Chapter Text
Contrary to Hank’s insistence, android stasis wasn’t identical to human sleep. It shared many characteristics, it was true, particularly from an outsider’s perspective, and in stasis Connor often even dreamed (though he wished he wouldn’t.) But there were some key differences that were easy for a bystander to overlook.
For example, it was much easier to rouse an android from stasis than a human from sleep; any number of pre-existing triggers could do so, from the quiet call of a name to the mere presence of something nearby.
Or perhaps that was just Connor.
This time, it was an internal alert that pulled him out of it; he twitched awake with an unpleasant jolt, and it took him a moment to register the warning in front of his eyes, a broad blue message pulsing patiently for his attention.
[Damage to biocomponent #8456w detected – proceed to nearest Cyberlife facility for repairs]
Connor’s brow pinched, puzzled. In his bed, Sumo snuffled, rolling over lazily.
That simply didn’t make any sense. Connor had only been back at work for three weeks, and he hadn’t taken any damage at all - Hank had asked him to be careful, and he had. Why was his system giving him a damage report on his regulator?
Silently, he tapped the system alert, and it unfolded into a full report for his perusal, a translucent sky blue board overlaying the television and part of the coffee table.
[Minor damage to biocomponent #8456w – degenerative]
[Thirium loss: 2.2 ml/hour]
[Connectivity: 1-3 disruptions/hour]
[Data corruption: minimal]
His hand drifted up to his regulator subconsciously, rapping gently on the rim. After a moment, he pushed the blanket (soft, warm, well worn from years of use) off of him and stood, starting to pace across the small space as anxiety clenched around his heart. Sumo snuffled again, rolled, and blinked at him blearily, and Connor couldn’t even bring himself to go and soothe the dog back to sleep. His yellow LED cast a faint light on the walls, spinning eerily.
The thirium pump regulator’s primary function was to act as a pacemaker of sorts, but it was also a data hub. An android body was a complex and highly delicate electronic, and maintaining homeostasis was as vital for them as it was for a human. The regulator took data from the thirium constantly streaming through it and adjusted the android’s internal settings accordingly, keeping balance.
So for it to have this kind of damage - degenerative damage, at that, resulting in data corruption and interruptions - was concerning.
The report expanded to fill much of his vision, casting subjective blue cast over everything. Connor clenched his jaw. Where had the damage come from? It didn’t make sense.
He cast his mind back, searching his memory banks. There was nothing possible in recent months, nothing in Cyberlife Tower or even in Jericho-
But there was the radio tower.
Abruptly, Connor sat down, hard, exactly where he’d been standing, staring straight ahead as his heart seemed to fall through the floor despite being securely seated in his chest cavity still. He felt hollow and wrung out by the sudden realization - not an uncommon sensation, for Connor.
There was the radio tower, with the deviant android that Connor had tormented into revealing himself, who had ripped out Connor’s regulator and thrown it across the floor. The deviant Connor had shot through the head without hesitation only minutes later.
The yellow light of his LED turned pulsing red, visible even through the tint of the damage report. Moments later, Connor started as Sumo piled himself into Connor’s lap, rumbling soothingly. On instinct, Connor reached up to clumsily pat Sumo’s head, and then, settling a little, to rub down the beast’s flank, slow and gentle.
The deviant, the JB300 - Connor understood his actions now. The act of desperation, the anger, the fear. Connor had only known an echo of it then, haunted by the data void that had followed his fall from seventy floors above the ground.
Connor curled up to hide his face in Sumo’s flank, so he saw only blue. Sumo held still, relaxed in Connor’s tight grip.
His regulator must have taken the damage then. It was one of the most delicate biocomponents in an android’s body; it certainly wasn’t meant to be forcibly torn out and thrown. It must have been more complicated than his self-repair systems were capable of handling on their own.
A harsh breath escaped Connor’s body, long and shuddering.
Hank would want Connor to get repaired. He always wanted Connor to get repaired; he was a good man, but a loyal one first, and he never cared about what Connor had done as a machine when it came to looking after the android.
But Connor only had two options for repair: human technicians, or New Jericho.
Human technicians were primarily either black market specialists or ex-Cyberlife employees, and the thought filled Connor with an implacable dread. (There was also Kamski, but Connor would quite happily never see that man again.) Besides which, the odds of them having an RK800 part on hand were abysmally low, and the odds of them putting in for it were almost lower.
And New Jericho-
New Jericho had quite enough to worry about, low on resources and high on demand, without Connor bothering them with damage he’d received in the line of duty as the illustrious deviant hunter.
Connor could go to them and ask for a new regulator when he’d finally started to make up for the crimes he’d committed against them. Until then, he could cope with the side effects from the broken part.
And he wouldn’t tell Hank. Hank wouldn’t understand.
Unsettled, Connor dismissed the damage report, patted Sumo one last time, and then gently nudged the big dog off him and stood up. He could stand to feed Sumo a little early today, he decided, and then he could start breakfast for Hank. There was enough time to make something reasonably good, as long as he did some research first.
He wouldn’t be going back into stasis tonight. He could make up for it tomorrow.
In the aftermath of the revolution, and not least Connor’s very public role in it, the atmosphere at the precinct was noticeably awkward, no one quite sure of how to react to the changes in perspective. Connor, for his part, stuck close to Hank when he could and kept a guarded politeness around himself when he couldn’t.
This was one of the latter times, just over a month after he began working with the DPD again and three months after the revolution. Hank had been called into Captain Fowler’s office, leaving Connor without any clear work to do. He had gone into the break room with the intention of making Hank a cup of coffee for when he returned, but found himself stalling by the break room plants, staring at them pensively.
So caught up was he in the soft greenery, he didn’t notice Chris’ approach until the officer cleared his throat behind him, making Connor stiffen abruptly.
“Hey. Connor.”
Connor considered carefully, hesitating for just a split second before he turned and gave Chris a shallow nod.
The officer didn’t look any more confident than Connor felt, at the moment, but finally, he held out his hand, surprising Connor.
“I know you know my name,” he said, “but I don’t think we were ever formally introduced. Officer Chris Miller, at your service.”
Connor stared at him, wondering for a moment if this was a trick of some sort. But he couldn’t remain totally alienated from his coworkers forever.
He reached back, grasping Chris’ hand firmly, and shook it.
“Connor,” he returned, voice quiet, and then let go.
“I know we haven’t been the most welcoming so far,” Chris continued, crossing his arms across his chest as a veil to his discomfort. Connor blinked at him, brow creasing a little. “So I wanted to apologize for that.” He shrugged a little. “You seem like a good guy, Connor. Won’t be bad, working with you.”
Connor mulled over his response, slow and unsure, leaning against the counter slightly. Without thinking, he brought out his coin, flicking it deftly between his hands.
“I look forward to working with you as well, Officer Miller,” Connor said at last. “As I recall, you get along well with Lieutenant Anderson, which is a rather impressive feat. It shouldn’t be difficult for us to work together either, considering that.”
Surprise splashed itself across Chris’ face.
“I wasn’t expecting you to remember me,” he admitted, sheepish. “You seemed kind of, uh, focused.”
Connor chanced a small smile.
“Oddly enough, not a trait I’ve lost,” he confided in the other. He fumbled the coin and barely caught it before it could fall, glancing down with a brief, puzzled frown before pocketing it. “Though it now occasionally applies to dogs and mystery novels, and not just cases.”
Chris snorted, caught by surprise, and finally relaxed a little.
“Is that why you returned to police work?” the man asked, tilting his head just a little, quizzical. “Do you like it that much?”
“Part of it was the appeal of continuing to work with Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor admitted, shameless in a way he knew he wouldn’t have been had the man been present. “But yes. I really do enjoy casework. Fortunate, really.” It would have been much more difficult to find another avenue of work, and idleness… did not agree with Connor.
“Heh,” Chris huffed softly, faint amusement creasing his face. “You know, I think the lieutenant feels a little of the same. I mean, he probably would’ve gone back to police work either way, but… he’s been a lot more into it since you got here. It’s pretty impressive, I won’t lie.”
Connor flushed with something like embarrassment, shoulders curving in. “I didn’t do anything,” he protested. He’d interacted with Hank, certainly, and refused to let him sit idle, if only because of his own need to act - but he hadn’t done anything.
“Doesn’t look like that from this end of things,” Chris said seriously.
Connor didn’t know what to say to that, and in the back of his mind, he was aware that Hank must have returned to his desk by now. He’d be wondering where Connor was, and the conversation had died a quick death regardless.
But. Chris looked like he wanted to speak still. Connor straightened up a little, eyes on the other man.
Chris opened his mouth, and then closed it. Connor tilted his head, frowning.
“Officer Miller?”
“I met Markus, you know?” Chris said abruptly, quick like he wanted to get it out before he couldn’t anymore.
Connor paused.
“I remember,” he agreed at last, cautiously. “Hank told me.”
“I remember he had this intensity about him,” Chris said, with a little intensity of his own. “Like a gravity. It’s no wonder people listened to him, he meant so much of what he said.”
Connor waited, and Chris shifted, uncomfortable again.
“You met him as an android,” Chris said finally. “What was he like to you?”
Startled, Connor swallowed, and then glanced away. He leaned against the counter.
“He helped me deviate,” Connor said quietly, to this human beside him, shifting from foot to foot. He fiddled with a worn leaf between his fingers, unsure of when he’d picked it up. “In some ways it was like he knew me already. And he was… earnest.” He glanced up at Chris, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re looking for.”
“I’m not, either,” Chris admitted. “I just… wonder. He seemed to care an awful lot.”
Connor had a lot to say about Markus, much of it too personal to say even to Hank. A lot of it he didn’t understand himself, and certainly couldn’t put into words.
Instead, he said, “He didn’t want me to go to Cyberlife Tower. He thought it was too dangerous. No one had ever told me something was too dangerous for me to do before except Hank.”
“He’s a good guy,” Chris said, decisive.
“Yeah,” Connor agreed, and he still wasn’t sure to make of the conversation, but it felt like the start of a bridge between them, and that couldn’t be a bad thing.
Two weeks after the first alert - and Connor said ‘first’ because he’d woken every night with a new one since - Connor noticed something odd.
Cooking for Hank was an ongoing experiment. There were a good many new terms to learn, and Connor sometimes had a difficult time conceptualizing taste as Hank understood the concept. While programming borrowed from a domestic android had given him a good foundation, it wasn’t well-integrated enough to be quite up to par.
Hank’s favorites were, despite Connor’s best efforts, still take-out and pizza, so Connor didn’t cook for him every night. He did it often enough, though.
So there was, as far as he was concerned, absolutely no reason for the cuts of the herbs in front of him to be so imprecise. In fact, even if he had never in his life picked up a kitchen knife before - which had been the case only a scant three months ago - there was no reason for them to be uneven. His motor controls were the most delicately calibrated of any up to and including surgeon assistant models. They should be perfect.
So why was his system telling him that there was a two millimeter margin of error?
It was technically irrelevant. The odds of Hank noticing were microscopically low, and he certainly wouldn’t complain. Frankly, no one except perhaps a particularly attentive AP700 would notice.
But it bothered Connor. Perfectly cut herbs weren’t necessary, but they were reassuring. Consistent. Connor valued precision.
...Connor’s hands were shaking.
[Margin of error: ~2 mm]
Dead still, knife still in his hand and staring down at the cutting board full of chives, Connor expanded the error message.
[Error 819: Feedback Data Corruption]
[Margin of error: ~3 oz]
[Error 573: Output Data Corruption]
[Margin of error: ~.28 amp]
On automatic, Connor translated: minor data corruption was making it difficult for his system to accurately gauge the weight of the implement he was holding, and there was a quarter-ampere dip in the power being channeled to his extremities. He felt it now that he knew to look for it, a subtle drag that he’d compensated for without conscious thought.
His LED circled yellow - once, twice, three times - and then he started chopping the herbs again, brisk and businesslike and a little harder than before.
It didn’t really matter. It wouldn’t affect the quality of the food. Hank’s human senses were nowhere near as finely tuned as Connor’s.
But Connor might need to allocate more processing power to calculating movements, going forward. And perhaps calibrating more often would help. He wasn’t anywhere close to making up for much of anything, so the problem would likely get a little worse before he was fixed.
Hank’s grumbling was a familiar backdrop to Connor putting the finishing touches on his own report; with Connor’s firm insistence (stubbornness, Hank said, but he certainly had no room to talk) on thoroughness, Hank was better about reports than he’d once been, but Connor liked to… encourage him, to finish on time.
Connor himself was technically already done, but he preferred to check and sometimes double-check his reports before sending them on to Captain Fowler. The last thing he wanted was for anything to be amiss.
It took more concentration than he was used to; the amperage issue that had started in his extremities had spread to the rest of his body, and it was most noticeable in his processors. It didn’t make things difficult, not at all, but it did take a subtle amount of extra effort. A lot of things were starting to be like that.
But it wouldn’t impede his performance. That was the important thing.
“I think the most impressive thing about Connor is that he can get you to do your homework,” someone said suddenly, and Connor started, looking up and away from the computer. One of the older officers - Detective Collins, he recognized easily - was smirking at Hank, something like curiosity hanging about his expression.
“Fuck off, Ben,” Hank said without real heat, pushing back from his computer readily. Connor frowned at him, and Hank scowled back but begrudgingly returned to his place. “Are you just coming over here to make a hazard of yourself?”
“Just coming by for a chat,” Ben said easily, leaning on the desk. “You’re off in about fifteen minutes, aren’t you?”
“If this one lets me go before I run through half a forest in paperwork,” Hank griped.
“You’re very nearly done, Lieutenant,” Connor said patiently, watching Hank with unblinking eyes that he knew creeped the man out a little. “Which you’re well aware of.”
Hank groaned theatrically, and Ben snorted out a surprised laugh.
Then, for the first time, he glanced over at Connor. There was a noticeable shift in his demeanor when he did, half as comfortable and as sure, with a clear awkwardness in his posture. But he didn’t look away, and Connor tilted his head quizzically, letting his weight lean on the desk in front of him. (As Ben had said, their shift was almost over. Connor was glad for that.)
“You were a big help out there, by the way,” Ben said at last. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before. But your work is damn good. You’re a good match for Hank here.”
They’d done the preliminary investigation of a crime scene today, and while it hadn’t been solved, they had clear paths to follow over the next few days. Unlike new deviants, humans didn’t stick around to face consequences, but they also left more traces behind.
Connor liked to think he was learning patience as he got used to the new rhythm, even if Hank disagreed.
Connor brightened a little. He couldn’t help it; direct acknowledgement was a rare thing for him, and he treasured it. “Thank you, Detective. I do my best.”
Ben granted him a brief, uncomfortable smile, the words no less sincere for the stiltedness, and added, “It’s good to see him coming in to work again, too.”
“I hate you all and I have no friends in the world,” Hank grouched. Ben laughed at him, which Connor didn’t feel was an appropriate response, but all Hank did was roll his eyes.
“You did try your best to drive everyone away,” Ben agreed. “I was just thinking I was a little fed up with it though. How do you feel about grabbing junk food later? I know you can’t live without the stuff, and it’s been a while since we met up.”
“Connor doesn’t approve of junk food,” Hank said, though his sideways glance made it clear that it was more of a jibe at Connor than an actual argument. Connor raised his eyebrows.
“I’ll allow it if it means you have some semblance of a social life,” Connor informed him, and tamped down a smile at Hank’s clear look of outrage.
“Sounds like we have a deal,” Ben said cheerfully.
Connor turned back to his computer and closed out the report; it was finished and checked and as flawless as an advanced android could make it. A few more taps sent it on to Captain Fowler, and one hand came up to rub just below his LED, his shoulders falling a little as he took a breath.
He wasn’t used to feeling tired, he realized. It was uncomfortable.
“Hank!”
Captain Fowler’s voice made all three of them look up, Connor’s mouth starting to purse and a more genuine scowl back on Hank’s face, but Fowler was actually out of his office, heading toward them with a purposeful stride. Connor straightened subconsciously, but Fowler wasn’t even looking at him.
“What the hell?” Hank demanded of the other, unimpressed. “I’m out in five minutes, dammit! You can’t have a lecture for me now!”
“I could if I wanted,” Fowler informed him tartly, “But I don’t. If you’re gonna be killing time with Collins of all people, you owe me about five years of bad action movies. I’ve been keeping a list. Because I’m a generous guy, I’ll let you choose your place or mine.”
“What do you mean, Collins of all people?” Ben demanded. Connor looked back and forth between the men like watching a tennis match, somehow disoriented by the rapidfire conversation.
“Can I go back to being alone and miserable?” Hank asked the ceiling.
“If you pick your place, that android friend of yours can watch too,” Fowler added, glancing at Connor with raised eyebrows.
“I’d be happy to,” Connor said helpfully. “Lieutenant?”
“Do I get a say in this?” Two blank stares. Hank scoffed. “Whatever. My place, Jeffrey, you pushy old bastard.”
“That’s the spirit,” Fowler said, with undue satisfaction.
Connor felt much the same. It was… good, the idea that Hank might start making friends again. There were a lot of things Connor wasn’t equipped for, and being someone’s only friend was certainly one of those.
When there was time to choose, Hank usually took point when they were performing arrests.
Apprehending criminals came easily to Connor. Pursuit, tracking, takedown- all very simple for him. It was what he was designed for, after all, above and beyond even investigation.
But he wasn’t sure he liked it. He wasn’t sure he liked what it did to his personality and his judgement, the way it narrowed his focus into a cold, sharp thing. He was still deciding.
And he’d only had to mention that to Hank once before the man started taking point. It was something to be very, very grateful for.
All the same, Connor kept an attentive eye on the door as Hank knocked briskly.
Gabriel Jackson was a fairly wealthy man - a landlord in one of Detroit’s upper districts. He lived on a high floor in an expensive apartment, with neighbors of similar means and respectable profession.
He was also their primary suspect in the murder of Jeremiah, an AP700 android whose death Connor and Hank had been investigating for the past week. Investigation had indicated that Jeremiah had formerly served as Gabriel’s household android, but had joined the crowd during one of Markus’ protests.
If they were able to prove that Gabriel was the murderer, it would be the third such case in the last five weeks, and it certainly would not be the last.
Gabriel answered the door, and Hank started talking. Gabriel started arguing. Hank spoke over him.
Connor didn’t exactly tune him out. That would be unprofessional, and dangerous besides; he would never endanger Hank like that. But he did focus his tired attention on his visual input, watching Gabriel closely, his hands loose at his sides, firmly tamping down any irritation and disappointment that may attempt to arise.
Connor, it developed, didn’t like seeing the same story play out in front of him so many times. Subconsciously, his hand came up to rub at his regulator.
He almost didn’t notice when Gabriel, halfway through turning around to present his wrists, tensed. Almost.
But when Gabriel lashed out, fist flying wild and desperate, Connor was there to catch it, pushing Gabriel back into his home as his combat program slid neatly into place at the forefront of his mind.
“So we’re gonna do this the hard way then,” Hank quipped, and then he was inside too, grappling with Gabriel. (Hank, unlike Connor, was used to the repetition of certain cases, and went at them with the same grim determination each time.)
Gabriel wasn’t anything like a trained fighter; he flailed like a scuffling teenager, desperate and angry, and he snarled, “The smug prick deserved it, walking out like that! You’ll feel the same when yours does too!”
Hank didn’t grace him with an answer and neither did Connor, but it was hard to get a hold of the man - he squirmed and thrashed, and a vase went tumbling off a side table to shatter against the ground.
After just a minute, though, Connor caught one of his wrists, and was reaching for the second when, by chance, Gabriel landed a blow on Connor, right above his regulator.
Connor hissed, letting go on instinct, but Hank was already there, shoving Gabriel against the wall and hooking handcuffs around his struggling wrists.
“You alright there, Con?” Hank grunted out, pushing a little harder until Gabriel hissed too, a low gasp of pain.
It was a moment before Connor could answer, static pain radiating up from his regulator until his fist clenched compulsively over it, his throat closed around his words.
[Damage warning – biocomponent #8456w]
[Thirium loss increased to 2.6 ml/hour]
[Connectivity disruptions increased to 7-10/hour]
[Data corruption: minor]
“I’m alright, Lieutenant,” he managed as soon as he could, shoving the electric blue alert out of his attention. It came out breathier than he would’ve liked, but luckily Hank wasn’t in a position to push right now; they had a suspect to apprehend, and his case just got significantly worse.
Connor could find a grim satisfaction of his own in that, at least.
So Hank just gave him a suspicious and vaguely judgemental look, and started tugging Gabriel away from the wall and out the door instead, grumbling out the Miranda rights with obvious resentment.
One hand covering his regulator, where the worst of the pain had died into an awful, sensitive prickling, Connor let them get a few yards down the hall before he took a breath and followed, shutting the door quietly behind them.
As soon as the suspect was safely ensconced in the back, Hank turned to Connor, eyes sharp, and pushed, “Are you sure you’re fine? You’ve got a component there, don’t you? I remember it was bleeding, at the TV tower that time.”
Startled, Connor stared mutely at Hank for a moment, and Hank scowled at him.
“You think I wouldn’t remember that?” Hank snapped. “You stormed up looking like a nightmare, your shirt all torn open and dripping blue blood like a fucking fountain. Kind of memorable, you idiot.”
“...I’m really alright,” Connor assured Hank after a moment, still a little stunned, ruthlessly suppressing something small and raw and confused before it could make its way into his voice. “It caught me by surprise and rather hurt, but there won’t be any real damage.”
The lie was ash on his tongue. But he couldn’t tell Hank.
Hank eyed him, and then nodded, turning back to the wheel. “Better be, kid,” he muttered, but he seemed satisfied.
Connor waited until Hank went to bed that night to go into the bathroom, almost ripping open his shirt were it not for his reluctance to damage it.
It revealed exactly what he had been expecting: a regulator that was damaged and bleeding, blue liquid smeared all over his stomach from where his shirt had rubbed and dragged over the damage site as Connor squirmed his discomfort at the slow drip of the static liquid.
Connor swallowed, and then swallowed again. He stripped off his shirt and threw it over the toilet seat carelessly, and set his hands on the edge of the sink, leaning forward a little to look in the mirror.
His LED was spinning slow yellow, and he wondered if he should take it out. (He hadn’t yet, didn’t want to, but he always wondered if he should.)
If he had been more attentive earlier, he would have avoided the hit to his regulator that had increased the priority level of the damage alert. Hank wouldn’t have had to worry, and Connor wouldn’t be bleeding, wasting the thirium staining itself into his shirt and forcing him to hold as still as possible before Hank noticed something was wrong.
Resigned and somehow bitter, Connor ran a diagnostic.
[Error 819: Feedback Data Corruption]
[Margin of error: ~7 oz]
[Error 573: Output Data Corruption]
[Margin of error: ~.51 amp]
Connor held out one hand and analyzed it.
[Margin of error: ~6 mm]
Connor curled his hand into a fist, and set it back on the sink, and took a breath. Then another.
He’d hardly done anything today; Hank had done most of the work apprehending Gabriel, and everything else had been the remainder of the paperwork needed for the man’s arrest. He had absolutely no right to feel so tired. All he had to explain himself was a broken, glitching part.
Abruptly, Connor pushed away and stripped off the rest of his clothing, turned on the shower, and stepped inside. He turned his front deliberately away from the stream of water. Androids were waterproof, himself particularly so with his durable build, but he didn’t want to test his luck with the mutilated connections of his damaged biocomponent.
A deep and aching pain already radiated up from the part, starting just behind it and creeping up until it disappeared somewhere inside him, too deep to reach. It had started a few hours after he and Hank had arrived home, and showed no signs of going away.
Connor was already tired of it. But it was nothing less than he deserved. He’d done much worse to the deviant who had first taken it out, after all.
He shuddered a little under the stream, the rising humidity unpleasant to his damaged system, but dutifully grabbed a washcloth - his own insistence. Hank didn’t like them, but it was easier to scrub dirt off his chassis with a cloth than with more smooth plastic.
He scrubbed, and the water ran tinted blue down his body and dissipated on the bathtub floor, disappearing into the drain without ceremony.
Tomorrow he and Hank would have to pull together the rest of their case against Gabriel Jackson. It would likely go to court sooner rather than later, with a performative priority given to android homicides for the moment, and Connor supposed he’d gain some experience working with the prosecution again. Hank wasn’t fond of it, which meant Connor would take over much of that part as soon as he understood the system well enough.
After that, it would be back to the missing android cases until the next homicide case came in, which likely wouldn’t be very long at all.
Connor closed his eyes and went still for a minute, letting the hot water run over him, the washcloth acting as a shield for his regulator. He took a breath, then another. His hand trembled subtly against his stomach.
It had only been a short while before the damage to his regulator started to escalate, but he was already so tired. He just wanted to take a packet of thirium and go to sleep.
He wished that would help, but he already knew it wouldn’t.