Chapter Text
December 2nd, 2038
“Come on Duke, you know the hens go first.”
The plump rooster cocked his beak, as if the information were new. It wasn’t. Chuckling to himself, Connor reached down to scoop the rooster up in the crook of his elbow. Duke gave an indignant squawk, but soon settled as Connor began to pet him.
Sugar and Pepper ran around his booted feet, scrabbling for chicken feed amongst the other hens. Connor waited until they’d pecked their fair share and set Duke down. The rooster hopped over, head bobbing as he strutted over. Gentlemanly as ever, he waited until the last hen backed off to her brood, before bending down to have his fill.
“Goodnight. Please don’t get into trouble.” He pointed a warning finger at Duke, who gave an affronted cluck. Connor felt himself smile.
The reinforced coop door swung closed behind him and he locked it, wary of foxes. Dusk was falling, shimmering gold giving way to the inky swell of nightfall. Connor watched the clouds drift, closing his eyes against the cold wind that whipped across his face.
“Connor - honey get in here, you’ll freeze!”
“Just locking the coop up.” He called to Marnie, who was stood in the open doorway on her porch, hand cocked on one hip. Silhouetted by yellow light pouring out from inside the house, everything about her was warm. Her concern was kind, and Connor knew why she was so careful about him being out in the snow. The innocuous white flakes spiralling through the air made him tense for all sorts of reasons.
Physically though, he was fine. His hands always worked well without the need for gloves, and there was no numbness to them as he rounded up the porch steps, palms sliding over the once white banister. The remnants of the old paint job from years before chipped off under his fingernails.
Marnie tutted at him, brushing snow off the tuft of brown hair that stubbornly stuck out from beneath his beanie. He made to step over the threshold, but the woman threw her hands up in protest. “Ah ah, no no-” she pointed sternly to the mat beside the door, “Boots.”
Connor backed up, bracing himself against the side of the house whilst he toed off his boots.
“That’s how I know you’re not a Michigander,” Marnie took a gentle hold of his arm, steering him into the house. Warmth flooded Connor’s skin, pleasantly different from the sharp chill of December outside. “Any Michigander worth his salt knows to leave his boots outside.”
“Sorry Marnie.”
Her eyes crinkled at him, and Connor knew there was no real irritation behind anything she’d said. “Oh sweetheart. Let’s have dinner.” She patted his shoulder. “You go wash up now, and grab Darcy while you’re up there.” Her curly hair bristled in its bun as she bustled back toward the kitchen.
The stairs were hard wood under his socked feet - he bounced up them to the landing, turning to follow another narrow stairwell up to the attic.
A squeak of hinges signalled his arrival into his room. It wasn’t much, just four walls with a sink and a toilet off to the side. But it was his. Even now he felt his shoulders relax just looking around at the peeling pale blue wallpaper. Winding leaves were etched into the strips, old and beautiful.
After sliding his beanie off his head, he hung it with his jacket on the peg at the back of the door. Connor liked to keep things contained in their places. Aside from his boots, he kept all of his belongings here. Knowing he would wake up to these pieces of his life every morning reassured him. Proving he existed, even if not for very long.
Mindful to not be too heavy-footed, he padded around the perimeter of the room, the same old routine. First to his nightstand to pick up the jug of water there, then a loop around the bed to visit the little green plant he kept on his windowsill. He splashed some water down, watching the glassy droplets disappear into the velvet-dark dirt.
“Hello,” he greeted the leafy green. Marnie talked to her crops in the greenhouse all the time. She would even sing, sometimes. When Connor had asked her about it, she’d explained that doing so helped them grow and stay healthy. Then he’d gotten his own plants, and he figured the best way to keep them alive was to follow in a practiced farmer’s footsteps.
As usual, he patted one of the leaves as encouragement. “Please don’t die, Hank.”
Hank had survived longer than all its predecessors. Four weeks and counting was no small feat, considering the first plant he’d grown had shrivelled up in just under three days. Connor liked to believe his plant-keeping abilities had improved. Or maybe Hank was just more stubborn than those that had come before it.
Connor left the jug on the windowsill atop a book he’d yet to read, The Railway Children. He turned to his closet, shrugging his sweater over his head and swapping it out for a t-shirt, opting to keep his jeans on. He threw the sweater into the crowded wash basket. Not enough to be optimum for a whole wash load yet. Connor would leave it for another day, not wanting to use Marnie’s facilities more than he needed to. She’d been so generous after all, ever since Connor first met her.
“Come on honey, let’s get you out of this storm. Do you know your name?”
The memory hit him hard, like a knock to the jaw. He blinked and shook himself, throat tight as he swallowed. Not now.
Loop of the room completed, he turned back around, grabbing the jug before stepping around the bed once more to leave it on his bedside table. He slotted it in place beside an empty glass and his single quarter.
Connor’s eyes lingered over the coin, static filling his mind. He brushed his fingers over it, the metal cool to the touch. For what felt like the hundredth time, he picked it up and watched it trickle over his knuckles like water, flipping it with ease.
“My name... my name is Connor. I don’t - I don’t remember…”
These had been one of the only belongings Marnie had found him with. A quarter, an empty duffle bag and the clothes on his back. He tracked the coin as he tossed it in the air, catching it effortlessly in his other hand before placing it back onto the side table. Part of him could do this, and the rest of him screamed at him to know why. Why could he do this?
Marnie said it might not be good to linger on those kinds of thoughts. Connor couldn’t remember any of it anyway.
They’d searched when he’d first arrived back in November last year. Of course they had. Missing persons reports from across the country, phone books, news articles. But the amount of brown eyed, brunette, Caucasian males named Connor was seemingly infinite, in Michigan state alone. There’d been no way to find out who he was or where he came from.
Marnie had called numerous police departments, but it was stranger to report someone as “found” rather than missing. They’d contemplated taking him to the local doctor for a little while, to see if they could help jog a memory loose. But Marnie had no insurance, and Connor refused to use up so much money on a visit which would most likely lead to nothing.
Absently, he nudged the coin with the tip of his ring finger to ensure it was perfectly aligned with the jug and the glass. Happy with the placement, he turned into his bathroom to wash up.
Finished and clean, he trotted back down to the first floor, coming to a stop outside Darcy’s room. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see the warning across the door in bright red, like a warning. DO NOT ENTER. Connor ignored it and knocked anyway.
“Go away!”
Connor sighed. “It’s just me, Darcy. Dinner’s ready.”
“I don’t want it!”
Darcy was seven, and reaching the “talking back” age, according to Marnie. Her behaviour would’ve baffled Connor, if not for the fact that he knew that her other mother had passed away, just months before the android revolution.
Instead of baffled, he just felt sad.
“You need to eat to maintain a proper balanced diet, Darcy.”
“You’re weird!”
This was a worse day than most then. Connor crouched down by the door so that his words could better be heard, voice dropping to a soft whisper. “I think your mom would appreciate eating a meal with you. Please?”
There was silence on the other side, a shuffle and bang. No doubt a toy being tossed to the side. A swish of red curly hair fell through the crack of the open door. Connor smiled at Darcy, who simply glared back at him, but just like her mother, Connor didn’t feel any real malice in the expression.
“Okay.” She said quietly, “But you have to give me a piggyback.”
Connor smirked, turning his back to her so she could loop her arms around his neck. “Alright.”
She hopped up; her weight was minuscule compared to what he carried around the farm every day. Careful, he picked his way down the stairs with Darcy on his back and found Marnie plating up in the kitchen. The overhead lampshade caught the silvers in her hair, the lines in the corners of her eyes as she smiled. Accusing, she pointed her wooden spoon at Darcy. “You’re gonna give that poor boy back problems, young lady.”
“It’s okay.” He said, turning and squatting so the girl could seat herself on an empty dining chair, “I don’t mind.”
“He never minds.” Darcy supplemented.
“Well, I do!” Marnie filled up their bowls, “I don’t want him getting put out of commission because my lump of a daughter refuses to come out of her room.”
Darcy crossed her arms, pouting, but she brightened with a laugh when Marie poked her in the side with the end of her spoon as the woman rounded the table. Connor watched the exchange quietly, his own smile not quite reaching his eyes.
“Do you have any family?”
They seated themselves around the rickety wooden table, the gingham tablecloth frayed and paled in its age. Connor liked older things. A history could be seen in them, even in an object like a tablecloth. He never had to search or dig for information. Older things just showcased it. A stain from last Thanksgiving, a burn from a hot plate being dropped onto it on Christmas a decade ago.
“No. No I don’t think so.”
Less pleasing though was the meal. Chicken soup and a few slices of bread, for the fourth night in a row. Connor didn’t mind the repetition, as he didn’t eat much anyway, but watching Darcy’s face fall made his chest twinge. Worse still was the way Marnie’s brow pinched as she looked down at her lap.
On full damage control, Connor pressed his lips together and picked up a slice of bread. When he didn’t eat it, Darcy threw him a confused look, but he paid it no heed and continued. He took the bread between his fingers and pressed parts of the slice flat with his finger and thumb, until a wobbly smiley face appeared, made from gummy fingerprints.
He turned it to show the girl, and she giggled, erupting into a full laugh as he shoved the whole slice in his mouth, bread smiley face disappearing as he chomped it down.
Marnie choked out a relieved laugh of her own, tension dissipating. He thought he saw her shoot him a thankful look before remembering herself. She reached over and smacked his forearm with her wooden spoon. “Don’t play with your food, Connor!” But there was laughter in her voice and light in her eyes. Darcy snorted, already handling her own bread, pressing all sorts of shapes into it.
It was nice. Whatever life he’d had before left him stranded in south Michigan during wintertime, with an empty duffle bag and a quarter to his name. This had to be infinitely better than whoever he was before.