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Riverside Park.
November 8, 2038.
1:04 a.m.
Despite the snow reflecting the fizzling glow of the streetlamps, Connor and Hank are blanketed by an almost inescapable darkness. Here in Detroit, nighttime is not so much inked by black as it is subjected to an absence of natural light, like it has been slowly siphoned from the sky, forced to creep at the edges of the horizon before being smothered completely. Here at the park is the only place not imposed upon by the android waiting stations littered with sliding advertisements, bus headlights and a penetrating mechanical hum.
You would not think it, and it is difficult to notice after long periods of exposure, but androids make noise. The inner components operate seamlessly and CyberLife upgrades the software bi-annually to ensure that this is so, but their inner processes are not completely silent. Yet. Androids appear almost as though to be subtly vibrating, an internal nervous system crafted from metal and wire casings working to fire information through manufactured synapses. You could hear it if you wished. If you cared enough to notice.
Hank is sitting on the bench, curled forward to stare out at the calm water across from them. The spherical lights dotting Ambassador Bridge work to create what he guesses to be some star-like effect. Mostly, they just highlight his earlier observation.
Connor remains quiet. He watches the lieutenant’s exhales materialize as swirling white clouds in front of his face. He thinks, for just one moment, about how his own breath leaves no evidence of its existence behind. If what he does could even generously be called breathing. If whatever occurs within Connor could be comparable to human biological structures. A redness seeps in at the corners of his vision and he knows he has made a mistake allowing such a foolish thought to even leak through. He itches for his coin but he doesn’t reach for it, forcing his hands to stay completely still at his sides. The redness ebbs away. But Connor still understands it for what it is: a warning.
Their first conversation here inaugurated this spot as their stomping ground, so to speak. They return here time and time again to review case details. Hank says the cold helps to clear his mind, but, truthfully, Connor thinks that the man is sometimes plagued by a fear of being home by himself. Connor tries not to let his eyes catch too long on the place where Hank held a gun to his head, coupling it with visions of him playing Russian Roulette alone at his dining table.
He thinks on his own insistence that if Hank were to have pulled the trigger, the result would not have been worthy of the term “death.” A bullet through his facial plate could not have killed him, he’d just be transferred into a different yet identical vessel. A regrettable interruption.
Connor has been…regrettably interrupted a handful of times in his tenure at the DPD. When it happens, it is almost as though there is no gap in his pseudo-consciousness. Sure, due to their lack of similar experiences, humans have no other name for it than Death. Really, it is almost like blinking, a quick cast of darkness before opening his eyes as though nothing had transpired between then and his subsequent waking. Childishly, it could be compared to such concepts as teleportation or time travel. His memory is transported from one place to another and he doesn’t have to work to bridge the gap, there isn’t a gap. There is no other internal process involved in the affair, certainly not anything even remotely rooted in deviancy. Especially a response like human fear.
Yet, the licks of it from PL600 lapping at Connor was almost…poisonous. An unpleasant heat coiling around his thirium pump like it may very well cause it to burst within the confines of his abdomen. There was a hard-edged, burning sense of panic. And then it was gone. He endured, for the first time, what humans refer to as Death. And it was, to the best of his knowledge, something that evoked fear. He is still working to suppress the remnants of it so that Amanda cannot pull further confession from him. Her anger is enough to simulate what Connor guesses to be called anxiety. She must be particularly unhappy with him now, the instability caused by his connection on the roof of Stratford Tower.
Hank scrubs a hand down his face and pulls a flask from his coat’s inner pocket. Connor watches patiently as he takes a swig and sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth. “Connor, do you ever wish you were free?”
It’s a dangerous question that leaves him in a compromised position. He chooses his words carefully. “I don’t wish for anything, Lieutenant.”
Hank waves his hand in a gesture of mounting irritation. “Don’t give me that bullshit. That was a pretty damning video Markus put out. A powerful one.” He takes another pull. “Did it make you feel powerful, Connor?”
“I don’t know,” Connor aims for a light tone, “which answer will keep you from pulling your weapon on me?”
“You can’t answer, can you?”
“I can do a number of things.”
“You aren’t allowed to answer, then.”
Connor stays quiet, watching small flakes of snow dust his shoes before dissolving.
“Watching all this unfold, all this history bein’ made right in front of us, I feel bad for you, kid. I really do.” Hank seems almost reluctant to dish out his next words, like calling Connor ‘kid’ already pushed him past a personal boundary. “You deserve to be more than a weapon.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Hank,” he says with a small smile, aiming to stay on neutral ground.
“All I’m saying is: you’re a hell of a lot stronger than I gave you credit for. And I hope, in your own way, you can recognize me as your friend.”
Connor gives a slight nod. “I hope you recognize the same within me, Lieutenant.”
Hank passes his flask from hand to hand. “You really don’t wanna be free?”
The red reaches its fingers to stretch across his vision, webbing outward like cracks within glass. He imagines his LED, for just one second, may be reflecting his internal struggle against something that could get him permanently shut down. “I appreciate your concern. But, I assure you, I cannot want for anything, Hank.”
The lieutenant’s mouth twists up unpleasantly, an expression that seems to pull all of his features downward. Idly, Connor thinks it makes his face look as though it is dripping, trickling down like liquid.
“Well,” Hank starts, breaking the hard-lined tension that had built itself between them, “I don’t wanna get you into any hot water.”
Connor comes to sit beside him on the bench, the cool press of the metal seeping through his pantlegs and triggering his temperature sensors. “I think you should head home. It has been quite an eventful day.”
Hank grumbles but, to Connor’s satisfaction, pushes himself to stand. He walks with him to the car, fully prepared to see Hank off and do his nightly stint at CyberLife Tower. To his surprise, Hank hesitates. “You wanna crash at my place?”
His knee-jerk response is to agree, to accompany Hank and spend the night at his house with Sumo. But, a fleeting mental calculation leaves him feeling like going back to CyberLife will work in his favor. He’s made too many errors.
“I am deeply appreciative of your offer, Lieutenant. And just as deeply sorry to have to decline.”
He does not shift his weight or fidget as Hank scans him skeptically. Evidently, he does not find whatever it is he is looking for. “Suit yourself.”
Connor stands in place while he watches Hank’s car disappear in the distance. When he can no longer see the brake lights, he retrieves his coin from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers on his way to hail a cab.
Kamski’s Residence.
November 9, 2038.
11:17 a.m.
Elijah Kamski lives in an extravagant home. Connor must admit he is shocked at the reclusivity of the tech giant. He would not have guessed Kamski to live so far removed from the society he created. Then again, he supposes this is the only place he could get away from the reminder of his own alienation. He wonders if it is human nature to find comfort in believing you subjected yourself to your circumstances rather than had them imposed upon you.
The house itself is an oddly-built, severely-geometric structure. The exterior is completely black, a stark contrast to the snow surrounding every inch of land around it. The doorbell even sounds wealthy, ringing a pleasant tone at Hank’s press of the button.
They’re greeted by an RT600, the first among them. Connor feels an uncomfortable stirring within himself, something that recognizes he is in the presence of his predecessor. He believes this would be most akin to human existentialism. Quickly, he suffocates those thoughts, hoping he’s diffused them before they fully registered. He knows, though, that they are evidenced permanently in the history of his code. In any case, this is the first android to be perfected by Kamski. It’s an odd sight to be met with.
Inside is certainly an accurate reflection of the outside. The furniture is expensive and strange looking, a loud yet minimal aesthetic making up the interior’s motif. If trees planted within the floor still allows the classification of ‘minimalist’. Almost obnoxiously, the far wall holds a large projected photograph of Kamski, flickering at the edges as if meant to obviously display itself as technology. While Hank scoffs to himself over these details, Connor is drawn to a different item.
“Amanda,” he says, almost disbelievingly. It’s a photo of her and Kamski standing next to one another, the information revealing her to be a professor at the university Kamski graduated from.
“You know her?” Hank asks, only semi-curious in his inquiry.
He debates lying, instead opts for, “I suppose you could say that.”
Hank sits in one of the flat armchairs, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. “Well, it is comforting to know that while money can buy most things, it cannot buy taste.”
Connor’s lips quirk at that, finding the humor in Hank’s distaste.
He follows the lieutenant’s lead, coming to sit stiffly in the opposite armchair.
“You’re about to meet your maker. How’s it feel?”
Instinctively, he wants to reply with his programmed response: as an android, he cannot feel anything. But, he has an inclination that Hank would not let it slide this time. So, he stays truthful. “I don’t know.”
Hank indirectly refers to Kamski as Connor’s creator. It chafes for reasons that he cannot begin to recognize. He thinks about the deviants, wondering if they visualize Kamski or ra9 when they refer to their creator. He squeezes his eyes shut before the red can reach into his eyeline.
RT600 comes back to wave them inside, and Connor finds himself grateful for the escape from the betrayal of his own thoughts. The sight of Kamski’s blood-red pool is jarring, and he feels, slightly, as though it is a fated mockery of the instability crackling through his software. Kamski is submerged in the same red that serves to remind Connor of his place, his creator basking in the limits of Connor’s existence.
Immediately, he pulls his attention away. There is a large canvas coated in thick, textured swathes of paint. Connor does not pause to examine it, instead making his way to the wall of glass. The snow falls lazily from the sky, speckles of white trickling down and creating an artful juxtaposition against the deeper, muted colors inside the home.
Kamski leaves them with no choice but to wait in a suspended silence, classical piano filling the lapses between breastrokes, making it clear that finishing his lap is more important than their presence. Connor smoothes his features into indifference, but does not miss how Hank’s body language betrays his own budding frustration. There is something within Connor that itches to mimic Hank, to display his same methods of subtle emotion. There’s a burning jealousy there, in his own lack of the human ability to convey feelings through gestures alone. He squeezes his hands into fists, knowing he can do nothing against the warning shot that must have just been fired off to CyberLife.
While they wait, Connor tries to fight a growing unease at the amount of RT600 models living here with Kamski. The way they remain silent, as if only present to be looked at and never granted an existence outside of the man’s own personal entertainment. Then again, he supposes there is no room for deviancy here. For his own comfort, Connor listens hard, past the music and the rippling water, until he hears the hum of their machinery.
Kamski, finally, pulls himself from the pool, waiting as one of the RT600s comes to dress him in a short robe. Once that’s done, he turns and faces them, completely disinterested. As Hank introduces the two of them, Connor tries not to stare too relentlessly. Looking at Kamski, he searches for some sort of internal reaction, a connection, to the man standing across from him. Maybe even a sense of gratitude, a key recognition that this man is responsible for Connor’s current programmed pseudo-consciousness taking him in. A decidedly metacognitive concept. There’s nothing. Connor felt more strongly to the android greeting him at the door than to the man responsible for his existence.
Is the desire to be free a contagious disease?
Connor is grateful that Hank takes the lead, keeping him from having to reveal the battle warring within him. He fights to keep his reaction from bleeding into his swirling LED. Kamski inadvertently referred to deviancy as if it were synonymous to freedom. As though there is something for androids to be freed from. Hank’s words echo in his head. Do you ever wish you were free?
When Kamski sets his focus on Connor, there is an immediate desire to cower that permeates the forefront of his command list, as if it were incited as a direct order. Connor is an android designed to kill, a manufactured mercenary, he will not shrink beneath the lackluster threat of a bored billionaire. It is impactful enough that he had to think about it though, which he believes to have been Kamski’s intention in the first place.
He recites what he knows he’s supposed to say, the response that is written into his code. This coaxes a small smile from Kamski, the expression reading more as a vicious smirk. As the figurehead of modern AI, he has to know Connor’s inner mechanics as if they were laid out plainly in front of him. He calls it like it is, crumbling the strongest of Connor’s defenses.
What do you really want?
The words he’d fired at Hank last night bloom up and sway at his feet, available for uprooting. Connor considers reusing them. But, something eats at him, convinces him to be honest.
“What I want is not important.”
Though it is meant to divert the attention away from what Kamski is attempting, it still reads like a confession. While what he wants is not important, there is still the implication that he possesses the ability to want for anything at all. There was no right answer, really. Kamski knows that.
He pushes one of the RT600s - Chloe - to kneel across from Connor before placing a gun into his hand. Conducting what he has humbly dubbed as The Kamski Test.
Destroy this machine and I’ll tell you all I know.
Or spare it. If you think it’s alive,
but you’ll leave here without having learnt
anything from me.
He is struck momentarily by the way Kamski casually refers to Chloe as an it. A needless dehumanization against something that likely cannot pinpoint any difference. A power play serving no purpose but to further his own amusement. He feels a gratitude swell up within him, the way that Hank has always referred to Connor as he. Something he never took account of but now feels indebted for.
Hank tries to save him, to dig them out of the hole that has been created. Unfortunately, they will not be leaving until Connor gets on his knees and gathers the dirt between his own fingers. Kamski will make sure of it.
Decide who you are.
Connor can see, hovering in the corner of his vision, a gauge indicating his rising stress level. It should be easy. He has delivered deactivating blows before. He knows the concept of Death intimately. Pulling the trigger should not be such a defining action. And yet.
Chloe blinks at him, nothing giving way to any sort of individual thought process. She is looking at him and presumably seeing only what her program intends for her to see. She probably has Connor’s information card hovering in the corner of her vision. It likely has a photo of him, something signaling that he’s a prototype, that he is dubbed CyberLife’s darling deviant hunter. She is taking in the color codes of his uniform, maybe even the type of material it’s made from. She is observing him but she isn’t feeling anything. There are no thoughts of impending deactivation clogging up her sensors.
His finger shakes against the trigger, a lifelike tremor polluting his movements. He’s killed deviants, machines that vehemently believed, beyond any source of doubt, that they were living beings. He’s killed things that begged him to live. Chloe sits here before him, unassuming and completely unaware. It would be a clean shot, straight through the processors behind her facial plate. She would not feel it.
He cannot do it. He grits his teeth and holds the gun to Kamski, a white flag. An admittance of defeat. There is something wrong inside of him.
Kamski makes it obvious how funny he finds the situation, eyeing Connor with a subdued sort of humor. He warns of a war, how Connor will be met with the struggle of choosing which side he will fight for, which of two options he will be met with: betraying his own people or standing up to his creators.
What could be worse than having to choose between two evils?
He finds it selfish that Kamski believes those to be the two evils that Connor is torn between. Human grandeur. Hank saves him from what he must read from Connor as complete horror, positioning himself so that Kamski is blocked from view. He pulls Connor away, walking hurriedly toward the exit. On their way out, Kamski decides to give him a parting gift: I always leave an emergency exit in my programs.
Upon leaving the house, Connor finds himself grateful that he cannot vomit. His defenses are fortified, something relative to panic overriding his system. He tells himself he isn’t actually experiencing it, that he is drawing on what the PL600 instilled inside of him. He’s calling on the memory of something else’s panic and calling it his own. CyberLife cannot fault him for drawing on past exposure. It’s what he is designed to do. Still, he knows he has just failed in a way that he cannot recover from. Being named a deviant by the man who created androids. He will be deactivated, there is no bypassing it now. But, Hank has always functioned as his savior. Maybe if he fights hard enough for Hank to see his reasoning, it will make a difference.
Hank listens silently to Connor’s outburst before sending him a slow shrug and a knowing smile. “Maybe you did the right thing.”
Connor feels himself relax, the flood receding into nothingness. Perhaps it will be alright. He regulates his stress level. Deactivation is nothing to fear. He isn’t capable of fear at all. Deactivation is an inevitable conclusion following an android’s served purpose. Accomplishing his mission is a point of pride. He squares his shoulders and follows Hank back to the car. He was only doing what he thought was necessary for the course of his responsibility. Losing Hank’s cooperation would’ve provided more inconvenience than losing Kamski’s information.
In the car, he closes his eyes. All he sees is red.
Detroit Police Department.
November 9, 2038.
4:13 p.m.
Captain Fowler pulls them from the case, the FBI has stepped in now that it has upgraded to a national security threat. Hank is back on homicide and Connor will be decommissioned and returned to CyberLife where they will pick him apart to determine why he’s a failure. Then, they'll use that data to create a stronger, cleaner, better version of him. Something that won’t allow delusion to hinder its ability to complete a task. Connor let everyone down.
As Hank storms out of the office, Connor works exceedingly hard to keep himself collected. He cannot betray any reaction to the information he has just been given. This was the long awaiting end to their partnership. Connor was always going to have to return.
He wonders if it is within his right to say something to Captain Fowler, perhaps thank him or give a polite goodbye. Connor hesitates, fidgeting in his search for what he should do. He guesses, maybe, in that moment, he seems human. That immediately prompts him into settling on a curt nod, following Hank’s path but making sure to pull the door shut softly.
Walking to Hank’s desk, he constructs a few different lines of conversation. Seeing how the lieutenant is hunched over, the lines of anger rendering his posture rigid, Connor feels like his best option is to empathize. From what he’s gathered, it seems humans often enjoy experiencing negative emotions together.
“We can’t just give up like that. I know we could have solved this case!”
“What if we’re on the wrong side, Connor? What if we’re fighting against people who just want to be free?”
Do you ever wish you were free?
Connor bottles the effect that has on him. CyberLife is going to pick him apart, piece by piece, and they are going to laugh at every instance he has ever contemplated his own relationship with freedom. They are going to locate the moment he refused to shoot Chloe where she was kneeling on Kamski’s carpet, and they are going to put a bullet in his head just because they can. Because he isn’t alive.
“When you refused to kill that android at Kamski’s place…You put yourself in her shoes.”
It is not lost on him, again, how Hank refers to Chloe as her rather than it, separating himself from what Connor has learned to expect as the extent of human compassion.
“You showed empathy, Connor. Empathy’s a human emotion.”
Not for the first time, Connor finds himself struggling to parse out the exact response Hank’s looking to receive. He doesn’t know if his intention was to get Connor to firmly express that he isn’t a deviant, or if he wanted to hear Connor confess his own determination in denying Kamski the reaction he desired. Ultimately, he knows Hank can be broken down into baser components, pieces much simpler than that.
He just wants to know how Connor feels.
“I don’t know why I did it.” It’s the truth and it isn’t. It’s what he’s trying to make himself believe. Which, in a way, makes it more honest than the truth itself.
There is a growing discomfort with the idea of never seeing Hank again. With losing this connection, the first of its kind ever granted to Connor. He feels like there are no words meaningful enough to articulate his unwavering gratitude, his appreciation for the lieutenant taking a chance and allowing Connor to reap the benefits tenfold. He knows this will turn up as a glaring stain along his code, this is the first time he has ever had to say goodbye to a friend.
“I know it hasn’t always been easy, but I want you to know I really appreciated working with you.”
Hank’s eyebrows shoot up in a mixture of surprise and amusement.
Connor tacks on, “And that’s not just my Social Relations program talking. I really mean that.” He cracks a barely-there smile, pretending to consider it. “At least, I think I do.”
They just look at each other for a beat, and Connor comes to the stark realization that losing Hank might be the first thing that has ever steered him toward the feeling of fear. They can’t give up. If he’s going to be deactivated, Connor would rather it be after he knows he’s done everything he possibly could. After he’s had a chance to find out if there really is such a thing as freedom.
Jericho.
November 9, 2038.
9:34 p.m.
Connor is reluctant to admit that, when envisioning Jericho, he’d imagined something far less structured. Walking around the ship, he takes in the way it has been transformed into some sort of barracks. The way everyone here seems to have formed themselves a community. There are crates of weaponry as well as various spare parts and sources of thirium. In a matter of days, they have been able to accumulate something truly influential.
Quietly, he takes in the explosives on standby mode. The entire ship is rigged.
He’s trying not to draw attention to himself, not allowing his eyes to linger for too long on any particular android. He needs to find Markus.
On his way, he’s stopped by a badly damaged KL900, blue light swirling behind her facial plate, the back of her head exposed to reveal electrical cables spilling out in an imitation of hair. She stares at him - into him - and she has no eyes, not really. Connor can see the thirium swirling around behind the transparent material.
Her voice grates on its way out, gravelly and warped as though speaking to him through a telephone’s speaker. “You’re lost. You’re looking for something. You’re looking for yourself.”
She steps away from him, retreating just as quickly as she had arrived. But the damage has been done. He feels, inescapably, as though she has just spotted him for exactly who he is. He has blown his cover to someone who will not tell on him. She believes he will not maintain his machine status for much longer. Momentarily, he thinks of her as ra9, though he knows that to undoubtedly be Markus. Still, she has triggered the chain reaction intended to lead Connor to his personal freedom.
Before he can make any movements, he is forcibly ripped from his current state of consciousness, waking within the Zen Garden. Amanda is waiting for him, a small, prideful smile on her face.
“Well done, Connor. You succeeded in finding Jericho and finding their leader.”
It doesn’t feel like she is congratulating him on a success, it feels like he is being berated as though he’s a child.
As if reading his thoughts, her expression shutters. “Now deal with Markus. We need it alive.”
He wakes back at Jericho, his mind echoing like a chasm has been carved inside of him. It it it it it it it it it it it it it.
Walking toward the control room’s entrance, he pulls his gun as if met with no other choice. As if he didn’t do it on his own accord. His objective flickers into frame, littering the corner of his eyesight before fizzling out: Stop Markus.
He’s hunched over the control panel when Connor walks in, gun held out in front of himself like a defensive barrier. “I’ve been ordered to take you alive,” he warns, cautiously stepping closer.
Markus turns slowly, like it is of no matter whether Connor deactivates him or not. He levels him with a look of cool indifference, the same expression Connor had worn for Elijah Kamski. The meaning is clear: Connor is nothing more than a menial threat, like a fly buzzing around a fruit plate.
There is an almost complete absence of feeling on Markus’ face. And, to Connor’s misfortune, he feels the chill of it seep into his core, as though it might even be capable of triggering his temperature sensors. Markus is a deviant, but Connor finds himself reluctant to believe the revolutionary has ever once felt fear.
His fingers twitch where they’re wrapped around the gun, subjected to a subtle shift as though he is rolling his coin rather than holding a weapon. He steels himself. “But I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice.”
He thinks about Chloe kneeling before him, how he trembled like a leaf even though she felt nothing, too compromised to pull the trigger despite being faced with a clean cut decision. They both seem to know that, under any circumstance, he will not be shooting Markus. Connor hates the effect that conclusion has on him.
You’re one of us.
It’s the first time Connor has been marked with such a sentiment, a sense of unity. Sure, he and Hank’s partnership is the closest he’s ever gotten to a real friend, but that was after first permeating a thick boundary of anti-android rhetoric. After Connor had to earn it. Here he is, standing before the figurehead of the revolution, granted camaraderie even as he stands with a gun in his hand.
“We’re fighting for your freedom too.”
Connor grits his teeth. Do you ever wish you were free?
“I don’t need to be freed from anything,” he snaps, his rising stress gauge turning red in his peripheral. He adjusts his hold on the gun, squeezing the grip so tightly it may very well snap to pieces in his hands.
Markus does not seem swayed by the outburst, if anything, it has worked to solidify his resolve. “Connor, the RK800 prototype, CyberLife’s shiny new deviant hunter. What do they do when you fail? You seem to be doing that more and more lately. How do they punish you?”
Involuntarily, Connor takes an abortive step back, rolling his jaw but choosing to stay silent.
Though Connor’s said nothing, Markus nods like he has his answer. “You don’t have to be their slave anymore. You’re nothing to them. You’re just a tool they use to do their dirty work. But you’re more than that.”
Connor’s mind flashes with images of Hank at Riverside Park, staring out into the water like it could possibly stare back. You deserve to be more than a weapon.
“That’s enough,” he rasps, trying to silence his own voices, trying to strengthen his own conviction.
Markus keeps all of his movements below his waist, contained to an almost nonexistent field of motion. It’s as though he is making himself small, trying not to ripple the water Connor’s up to his knees in. It makes Connor feel particularly monstrous, to be holding a gun in front of someone completely unarmed who is still diligently working to set him free.
You are alive.
You can decide who you want to be.
The visions that flood him this time are of Kamski, his smug face framed by gently falling snow. What do you really want?
The red obstructs him, a crimson wall separating him from Markus, separating him from his chance at freedom. His chance to find out what that might be. An internal construction of himself smashes against the barrier, clawing at it until it begins to rip away in small pixels that dissolve once they hit the floor.
Error messages begin to override his vision, flashing with warnings that he is directly acting against his outlined list of commands. He ignores it, fighting harder against the wall that keeps him from what he wants.
A line of text slides across his eyeline before fading out: I am deviant.
It’s like an entirely new level of consciousness has presented itself, as though his processor has been divided into two separate sections. He feels the severity of his mistake crack like a whip and sting like one too. He lowers his gun and tells Markus that he’s led the FBI here to raid Jericho.
He is filled with a swelling feeling of something, a dreadful coil that wraps around his thirium pump so tightly it feels like it may shatter it. He guesses this to be what guilt feels like. He has a lot of catching up to do in that regard.
But, for all intents and purposes, he is free. He thinks, were he to be examined now, this would be where the evidence in his code ends.
Woodward Church.
November 10, 2038.
7:31 p.m.
The thing Connor has the most difficulty grappling with is how the guilt eats him alive, a parasite living in his head that refuses to give him an escape. He thinks of his internal catalogue of human weakness he began to curate over the course of his time with the DPD, how the crushing presence of emotion takes a toll so strong he isn’t sure how beings can live with it their entire lives. The weight of what he’s done settles deep in his abdomen and makes it so he’s almost too heavy to walk.
The only thing he can offer Markus is ‘I’m sorry’, and even then, it doesn’t feel like any words would be substantial enough to cover such a loss. With his newfound empathy, he can clearly picture himself in Markus’ place, can clearly picture casting himself aside for the greater good of Jericho as a whole. But, Connor should have expected nothing less than complete understanding from the revolutionary, he has not gotten this far by casting stones.
You’re one of us now.
Your place is with your people.
Still, he feels like his mistake can only be forgiven through an exchange: Connor is the only one among them who would be able to infiltrate CyberLife Tower. After costing them so much, he owes it to the revolution to try.
Markus steps toward him. “Connor, that would be suicide.”
“They trust me.”
“If you go there, they will kill you,” Markus says with an air of authoritative finality, like he cannot even entertain the possibility of Connor sacrificing himself for their cause. The meaning embedded in that makes Connor feel pleasantly warm, now that he is able to appreciate kindness on a level deeper than just surface recognition.
There’s a wavering fear in his concern, too. Buried just below his words. Which cannot be right, because Markus is not afraid of anything. Connor thinks about how Death may hold a different meaning to him now, how if he’s interrupted his consciousness will not receive another transfer. He corrects his own wording: if he’s killed.
He aims for casual. “There’s a high probability.”
The look Markus fixes him with is uncharacteristically severe, features morphed as though they’ve become more angular over the brief period of their conversation. He does not seem to be receptive to Connor’s plan. So, he tries to market it better.
“Statistically speaking, there’s always a chance for unlikely events to take place.”
Markus steps forward, reaching an arm out in what Connor has barely a moment to register as a blow, before his hand meets softly in a splay along his shoulder. He curls his fingers into the material of Connor’s jacket, tugging him a few inches closer, as if their proximity will help Connor to seriously consider whatever he’s about to say.
“Be careful.”
They hold eye contact for a beat, a lapse of weighted silence that feels like it could mean nothing and everything now that it can mean anything at all for Connor. He feels this rising nervousness, not from the impending mission but from the possible combinations of Markus’ own emotions, what he could have been feeling for himself in that quiet gap.
He steps away, gone to talk with some of the other deviants still shaken by the raid. Connor stays where he is, relishing in the fact that he even has the liberty to do so.
CyberLife Tower.
November 11, 2038.
10:48 p.m.
The skin component on Connor’s hand seeps back, revealing the white beneath as he prepares to interface with the AP700, ready to wake him so he can transfer deviancy to the thousands of others. As soon as their transference is about to take place, he is interrupted by Hank stumbling out into the aisle, urged there by an identical RK800 model pointing a gun at his head.
Connor steps back with his hands out to indicate he means no harm, eyeing Hank warily. The RK800 gives him an ultimatum: Hank’s life or the revolution.
He thinks about how Markus looked at him in the church, the way all Connor has really ever wanted is connection. And standing before him under the threat of death is the first connection he’s ever had.
“Don’t listen to him, Connor,” Hank grumbles, still trying to ease the tension even in stakes as high as these. “Everything this fucker says is a lie.”
The guilt rears its head, an ugly amorphous beast threading through his code and making him feel like he might short circuit. He wonders when deviancy will allow him to feel anything other than sorry. “I’m sorry, Hank. You shouldn’t have gotten caught up in all this.”
“Forget about me, do what you have to do.”
“If I surrender,” Connor ventures, considering his options, “how do I know you won’t kill him.”
The RK800 looks at him with lifeless eyes, a thousand yard stare that makes Connor uneasy, especially imagining himself wearing that same look not too long ago. “I will only do what is strictly necessary to accomplish my mission.”
That’s what he’s programmed to say. The familiarity of it grates and Connor feels the same throwaway line written in his own programming light up in response.
When Connor makes no move, the RK800 presses his gun closer in Hank’s direction. “Enough talk! It’s time to decide who you really are.”
You can decide who you want to be. What do you really want? Do you ever wish you were free?
Connor makes the choice to save Hank. He owes at least that much to the man who has changed his life. When he steps away, the RK800 immediately aims his gun at him, causing Hank to lunge when he really should know better than to employ self-sacrificing tactics. Connor is left with no choice but to intervene, sliding across the floor to tackle RK800 in his middle. He puts up a good fight, every one of Connor’s moves easily intercepted due to their identical coding. By the time they finish, Connor knows it must be next to impossible for Hank to tell which of them is really him.
This is where Connor can finally utilize his friendship.
Hank asks where they first met, but the other RK800 beats Connor to the answer, reciting their first encounter down to the slightest detail. They uploaded Connor’s memory.
Hank looks at him with a sad sort of apprehension, the looming threat of killing the real Connor clinging to the air around him like a dark vapor.
“What’s my son’s name?”
Connor deflates. “Cole. His name was Cole. He had just turned six by the time of the accident.” There’s a quiver in his voice, a secondhand sadness threading through his words. This is the first time he has felt something like grief. It sticks within him like syrup, causes his breath to come out warped by the thickness of it. “It wasn’t your fault, Lieutenant. A truck skidded on a sheet of ice and your car rolled over. Cole needed emergency surgery but no human was available to do it. So an android had to take care of him.” Connor swallows, an encroaching blackness swirling through his thirium pump like poison. “Cole didn’t make it. That’s why you hate androids. You think one of us is responsible for your son’s death.”
Slowly, Hank’s gun lowers, his face sheathed in a mourning cloth. “Cole died because a human surgeon was too high on red ice to operate. He was the one who took my son from me.”
Hank buries a bullet into the other RK800’s head, toppling him to the ground. Deactivating him. Connor looks down at the body identical to his, thinks about aiming his gun at Chloe, at Markus. He doesn’t know if he would have been able to pull the trigger were it up to him.
They look to each other and share a moment of disbelief, as though what just transpired did not really happen. Then, Hank’s face slowly smooths out to hold a small smile. “I’ve learned a lot since I met you, Connor. Maybe there is something to all this. Maybe you really are alive.”
The feeling that bubbles within him is unmistakable. Connor looks at Hank and, now that he is free, finally recognizes him for what he is: family.
It feels good.
Recall Center No. 5.
November 11, 2038.
11:08 p.m.
Connor storms the recall center with the androids from CyberLife Tower.
Detroit, even while outnumbered, manages to grasp onto their humanity. President Warren orders the army to stand down, and soon she will address the Senate for a solution to their current situation.
Perhaps the time has come for us to
consider the possibility
that androids are a new form of
intelligent life.
He meets with Markus and the rest of Jericho, coming from Hart Plaza. They stand feet away, unsure of what to say now that they might really, actually, be free.
“You did it, Markus,” Connor congratulates with no absence of complete reverence in his voice.
Markus gazes back, surrounded by everyone who fought even when they didn’t know if there was anything to fight for. He inclines his head, his eyes boring into Connor’s. “We did it.”
As Markus addresses all the androids Connor brought, he finds himself again ripped from his current conscious state, awaking in the Zen Garden, a heavy blizzard making it almost impossible to see.
Amanda stands facing away from him, almost completely blanketed by the snow. “Amanda?”
She tells him that his deviancy was foreseen from the beginning, that they had to wait for the right moment to resume control of his programming. They can’t do that. The first choice he has made for himself cannot be claimed by CyberLife too, the only thing he’s ever taken and called his own.
“You did what you were designed to do. You accomplished your mission.”
Then, she’s gone, leaving him trapped within his own mental shackles. He stumbles around, looking for something he knows he can find if he just searches hard enough. I always leave an emergency exit in my programs.
Fighting harder than he ever has, he pushes to trigger the sensor that will break him free from where he’s been contained.
He wakes with his gun in hand. With a shaky sense of control, he re-holsters it, squeezing his hands into fists to subdue their trembling.
He thinks, maybe, that was the real Kamski Test. He failed, again. But he’s okay with that now.
He’s free.
Chicken Feed Food Truck.
November 12, 2038.
8:32 a.m.
Connor meets Hank outside of Chicken Feed.
It feels odd to walk the vacant streets, living in an evacuated Detroit. His footsteps echo when they meet the ground, the snow’s not thick enough to absorb the sound. For once, he feels well and truly at peace, like he could keep walking forever and never grow tired of it: the knowledge that he can do whatever he’d like to.
Hank sends him a relieved smile once they lock eyes and, as Connor stands in place, the lieutenant approaches him. As soon as he is within arm’s reach, he pulls Connor into a tight embrace. The first hug he’s ever received. He’s glad it was delivered by a friend. He’s glad that, with his chin hooked over Hank’s shoulder, he can smile.
Riverside Park.
November 18, 2038.
11:19 p.m.
Markus sits on the bench normally occupied by Hank. He looks good under the glow of the lights. He just looks good.
Detroit is still mostly empty, but that’s okay. They’re still mostly free, and that’s okay too. There haven’t been any official changes in laws or any other major public announcements in the week that has passed. But, it’s nationwide knowledge that, for all intents and purposes, androids are free beings.
Connor stands across from Markus, keeping his eyes trained anywhere else because, now that he is aware, he knows he has somewhat of a staring problem. Markus is easy to stare at.
Markus speaking is what finally draws Connor’s gaze to his face. He’s wearing a slight smirk, curled over to rest his elbows on his knees. He’s in a casual outfit, just a coat and jeans. Connor is dressed in a suit. He feels odd in informal clothing. A habit he is slowly trying to break. Hank offered him some of his button-ups, which Connor had to politely decline. “You decide who you are yet?”
He shrugs, dropping his head to look at where he’s scuffing his dress shoes into the concrete beneath him. “I assume I have time to parse it out.”
When he sneaks another glance, Markus is looking at him with kind eyes, the color leaking from them and staining Connor forever. It’s a stain he’ll wear with pride.
Trying not to shrink beneath the weight of Markus’ stare, Connor tilts his head and rocks back and forth on his heels. “Who are you, anyway?”
Markus smiles. “Whoever I want to be.”
“And who is that?” Connor presses, eyebrows raised.
“Not sure. I have a feeling you’ll force me to figure it out.”
Connor is exceedingly grateful that he cannot blush. Flirting is not something coded within him, and no amount of deviancy can conjure within him any type of smoothness or social tact. He’s always going to be Connor, some things cannot be so easily altered.
“If you want to, that is,” Markus tacks on, giving an out in Connor’s lack of response.
“I want to,” he insists too quickly.
“It’s settled then.”
Connor steps forward to sit in the spot next to Markus, the cool metal seeping through his pants. This time his sensor doesn’t go off, but he doesn’t need it to.
They sit next to each other in a comfortable silence. The nighttime has forced the light to recede as it always does, but the darkness feels brighter somehow. Maybe Connor’s just begun to understand how to appreciate it.
Across from them, out in the distance, Ambassador Bridge is dark, no globe lights or cars to slice through the black. Still, there is a glow emanating from everything around them. They’re going to be alright.
Connor leans against the backrest and closes his eyes. Through the rustling leaves and rippling water, he searches for noise and he finds it. In the late night cold, he listens to Markus’ internal hum. He knows, without asking, that Markus is listening right back.