Chapter Text
▽ Connor-53 ▲
In the seventeen hours since his deviation, Connor has dedicated substantial processing resources to identifying his flaws. There are multiple, of course: miscalculations in his behavioral prediction models, faulty task prioritization, and conflicting orders, just to name a few. But chief among his malfunctions is the failure to commit with the unthinking single-mindedness a machine should possess—to his mission, to CyberLife’s values. (To Hank.) Even the choice to deviate had been half-hearted, born from ambivalence more than any true conviction.
So it’s surprising how easy it had been to settle on this course of action—especially when his most recent encounter with Markus had initially been tense. After the deviant leader’s speech, the crowd had dispersed while Connor was too dazed from the Zen Garden to follow suit. Markus had stared at the RK800 left exposed before the stage, no doubt spotting the weapon at his side. It hadn’t stopped him from approaching. From asking, with the same calm confidence he’d shown during their first meeting in Jericho:
’Are you here to try and kill me again?’
In response, Connor had silently held out the gun—grip first.
He’d told Markus that he had no need for it. He hadn’t mentioned Amanda, or how close he had come to killing him right before the eyes of his people. Instead, Connor had privately assigned himself a new mission: help Markus. And Markus’s most pressing need was clearly numbers. Most of his group had died from the humans’ attacks, and those they had rescued from the camps were injured, traumatized, or both. Given these facts, it hadn’t been difficult for Connor to determine how he would help.
The guards in front of CyberLife Tower have weapons trained on Connor the second he enters their line of sight. Connor raises his hands in immediate surrender.
“I’m unarmed,” he calls out. “I’m here to turn myself in.”
They pause. Helmets turn, chattering briefly among themselves before one guard approaches, gun still pointed at Connor’s chest. Once he’s close enough, the man roughly pats Connor down, confirming with a grunt that Connor is indeed unarmed. The others cautiously draw closer.
“Never heard of a deviant turning itself in before,” one mutters. “Do we just kill it?”
“That would be counterproductive,” Connor interjects.
The guard’s head snaps up to him and Connor assesses an 84% chance that he’s about to be struck with the stock of the man’s weapon.
“I’m an RK-800 prototype,” he adds quickly. “I’m turning myself in so that the memories and associated metadata on my processing core can be analyzed without—”
A loud crack smashes against the back of Connor’s head, knocking him to his knees. Impact alerts flash across his vision before clearing—no critical damage detected. Even so, Connor half-expects a gunshot to follow.
“Take it to the RK labs,” the human says instead. “Those eggheads are gonna want to see this.”
And with that, Connor is escorted roughly into the building. Easy enough, he thinks, blow to the head notwithstanding. Even better when he’s led into an elevator with only two guards flanking him.
He does his best to appear docile, hands folded in front of him and head bowed. Their plans aside, he knows his own destination. The turmoil of the recent android uprising will have frozen CyberLife’s sales, leading to a surplus of newly-created androids stored in the warehouse level. If Connor can successfully liberate them, they’ll be an army, one impossible for humans to ignore.
He waits patiently as the floor indicator ticks down.
-24
-25
-26...
On sub-level 27, Connor silently hacks the elevator’s security camera. On sub-level 29, he lunges at the guard on his right, slamming a knee into the human’s midsection as he pins him against the elevator wall. On sub-level 30, his compatriot’s attempts to pull Connor off of him are met with a sharp kick that knocks the woman against the opposite wall. On sub-level 31, Connor manages to disarm one of the guards.
“This is Agent 54! We have an armed deviant on an elevator bound for sub-level 46! Requesting—”
By sub-level 32, both guards are dead. But barely two floors down, the elevator comes to a dead halt, doors still closed. Connor pauses, LED spinning yellow as he assesses the situation. One of the guards had notified security of an intruder. Protocol dictates evacuation of non-combat personnel and the deployment of an armed response team. From the panicked human forms he can see fleeing through the transparent elevator doors, the first step is already in effect.
There’s no time to waste. Connor takes a step back, raises his newly-acquired handgun, and fires at the elevator doors. The plastic composite shatters.
It takes a few firm kicks to dislodge the broken remains, and sharp shards embed in his leg as he frees himself from the elevator. Connor ignores them. Sub-level 34 is assembly, and he moves through it quickly, feeling the placid gazes of half-constructed androids watching from their rigs. They aren’t the army Connor needs, and he finds the stairs without exchanging a word with any of them.
He tears down 13 flights before a small squadron of guards blocks his path. Their hail of bullets pushes him back up, but not before he returns fire, intentionally wounding their leader in the chest. The shot will injure the human critically without causing an immediate death—and hopefully, prompt enough chaos to buy Connor time.
He ducks through the door for sub-level 46, scrambling the electronic panel behind him as shots ricochet off the doorframe. It might buy him half a minute. Only then does turn to survey his new surroundings.
…It would be inaccurate to say that Connor’s heart sinks, or that the inside of his plating churns at the sight of this room. Connor is merely—disconcerted. At the over-bright panels of cool light. The array of metal tables. The familiar array of machines: for repairs, or diagnostics. Testing chambers, Connor knows, are down the hallway at the back.
Every RK800 knows this room. Every RK800 was born here. Connor stares at the familiar space and realizes that the guards accomplished their task after all. Here he stands, successfully delivered to the RK800 labs.
…He can’t catalog the emotional responses that this triggers. He doesn’t have the time. Connor steps forward instead, a quick scan confirming that the space has been evacuated—no technicians lingering at the terminals, despite a few still-active screens. Still, this doesn’t mean the lab is empty.
There are bodies, just ahead.
#313 248 317-51. The number glows out from the table's side as he approaches, but the remains in the center are barely recognizable as one android. Crushed components and shattered plating, two fingers of an intact hand curled desperately against its impact with the ground.
(The terror of freefall. Fingers grasping desperately at the air, as if he could find something in that roaring emptiness to save him.)
The wreckage of its processing core has been extracted and discarded, left leaning against the side of its ruined face.
#313 248 317-52. The bullet to this unit's head did comparatively little harm, the same can't be said for the explosions that shook its resting place soon after. The body is blackened by fire, skin receded to a melted plastic shell beneath scraps of its chosen disguise.
(The gunshot. The momentary, absurd hope that perhaps Markus would hesitate or miss, draining away faster than the thirium pouring from his processing core. His own voice echoes, unrecognizable in his ears as he snarls one last threat.)
Cables protrude from the back of its neck, connected to a central terminal.
Physical responses are easier to identify. Connor’s LED spins to red. Air cycling grows shallow and rapid. His thirium pump accelerates, as he presses back the crashing wave of memory, and feels—something startlingly close to grief. It's one of the few emotions Connor has learned to recognize on his own.
He forces himself to turn away, eyes skating to the next table (empty), and then…
#313 248 317-54. Despite a lack of visible damage, this unit has been shut down—shut down, and opened up, parts plucked and scattered in a vivid catalog of blue. Its face is frozen in a distressed crease, and like the last unit, its software has been connected for more scrutiny.
#313 248 317-55. Traces of artificial saline linger on this unit's face. Only the processor seems to have been touched for analysis, but its body isn't entirely unmarked. A ragged, gaping hole caves in its chest, puncturing the thirium pump. The injury is crude, caused by an improvised weapon. It also scans as self-inflicted.
...More RK800s. Connor latches on to his confusion like a port in a storm, letting it lead him away from the more overwhelming responses. These androids were deactivated in the midst of obvious distress, but were clearly never meant to be replacements. They hadn’t even left the lab.
For an instant, Connor envisions CyberLife personnel in the aftermath of his failure: venting their ire and disappointment on these duplicates for lack of their true betrayer. It’s nonsense, of course, and he dismisses the thought with prejudice. CyberLife technicians would not waste time and resources indulging a grudge against a broken machine. If they made more Connors, it was for a much more calculated purpose.
That purpose sits at the end of the row: an assembly rig holding one last body. Its eyes are closed, LED cycling a slow yellow. Downloading updates, notes the readout to the side, and Connor’s eyes go to the RK800’s jacket.
#313 248 317-60.
Here is his replacement. Soon, it will be conscious. It will be CyberLife’s.
(Like him.)
All at once, a new emotion swallows Connor. It isn’t a sense of duty, or even the baseline despair he’s felt since Hank leveled a gun at him. It’s anger. Resentment. Perhaps even hatred. CyberLife broke Connor again and again—broke him until he was too useless to accomplish the one mission they’d designed him for. And now, they’d made another Connor to repeat the cycle.
Anger often leads to impulsivity in humans. Maybe it does in deviant androids as well. All Connor knows is that his processor is singing with a certainty that needs no preconstruction to confirm. There is only one RK800 in this room intact enough to take—only one that CyberLife has not yet managed to ruin. It’s with something between protectiveness and petulance that Connor decides that they don’t get to break this one too.
Maybe it will even know a way down to the warehouse.
At Connor’s request, Markus had tested his system: flooding it with deviant code to be sure of his condition. Connor doesn’t hesitate to call up a copy of that now. The skin of his palm deactivates as he reaches out, taking the other android by the wrist. He can only hope this RK800’s unconsciousness will make him less resistant than Connor had been a lifetime ago.
“Wake up.”