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It’s the eyes. Gavin has decided it’s the eyes.
There are many things about RK900 that make him different from Connor. Personality-wise, they’re nothing alike, of course— while Connor was designed entirely for seamless integration, RK900 prioritizes mission completion over anything else.
“Are you certain that this is how you’d like to proceed? Entering through the second story would expend three minutes twenty-seven seconds of valuable time, and put us further away from the target.”
“Yeah, but barging right on through the front door’s gonna get at least three of my guys gunned down, Nines.”
“Did they not join the force realizing that they might pay with their lives? Do you employ cowards?”
His mannerisms are far more driven by task than by the people around him. It's a sort of tunnel-vision, really, and it can be really goddamn annoying. While Connor does struggle with making connections, especially near the beginning, RK900 has pretty much zero concern for anyone on the force besides himself. He would sacrifice whatever necessary to get the job done.
“Haven’t you been at this for hours? Here I thought all you plastic men were supposed to be more efficient n’ shit.”
“If you would like to return home to your cluttered apartment and your lumpy mattress that is contributing to early-onset osteoarthritis, be my guest.”
Despite how it can grate him at times, Gavin can admire his intolerance of others to a degree. Cutthroats are a different breed of person, but far more relatable to Gavin than the ooey-gooey bullshit Connor is always spouting. Sounds like a damned Care Bear sometimes, that guy.
“Do you think RK800 realizes that he sounds like the equivalent of a neglected stuffed toy on the topmost shelf, or is he just that defective?”
"Yeah, a real Mr. Rogers-type, that guy. I'm just waitin' for the day where he brings out the puppets."
But even physically, Gavin has noticed a few key elements that are out of sync with RK900’s predecessor. Connor has always sat about an inch shorter than Gavin, whereas RK900 easily hits six-foot. He’s broader, bigger, more muscular. Connor’s always been a goddamn twink. Sure, Gavin knows the guy could probably benchpress a car, but he doesn't look it. RK900 does.
“Dude! You shoved me! My fuckin’ shoulder feels like it’s out of its socket or something!”
“You are wildly exaggerating. Mild bruising is all you should expect. But would you have preferred that, or the crate that was about to smear you into the concrete?”
“I think it'd feel better if I got hit by a goddamn train, Nines.”
“You didn’t answer the question, Detective.”
His hair is boxier. He came with a similar haircut to Connor’s, but it always seemed to have more product in it. Now he’s gone and buzzed it into this angular sort of shape. It makes him look like a soldier. Gavin thinks it compliments his bulk well.
“You can’t even run your fingers through this stuff, it’s like razors with all that product—”
“Remove your hand from my hair, or I will remove it from your wrist.”
Gavin swears his hands are a little bigger, too. They all but consume the mouse at his desk. He often considers how he’s actually hitting the buttons like that.
“Robots aren’t supposed to feel that warm.”
“Localized heating is one of my many features. Dragging you to the hospital for frostbite is out of the question. We’d be delayed for hours.”
All in all, Gavin supposes that these aren’t such huge outward differences that he can’t see the Connor in RK900. Near the beginning, it was really easy to look over his desk at RK900 and almost mistake him for his predecessor, particularly when it was just a passing glance.
But there’s one more thing. One more feature that Gavin can never quite get out of his head. He sees them in his dreams. Nothing has ever shaken him up as much in years, not since he was a cadet and everything was terrifying. And yet he craves them even more than his cigarettes. More than a cup of coffee in the morning. More than quittin’ time. More than punching Hank in the face. More than—
“Detective? Are you listening to me?”
Gavin shakes his head once, lifting his gaze to meet that of RK900, whose stern face is set into an impatient sort of expression. He swallows once, having it in him to look a little sheepish— but it’s not because of what was said, which he certainly did not hear, not at all. He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck.
Those icy blue eyes roll, disappearing briefly before returning to look at him. Disgust is the only word Gavin has for the way his lip curls as he says, “Of course not. I won’t be repeating myself. I’ll just send my transcription to your email.”
Yeah. Gavin’s sure it’s the eyes that have him falling for the metal jackass that is his Nines.