Chapter Text
Connor breathes.
Detroit’s air fills his lungs with the practiced motion. Inhale, exhale. It feels cool within him and tastes like the tang of a city throwing smog into the sky, a flavor that tells him this is home, a place filled with humans and their cars, people living active lives in a bustling metropolis.
A single bird sings in the woods beyond the abandoned park he sits in. The wooden bench is cold and cracked, rust setting into the metal frame. Weeds poke out through the cracks in the pathway and litter dots the overgrown grass. A basketball court in the distance stands empty.
Across it all float strands of golden mist, a network of threads branching throughout the park like a haphazard conglomeration of cobwebs. Closely grouped filaments glow a soft, bright yellow, while those stretching further out transition into deeper colors: Orange, red, and colors beyond the scope of human visibility. It’s warmer than the cool autumn breeze passing through.
He reaches out a hand to the threads of coral, as it’s been named, and closes his eyes as his fingers pass through it, calling forth memories that are not his own.
A tiny object shifts between the bushes, movements quick and jittery, pausing as the viewer shifts. It breathes quickly and its temperature is hot; a living creature. Tiny, with beady eyes; a rodent. A stripe down its back; a chipmunk. It darts away. The viewer does not pursue.
A phrase without visual: “--no idea what he’s on about. I told you, we covered exactly what was on the agenda, and it’s not my fault if he wanted to focus on the standardization process because that’s scheduled for next week--”
A torrent of movement in one direction at a steady pace, disorganized warm flickers beneath the surface and bright dancing lights atop it. It is dark despite the daylight. Water--deep, cold, and flowing. Filled with life.
The memories fade as quickly as they came when he retracts his hand. He can hear more of them like echoes at such a close proximity, beckoning him closer like the promise of a warm blanket, asking him to partake and share. The memories are simple, factual, absent of emotion and interpretation except for what he experiences when encountering them, but they still make him feel connected. Wanted. Known.
He reminds himself to breathe.
His boots scrape against the dry dirt under the brown grass as he shifts in his seat. Movement in the distance catches his eye as he bounces his leg restlessly: A smudge in the distance, moving quickly yet casually as it explores this environment. This one must be new; it pokes about at its surroundings curiously.
A mimic.
Its appearance is little more than a near-formless body with four legs, made up of a substance like a viscous black goo with an oily sheen, thick and thin cords of it woven together to piece together this creature that some have compared to an insect. The edges of its form waver like they aren’t fully solid, giving the impression that it’s shivering, and it does indeed look like it is compelled to keep moving, unable to unwilling to still itself in the absence of danger.
It knows Connor isn’t human, that he will neither hurt it nor has any reason to be hurt by it. So it ignores him, crawling along in its own speedy way, quick in a manner that unnerves humans.
Connor likes it out here in the park. At the edge of Detroit, smothered in a cloud of coral like a down blanket, he feels welcome. There isn’t any mask he needs to wear, but neither is there death now that humans have retreated, abandoning this corner to the typhon. To his species.
Two years ago, typhon began arriving on Earth in droves, carving out a space for themselves as efficiently as they could. Towns were overrun and humans were killed at terrible rates. Technology was built to handle them quickly. First by TranStar as a last-ditch effort at salvaging their credibility; people believed it to be their fault that typhon made it to Earth, after their extensive experimentation in using typhon to create Neuromods, expensive tools used to, essentially, inject knowledge or skill right into a human’s brain. KASMA Corp and CyberLife rose up amid the panic, both positing themselves as saviors with their technologies while still setting themselves up for profit as corporations are wont to do.
CyberLife’s advanced AI systems and reserves of wealth won out. Now it’s not unusual to find typhon scanners in remodeled buildings or common areas, among other defense systems, and police and military units that can afford it have been outfitted appropriately.
Connor is pulled out from his thoughts by the buzzing of his cell phone in his pocket. Immediately he recalibrates his form, perfecting the human mimicry and regretting his momentary lapse in focus. The mimic he was watching vanishes, replaced by a stone suspiciously similar to the one next to it, the constant movement turning into perfect stillness.
He chuckles. Both of them in a space where they can exist freely without threat of harm to themselves or others, and yet a simple device scares them into hiding.
“Hello?” he answers, voice loud in the stillness of the park.
“Hey.” It’s a gruff voice on the other end. Hank. “I’m just checking in. No one’s heard from you all day and you’re not at work. You doing alright? Got yourself somewhere safe?” His tone is casual but there’s a clear edge of concern in his voice.
“I’m okay, Hank. Please don’t worry about me.”
“There’s a couple more bodies today and a few more of the slimy bastards are getting confident. There’s more alien guts on the ground than I ever wanted to see. Where are you at?”
He shares a glance with his mimic companion as if the other can understand him, knowing that it can’t, not truly. It can understand exasperation, but empathy?
Empathy’s what sets the ones like him apart.
His eyes drift over the coral that makes this park into a dreamlike landscape. Humans consider it an omen, a harbinger of death, and that’s not an inaccurate perception. Where typhon go, coral follows soon after, woven by the weavers for the benefit of their species.
“I’m at a park. I’ll make my way home before the sun goes down and check in with you then.”
“Which park?”
Connor sighs. “See you, Hank.”
“Which goddamn--”
“I’m safe. Goodbye.” He hangs up and tucks the phone away, lacing his fingers together as he leans forward on the bench, watching the mimic resume its exploration,
Hank’s never stopped worrying about him, not since meeting him three years ago at a crime scene, covered in blood near the victim and looking shell-shocked. They kept in touch and developed a friendship, supporting each other through Connor’s struggles, the loss of Hank’s son, and the typhon invasion.
Now that they both have their feet on the ground, they’re struggling to stay out of danger. Life won’t give them a break.
Connor looks down at his hands, eyes skimming over every perfectly mimicked detail. Life… What a funny thing.
He wonders, not for the first time, if he fits the definition of alive.
