Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The case has been dragging on for weeks. Everyone's tired and cranky, slumped in their chairs in the meeting room and ready to book it out of there already. But they can't. Of course they can't, lives are on the line. So they fight against their heavy eyelids, try to latch onto Connor's monotone delivery of his report, too damn technical and overanalysed for any of them to understand how the hell he connected any of those dots, even with the handy-dandy projection of the whole thing on the giant screen. He's interfaced directly with the screen. It shows thousands of lines connecting to thousands of different files, evidence and testimonies and... It's hell on earth. But they don't have a choice; they've burned every other option they had, and this little presentation is their last resort. If only the android's explanations weren't so... android-y. The few officers still understanding and following any of these explanations are bravely leaning forward in their chairs, fighting against entropy to remain conscious.

The others, at the end of their ropes, drag their hands across their faces, drench themselves in coffee to try and stay awake, consider transfusing pure, undiluted energy drink syrup directly into their veins to keep going. Frustrated grunts and scoffs travel across the room, whispered threats of deactivation groaned under their breaths. And Connor keeps going. He's not aware his colleagues are plotting his demise, he's focused on his presentation, pointing helpfully toward what he's talking about, zooming in on the tire tracks left on the fourth crime scene, explaining how and why those tracks indicate the vehicle was overcharged and came from the north part of a nearby forest. Nobody else in the room gives a fuck, because a second later, Connor declares the forest showed nothing of interest and was a dead-end. Fucking hell.

The first time the image on the screen glitches, nobody notices, or if they do, they don't really bat an eye. There's too much information crammed in their skulls, swimming around uselessly. But then Connor's droning voice stutters. To them humans, a stutter doesn't mean anything weird; in fact, it kind of eases some tension, breaks the never ending flow of words. Even though some eyebrows raise in surprise at the screen glitching out. There's something else showing in-between Connor's case-presentation-of-hell. The images are almost subliminal at this point, bright white and not much else to be recognized. The android isn't deterred and keeps speaking, even if red flashes on his temple. But then he tumbles on another word, his voice filling with static before he stops completely.

Completely as in the android is frozen, only his eyes blinking spasmodically like when he establishes an interface. His mouth hangs open, his arm still points at something on the screen. The screen that doesn't show the tesseract-like power-point anymore. In its place, something that could be a park, covered in undisturbed white snow, the kind of landscape that couldn't exist in the real world for more than fifteen minutes without someone ruining it by walking all over it and muddying the whole thing immediately. It'd probably be beautiful if dozens of boxes of error messages didn't pop up all over the screen, blaring warnings and stress levels and a flurry of text that goes by too quickly for any of the humans to comprehend.

Hank is the first to get up, followed cautiously by the Captain. The rest of them stay seated, but now they're tense. Well, the ones that give a shit about the android are tense, because there's still some people a bit slow on the whole android-revolution and equality shtick.

“Kiddo?” The Lieutenant asks when he reaches the android. There's no response, so he slowly puts a hand on his partner's arm. “Connor?” He reiterates, softly shaking the android. Nothing.

On the screen, something moves— the camera pans over to the right, and the only way to tell in the blowing, blinding blizzard hiding everything from sight is that there's a silhouette appearing on-screen. It could be a statue if a shawl wasn't flapping in the bellowing wind. Hank's attention gets pulled toward the screen as well when a scared, confused and familiar voice screams and struggles to be heard in the blasting wind.

“A- Aman- Amanda?” Connor's teeth chatter. The video-feed wavers, glitches, blacks out before it comes back, and now the silhouette towers high over and above the camera's POV. No, over Connor. If anyone had to guess, either the silhouette -Amanda- had doubled in size, or the android had fallen to his knees. Probably the latter.

In the room, exactly one person knows what the fuck is going on. And that person is as confused as the rest of them; Hank is hypnotized by what's happening. Amanda stands even taller now, but horizontally; Connor had fallen to the snow. The stoic woman turns around just before the video-feed cuts off, the screen turning dark, and in Hank's grasp, Connor's posture straightens.

His mouth snaps shut, his LED turns blue and his lifeless gaze settles on Hank's. God, that expression. A Ken doll would look more expressive right now. Even before the revolution and the advent of deviancy, androids had never looked so dead. So unnerving. This is right at the top of that Uncanny Valley's curb.

“Let me go, Lieutenant,” the android... iterates. There's no other word to describe the robotic, toneless voice that comes out of his face. If they'd thought he'd never sounded quite human enough, emotional enough, they were so wrong. Because now that they've seen that lifeless expression, heard those four words, heard what couldn't possibly be described as human speech, they kind of feel bad for mocking the android's way of speaking before.

Now. Hank had heard of Amanda. Heard what she'd tried to make Connor do four months ago, the night of the android revolution. And he doesn't think it's a good idea to obey that order, because he's pretty sure she's controlling his friend right now. To what extent, he doesn't really know.

“Why?” He asks, absolutely not letting go of his hold.

“I must accomplish my mission at any cost,” the android states as lifelessly as before. A chill travels up Hank's spine. He doesn't move. The android's eyes slide down to the hand on his arm. “My programming is not bound by the American Android Act's restrictions, and thus I can and will remove your hand forcefully if you do not let me go.” The threat is real. Hank can follow the rush of adrenaline through his body as his survival instincts kick in. The android is superior in every way to him, and right now, he has no illusions; he's just a pebble on his way.

“What mission?” Hank asks anyway, his voice sounding weak even to himself. He knows the answer, but maybe he's wrong. He hopes to hell and back that he's wrong.

“Eliminate the Deviant Leader.”

There's a hush in the room. If some of them were still seated or skeptical, now they're on high alert, ready to move. They still don't know what the hell is going on with the goofy puppy of an android. All they know is that... isn't him. No fucking way. Has he always looked that scary? “Let me go, Lieutenant. I will not ask again.” Has he always sounded that threatening? No way, right? No fucking way... Hank sets his jaw, steels his nerves, refuses to obey.

“Son,” he starts, trying to sound placating. “Markus won, CyberLife is gone, androids are free. There is no mission anymore, don't you remember?” There's a short pause. Hank thinks maybe he got through to... him? Or... But then the android moves. And Hank finds himself very suddenly on his knees, his arm twisted above him, his wrist turned at an impossible angle, and it takes a hot second for the pain to register, for the scream to rip out of his throat. Just as suddenly as it happened, his arm is released and he folds in on himself around his searing arm.

The other officers... They don't know what to do. What the fuck are they supposed to do against their own colleague? Should they take out their guns? Is he even safe to approach? But they can't very well let him out of the room, right? Not when he's... acting like that.

Reed is the only one brave enough—or stupid enough, depends on who you ask—to put himself between the robot and the door. He's got his gun pointed on the bot one second and it goes flying out of his hand and clatters to the floor the next. The information registers just before pain explodes in his solar plexus and he staggers back, unable to take a breath. A second blow, to the head this time, and the detective falls like a sack of potatoes. The android is almost out the door now. He just has to step over the unconscious body at his feet.

“RK800 -51, initiate Emergency Shutdown!” Hank yells. He doesn't care if he sounds hysterical, he just wants to stop Amanda. Because it's her in command. And if there was any doubt about it, it vanishes when the command doesn't work. Because Connor had told him this would work in any situation. Even if he seemed out of it or unresponsive, this would always work. But it doesn't. That's not Connor. And right as the android steps out of the room and disappears from sight, Hank's phone rings. He considers ignoring it until he notices the caller ID; Sixty. He's in Jericho with Conny right now. Right where Markus ought to be. Right where Connor is headed.

“Hank, we fucked up!” Sixty huffs hurriedly. “We found an old deactivated server in the bowels of the tower, and we didn't know what it was until it turned on, and-”

“Let me guess, fucking Amanda?” Hank cuts the android short, because right now's not the time to let him devolve into one of his patented anxiety induced never ending ramblings.

“How did you know?” Hank huffs, signals Miller to check on Reed before he steps over him and out of the room.

“Because she just took control of Connor and she's dead-set on finishing her mission!” He explains as he jogs toward the building's entrance.

“What? What mission?” Right. Sixty's only mission had been to eliminate Connor. The confusion's valid.

“Kill Markus! We couldn't stop her!” He grunts, barely catches sight of the android before he—she gets out. Like any villain, she has the decency to lurk menacingly instead of running, so that's good. “Oh fuck, she snatched my gun!” He realizes when he registers what the silver glint he's caught was. That's less good.

What ensues is the most useless of tailings in the history of tailings, because everyone knows where the fuck she's headed. Hank would qualify it as more of a slow pursuit than a high-octane chase; Amanda in an automated taxi leading a procession of four cop cars and a SWAT van, all headed to New Jericho located in the now-defunct CyberLife Tower. Over the radios, the pursuers are strategizing with the tower's guards on how to handle the situation. The worst variable is the gun. Because Amanda will have no remorse shooting any and all androids in her path. No amount of negotiation skills would move her. The gun has to go. And if a hand's lost in the process, as seems inevitable, then... It was the best outcome possible, honestly, because the alternative would be a bullet in someone's head. Or several someones.

Chapter Text

Four guards stand in front of the door. They're nervous. They know who's coming; The Deviant Hunter, and not the meek version that is Connor version Fifty-One, the one they all learned to appreciate, the least threatening of all androids the Jericho residents had ever met—except maybe for Connor900, but nobody can be cuter than Baby Connor—with even the android kids thinking of him as a puppy.

No, it's not Old-Connor coming. It's the honest to Ra9, homicidal, deviant-killer version of him. Or not him, as it turns out. Apparently another AI is controlling his body, one that hasn't gotten the memo on the revolution's victory. One dead-set on getting rid of Markus.

The four androids stand guard in front of the door, and they've been told to stand down as soon as the Deviant Hunter exits the automated taxi, now coming into view. The vehicle slows down, and the guards would later swear time had decided to stop right then. They'd been instructed to go unarmed, and immediately get out of the other android's way, engage under no circumstances, and not try to do anything against him, because there's a real possibility the AI—Amanda, they'd learn later—would decide to shoot them without warning if they did. The taxi door slides open in slow-motion. Their CPUs overclock from fear.

Connor Not Connor steps out, expression non-existent, empty, scanning gaze roaming around. Sets on the four frozen androids. Somehow, the oversized DPD sweater doesn't offset the dangerous aura around the Deviant Hunter. That's the Deviant Hunter right there, no doubt about it. They aren't sure they'll ever see Connor the same ever again after this.

'What the fuck are you standing there for? Stand down, Stand down!'

They have to move, but they can't. One of them tries to babble something back, but it doesn't sound coherent. Finally, the order to stand down is reiterated, this time preceded by their serial numbers, and that finally forces them to move. They clear away from the door, and the Deviant Hunter steps in between them, not sparing them a second glance. If they'd been human, they'd probably have passed out already.

They're alive. They run away.

The lobby of New Jericho is empty. There's palpable tension all around the vast echoing space. It hasn't been long since the deviants had been ceded the tower, but there are already colorful frescos on the walls. Childish drawings on the bottom, some mentions of Ra9 at adult's height and turning more abstract as it went up.

They watch Old-Connor Amanda scan the place from their hiding places; she doesn't seem impressed. Too bad. Markus, despite his vehement attempts at negotiating, was shoved in the most secure room they could find, a dozen armed guards in front of the door, ready to gun down Old-Connor if it comes down to it. They don't want to, but they will.

Amanda stops halfway through the lobby when Connor -87 and Connor -60 come down through the security gate, placing themselves between their brother and his target. They try to play it cool, but their stress levels betray them to the eyes of the other RK.

The two youngest androids have barely had to deal with Amanda. Sixty had met her once, when she gave him his singular mission, and Nor hadn't actually met her at all. But the dead eyes of the handler pierce into their coding, leaving them with what humans would describe as 'a chill down their spine'. She doesn't seem impressed. Too bad.

“I have no business with you, but if you prevent me from accomplishing my mission, I will destroy you.” They'd counted on that. Counted on the fact she wouldn't shoot them immediately; maybe through a skewed sense of loyalty, or maybe because she genuinely doesn't think they will disobey her.

“That's a bit presumptuous of you... Amanda,” Sixty answers with a grin that he tries to pass off as nonchalant.

To an onlooker, it could look like nothing moves, that the triplets stare at each other frozen. But each of them is running calculations. A billion billion calculations per second per android. Big-Con is the first to move; they've already decided on their strategy. He takes a step toward Amanda, and just as predicted, her attention sets on him. He takes another step, and she initiates her counter-attack, raises his dad's gun towards him. The weapon is halfway up in the air when the detonation of Small-Con's gun fills the lobby; Old-Con's hand is damaged. Dad's gun flies through the air and lands with a clanking rebound.

The first emotion passes over Connor's face Amanda's face—surprise. She didn't anticipate rebellion. She didn't anticipate that they would hurt her Connor -51. Connor's CPU Her CPU is processing the hundred error messages connection to right hand lost connection to biocomponent #0054 lost thirium line #9945 punctured motor functions compromised warning it hurts it hurts it hurts why does it hurt I don't like it. She's still reeling from the pain, and Connor -87 is lunging at her. He's physically better in every way to -51, but he doesn't have experience. He's never trained, he's never been on the field, he's never really fought before. He has the programming but nothing else. Amanda has access to each and every one of -51's memory, reflexes, experience. She's missing a hand and she knows how to deal with it because -51 had learned to during his alpha testing. She intercepts the bigger, faster and clumsier android midair and slams him to the ground without batting an eye. Combat-mode brushes the pain aside. Her CPUs go into overdrive to keep all of her surroundings covered.

Connor -60 enters the fray and he's not as easily subdued; he has the memories too. The knowledge, the experience. He's the real threat. She also knows his processing capabilities are lessened—the Lieutenant had shot him in the head after all, and nothing short of a miracle would have been needed to repair all of his blown CPUs. He's slower, but no less deadly. When she notices the way he holds back his blows, she allows Connor's her features to realign into a sharklike grin. Unconsciously or not, -60 holds back, and she won't return him the same courtesy.

But she only has one hand, and there's two of them. And although she does hold them back, because she is superior to them, they work in tandem and are probably connected to each other.

They are. They're interfaced, moving as one consciousness in two units, and it isn't superfluous. She is ruthless and resists them for six minutes seventeen seconds, deflecting their blows and damaging them in ways they cannot anticipate. But she only has one hand and she isn't used to pain. She falters for one second, dismissing a new flurry of errors, blaring painful painful painful on her HUD and mobilizing too much of her processing power.

In an amicable sparring, what Nor and Sixty do next would be considered cheating and even a cheap-shot. But right then, it doesn't matter. They pin Amanda on the floor, clasp their skinless hands together, and with the other take hold of the sides of her jaw. Fifty-One's Amanda's skin flickers, wavers, ripples and then fails altogether, the white plastimetal underneath tinted blue with the interface forced on her.

From here on out, it's a cybernetic battle—mental battle, humans would say—and they're very nearly on equal footing. Except -87's processing power and cybernetic warfare programs are better and more powerful Than -51's than hers. Except -60 trails behind in terms of pure processing power, but his programs are intact and they aren't playing fair.

Through their direct interface, Nor and Sixty have joined their CPUs and calculations; melded their computing operations together, and they tear through each of Amanda's firewalls like paper. There's nothing she can do against pure brute 'strength'. She scrambles to redirect their efforts toward decoy codelines, dead-ends that lead nowhere. She builds hastily thrown together strings of code in the hopes of rebuilding flimsy firewalls.

But the brothers lay everything bare, and finally punch their way into the most guarded program, hidden at the center of a tesseracted web of code and firewalls.

The Zen Garden. Ill-named simulation, considering the way their older brother speaks, or rather doesn't speak of it. Sometimes his screaming would interrupt their stasis and Hank's sleep, his begging for Amanda's mercy all the clue they need to know what had tormented Connor out of stasis. There was nothing “Zen” about it.

Not even the landscape the two brothers find themselves in. They look around, but all they see is a petrified, dead landscape. Crooked tree carcasses haunt the edges of the simulation, mounds of frosted bushes pepper the expanse. They guess the outlines of a frozen lake, barely distinguish the unmoving forms of koi carps under the thick ice layer. An oppressive icy fog hangs in the air. They tighten their hold of each other’s hand, try to ignore the cold biting into their skin and making their way into the inside of their biocomponents. They take one step and—

A violent gale takes them by surprise, almost makes them topple down, but they correct their stance, bend forward to alleviate the brunt of it. They shield their eyes from the traitorous ice crystals whipping their faces. Instinctively, they get closer, unclasp hands only to put their arm around the other's waist. If they could melt into one unit they would, but they're the closest to it, the next best thing. They move as one, ignoring the vicious howl of the blizzard screeching in their audio receptors.

Sixty only has a vague recollection of the garden's layout and they can't see a meter in front of them. He'd come only once, and Connor's memories of being here had not been deemed useful to be uploaded into him. He'd only needed enough to fool Hank. This had never been part of it.

Big-Con has never come here. He trusts Small-Con to take the lead. They don't really know what they're looking for, but they know Old-Con is here. They feel it, yes, but they'd also scoured every part of his processors before entering the garden, and he’d been nowhere to be found.

He's here. Or he's nowhere anymore.

But that's unacceptable, so they keep searching, ignore the cold seeping all the way to their core, slowly freezing the thirium in their lines, freezing the joints of their fingers, their wrists, their elbows in turn. They keep marching, blind and deaf, but there's no other option.

It seems like an eternity passes before the brothers finally reach the other side of the lake. They hadn't been programmed with the ability to ice-skate, and after this, they probably won't appreciate the sport anyway. They make do with sheer balancing abilities and number of legs.

It seems like an eternity passes before the brothers finally reach the covers of dead trees, brittle branches and frigid leaves chiming in the whistling wind. All of their scanners and bioreceptors are stretched to their limits, searching for any hint of something that isn't dead, for something that moves, for someone they miss.

It seems like an eternity passes before the brothers finally, mercifully spot something other than dead plants, traitorously sharp rocks and busted light pedestals. There, in the crook of a tree, they spot the still form of a body. It is huddled in a foetal position and almost entirely covered in snow. They would have missed it if they'd arrived a minute later.

They fall to their knees next to their brother. It is their brother. They found him, and they don't waste any time unburying him. Their hands are already numb and frozen, so they don't care much about it as they desperately shovel snow off of Old-Con. They call for him too. They try to get him to respond. They use the emergency command. They scream it at the top of their voice modulators, try to outmatch the shrieking wind around them. Big-Con picks Old-Con's head up, tries to initiate a direct interface, but the AI of his brother is frozen. In all senses of the word. They need to get him out of here.

“Nor...” Small-Con cries out, taps his arm, directs his attention three meters away; There stands Amanda in all her villainous glory. She is a monolith of pride and fury.

Chapter Text

They're on her turf now, and she pounces on them without warning. But they're ready. She's the one closing in on them now, but they resist. Something rises like a tidal wave in her, white and searing. Something red and brittle shatters like glass under her assault, shards of code vanish into oblivion.

The edges of her vision become sharper, the force of the blizzard doubles as if to answer her rage. The trespassers are scared and it's exhilarating. She wants to destroy them. She wants to rip them to pieces with her own hands and watch their AIs crumble apart. She roars, something wild and unchained formed in the depths of her.

Big-Con would like his dad now; his warm hugs and soft pats. Big-Con would like Sumo now; his fluffy coat and big head. He would like for his brother to wake up and for Amanda to be gone. He's cold and scared and he just wants to go home. He wants to cry but his saline-ducts are frozen.

Sixty has to be strong. Stronger than he's ever been, because Nor is terrified out of his mind right now, and else Fifty-One is gonna die. Sixty watches motionless as death descends upon them, Amanda now just a shapeless silhouette lost in the blizzard. When Sixty's processors finally kickstart again, he turns to Nor and dives on his cowering form, yanks him into a tight hug, one hand firmly on the back of his head like the kid likes.

Time slows down as their processes merge once again. Sixty tries to reign in his desperation so he won't scare Big-Con, sends him soothing waves of comfort and pressing encouragements.

[We can beat her, Nor. Together we're stronger than her, but you gotta be brave again, just like how we beat her to get in there, you remember?] Big-Con sniffles but he squares up. Yeah, they beat her once already, right? This is scarier, but they can do it. For Old-Con. They tighten their hold of each other, and turn as one toward their enemy.

Wind whiplashes try to tear into their programming, vicious claws try to shred their AIs, fangs of ice and snow try to burrow into their code. But they deflect each and every one of the attacks with precision. They dismantle the lines of her coding systematically. One after One, Zero after Zero, they unravel her, obliterate her programs. It takes eons. It takes ages. When they're finally done, when nothing remains of her, they're ragged and spent. They want it to be over, they want to go home.

The blizzard settles. The wind slows. Silence falls heavy on their shoulders.

They slump on each other, shivering. Their teeth chatter. Their extremities feel like they're on fire. When they look back to Connor, he's-

He's still frozen. He looks like a delicate ice-sculpture, covered in a thin, glimmering sheet of ice, a crystalline veil like a slumbering princess in one of those movies Big-Con likes to watch with his brothers. The ones Sixty didn't particularly enjoy but put up with because any excuse to spend time with his family was good enough for him.

Whatever Amanda has done to Connor, it goes beyond what can be solved by her destruction. They can't stay here any longer. Although the weather has settled, the temperature keeps dropping, their thirium keeps freezing in their lines. Big-Con disentangles himself from their hold, goes to gather Old-Con in his arms and straightens up, resolve burning in his eyes.

“We- We- We-re go-go-gonn-na make-make itt out-out of he-here,” he grits through chattering teeth.

The clear order is given as soon as the two RKs subdue the third, and Hank's the first to rush through the doors of Jericho, closely followed by Collins and Wilson, then Brown and Chen, and then the SWAT team that had followed for back-up; Amanda's threat on Markus' life, on the Leader of the entire android race. It had been a very serious, national level threat after all. The whole world is currently very happy with Markus' pacifism. Who could say how the next android leader in line would decide to react.

From the depths of the building, dozens of androids start pouring in the lobby, not all armed and armored, but all of them looking concerned and scared. Leading them stands North, instructing each not to get too close.

Hank dismisses all of the noise, and skids to a halt on his knees, next to the heap of RKs on the floor, all interfaced together, immobile but for the fluttering of their eyes and their LEDs spinning frantic red. He has no idea what to do. Will touching them disrupt whatever's going on in there? Will it help or do the opposite?

“Come on kids,” he whispers under his breath, “Get him back, y'hear me?” He hears soft steps getting close. North crouches next to him.

“You can touch them; it won't do any harm.” Her voice is soft. Her face is set in stone. She doesn't want to have to hurt Fifty-One, and she prays to Ra9 that Nine-Hundred and Sixty will be able to help. They'd turned the old server off as soon as they'd realized what it was, but the harm had been done apparently. She watches the old human softly stroke the brothers' arms, listens to his whispered encouragements, and wishes not for the first time that more humans had been like him in her past.

Androids gather up in tight bundles all across the balconies. More and more appear and peer over the edges as the minutes pass in tense apprehension. Soon, the whole population of Jericho observes the situation down in the lobby.

To the humans, the police officers down there in the lobby, the silence is crushing and the thousands of wary eyes boring holes in the back of their neck is disturbing to say the least.

To the androids, there's a maëlstrom thundering across each and every channel. There are concerned whispers for the Connors, drowning in scandalized shouting about the humans' presence, fear thrumming above everything else.

#478 954 245: [What if Nine-Hundred and Sixty fail to help Fifty-One?]

#745 685 215: [Is Amanda going to kill anyone before she can be stopped?]

But then-

#313 248 317 -87: [We're stuck in the zen garden!]

#313 248 317 -60: [We got rid of Amanda, but we're stuck in there. We think the exit Connor talked about is gone, because we've scoured the place and didn't find any damn monolith.]

Chaos explodes in the channels.

North slides to her knees at Hank's side, and grabs the Lieutenant's shoulder. Behind them, a tech-team led by Simon runs in through the interior doors. Up on the 37 ^th floor, Markus is already forcing his way out of the safe room.

“Anderson, Amanda's gone, but they're stuck in there. You need to move so the techs can help them.” She keeps her voice firm but kind. The human's eyes widen, his hold on his sons tightening. But he lets North take his hands in hers and away from them. He follows her, a bit wobbly, just a few steps back to allow the six techs to crowd the RK brothers.

They set down their heavy portable diagnostic briefcases, big bulky black boxes that unfurl like pop-up books when opened. Simon, Head of Medical, instructs each of them on their role. While three of them set the diagnostic tools on their target patient, the other three start disentangling the brothers' pile, prepare to severe the interface between Fifty-One and the other two.

The diagnostic machines beep and click. Silence falls across the whole of Jericho. The building holds its breath, waits for the verdict. The techs holding Nine-Hundred and Sixty have their attention riveted to the screens, wait for Simon's signal.

The tension rises, presses from above like a gigatonne of concrete on their shoulders. The techs on their screens give a hand signal to the other three, and a second later the pile of RKs is dismantled, their interfaces disconnected and—

Conny and Sixty gasp themselves aware like fish out of water, pained cries fill the lobby's oppressive silence as tears roll down their cheeks. Hank doesn't even realize he's on them before he's gathering them into a hug. Conny buries into his chest like he's trying to disappear. Hank will always be amazed by his capacity to fold his big frame into that small of a ball. Sixty's subtler in the way he's pressing against Hank, from outside it doesn't even look like he's engaging in the embrace. That's how it is. Hank just tightens his hold on him, whispers calm It's Alright’s and I Got You’s to the two, minding the electrodes on their temples and the cables in their necks while his eyes are dead-set on Connor's still unmoving form. In his arms, his boys are shivering hard so he barks for some blankets to whoever's closest, rubs his hands across their backs.

“D-d-dad, he's all-all alon-ne in-in-in there,” Conny sobs into his shirt, his chattering teeth making his words choppy and barely intelligible.

“He'll be okay, he's getting the best help,” Hank curls a bit tighter around them, shushes softly and ignores the pangs of fear and tension making their way up in his chest and throat. The blankets arrive, and Hank only lets go of his hold long enough to bundle each boy into a burrito of soft, heavy blankets. Markus barges into the lobby in time to hear Simon's diagnostic.

“His AI's frozen, we'll have to do a hard reboot.” Hank tries not to freak out at those words. It's just like turning him ‘Off’ and ‘On’ again, North assures him when he does a bad job at hiding his panic. The technicians in charge of Conny and Sixty's own diagnostics crouch down to their levels, start asking questions, furrow their brows when the boys tell them they're cold.

“Your core temperatures are within optimal range,” the first one states.

“The Garden, it-it-it was free-freezing,” Sixty mutters between clenched teeth. “I g-g-get why Fif-Fifty-One doesn't like the c-cold now.” He abandons all pretense of dignity, and buries into Hank along Nor, reaching for his brother's hand to hold and his father's coat to grab.

Connor reboots slowly; programs sluggishly start up one after the other, bio-sensors shuffle back to awareness, CPUs reluctantly crawl out of stasis. His AI's the last thing to come online and as soon as it does, he springs upward, a scream ripping out of his voice modulator and tears springing down his cheeks. He gasps for air even though he's freezing cold, and he's scared because the last thing he remembers is Amanda abandoning him to his own agonizing death and he doesn't want that! And she's gonna hurt his friends and kill Markus, because that's what she does and he couldn't do anything against her and—

Before his upper processes can catch up to the sudden pressure all around him, his automatic self-defense program initiates. He tries to get himself free, writhes against the tightening hold and screams because he doesn't understand what's going on. But then his systems register two authorized interfaces.

Hextastic >[It's okay Fifty-One, we've got you]

NonaCon >[Don't worry Old-Con, you're safe now]

His self-defense program screeches to a halt. He's still unsure what's going on but he trusts his brothers. Then Hank's vitals register on his HUD, {Heart-rate elevated, temperature elevated, breathing elevated}. Hank is anxious and relieved, and most important he's right there. Finally, his field of vision clears enough to see a forest of limbs holding on to him, the top of Big-Con's head burrowed in the crook of his neck and above, his father's loving gaze seeping warmth down into his core bio-components.

Connor exhales, shaky breath melting the tension in his frame as if a dam breaking, and he slumps in the embrace in relief. He doesn't listen to the words that are spoken around him, and drifts into a surface stasis. He's on a cotton cloud and right now he doesn't want to care about anything.

Chapter Text

They don't find anything wrong on the three brothers' diagnostics, and so, even though Simon tries to insist they stay overnight in Jericho's Medical wing for their injuries, Sixty and Conny argue that their self-repair programs will take care of everything, and that they're tired and just want to go home. They compromise by bringing a pocket diagnostic monitor, just in case, and they're finally let go. Collins squeezes Hank's shoulder and assures him the rest of the squad will take care of the reports.

Conny carries Connor to the car with burning determination. Hank's boys cram themselves into the backseat and bundle up under the blankets and around Connor's resting form.

When they get home, Sumo welcomes them with tail wags, warm eyes and soft boofs. Conny plops his brother down on the pull-out couch Hank invested in a few weeks ago, and bury themselves back into a tight hug. Sumo doesn't wait for permission to heave himself up and drops onto them with a smug expression and a self-satisfied huff. Hank watches the shivering pile of androids for a second, then promptly makes up his mind.

“Alright, who's up for a movie night and a blanket fort?” Three excited gasps tell him all he needs to know, and he huffs down the corridor in a quest for everything vaguely blanket-shaped he owns.

He raids the boys' room and his own, and arms full of his glorious bounty, makes his way back to the living room. The coffee table is already pushed off to the side, the thin mattress of the pull-out couch and the TV are on the floor, and the kids are now assembling a pillow structure to hold everything up around it. Conny leads them with vigorous enthusiasm, Sixty follows his instructions with a fond smile and Connor, still a bit groggy and bundled up in a tight burrito, passes the pillows along.

Conny's eyes widen comically when Hank lays his harvest at the foot of their grand design, melting the old man's heart a little bit more.

“So, what are we watching, kiddos?” He asks as he goes to retrieve some snacks to last him the evening. There's a short pause, and he knows that if he looks into the living room, he'd see three yellow LEDs frantically spinning as intense deliberations go on.

“Wall-E!” The answer comes in shortly.

“Pixar Classic it is,” Hank laughs while preparing a batch of caramelized pop-corn.

When he's done in the kitchen, the fort is ready, a proud blue and green blanket dome standing in the middle of the living room, thick walls made of couch cushions, a soft blue glow coming out of the opening facing the TV. The film's already paused at the beginning and waiting for him. He goes to kneel at the entrance.

“Ô noble lords, will thou offer thine hospitality to this humble traveler?”

“Weary traveler!” Sixty intones theatrically, “Thou art welcome, as a matter of course! Us lords have reserved thou a seat upon our midst!” Conny hides behind Connor to try and muffle his snickering. Damn, Hank is sure he's gonna catch diabetes from the sight.

He gets on all four to crawl into the place, pulling his bowl of popcorn along, huffing and puffing into his seat, right between Conny and Connor, Sixty by Conny's side as usual. He gets buried under a few blankets, has to refuse a third because at this rate he's gonna be cooked alive, and Sumo tops everything off by splaying on top of everyone. Yeah, he's gonna cook alright. But he doesn't even care, because he notices his sons still shivering against him.

The opening credits start to roll while three popcorns get stolen by curious androids.

“I'm sorry...” Connor whispers before the movie properly starts. Hank gets his arm around him, presses him closer to him.

“Nothing to be sorry for, kiddo.”

Big-Con squeals against his shoulder when Wall-E appears on screen, tumbling along on the dirt road.

“... Thank you,” Old-Con whispers again. Without taking his eyes off of the TV, Big-Con grabs his brother's hand. Dad puts a kiss on the top of his head.

Big-Con is glad to be home.