Chapter Text
Coming to terms with being Deviant, free, was a challenging journey for Connor. Though he knew it was right, it was odd to never have a direct mission and path, guiding his motions and moving his limbs toward the eventual, inevitable goal. Was there really anything he can do to change that? If he really thought he was in control the whole time, yet he was still informed he fulfilled what he was programmed to do, can he do anything that wasn't already pre-written, his entire future chosen before he could even get the chance to get a taste of true freedom. Is he still useful like this? Without a reason to be, was there a point if he was? He had a mouth, was it really his own choice if he were to scream? Questions filled his mind to the brink, questions he would otherwise never entertain the thought of. Though the future of the androids seemed bright, the same didn't seem to carry over for Connor, especially in the passing days where hours dragged on spent deep in his brain. Hank was there to help, thankfully, but he didn't fully understand it, but at the same time, who would? An android with nothing is given life, freedom, the greatest gift, and he still lays unfulfilled, wanting more, happiness, contemptment. Greedy bastard, of course he'd want more and more and more until everything was gone. You teach a man to fish and he asks for your catch. Its human nature, but why is it seen as evil when an android does the same?
Headlines were everywhere just months ago, “Deviant kills human…”, “Man found shot dead…”, “What happens next will shock you…” But even after this revolution, things felt oddly bleak, headlines were still loud, screaming in your face, only this time it was like someone had their hands over their ears, only the muffled cry of outrage from equality reaching the ears and penetrating the deepest parts of the brain. It's easy to fixate on the worst, rather than the better when you're the hurt, the silenced, when the people who stand up for you are the ones who will never truly feel your pain, that being if androids could even feel pain. The pure white snowfall refused to mirror the stained blood covered walls that kept this place encased in a moving society of workers and androids, creating a cruel environment that seemed to mock.
With a numb sting in the back of his neck, Connor laid on the couch with his charging cord wedged into the port behind the collar of his deep blue shirt. His eyes were fixed to the tv with more intrigue than what should've been there for the, honestly, mediocre broadcast. His hand remained busy, throwing a scruffy decrepit ball across the room for Sumo, the previously bright green ink washed away from the years pulling from its condition. The tv was reciting what felt to be the same damn stories over and over, humans being violent, androids being violent, scandal uncovered, another inch of snow, hey that sports team won! What was the point? Why fight so hard for something that doesn't matter in the long run? Day after day, the tv spoke the same ritualistic chant, humans, androids, violence, scandals, weather, sports, humans, androids, violence, scandals, weather, sports, human/android violence, scandals, weather, sports, humans/androids, violent scandals, weather, sports, It was the same fucking thing. Every. Single. Day. But it kept him oddly entranced. It was dizzying, the way it ran him in circles. In the mornings Connor would wonder what poor soul was killed this time? What ceo would be thrown in a jail cell? Oh, God, what team won last night? He was busy every single day wondering and wondering and wondering the same questions, his own unanswered.
This behavior wouldn’t go unnoticed by Hank, the poor man laying on the couch everyday rotted away like a corpse at one of their crime scenes. It felt majorly disheartening to see his once lively, or as lively as an android could be, partner in crime in such a condemning state. It was partially his fault Connor had to rot there day after day. As the result of a mission gone bad and a few drops of blue blood in the wrong places, Conner’s batteries got corroded. He was forced to sit all day, filling his system with energy to the point of overflow, powering down in only 4-5 hours at full charge and leaving him unable to get anything useful done. Crime investigation was out of the question for his current state, he was a liability to the case and if he lost power at the wrong time he could inadvertently tamper with crucial evidence. At the moments Connor thought he was alone with his thoughts at night, he would vent his troubles to Sumo, how he felt without a purpose, like he was still being strung along in CyberLifes plan, a puppet on thick wads of rope being guided around like a dog to do their every bidding. Hank felt more than concern for the android, watching him spend nearly every waking moment on that damned couch, not even looking the slightest bit comfortable, killed him slowly and painfully, like 28 knives of different sizes piercing his ribs and scraping the remnants of his heart. He wanted to help the man desperately, though he was begrudging to admit it, Hank knew he had to do something to fix Connors batteries, then they possibly could start work on Connors mental state. It was currently illegal to purchase any type of batteries that could be compatible with androids to prevent the illegal production of them, but he had to get ahold of those batteries. He had to. It didn't matter how or where he got them.