminals, and despite the station’s soundproofing, everyone could swear they heard and felt every squeak, grind, and clank from the Archive Room. 

Sitting at his terminal across from Hank, Connor could sense the rising tensions in the room.  His preconstruction software repeatedly activated in response to his own growing stress levels, but no opponent appeared in the preconstructions.  He’d tried to explain the phenomena to Hank, but the man over-simplified the error as ‘anxiety’ and suggested that he try to ignore it.

Like some irate jack-in-the box, Captain Fowler slammed open his office door long enough to shout: “Somebody do something about that racket!”

Everyone, with the exception of Hank, made some pretense of intending to follow the general order, but as soon as the captain returned to his lair, they all resumed their work. 

“Lieutenant?”  Connor leaned forward on his elbows and waved a polite hand to catch his partner’s attention that was currently devoted to surveillance photos of a suspected anti-android faction’s base of operations.

“Eh, what?”  Hank didn’t look up. 

“Could I please borrow the key to the evidence room?”

Still without taking his eyes from the screen, Hank dug under a pile of paperwork and slid the key over to his waiting partner.  “Yeah.  Here.”

Standing and straightening his suit jacket, Connor plucked the key from the desk and turned away on his self-appointed mission.

“Whoa, hold up there.”  Hank finally registered what Connor had been asking and what he’d just given the kid.  Connor paused and looked over his shoulder expectantly.  “Where you off to?”  Hank demanded. 

“Evidence room.”  The android said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  And maybe it was since he’d just requested the key to the room which he held up as a visual aide. 

“Arrrg.”  Hank dragged his hand over his face.  “I meant why?”

“Captain Fowler just ordered—

“Jeffrey’s just screamin’ about it because he’s frustrated like everyone else.  He doesn’t actually expect us to waste time on it.”

“Oh.”  Connor flipped the keycard between his fingers.  “I see.”  

Hank saw the LED flickering yellow and spotted the edge of frustration in the corners of the android’s eyes.  The keycard snapped from one hand to the other with increasing speed.  Kid hated misinterpreting social signals.  “Eh.”  Hank flapped his hand and leaned back in his seat.  “But it is annoying.  You wanna go do somethin’ about it, I’m not gonna stop ya.”

The android immediately brightened up and traipsed off in the direction of the Archive room.   

--

Connor was having less success than he’d hoped. 

Once more, the overheating actuators moved the wall-files forward with a breathy mechanical swoosh that sent a draft of cold air across the room, ruffling the android’s hair.  The heavy wall settled into place with a metallic clang that jarred the floor and sent a dull vibration through the clear security door behind him. 

For the sixth time in the last five minutes, Connor looked up from the control console he was interfacing with.  Another macabre wall-file laden with evidence greeted him.  “You’re not supposed to do that.”  He chided and removed his pearl white fingers from the smooth glass of the diagnostics screen.  He pressed his lips together and stalked over to the wall and faced it, hands on hips.  The evidence before him prompted his analysis system to signal for an optics scan and it queued up a request for an oral sample.

He could only imagine the reactions he’d get if anyone came downstairs and saw him ‘licking’ all the evidence.  He tilted his head at the lighted display.  There really couldn’t be any harm in just sampling a few.  It could be useful for future cases.  Just as he reached out to retrieve a rather bloody looking monkey wrench, the wall jolted and withdrew. With a small sigh, he noted the container’s number.  Maybe once the system was repaired, he could come back down. 

After fifteen more minutes of fruitless troubleshooting, he was ready to....postpone....this task. 

He’d nearly got his cuff trapped and himself crushed when the storage system unexpectedly activated again while he was attempting to reach a warped actuator between container 9 and the evidence storage room’s wall. 

His LED still flashing red over the close call, Connor stood at a mathematically and entirely safe distance.

Behind the control console, back pressed to the security door all loose clothing pulled taunt to himself. 

That is enough of that.  He thought.  With a snappy heel turn, he headed out and back upstairs.

--

Connor rounded the corner into the bullpen and stopped when he saw Reed, sitting uncharacteristically quiet at his desk.  He didn’t have his feet kicked up or his phone in hand either.  Nothing about him fit the personnel file Connor had constructed for the man. 

Is he sick?  

He'd heard others ask each other that question when another displayed behavioral patterns outside of their established norm.  

The android took a small half-step backward to keep himself out of line of sight and ran a rapid scan of the detective, but before he could complete it someone knocked into him from behind, startling him out of the scan. 

Brow furrowed Connor sent a puzzled look at the patrol officer who'd just shouldered him aside.  “Excuse me?”  He said too low to be heard over the general commotion of the storm, the officers talking, phones ringing, and the occasional outburst from the lobby as a citizen demanded to know what their taxes were paying for if they couldn’t—

Connor tuned out the complaints and redirected his attention to Detective Reed.  He didn’t have time for another attempt at a scan.  He knew from unfortunate experience that the detective not only had a sense for when he was being watched, but was also intensely sensitive about being stared at.   

So, yes...maybe Reed’s random outbursts against him weren’t exactly...random.  They only seemed random because Connor’s unintentional instigation was entirely silent.  Slightly abashed by the thought, Connor quickly ran a preconstruction of the outcomes of inquiring after the man’s wellbeing instead of...hiding?...behind a distant scan.

Oh.  Connor blinked at the preconstruction’s presented outcomes.  He had a choice of bad and worse.  He shut down the program and, not wishing to be a catalyst to the human’s temper, intentional or otherwise, he detoured to the opposite wall of the bullpen, keeping himself as unobtrusive as possible.  

But he did want to bring Hank a fresh cup of coffee.  

But Reed's desk was on the same side of the bullpen as the breakroom.

It wasn't like Connor was scared of the aggressive man. 

--

To Connor's unacknowledged relief, Detective Reed did not notice him enter the breakroom.  He wasn't afraid.  It was only that their encounters always ended wasting time that could be used more productively.

Solving cases, for instance.  

While he waited for the machine to finish brewing, Connor remotely accessed casefiles from his terminal and continued analyzing crime scene photos; all from several different cases.  He wasn’t supposed to run analysis, reconstruction, and file reports all at the same time, it slowed his processor and raised his internal temperature, but everyone else was working themselves to exhaustion and this was the closest he could come to emulating them. 

I could drain some of my thirium.  He thought as he gathered up the filled coffee cup, only half aware of his surroundings. 

The energy loss would replicate human exhaustion, but it would also replicate blood loss, and that is not the same thing.  I only have the one substance to keep me going.  Humans have...what?  What keeps them going past their limits?  My limits have been tested in a lab and set by physics.  It is impossible to go beyond them. 

He frowned down at the coffee as he exited the breakroom. 

The unmistakable sound of someone tripping over their feet jolted him out of his ruminations.  Before his recognition software processed the individual’s ID, Connor caught the human and found himself supporting their weight as they sagged in his grip. 

The dropped coffee cup rolled a neat circle on the ground.

--

The moment lasted five seconds.  But those five seconds were an eternity to an overwhelmed supercomputer. 

The most physical contact Connor had experienced for the past few weeks were shoulder pats or arm grabs from Hank.  All other contact came from fighting with suspects or an occasional shoulder bump.  And of course there was Sumo.  But Connor had never been this close to a human since Hank’s hug. 

He’d been startled that time, awkward with his arms and his voice modulator had an unexpected malfunction, but after Hank pulled away Connor had determined to reciprocate properly the next time.  He added ‘hugs’ to his ‘Permitted Interactions with Hank’ file and had the event planned out with flowcharts and diagrams.  His next hug would be perfect.

Day after day Connor’s eager anticipation was disappointed. 

The hug never came. 

At first Connor didn’t understand why.  The basic, mechanical action of a hug was simple.  And his social programming indicated that it would strengthen the social bonds that his ‘perfect partner’ programming always insisted on forming. 

Maybe I’m doing something wrong?  He thought.  Am I misunderstanding something about ‘hugging’?  He double-checked his database, but perhaps it was missing cultural nuances?  So he researched ‘hugging’ online. 

Hugging was not simple. 

His database’s definition of a ‘hug’ was: a means to advance partnership bonding by variables dependent upon values assigned under [relationship status parameters] according to data gathered through daily interactions and verbal or nonverbal communications.  Simple enough.

But humans’ variables and the value of those variables were always changing. 

Now he was half-afraid that Hank would try to hug him again.  What would it mean?  What did Hank want?  The questions piled into his processor.  What do I want?  What should I want?  What can I want? 

I should’ve known better.  Connor had thought.  Nothing is simple. 

So Connor removed ‘hugs’ from his list of allowable interactions and decided that physical contact with humans would be limited to fighting, shoulder pats, and arm grabs—and maybe backslaps, but he didn’t like those so much, they rattled his processor and made it hard to concentrate on initializing the correct reaction to the gesture—in all, the plan of physical contact limitation would keep things organized and logical and, most important, free of questions.    

But now he found himself with an armful of exhausted, helpless human. 

And....

thinking....was...

....difficult....

External data made its way through his sensors slowly as if traveling through firewalls: a heavy, organic heartbeat and a set of soft lungs behind an easily shattered cage of bone and cartilage; tense muscles trembled under skin, easily torn—all components of a human body.  And in this moment, while he supported all its weight, this fragile, organic being was his responsibility. 

His responsibility to hold. 

I can do that.  Connor thought.  He failed so often at imitating humans, but he could accomplish this task exceptionally well as an android.  He was the best ever built.  Of course he could hold this human. 

I could hold you forever, if you needed me to.

Enthralled by the warm weight in his arms, the android was unaware of the new codes writing themselves into his core programming as it tried to process the unexpected blaze of devastatingly irrational deviant emotion.

It was as if his sensors had been upgraded.  His aggression levels increased and his environment scan began notifying him of all potential threats to his new charge.  He was simultaneously aware of everything while focused on this one person flopped in his arms. 

--

The five seconds ended.  

The human shifted and, pushing against Connor’s arms, turned to blink at him.  Clouded green eyes were sunk in a haggard face darkened by a five o’ clock shadow. 

Connor’s recognition software put a tile, name, and social relationship to the face. 

“Detective Reed!”  Connor released the man as if he was a hot wire. 

“I warned you...t’stay outta m’way.” 

Connor recognized the aggressive stance and saw the man’s hand moving in an all too familiar motion. 

The panicking deviant’s prediction software coolly informed him that Det. Sgt. Reed, Gavin was about to murder him with a Smith & Wesson M&P 40. 

Chapter Text

Any other evening at Detroit Police Department Central Station, another officer or Hank would have noticed and stopped the confrontation between Reed and Connor, but with the reduced staff and the workload, everyone’s attention was focused on threats and problems from without rather than from within the station.  Even more so when the already dim lights were killed completely by another power surge. 

The dying whine of terminals and loud annoyed shouts chorused in the dark as emergency generators powered on and the station’s red emergency lights activated, coloring everything in a red haze and making the escalation occurring on the sidelines—now in almost complete darkness—nearly impossible to see.  The hail slamming into the protective polymer sheets over the windows and against the roof drowned out background noises.   

--

Connor’s main systems froze upon registering the sight of a gun pointed at him while he was undergoing an emotional crisis toward the man on the other side of the weapon.  But his system was installed with protocols for such emergencies.

[COMBAT PROGRAM ONLINE]

[THREAT DETECTED]

Registering the eminent threat and the errors in its primary systems, the combat program seized control without waiting for authorization.  It assessed the situation, scanning the human with the gun, and formulated a self-defense sequence with aggression variables set to correlate with threat neutralization requirements. 

The small, pre-damaged human with the erratic vital signs would only require an aggression variable of 3 with a possible increase to 4 to overcome any illogical resistance. 

--

The attack was as brutal as it was elegant in its execution.  Anyone not being knee-slammed into a wall would have applauded the machine’s strength and fluidity.  

Gavin, for his part, never expected Hank’s dainty and prim pet to leap at him like a blood-thirsty jaguar.

The back of his head bounced against the wall, blacking his vision and leaving him only aware of the pain radiating in his skull and ribs and spine.  Vision was only just returning when the hard metal of a gun barrel jammed up against his abdomen.  A new pain in his hand and wrist told him that he had been forced to turn his own gun on himself. 

“Th—

A hand clamped over his mouth smothering his protest.    

“Calm yourself, Detective Reed.”  The android whispered, leaning close; its scentless breath hot on his face.  “You can’t win.  Back down and we can forget this ever happened.  Otherwise, there’s going to be a weapon’s incident involving a certain reckless detective with a record of violence.  You’ve seen what a 40 caliber can do to human intestines.” 

Faced with the combined stress of his day, week, month, year, the pressure of his own gun digging into his sore stomach, and the cold expression on the android’s face, Gavin was inclined to pull the trigger himself if only for the satisfaction of messing up the android’s perfect suit—so what if his death got chalked up as an accident or suicide or whatever?  He’d get the last laugh, anyhow.  He wriggled his fingers caught under the android’s powerful grip. 

I hope you use hot water on the stains.

He glared up into the assured android’s eyes; the thing looked exasperated at the delay; it expected him to admit defeat to the superior being.

Gavin’s finger curled around the trigger.

Yeah, this was gonna hurt.

Nothing new there. 

Are there cats in hell?

Cats!

He’d told his cats that morning that he’d be back ‘prolly late.’  And Cat needed to see the vet. 

What time?  What time was the appointment?

He had to go home tonight. 

If he had the energy to cry in disappointment at his thwarted revenge against perfection, he might have dredged up a bitter tear or two.  But he hadn’t cried in years—not officially that is.  And there was no way he was going to break that record just because he got a little roughed up.  It was absolutely the concussion that blurred his vision.

Every muscle trembling, hot with frustration and humiliation, Gavin took his cramped finger off the trigger.  His chest was caving in on itself, crushing his lungs.

Is giving up supposed to hurt this bad? 

The grip over his mouth and hand remained.  He glared at the android; its carefully designed face with all its coordinated angles was freakishly skeletal in the shadows cast by the emergency lighting. 

The android, conveying authority through calm control, stared at the human pinned to the wall under his hand.  Tactile sensors delivered all the necessary information to know that the threat’s will was breaking—the man’s eyes were wide and dark with dilated pupils, but there was no surrender in them; they stared defiantly back at the android with hatred and anger. 

[ADJUSTING AGGRESSION LEVELS]

The hand crushing Gavin’s chapped lips against his teeth moved to cover his nose as well.  The human’s vitals skyrocketed.  Threat of being shot forgotten, the man’s one free hand gripped the android’s arm; but the android was impervious.  Every animal knew how to submit to superiority; this one, the android blandly considered its target, had apparently forgotten. 

It had better remember quickly if it didn’t want to burst blood vessels in both eyes.

--

Gavin wasn’t even aware that he was struggling for air in the station’s breakroom anymore.  He was reliving old defeats.  Some were the products of nightmares; others, of cruel reality coming to revisit its favorite punching bag, reminding him of his place in decent society.

The sharp pain of a freshly cracked back rib snapped Gavin’s lost awareness into sharp clarity where he met the black eyes of an android waiting patiently. 

Some fiery part of Gavin screamed at himself to not give in, but the physical body could only endure so much.  Betrayed by his body’s need for air Gavin, only half-conscious, slumped in the android’s grip. 

The hellion detective lowered his eyes; hating the dampness that rolled from his lashes to his cheeks. 

Only because someone might mistake it for what it wasn’t.

It was just sweat.

The combat program registered the submissive actions as quickly as they were made.  

[THREAT NEUTRALIZED]

Satisfied that the human was no longer a menace, the android shoved it away to the center of the breakroom.  “Good decision, Gavin.”  The words were cold and flat.

Gasping and choking for oxygen, the detective didn’t catch himself in time to avoid slamming chest first against the table.  Soundlessly, he eased around the table, putting it between himself and the android, and the doorway and the world.  And then slouched over it, head down on his folded arms—choking too quietly to be heard over the sound of the hail.

--

[THREAT NEUTRALIZED]

The combat system notification hovered at the edge of Connor’s sight and faded as the aggressive program returned to its status as an idle background process.  The deviant blinked rapidly while his system completed its reboot and came online.  The silent, monochrome world regained color and sound. 

The first sound he registered was the pounding sound of hail; Connor peered up curiously at the red emergency lights flashing overhead.  Pursing his mouth in annoyance at the station’s latest problem, he looked around for the coffee he was supposed to be bringing to Hank.  That’s why he’d come in here in the first place, wasn’t it? 

A trembling body clinging to the breakroom table registered in his vision: Gavin.

Help him. 

The prompt zipped through Connor’s processor and before he thought about its source he was moving forward.  “Gavin!”  He came to an abrupt halt seeing the man flinch. 

Gavin doesn’t cringe.

“Ah.”  The deviant leaned back, seeking physical distance from the new unknown factor, but he failed to move his feet and staggered back clumsily.  He rubbed his fingers together, they were wet and sticky.  Before he could run an analysis on the substance something else arrested his attention. 

There was a gun in his hand.  He stared.  A service pistol.  Connor had this particular gun pointed at him often enough to recognize every unique scrape and scratch.  Not too long ago, Gavin—while trailing the docile deviant around the station one day—had bragged about that long jagged scratch along the grip: ‘Got it when some guy the size of Lewis, ‘cept with muscle instead of all that fat, pulled a knife on me.’  Gavin had laughed, whether at Lewis’ expense or the memory itself or the damage to his weapon, Connor didn’t know.  He had mollified Gavin that day by expressing interest in the story and the scratch—only to be rewarded for the effort by a series of insults once Gavin finished stealing his time and attention.

Why do I have Gavin’s service weapon?

Connor reviewed his memory logs. 

The evidence room.  The power surges.  Reed sitting quietly at his desk for once.  Coffee for Hank.  Holding somebody in his arms. 

Then his steely combat program’s cruelly efficient report presented itself for review. 

Threat Detected.  Hostile Subdued.  Threat Neutralized.  

Reed’s leaping pulse, wide eyes, broken will, the forced surrender.

Connor’s eyes widened in horror and the gun fell out of his hand and clattered on the floor.  The android’s back smacked into the narrow support wall that only moments before he’d...

The android pressed himself against the wall using it as a brace for his suddenly unresponsive legs. 

He didn’t remember being angry.  Why had he done that to Gavin?  All the man did was pull a gun on him.  But that wasn’t anything new!  Gavin was always threatening him. 

I was weak, emotional. This would never had happened if I wasn’t deviant.  

He was no better than the other violent deviants he’d hunted: Daniel, the unnamed HK400 that killed Ortiz, all of them. 

He was gonna be thrown in an interrogation room and questioned until he confessed.  And then sent to CyberLife for disassembly. 

I don’t—I didn’t, I’m sorry!  I don’t want to be destroyed!  Connor’s hands reached out for something, someone, anything.  For Hank, Sumo.  Gavin. 

No!  Not Gavin—Detective Reed.  What’s happening?  Hank, Hank where are you?

Even if Hank was forced to turn him in for attacking a human like some wild deviant, Connor couldn’t help but want to feel the man’s arms around him to keep everything away. 

Connor’s lean arms curled around himself.  No one was coming to help him.  He was alone with his mistakes.  And he was gonna be destroyed. 

No.  That wasn’t right. 

Things are different now...Hank doesn’t have to report me as deviant.

How could he have forgotten the revolution?  Everything Markus did? 

Despite the searing chaos spinning in his processor, Connor initiated a full systems check.  He had to know what was wrong with his system.  He shouldn’t be unfocused like this.  The unscrupulous combat program should never have been able to take over.  Never been so unrestricted.

As the systems check progressed, Connor felt some of the chaos dissolve. 

But a new problem announced itself in the system check’s error report.

His sparse and concise file on Gav—Detective Reed was filled with errors and half-written social protocols that barely registered as data.

̵̛̻C̴͖͠ö̸̯́l̷̫̕l̸eà̴̟ġ̴͓ū̵͍e̴.  ̴̮̕A̶͇̕d̷v̸̏e̸͆r̶̲̎s̶͗a̶͕r̷̐y̴͂.̶̲͆ ̶͔͌ ̵͝H̷̽a̵͝t̷͝e̵͑d̶̽.̸͖ ̵ ̶̥̈F̶r̶͆ĭ̵e̴n̴̔d̶.̷̆ ̵͑ͅ ̸̹͒D̶̞̍è̷̫t̶e̸c̴ti̵͌v̷̯̊e̴͈̊.̴̤̋ ̶ ̸̧̈A̷͚͑s̶̖̊s̸͕̿ò̵̥č̶͚i̶͕͝ä̷́ͅẗ̸̜́é̷͕.̴͉̒ ̵͎͌ ̶Ë̸̜́n̷e̵̼͐m̶̳̅y̷.̴͙̄ ̵͊ ̷͔͗D̵̏e̷s̶i̶rẻ̴̞ḋ̸.̴̺ ̵̗̈́ ̶̰̆C̸̤͋o̵̤̓m̵͈̋r̴͙̾a̴̲͆d̷͐e̵.̸͕̈ ̵͗ͅ ̵̣̓M̵͕͊a̵̢̓n̴̡͗.̶̡̎ ̷̖̀ ̶̣͗T̷̖͗h̶r̷e̴a̴͐t̴̯̾.̴͕͑ ̵̗̏ ̷͈̂T̴̖͆o̸͔̽l̷ê̸̘r̴a̴̺͝t̵̯̿e̶̢̅d̴.̷̻̏ ̵͖̏ ̴̗B̴r̷ȍ̶͇t̵h̸̹͛e̶͗ͅr̷̲͒.̷̱̈́ ̴̤̋ ̸̨͒H̵͇͘ǘ̶̳m̶a̶̻̒n̵̗͘.̶̖͗ ̵̗̎ ̴ͅL̶̛͕o̸̐v̵̅͜e̸d.̸̩̍ ̴O̴͔̒f̵̞̌f̵͉͑i̶̦͑c̵̖͒e̵͔̽r̷͙̽.̸̠̀ ̷̟̈́ ̵͔̑A̶̱͛l̵͓̈́l̶̹͗y̵.̷ ̸̠̃

He didn’t remember modifying the file.

It was only supposed to say...what?  What was G—Detective Reed supposed to mean to him?  How was he supposed to act around the man?    

Every time Connor attempted to process the file, the same confused string of corrupted codes swarmed his processor. 

He closed the file.  Tried to delete it.  Start fresh.

System error.  Last request lost.  Try again?

Error, error, error.

Connor’s thirium pump increased its pace to push additional energy through his processor as he struggled to organize the conflicting impulses regarding the distressed human only a few feet away, half hidden by the dim emergency lights:

Hold/Protect.  Restrain/Execute.  Disregard/Ignore. 

“Everything okay in here?” 

Connor wished it was Sumo speaking.  He didn’t care if it was an illogical thought.  He needed Sumo or the blanket, that soft, soft blanket.  Both.  He didn’t want to answer questions anymore!  He didn’t want to be here!  His arms tightened around himself.  Where was Hank?  Why wasn’t Hank here?

He was isolated.  Like standing in a room full of androids who refused to connect with him.  But he wasn’t at one of Markus’ meetings.  He was at the station.  He wasn’t alone.  These were detectives.  Like him.

Why am I alone when I’m not?

It wasn’t logical.  His processor burned in his head.  Overheated thirium coursed through the lines coiled throughout his body, warming his biocomponents beyond their recommended range and triggering further error messages in his already overwhelmed processor. 

Ḩ̶̟̠̗̖̪͚͓͇͇͇͉͕͍̽͋̌ą̸̣̺̦̺̞͎̬̩͓̣̞͕̈́́̃͒̏̏̀͝ͅn̷̢͚͉̥͓͕̭̜̮̖̈́͊̎͜ķ̸̦̜͖͔̻͔̭̞̳̟͋̽̈́̈́̍̾̎́̄̍̚͝G̵̡̥̭̓̎͠ͅa̶̢̲͉͊́̐̆͌͌̏̾v̶̢̜͉͔͙̮̏̓̿̿͋̏̑̊̕̚į̸̧̛͈̙͈̱̥̊̽̉̒̈͑̋̓͑̾̆̉͜ͅͅn̷̢̥̮̻͉̳͔̹͚̺͔͕̭̻͔̾̅̏̈́Ş̴̳̞̥̭͕͕͔̩͓̥͖̜͑̀̓ͅÔ̶̡̱͓̩̤M̸͇͎̥̦̠͈̓̊̀̄̏͒̈́̈́̾͋̾͋̚Ė̸̡̨̨̛̖͍͎̹̺̱̜͉̤̌̚̕͜Ơ̶̧̬̪̬̣̽̐̀͑̃͑͠Ņ̵̧͙̜̺͙̣̭̝͒̈́̂́̌͑̈́̑̓̀͛͋̒̕͝Ẽ̴̢̪̻͓̣̙̦͆͗̈̇̈́̎̉̕...please I-I n̶͗̒̇ͅe̸̠͉͌͒̋̊̋̋̇̕e̶̛̳̦̫͖͙͉͆̅̇̈͌͋̈́̃̊̈́̊̄̒̚d̴̛̻̖̯̿̈̒̔͐̔̇͝͝w̴̧̹̩̠̤͓̥̣̤͋̈́͒̊̄̾͘͘͜ä̷̝̮̟̻͇́͜n̴̢̧̫̻̜͈̙̠͖̫̟̞̲̏̽͊̌̔͋́͒͊̎͜͝͝t̴̡̡̢̲̙̜̬̤̤̮̗̖̺̓͆͗̉̔̆͝ṉ̴̩̻͇̯̱̜̝̘̘̩̎͋̌́̇̿̃̍͂̈́̈́͑̕͜e̸̠̜͓̫̋́̃͝e̴̢̟̟͍̘̪͚͓͎̓̑͊̾̎̈́̌̎̔̂́͝d̷͕̣̲̮̥̩̳̹̝̜̦͈̻̱̄͜ you...

--

Sighing and groaning with the effort, Officer Lewis stooped over to pick up the fallen coffee cup when he noticed the unsecured weapon on the ground.  Forgetting about the coffee cup, he seized the gun up immediately and assessed the situation before him. 

Reed.  Should’ve known, he thought.  And Hank’s android.  Figures. 

Judging by Reed’s slouched posture, it was easy to know what had happened: Reed had taken advantage of the dark and everyone’s distraction to attack Hank’s android.  Lewis shook his head.  The guy was impossible.  Couldn’t he just roll over and accept that things were different now?

Lewis repeated himself to the android that had its arms wrapped around itself, long fingers dug into its sides as if it’d been hurt.  Between Reed and the android, Lewis preferred to deal with the android.  Fake or not, at least it had a consistently decent attitude.  “Everything okay?” 

“I-I don’t...Hank?  I think....”  A low mechanical whirr escaped Connor and he hunched a little more over his arms, shaking his head.  “I th-think Detective Reed...”

He wanted to say ‘needs assistance’, but Lewis cut him off with an aggravated sigh, raising his voice, “Hank!  Get in here!  Reed did something to your bot boy!  It’s got a light show going over here!”

Hank’s loud voice boomed several choice words and “I’m gonna kill ‘im!”  The clatter of desk chairs and pounding feet heralded the swearing police lieutenant’s arrival.  He swooped into the room and went directly to Connor, running his hands over the android’s face and noting the red LED—his shaking hands overlooked the way the android leaned into them. 

Hank dropped his hands down to his partner’s shoulders and squeezed them tightly.  “You okay?”

“Yes,” Connor nodded, “but—

Hank swiveled to face Lewis who immediately pointed to Reed.   

“What’d you do?”  Hank growled at the slouched body.

A soulless ‘hah’ came from the detective slumped over the table.  His face concealed by his arms. 

Lewis’ brow furrowed.  As obnoxious as it was, Reed’s laugh was a well-known sound to the people inflicted with his presence.  It never sounded like that.  And the disruptive, ill-mannered sergeant with an unending supply of attitude and energy wasn’t supposed to look like a lifeless puppet either.  Hank’s pretty gizmo must’ve taught Reed a painful lesson. 

Maybe one that he’ll actually remember this time.

“N-no.”  Connor finally worked up his courage to confess.  “It’s not...it’s not like that.  We were fighting—

“And you won.”  Hank grinned; whatever Connor was trying to tell him was completely forgotten in his exhilaration at the news of Reed’s downfall.  “Good job, kid.”  He leaned out into the bullpen.  “Hey everyone!  Reed got beat by our resident android!”

A scattered cheer went up and a few officers actually found that they had time to come see their mutual enemy in the throes of his defeat—put in his place by the thing he hated most. 

The communal victory was that much sweeter because any revenge Reed sought would be against the android rather than themselves. 

Hank crossed his arms waiting for Reed’s temper tantrum to explode at the mockery. 

Reed’s wet cough, half smothered in his jacket sleeve, was anticlimactic to the onlookers. 

Then the lights came back on. 

The breakroom table and Reed’s jacket sleeves were splattered with red blood. 

Hank was a homicide detective and the sight of blood spiked his instincts.  “Whoa...hey.”  It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was enough that the sight of it made him reevaluate his assumptions.  He grumbled, annoyed that his enjoyment of Reed’s misery had been so short lived.  He crossed the short distance to Reed.  With Reed’s head hidden by his arms it was impossible to tell if the blood was from a superficial wound gained in a fistfight or if the man had pushed Connor a little too far. 

It wasn’t a well-known fact, but his partner did have a fuse connected to a temper.

“Hey.”  Hank jolted the table with his hands.  “Tough guy, how bad is it?  Let me see.”

Wincing at the motion of the table.  Reed lifted his head but kept his eyes averted while he wiped his sleeves over his face like a cat trying to clean itself.   “’m...fine....g’ ‘way.  Evry thin’s fine...Jusss’....hot...s’all...” He uncoordinatedly pulled off his jacket, head still turned away to conceal the agony etching new lines into his face.  He tried to fold the jacket over the back of the chair, but ended up dropping it. 

Hank’s eyes narrowed.  The man was trying hard to act like nothing was wrong.  Trying too hard and failing miserably.  That wasn’t like him at all. 

The idea that Reed could be hurt was almost incomprehensible.  Everyone knew that Reed bounced back from everything.  Usually taking out on the rebound whatever he hadn’t taken down with him in the first place—like some possessed bouncy ball trapped in a lab full of delicate computer equipment. 

But watching him deliberately keep the table between himself and Hank; the way he stepped on his forgotten jacket; his drunken stagger to the breakroom’s sink, Hank knew that he’d lost his ‘bounce.’ 

Hank looked at the mess of blood on the table and then down at the jacket on the floor.  Aside from a smudge of blood over his face from where he’d rubbed his sleeve, Hank hadn’t seen any injuries that Connor could have inflicted. 

Internal bleeding?

“Reed, I’m not gonna ask twice.”  Hank’s voice was rough through trying to mask the unwanted concern that was eating its way through his habitual dislike for the man. 

Hunched over the sink, Reed didn’t answer.  He filled a cup with water with shaking hands and swallowed it roughly.  He winced and dropped the cup into the sink. 

“Reed.”

The sergeant stared emptily into the sink, at some point he’d braced his hands on either side of it.  Instead of answering, he retched and spat into the sink.  Flapped his hand at the motion sensor to activate the faucet. 

“Reed?” 

The younger man collapsed against the counter, a forearm and elbow slamming against the counter top when his knees buckled against the cupboards with a sharp ‘clack’.

“Gavin!” 

Connor bolted past Hank, easily avoiding his partner’s attempt to restrain him, and dropped to his knees at the other man’s side.  He clenched his hands and scanned his workplace antagonist.  He knew he’d done some damage to the man when he’d attacked him.  But he’d seen Reed take harder hits unfazed.  There was no mistake.  The combat report had clearly indicated the amount of force used.  It would not have caused serious damage. 

The scan’s report complicated the situation:

Bruised and fractured ribs, lacerations on hands and face, rapid heartbeat, respiratory distress, heightened temperature, tremors.  Not only was he running a high temperature and possibly fighting off a lung complaint, but Gavin had been hurt previously to their breakroom fight.

I was careless.  I’m sorry, Ga—

“Detective Reed?”  Connor placed a careful hand on the man’s shoulder only to have it knocked roughly away. 

It hurt.  To be pushed away.  The deviant curled his rejected hand against his chest. 

Hank’s impatience found its limit when he saw his partner treated like that.  “Hey.”  He said, “That’s enough of that.  You’re a grown man, Reed.  We ain’t gonna stand around and baby you until you feel like turning into an actual human.”  He nudged Connor aside and gripped Reed’s shoulders and hauled him upright in one rough motion.

He expected the fist, but not the hysterical scream.  “Don’t t’ch me!”

Hand clapped over a rapidly blackening eye, Hank almost tripped over Connor, who’d remained crouched on the ground, in his hurry to back away.

Reed tried to lean against the counter, but missed by several inches and ended up falling to the ground with his fists pressed to his heaving chest.  He pressed his back up against the cabinets. 

Everyone stared.  After an outburst like that, Reed should have been shoving them all away, swearing and trying to make a getaway. 

The wounded detective tried to stand.  “Sstop...crowdin’....” his voice was thick and interrupted by coughs.  “G’way.”  He made another attempt to stand, but slumped forward with a flat hand pressed against his sternum as he sucked in a noisy, wheezing gasp.  

Connor had known the man wouldn’t be able to stand and so had taken the opportunity to move closer, undetected.  Reminded of Gavin’s hatred for being stared at, Connor looked up at Hank with sad brown eyes, “He’s not well, lieutenant.  Can you tell everyone to give us some privacy?”  He indicated with his head at the officers gawking in the breakroom’s entryway.

“Wilson!”  Hank ordered.  “Get these people back to work!  This ain’t a sideshow.  You, uh, Officer Person—

Hank ignored Reed’s breathless cackle—honestly this man...

“Yessir?”  The named officer answered. 

“Grab those partition walls we keep in the meeting room and set em up front here.  Don’t need a bunch of rubberneckers gettin’ ideas for an expose on the DPD.”

“Got it, lieutenant.”  She hurried away.

Ignoring him, Hank tapped Connor’s head, “Hey.  Do your scanning thing.  Do we need to get him to the hospital?”

“I...don’t,” Connor shook his head and started over with more confidence.  “He’s injured and sick, but not in immediate danger according to my scans.”  He paused and waited until the privacy screens were set up.  “See?  He’s calmer now.  I think if we can get him talked down, we can discuss what to do next.  I don’t think stressing him with a hospital is a good idea right now.”

Lewis nodded from where he stood nearby.  “I agree.”  He added somewhat quieter to Hank.  “I think it’s a panic attack.”  He knew it was.

“I don’t,” Reed scrunched down on himself, “panic attacks.....pathetic...” he hissed again.  “Losers.”  The word eked out like a curse.  His fingers dug into the unfinished edge of the cabinet’s base.  Sweat plastered Reed’s black shirt to his chest and a sheen spread across his face, neck, and arms. 

“Don’t be stubborn.”  Lewis said.  “You’re having a panic attack, so just calm down.” The patrol officer put his hands on the detective’s arms.

Reed lashed out snarling.  “Don’t t’ch me!”  Bloody hands scrabbled at the cupboard trying to find purchase to pull himself up. 

The coughing grew deeper and wetter.  The detective’s body lurched and his legs thrashed against the floor.  Watery and blood streaked vomit splattered against the floor.  Lewis and Hank jolted back, but Connor inched closer and was near enough to put a careful, unobtrusive hand flat against Reed’s shoulder to keep him from falling sideways to the floor.  Statue-like he erased his presence.   Not even moving when Gavin’s head dropped back to loll against the cabinet; his half-closed eyes were clouded and unfocused.

“What’s going on?”  Ben’s friendly drawl was stern as he barged his way between the thin screens.  “What’re you guys doing to Reed?”

Hank and Lewis turned to the station’s most senior detective with duplicate expressions of perplexity. 

“Nothing?”  Hank said with gesture of frustration.  “He was picking on Connor and then things escalated.”

“Story of his life apparently.”  Ben scowled and shouldered past them.  He crouched in front of Reed.  “Hey, boyo.”  He greeted.  “I guess our little scuffle this morning was just the tip of the iceberg?”

To Connor’s surprise Gavin huffed a tiny noise that might have been a laugh.  “’sup....’jimin.  Said....was s’ry.”

Ben snorted in false annoyance.  “What’d I tell you about calling me that?”

The tiny flicker of victory brought some degree of life back into Gavin’s eyes. 

“I’m gonna check your pulse, okay?”  Ben said, spreading his fingers out for Reed’s approval.  “I just came in so cold hands, alright?”

Reed shook his head.  “Don’t...don’t...” his breathing increased and he shook his head painfully slowly.  “N-n...no.”

“Okay.  You got it, buddy.”  Ben backed off and spoke quietly to Hank.  “Is EMS on their way?”

“Uh...we didn’t think it was necessary for a panic attack...” 

Ben pulled out his phone.  “Reed doesn’t get panic attacks.  What happened while I was gone?”

“Well, uh...evidence room is on the fritz....power went out...er...Connor you wanna help out here?”

"I meant, anything else happen to Reed?"  Ben clarified.

Before Hank could answer, his phone pinged with Connor’s unique tone. 

[Tell Ben I said 'hello', but I’d rather not draw attention to myself.  I’m supporting most of Gavin’s weight right now.  Tell Detective Collins]

The text message broke off.  There was a short pause and Connor’s LED spun red. 

[Hank, I’m sorry.  I think I caused this.  I think I broke Gavin.]

Chapter Text

If it had been anyone else delirious on the floor, Hank would have tried to reach out to them—he was gruff and harsh, but he wasn’t the sort of man to stand by while someone else suffered.  He was a cop and a senior officer; it was his job to look out for people.

Reed wasn’t people.  He was a thorn wedged so deep in the DPD that it hurt less to just not touch it.

Because despite his flaws, Reed was a veritable machine when it came to grinding out hours of legwork, interrogations, witness interviews, and scaring up leads from the toughest suspects—if a few suspects got roughed up, upper management was willing to look the other way if it got results.  And DPD needed results.  So they grit their teeth and suffered Reed’s obnoxious personality and borderline cruelty.  It was a long history of bad blood and hate that overshadowed and stunted any sympathy for Reed now that he was brought down.

To his credit, Ben had tried to talk to him, but aside from mumbled swearing and cursing, the only thing he could get out of Reed was something about six o’clock. 

“What’s supposed to happen at six?”  Ben asked. 

Wilson piped up from where he stood at the room’s far end.  “His last interrogation was supposed to end about five.  Maybe he had an appointment?”

“Can somebody check on that?”  Hank wasn’t going to hold Reed’s hand, but there was no harm in starting an investigation.  “Is his phone in his jacket?”

Wilson crouched down to pick up the jacket and shook his head after pawing through it, “Nope.  Just a wallet and a bunch of crap.  You want it?”

“The wallet or the crap?”

“Either?”

Hank sighed.  “Ben if you can without getting him riled up again, check his pockets for his phone.  Person!”  He shouted through a gap in the partition.  “Can you check Reed’s desk for his phone?”

“You got it, boss.”  Came the prompt answer. 

“Give me the wallet.”  Hank finally answered Wilson who’d been waiting impatiently with his hand in the jacket pocket.  “See if this guy has any emergency contacts written down.”  Wilson tossed the wallet over and then let the jacket fall back to the ground. 

“No phone.”  Ben said and the same was echoed by Person. 

Leave it to Reed to lose his phone right when they needed it. 

Hank glared at the old ripstop wallet secured with a handful of colorful rubber bands.  Except for a driver’s license and a battered credit card with cracked edges and fold marks where it’d been bent, it was empty

With an annoyed huff, Hank texted the android receptionist for Reed’s emergency contact.  She forwarded him the information and Hank called the number only to hear Reed’s voice telling him to leave a message.

Something about hearing the plain intonation of Reed’s voice simply saying ‘Gavin Reed.  Leave a message.’ without any nastiness or hostility evidenced a normal, human side of the cop that Hank hadn’t heard in a long time. 

He was also getting concerned.  Had no one ever noticed that Reed failed to provide an emergency contact?  What other paperwork cracks had the man crept through?  Did he have some illness that he was keeping secret out of fear of being dismissed from the force? 

After being reassured again by Connor that Gavin was uncomfortable but not in any immediate danger, they decided to just wait for EMS to arrive.  The paramedics would have the equipment and experience to determine exactly what was going on with Reed. 

In the meantime, Hank answered Connor’s frantic text. 

[what’re you talking about??  What do you mean you broke him??]

[I attacked Gavin; I didn’t mean to!]

Connor did not mention his combat program.   

Everyone saw him as Hank’s ‘dorky android pet.’  And he’d overheard someone call him a ‘pretty toy’ that they’d ‘love’ to get their hands on.  Connor enjoyed being hugged and touched by Hank, but the possessiveness he’d detected in the other person’s tone and body language had alarmed him and he’d politely declined their invitation to chat after work.  Then there was a CSU member who had called him a ‘walking forensics lab’. 

It hurt and...scared? him...but if they let him stay with Hank then he wasn’t going to complain about a few names or leering stares or jokes. 

But what if they knew the truth?  That he was capable of silently and coldly killing a human.  He could have easily snapped Reed’s neck.  In the darkness of the power outage it would have been the work of a moment to dispose of the body behind the malfunctioning walls of the evidence locker or stash it outside until he could get to it after hours and drop it in the river. 

Hank’s next message shook him out of his dark thoughts.  [You walked into the break room and attacked Reed??  Somehow I don’t believe you...]

[NO!]

[Did he attack you?]

[I don’t think he was really going to shoot me] 

[WHAT?!]

[we just had a little misunderstanding]

The five seconds leading up to that moment were not important.  Connor was NOT going to think about...about...that weight and warmth he’d held.  And how nice it felt to be needed and useful again.  And he wasn’t going to admit that Gavin most likely would have killed him.  And he wasn’t going to think about the absence in his code.  Or the tiny notification that kept appearing, nagging him that a ‘critical function definition’ was missing. 

[Its called self-defense.  Stop blaming yourself.]  He could almost hear Hank’s bland voice in the text.

[But Hank!]

[STOP] then [we can talk about it at the house.]

--

So they waited. 

Like any good detectives they studied the only thing of interest in the room.

Reed—the precinct’s bogeyman—thrived on fear and hatred.  But stripped of words and strength, the fiend vanished.  In its place was a stranger.

A panicked, sick, injured stranger they had no idea how to help.  There was no distressed friend or family member or random witness to tell them ‘just the facts’ or ‘what happened’.  No one to even say ‘I knew this would happen one day’.

Connor sat quietly alongside Gavin; afraid to draw attention to himself and unwilling to converse with Hank any further after the lieutenant had shut down their text conversation. 

Gavin had looked at him once or twice, but his glassy bloodshot eyes didn’t register what they saw and since Connor was playing the part of a lifeless support prop, Gavin, in his confused state, didn’t see the android as anything else.

The winter storm continued to tear at the building. 

--

Officer Person tapped on the partitions.  “Medics are here.  You want them?”

Letting out a breath, Hank said.  “About time.  Yeah.”

The paramedics strode in, pulling on their safety gloves and carrying their equipment bags. 

Reed opened his eyes briefly at the commotion, but drifted off dismissing the intruders by closing his eyes.

Pointed in the direction of his patient the male medic strode across to where Connor and Gavin were while his partner stayed to interview the others. 

“Hi there.”  The paramedic set a large box down carefully on the floor and greeted Connor with a nod.  “You his friend?”

Connor shook his head.  “Not really.”  He whispered.    

The paramedic nodded conversationally as he set up his gear.  “Well, I’m making you an honorary friend seeing as how you’re the only one sitting next to the guy.  That okay with you?”  The medic smiled thinly at Connor’s wide-eyed nod, and then turned his attention to Gavin.  “Hello.  My name is Frederick and that’s my partner, Landa.”  He spoke carefully and clearly.  “Can you open your eyes for me?” He waited a few seconds and then repeated his question with a light tap to Gavin’s arm.  Gavin’s eyes blinked open. 

“There you go.”  The medic encouraged as he did a brief assessment of his patient’s temperature and pulse, the sensors under the gloves he wore shared the information with his partner’s data tablet.  “Lan.”  He said to the woman, “Get a blanket.  The floor’s cold.”  To Gavin, “Can you tell me your name?”

“.....F’rik....”

“That’s my name.  What’s your name?” 

No answer.  Eyes closed.

“Your friends tell me your name is Gavin.  Is that right?”  He accepted the shock blanket and carefully tucked it around the shivering patient.

Jostled into some awareness, Gavin shifted and said, “...don’t....no....” he coughed around a sigh and tipped his head back against the cabinet straining to drag in enough air to form words.  “...six...who’r you?”  He sounded too tired to be angry or suspicious.

Frederick’s face showed concern at the patient’s difficulty in breathing.  “I’m a medic.  I’m here because you’ve had an accident—

“...’sn’t.....dent....”

“Alight.  We’re gonna figure out what happened, okay?  Do you have any current or past medical problems?  Gavin.”  The paramedic snapped his fingers to draw the man’s drifting attention back toward himself and away from the android at his side.  “Medical problems or allergies?”

“...cats....”

“You’re allergic to cats, Gavin?”

“Ssst’pid.  No....cat.” 

Dropping that useless inquiry, the medic moved on.  “Okay, Gavin, I’m going to check a few things.”

“....hava...badge.”

“That’s great.  I’m going to check your lungs okay?  Can you take a breath for me?”

No response.

“Gavin.”

“’ssssssup.”

“Can you take a deep breath and hold it for me?”

“...where?”  Gavin groaned in annoyance and made as if to stand to obey, “...now?”

Frederick’s hand on his shoulder easily held him in place.  “Whoa, no, bud.”  The medic demonstrated what he was asking for.  “Can you breathe in like that for me?”

“Pfft.”

“Inhale.  In-hale.”  Frederick coached as he held the stethoscope against Gavin’s chest.

Finally Gavin pulled in a breath but released it in a fit of coughing that he muffled in his hands, curling his legs under the blanket as the pressure in his lungs increased.  A tired moan escaped him as he doubled over, only to straighten again to ease the pain from his cracked ribs.

Frederick noted the fresh splatter of blood on the man’s hands and the blanket.  He rechecked his gloves and raised them toward the patient.  “You’ve got a little bit of oral bleeding going on.  I’m gonna check your mouth for cuts or wounds alright?  See if there’s blood draining into your airways.”  He’d already scanned for internal bleeding and found nothing conclusive. 

There was some damage to the mouth lining but it seemed to be from gastric acid.  He took an oral swab and then unpacked a small box that looked a bit like a portable printer that was blended with a laptop.  “Gavin?”  He waited until increasingly irritated eyes focused on him.  “I’d like to take your fingerprints and run a medical search history to access your personal medical files.  Do you understand what I’m saying?”

No answer.  Frederick tried twice more and managed to get a slurred ‘no’. 

“Lan.  Note that patient is unable to provide evidence of understanding or consent to the Emergency Med Check, but that the primary uses judgement of situation to run the check.”

“Noted.”  Landa answered as she made the documentation. 

Frederick swapped Gavin’s hand clean and pressed it against the top of the machine.  Within a minute he had a readout available.  While he reviewed the patient’s medical history he tapped a few more keys on the machine and a small tongue-like apparatus slotted out.  Frederick loaded the oral swab and pushed the ‘tongue’ back in.

Connor tipped his head in curiosity.  “What’s that?” 

“A field ready, real time sample analyzer.”  Frederick said without looking away from the data about his patient.  “It’s a handy prototype, but they’re too expensive to issue to all the teams, so EMS never kept more than a few on hand.  Since the evacuation, there’s less teams so we get to take the fancy stuff out for a spin.”

Connor stared at the little machine and pressed his fingertips against his lips.  “Oh.”

“Yeah pretty handy.  It’s not as good as the one at the hospital, but it can give us a good idea of what we’re dealing with and helps us make better snap decisions about patient care.  Alright, Gavin, I’m gonna give you some oxygen, sound good?”

--

Meanwhile Landa was trying to gather information from the others in the room with little success.  “How long has he been like this?”  She asked Hank.

“I dunno.”  Hank shrugged.  “About fifteen minutes?”

“What happened prior?”

“Uh...he was in a fight with uh...him.”  He pointed at Connor who saw sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around one knee with his chin resting on it.  It looked like an oddly casual pose but for the red LED.

“What’s his name?”

“Connor.”

“Connor?”  The woman spoke gently and beckoned to the android who was already looking in their direction.  “Could you come here for a moment?  I need to ask you some questions.”

Reluctantly Connor stood and shuffled over, head drooping.

“Were you fighting with...er...Gavin?”

Connor looked shamefaced.  “I-it’s complicated.  He was getting...angry and I...so I sorta...grabbed him and...we were fighting...and...”  he couldn’t lift his eyes.  “I tried to smother him.” 

His voice was low but it seemed as it everyone in the station heard him even if his voice barely carried past Hank, who was standing nearest.  Connor could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him.  What sort of monster attacks his own co-worker and then tries to suffocate them?  Connor wrapped his arms around himself.  “I-I’m s-sorry.”  He hunched down further. 

“Hey, there.”  Landa crouched a little to look up into his face.  “Thank you for being honest.  You’re being very brave and you’re helping us very much, okay?  Sometimes the best we can do is help clean up the messes we make, right?” 

Connor shrugged and nodded. 

Turning her attention to her main concern, the paramedic studied the readout from her partner’s findings and forwarded her own about the respiratory complications.  She watched for a moment while Frederick tried to convince Gavin to accept an oxygen mask, but to no avail.  The man wanted nothing to do with the thing trying to cover his face. 

“My partner told me that Gavin has sustained injuries but that they aren’t extensive enough to be causing this lack of awareness.  Does Gavin have any history of drug or alcohol abuse?”

“Uh...maybe?”  Hank said.

Ben was shaking his head.  “I doubt it.”

Hank’s patience snapped, “Why do you keep defending him, Ben?  First he can’t possibly have panic attacks and now there’s NO way that he could possibly be drunk or high?  Huh?  Only old washed up lieutenants get to do that?  Is that it?”

Ben held up his hands.  “No, Hank.  It’s not like that at all.  It’s just.  I don’t know.  It just seems impossible for Reed to have a panic attack.  He’s always got things under some sort of control.”

Landa looked unimpressed with their argument.  “Does anyone know this guy outside of work?”

Everyone in the room shared a look.  “No.”

“Okay, then.  Let’s stop making assumptions and concentrate on what you do know.”

--

Annoyed at the patient’s refusal of the oxygen mask, Frederick was gradually coming to the conclusion that he had no idea what was wrong with this man.  He was presenting different symptoms but whenever he checked them against a cause, he came up empty. 

While he waited on the results from the oral swab and the blood sample, Frederick flicked a small pen light back and forth to check pupil dilation and was concerned at the slow reaction time.  “Gavin have you hit your head recently?”

Gavin closed his eyes.  “...no?” 

The medic checked for cranial or neck injuries and then double-checked with a scanner.  “Not presenting any noticeable head trauma.” 

Frederick checked the negative readings on the sample analyzer and then studied the patient closely.  Physical trauma causing moderate pain, but no internal bleeding; fever and chills could be from the mild lung infection; but what’s causing the drifting consciousness?  “No evidence of intoxication or drug use...”

Is it a new street drug? 

Their equipment should be able to identify the latest drugs and chemicals.  “I think we’re dealing with a toxin.”  He finally said sitting back on his heels.  “Some slow acting poisoning at the very least.  Could be a bad case of food poisoning.”  It would be consistent with the vomiting.  He ran the scanner again, but didn’t detect any of the usual bacteria or pathogens.  “Was he working on any drug related cases?” 

“He’s got several cases open right now—I think one’s a ‘red ice’ case, but I think he was in the interrogation room with suspects all night.  Chris was monitoring, I’ll ask him.”  Wilson pulled out his phone and shot off a quick text. 

--

Out on patrol, Chris’ cell sang out and he snatched it up.  It wasn’t from his wife. 

Chen looked over when Chris swore.  “What is it?”  She asked. 

“Check that.”  He tossed his phone into her lap. 

She read the text from Wilson: [Reed collapsed at station.  Not good.  Know anything?]

Her chest went cold.

“I thought you checked him after you tased him.” Chris said, feeling the nervous sweat run down his back. 

Cold spread through the other patrol officer’s chest.  “I did.  He was.  It shouldn’t have done anything.” 

--

Wilson spoke up, “Chris says he was fine yesterday and this afternoon.”

Frederick shook his head and decided.  “We need to transport.  Whatever’s wrong this equipment can’t detect it.  He’s presenting signs of TBI without any detectable cause.  Nothing.”  He repeated.  “I can’t find a primary cause for these symptoms.” 

Chapter Text

Damp from the storm and with his biocomponents oddly heavier than their certified weight, Connor reentered the station.  The android’s clipped and measured steps signaled his approach to the officers still grouped by the breakroom. 

“Hey.  They get him out okay?”  Ben asked.

“Yes.”  Connor straightened his jacket.  “May I come with you to the hospital?”  He was reluctant to ask such a favor of Hank who had more than once mentioned a dislike for hospitals, but since Ben appeared the most interested in helping Gavin...

“I’m going to the hospital?”

Connor’s fingers twitched for his coin, but he resisted.  “I thought...I thought that’s what people did when someone was hurt.”  His eyes shifted to Hank, but the lieutenant’s shrug was uninformative.

“Normally yes,” Ben said, “But it’ll be mostly sitting around.  And—

Huffing a sigh, Wilson spoke up cutting off Ben’s long explanation to the android.  “Lieutenant,” he turned to Hank, “Reed was due to finish several cases tonight or lose the suspects.  Someone has to pick up the slack.”

“Right.”  Hank cleared his throat and motioned Ben away in the direction of Reed’s desk.  “Ben go ahead and get started on Reed’s priority cases; Wilson see if you can get an extension on those suspects for another 24 hours.  Connor—

“You’re just going,” The android’s LED spun yellow, “just going to keep working?”  His voice rose a notch.  “While they tear Gavin apart and analyze him?”

Hank blinked at the word choice. “We’d just be sitting around, like Ben said.”  He put his hands in his pockets.  “They’ll probably be running tests for the rest of the night.  And,” He cut off the android’s protest with an upraised hand, “in the condition he was in, I doubt Reed will even know what’s happenin’ let alone know if someone’s out in the waitin’ room.”

“But—

Hank tried to coax his increasingly agitated partner into the open meeting room so he could convince him to settle down without causing a scene, but Connor pulled away.

“Gavin could be dying.”  Connor glared out at the silent bullpen, eyes narrowed.  “Do you really hate him that much?”

“Yes?”  Someone muttered, earning a few nervous titters.

The red LED glowed against the glass wall next to the detective android.  “That—that’s why you made androids isn’t it?”  The stressed android’s young emotions burst out as he was finally overwhelmed, “It isn’t FAIR that WE have to feel and you don’t!”  Connor’s hand slammed against the glass wall. 

“Cool your wires.  We’re cops.  Of course we do.”  That was Officer Mackery.  “We just don’t care about Reed.”

Hank wanted to agree with her, but Connor’s words struck a note somewhere under the gravel in his heart.  The kid was right.  Humans had to stop putting all the weight of living on such a young race. 

“Connor.”  Hank looked at the android.  Connor swung around to fix a glare on him.  “You’re right.  Someone should be there with him, we’ll,” Hank swallowed what felt like a square, “we’ll go see ‘im.”

The heated darkness in Connor’s eyes diminished even if his LED still flashed red.

Before anyone could say more, a scowling Captain Fowler swept in through the front doors.  On his hip was a smiling toddler, prattling into an old walkie-talkie; she was dressed in an extremely glittery, yellow tutu that made the officers nearest her squint.  “Anyone want to tell me why I’m down an officer?!” 

--

Noise.

“GCS?”

Voices.  Soft, puffy hands. 

“Check O2 levels.”  

Gloved hands.  Cold.

“Start an IV.”

Ow...

Fingers on eyelids.

Strange faces.  Lots of eyes.

Bright light. 

“Delayed pupil response.”

“I want a complete blood work up.”

I...

“Finish the physical assessment.”

“CT scheduled.”

“O2 inadequate.  Intubate?”

“Not unless GCS falls.  Assess airway again.”

Voices.

Touching.  Head.  Jaw.  Face.

......don’t...like

“Airway clear.  Weak gag reflex.  Intubate?”

“No.  Don’t overstress him.  Showing signs of increased awareness.  BVM for now.”

...this...

“Start antibiotics course.”

“Here.”

Hard plastic on face. 

NO!  Getitoff!

“Hey!  Watch him!”

“Hold—

...can’t......breathe.......

 “Watch the ribs!”

—restraints!”

...Phck that.....

 “Don’t—

—fighting!”

 “Get some help in here!”

--

“Who’s that?”

Fowler sat on the edge of his desk, settled his smiling, sparkly kid on his lap, and glared.  “Don’t change the subject, Hank.  What crap did Reed get up to this time that you couldn’t handle?”

Hank pulled back a chair and dropped down into it.  “Like I know?  You shoulda seen those medics pulling their hair out over it."

"Anything else you'd like to share?"  Fowler had known Hank for too long to be fooled.  

"Uh, he was fighting with Connor—

”No.  Ph-why-ting.”

Fowler whispered a soft “hush, daddy’s working” to his kid.  “Is it drugs?”  He growled at Hank.

“We’ll know when the hospital knows.”  Hank shrugged again.  “I’m going over there with Connor as soon as we’re done here.”

Connor put his hands on the captain’s desk.  “After we check on Reed, we could investigate if the doctors still don’t know what’s wrong with him.” 

The child reached for Connor’s hands and he smiled softly.  “We could retrace his steps over the past few days.  Figure out exactly what happened to him.”

Fowler looked at Hank.  “You’re in charge of this.”  He set his fussing daughter on the desk.  “And keep it quiet.”  He added, “DPD cannot afford bad publicity right now.  Not with the governor coming tomorrow.  I don’t want national security to think DPD can’t do its job.”

Out of the corners of their eyes, Hank and Fowler watched the toddler play with a compliant Connor’s hand.  “Owie?”  She said, having found a small scrap in the synthetic skin from when Connor had struck the glass earlier.

“Er...”

The little girl planted a loud wet kiss in the android’s palm.  She stared up at Connor.  “All bew-er?” 

Connor’s head tipped sideways as he processed the experience.  “My self-healing pro—

A miniature Fowler-frown appeared on the girl’s face at the lack of an understandable ‘yes.’  She tugged Connor’s hand with both her own and looked at her father.  “Kissy owie, dad-da.”

Triple looks of mortification crossed the office’s occupants’ faces. 

“That’s, uh, that’s fine.”  Connor tried to get his hand back from the determined child.  “Thank you.”

Fowler’s eye twitched as he slid his kid back to himself and contained her enthusiasm.  Nearly getting his nose broke when her affection turned to him.  “Hugs!” 

“Oof, yeah.”  The captain cuddled his daughter while glaring at his lieutenant.  “Facts.  Hank.  I want them.  Go talk to the doctors, and find out what’s going on.”

--

“So.  Retrace Reed’s steps huh?”  Hank said following Connor out of the office. 

Connor nodded as he traced a thumb over his palm.  “If his collapse was not the result of...what happened here, then the more information we have about his movements, the faster we can determine exactly what is going on with him.  I’m compiling all DPD security footage of Gavin for the past three days and once we find his phone, I can cross reference it with the GPS activity.  That will give us an accurate map of his movements.”

As they passed by the breakroom, Connor saw Gavin’s brown leather jacket on the floor under the table, one sleeve pinned by the chair’s foot.  “Wait, lieutenant...” He plucked at Hank’s shirt.  “Just a second.”  Looking over his shoulder to make sure that Hank wasn’t leaving him behind, Connor strode into the breakroom.

Someone had spot cleaned the spilt coffee, blood and bile, leaving the now empty breakroom saturated with the smell of dirty mop water and bleach.  Trying to ignore the memory of attacking Gavin, Connor picked up the jacket, folding it carefully over one arm.  Then he hurried to catch up with Hank.  

--                                                                                                                                          

Pretending to be focused on their patrol, Chris and Chen kept glancing at Chris’ cell, waiting for further word on the situation at the station. 

Barely twenty minutes after the first text from Wilson the phone beeped again.  Chris swore when he read the message.  “The captain wants you to report to him ASAP.”

Chen fell back into her seat.  “I guess that’s it then.”  They must have found out that she’d tased Reed.

“At least you didn’t have to wait long.”  Chris offered.

“Yeah.  Better to get fired sooner rather than later, huh?” 

“Maybe they just want a report.  You know.  Maybe, you aren’t in trouble.”

“Yeah.  Maybe.”

--

Chen strode into Fowler’s office.  She’d only been in it one other time and that was when she was hired.  A bright yellow clad infant was sleeping in the captain’s lap.  If she’d been less stressed, Chen might have cared. 

Hiding her anxiety, she head her head high and set her jaw steady.  Ready to turn in her badge.  Everything she’d ever worked for, thrown away because she didn’t put up with a little bullying from the sergeant.

It wasn’t fair. 

But she wouldn’t make any excuses for her behavior.  It didn’t matter that Reed was aggressive.  He was always like that and none of the other officers ever did anything about it.

I lost my temper.  Stupid emotions.  I did this to myself.  I should’ve been able to handle it.

“Patrol Officer Chen.”  She announced herself, softening her tone slightly when the sleeping child stirred.  “You wanted to speak with me, Captain?”

Fowler looked up from the terminal screen.  “You’re being appointed temporary junior detective’s rank while Reed is out.  Work with Ben.  Sort through Reed’s cases.  If you find anything linked to his collapse I want it reported immediately.” 

The rushing in her ears was almost too loud to hear anything after ‘appointed detective’s rank.’

Tell him!  Tell him now that it’s your fault!

But maybe it isn’t.  Could have been anything.

The realization that she wouldn’t have to give up everything she’d worked to accomplish, made her fear its loss all the more keenly. 

“Yes. Sir.”

--

Ben looked up from where he was sitting in a chair pulled alongside Reed’s desk, two filing boxes at his feet, “Hi Tina.  Captain give you the good news?”  He frowned a little, “Well, good and bad, huh?  Sucks when you get a promotion because someone else is...not doing so well, huh?”

Chen swallowed thickly.  “It’s never happened to me before.”

“Cause you’re young.”  Ben waved his hand.  “Ah, well, let’s get started untangling Reed’s little world over here.” 

“Where’s he keep his data tablets?”  She sat in the sergeant’s chair and accessed the terminal.

Ben smirked, leaned down to one of the boxes at his feet and came back up with an armful of paper folders.  He dropped them onto the desk with a dull ‘thud’. 

“What’s that?”

“The guy is a serial tree killer.” Ben said.  “Or...rice...or whatever they’re making this stuff out of these days.  He likes tech an’ all, but most of his early prelim casework he does ‘hardcopy.’”

Chen picked up one of the files and flipped it open.  A wad of rubber-banded notes covered in a tight scrawl fell out.  “Not very efficient.” 

Ben chuckled lightly, “Guess not, but it works for him and we all have our little systems to help us process the information we gather at a scene.  So, anyhow,” he gestured at the folders.  “I’ve been going through his priority cases and trying to get them wrapped up, but why don’t you work through the others?”

“Sure.  Alright.” 

After a few moments of silence.  Chen spoke up.  “Detective Collins.”  She said.  “I think I found something strange.”

“What is?”

“Reed’s reports are messy and chaotic, but clear in their own way once you get the hang of it.  But starting after November they gradually become almost completely incoherent.  Look.”

Ben looked over the reports the temp-detective had spread out across the desk for comparison.  She was right.  The little quirks, like Reed's snide side-notes, were missing.  The personality was completely gone in the reports dated in December.  Into January, the handwriting and thought process was nearly completely illegible. 

“Good work, Detective Chen.”  Ben said as he snapped a picture of the reports to forward to Hank. 

Chen wished she deserved the praise. 

Chapter Text

Shifting in his seat in the hospital waiting room, Hank jabbed, tapped, and swiped at his cell’s tiny screen. Bad enough that he was in a hospital surrounded by white walls, the sterile smell of sickness and death, and the obnoxiously bright lights overhead, and now his phone was refusing to cooperate.

His swearing grew in a slow crescendo as he failed to make the correct gesture to ‘zoom’ on the image Ben had sent more than five minutes ago without context.

The older detective sent a follow up text after the first two minutes of silence from Hank: [What do you make of this?]

“I’ll tell you as soon as I can see it.” Hank grumbled. He understood why Ben did not provide information; he was bouncing an idea or a suspicion without risking biasing Hank’s viewpoint. “What’d you do, Ben,” He muttered, “stand on a ladder to take the picture?”

The gruff swearing eventually caught the attention of the scrub-bedecked man slouched at the nursing station thumbing a greasy tablet and eating a soggy sandwich, a bit of greenery crawled further out the opposite end of the sandwich with each new bite. He looked up as the old man’s grumbling increased in volume then returned his attention to his food and tablet, mostly to the tablet.

A few of the others in the waiting room shot annoyed looks either at one another, the old, grey-haired man, or at the nurse himself as if he was supposed to be a moderator of public decency. One woman with her arm in a cast and bloody gauze taped over her left ear kept huffing through her nose and rolling her eyes.

“Gotcha.” Hank muttered as the phone zoomed in on the picture—and then rotated the image and added a sparkle effect.

He swore again, but rather than risk deleting the file, which the phone had threated twice, he turned the phone around. “Hah.” He challenged.

The cell rotated the picture again.

Catching onto the phone’s way of thinking, Hank set it down on a side table, stood and walked around to view the image of Reed’s reports right side up.

In far less time than it took him to work the phone, the police lieutenant identified the pattern in Reed’s scrawled reports.

Even allowing for laziness or the occasional bad day, there was little explanation for such obvious segments of change. Hank recalled the report Reed turned in that morning about the android head found in the cooler.

The report had been a jumbled mess of half-formed thoughts.

At the time, Hank had thought the sergeant lazy. But what if he wasn’t? Isn’t?

That small concession on Reed’s behalf opened more doors in Hank’s mind. He remembered the medic’s words: ‘I think we’re dealing with a toxin’; ‘some slow acting poison.’

He stared at the evidence on his phone. It was not enough for a solid theory, but the suspicion wedged itself in his mind with instinctive certainty.

Hank sat back down in his chair.

One of the station’s most popular jokes was ‘Let’s poison Reed’s coffee.’

Any other day Hank wouldn’t have believed it possible, but the more he reviewed the day’s events—the flat reactions to a suffering colleague, his own bragging about Connor’s takedown of the detective—it became apparent that Reed was not the only one out of hand.

The events of November and into December should have been proof enough of the violence and cruelty people were capable of. If androids that looked, spoke, cried and screamed like small children could be beaten, abused, and left for dead in the roads, if model citizens took advantage of the chaos to kill one another over old grudges, then what chance did a hated detective sergeant have to escape unscathed?

--

While Hank dealt with the ramifications of his insights, Connor sat nearby running his fingers over the familiar and yet foreign jacket on his lap. The android’s fingertip sensors registered every flaw, stain, and wrinkle in the garment. An old tear in the jacket lining had been neatly handstitched.

Gavin is alone in a cold hospital. Connor’s mouth trembled at the idea. Without his jacket—without me. I...t should be with him. Gavin needs us to stay warm and safe.

The android was unaware of the incongruity of his thoughts; unware of the corrupted social file’s infection of mainline processing. The connection to his human enemy was as routine and engrained as his breathing simulation programs.

--

Shortly after midnight, they were given permission for a brief visit with the patient. The nurse who walked them to the room added, “He’s under sedation, so don’t expect him to be responsive.” She said before walking away to attend other patients.

Connor glanced around the room and the machinery lining the walls. A notation on the electronic board on one wall, in large red font and triple underline read: KEEP PATIENT RESTRAINED AT ALL TIMES

Small notations indicated the patient’s current vital signs, medication doses, last treatment received.

As his eyes took in the room, they settled on the pale, still form in the bed.

The android jolted back, stepping on Hank’s foot and stumbling into the half closed door, striking his back against its edge. “Where’s Gavin?” He demanded.

Hank grimaced at the pain in his foot, but held back the sharp words when he saw his partner’s wide eyes. He double-checked. Yeah, that was Reed alright. A paper gown and an oxygen mask did not make the DPD’s iconic homicide sergeant unrecognizable.

“Um, unless he has a twin as ugly as him...this is Reed.”

“My facial recognition software,” Connor gripped the door’s edge in his hands, LED flashing red. “I...it won’t identify him.”

“Ookay.” Hank drawled. His partner was genuinely upset by the unfamiliarity. Hank had an idea for a remedy, but he wasn’t sure it would work; Connor was not a four year old child. “Er...nurse?” He waved to a young man wearing scrubs passing by in the hallway.

“How can I assist you, sir?” The nurse halted and turned.

Hank swore inwardly. A medical android. He grit his teeth. Telling Connor that he didn’t blame androids for his son’s death was one thing, but believing it when the exact same model was staring at him with a fake expression—

No not fake.

This was a deviant who, judging by the damage to the left side of his face, had survived the revolution’s violent edge. But instead of fleeing to hide in the new Jericho headquarters, this android had remained with humans.

Tracking the human’s gaze and realizing the reason for his stare, the android’s expression of willing helpfulness faltered; his smile struggled. “I apologize.” He covered the injury with a hand. “But I did not wish to use medical supplies to cover aesthetic damages. I will locate a human nurse to assist you.”

“No. No. That’s fine.” Hank stammered around three years of hatred with the strength of...what? Almost three months of knowing Connor? “I just, uh, just had a quick question.”

“Of course.” The android nodded lowering his hand.

Hank waved at unconscious Reed. “Uh...we brought...erm...Reed his jacket and I was...well, we were hoping it’d be okay to give it to him?”

“Let me take a look at the jacket.”

Connor reluctantly handed over the garment.

The medical android scanned it. “Ah. Yes. It should be fine, but I’ll run it through a decontamination just to be safe. I will return shortly.”

Within a minute he was back, the jacket folded into a neat square. “Everything is fine now. I’ve tagged the patient’s name and information on the collar just in case it becomes misplaced.”

“Thanks.” Hank accepted the jacket with a wry smile. “Okay, Connor.” He said as he spread the jacket over Gavin’s chest. “There, that better?” He had to admit that Reed did look less like a stranger now.

Dipping his head, Connor’s LED spun red once as his systems confirmed Gavin’s identity. “I’m sorry, Hank. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.”

“Hey, it’s your first time in a hospital, I don’t blame you for getting worked up.” Hank had more to say, but sharing hospital advice was not high on his list of things to do that day.

Still embarrassed, Connor stood near the lone visiting chair and twirled his fingers inside his cuff seams.

I’m sorry, Gavin. Please get better. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.

It didn’t matter how many times he was told that Gavin’s collapse wasn’t his fault. He knew it was. A machine designed to hunt and kill shouldn’t think that it could touch anything without breaking it.

They only stayed a few minutes and then were informed that the doctor was available to meet with them.

--

Reed’s attending physician, a crisp broad-shouldered man by the name of Peter Nelson, greeted them and then asked the hated question, “You have a warrant?”

While Hank huffed and attempted to explain the situation, Connor downloaded the forms they needed for the authorization to release confidential medical information. He wirelessly jacked the doctor’s electronic clipboard and uploaded the forms.

Without waiting for a polite pause, he said, “They are on your clipboard, Dr. Nelson.” He gestured with a small head nod.

“Huh. So they are.” Nelson checked over the forms carefully. “Alright then.” He closed the office door and returned to his desk. The scowl he turned on them made Hank feel as if the doctor held them personally responsible for Reed’s condition.

We might deserve that.

The doctor steepled his fingers. “So. You want to explain how a DPD detective came into contact with an experimental, weaponized form of Cobalt-60?”

“What?!”

Dr. Nelson leaned back, unimpressed by their surprise. “Should I expect more patients in the near future? Is the DPD working with the military to test a new weapon? Use the revolution as an excuse for some field tests?”

Hank protested the accusation. “I don’t even know what that crap is.” He half expected to hear Connor calmly state the history and composition of Cobalt-60, but the android was silent and expressionless leaving the doctor to fill in the blanks.

Once he finished with the brief science lesson, the doctor returned to his patient’s condition. “It’s accumulated in his liver, kidneys, and bone marrow.” He consulted his clipboard. “But we can treat that easily enough along with his broken ribs and walking pneumonia. The problem,” he brought his pointer finger down onto the desk for emphasis, “is the neurotoxin.”

“Neurotoxin?”

“The Cobalt was a delivery system. Once the toxin was in Reed’s system, it would only have needed a few days to cross the brain blood barrier, resulting in deep tissue lesions.”

“Wait,” Hank waved his hand as he tried to catch up, “are you tellin’ me that—

“Reed has been suffering radiation poisoning and ongoing brain damage for at least the past two months. Fits nicely with the arrival of the military in Detroit.” Nelson’s voice was not kind. The doctor was standing now, moved by his growing anger that experimental warfare toxins would be anywhere near his city. “How many others have been exposed?” He demanded. “Or is that need to know?”

“I don’t know. I swear DPD doesn’t know anything about Cobalt in the city.” Hank answered, calm through shock. “But how did this go so long without him coming in for a checkup or something? Surely he was showing symptoms. He’s a detective, he should have known something was wrong.”

We work in the same building. If I had bothered to...

“I haven’t seen Detective Reed in here since his knee surgery.” The doctor slumped in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “I assume he goes to clinics or just buys OTC for anything that doesn’t feel right. Based on my preliminary study of this toxin, it appears to mimic already present symptoms.”

Hank shelved the question of where the toxin came from and addressed a more pressing question. “So what happens now? You give him an antitoxin? Some reconstructive brain therapy?”

Medical science had advanced in the space of the last few years. Healing brain damage was risky and expensive, but not impossible.

The doctor shook his head. “No. We don’t have the knowledge nor time.”

“What’s that supposed t’mean?” Hank demanded.

“It means,” the doctor said, irritation creeping into his tone, “We don’t know the toxin’s makeup—attempting to treat it blindly could result in more suffering. And as for time...”

At the pause, Hank knew what was coming.

He knew that look and tone. He knew the pause. He heard it too often.

Connor did not know.

Before today, he’d never even met a doctor. His social programming told him Nelson was hedging, preparing to speak, but the android lacked the ‘gut feeling’ that might have warned him.

“At the rate the toxin is progressing, your detective Reed will be dead by the end of next week.”

The pronounced sentence bothered Hank more than he wanted to admit.

“I don’t get it.” He said. “He’s in there,” he gestured widely in the general direction of Reed’s hospital room, “with his brain melting because you don’t want to risk melting it?”

“Melting is the wrong word.” Nelson frowned at the inaccurate term, “the toxin is more like a...er... surgical laser scalpel? Damaging only enough at a time to avoid revealing itself—whatever stress pushed Reed over the edge yesterday evening probably kept him from ‘mysteriously’ dropping dead on his feet.”

Hank ran his fingers through his hair. If Reed had collapsed at home or while driving...

“The only good news I can offer is that under sedation, the toxin’s progress is slowed.” In contrast to his words, Nelson did not look or sound confident. “We’re considering a medical coma to buy time.”

“Buy time for what?” Hank asked dropping his hands back into his lap. “You just said—

“A coma is not a solution. You need to find the information to save your detective’s life. We’re doing everything we can on this end, but it won’t be enough without the toxin’s blueprint.”

Hank looked at Connor. He expected the kid to be upset, but Connor’s face was stone hard as if he had never been deviant a day in his life.

The only indication that the android was active was the fiery red LED.

--

As soon as the doctor had named the substance, Connor sent a message:

[WE NEED TO TALK]

[I agree. The meeting with the governor is—

Connor didn’t bother reading the rest of the message: [COBALT 60]

A few minutes passed while Hank finished speaking with the doctor. Connor was about to send another message demanding that—

[I can meet you in an hour. Where?]

[Ambassador Bridge. Two hours.]

[Very well. Come alone.]

Connor didn’t bother with a reply. It would have been smarter if Markus had requested Hank’s presence.

Chapter Text

Once Hank and Connor returned to the car, Hank called the captain to inform him of the life-threatening, catastrophic reason for Reed’s collapse. And the literal deadline.

Captain Fowler picked up at the first ring, no trace of sleep in his voice. Having a subordinate, which he depended upon to pull more than a fair share of work, collapse on the job was nightmare fuel for an already stressed captain.

“So what is it, Hank?” Fowler demanded.   “What’d he get into? When does he come back to work?”

Hank grimaced. “You’re not gonna like this.” He then launched into a report of everything the doctor had said about the cobalt as a delivery system for an experimental, weaponized toxin.

While his boss considered the information, Hank watched moths slam against a parking lot light until they fell in a spiral to the pavement. From the corner of his eye, he saw Connor lean forward in the passenger seat, hands set against the dash. Probably tracking the path of the bugs’ fall. It was an odd thing for the android to fixate on at a time like this, but maybe the kid needed something simple and pointless to occupy his mind for the moment. Hank didn’t blame the android. So much had happened outside their usual routine, he was grateful the kid hadn’t fried a circuit.

The android had been quiet and preoccupied since leaving the doctor’s office, not even attempting to start a conversation about the new experience; granted, hospitals weren’t the best casual conversation piece.

“Hank, you there?” Fowler was speaking again and Hank turned his attention away from Connor whose own attention had been captured by a stray black and white cat prowling in and out of the halos of dim streetlight.

“Yeah.” Hank answered.

The two officers had to determine which individuals were on the ‘need to know’ list. Fowler was reluctant to leak any information, claiming it would spread panic and end with the president ordering a permanent military presence in Detroit.

“It might only be an isolated incident. Something personal.” Fowler suggested. “The man must have hundreds of enemies.”

Hank voiced the doubt they both felt about the theory. “Jeff,” He said, “unless Reed managed to piss off a nuclear scientist—and I don’t know how Reed would even happen to breathe the same air as a scientist—this doesn’t feel personal. And no run-of-the-mill lowlife around here is going to take the trouble, expense and effort to use weaponized toxins.”

A dark thought wormed into Hank’s head. At least I wouldn’t. I’d use my bare hands or maybe—

Alarmed, Hank dismissed the hate tainted thought but the foul aftertaste lingered. At what point had annoyance turned into murderous fantasies? He winced at the memory of drawing his gun on the other cop in the interrogation room back in November.

As strung out and angry as Reed had been at the time, he’d backed down. Hank realized with a shameful jolt that Reed had been in no doubt that his lieutenant would shoot him.

And I would do it again to protect Connor. Hank told himself.

But back then? Was I defending a machine at the expense of a human life?

Not for the first time, Hank regretted being less than sober during the incident.

Had I only wanted an excuse to humiliate Reed in front of a suspect, a PO and an android? Humiliate him the way he constantly humiliated me with his snide remarks?

And it must have been humiliating. Everyone in the interrogation room, excepting the captured deviant, had heard Reed cut down androids as ‘not human.’

Only to be considered as more expendable than an android less than ten minutes later...

Grudgingly, Hank considered that maybe he’d been unfair to the sergeant. Who’d, now that Hank thought about it, had been following his lieutenant’s lead regarding androids. Hank remembered his frustration at his failure to successfully interrogate Ortiz’ android.

‘We’re wastin’ our time interrogating a machine, we’re gettin’ nothing out of it!’

And Gavin’s contribution: ‘could always try roughin’ it up a little. After all, it’s not human.’

Hank had called the android a ‘machine.’ The younger cop had agreed with his superior officer and then offered an idea toward a solution to the problem, a stupid idea, but still an idea.

And informative Connor...wanting to prove himself capable and useful...blithely feeding into Reed’s supply of mockery.

Reed’s obnoxious question to lure the android into saying something Reed could take offense at.

‘What should we do then?’

Connor’s shy suggestion and Reed’s strident laugh.

What the hell had Reed even been hanging around in the observation room for anyway?

Hank’s approval of Connor’s idea: ‘What do we have to lose?’

Reed’s poorly concealed shock, a flash of disappointment as he slouched back against the cold wall.

Had he truly been as disinterested as he’d been acting? Or had he been angling for a chance to interrogate the suspect because he was too proud to outright ask the old drunk for permission? Only to have the rug pulled out from under him when I let Connor take a shot.

So twice, Reed got pushed aside to make way for an android. Twice I chose what I had called a machine over a human.

Fowler was speaking again, breaking Hank out of his thoughts.

“If it wasn’t personal, we have to consider the possibility he was accidently exposed.”

“What if we check with nearby cobalt providers? See if anyone’s been messing with the stuff recently in this area?”

“Do it quietly. Random questions from Detroit police about Cobalt-60 isn’t going to look good. The doctor said it was experimental?”

“Yeah.”

“I almost wish it was a personal attack. If this ends up being the work of our own military or terrorism...” The captain was quiet as the suspicions sank in. Then he said, “Enough guess work. We need a suspect, means, and motive. Start an investigation. I want everything Reed was involved with since November, maybe even before. If this is a freak accident or a vendetta, then we can handle it quietly. If it’s something bigger, I’ll notify the Chief of Police and then...they’ll take it from there.”

Hank leaned back in the seat of his car. “Reed’s doctor isn’t too happy. He’s gonna wanna tell the press.”

“We can get a gag order, but I’d rather not. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

“What about the department? Who’s in the ‘need to know’ pile?”

“Let’s keep this as close under wraps as possible. You and your android check Reed’s apartment and his daily movements since November; Ben and Chen can keep following up on his cases to see if he came into any contact with nuclear scientists...”

They both knew it was unlikely. Reed was never allowed to work high profile cases. Not with his personality. Reed would disgrace the entire department if he was set in front of a press conference.

“What about Chris? He’s spent a lot of time with Reed.”

“Okay, him and...Wilson; they can check up on Reed’s background. I want his entire life uprooted and sorted. I want to know what he has for breakfast, who he went to prom with, his toothpaste brand, the last time he had his car’s oil checked, his lovers, his favorite TV shows, the name of his gym. I want everything. At some point he came into contact with someone or something connected to this Cobalt.”

“Do you think the androids have anything to do with it? The doctor said it was weaponized and experimental. It wouldn’t be difficult for androids to—

Fowler’s exhausted groan indicated how run down he was. “Markus doesn’t seem the sort of man...android to use weaponized toxins indiscriminately...It’s too easy to point the finger at our ‘enemies.’ Let’s check close to home, as they say. We need to treat this situation very carefully, Hank. Detroit is already on the edge. Another disaster and we’ll never get her back. I’m giving us 24 hours to figure this out on our own.” He added, “And hope it isn’t the work of rogue androids.”

After a few more details were discussed, Fowler ended the call. But his words about Detroit stuck in Hank’s mind. What if Detroit was already dead? What if there was nothing left of their city to save? Maybe they should just let it die and leave it to the androids.

--

Once they were back at the house, Hank, worn out by the events, his own thoughts, and his talk with Fowler, went straight to bed—the captain had placed him in charge of tearing open the unpleasant man’s life. Hank figured it would be similar to cleaning dead cats out of a kitten mill’s dumpster.

Left to his own devices, Connor sat quietly on the couch and waited exactly ten minutes after he heard the bedroom door close. Then his calm blue LED flared red and covering himself in an old jacket and a beanie, he left the house and entered the autonomous cab he’d scheduled earlier.

The park at Ambassador Bridge was one of the few places he was personally familiar with. There was the Chicken Feed, but that was...special. Good things happened there.

Good things didn’t happen at Ambassador Bridge.

--

Connor arrived at the park first. The longer he stood in the cold waiting for Markus the quicker his processors ‘spun’ and the more he found himself running useless preconstructions of past events. It was making him agitated and he had no means of relieving the building pressure or the chaotic data filling his head.

“Good morning, Connor.” Dressed without his usual flare, Markus looked like an average man with the exception of his eyes and his perfectly modulated voice.

The smooth greeting startled Connor out of his brooding. “Do you actually believe that?” He did not try to hide the snarl. “Or do you just dream up an idea that doesn’t exist and then convince yourself it’s true?”

“While I would love to talk philosophy,” Markus said glancing over his shoulder at the dark park behind him, “I think you would come away from our meeting more satisfied if we discussed why you are curious about Cobalt-60.”

In a show of confidence, Connor turned his back on the android leader. “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your deviant followers.”

“Alright then.” Markus said. “Then tell me why you are asking about Cobalt 60. How do you know—

“About it?” Connor turned away from where he’d been staring out at the bridge that was partly concealed by a low cloud. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Markus with a deliberately unreadable expression. “Are you trying to insult me?” He snarled. “Or are you pretending that I was never a deviant hunter? I found you at Jericho.” The claim was made without pride. The words died as they fell from the android’s lips.

Markus frowned first at the interruption—truth be told, he’d become accustomed to the deference of followers, not his closest friends, they knew him too well, but the general attitude of other androids was unquestioned respect. He’d come here expecting Connor to treat him with respect.

Then he glowered at the reminder of the raid on Jericho. A part of him still hungered for vengeance, but like the RK800, Markus had original programming that influenced his baseline actions. He was a caretaker. As such, he was programmed to be sensitive to the needs, thoughts, and feelings of others.

And right now, he could tell that Connor was dangerously stressed and afraid, but of what Markus didn’t know. He knew that he himself was probably an annoyance; North, Josh, and even Simon had suggested that their leader’s unflappable calm could stir up a hornet nest faster than kicking it.

The android leader did not want to get into a fight tonight. He wasn’t even supposed to be outside Jericho’s defenses. “Connor, if we’re going to have a conversation, I—

“I heard you and North talking that night!” Connor fisted his hands and leaned toward Markus, but not quite moving into the other android’s space—threatening but restrained.

“I can explain—

“Why did you keep it?!” The deviant hunter paced toward the railing and then back toward Markus with rapid steps. He stopped short; scarcely a foot away from the android leader. “What were you deviants going to do?” He demanded, uncrossing one arm and flinging it wide. “Blow up the city?” His other arm flung out. “Exterminate humans like RATS the minute they get hostile?”

“We lost it.” Markus confessed, his voice taunt but he kept his eyes on the aggressive young android before him. “The deviant who hid it was killed at Hart Plaza.”

Connor took a step forward. “Why didn’t you come to the DPD? Or me?”

“Maybe I would have if you actually spent time with your own people.” Markus’ voice was calm and smooth as he delivered the accusation.

He and Connor were both RKs. He’d hoped they would become better acquainted after the ceasefire and with the tentative peace, but the 800 repeatedly dodged his calls, ignored his messages, and found excuse after excuse not to visit the Jericho HQ or attend any of the memorial services.

Markus wasn’t the only android to find it insulting and worrisome. He’d stumbled into a fight with North when he accused her of making Connor feel unwelcome.

She’d denied it; and then challenged all his ideas out of spite for weeks afterward. It got to the point where Simon and Josh started parodying them with ‘opposites’ games.

Glad some people have time for foolery. Markus’ attitude turned sour at the thought. He turned his attention to the irate deviant before him.

“Tell me, Connor.” Markus sat down on the bench to make himself less threatening and to put space between himself and the hunter—‘the 800 rips out regulators’ was only one of many horrific stories about Connor. “If the humans knew we had a dirty bomb prepared,” he stared Connor in the eyes, “What do humans do when faced with a threat?”

“Depends.” Connor hedged, holding his position despite the unstable footing of his reply. “On the human.”

“No.” Markus said leaning forward. “We’re not talking about individuals. I mean humans as a group.”

Connor glared and refused to answer.

Markus continued. “They stop thinking rationally. If the humans knew we had a bomb prepared, it would have been permission for the military to retaliate in kind. You work with the police. You know about the escalation of violence. Now tell me. Why bring this up now? What happened?” He let his voice lilt down to a gentler note as he asked the question.

“A detective is dying because he was exposed to toxins contained in the Cobalt your friend smuggled into the city.” Connor deflated a little and his LED flashed red. “The doctor said,” his fingers fiddled with the zipper on the jacket, “he said if we don’t find the source of the toxin, trace it back to its manufacturing lab, and locate its formula then Gavin...he’s gonna...die.” Connor hunched his shoulders.

“Detective Reed?”

Connor looked up, surprised. “You know him?”

“I’ve heard of him.” Markus said. “But not enough to make a judgement.” He continued without providing further information. “Look, all I can tell you is what I was told. North was approached by a deviant who had a truck of radioactive Cobalt-60 rigged to explode and hidden somewhere in Detroit. We never knew where it was.”

“You should have told the DPD.”

“You didn’t.” Markus pointed out. “You’re as much to blame.” Markus immediately regretted his words.

Connor turned his back and hugged himself. “Maybe I hoped it would just go away. I was wrong. I was stupid and now Gavin’s dying.”

“Connor...” Markus said. Connor punishes himself enough. And then I go and pour salt in open wounds. Brilliant Markus. He mentally slapped himself twice.

The android detective took a shuddering breath. “You have to tell DPD. Detroit is their home too. You need to tell Hank what you know. Or I will.” The moment of weakness was gone, buried under a professional demeanor.

“Wait.” Markus pleaded. “Connor, please. If word gets out to the press that deviants made a dirty bomb, everything we’ve worked for could be undone in one broadcast.”

Connor was shaking his head stubbornly.

Markus continued, “Look, be rational. If Detective Reed came into contact with radioactive, weaponized Cobalt, wouldn’t he have been aware of it? North told me it was an entire TRUCK, Connor. I don’t think anyone could accidently expose themselves.”

Connor’s expression was scrunched but he was listening judging by the tilt of his head toward Markus.

He continued his argument laying it out piece by piece, “So however he was exposed doesn’t have to be linked directly to the stolen truck.”

“What do you mean?” Connor turned around. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, if someone is using the stolen cobalt for their own purposes it doesn’t have to be directly connected to androids anymore. Connor, you investigate from your end. I’ll search on mine for the truck and see if I can trace the cobalt from there. Your investigation workload will be cut in half, the humans don’t need to know about the truck...at least not until a real suspect is found, and we find out how to help Reed. Everyone wins and we don’t have to risk undoing everything we’ve worked for.”

“I can’t keep this a secret. What if others are getting sick?”

“Look I know this isn’t the best situation, but no good can come from the humans learning about the android’s connection to cobalt. If you do tell the police, and the military or the press finds out, then we could be faced with another November 9^th. And if the humans come for us, we’ll fight them. And they’ll lose.”

“You have 48 hours.” Connor whispered. “Then I’m telling Hank.”

“Thank—

“Don’t thank me.”

--

Couple Hours Later.

Hank leaned on the bathroom sink, staring at himself. Old, haggard, scruffy. Once upon a time, he’d been a young lieutenant, married to a beautiful wife with a wonderful son, successful in his career and surrounded by friends. He’d known the agony of an unsolved case, the excitement of a raid, the sorrow of an end of watch ceremony.

He also recalled a dusty memory of a young Gavin Reed constantly underfoot, everywhere at once, never silent, never still. Somehow that loud kid had become the dying man in the hospital’s ICU. According to the doctor, Reed had been dying for two months at least.

But for three years, Hank had tried to kill himself; playing games with a loaded gun, drinking himself into oblivion—little by little every night coming closer to death. Told himself that it was because he didn’t have the guts to pull a trigger. Afraid to die; afraid to live. From what little he knew of Reed, there wasn’t a man in the city more determined to live.

With Connor’s arrival, Hank finally had more than just another homicide case; he had a cause. Something worth throwing his energy into. Taking risks not because he wanted to die, but because he wanted something...someone to live. It was almost like a fairytale in the end, watching the android victory. But there was no sudden magical restoration.

Hank rejoined the living and found a broken city barely holding itself together; a police department divided against itself. And a dying sergeant.

There was no easy fix for Detroit or the DPD.

Hank couldn’t imagine living without Cole. And he couldn’t imagine a restored Detroit. He couldn’t see himself as the officer and man he knew he should be. He couldn’t care if Reed lived or died.

But being a lieutenant of the Detroit Police Department wasn’t about what he could or could not do.

It was about what he would or would not do.

And Lieutenant Hank Anderson would do whatever it took to keep his city, the members of his department, and his partner safe.

--

Connor was pacing, hands folded behind his back, brow furrowed. LED spinning red and yellow.

“Ready?” Hank said, hair damp from his shower.

Connor nodded.

“Be a good dog Sumo. We won’t be long.”

--

The briefing was quick and to the point. Chris and Wilson were assigned background checks on Reed’s personal files, academic records, and his previous departmental records.

Chen and Collins would continue working through Reed’s cases, and starting in November look for anything or anyone that might have brought the man into contact with cobalt and or neurotoxins.

Hank and Connor, for their part, would check Reed’s apartment and all his movements from the past few days, gathering witness statements and security footage.

“All information is to be forwarded to Connor.” Hank ordered as he wrapped up the briefing. “He’ll cross reference data as it comes in. Don’t leave out details. Anything could be important.”

--

Chapter Text

Broken pieces of memory flashed through Gavin’s mind, jumbling truth with fear, and lies with dreams.

“Good decision, Gavin.”

The words were a dark gloat—a displaced echo of humanity embedded in a cold statement.

But who was talking?

The only other person who’d spoken to him in such a tone was....who?

He used to know—he used to know. When?

Like distant voices at the end of a long hallway drawing near, dim images and disembodied sounds gradually filled the emptiness until he was surrounded by people whose features morphed one into the other.

He wanted to demand their identities, but then they were gone and he was running. Feet striking lightly against old rusted metal flooring, Gavin leapt over small cargo boxes and continued the chase without pause. He cleared tight corners as easily as if he were gliding on ice after a puck in a game of ice hockey.

He cornered the unknown person in the ship’s dank hold. 

Keyed up with adrenaline and nerves, chest heaving with exertion, Gavin held the figure at gunpoint in the sweltering, humid darkness. Sweat trickled down his neck. “You’re under arrest for nine counts of first degree murder.” His voice echoed and reverberated in the dark space.

“Kill me.” The strange man ordered his own death. “Your blood boils with the lust for violence. It’s only a matter of time before you’re a killer too, boy.”

“That’s Detective Reed to you.”

I’m a detective....and that was...it was years ago...that’s the Detroit Serial Killer...I caught him. All on my own.

He’d been so proud of the capture.

Backup arrived within fifteen minutes.

...Didn’t they?

Ben’s angry face and the even angrier slap from a hard hand. “You IDIOT!”

Pain surged in Gavin’s pounding heart, stuttering the beat with its intensity. Hurt stabbed through his chest, stealing his breath and paralyzing his lungs.

Red-faced Anderson was shaking him by the shoulders and swearing at him.

Gavin’s voice was suffocated by the hot disappointment that swelled his throat. His officers stepped away from him, leaving him in a circle of cold darkness. Gavin dropped his gaze.

And saw the cooling body of the killer at his feet. The putrid body spread like jelly in a growing puddle of blood until the entire floor was covered in decay and liquid. An enormous bloodshot green eye stared up at him from the darkness.

Gavin startled. No! I didn’t kill him! He died in prison before coming to trial.

Or had backup never arrived? Was he still trapped?

Then he was cuffed to a radiator in a motel room, zip ties around his ankles. Surrounded by blurred faces.

“Teach the little detective how we do things in the Android Capital.”

Cold, expressionless android eyes filled his vision.

Where was Ben?

He felt cold, polymer hands wrap around his leg, fingers digging under his kneecap.

Pain tore through his entire body. 

Then he was back with the insinuating voice of a murderer wrapping around him in the darkness.

“Lust for violence.” Ben murmured.

“Only a matter of time.” Lieutenant Anderson casually aimed his pistol at Gavin’s forehead.

“You’re a killer too.”

One shot rang out and his forehead exploded.

Gavin opened his eyes, unsurprised that he’d survived. He always survived.

Bodies surrounded him. Moans and mechanical cries; glowing red android components; splattered blood. Fire burning him. Burning everything.

A tall android in a cheap suit with a fake smile: “Hello, Detective Reed.”

A gunshot.

The android fell to its knees; fluid leaked from its perfect mouth, staining its lips with dark blue fluid.

“No!” Gavin stared at the hot gun burning his hand. “I-I didn’t—

This doesn’t make sense.

The thought spiked the whirling chaos into stillness.

Feeling some stability in his thoughts, Gavin tried to check the weapon’s clip. See if any bullets had been fired. He couldn’t find the release. He couldn’t see. Gavin shook his head, trying to clear it further of the jumbled images and voices.

This isn’t real.

Memories—he knew they were memories now—flitted around, but refused to be pinned into order. The only constant was the dark statement: “Good decision, Gavin.” It repeated; warping and twisting until every voice he’d ever heard was chanting it.

Loud static and bursting lights exploded in his consciousness. He flinched when searing pain lanced his head, shredding already tattered thoughts and memories, leaving blank-faced pain staring, soundless, amid the darkening ruins of a frayed mind.

He was in the freighter, staring down a featureless killer.

I’m not there. That was years ago.

“It’s only a matter of time before you’re a killer too.”

A long shadow cast over him from behind. “Good decision, Gavin.”

The pain in his head increased.

Cold fingers brushed against his neck.

Startled, Gavin spun away and pressed his back against the hot metal wall, hand going for his gun. “Don’t touch me!” An order. He had authority. He was—

I'm a detective...there was something I had to do........somewhere....important...

He didn’t notice the silence or that the chanting had stopped. Ignoring the growing pressure in his head, he narrowed his eyes and brought one heavy hand up to point at the blurred figures in front of him.

Can't be real. No...faces.

With that, the rest of the oddities registered and a realization lifted from the confusion.

I'm Detective-sergeant Gavin Reed of the Detroit Police. And this...this is jus’ some weird dream.

...crap....did I fall asleep at work?

That would explain why everything was hurting. He was probably flopped over his desk in the cold precinct, getting a crick in his back and neck. Or maybe he was on stakeout...

He needed to wake up. Get back to work.

So...tired.

But he was always tired.

Whatever. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

---

Dr. Nelson was checking the results of the patient’s latest scans when he saw the detective’s eyelids flutter and the lethargic curl of his fingers. “Nurse, I told you to keep him under!”

The nurse grit her teeth and hurried over to the increasingly distressed patient. “Don’t blame me. He has the metabolism of a hummingbird. I increased the medication levels only an hour ago.”

The doctor double-checked the administration levels of the sedatives. They were already too high for comfort. Gavin Reed seemed determined to wake up from the artificial sleep that protected him from feeling the toxin’s effects as it ate through his brain tissue one cell at a time.

Nelson gestured at one of the monitors displaying the patient’s vitals, “If he comes around now before we’ve—

An agonized scream of pain tore from the semi-conscious patient.

Nelson swore under his breath when the cry took on a panicked note and Gavin began to thrash in the medical restraints. The monitors could hardly track the wildly leaping vitals.

“Gavin.” Nelson spoke as calmly as he could. “Gavin. Can you hear me? I know you’re in pain, but you’re safe and we’re trying to—

Wet choking gasps replaced the pained cries. Pink frothy blood splattered into the oxygen mask covering Gavin’s nose and mouth.

Nelson internalized his frustration and fear, showing only a calm exterior to the team of nurses that joined him in the room. They had to treat not only the man's physical injuries, but also the damage being caused by the toxin as it increased in potency in correlation to the patient’s growing consciousness.

But he couldn’t order a medical coma until Gavin’s vitals were more consistent. The sedation was working well enough. If they could only keep the stubborn man from powering through it every other hour....

The doctor redirected his frustrated energy into an intense focus as he worked with his team to stabilize the patient for the second time that morning.

After a gut-wrenching thirty minutes, the internal bleed was stopped and Gavin lay subdued in the bed under the weight of new potent drugs.

The monitors provided a settled readout of the calming vitals. Every now and then a small blip would signal the patient’s determination to wake.

“I don’t understand,” the nurse said as she gently freed a bit of Gavin’s hair from under the oxygen mask’s strap, “How can he maintain enough awareness to wake himself up, but then lose it when he’s conscious? Does the pain destabilize him that badly?”

“It’s not only physical pain that he’s dealing with when he wakes up.” Nelson’s voice and expression were harsh with stress.

“So he’s not panicking because of the pain.” The nurse said. “It's fear? PTSD?”

“Right.” Deeper furrows creased Nelson’s brow at the fact that he had to explain something so obvious. “Isn’t it noted in his file?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Only that he’s a trouble patient that occasionally requires restraints.”

Nelson glared, not at the nurse, but at his patient’s misery and pain. “The drugs and the damage from this toxin is dulling the mental control he’s depended upon.” He shook his head.

The nurse looked down at the patient who was currently trapped in a false calm that eased the stress lines from his face. Without them, he looked younger than his file indicated. “What do you think happened to him?”

“He’s a cop. Use your imagination.” Nelson shut down the conversation and glared out the room’s small window at the city. Somewhere out there, two detectives were searching for the information that could save Gavin’s life.

But would it be enough to save Gavin's sanity?

Chapter Text

To Hank’s surprise, Reed’s apartment was a short drive from the station, but the complex he was familiar with in the area couldn’t possibly house anyone living on a sergeant’s pay. Especially not someone who had as many garnishes on his paycheck as Reed.

There must be another, smaller one nearby. Hank thought as he drove along the side road that curved around the park situated between the apartments and the station.

He sighed and adjusted his grip on the wheel and checked all his mirrors and blind-spots. An occasional car or truck rumbled on the highway to his left—part of the Detroit cleanup groups.

The sky was clearer than it had been, but the blue sky seemed colder than the weak grey it had been for the past few weeks. According to the calendar, spring was creeping closer to Detroit. But the bleak park, ragged from hail damage and guarded by deformed recycling bins and benches, looked as permanent as a stain.

Scraggly pigeons lurched about on the roadside, flapping their wings and ducking their squat bodies in preparation for flight at the sound of the approaching car.

‘Fwump’

A puff of dirty feathers swirled in the car’s wake.   Hank grimaced. Nasty. The pigeon plague would be worse once spring arrived and the idiotic things built their trashy nests and left egg splatters on the sidewalks.

Even if spring does get here, what is there to look forward to except more people tryin’ to kill each other? People don’t change because of a revolution and some violence....history’s proved that often enough.

He slouched in his seat. And that’s assuming we’re not all dead from some toxin. Or ordered to clear out completely by the governor an’ the military finally takes over.

The looming political war on the horizon blackened his thoughts further. Should just pack up and move...maybe this is all one big lost cause....

“Sumo is fifteen pounds over his breed’s recommended weight.”

Connor’s random, quiet statement rankled Hank’s dark mood. He and Sumo were junk food buddies long before the android and his judgements on heath came along. “What’s your problem?” His voice was loud in the quiet car.

The android startled and clapped a hand over his mouth. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean...” His voice trailed off.

The child-like mannerisms and hurried apology softened Hank. “Just thinking out loud?” He shook his head at the discomfited android whose hands now hid his face and a LED that was probably not blue. “Hey, it’s okay. It happens.”

“That’s a human problem.” Connor lowered his hands. “Androids aren’t supposed to talk out loud on accident.” He punctuated each word with a chop of his hand against his leg. “Every. Thing. Is. Supposed. To. Be. Perfect.” His voice lowered, “I...it must be a malfunction in my communication pr—

Hank slapped the steering wheel. “Why are you so determined to have a malfunction every two minutes?” He ignored the sting in his hand and the pert ‘I’m not’ from Connor and continued, “You were a little absent-minded. It’s okay.” His voice softened. “We’ve both had a stressful couple of days and nights. Just relax, okay?”

A shrug. Silence.

“Got it?”

Connor nodded without moving his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Alright then.” Hank cleared his throat.

Silence.

Hank had sat in miserable and uncomfortable silence often enough—came with the territory when you’re the only drunk in a police station who isn’t in the drunk tank—but Hank didn’t want the impressionable deviant to adapt to the habits of a grumpy old man. He sighed and forced himself to add a cheerful note to his tone. “Do you always spend your quiet moments thinking about Sumo?”  

“Lieutenant. You’re speeding.”

Hank frowned, double-checked his speed and brought the car to a sedate pace. He cleared his throat again. “So. Sumo?” He prompted and gripped the wheel tighter.

Connor stared at the floor; his hands wrapped around his sides and he drew his legs tighter against the seat. “It’s nothing.”

“I’m too old to play games. Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

Connor stamped. “It’s not relevant. We should be reviewing the evidence.”

“Which is in short supply.” Hank maintained his resolution to be level-headed; how had he not realized what a firm hand Connor required? Or was this rebellious petulance a new development? “We’ll talk shop once we check out Reed’s apartment.” He added as a compromise. “Okay?”

“’kay.” The android pulled mercilessly on a thread in his jeans; his other hand fiddled at his loose shirt collar.

“So? What were you thinking?” Hank prompted, determined not to let the subject drop. Need to remember to pick that tie up. The kid was definitely uncomfortable with its absence. And where’s his coin?

Connor didn’t look up from picking at his leg even though the thread he’d been worrying had snapped. “I was thinking we could take Sumo to a park.” The words tumbled out. “Or, I mean, you could...I don’t have to. I just think it would be good for Sumo...”

A day at the park with Sumo and Connor? Hank mentally poured whiskey on the image and lit it on fire. He was trying to clean up his act, but he’d never intended....

“Or I could...?” Connor’s LED went red. “I could...go too? If you wanted?”

“You can walk Sumo as much as you want.” Hank shook away his bitter thoughts. Connor deserved better. “And I’ll show you some good parks...well....I don’t know what condition they’re in now....but,” he pointed a finger without taking his hand off the wheel, “that doesn’t mean I’m gonna hang around watchin’ you two goofs.”   His false smile made his lips itch and it disappeared.

“Oh. Okay.” Soft. Quiet. Disappointed? “What if we just went around the block?” Hopeful.

“Yeah. You do that.”

“Okay.” And there was the disappointment again.

Hank ignored his instincts. It was easier to let opportunity slide away. A jolt on the wheel made Hank’s chest clench. He swore and gripped the steering wheel.

Branches. Cold sweat trickled down Hank’s back. Fallen branches were in the pitted road. Just branches. They weren’t small branches, though there was no shortage of those snapping. The tires thudded over the larger branches, replicating the jolt that had alarmed him in the first place.

He swore again, trying to reclaim his grip on his emotions and memories. Connor’s fine. I’m fine. The car’s fine. We’ll all okay.

--

Busy with his own thoughts, Connor was failing to notice his partner’s stress. His LED spun yellow, red, yellow as he deleted the research he’d gathered on Detroit’s dog parks.

Detectives didn’t play at parks with dogs. Not when there was so much work to be done.

The LED snapped blue and Connor’s hands relaxed; the little blue crescent moons left by his nails healed over with a liquid shimmer. He blinked when he caught the last half of a one-sided conversation that Hank must’ve been carrying on for the past minute or so.

“If Reed kept a diary.” Hank tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “And all the answers are in it. Just waiting for us at his apartment. That would make our job easier, wouldn’t it?”

Gavin Reed.

Like static, the name crossed Connor’s processors; followed by a visceral video replay of holding Gavin in his arms. He felt the warmth, the weight, the leather, the soft hoodie that’d brushed against his throat. Hands on his arms. Gavin’s green eyes. The thudding heartbeat. The vulnerability.

Gavin NEEDS me.

Gavin NEEDS me.

Gavin NEEDS me.

Gavin NEEDS me.

An overclock warning flashed in Connor’s vision and he yanked free of the loop. His combat program was attempting to launch itself.

No! It’s an error. Just an error! There’s no threat! He frantically reestablished multiple firewalls around the over-reactive program. Nobody needs me. Least of all Hank—Gavin...Hank.

The android pressed his fingers against his head. Why is everything so disorganized?

No. Everything was fine. He was what the humans needed him to be. He was Hank’s partner; and....Gavin? I don’t know who the man IS let alone what my relationship is with him.

I used to know. I think. But—he peeked around the firewall at the RELATIONSHIP STAT for DET. SGT. REED, G.— C̴͖͠ö̸̯́l̷̫̕l̸eà̴̟ġ̴͓ū̵͍e̴. ̴̮̕A̶͇̕d̷v̸̏e̸͆r̶̲̎s̶͗a̶͕r̷̐y̴͂.̶̲͆ ̶͔͌ ̵͝H̷̽a̵͝t̷͝e̵͑d̶̽.̸͖ ̵ ̶̥̈F̶r̶͆ĭ̵e̴n̴̔d̶.̷̆ ̵͑ͅ ̸̹͒D̶̞̍è̷̫t̶e̸c̴ti̵͌v̷̯̊e̴͈̊.̴̤̋ ̶ ̸̧̈A̷͚͑s̶̖̊s̸͕̿ò̵̥č̶͚i̶͕͝ä̷́ͅẗ̸̜́é̷͕.̴͉̒ ̵͎͌ ̶Ë̸̜́n̷e̵̼͐m̶̳̅y̷.̴͙̄ ̵͊ ̷͔͗D̵̏e̷s̶i̶rẻ̴̞ḋ̸.̴̺ ̵̗̈́ ̶̰̆C̸̤͋o̵̤̓m̵͈̋r̴͙̾a̴̲͆d̷͐e̵.̸͕̈ ̵͗ͅ ̵̣̓M̵͕͊a̵̢̓n̴̡͗.̶̡̎ ̷̖̀ ̶̣͗T̷̖͗h̶r̷e̴a̴͐t̴̯̾.̴͕͑ ̵̗̏ ̷͈̂T̴̖͆o̸͔̽l̷ê̸̘r̴a̴̺͝t̵̯̿e̶̢̅d̴.̷̻̏ ̵͖̏ ̴̗B̴r̷ȍ̶͇t̵h̸̹͛e̶͗ͅr̷̲͒.̷̱̈́ ̴̤̋ ̸̨͒H̵͇͘ǘ̶̳m̶a̶̻̒n̵̗͘.̶̖͗ ̵̗̎ ̴ͅL̶̛͕o̸̐v̵̅͜e̸d.̸̩̍ ̴O̴͔̒f̵̞̌f̵͉͑i̶̦͑c̵̖͒e̵͔̽r̷͙̽.̸̠̀ ̷̟̈́ ̵͔̑A̶̱͛l̵͓̈́l̶̹͗y̵.̷

The android closed out the unreadable file and scrolled through other relationship tags. They were mostly filled with RESENTFUL, HOSTILE, NEUTRAL, and a few WARM (Sumo’s vet and Captain Fowler’s daughter).

Hank was the only one in the PARTNER and TRUSTED files. That was okay, wasn’t it? Then why did he feel.....like a failure? His baseline programming told him to integrate with all humans, not to latch onto anyone in particular.

Connor flipped through the remaining relationship tabs without any IDs to fill them: FRIEND, COMPANION, LOVER, LEADER, FAMILY. Why have those pre-existing IDs if he wasn’t meant to fill them with any particular names?

Was I just an interesting project without a real future?

On the surface he was perfect. His nails dug into his skin.

CyberLife gave me this voice. This face. These eyes. But none of it matters to Hank or....or...Gavin. It just makes them hate me more....

His social program condemned him for his failure to integrate. Prior to deviancy, failure was merely the report of zero input in the accomplished file.  But now those repeated zeros were beginning to feel heavy. He looked at the empty relationship tags in his files.

I have Hank. That should be enough.

But the files were so empty.

I know!

He added SUMO to FRIEND and filled out the parameters to define that relationship. Thinking of Sumo settled his chaotic thoughts enough to set them aside, confident that he’d gotten all the rouge data under control.

“Hey! Connor! Stop zoning out. You’re freaking me out.”

A second was all Connor needed to pick up the conversation with Hank again. “I’m sorry.” He paused to pretend that he was trying to remember the conversation. Be less like a robot. I need to integrate with humans. He told himself. Hank had been making jokes about Reed conveniently keeping a diary. Connor answered with the first thing that came to mind.

“He doesn’t seem the type to trust his secrets to anyone but himself.”

“Who said anything about secrets?”

“I thought that was the purpose of a diary, lieutenant.” The conversation with Hank was veering into an alarming direction. The secret meeting with Markus had been weighing on Connor ever since he’d struck that deal with the android leader.

“Only if you have secrets to keep.”

Outwardly Connor’s negotiator program kept his communication software at optimal functionality. Inwardly, he was frantic. He was dimly aware of himself saying: “Ah. I see.”

Does Hank know I snuck out? Hank had sided with the android cause even before Connor. Why not trust him now? Why did I think that it would be a good idea to listen to Markus.

Connor frowned. He’d felt in control during the meeting, but how much had the charismatic android leader influenced him? It wouldn’t be the first time Markus had talked him into...Betraying humans.

Impossible. He thought with a small shake of his head. I’m an advanced prototype. A negotiator. Markus is a....200...house model. There’s no way he’d be able to manipulate ME. I’m better than him!

Yet the fact stared him in the face. A brief conversation and he was ready to endanger his trust and partnership with Hank for an android who had clearly stated that he would value androids above humans if he was forced to make a choice.

Each passing second became a countdown to something terrible and unidentifiable. His preconstruction software launched constructions without context or purpose or end.

Nameless and featureless wire figures struggled across his vision, plunging into the road in front of the car, falling from the sky, lurching about in the park, fighting, falling, killing, dying...dismembering themselves.

And it’s all my fault. My agreement with Markus to hide the android connection to the Cobalt is the worst decision in the entire world and now—

[INBOX (1) FROM: MILLER, C. SUBJECT: hey hi can you access these files?]

Connor seized the message and pulled himself from a place in his program that he hadn’t known existed. He didn’t look back at it. He didn’t try to analyze it. He slammed it behind firewalls and thrust it away deep into his processor where old data was broken down and filtered into his thirium supply to be lost in the general flow of energy running his biocomponents.

He turned his attention to the message and its familiar, organized coding; it didn’t have to balance free sentience with a preprogrammed AI. He let his mind sink into the stability and wrap around him as he read the message.

[It’s Reed’s birth cert and school recs, but there’s something fishy about the encryption. I dunno. Sorry, Hank said to forward everything we find. So have a look? Lemme know what you find? Thanks! Oh. Don’t tell the Captain that I asked for help. ;) ]

“What is it?” Hank asked.

“Oh. A message from Chris.” Connor deliberately assumed Hank was not asking about his red, red LED. He picked at the encryption. Chris is right. This is odd. On its face, the encryption was a basic privacy code typically used on court sealed records. But this encryption was not the market variety. The more he picked at it, the more suspicious he became. Under its clunky disguise was a refined and complex code.

He broke through the encryption; documents cascaded across his vision. Birth certificate, school records, tax records. But something seemed off. Any other system might miss it, but Connor’s advanced software picked out the artificial pattern in the files’ information.

Too easy. Too clean. Ah. There.

He’d seen something behind the files. He pushed through the facade of amended documents.

The coding ‘stung’ him and Connor recoiled. He tried another approach and was ‘stung’ again, sharper this time and his optical display flickered from the force of it. Warnings about privacy infringements and criminal activity threatened him with fines and jail and FBI visits.

The car drew to a stop and the engine shut off.

“This can’t be right.” Hank’s mutter drew a portion of Connor’s attention away from the struggle with the files.

“It’s the right address.” Connor unbuckled; the persistent encryption continued to repel him and he kept fighting with it. “But we can ask inside easily enough.”

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Connor followed Hank across the parking lot; still he wrestled with the encrypted files. And if Hank noticed the android’s heavier step he did not comment upon it as they approached the building.

Symmetrical, mirror-like windows in the apartment building created framed replicas of the sky over Detroit. More than a few windows were covered by repair tape and plastic covers, giving the otherwise dignified building a wounded expression.

--

A YK model dressed in pink overalls and an oversized red sweater was on her knees scrubbing the lobby’s glass entryway doors. She saw Hank and Connor approaching and bounced to her foot—she was missing the other—and hopped about the entryway, clapping her hands as if the two strangers were long lost friends.

“Oh. Boy.” Hank muttered to Connor when he saw the YK. “A living jumping bean.”

“Yes.” Connor answered. His gaze drifted leftward as he continued to attempt to unwind the coding that protected Gavin’s records. He’d nearly accessed one file only for it to slip away and clam up tighter than before. The code was adapting itself to his attempts.

Hank put out a hand to keep his partner from walking into the door. Before he could warn the girl to stay out from underfoot, she yanked open the door.

Hopping backwards, she chirped. “Welcome home! I missed you!”

Hank’s eyebrows shot upward at the greeting. The girl’s voice was pleasing and cute, but with a disconcerting desperate frenzy. A bit of blue stained the sclera of her right eye. Along with the missing foot, Hank thought he had a good idea that she, like so many others, had been caught in the revolution’s turmoil. He moved his hand from Connor’s chest, who had stopped at the light pressure.

“Hi. Uh. Hi there. Ah. Easy.” Hank flinched when the small android wrapped her arms around him in a wobbly hug. Dealing with androids, he looked to Connor.

Fat lot of good that did.

Connor uncertainly motioned at Hank to return the girl’s hug.

Yeah. No. I’m not going to respond to what is clearly a program error. Hank and Connor had seen more than one conflicted and damaged deviant fall back on their original programming in an attempt to cope with the influx of new emotions. “Hey now. That’s enough.” Hank tried to push away the little android. She didn’t budge. “Get ‘er off me, Connor.”

The detective android shrugged.

Hank narrowed his eyes at the yellow LED flashing on his partner’s temple, but before he could inquire a new voice was offering help.

“Just a sec! I’ll be right with you!” The voice came from across the lobby. A young man was perched on a tall ladder propped alongside an enormous fish tank. He seemed normal enough...except for the pink octopus wrapped around his head like a turban. “Oh. Oops.” He nearly fell. “Hello. I’ll be right with you. Just a moment. Sorry. Uh, Thatcher.” He turned and pointed at the YK who paused in her rejoicing to listen without turning around. “You did good. You can let him go now.”

The YK spun like a ballerina and hopped out of the way. “Welcome home! Welcome home! I missed you!” She continued the mantra until she disappeared into a back room and her voice faded.

By now the lobby attendant had climbed down from his ladder and was crossing the room, not towards them, but to take up a station behind the front desk, which Connor realized, was a tank as well.

“I swear. I’m not ignoring you.” The attendant said. “I just...if I don’t....then I’ll forget...and we’ll all be....” The attendant opened up the top of the front desk; it was a lid to the tank below. He unwound the octopus from his head and dropped it in. “There.” He rubbed his hands off on his pants and looked at Hank.

But before anyone could speak, a tall female android dressed in a sequined evening gown passed them on her way into, Connor peered after her, a large dining hall where she sat at a table and proceeded to laugh as if at a joke.

Hank elbowed his partner, likely having mistook the android’s curiosity for interest.

Straightening up, Connor adjusted his shirt and crossed his arms behind his back. He rapidly studied the lobby, taking in its details in a glance. The lobby was filled with odd holographic sculptures; over-fertilized plants, green fronds drooping like waterfalls caught in stasis, sat on high shelves; tall tree-like plants with thick woody stems loomed in deep corners backed with mirrors, creating the illusion of a vast jungle stretching beyond the room’s walls.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” The attendant had put on a satin black vest and slicked back his hair.

“First of all,” Hank held up a hand. “Do YOU need our help?”

“Uh?”

“We’re with the DPD.” Connor explained while Hank flashed his badge.

The attendant peered at the badge, took it from Hank and studied its features as if he could tell the difference between real and false. “Uh-hum.” He handed the badge back to the lieutenant. “Thanks, we’re fine.”

“What happened to those androids?” Hank gestured. “Why aren’t they at Jericho?”

“Uh. Because they wanted to stay here.”

Hank’s eyes narrowed.

“No, really. They came here for shelter during the revolution. I wasn’t going to turn them out in the streets...” He muttered, “No matter what the general manager said....I tried to explain to them that they can leave now, go find others of their kind, but they refuse.” He spread out his hands. “What am I supposed to do? Force them to leave? There’s not exactly a lot of help on how to deal with this stuff these days. Lots of the instruction manuals that were online were all taken down by one of those android rights groups. And I’m not going to show up at any android HQ with two busted androids. They’d murder me!”

“I don’t think they would.”

The attendant looked at Connor with an incredulous expression. “Have you met some of those androids? There was a group a few nights ago chanting death to humans in the streets.”

“Okay, okay, we get it.” Hank broke up the discussion. “Anyway, to the point. We need access to Gavin Reed’s apartment.”

The man’s face shifted into neutral politeness. “Ah. I cannot give that information out—

“This is a wellness check.” Hank added. “We’re just gonna take a look.”

“Oh...alright then.” The man checked his computer system. “Reed, G.” he muttered, “Alright. Top floor.” He gave them the room number and a temporary security pass. “Anything else?”

Hank accepted the keycard and stared at it in surprise. “You mean. He lives here?”

“Well, someone under the name Reed, G. has a room that he pays rent on.” The man shrugged. “I’m not supposed to ask a bunch of questions as long as the rent is on time.”

“Is your manager around?”

“Ah...” again that change into neutrality, but this time it was shifty. Hank’s detective instinct flared up.

“He is,” the attendant said, “But...he’s not available. He’s ah....volunteering at some of the other apartments and hotels around the city. You know...trying to help them get back on their feet.”

Hank glanced at Connor who gave him a barely perceptible nod and then sent a message to Ben to meet them at that address. Something was odd; it might have something to do with Gavin and then again it might not, but they weren’t about to ignore any potential leads.

“Well, that’s too bad.” Hank acted casual. “Woulda liked to ask ‘im some questions, but,” he shrugged, “what can you do?”

“I really don’t know.” The attendant muttered. “Have a nice day.” He said in a louder voice, “And let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.” His eyes had glazed over as he delivered the memorized speech.

“Thanks.” Hank nodded and nudged Connor’s shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go check it out.”

---

Sealed in the elevator and with the distractions of the lobby out of mind, Connor returned to the files Chris had sent. Annoyed at himself for failing to crack the records open yet again, Connor threw himself against the wall of coding between himself and the sealed records. But instead of punching through, he fell into the wall. Foreign coding wrapped around him and sank into his own trying to bind with it.

Hank was watching the floors tick upward when Connor staggered and grabbed at the elevator’s wall to steady himself. The slick wall provided no purchase and he would have fallen if not for Hank grabbing his arm.

“Whoa, kid!”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Connor murmured.

“You expect me to believe that?” Hank said with a firmer grip on Connor’s arm. “Here sit down.”

“No, no.” Connor protested and stubbornly planted his feet against the ground resisting Hank’s efforts to sit him on the floor. “It’s gross down there. Someone threw up.”

“Connor. I need information, but not that sort of information. What’s going on with you?”

Honesty was the new policy with Hank. To make up for keeping the secret with Markus.

Connor pressed a fingertip against his flashing LED. “I encountered a virus in an encrypted file that momentarily froze my systems.” He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Hank’s warm hand on his arm. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mmhm.” Hank’s hand was on his back now.

Hank didn’t know anything about androids, but he did know that viruses were bad. “You’re acting kinda funny, kid.” He patted Connor’s back. “You sure that virus didn’t...isn’t affecting you?”

Connor nodded. “I’m okay.”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. They exited, but Connor had only taken one step when he stumbled and fell to one knee.

“Connor!” Hank shouted and crouched next to his partner. “Hey—

“Sorry. The floor seems to be moving.” Connor’s unfocused eyes tracked an imaginary spin.

Hank pressed the back of his hand to the android’s neck and cheeks, instinctually checking for a fever. “I don’t know.” He said, some frustration in his voice at his inability to understand android health and wellness. “What can I do?”

“I think...I think it’s stopping now.” Connor shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. The virus is now quarantined.” He stood up with Hank’s help. “I’ll be fine. Once we return to the station I’ll run a full diagnostic to purge the virus completely.”

“Are you sure?” Hank asked. His voice was as serious as his eyes as he studied his partner.

“Yes. And we have learned something important about Gavin.”

“Yeah? What’s that? He sabotaged his own records with viruses?”

“The coding was a bit too sophisticated for the average human. And I’ve never seen anything like that virus before.”

Hank caught on to what the android was suggesting, “That sort of protection for personal documents takes good money and a powerful lawyer. Neither of which Gavin has access to. Someone doctored those files for him.”

Connor’s mouth quirked. “But why would anyone want to seal up his birth certificate?”

“People got lots of reasons.”

“What do you know about Gavin from before he was at DPD?”

Hank shrugged as they walked down the corridor, watching room numbers. “Not much. I do know that Reed’s whole transfer was a little unorthodox. No one that young and dumb gets made junior detective without some dirt following them.”

“Dirt?”

“You know...favors for favors.”

“But the captain accepted him anyway?”

“Yeah. He owed a friend, we needed the manpower, and Reed IS a good detective when he puts his mind to it. And Jeffrey lets people prove themselves before he sets an opinion on them.” Hank added the last part in a low mutter. “Here it is.” He said as they came to the front door. “The lair of the beast.”

He typed in the security code and the door snapped open. A small, hissing ball of orange fur darted at Hank’s ankles forcing the seasoned police lieutenant to hop dance away from it. “Ah. Hey! Connor!”

Connor scooped up the kitten, whose claws tore small shreds in Hank’s pant cuffs as she hissed and spat at Hank before turning her wrath on the android. Connor’s wrists were coated in blue before Hank got his jacket off and wrapped around the little animal shredding his partner’s wrists.

With the kitten wrapped secure in the jacket’s folds, Hank tied the jacket arms and set the wriggling bundle down on the floor. “Here, here,” he said and pulled off Connor’s own jacket. An action protested by the android.

He brought Connor’s hands together and pressed the blazer against the blood seeping out of the wrists. “Hold that.” He commanded as he pulled Connor into the apartment. “I swear. Reed had better have a first aid kit handy.” The first door on the right was a bedroom. Hank flicked on the light and continued his single-minded rampage for something to stop the blood from coming out of his partner’s wrists.

“Hank,” Connor tried, but was hushed again.

Hank kicked down the lid on the toilet and told Connor to sit down. To his surprise the first aid kit was already out in what seemed to be a semi-permanent place of honor on a towel stand. He easily found what he was looking for: bandages and iodine.

“’kay. Lemme see.” He peeled away the soaked jacket.

“Hank I have a self-healing program.” Connor said, showing his nearly healed wrists. “See?”

“You couldn’t have said anything sooner! I nearly had a heart attack!” Hank raised an eyebrow at the android. “What...are you smiling?”

“No.” Connor said quickly, ducking his head. “I was just surprised.”

“Humph. About what?” Hank rolled up his own pant leg and checked the long scratches. “Ow. Leave it to Reed to have a killer kitten.”

“STOP!” Connor’s hand shot out and grabbed Hank’s wrist, stopping the man from applying the iodine to the wounds.

“Hey. What?”

Connor’s LED was flaring red as he took the bottle from Hank. “It’s contaminated.”

Chapter Text

Hank stilled at the android’s warning. For a moment, the apartment was quiet except for his own breathing. The outrage that someone would poison a cop’s medical supplies built up in his chest. “Someone tainted his first aid kit?” His shock at the cruel violation filled his voice and his hands clenched.

Maybe Reed did have an enemy with access to weaponized toxins. The theory sounded more probable with each new lead. We need to connect this toxin to someone in Gavin’s life—personally or professionally. We trace them. We find the lab the toxin was manufactured in....and everything will be okay.

Hank was ready to put this whole experience behind them and get back to work keeping Detroit afloat.

He sent a text to update Ben and ask if he or Chen had turned up any information on anyone with access to cobalt with whom Gavin may have been in contact.

Ben’s prompt answer stoked Hank’s frustration.

[Chen found traffic cam footage of Gavin arguing with someone at one of the quarantine gates back in Nov. Poor visuals. Could be a lead. Will keep you posted]

Hank dropped his phone into his pocket and turned to Connor. “Ben thinks—Hey whoa don’t eat that!”

The uncapped iodine bottle in one hand, Connor licked his fingers clean, having transferred a few drops of iodine onto his tongue before Hank could stop him. “It is the toxin.” He confirmed.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Hank gripped his impulsive partner’s wrists, swearing at him. “Did that virus scramble that big brain circuit of yours?”  

“Don’t worry.” Connor said with pointed simplicity as he tugged free. “My sample analysis process includes a purge that deconstructs and sterilizes samples into harmless byproducts which are then—

“In English, Connor!”

The android shifted into Hank-speak without pause, “I cannot contaminate anyone secondhand. “And,” he added when Hank’s glare did not abate, “I cannot be infected by biological substances.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am sure.” Connor’s eye-roll stayed off his face, but it was clear in his tone. “We need to locate everyone with access to this apartment and find out where Gavin purchases his medical supplies.”

Hank nodded repeatedly as he sent another text. “Ben thinks he found some footage of Gavin arguin’ with someone at a checkpoint back in November.” Hank shared the information. “What’s with the face?”

Connor had frowned deeply and was tapping at his head like someone might who was attempting to recall information that they’d forgotten. “I did not receive a copy of that information.”

“Want me to tell him to resend it?”

“Please.”

“Okay. Huh. Says he already did.” Hank hummed and bobbed his head, “And....sending another....did you get it?”

Connor shook his head. “No.” He heaved a frustrated sigh. “Did Ben say what the truck looked like?”

Hank’s blue eyes sharpened. “What makes you think the person was drivin’ a truck?”

“Ah.” Connor shut his mouth. “No reason.” It was a pathetic attempt. He thought Hank would press the advantage. Ask the questions Connor was so desperate to answer.

Hank looked away, eyes shuttered as he rubbed his face with both hands. “I wish we knew more about Gavin...then we wouldn’t be trying to guess at everything.” He said.

“That’s why...” Connor paused; his face scrunched. “...we’re here, lieutenant.”

“Any prints we can use?” Hank pointed at the iodine.

Connor’s LED glowed. “Only Gavin’s.” He set the bottle on the counter and wiped his tongue on his sleeve, making a face at the samples the sensitive receptors picked up from the fabric. He rubbed his fingers over his tongue.

Hank frowned when his partner gagged and choked. “Hey, now...”

Connor flapped a hand as if to say ‘I’m okay.’ “My self-cleaning....process....purging the sample.”

With an eye-roll, Hank stood and pulled Connor up by the elbow. “You sure?” He grabbed a white hand towel and wiped at Connor’s mouth. “You’re leakin’ goop.”

Grabbing the towel and half turning away from Hank, Connor buried his face in the towel and shuddered when he gagged again. “I’m sorry. Something’s....my self-cleaning fluids are overreacting...just a little...a glitch.”

“Do you need to spit?”

The android heaved into the towel and shook his head. “Shouldn’t be,” another gag, “necessary.”

Hank noticed the way the android’s fingers clutched the towel. A choke racked the android and a clear, gelatinous substance rolled off the towel onto the floor. Connor made a small distressed sound as more goo slid from the towel. Swearing, Hank pressed a hand against his stubborn partner’s back and leaned him over the sink. “Give me that.” He tugged at the now useless towel. Connor loosened his fingers and Hank whipped the soaked fabric into the shower stall where it landed with a ‘thump.’ “Now, spit.”

“My system,” Connor tried to protest.

“I don’t care what ya system is ‘posed to do. It’s obviously not working and I don’t want you to choke.”

With a sorrowful expression of humiliation Connor obeyed; a glob of chemical smelling slime splatted into the sink.

“Okay, good job.” Hank rubbed the android’s back. “Not so bad. See? Now can you uh...I don’t know...reboot or somethin’?”

“I’ve been trying.” Connor’s voice carried a tinge of his frustration as he tried to speak around the fluid buildup that garbled his voice modulator. “I don’t understand why this is happening!”

“Alright, alright, don’t need to bite my head off. Give yourself some time. Relax.”

After a minute, the flow of cleaning fluids slowed and then stopped. Connor’s LED turned blue and he wiped his mouth off with the new towel Hank offered. He accepted it with a quiet “Thank you” and buried his face in it.

“You good now?”

Connor nodded and handed the towel back; the movement slow and listless. “We should complete our investigation.” He kept his eyes averted from Hank.

Before Hank could answer an indignant yowl reminded them of the angry orange kitten they’d left bundled up in the entryway. Hank grimaced. “I’ll get it.”

“I can.” Connor almost put a hand on his partner’s shoulder. He curled his fingers and recoiled as smoothly as possible to avoid suspicion. “She can’t hurt me.”

Hank had seen the android check his movements and doubted the statement, but he nodded and did not mention it. “Maybe we can stick it in one of these boxes.” He gestured at the ones stacked in the bedroom. It was a weak joke, and Connor looked indignant rather than amused at the suggestion.  

“No. We’re strangers in her house.” Connor strode from the room. “I’ll be right back. Oh. And Gavin has another cat, a big black one. Keep an eye out for her.” With that warning the android escaped the room.

Hank—on guard against another vicious animal—checked the bedroom with professional interest that bordered on curiosity.

Part of him wished they were here as guests, not investigators. For a moment, Hank let his mind wander.

What if I had treated Reed with a little more kindness and respect? What if I had actually mentored him instead of throwing him into an all-but empty homicide division while the rest of us were chasing honor and glory in the Red Ice Task Force?

Would they have been invited over for a late night movie and beers, like Ben sometimes did back in the day? Would Gavin be in the kitchen right now, fixing a snack, complaining about rent and relationships? Did Gavin like to cook? Could he or did he order out? What was his favorite meal? Did he have any relationships?

And when they all sat down together for the movie, would Gavin let them put their arms around him and jostle and tease him?

And when the movie was over, would Gavin walk them to the door, sleepy-eyed and laughing, telling them he’d see them in the morning at work.

Hank blinked away the non-existent memories and stared around the bedroom. There was no changing who Gavin was now.

Cardboard boxes were stacked in corners and the twin-sized bed was covered in a plastic dust protector. Why would an entire room be devoted to storage? Hank swept a hand through the dust on the bed.

He heard a sharp yowl and an exclamation from Connor. A moment later, the android, LED yellow, reappeared in the doorway and started looking roughly through the boxes without speaking.

“Don’t be offended, Connor. That cat didn’t seem very friendly anyway. I’m sure it’s not you.”

“I don’t know why she’s so upset.” Connor slapped his hands against the box top and glared at nothing in particular. “I told her what happened to Gavin and told her what we were doing, but she ran away and hid under the couch. Sumo would’ve understood. But,” Connor abandoned the box and crouched to look under the bed, “Anyway, there should be a big black cat.”

Hank shrugged. “We’ll worry about lost cats later. Check those boxes.”

“Okay.” Connor lifted the lid on one of the boxes and found it full of fire and water damaged picture frames with broken glass. No pictures. He scanned them, but could discern nothing useful.

Another box was filled with old, ratty clothes that smelt like mildew and old sweat. Folded with more care and wrapped in tissue was a pink sweatshirt with ‘fight me’ printed across the front in bold white lettering.

Hank held up a digital frame. “Think you can get anything off this?” He tossed the old-school digital photo storage across the bed.

The android caught it and held it in his hands, trying to interface. “No.” he said turning the frame over. “The memory card is corrupted.” He put the defunct device aside. “It’s only clothes over here. Anything on your side?”

“Not really.” Hank muttered. “Just old crap, most of it in bad shape. I don’t think we’re gonna find anything recent in here. We should see if he has a desk or somethin’ in the other room.”

“Yeah.” Connor peered at one of the boxes, turning it to check for a label. Nothing. Just boxes of old, broken stuff. Some of it didn’t look like anything Gavin would own: an assortment of faceted crystals, a stuffed rabbit—lumpy and stained, a rumpled paperback novel, a jewelry box containing a black pearl necklace and an emerald bracelet—

A woman’s belongings?

He scanned for prints, but nothing showed up. As if it had been carefully wiped down.

“Ah, whoa, wow.” Hank called out. “I haven’t seen one of these in ages.” He grunted as he struggled to lift something out of a large box tucked away in the corner of the room. He tossed what looked like an old model patrol drone onto the bed. A cloud of dust puffed up. Hank fanned it away and sneezed loudly.

Connor blinked and wiped at his eyes when another glitch prompted an overreaction to the dust particles. Then he leaned over and peered at the object Hank had discovered. It was nearly the same size as the modern drones, but heftier. Scrawled in Reed’s bold handwriting across the drone’s edge in permanent green marker was the word: PINKERTON. A crude drawing of a pie slice with angry eyes and clenched fists decorated the top.

“What is it?” He asked tracing his fingers along the drawings and name.

“Old school patrol drone.” Hank scratched his chin. “But they were decommissioned years ago when the new ones were released.”

Connor pressed his hand flat against the machine and initiated an interface.

//

It was a primitive device with none of the modern software of the models Connor was more familiar with. It seemed capable of only basic identification, tracking, and communication functions. No bio-scan, no uplink abilities. It was a flying and recording machine. Nothing else.

Snippets of static-filled video memory were all that remained of the drone’s corrupted databank. Connor opened the first available file.

RECORD ACCESSED: PLAYING

A green eyeball filled the video screen. “Is it on?” A young male voice asked.

“Yeah.” Someone scoffed and sniffed. “Upstairs sent this prototype drone for testing. No one else wanted to deal with it, so congratulations. It’s your patrol partner.”

“Why can’t I work with Reagan? We just got used to working with each other.” The eyeball shrank away and the view refocused on a gangly young man, who turned and was facing someone off-screen. He tossed an orange up and down in one hand as he waited for an answer to his question.

The drone’s readout reported: [ID: PATROL: REED, GAVIN: OUTSTANDING WARRANTS: 0]

Through the drone’s memory, Connor stared at the soft-featured young man. Not a hint of the perpetual five o’clock shadow on the just barely defined jawline. No scar crossed his face. His body language was loose and open; a light smile curved his lips.

“Reagan doesn’t like you.”

The smile faltered, some hint of an old pain darkened the lad’s face and a familiar scowl crossed his mouth as his shoulder’s tightened.

The video panned in the direction of the other voice. The deep voice belonged to a serious faced older policeman whose cragged features and crooked mouth testified to rough experiences that left little patience for anything he found to be an annoyance.

[ID: SERGEANT: PAUL, TELLES: OUTSTANDING WARRANTS: 0]

“Oh.” The young man, the young Gavin Reed, gnawed at the unpeeled orange, pulling the thick skin off with his teeth. He mumbled around a mouthful of peel and pointed at Telles with the fruit, “Told ‘im t’was an accident. Not like I’d planned to trip ‘im.” The smile tried to come back, the earlier openness relaxed his shoulders.

“He was friends with Johnson.”

“Oh.” Gavin shrugged; his entire demeanor closed off and became unreadable.

“Yeah. Oh.” Sergeant Telles mocked. “Gavin, the sooner you start realizing that people aren’t little islands for you to screw around with without consequences, the sooner you’ll stop shooting yourself in the foot.”

“But Johnson was—

“He was a good cop and Reagan’s friend. Now we’re a man short and Reagan refuses to partner with you. Now, you have double-shifts and no partner. See how that works?”

Defeated, Gavin studied the orange far more than it deserved while his fingers peeled away the white pulp. “Yeah, but—

The sergeant held up a hand and pointed at the drone. “Take it out. Test it. Break it. I don’t care. I don’t want to hear about you making any more trouble. Just patrol the streets and watch for criminals. The kind you’re supposed to find.”

Gavin saluted with the orange. “10-4, sarg.”

The older cop walked out. “Don’t hide down here too long; you got your first shift in an hour.”

Gavin made a rude gesture at the man’s back and pretended to hurl the orange at him. Once the officer was gone, Gavin muttered, “Pfft. Jerk.” He swept a hand over his hair, causing it to stand on end more than it already was and spun around to face the drone. “Ignore him. He’s a jerk.” His saunter looked more like a giddy prance of barely concealed excitement as he hurried up to the drone.

“So what’s your name, hmm?” He bit the orange and held it in his mouth while he read something on top of the drone. “PD.23. Huh. Not much of a name. No personality.” He chewed the orange thoughtfully and stared at the drone. “Imma call you....Pinkerton....Pie for short. Didja know that Pi is like all the numbers in the universe?” He licked orange juice from his fingers. “How cool is that?”

{that is cool}

The drone’s flat, mechanical voice might have been a melodic popstar to judge by the young man’s excited reaction. “You talk!?”

{yes}

“And you like your name? You don’t think it’s stupid?”

{I think it is cool}

“Super! Get this. This’ll blow your circuits,” Gavin snapped his fingers, “Pie! Get it?”

{Yes. You are funny}

“Oh. I LIKE you.” The young man chuckled and patted the drone with sticky fingers. “You—

The recording cut off with static and a string of errors.

Connor thought that Gavin either didn’t realize or didn’t care the drone was merely responding with programmed pleasantry. It can’t think or feel anything. It’s as friendly and personable as a microwave, yet Gavin’s acting as if he’s found a new best friend.

//

Static.

The viewer zoomed onto a smashed body in what looked like an alleyway. Gavin crouched alongside the mess. “Pie...you recording this? It’s another one.” He looked upward, “Someone’s—

Static.

//

A bird’s eye view of the streets. Not Detroit’s. Connor would have to cross reference them with his map system later.

A distant figure, Gavin, running across rooftops; his breathy voice came through the drone’s com.

“I’m leaping 25^th. You got me?”

{it is too far} The drone’s flight speed increased as it banked toward 25^th.

“Catch!” Gavin sung out as he launched himself over the dark gap between two tall buildings.

The drone arrived in time for the human to spring off its back and onto the next roof, coming out of a roll running. “Thanks!”

{you will be the death of me}

The runner chuckled as he shoulder-rolled over a low wall and slid under a barricade, rolled to his feet at the rooftop edge and halted—poised on the ledge.

Static

//

Static

They were in an empty gym. Gavin roundhouse-kicked a punching bag; the workout equipment jumped and jerked on it chains under the force of the blow. “What is so wrong about being RIGHT?!”

{you are right}

A series of haymakers slammed into the much-repaired bag as the young man vented his rage. “Don’t tell me. Tell THEM!” His shout turned into an incoherent scream of rage as he pounded the bag.

Static.

//

Static

“...call....fer help...” Gavin curled on the ground in pain, fingers clutching at his stomach.

{long range communication systems are down}

The young man chuckled thickly. “F-fabulous. No one’s gonna find us in here.” He groaned as he pushed himself up onto his knees. “Gotta. Get to that window. Break it....attract some attention....from the road...”

{I do not want you to hurt}

“Like...wise....little buddy...” Gavin staggered against the wall; fingers slipping against it, he nearly fell

{I do not want you to hurt}

“Sometimes....you gotta....do.....ow....what ya gotta....” Gavin murmured as he slumped to the ground, flecks of pink tinted froth dotted his lips.  

{do what ya gotta do}

The little machine lifted itself off the ground. Its viewer sighted the window Gavin had been trying to reach. Dusty yellow light filtered through the dirty glass crisscrossed with metal bars. The drone lifted level to the window and backed several meters, targeting the window’s center.

{do what ya gotta do}

The drone flew at the window; speed increased as the window grew large. Metal screeched, glass shattered.

The ground, distant.

The ground, closer.

Jagged gravel scattered over the cracked screen.

Static.

//

Static

“C’mon little bud....wake up. Are you on? You there?”

They were in the room from the first file. Gavin, thin and pale with dark circles under his eyes, stood before the drone. His eyes were red and he repeatedly wiped his sleeve across his face. “I didn’t know, okay? I went to the supplies locker an’ there were all these androids an’ they’re replacing the foot patrol units. Got some new batch of drones with a cheaper AI coming in. They’re not gonna repair you.”

He sniffled and rubbed at his eyes with both palms, spreading dampness across his cheeks. “An....an’ that last thing I said.....’bout doin’ what has t’be done......it wasn’t an order. You didn’t have t’do that. I’d never order a partner to sacrifice themselves for me.....you didn’t....didn’t think that I’d....ordered you to do that....did you?”

[MESSAGE: YOU ARE MY FRIEND]

[OUTPUT ERROR]

The young man sighed. His voice shook. “I tried to tell ‘em you were m’pal, but they wouldn’t listen. Said you were just a dumb machine that I played pretend with.”

[COMMUNICATION ERROR]

They told me t’shut ya down. Decommission ya and send y’back. If I don’t....I’ll lose my job. They want me to quit. But I won’t.”

[MESSAGE UNDELIVERED]

“I gotta shut you down now, okay? I’m so sorry....”

[MESSAGE: YOU ARE MY FRIEND AND—]

The screen went dark.

[OUTPUT ERROR]

[COMMUNICATION ERROR]

[MESSAGE UNDELIVERED]

[I....LOVE......]

[SYSTEM SHUTDOWN]

[OUTPUT ERROR]

[COMMUNICATION ERROR]

[MESSAGE UNDELIVERED]

//

There were no more accessible files. Connor broke the interface and backed away, arms wrapping around himself, bewildered by the drone’s final undelivered messages.

Hank steadied his partner. “What is it? You okay?”

“I...I think it’s a deviant AI.” Connor’s mouth was tight as he stared at the broken drone. Was it simply too primitive to comprehend the meaning of its messages? Was it merely repeating something it’d recorded? It’s not possible. Connor refused to believe that something that basic could have a better grasp of emotions than HE did. He was the advanced prototype with the perfect partner programming. And yet. That thing. That bit of metal and software had the nerve to—

“Deviant....AI? Like androids?” Astonished, Hank stared at the surveillance equipment. “How? I thought that—it isn’t, I dunno,” he struggled to find the words he wanted, “It doesn’t have, you know....well how can it experience emotions?”

“I don’t know. It was part of a drone and human partner program from when Gavin was a patrol cop. What is a foot patrol unit?” At some point, Hank had sat Connor down on the bed and Connor looked up at Hank as he asked the question.

“Urban pursuit experts. You know parkour? They did that on a professional level. Human K-9s in a way. But androids were better and faster, didn’t make wrong turns and didn’t ask for hazard pay. So the program got scrapped after a year or so. Is there anything we can do for the AI?”

Connor looked at the old drone again. “The damage is extensive. It looks like Gavin...or someone tried to repair it...but...” he shook his head, “I can’t tell if he made things worse or not. Maybe at one time it could have been repaired, but....well...machines get old too you know? All I could access were some old recordings. I don’t think the AI is even still alive.” He put ‘alive’ in finger quotes.

“Androids don’t get old.”

Connor blinked at Hank. “Our systems are self-sustaining, but without maintenance an android’s systems do wear out and shut down.”

“Not so immortal after all, huh?” Hank tried to make it a joke, but with the old drone sitting there lifeless and haunted, the lieutenant wanted to move on from the topic. “I can’t believe Reed would ever have tolerated a robot for a partner.”

“He was young.” Connor murmured, thinking of the energetic, green-eyed kid. “Very young.”

“So were we all.” Hank said, slapping his arms against his side and striding around the room. “Enough of that. Check that closet.” He waved as he peered under the bed. “Then we’ll move to the rest of the apartment. I got the feeling we’re about to end this case. We just need to find someone with access to Reed’s med kit. Did you see anything on that drone that could help?”

“No...do you know a Sergeant Paul Telles?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Reagan or Johnson?”

“Nope. They from the drone’s memory?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have the guys see if they can run those names down. Got a location? Date?”

“The data was in bad shape. I could only access about five percent of the drone’s memories.”

“Too bad.”

Still with the images from the drone’s memory echoing in his own mind, Connor opened a closet door. A series of items clattered at his feet. He scanned one object and identified it as a hockey stick. Stuffed in a box in the corner of the closet was a helmet covered in decals, safety gear, and ice skates.

A quick internet search brought up a few NHL videos. Oh.

He was uncertain whether it was horrific or beautiful. Horrific because of the androids referees that were torn apart while the crowds cheered. Or beautiful because of the speed and agility and strength of the human players. He did an additional search of Gavin’s name in connection with the sport, but nothing turned up.

“Anything, Connor?”

“Nothing that will help Gavin.”

“Then let’s get the rest of this place checked out.”

--

Hank slapped the dusty light panel on the wall and eye-searing light revealed Gavin’s living space. His priorities were obvious. A large cat tree too intricate and detailed to be anything other than homemade nearly took up half the back wall. Near a large window was a basic metal desk, but it was clear of anything. No computer, no files, nothing.

The detectives looked at it. Nothing was more suspicious than a clean desk.

Hank crossed the room and threw open the blackout curtains to let in the daylight, but his plan was foiled by expensive storm shields that were locked into place over the window. After struggling for a minute to release the protective barriers, Hank set them aside and he could see the entire park through the panoramic window.

While Hank checked the living room, Connor checked the kitchen. A large post-it was taped to the fridge: CAT’S APT 2DAY @ 6

He looked in the fridge and was surprised to find neatly ordered and labeled containers. The ones on the left were labeled: CAT the others on the right were labeled: CRYBABY. A half-eaten, overcooked hamburger sat on a plate next to the containers.

A quick check revealed that none of the food was contaminated. And that Gavin’s cats ate better than he did. Connor turned his attention to an old dry erase calendar in the kitchenette covered in red scribbles.

“Hey. What you people doing in Gav’s place?”

Hank and Connor spun around. A man blocked the entryway, one hand on the frame and the other fisted at his side.

Hank didn’t make it to his rank by being careless. He held up a hand to warn off Connor’s polite answer that he knew was about to dance off the kid’s tongue. “I think we need to ask you that. Detroit Police.” Hank said without showing his badge.

“Samuel.” The man smiled. “I live across the hall. I’m taking care of Gav’s pets.” He smoothed his shirt and tucked it in. “I’m taking them over to my place until he gets home. I just came back for the little one.” He gave the hurried and scripted explanation without any demand to see their badges or identification.

“Do you know Reed well?”

The man smirked at Connor’s question. “Yeah. You could say that.” He laughed. “Asks me to take care of his little beasts if he gets stuck at work. I guess he forgot this time. No big deal.” He narrowed his eyes at the silent investigators sizing him up and listening intently to every word he said. “I didn’t break in if that’s what you think! I have his access codes.” He winked broad and slow to make sure they caught it. “And his consent.” Another wink.

Hank shrugged carelessly. “I’m going to need to see some ID an’ evidence that Reed’s granted you access to his apartment. Just routine procedure to keep our bosses off our backs. Right Connor?”

“Right.” The android nodded.

Samuel shrugged. “Wallet and phone is in my place. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll come with you.” Connor said, already on his heels. Neither he nor Hank wanted this ‘Samuel’ out of their sight. Whether or not he was telling the truth, he was their best lead.

Hank waited until they were in the hall and then followed, loitering in the hall out of sight while Connor entered the apartment behind the man. Hank texted Ben again, letting him know that they’d found a possible suspect.

--

Connor knew Hank was nearby. The android was pleased at how well he and Hank had acted as a team; it seemed that all they’d done recently was fall into arguments that ended in weird silence. A deep growl caught Connor’s attention. Across the room, tucked into a wire pet crate was a large black cat. She looked even bigger in the small cage. “Hi, kitty.” Connor greeted the sleek feline.

--

Out in the hall, Hank edged closer to the door; his hand slid into his pocket and checked his revolver.

--

“Oh. That’s his cat.” The man said as he got his wallet and phone off a counter.

Entranced by the beautiful animal, Connor strode further into the room and crouched for a better look. Her thick black fur was traced through with aged-silver. “I’ve been wanting to meet you.” Connor said. The cat peered at him. Her eyes were cloudy, but she butted her head against the crate door and her thick tail slapped against the sides twice before she closed her eyes and put her head down again.

“What’s her name?” Connor asked. Just because he was petting a cat didn’t mean he’d forgotten how to be a detective.

“Blackie.”

No it isn’t you liar. The animal had traces of the toxin in her body. But the orange kitten had not been contaminated. There had to be something beside the iodine that only Gavin and this cat had access to. But they’d not found anything else in the apartment. And was this Samuel the one poisoning Gavin? What purpose was served by killing a detective and his old cat? If it was regular accessible poisons, Connor would have no doubt that Samuel was their poisoner. Are others involved?  

Connor petted a soft patch of fur sticking out from the edges of the crate. He was rewarded with a deep purr. “Thank you for taking care of Gavin’s pets for him.” His pleasant voice concealed a sense of growing disgust. Just a few more things, and they’d arrest this man. “I wasn’t aware that Gavin had anyone to help him.” While he spoke, his eyes scanned the apartment.

Gavin’s apartment had been filled with cat hair, claw marks, and the ozone smell of a modern litterbox. Samuel’s apartment showed no signs of ever having a cat stay any significant amount of time in it. This apartment was dusty, the basic garbage bin overflowed with trash, and a stagnant smell pervaded the room.  

“Ah. Yeah.” Samuel tossed the phone up and down in his hand. “Neighbors with benefits.”  

Connor chose to ignore in innuendo. The man seemed to enjoy making allusions to his relationship with Gavin. The more Connor thought about someone else being close to or even touching Gavin, the more jumbled his thoughts became regarding the detective. Gavin is my responsibility! He pushed away the commotion in his thoughts and focused on the matter at hand. “And you babysit his cats often?”

“Very.” The man smirked. “Oops.” The phone dropped and slid under the side table near Connor. “I’ll get it.” Samuel said.

“I can reach it.” Connor leaned and stretched under the table. As he did, he found himself with an unobstructed view of under the couch.

And a first aid kit—the size kept in cars—with DET SGT REED scrawled over the top. And a bag of ‘senior cat’ food.

That kit must be from Gavin’s car! And the cat food is how—

Connor jerked back when the black cat slammed against the crate’s door, bending it outward. Like a furry snake, she slipped through the opening. Her claws sank into his shoulder as she sprang from it, her weight pressed the android forward, causing him to strike his forehead against the crate.

Dazed, Connor saw the bullet slam into the wall before he heard the gunshot. Blue splattered over the carpet and furniture. He scrambled to his feet, only to stagger as damage warnings swarmed his vision. He fell back, his hand shoving away the table as his wounded side struck against it.

“Connor!” That was Hank’s voice. But Samuel had locked the door seconds prior, sealing out Connor’s partner. That was when the cat had knocked him to the floor and threw off his aim, sending the bullet through Connor’s side instead of through his head.

Hank. I have to let Hank in. While Connor staggered to the door, a hand pressed against his damaged side, the cat tore at Samuel’s abdomen with teeth and claws.

Samuel shrieked and grabbed the animal around the throat and slammed it into the ground. Swearing and cursing, he spared a second to kick the wounded animal and then set his sights on the android. His gun had been lost when the cat jumped him. But there were other ways of taking down an android.

--

Connor interfaced with the door lock, but before he could access the code an explosion went off in his head.

He turned as he collapsed; his vision swam with blue, glowing thirium and his audio processors rang loud for one second then cut out. Leaving him with a silent perspective of the man hefting a metal folding chair over his head for another strike. Connor thought for a moment that Samuel had grown tall, but then realized that he was on the floor, lying on his back staring up. He didn’t remember falling.

Connor raised his hand to stop the blow, but it fell heavy on his hand snapping it down hard against his chest. Sound returned in time for him to hear the grind of breaking actuators when a foot crunched against his elbow.

Blue liquid sloshed across his vision. Something had ruptured in his head and thirium was leaking into his ocular units. His head lolled against the musty carpet. He saw Gavin’s cat sprawled out like a fur rug. Blood darkened and flattened the black glossy coat, the silver stained red.

A knee pressed into his stomach. The pressure forced more thirium to gush from the bullet wound.

Samuel’s face was twisted in pain and anger as he ripped open Connor’s shirt. “Android hearts are so easy to break.” He sneered. “So much easier than humans’.”

Connor fought off the hands digging into his chest as best he could with one arm. Samuel’s other foot stomped down on the android’s arm, pinning it against the floor.

Hot thirium poured over Connor’s ears and down his neck. The blue blood dribbled from his eyes and ran over his cheeks, dipping off his chin and jaw. He felt the thirium pump regulator click as it twisted in his chest.

[COMBAT PROGRAM ONLINE]

Soft brown eyes transitioned to black under the blue fluid—giving the impression of a predatory stare looming up from watery depths.

The android yanked its arm free. The man gurgled—dark blood spilling over his lips, hands futilely trying to keep his insides where they belonged; he rolled off the android which then, in a single graceful movement, slammed its arm sideways into the human’s throat, crushing the windpipe and snapping the neck.

Samuel couldn’t move when the arm came up again, slowly, like a guillotine. And dropped with the force of a rage that no android was ever intended to feel.  

[THREAT NEUTRALIZED]

The android detected the frantic sounds of the human outside the apartment. It stood and unlocked the door.

[COMBAT PROGRAM OFFLINE]

“Hank.” Connor whispered. “T-that man. Gavin’s cat.” He tried to point, but somehow he was back on the floor with Hank’s hand on his shoulder pressing him down. “Cat.” Connor tried to turn his head. He didn’t like looking into Hank’s eyes when the man’s face was all twisted up like that in pain.

“Don’t look. Don’t look.” Hank cupped his hands against Connor’s jaw, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“I am okay.” Connor blinked trying to see Hank more clearly through the blue haze. “He only hit me with a chair.”

“Run a diagnostic.”

Connor did so and he blinked. “Oh. I appear to have sustained some damage.”

“Okay, okay, okay, how bad?”

“N-not too...bad...I need—

The word drew out into a low whine as the android convulsed under the effect of his system’s struggle to self-heal the gaping wounds in his head and side.

Hank noticed the loose component in his partner’s chest. Grateful for the little crash course Connor had given him a few weeks ago, Hank turned and pressed the precious device back into place, pulling the shirt closed. “It’s okay.” Hank held his partner loosely. “I fixed it. You’re okay. What else do you need to get repaired? Connor?” He swore when the kid didn’t answer. “Connor! Answer me!”

“I need...my self-healing....won’t....it won’t...acti..activate...glitch......sorry...Hank......”

Hank muttered, but Connor didn’t catch the words. He was distracted by the sensation of being lifted up in Hank’s arms. He’d never been carried before. It was strange. And scary. His gyroscope spun, trying to calibrate.

“Hey, hey, shhh, now.” Hank soothed the android when it startled. “I got ya, kid. Can you get an arm around my neck?”

With difficulty, Connor obeyed and draped one arm around Hank’s neck. It gave him more stability and he felt the human’s sturdy arms under and around his back heft him gently, so he was cradled nearer the loud heartbeat his auditory sensors were casually reporting amid the chaotic damage warnings that he couldn’t decipher for some reason. Probably not important.

The walls passed by. His foot caught on a tall plastic plant and knocked it over. Hank cursed at it and kicked the plant out of the way.

The ding of the elevator sounded like a distant chime. Maybe android death is an elevator. He giggled at the thought. A forever elevator to level 31.

--

Connor grumbled when Hank eased his feet into the car. “Can’t I sit up front?” His words slurred and his characteristically smooth voice dropped into a mechanical echo every other word. His brow furrowed and he touched his mouth. “Whats—

Hank didn’t want to explain again. The android had asked the same questions without processing or remembering the answers he was given. “No. You stay back here and stay still. Do not move, boy.”

“Hmph.”

Hank patted his partner’s foot and scrambled into the driver side and started the car after his fingers slipped twice on the keys.

Connor explored the carpeted wall of the seat, running his hands over it repeatedly. “Don’t you want to listen to music?”

“Not right now.”  

“Okay.” Blue tinted shadows flicked over his visual display. Connor brushed his fingertips over his eyes. The shadows remained. “....Hank? I can’t see. I...I don’t know. What’s happening? Where are we going? I don’t.....I don’t want......I can’t.....I’m....”

Hank’s voice was shallow and tense. “Just close your eyes. Hey, I know. Let’s talk about the case. Tell me what we know about Gavin based on what we saw at his apartment.”

“....loves his cats. Cooks for them.....” Connor tried to sit up, but his gyroscope swung and he remembered belatedly that he was not supposed to move. He pressed himself against the seat as if to make up for his mistake through enthusiasm in obeying the order. “...Are they okay? That man....that bad man....he was lying. He doesn’t.....he didn’t......”

“Yeah. The cats are fine.”

Tina had been unusually determined to care for the wounded black cat. She’d announced she was taking it to the vet, she ignored any orders to remain at the scene, taken the patrol car and left with the single statement that ‘Sergeant’s cat needs me more than a dead body.’  

“Ooh, kitty.” Connor crooned. For an instant, Hank thought the android was delirious, but a loud ‘meow’ answered from the backseat. The rearview mirror showed an orange kitten sitting on Connor’s chest.

“What? How’d that get in here?” Hank demanded.

“I dunno.” Connor petted the kitten perched on his chest. “I like her....did you know Gavin...used to play....ice hockey...?” Connor put one finger against the kitten’s head as she rubbed against Connor’s chin.

“It suits him. What else did you notice?” This was the most coherent Connor had been for the past twenty minutes.

“Cat is so soft. I like cats....”

“You like dogs too, remember?”

“Sumo.” A soft almost whisper. “I do like Sumo.”

“Yup. What else do you like?”

Silence. “....Gavin?”

“NO. We don’t. We’re helping him, but you DON’T have to like him, got it?”

Connor pressed his face against the back of the seat. The kitten wedged herself between his chest and the back of the seat where she purred like a furry bat in the dark. “I’m sorry.” Connor’s voice was muffled.  

Hank swore. “I don’t...no I’m sorry kid. I just....Gavin....he’s....look he’s hurt people before and I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?”

“Bit late for that.”

Hank chose to focus on the android’s feistiness rather than the pang of hurt in his own chest. “Fair enough.”  

“I’m sorry....I failed.”

“You didn’t fail.” Nobody’s’ failing anybody today. Connor was still alive. Hank was alive. And even Gavin was still alive. Nobody had failed at anything.

Yet.

Truth was: Connor’s head was smashed in and roughly patched to keep as much fluids inside and to keep any contaminates outside—the lobby attendant and the little one-footed android had helped with that emergency care—Hank was already being haunted by his own short future; and Gavin was dying.

But truth, chances, and reality didn’t matter to the desperate lieutenant.

He didn’t want truth. He didn’t care about chances or reality.

He wanted Connor to live. And he would make that happen no matter what natural or unnatural forces he had to break.

His fingers dug into the worn steering wheel while his foot pressed down on the gas pedal. It didn’t matter how close failure loomed. He’d beat it this time.  

Too bad the only weapons he had were an old car and words. An old car that wouldn’t go fast enough and hollow words. So he rambled as he tore up the road with his old car, up, up to the mansion. Rambled as if promises wove a tether between his partner and life.

“There’s nothing to worry about, pal. Ben is securing the scene and a team’s gonna sweep Gavin’s apartment and that—that Samuel’s place. We’re gonna get all the information we need. We’re gonna get you fixed up and we’ll save Gavin okay? You’d like that right? Solve the case? Be the big hero? C’mon, kid, I need you to talk to me. Hey, how’s this for an idea? Gavin’s little rats can come live with us until he’s better, okay? We’ll make them a little home in the garage and you can take care of them. Wouldn’t you like that? Hey we can even let Gavin stay with us until he’s back on his feet. I’ll buy another couch or maybe we’ll get a futon and there’ll be room for Sumo. I’ll get you one of those soft blankets you liked. What do you think about that, Connor? Connor!”

--

Crouched in the melting snow and ice around the mansion’s driveway, Chloe adjusted the little plastic, potted flower with the bright pink bloom two degrees to the left. She eyed the line of flowers she’d spent the day placing along the driveway’s border. They seemed straight from one angle, but when she bobbed her head to another, the line curved. She blinked and wriggled her fingers in the slush around her knees as she considered the problem.

“It’d be easier if you’d use the laser.” A voice drawled from the speakers hidden in the front door entryway. “It’s around here somewhere. Maybe the fridge.”

“It’d be easier if you’d get out of the pool and help.” Chloe returned the flower to its previous placement.

“Do you really want a god to meddle in your affairs? Be mindful of wishes—they may become reality. And then the ignorant and frightened peasants will turn against you as they turn against the albino though he differs only in pigmentation. They will come in the night and endeavor to burn you alive in your own home like the murderous, sentient cattle they are.”

The female android tapped one finger against a smooth petal. “I want flowers that glow. Like stars.”

There was silence from the speaker. “You would have been less critical if your god had given you stars in the first place.” Silence again. “You said the prototype was perfect.” The voice had become petulant.

“No. You said it was perfect.”

“Then why argue—

Chloe and the voice simultaneously discerned the sound of an approaching car.

Feedback squealed from the speaker and the voice cut off, leaving thick cold silence in the air.

A car rumbled toward Chloe; its old suspension squeaked as the vehicle bounced over the road’s new potholes and sections of partially melted asphalt where enraged civilians had stoked their misdirected bonfires. Chloe straightened, one hand pressed against her leg above her knee where an actuator was bent inward. It made moving difficult, but not impossible but she couldn’t outrun a car speeding toward her. She petted the hair draped over her shoulder and waited.

The ancient machine’s brakes screeched. With a wet ‘pop,’ one of Chloe’s artificial plants disappeared under a tire, smashed into the slushy ground inches from her foot.

Her expression did not waver as she looked at the dead bugs splattered across the car’s hood and then at the old man—the one who called her ‘nice girl’. In his arms, he held the CyberLife android—the young one who said she was ‘really pretty’ and who’d pointed a gun at her but didn’t shoot.

Blue blood dripped through the sloppy repair work around his head, splattering in the slush and turning the whiteness cerulean.

Without speaking or halting, the old man strode past her toward the mansion’s battered and burned front door.

Chloe’s LED spun; she overrode all two hundred of her god’s security locks, and the door swung open.

---

Chapter Text

--

Wind tugged at the android leader’s large coat as he surveyed the city from the multi-story shopping center’s roof. Their new headquarters lacked grandeur, but it provided a much needed sense of space—many androids, Markus included, could not forget the experience of being trapped like lab rats in a maze.

Shortly after setting up the new HQ, many androids had tampered with their memory banks in an attempt to remove the memories of the gunfire and the screams echoing out in the metallic darkness. Markus remembered his brief ‘talk’ with Lucy.

‘The worst is remembering the pleading answered with a bullet.’

‘Can you tell me about it?’

‘I’d rather not. I want to forget it.’

She’d listened and seemed to truly understand, but a few days later, with Markus’ permission, Lucy had recorded and sent out a short message regarding the risks of tampering with memory banks. ‘You can not only permanently damage your memory banks and data files, but you risk losing the very things that make you deviant.’

And then North had sent out her own message, approving the first part of Lucy’s warning, but loudly disagreeing with the second. ‘Not all androids need to bear trauma and the weight of its memory; Jericho’s leadership is more than strong enough to carry our people’s agony. Deviancy is too often wrought in pain and suffering, our future shouldn’t be ruled by it. If androids choose to forget, then they should be given safe opportunities to do so, not condemned for their desire to live free of trauma.’

Markus saw both Simon and Josh’s hand in North’s response.

And once again he felt his difference from the original leadership of Jericho.

Allowing himself a rare moment of indulgence he tapped into his advanced programming and set up an ink sketch overlay upon the view stretched out before him of the city.

Pastels or watercolors or acrylics?

Marker or charcoal or pencil?

Would he bring out the sparkling light? Or drag shadows through the canvas?

How far would that orange and pink sky settle over the silver buildings?

Or would the buildings become pillars for the heavens?

Or would he do something else? Bring the lakes rushing into the city, cover it all in blue...blood.

If not for that wretched, greedy human—Markus clenched his fists, I would still be caring for Carl; I’d be painting, or maybe playing the piano, or reading.

It wasn’t until he’d been shot and forced to drag himself through hell that he’d determined to become other than what he’d been made to be.

A scuffling sound behind him sent a flush of self-consciousness through Markus—as if his thoughts could be telegraphed without his willing it. He would die before he allowed any of his people to know the depth of his feelings.

A tiny black dachshund galloped over his shoe, tripped over its feet, looked up at him and yipped, dancing and prancing as if lecturing him.

Simon.

Markus shook his head. “Only one today?” He knelt down and rubbed the pup’s belly when it rolled over.

Simon’s pensive footsteps reflected the thought he put into all his actions. “Josh is watching the others.”

“Who is this?”

“Mustard.” The blond android said as he squatted next to Markus.

Markus frowned. “You didn’t....name them all after hotdog toppings,” he paused and looked at Simon, “did you?”

“I believe they are called condiments.” Simon rubbed the puppy’s head, withdrawing his hand when it nipped playfully at him. “What would you name a dog?”

“Oh, I don’t know....Plato....Keats....”

“For a dachshund?” Simo looked at the wriggly dog.

“Oh, so you adopt five puppies, name them after hotdog...condiments, and you’re the big expert on names?”

“‘Sauerkraut’ is a great name for a dachshund.” Simon shrugged. He smiled when Mustard put both her front paws on Markus’ knee and yipped. “North wanted to name them all ‘wriggle-bullet’ one through five.”

Mustard’s back leg hopped while Markus rubbed her floppy ears. “I wish dogs were the dominant sentient species.” He grumbled.

“So you WERE brooding up here again.”

“No.”

“Make it believable. Start a rooftop garden or at least set your easel up, splash a little paint around. Otherwise, it just looks like brooding. What else does an android leader do alone on a rooftop?”

Markus’ shoulders stiffened and his hand stilled, much to the pup’s displeasure. “I don’t brood.” He patted the dog’s head as she nosed the crook of his bent knee. Simon was rarely the first to look for and pester him—the busy second-in-command probably had better things to do than hunt down moody figureheads—but Simon was always the first to locate him the instant he had a spare moment.

But that didn’t keep Markus from feeling annoyance at being found before he was ready to return to his image of flawless leadership and messages of heartfelt peace and harmony. “It is better than a dark hole.” He didn’t exactly snarl, but there was bite to his voice.

The blond at his side gave an exaggerated sigh. “Are you never going to let me live that down?”

“Does it bother you?” Markus turned away from playing with the pup to face Simon. “When I mention the past?” Some of his bitterness faded as he listened to Simon’s quiet responses.

“Sometimes,” Simon admitted, “if I’m feeling particularly sensitive and bitter about dashing usurpers crashing through the roof of a secret hideout, insulting said hideout, and taking over without so much as a ‘by your leave’ from the ones in charge of the operation.”

Markus rolled his eyes at the thought of Simon being sensitive or bitter, let alone both.

“But not in general.” Simon gathered the puppy into his arms and let the pup lick his face. “I led our people as best I could. You simply,” he waved a hand, “had a different method of accomplishing the same vision.”

“Vision, huh?” Turning to the city, Markus closed his green eye and stared through the blue one. “Whatever magic was once in this android’s eye is gone now...I see nothing, Simon.” As he made the confession, his hands tightened into fists, though he kept his blue eye on the city.

“When we faced the humans at the tower and in the streets, we had purpose and energy, but now everything’s halted—like a lover waiting to be disappointed.”

Simon’s mouth twisted. The pup gave a sharp bark, unhappy with being neglected. Simon was no idiot and Josh—almost as clever as Lucy—had advanced his knowledge far beyond his programming, but sometimes their leader’s mind was impossible to follow when it became abstract. “Do you mean—

“I make speeches about peace and a better future, but the truth is—this is not peace.”

“The police said—

“The police?” Markus scoffed. “They will not hesitate to kill us.” He gripped at the blue eye.

Few of his people knew he’d been a victim of DPD’s trigger-happy paid murderers.

But no one knew he had formed reconstructions in the early days of the revolution in which DPD uniforms were awash with hot red blood. He’d thought about how he’d raid the DPD station, watch the confusion turn to horror as he shot them one after the other. As they had shot him without hesitation.

How many times had he imagined human eyes popping under foot and femurs snapping between his hands?

He’d accessed the personnel database. Had all their names and faces so he could better enjoy the fantasies.

Fantasies he had the power to fulfill. With a single command, he could shoot back, cast the humans into mass graves and force them to crawl through and cannibalize their own kind—

“The humans protect their own.” Simon pointed out. “Like us. It’s common ground that we need to foster. It’ll be difficult, but androids—

“It is the humans’ turn to make sacrifices.” Markus stroked the pup’s velvety soft fur. “I will not take a step back after all we’ve gained. And I will not depend upon the word of the police.” He stood up and paced away and then whirled on Simon who’d stood as well.

“I won’t do it, Simon! I will not ask them to die at the hands of humans!”

“There may not be a need.” Simon tried a smile. “An uncertain peace is still peace.”

“Only in the minds of blind fools! I met with an android just the other day; he’d been attacked by a policeman who’d already beheaded an android and was prancing around with it like a trophy.”

“Oh.” Simon stared at the little dog stepping on his feet, worrying at the laces on his shoes. “Markus—

“Yes! These are the people in power, Simon! And apparently this same detective is dying in some hospital because of cobalt poisoning.”

“Cobalt.” Simon frowned. “I thought that was taken care of.”

“It wasn’t.” Markus snapped. “And if it’s...if it’s one of us....can I blame them?” His voice lowered. “I asked North to try to locate it, but she can’t find it.”

“Do you think...”

“I don’t know, Simon. I don’t know. I don’t know anything!” Markus’ fingers were back at his eyes. “I know there’s androids who do not agree with peaceful terms with the humans, but we’ve kept an eye on them and we’ve done our best to keep them from reaching the humans. But what if Jericho androids are tiring of the stress of peace? What if they want war? An unquestioned victory? With humans as our playthings and slaves?”   His voice quieted. “What if I want war? I only have until tomorrow night to decide. He said he’d go to the police in 48 hours.”

“Who?”

“Connor. He knows.” Markus shook his head. He had to tell the others eventually that he’d met with the deviant hunter. Might as well start with Simon. “One wrong move and this ceasefire will end in bloodshed. If I meet with the police, it’ll bring androids and humans too close together. If I ask for a secret meeting, it will be doubly looked upon with suspicion by everyone.”

Before Simon could answer, a stampede of tiny paws and high pitched yelps followed Josh onto the enclosed roof. “Ow. Ow. Stoppit! Simon, your herd of fur is trying to eat me!” The look of fondness on the blond android’s face let Josh know he would get no help.

And Markus looked as if he’d been in the middle of a soliloquy and had a spot light switched off.

“Hey, Markus.”

“Hey.”

Four more dachshunds tumbled over one another, yipping and barking for attention and affection. Simon patted his legs, trying to call them away from the harassed Josh; they immediately transferred their attention to their momma and swarmed Simon, chewing at his shoes and clothes and trying to lick his face, nose and ears and chewing his hair.

Markus looked at Josh. “Yes? Are we having a meeting? Or everyone just decided to come annoy me at once?”

“Well, North got back and said we should find you. I followed Simon and North should be here soon. Here she is.”

As soon as she’d stepped onto the roof, North had to tumble into a handstand to avoid stepping on a pup named Hold-the-Onions. Her acrobatics excited the puppies and they leapt from Simon to gallop and tumble over to the redhead android. “Simon! Get your mutts!”

“I got one.” Josh said, scooping one wriggly long body into his arms. “Uh...Sauerkraut?”

“Look, Markus hold this guy.” Simon deposited another dog into Markus’ surprised arms while he went to rescue North, who’d sat down and, despite her scowl, didn’t seem as if she was particularly bothered by the little brown puppy standing on her shoulder and chewing her hair, its long narrow tail wagging in a rapid circle.

Well, Markus thought, no time like the present to tell them that I snuck out to meet with Connor and that we might all be on the verge of a nuclear war with the humans.

Chapter Text

Chris muttered a mild oath at yet another empty search page. He and Wilson had logged hours into this assignment and all they discovered were doctored, redacted, or sealed files. Even Reed’s resume addresses and phone numbers turned out to be well-established fabrications. Not even Fowler’s old military friend could provide any information about where he’d found Reed.

So, Captain Fowler authorized Chris and Wilson exclusive use of Interrogation Room B’s computers and ID search. The powerful software should have prepared a report within minutes.

But all it turned up was the suspicious packet which Chris had sent to Connor, Reed’s extension number on the DPD’s official website, a press conference video in which he lurked on the edge of the screen with his arms crossed, and a well-edited video compilation—with catchy music and snazzy effects—of police brutality.

With still no word from the android, Wilson left for a lunch date. “Take a break, Chris.” He suggested as he walked out and sent back a nonchalant wave. “I’m not surprised Reed’s gotten someone else’s skeletons in his closet. Probably couldn’t get himself hired otherwise.”

“Yeah.” Chris kept his eyes on the screen and formulated a new search query. Motivated by obsession or loyalty, he didn’t know. By all rights, he should be as frustrated as Wilson. But each failure goaded him to dig deeper.

Chris watched the police brutality video again. One clip showed Reed open-palm shoving a persistent reporter away from a holographic police line. Another showed him covered head to toe in mud and grass with his knee in a suspect’s back as he cuffed her.

Click-dragging the face capture box, Chris initiated a search on the reporter and the woman.

“Nothing.” He guessed as he fell back into his chair.

The screen: nothing.

“Knew it.” He leaned forward and tapped the arrow keys to scroll through the video’s comments. A few minutes later, he sighed. At least there’s solidarity in hatred. He sent the video to the DPD’s web AI to check for keyword hits regarding Gavin Reed.

Nothing.

This is ridiculous.

Chris was no detective—Reed made that clear often enough—but the homicide sergeant had once said, ‘don’t let a killer get away just ‘cause he knows how to clean.’

But what was there to clean? It wasn’t hard to believe Reed had enemies. That he had someone powerful enough to purge and lock down his past...that was more difficult to believe.

He remembered just a few days ago when he and Chen had responded to Reed’s call. How the man had nearly struck her for daring to talk back to him.

Yeah. Reed was a manipulative, threatening officer that bullied, belittled, and abused anyone in his way or anyone with the misfortune to catch his attention. But...

Chris rubbed his screen-tired eyes. As Reed’s frequent ‘volunteer’ partner, he’d seen more of the man than others. A man who might’ve once been capable of making loyal friends.

He’d seen Reed kick down a locked bedroom door and recoil, horrified, from a young suicide dangling from a ceiling fan. No amount of pleading or first aid could have saved her. Reed cut her down and tried until the EMTs came.

And Chris had seen Reed fight with a defective garage door, swearing loud enough to prompt the neighbors to make a noise complaint about ‘delinquent teens and garage bands.’

Seen him walk like cool death into a law office and hurl a suspected child molester through a third floor window.

Seen him shadow box a giant, inflatable garden flamingo while waiting for a search warrant.

Seen him wiped-out fast asleep on long stakeouts, an unopened bag of chips or candy gripped possessively in one hand.

Seen him stare at a damaged holiday display in a park. The barely functional LEDs sparkled broken reflections in his eyes.

Seen him dash across the DPD parking garage, slicking down bedhead hair and shrugging into his jacket.

Seen him juggle his phone and a coffee cup, a case file gripped between his teeth, while holding a door with his foot for a teary-eyed, teen mother.

Gavin Reed lived and breathed. He had to have a past. And someone had erased it.

Or hidden it. Friend or enemy? Were they hiding him or destroying him?

Chris checked his phone again. Still no message from Connor.

He probably thinks I’m a useless moron. Chris pushed away his phone.

A happy ‘ping’ made him jump and he stared at his phone for a brief second before he realized that the sound was from the computer.

The DPD web crawler had finally found a result: an entire news article containing “gavin” AND “reed.”

He opened the page.

“Questionable loyalty. Dozens arrested during police academy graduation celebration.”

A newly graduated Gavin Reed had exposed a scandal at his own academy. Over half his graduating class and several instructors were arrested.

Chris copied the names into a new search engine and grabbed the address and number of the city’s central police station. He’d finally found what looked like the beginning. He waited while the call went through.

“Captain Telles.” The aged voice sounded bored with its own identity.

Chris aimlessly tapped at his keyboard. “Ah...hi...I’m Officer Miller with the Detroit Police Department and...sorry. Do you have a minute?” He picked at an old crumb stuck to the desk’s edge. It seemed like ages since anyone had given the station a thorough cleaning.

“Several.” The man on the other side of the phone said. “What’s up DPD? You guys still refusing help?”

“Ah...I’m not at liberty to comment on the—

“That’s fine, that’s fine. I get it. What do you need, Officer Miller? Detroit’s finest should get whatever they ask for.” The captain muttered dark words against politics and the president.

Chris winced and tried to get the call back on track. “I understand that Gavin Reed—

The voice swore viciously. “I’ve told you reporters a hundred times to stay away from the kid! Why’re you trying to drag up old crap?!” The line went dead.

It was awkward calling back, but after sending confirmations of his legitimacy as a DPD officer, Chris finally convinced Captain Telles that he was not a reporter.

Grudgingly, the captain provided copies of Reed’s old reports, but since Chris was being careful about his reasons for the investigation, the captain was equally careful about what he shared.

“So,” Telles started. The former confidence was gone. His voice lowered, “how is the kid?”

Chris stammered, reluctant to lie, but aware of Fowler’s orders. “He’s...he’s...uh...fine.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. Sorry, this there anything else you can tell me about Gavin Reed?”

“Nothing that isn’t in the reports. His secrets are his own.”

Irritation and fear roughened Chris’ throat. This attitude was exactly what had led to this whole situation. “Do you know anyone else that I could call? Friends? Family?”

“What happened?” Captain Telles’ voice sharpened.

“I’m sorry—

“Stop apologizin’!”

“Sir, really, I’d tell you if I could, but I can’t. If you want to help Reed, I need all the information I can get.”

A sigh. “He has no friends.” A pause. “Not here, anyway.”

“Family?”

“None.” The word was stated flatly, like a ‘road closed’ sign. A statement and a warning to back off.

“There must be someone.” A new thought struck Chris. “Was he in foster care?”

“Maybe. Probably.”

Chris was growing frustrated. “Look, Reed is very sick! I’m trying to find out why anyone would or could do that to him.”

“Listen, Miller, the kid didn’t get along with people. I think he bonded with the coffeemaker faster than he did with his own partners.” Telles took a heavy breath and his voice lowered again. “Look, I’ve given you everything I know. You have the reports. Trust me when I say you need to stop chasing the kid’s past. There’s nothing there.”

Chris wasn’t convinced, but he’d rather part on good terms in case he was led back in this direction. “Okay. Thanks for your time.”

“Yeah.”

Chris muttered to himself at the abrupt end to the phone call. Hopefully, he would get what he needed from these reports. As he combed through the documents, he found hints of the future detective in the double underlined details that the young man had found interesting in incident reports.

Chris clicked on a video file of a court deposition for a traffic incident. “Oh....”

The soft-featured, green-eyed, tanned young cop giving an animated account of what the defendant had done and said at the time of the arrest looked like he was on the wrong side of sixteen.

Surely...he hadn’t been hired before he was eighteen...maybe he’s just got a young face....

Closing that video, Chris opened another file: Foot Pursuit PR Demo.

[Start Video]

The video opened on a bright, sunny day over a wide flat field with an expansive, six story obstacle course. It looked like an entire downtown block district had been turned into an urban training course.

A chipper journalist, polished and smooth as a digital magazine cover turned to the watching camera with a pasted smile. “Good afternoon.” He beamed. “We are here today with a member of the police department’s new pursuit corps, uh...Gavin Reed. Is that correct?”

He thrust the microphone at the young man who’d been standing stiff at the edge of the screen. The young man’s glance flicked between the camera, the journalist, his shoes, and the obstacle course behind him—as if checking to ensure it had not moved since the last two seconds he’d looked at it.

“Yes.” The word escaped like air from a balloon. A brisk wind played with the points of Gavin’s thick dark hair. He repeatedly raked his fingers through it, making it wilder. “I am.” He added with a brisk nod. His mouth slipped from forced seriousness and quirked into a sloppy smile which was just as rapidly hidden behind a frown. It did little to hide the laughter in his expressive eyes.

“I understand you’re going to give us a demonstration of what exactly public funds are supporting?”

“Yep.” Gavin rocked on the sides of his shoes. “M’sergeant,” he cleared his throat, “My sergeant’s‘pos...ah...supposed to...be here.”

“And so he is.” The journalist turned to the older man who’d just approached. To the side, young Gavin visibly relaxed with a puffed sigh and another swipe at his hair. Thinking, probably, that he was out of the camera’s sights, his loose smile reappeared and he looked back again at the sprawling obstacle course.

“Sergeant Telles?” The journalist greeted.

“Yes.” The sergeant looked done with everything as he turned to Gavin. “You ready, kid?”

“Yessir.” Gavin saluted with both hands.

“Then whatcha waitin’ for?”

With a mischievous grin, the lithe young man sprinted the short distance to the first section of the obstacle course: a sheer wall with a single narrow pipe bolted to its front.

Gavin sprang at the wall. And never seemed to touch ground again except for brief moments, like shy kisses. He moved halfway up the pipe and sprang from it to a lower wall set deeper into the course.

His fingers caught the wall’s edge, his feet thudded against its side, with a powerful thrust landed him in a crouch on the wall top. One second. He whirled in another direction, leaping to another impossibly vertical surface, twisting his body in mid-air like a festive streamer and catching hold of a railing that protruded out into the empty space.

He rolled through tight spaces and over rails or low walls, flung himself feet first across wide spaces, fingers catching invisible holds.

All the while climbing higher and higher to the sky.

A patrol drone zipped into view and followed the young parkour artist like a mechanical angel.

“What’s with the drone?” The journalist asked. He’d been silent up to that point.

“Support unit. Provides back up tracking for our runner, recorded footage, and dispatch updates.”

“Your boy just spring-boarded it.”

“He does that.” Telles rolled his eyes. “He’s light and fast enough to not do any harm. Not like he’s using it for a hover-board.”

The camera refocused on Gavin’s distant form. Running, leaping, rolling, his body adapted to the environment like water.

He’d just dove in a roll toward a stairway when his foot slid and he tumbled toward the steps.

Gavin’s head smacked against a support wall. Telles swore. The reporter gave a theatrical gasp.

Then the drone was there, shoving itself right at the dazed young man. Gavin caught the drone’s edges and it swooped him down to a safer distance.

Gavin dropped and rolled, hopping to his feet awkwardly. He stumbled again, but righted himself.  He aim himself at a wall, intending, doubtless, to resume the exercise, but the sergeant ordered him off.

“That’s enough.” Telles ordered through the headset. “Get back here.”

Gavin came up, blood dripped down from his hairline, but his cheeks were flushed with pleasure, eyes sparkling and his mouth slightly parted.

“You looked like a ping-pong ball gone wild.” The journalist said. “But what happened? Why’d you mess up?”

Gavin faded. His hand went to his head. “l—

Telles stepped in, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder; Gavin’s eyes flickered with unease at the touch, but he didn’t pull away. “You did good.” He gave the young man a shove. “Go get yourself cleaned up.” To the journalist he said, “Gavin’s one of our best runners. Everyone makes mistakes especially with something as difficult as this.”

The journalist looked like he wanted to pursue the drama further, but the warning scowl crossing the cop’s face warned him off. “But what is the benefit of the corps?” A sulk entered the journalist’s formerly professional tone.

“Human K9s. They have the intelligence and ability to pursue suspects and make arrests in areas that are inaccessible to air and road units.”

“Is it true that the foot patrol was established in response to last year’s killings when law enforcement failed to prevent a manic killer from killing a family in their own backyard? Where he’d been cornered by the cops?”

The officer’s voice remained stoic despite the deepening frown that pulled at the edges of his mouth. “The program is still experimental, but it’s our hope to keep an officer on a suspect’s tail and prevent the unfortunate circumstances in which an armed and dangerous criminal escapes visual in urban neighborhoods.”

To the side, Gavin rested his folded arms on the drone that hovered quietly at chest level. His fingers trailed over its ‘wings’ as he listened.

[Stop Video]

Chris continued reading reports. The corps was short-lived. A pursuit gone wrong, an ‘office down’ radio call, and the program was decommissioned.

Odd that an entire program would be scrapped over one incident. Fall down, get back up...right? That was what Chris’ father had taught him and what he planned to teach his own son.

But Gavin moved out of state. The forwarding address for his last paycheck gave Chris his next lead.

Chris followed up on the next posting, but was informed, coldly, that the precinct had been dissolved and many personnel records had been destroyed in a fire. No one could tell him if a Gavin Reed had ever worked for the police department there.

“Oh. Okay. Sorry about the fire.” It was such an old excuse that it was easy for Chris to play along.

He rubbed his chin and, after looking over his shoulder, grimaced and began breaking into online storage servers. Computers had been his first love. But when his father had been killed, Chris joined law enforcement in a fit of rage and idealism. But unlike many others, he never allowed his computer skills to go by the wayside after the advent of androids.

It did not take long to locate and access the files. As they poured in, his computer nearly crashed from the number of reports, records and a massive file of suspension hearings.

Reed’s reports maintained their same unasked for details. Cross referencing revealed that several incident reports became major leads for homicide, robbery, or narcotic cases. But Gavin’s name was never found anywhere near those cases.

His chest growing cold, Chris opened the first suspension file.

[Start Video]

The video opened on a small, whitewashed interrogation room with a huge warning stenciled in red paint across the back wall: NO TOUCHING.

An older but still impossibly young Gavin Reed sat in a crisp uniform that was too small across his back and shoulders and too loose at his waist. His hands were folded one over the other on the little metal table. His tanned skin was dark against the room’s pale walls. His freshly cut hair was a far cry from the mess it had been in the previous file. After a few seconds of sitting and tapping his fingers on the table, he started to stand but hearing something from the door he returned to his seat and sat still.

The door opened.

“Hello.” The greeting came from a tall, middle-aged woman with blonde hair done up in a tight bun. She closed the door behind her and stopped a moment to study the young man. After that brief pause, she strode further into the room, her black heels shining under the room’s bright lighting. “Hello. I’ve been assigned your case.” The IA agent rechecked the file on her clipboard. “Patrolman Gavin Reed.”

“Hey.” The young man answered, sitting up straighter, his feet periodically curled around the chair’s rungs before he consciously forced them back to rest flat on the ground. “Uh...hi. So—

“Gavin.” The woman smiled. “That’s an interesting name. What’s it mean?”

Gavin’s fingers went toward his hair, but he stopped himself and rubbed his fingers against the knuckles of his other hand. “I dunno.” He shrugged. “It’s justa...just a name.”

“Means ‘hawk’ doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” His tone implied ‘I don’t care.’

The woman smiled again and smoothed out her blouse front, adjusting a button. “Well, we should get started on this little matter, shouldn’t we, my little bird?”

“...Yeah.” Gavin’s brow furrowed at the familiarity. “Okay.”

The IA agent flipped through a few pages, a manicured nail tapped against her lips. “The report says that you’re accused of an unlawful entry into a resident’s home?”

“I had reasonable cause.” Gavin spread his hands and leaned forward. “I—

“You thought you heard someone calling for help.”

“No. I saw—

“Saw, heard,” the woman waved an elegant hand, “Details.” She doodled her pencil over the clipboard, staring at the young man whose expression shifted between confusion and suspicion and settled on wariness.

“Are you nervous, Gavin?”

He shook his head. “No. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” The blonde smiled. She stood and walked around the table to stand over Gavin who’d turned to watch her. “We’re a team here at the department. We look out for each other.”

“That’s good.” Gavin nodded. His nose wrinkled and he jerked back and sneezed into his elbow. “Sorry.” He muttered.

The woman smirked. “It’s a new scent. Just released. Do you like it?”

“N’purtickulary.” The confession was garbled by another sneeze.

The agent rested a hand on his shoulder. “Look. I’m here to help you. You toe the line and you’ll do just fine.” The woman’s smile showed the right amount of teeth. “You want to be a detective, is that right?”

“Yeah—

“You have to be willing to learn how we do things here.”

Gavin brushed away the hand. “I can learn.” He sounded earnest though choked by his recent sneezing fit. “But. I don’t need help. Please back up, ma’am.”

She frowned and put a hand on his head. “Why don’t you stop overreacting?”

“I’m not.” Gavin stood, moving away from her touch. “Stop.”

As if she’d won, the woman smiled again but did not attempt to touch him again. “Don’t argue.”

“I’m no—

“I said shut up and don’t argue.” The sweet tones hardened. “Now, sit.” She pointed to the chair. “And behave.”

Gavin’s fingers rubbed his knuckles and he shook his head, eyes moving from the camera to the door. “Can I just...make my statement, lady?” He tried a smile. “And we can get outta each other’s hair?”

“I said sit.”

With a wary look, Gavin sat down.

The woman returned to her seat and waved her hand. “Speak.”

Gavin told his story. Straight, clear, and honest.

The hearing did not go in Gavin’s favor and he was found guilty of unlawful entry and given a week’s unpaid suspension along with additional training.

--

The next video was dated a few months later.

[Start Video]

“Name.” The same IA agent crossed her legs and tapped long fingers against the clipboard in her hand. A partner sat at her side. Across from them was Gavin.

“…Gavin—

“Last name, first.” The woman’s partner interrupted.

Gavin tapped a rapid staccato on the table and glared at the man who’d spoken. “It’s Reed, but you—

“Give your first and last nam—

“That’s what I’m tryin’ t’do! Stop interrup—

The woman turned to her partner, “Note that Patrol Officer Reed is hostile and uncooperative.”

“I’m not!” Gavin slammed reddened hands onto the table. “It’s you people.” His voice rose to a yell. “You do this every time!”

The woman made more notes on her clipboard. “And mandatory temperament adjustment counseling.”

“No.” Gavin protested.

“Sit down, Gavin, or you’ll be charged with aggression. Sit. Now, it’s therapy or your job. Pick.”

“But I—

“What do you want?” The woman asked, folding her hands over one knee. “It’s your choice. Your responsibility. Do you want to be thrown out as a failure or do you want to keep trying to learn how to be a productive and useful member of the team? A part of our little family?”

Gavin’s fingers gripped the table edge. “I...I want to be part of the team.”

“And?”

“...and the family?”

“Good decision.” The woman turned to her partner. “Schedule the sessions with our usual therapist.”

--

In the next video, dated a half year later, Gavin moved around the room, a slight limp in his stride as he moved from end to end, tapping his fists together and worrying at the white bandages that concealed nearly half his face.

The door opened with a light hiss.

“Have a seat.” The woman gestured at the chair.

“I’d rather stand.”

“Sit.”

Gavin slouched into the chair, fingers picking at the edge of the bandages.

“How’s your face?” The woman asked without looking up from her clipboard. “They said you screwed it up pretty bad.”

“It’s...fine.” Gavin’s hand moved up to touch the bandage again.

“That’s good. See what happens when you run off?”

“I was just visiting—

“Who?” The woman demanded.

Gavin shut his mouth and shook his head.

“You can tell me. We’re family, remember?”

“Family isn’t nice.” Gavin murmured, touching his face again.

“Remove the bandages.”

“...what?” His head snapped up. “How about no?”

“Are you being uncooperative?”

“No.” The answer came fast and sharp.

“Then obey.”

Shoulders slumped forward, Gavin unbound the bandages.

The bandages came off and revealed a disfiguring wound. The slash started from the corner of a badly bruised and swollen right eye, down nearly to the left corner of Gavin’s mouth. The irritated and swollen skin around the injury and the nasty green and yellow bruises made it appear larger.

The IA officer came around the table and gripped the young man’s chin in her hand, her fingers brushed against his split lip, a bead of fresh blood welled up from the scab.

Gavin closed his eyes and hardly seemed to breathe.

“Look at me.”

Gavin obeyed.

“You are a mess.” The woman studied the wound. “But at least your eyes are okay, right?”

A tentative nod. Gavin tried to free himself, but the grip on his chin tightened as the women continued.

“Not that anyone will notice them now behind that disgusting mess. What good are you now?” She released Gavin and wiped her hands off on his uniform shirt before picking up her clipboard. “Let’s get started shall we? No. Leave the bandages off. No sense in pretending. Now, tell me about this supposed brutality.”

--

A pattern developed throughout the remaining files. The IA officer led what should have been a simple interview, but conducted it in a way that flustered and confused the high-strung young man across the table, forcing him to answer simplified questions with either a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ as the investigator reconstructed the story.  

It wasn’t always the same IA officer. But inevitably, whoever started the interview began with a remark about Gavin’s face. They’d ask for his side of the story and then constantly interrupt him, criticizing his retelling. Comments about his intelligence followed by criticism of his actions.

Within minutes the young cop was in an incoherent rage. It led to further down talking until he was sullen and submissive.

--

By the last video, a brooding darkness exuded from Reed as he slouched under the interrogation room’s bright lighting which cast the circles under his eyes into deeper shadow against his pale skin. Lean muscled arms crossed over a narrow chest and a nasty scowl drew soon-to-be permanent lines into his features. Despite the healed eye and mouth, the scar remained prominent and enflamed.

His hand drifted up to scratch at it.

“Tell me what happened.” The IA officer said. “And do it properly.”

“I told you. He—

The woman sighed. “Who?”

“Lieutenant Doberman—

“Lieutenant Donavan?”

“Yeah. He—

“Use complete sentences, Gavin. We’ve gone over this. If you can’t speak clearly—

“I’m speakin’ perfectly fine!” He slammed his hands onto the table. “Just lemme tell’t m’way! Fer once!”

“Tantrums won’t help you. Get your hands away from your face. It’ll never heal if you keep picking at it.”

Gavin dropped his hands into his lap and shook his head. “I just wanted to—

“Being a cop isn’t about what you want. It’s about what’s right.”

Gavin opened his mouth, but the woman held up a hand. “Hush. Listen. We’ve all been patient and kind with you. Some of us even care about you. But you’re too stubborn. You had promise, but you must’ve gotten brain damage when you ruined your face. Put your hands down. Now let me help you tell this story right.” She opened the file. “You lost your temper and struck a superior officer, publically humiliated him, and slandered his reputation.” She tapped her pen against the table. “Is any of that incorrect?”

“Yeah, but—

The woman’s gentle tone hardened with her eyes. “Yes or no, Patrolman Reed.”

“…no.”

“’No’ what?” The sigh was loud and patronizing.

Gavin looked away and picked at a flaw in the table’s surface. “What’s the question?” His voice was barely audible.

“Is the following statement true or false: You lost your temper, struck an officer, humiliated him, and then slandered his name.”

Gavin protested without raising his head. “It’s wrong.”

“Did you lose your temper?”

“…yis.”

“Speak clearly. Stop with your hands.”

“Yes.”

“Did you strike Lt. Donavan?”

“…a little.”

“He spent six hours at the dentist getting his teeth replaced. And he’ll need reconstructive surgery to correct his nose and the damage to his eye socket.”

“…’kay…okay. I punched him. ”

“How many times?”

“Dunno....”

“How many times?”

“Six’r...s’ven.”

“Did you claim that Lt. Donavan was a, and I quote, ‘dirty pig’ and accuse him of accepting bribes, exploitation of sex workers, and acts of brutality during arrests? Did you accuse him of all that in the middle of the widows and orphans charity ball? In front of the commissioner and the mayor and their wives and children? Not to mention using that language and putting those atrocious videos on the overhead projectors?”

Gavin looked up. “Yea—yes. I just wanted them punished.” He whispered. “Cops, cops don’t—I just wanted things to be right.”

“You’ve destroyed this precinct and the careers of a lot of good men and women. Is that what cops do? Is that what you think is right?” She shook her head. “I don’t know how you got through the academy with such notions.”

Gavin slumped back and stared at his feet under the table.

The woman pressed her lips against the clipboard and stared at the despondent young man. “Gavin? Look at me.”

The young cop looked up through dark brown locks, lips in a narrow line. She came around the table.

“The team is important. And trust is important.” She put a hand on Gavin’s tense shoulder. “Shame that you never learned that. We could have loved you.”

He tried to stand up but was pushed down into his seat, pinned in place by two fingers. He stared up at the woman. “Give me another chance. I can learn.”

She shook her head.

Gavin grew more desperate. “I’ll be better! I’ll get it right!”

“No. You had your chance.”

Blank-eyed and stiff-backed, the young man scrubbed roughly at his face, wiping his palms across his eyes smudging blood from the reopened scab across his face. “Please. Let me stay...” He swallowed. “I-I don’t have anywhere else t’go...”

“That’s your own fault. No. There’s no place for you here. No one wants a backstabbing screw up. Especially not an ugly one.” She walked away to the door again, but she looked back. And caught the young man running his hands through his hair and over his face as if to remove all trace of her touch. The IA officer’s nails dug into the clipboard. A false nail popped.

At the sound of plastic hitting the floor, Gavin looked up from rubbing his hands against his thighs. He froze when he met the woman’s eye.

She looked at her clipboard and made a note. She looked up. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

Gavin stood up slowly, a palm pressed flat against the table. “Pro...motion? But you said—

She walked over. Gavin backed away, nearly tripping over the chair at his knees. His half-wild gaze sought the cameras.

She spoke louder than necessary, “I hereby recommend,” she smiled, “Patrolman Gavin Reed for the rank of detective. For his exemplary services.” She looked up. Her perfectly aligned teeth seemed to glint. “To the department.”

“Don’t. Don’t write that.”

“I thought you wanted to be a detective. You should be thanking me.”

“No. Not like this. I want to earn it.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t!”

“That’s not what the paperwork says.”

“Stop! You’re ruinin’ everythin’!”

Her voice hardened. “Be good.”

Gavin dropped his gaze and lowered his shoulders. After a beat of silence, his gaze flicked upward and met the woman’s impassive stare. He uncertainly took a tentative half step forward; his shoe scraped against the floor, he untwined his arms, which had been protectively crossed, and dropped them to his sides. Venerable. Exposed.

The woman darted a glance at the camera. A rapid sneer hid her discomfort. A slow smile spread over her face, stretching the matte black lips into a long line.

She slide the edge of the clipboard under Gavin’s chin and forced his head up. “I’m done with you.” She jerked the clipboard away and turned on her heel.

Gavin barked a relieved laugh that bled into an aborted sob, itself cut off by the sound of a door opening and closing. His arms wrapped tightly around himself and he backed up until he hit the wall and slid down. He buried his face in his knees.

Above him was the red lettering: NO TOUCHING.

The camera snapped to black.

[Stop Video]

Numb, Chris sifted through the remaining digital files and news reports.

The precinct was dissolved only a few weeks later after that last video.

An embarrassed city cleaned house. Evidence was found or destroyed, misconduct and corruption trials conducted or dismissed, scapegoats imprisoned or fined, witnesses dispersed or bought. All part of a bigger, older game.

And somewhere on the wayside was left a bruised and broken, wing-clipped Gavin Reed.

With the scraps of dreams and ideals and the last shreds of innocence scattered around him, he’d crawled into Detroit under a mysterious shadow that blotted out his past—

“Yo!”

Wilson popped his head into the room scaring Chris into accidently expanding the window to full screen. He desperately activated the screen saver and swung around. “What?”

“Someone attacked Hank and the android at Reed’s apartment.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah. They got the android though.” Wilson shrugged. “Bashed its head in or something.”

“Oh. Is he okay?”

“I dunno.” Wilson shrugged. “Ben and Tina are securing the scene. I guess they found traces of the toxin in Reed’s apartment.” He waved a hand between himself and Chris. “We’re gonna review apartment security feeds.”

Chris saved the files to a drive and closed the windows. “Okay.”

But it wasn’t.

--

That evening.

“Who’re you?” The doctor monitoring Reed’s vitals glowered at the strange young man who’d appeared in the doorway of his patient’s room.

“Um. Chris Miller. I...uh.   I work with Reed.” Chris gestured into the room. It was quiet except for the beats and beeps from the various machines. The doctor’s body hid most of the hospital bed. Chris steeled himself. “I wanted to come see him. See how he’s doing....”

Nelson sighed and waved Chris into the room. “I can’t tell you much. Confidentiality.” He pulled a chair around for Chris. “But he’s been quiet.”

Chris couldn’t tell from the tone if the doctor meant for the information to be a comfort or a warning.

The patrol cop sat heavily in the chair and stared at the face of the unconscious man.

The crushed idealist. The outcast cop. The indestructible detective-sergeant.

“It’s not fair.” Chris pressed his fist against his mouth. His heart was thudding uncomfortably in his chest.

The doctor shrugged as he made another adjustment to the IVs and machines keeping the patient as stable as possible. “Tell him something he doesn’t know.” He suggested with a wry glance.

Tell him something he doesn’t know.

“We’re fighting for you, boss.” Chris whispered. “It’s gonna take a little time, but we can win this.”