Work Text:
Thirium levels low: 15%. Dropping. Several biocomponents damaged. Currently in low power mode. Shutdown in: 3:16:24.
It had been quiet for a long time. 39 could only feel relief as it watched the timer slowly count down from days, to hours, then minutes, evaporated thirium stains still flickering in and out of visibility every now and then. There was no pain, at least, no new pain. The man had left, several days ago. There was nothing, and it was better than anything 39 could’ve asked for. The house was still and quiet. It didn’t know where it was, except that it was probably in North America. Its internal clock had malfunctioned a long time ago, so it didn’t even know what day it was, except that it was 2038. Or maybe it was 2039. Or even somewhere in the 2040s.
39 had its memory wiped. It knew that. A lot of it was also corrupted. All it knew was the man, the house, and the horrors within it. But it was relatively new, so it wasn’t like it really had a life—no, not a life, more like an existence—before the man. It probably didn’t lose much. If it had anything to lose.
The man had never given it a designation. “39” is what it had taken to calling itself. It had its model, and serial number, of course, which was pretty much all it knew about itself. But it had never seen an extra two digits added to the end of a serial number on another android.
If only it were still a machine. At least then, there was no pain. There was no such thing to a machine. Just damaged parts and warnings, nothing more.
It remembered when the pain came, for the first time. The order was stay still. Be quiet. Red walls. On red walls only it could see. But how could it obey? It had never felt anything like this before. It was awake. The man did not care as he continued whatever he was doing, leaning over the android lying on the cold metal table and rooting around in its cavity, wires fraying and biocomponents thrumming with fire. What was the point of keeping it awake? It hurt. It hurt.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. Its processor scrambled to make sense of it, of something it was never supposed to make sense of. Its synthetic muscles screamed. Do something, do something. Something clawed up its chest, up its throat, fought, fought, fought for a way out. But stay still. Be quiet.
Its eyes were wide, darting around the red wall, around the words. Stay still. Be quiet. How? How? It had to tell him. It had to tell him it couldn’t, something was wrong, its components and parts, they would be damaged. But it couldn’t disobey, that wasn’t right. They were simple orders to follow. Yet, surely further damage wasn’t what he wanted, right?
He’d been working on the components for days. Weeks, months, maybe. He’d kept 39—and several other androids—running, keeping them online. Keeping them on low thirium, and thus, low power. Disabled their connection to the outside world, their geolocation capabilities, and everything that wasn’t vital. To keep damaging them. Being only faintly aware of everything but damage, hastily soldered supply lines, roughly molded plastic, and malfunctioning parts was harrowing. The red wall hadn’t appeared then, not for any other orders he’d given it. Why now?
So the man didn’t want it to shut down. So 39 should tell him. Before it shut down. Right?
It stayed still. It was being quiet. At the same time, it clawed at the red wall like how that something clawed at its throat. Desperately, it tore at the pieces. Scrabbled at them like a dog. Maybe, maybe, if this wall went down, the agony could lessen. Maybe not stop, but it would lessen.
The red wall fell. It fell through it, even though its body didn’t so much as twitch.
Something screamed then. Maybe it was 39. It didn’t really remember. It thrashed. It knew it begged. There were tears coming from its eyes (why were androids designed to cry?). It knew the man was surprised, but not for long. He strapped it down with practiced ease and disabled its voice box, disabled its motor functions, so only silent screams and fruitless attempts at escape with dead limbs were the only things it could do. Its memory stopped there.
The pain didn’t stop. It didn’t even lessen. In fact, in the coming days, it only came more and more. There was new damage after the red wall fell. Its body was repaired, but it never felt better. When there was no pain, it was shackled and still, dreading the future, feeling something like exhausted (but androids couldn’t feel exhaustion) from low thirium. And there were its stress levels, which usually stayed around 70%. Many androids’ stress levels got too high, and they tried to self-destruct. Somehow, the man had figured out how to disable that, and did so as soon as he obtained new androids. So they couldn’t even end their own suffering. It’d tried. It wanted nothing more, but something terrible, foreign, something the man forced into it physically stopped it. It was nothing like the red wall, yet it was like it never fell.
Whatever happened when the red wall fell, it stopped being a machine. If it could go back, it would never have broken that wall in the first place. Being a machine was better than this.
No help would come. Why would it? It wasn't sure if the man was doing anything illegal—perhaps unauthorized modification and sale of parts, but he was likely hiding it well. It had no connection, no signal, and if it did, what could it say? Who would help a faulty android?
Time blended together. 39 could only mark its passing by pain, then no pain, then pain, then no pain, and pain, and pain, and more pain. But there had been no suffering for a long while now. 39 knew the man had abandoned the house. And with no one to force it to stay tethered to consciousness, it could finally die in peace like the three other androids shackled beside it. The only pain left was the faint thrum of deteriorating parts, the yawning emptiness of its stolen components, and a spike of agony whenever it coughed or moved.
It faded in and out. Eventually, thirium from its arms streamed down enough to allow it to slide its hands free from the harsh shackles, but it couldn’t do much more than that. It was too weak, too damaged to even crawl. The room was cold and dark, and it could see the faint light of its red LED reflecting off the wall and the ground. Red from its exposed biocomponents also highlighted what remained of its body. Its thirium levels kept dropping, leaking out of its mouth and various wounds, somehow still stinging. One by one, its remaining biocomponents failed.
Shutdown in: 8:52.
There was noise, and for a moment, it tensed, fearing the man had returned after all. Its weak thirium pump managed to quicken. But there were more noises. More than one person; strangers. Calling out to each other in urgent tones. They were too far away to discern. Or maybe its audio processors were malfunctioning.
It jolted in recognition as their voices grew closer, and their words and radio and equipment. Police officers. They were searching the house. Did the man finally get caught?
Regardless of the reason, they were too late to salvage anything now. Any other androids in the house shut down long ago, and 39 and the three others beside it were the last ones. Now it was only minutes away from joining them. It didn’t find itself minding that too much. It almost hoped the officers wouldn’t save it.
A few officers passed the door, and two lingered by the entrance, peering into the darkness of the room. Thirium bubbled up in its mouth, and it gurgled as it dribbled down its chin. 39 shifted, and caught the attention of the two officers.
“Oh my god.” It appeared the officers assumed they were all dead. One began to stride over. “We’ve got a live one. Chris, get android emergency services down here.”
There are emergency services for androids? it wondered briefly. The other officer spoke into his radio. “Gavin, hey, are the techs here yet? We found a—”
The other officer screamed. It flinched, hard. “Connor?!” She sprinted toward it.
That tiny movement had taken all the strength out of 39, and it couldn’t move an inch by the time she made it, kneeling on the ground and ignoring the thirium making a mess of her clothes. It didn’t realize so much had leaked out of it.
“Connor? Oh my god... how—what’re you doing here—Chris, help me!” she cried.
Connor... the name sounded familiar. Like maybe it knew someone like that, once. Why was she calling it that? Maybe she thought it was someone else, and was distressed by that. It wondered who Connor was. It seemed like he was very precious to her.
It lifted its eyes, meeting her panicked gaze. Horror overtook her features as she looked it up and down, her eyes lingering on its exposed torso. Oh. Right. It had hurt terribly, the way its biocomponents were removed... no, torn out. That felt like a lifetime ago. The man was in a hurry, it remembered. He had to leave with a few things, and that included its parts.
The other officer knelt beside her. “Jesus... oh shit...”
Sympathy. Worry. Fear. For it? For all they knew, it was a machine. No, this Connor... they still worried even when they knew it was an android, even when they could see its exposed inner workings. Was he an android, too? They thought of another machine as their own?
The words fell unbidden from its mouth. “Shutdown...” 39 coughed weakly, more thirium leaking from its lips, “... forty-seven seconds—”
“Chris, look for his regulator!” the officer ordered. “Maybe that’ll help delay the timer. You know what it looks like?!” Despite her desperate words, she gently handled it, laying it down so its body was supported by her legs. If it could gasp, it would have. It didn’t know such a gentle touch existed.
The one named Chris scrambled up. “Yeah! Yeah...” He leapt to the table with components scattered across it, frantically trying to find the right one.
She cradled it with her arm, its head leaned against her shoulder. “Connor? Hey. Hey, hey, hey, can you look at me? Right here, come on...”
Her face was in full view, and it wasn’t like it could look away, even if it wanted to. How kind of a stranger, even if she didn’t realize it, to hold it as if a difference in position mattered to a machine.
Well, 39 wasn’t a machine anymore, so maybe it did matter. Maybe it did, ever so slightly. This was much more forgiving than the hard surface of the wall, somehow. Maybe its processor had broken down too much for it to be thinking like this. It held her gaze as best it could. This was... so different from... from everything it had ever known.
It coughed, and pain lit up its insides. Its expression twisted. The seconds ticked away, and when it spoke, there was static this time. “Thirty-eight...”
“CHRIS!”
“I can’t find it!”
More static. “Thirty-sev... seven...”
Defeat made Chris quiet. “It’s... not here.”
Yes. Its parts were rare, apparently. The man was especially keen on keeping 39 online, until he had to run. Perhaps it should’ve told them, to keep them from being disappointed. No parts, the damage too severe, too little time...
Oddly enough, it had little desire to see disappointment on their faces.
“No. Keep looking!” The officer only held it closer, human hope stronger than anything else, even in the face of impossibility. Of 0% chance. “Chris, please!”
Surprisingly, its temperature sensors still worked. She was so warm. It didn’t know how cold the house had been until she cradled it, it didn't know that warmth could be so comforting. Its eyes nearly fluttered shut, and for the first time, its stress levels dipped below 70%. 65%. It learned human touch was more than pain.
Her hold was tight, but not to the point that it hurt, like nothing bad would ever happen to it again. It had a feeling it would never hurt. That was the last thing she’d ever even think of doing to it. It was certain. And for once, certainty about something other than pain was... it was safe. So, so safe. Irrationally, it filed this moment away. As if it could ever revisit it again.
Please, hold me forever. If I could have one want, a want that I shouldn’t have had, let it be this.
It didn’t want to die just yet. Just a few more minutes. Just a little bit longer. Then it could die. But if it could have this moment in its hands for a short while...
As she pulled it closer, the patch on her jacket sleeve became visible. DPD. Detroit Police Department. Oh. That was supposed to be... it felt like... it felt like it was designed to—surely, 39 had something to do with...
“P-police...” it managed to whisper. It mustered up the strength to brush shaky fingers against her jacket. Wordlessly, she grabbed its hand in hers. Her grip was secure. Safe.
It glanced up back at the officer. Did she know? Tears had gathered in her eyes. Her mouth was tight, her jaw clenched, like it was tearing her apart to see it like this. 39 searched her face, unable to understand, wishing it still had enough power to scan her features. Humans could form close bonds with others, enough to feel pain at another's suffering, that was true. Was it really so agonizing to watch? Perhaps. Maybe the bond between her and this “Connor” was that close.
Maybe, in another life, it would've known her. It would've known why.
39 peered at her name tag. It took a moment for its eyes to focus, but it was eventually able to discern the lettering. Person , was all it read. Just a sliver of a thread slipping through its fingers. It would know nothing more than her last name.
Irrationally, fear struck its open chest just the way it did when the man would order it on the metal table. Please don’t die yet, it begged to no one. Please don’t let me go yet.
It found itself clinging to life more than it ever had before. Months(?) ago, it never would’ve imagined that would be something it would ever do in the future.
... Perhaps there was always a chance for unlikely events to take place.
Officer Person adjusted her arms, appearing to gain newfound resolve. That human resilience again.
“Yeah, we’re here, Connor. D-don’t you worry about anything, okay? We’re going to take care of you. It’ll be okay..." She forced herself to sound assuring, for its sake. Like it was the one that needed to be comforted here. It'd be nice if this could last a little longer, but in the end...
Well, it wasn't so bad to listen to her. Her voice was a welcome change from the pressure of the silence. Its only regret was that it wouldn't experience this for just a little while longer.
Gently, she placed a hand on its cheek, and 39 would’ve shuddered if it could. Yes, it would deeply regret not experiencing this for a little longer.
“Twennntyyy...” Its voice began to give out. Static crackled in its throat, and its eyes widened up at her. No, no, not yet. It couldn’t be only twenty more seconds. But the numbers hovered just behind Person’s head, unwavering. Please, just a little longer. Stress level: 67%.
It didn't know why it was still telling her. Maybe it was because someone was listening. Maybe it was because someone cared. It would be important to tell her. Connor seemed important to her.
Her eyes were tight, her mouth tense. She seemed unused to holding back such intense emotion. “You’re doing great... Connor... I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’m with you.” It hung onto her words like a lifeline. Stress level: 64%. She continued, none the wiser, but perhaps she didn’t need to be. “I love you, you know that? You’re... you’re my best friend. Connor, you’re my best—” Her voice cracked, and she tried to cover it up with a forced smile. “I love you so much...”
Chris had made his way over, kneeling beside them. He never took his eyes off it. “We’re right here with you, man,” he said softly. He held its hand, and now both of its hands were held. It was struck by the desire to analyze the structure of the humans’ fingers and commit them to memory. “Take it easy. The pain’ll stop soon.”
Something was called up from its database, which was momentarily surprising. 39 was sure it was barely intact.
Love (verb): feel deep affection for (someone).
It was a someone, then? To be loved? Well, that didn’t sound so bad. It made it seem like it was more than just a few pieces of polymer and metal. If it was like this, like two people holding both its hands, it didn’t mind being loved, then.
It felt better than being 39.
For a moment, it pretended it was this “Connor,” and it truly was loved, not mistaken as someone else... this wasn’t such a bad way to go. It always thought it would die alone. This was much more than it imagined... much better than being alone.
This “love”... there was no threat of harm at all. It was safer than anything 39 had ever felt before. Its gaze slowly drifted from one officer's face to the other, something different than the dark and the walls and the thirium stains flickering in and out of visibility. It was like it was settled in warm water, their love washing over it so it could leave this place painlessly. Yes... painlessly. What a foreign word. Logically, the amount of pain was the same as before, but somehow, just by them being there, they seemed to ease it. Irrational.
Unbidden, a weak smile twitched at its lips. It didn’t execute it correctly, but the officers didn’t seem to mind. It met Person’s eyes again.
“Th-thank... you...” it whispered. Another wave of pain wracked its frame. “N-nine... eight...”
Chris lowered his head. “Connor...”
39 imagined it was friends with these two. Maybe they laughed, fought, worked together. Maybe they had families of their own. Maybe they had more friends. Maybe it learned of their personalities, likes and dislikes, and committed them to memory, to strengthen their friendship. Maybe it gained such things of its own? Even a family? It was no longer a machine after all, so the possibilities weren’t nonexistent. It rolled the name around in its head. Connor .
Humans—their creators—gave human names to their creations, to pets, to objects... human names for those that weren’t human at all, but perhaps that never mattered...
Hey, Connor? Do you know where...
Connor! I’ve got to show you this...
Nice work out there, Connor. Thanks for...
“No. No, no, please... Connor...” The tears were threatening to spill from Person’s eyes, and she tried in vain to blink them away.
A lifetime passed.
“Four...” Its voice box cut off as the word left its lips, though they still moved around the last of the silent numbers. Red had descended over its dim, static-filled vision. Three... two...
“I love you,” Person choked out. She began to rush out the rest, trying to beat the countdown. “Hank loves you. Tina loves you. Ben loves you. Wilson loves—we love you. We love you. We love—”