Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hank Anderson hated waking up early to walk his dog.

More accurately, he didn’t mind walking his dog, he just hated that he had to wake up early. Sumo was a docile Saint Bernard, and although the dog weighed over a hundred pounds, it would never leap up and knock over anyone. Hank used to fantasized about a warm dusk, with no calling from Fowler, no annoying unfinished cases, only him, Cole and Sumo, strolling through the streets and stepping on the yellow leaves that made crisp crunching noises.

Deep down, he knew that this wasn’t a fantasy, but rather memories that came to a sudden halt from four years ago. Cole’s death changed his routine. He completely abandoned walking his dog at sundown; instead, he picked up Russian Roulette. People’s laziness toward life can sometimes result from their everyday hustle and bustle, and at other times, a result of low spirits. Alcohol had seeped into Hank’s central nervous system, he was drowning himself in the golden liquid, running far away from reality. Occasionally, when he had enough of his drinks, he’d go out to walk his dog at midnight. Sumo made no complaints. As is said, it was a good dog.

What’s more, Sumo couldn’t speak either way.

Since the beginning of time, people have attempted to atone for their misdoings, like confessing their sins to a priest or buying indulgences. Hank’s way of making it up to Sumo was both straightforward and effective: he only ever purchased the best dog food for the Saint Bernard while opting for Blackram Whiskey - a cheap drink that is not particularly tasty - for himself. Whenever he accidentally bought the honey flavor, he'd have no choice but to wash it down his throat with Coke and regrets. He never gave in on dog food, though. On Black Fridays, he’d rush into the supermarket, and while others swarmed the electronics discount section, he’d be the only one charging into the pet section with a cart, stocking up on boxes and cans of dog food.

People with a hard life seek solace in ordinary, trivial little things to compensate for their losses. It could be a glass of icy whiskey, a slice of hot pepperoni pizza, or a round of Russian Roulette. He’d load a bullet into the chamber, spin the wheel, and press down on the hammer. The first round always progressed slowly, as he wouldn’t dare pull the trigger while he was still sober. Once he was hammered enough, though, he’d point the gun to his temple, firing shot after shot. During these death-laden memories, Sumo was the only living constant. The dog would enjoy Hank’s hand-picked canned food in the kitchen and rubbed his body against Hank's legs until his owner put down the gun to respond to him. The Russian Roulette often ends with Saint Bernard's warm breaths.

Then Connor entered his life, perfectly resolving the game along with the revolver.

Hank had to admit that it was somewhat wasteful to have Connor - the noble prototype, the most advanced android designed for police use, Markus’s right-hand man who managed to rob the entire Cyberlife tower the moment he deviated - walking his dog for him. This was why Hank had thought himself to be either hungover or still asleep when he saw Connor standing there in a three-piece suit, getting ready for his first dog walk ever with Sumo’s leash in his hand.

He had pulled Connor back into his room to rummage through his wardrobe. Eventually, the older man gave up trying and pulled out a set of unopened outfits for his partner to choose from. The android seemed slightly surprised but didn’t have a chance to say thanks as he was kicked out of the bedroom immediately after. Hank heard the shuffling of Connor changing his clothes, followed by the clattering of Sumo’s collar and the rustling of the dog shaking his fur, before the thud of the front door closing. However, it didn’t take long for a a soft knock on the door to interrupt his short-lived blissful privacy.

"Open up, Lieutenant!" at that time, Connor was still addressing him by his title, "I forgot something."

Hank opened the door and tossed the keys sitting on the shoe cabinet to Connor, all the while evaluating the android’s fashion sense. Connor wore an oversized jacket that was much more reasonable for the occasion, which helped to downplay the overly formal trousers. Finally, a beanie to finish the look… Hold on, a beanie?

For God’s sake, who told him that a beanie could go with a suit?

Hank prided himself on not being punctilious, yet the fit was way out of line. He ripped off Connor’s beanie and slammed the door as fast as he could, shutting the messy-haired android out, along with his words of gratitude.

Where the hell did he get that beanie anyway?

"Lieutenant? Are you listening?"

"Oh!" Hank came back to his senses. The computer in front of him had three case files opened. "Oh, were we discussing the similarities among these three cases?"

"You were spacing out."

"Stop analysing me with your goddamn sensors!"

"I wasn’t. At least not just now."

"Uh, alright." Hank looked up at Connor, whose LED light blinked a calming blue. The android never took the LED off; instead, he kept it as an integral part of himself. "Carry on."

"I was just saying that these cases are connected. The informant from the first case discovered a triangular toy block wrapped in red thread. In the second case, the informant received an anonymous letter containing a charred block inside an envelope. The informant in the third case found a rectangular block that had been cut in half at the scene."

"Weird. Why would anyone specifically abduct android children?" As Hank began analyzing the clue map made by Connor, he realized that the crime scenes of the three cases had no apparent connection in space or time. "And... these android children... are they deviants?"

"There’s not enough data to answer your question. However, there are a few deviant android children in Jericho who remain in a childlike mind, despite having been successfully deviated."

"How absurd. Aside from being with android sex partners, people are now unwilling to properly educate their own children. They are buying android children only to discard them once they are no longer needed."

"By the way, we receive the forth crime report when you were spacing off."

"Fuck!" Hank proped his hands on the table. A new case is on the way while he hadn’t got any clues on the first three. "Only a few hours left until I can—"

"Go to Jimmy's bar?"

"Not what I meant."

"The new case seems quite unusual,“ Connor stated as he logged the details into the case file. Fowler was watching them from behind the glass wall. "The informant is missing both her android and human child."

"Seems like my plan’s gone south for tonight." Hank stood up and put his phone back into his pocket. "Let's go."

This damn snow in Detroit may be a good sign for farmers, but it's a hell of a torture for drivers. Hank, unfortunately, was a sucker for manual transmission cars in the age of autonomous vehicles. The muscle car manufactured in 1987 reflected his particular taste, and his neglect in maintaining the cae revealed much about his personality.

After his third failed attempt to start the car, Connor left the passenger seat and moved to the front to pull open the door on Hank's side. The older police officer had fought an internal battle, gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands before he reluctantly relinquished the driver's seat to his partner.

"There's no way you can start the car."

"Lieutenant, you have approximately 15 years before your license expires," Connor said as he smoothly slid into the driver's seat, turned the key in the ignition, and started the car with ease. "Considering the visibility on the road and your age, it would be safer for me to drive."

"It’s not the time to give me shade for my age!"

"I'm not 'shading' you for your age, Lieutenant. I'm merely stating an objective fact," Connor closed the door and watched as his partner cursed and hunched into the passenger seat. "From what I know of anthropology, it is fortunate to age without suffering from any pain or illness. I should be happy for you."

Damn it, Hank was rendered speechless. He stared at the ornament on the steering wheel and came up with a few questions: Why could the latest RK800 model operate an old manual transmission car? Could Connor download the manual directly from CyberLife’s database? God, he really hated electronics and their manuals. To this day, Fowler still received emails he had sent in the wrong format - most of which were his leave requests.

Hank went down a memory lane. He remembered being drunk before the Eden Club, so Connor had drove him to the scene in this old muscle car. He was so dizzy and hungover that he only sobered up when the deviants attacked them in the warehouse. He couldn’t even remember how many models he had rented until the case was solved, only the sensation of his stomach churning. Connor helped him in applying for reimbursement, and he had no idea what arguments the clever android had used for Fowler to concede.

"You've been lost in thought, Lieutenant."

"Well, not anymore, thanks to your interruption."

"What you were thinking is irrelevant to the case."

"Pff..." Hank turned his head to see the android staring straight ahead. Visibility on the road was low due to the the snow; of course the android’s road condition monitoring system would be much more accurate than his mere human eyes. "When did you install a mind-reading system?"

"You tend to stare at a single point when you're pondering something, whereas you have a habit of looking to your left when recalling memories."

"Did they incorporate criminal psychology into your program as well?"

"I made the inference based on my observations and assessments of you," Connor said as he turned on the headlights which were yellowing from disrepair. "What were you remembering?"

"I was wondering how you managed to convince Fowler to reimburse me for the Eden Club bill."

"I showed him my memory footage to prove that you hadn’t used the expense for prostitution. You had also returned the workers to their positions once I was done with the memory probing."

"You should’ve gave me a heads up!"

"Alright, Lieutenant," Connor said, sidestepping Hank's protests. "We’ve arrived."

Hank looked out the window to the sight of an old house with a dilapidated exterior, its walls covered in black and red graffiti. He was the first to get out of the car, sinking his leather boots into the snow. Hank dreaded the conversation that was approaching. He was no better at dealing with anxious parents than he was at dealing with his own anxiety - especially those waiting outside the operating room.

They entered the footprint-less front yard and stepped over the icy steps to stand in the doorway. Hank glanced back at Connor, who was still wearing a suit. He had suggested to Conner more than once for a change in style, but the older man was quickly struck by the android's fashion sense - struck by how poor it was. In the end, he opted for the suit, as it was hard to go wrong with a set of formal clothes after all. Deep in thought, Hank reached out to ring the doorbell. However, before his finger could touch the button, the door was opened by a gaunt woman.

"Lieutenant Anderson, Detroit police." Hank introduced himself as he heard the sobbbing. "We received a report from you. Thank you in advance for your cooperation."

"Please, come in." The woman quickly placed the garbage bag she was holding down on the doorstep, a corner of an android blood package was poking out of the bag. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks..."

A wave of dizziness consumed Hank once the words left his mouth, and he had to grab the door frame to prevent himself from falling. Oh gosh, this was what he got by being hungover. He definitely didn’t want Connor to know that he had sneaked into the bar, even though the android probably already knew it anyway.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, it’s nothing," Hank said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Just some nagging pain."

The woman opened the door and invited them into the old house. At first, Hank glimpsed at the bills on the shoe cabinet in the porch, then lowered his gaze to look inside the cabinet, which contained three pairs of snow boots: one adult-sized pair and two pairs for children. They were neatly arranged, and only the adult's snow boots had water stains on them.

"Where's your husband, ma'am?"

"We’ve been divorced for a long time. We had some... disagreement."

"Could you elaborate on the circumstances under which the children disappeared?"

"I was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and I was going to take care of the kids afterward, the woman said as she led the way up the steps. Hank surveyed the walls on the way, which were old yet very smooth. "Next moment they were just... gone..."

"Have you heard anything unusual?"

"No, I didn't hear anything," the gaunt mother opened the door to the children's room for them as they reached the end of the hallway on the second floor. "This is their room."

"Thanks, and if you recalled anything else, please let us know."

When the lady's footsteps faded at the end of the stairs, Hank was done roughly surveying the scene. The children's snow boots had not been used recently, there were no signs of a struggle, the door lock showed no denting from forced entry, lastly, the windows in the room remained closed. He slowly paced into the house; the pink and blue children's room was simply decorated with old furniture. The first thing he noticed was the wooden bookcase next to the bunk bed. These books were quite special - despite the advancements in touch-screen holographic technology for magazines in 2038, there remained a type of paper book that cannot be replaced, even by audiobooks.

Hank ran his hand over the raised braille on the book, while Connor chose to inspect the glass windows. The windows were closed with water stains on the windowsill, and no fingerprints on the handles. Through the glass, he could see the snowy courtyard below. A few pots of tomato plants were scattered about, and most of the overwintering plants were covered with plastic sheeting. The thickness of the snow was in line with the current snowfall, and even if there had been footprints previously, they would be difficult to discern in this weather.

Connor's gaze shifted from top to bottom, landing on a yellowed cloth basket of toys resting quietly beneath the windowsill. As he crouched down to examine the worn toys, he noticed that the fabric dolls had been mended by someone and that the plastic blocks were neatly arranged inside. He rummaged through the toy box and finally discovered an "extra" piece among the organized blocks. This wooden block was particular; it appeared to have been thoroughly soaked in some liquid, and whoever had done it didn’t left fingerprints. Connor glanced behind at his partner, who was carefully exploring the depths of the bookcase, so he seized the opportunity to sample what exactly the liquid was.

"Oi, Connor! For the hundred time, that’s disgusting..."

"I don't have saliva or fingerprints. I won’t contaminate evidence."

"That doesn’t change anything!"

"According to my investigation," Connor did not respond. He had learned to change the subject quickly - a technique often used by Hank in response to other’s kindness - "The window handles…"

"Have no fingerprints on them."

"Right, Lieutenant."

"Same old," said the man, looking at the drawings beside the child's bed, which were filled with abstract patterns. "Anything else?"

"This block was soaked in water for at least three days, sourced from the same brand and series as the previous cases' evidence blocks.

"Good. Do you have any other conclusions?"

"They didn't leave through the front door, and the children's snow boots by the door showed no signs of recent use," Connor said, turning to see the back of Hank, who was scrutinizing at the drawings. "What’s more, this house does not have an attic or a basement. The first level has a flat floor, so footsteps won’t create echoes. As for the room on the second floor, the ceiling’s height is cohesive with its exterior."

"One of the two children is blind, so it would be unlikely for them to climb out of the window and create a locked room."

"Not that unlikely, if it was the android child."

"What do you mean?"

Connor sighed and walked directly next to Hank, leaving the poor old police officer to question when the kid had ever learned to sigh. "Look at these drawings."

"I'm on it."

Surprisingly, Connor tore down the messy drawings. Hank was about to ask his partner why until he saw the graphic text behind. They proceeded to tear down all the drawings, as if they were uncovering the truth behind a fairy tale. A string of strikingly familiar code appeared before their eyes.

RA9.

Chapter Text

Hank’s expression darkened in an instant.

He rubbed his chin irritably, his beard scratching the callus on his fingers, reminding him of the morning. The man started to ponder whether to shave or not. Truthfully, he had been keeping the current look for four years, and had never made an effort to change. Connor observed it all. The intellegent andriod designed for police’s force spoke up meticulously after an analysis of Hank’s expressions. “Hank, I feel like I should make a statement.”

“I never suspected that android child to be the abductor.”

“Good.”

“Why would you take the android child's side?” Hank used a similar tone reminiscent of the time he asked Connor why the android didn’t shoot. “Because you are the same species?”

“Because the probability of an android child managing this act alone is less than 3%.”

“Wow, so you’re looking up those fricking numbers again,” the older police officer felt like his partner was quite punchable at times. Even after the deviation, the android still kept a machine-like mechanism. “Tell me, what was the probability of me falling off the rooftop when we were chasing Rupert? 90%?”

“It was 89%.” Connor’s LED light turned yellow as he concentrated on the answer. “My choice wasn’t influenced by your survival rate.”

“I didn’t know that other theories were also included in Connor-ism, aside from pragmatism.”

“I apologize if you are still upset about my decision to let Rupert escape in order to save you, but it is what happened.”

“…” Hank walked in front of the windowsill. He fumbled in his pocket but had no luck finding any disposable gloves. “You sure the handle doesn’t have any fingerprints?”

“I just mentioned it.”

“Just had to be sure.”

Connor came to his partner’s side. As he pushed the handle upward, the old window opened with a click. A cold wind sneaked in to send a snowflake fluttering onto Hank’s hair. The wind dissipated in the blink of an eye as he pulled the window closed, but something stood out, especially against the old officer’s white hair. Connor immediately noticed the unexpected guest floating in the air – a wet, dark blue nylon thread. He gently picked up the thread as Hank turned to look at his partner.

“Were you petting my fuckin’ hair?”

“Yep.” Connor said, placing the thread on his palm. “You have a nylon thread in your hair.”

“A puzzle for us to solve. This criminal is quite feisty.”

“I'm going to sweep the snow off the windowsill now,” Connor was about to reach out of the window when Hank pushed him aside. "What are you doing, lieutenant?"

"Get out of the way, I'll do it."

Hank collected his strength and swept the snow off the sill. When he was finished with this delicate task, his palms were frozen red. The man ignored it. He was determined to prevent the young android from touching cold objects ever since he got the Android Manual. Markus had come to the police station to distribute it, and even though Hank failed to remember the exact temperature that would cause the freezing of biological components, it was still the first electronic product manual he had actively consulted in his life.

“It’s showtime.” Hank made way for his partner. “Hope your performance will be a success at the Fox Theater.”

“A trace of thirium from model YK500 has been found on the windowsill. However, I need more evidence if I want to reconstruct the scene.”

“Why wouldn’t anyone check the numbers on the back of the puzzle before completing a set?” the old police officer asked with a shrug. “Which piece of the puzzle do you need?”

“They climbed out of the windows and created a locked room. For the windows to remain closed, the android child would need to make the handle go down the moment the window closes.”

“Do you think they tampered with the handle?”

“Yes. The simplest way would be to hang a heavy object on the handle. The moment the window is closed, the heavy object falls, causing the handle to drop, which in turn closes the window from the inside, and the purpose is achieved.”

“What if it was ice?”

“Ice?”

“If the soaked toy block was originally trapped in a piece of ice,” Hank said as he inspected the water stains on the windowsill, “the ice would serve as an excellent prop. It could melt before being discovered, given that the room temperature in the children’s room is high.”

Connor completed the reconstruction following Hank’s analysis. The two looked out the window to find heavy snow completely covering the tomato seedlings in the yard. It had been snowing for 2 hours according to Connor’s record. Based on the current weather and snowfall, it would be impractical to search for clues in the backyard. Hank decided to go downstairs after a mement of hesitation. He walked out of the room before stopping by the door.

“Did you smell that?”

“I’m not equipped with an olfactory component, but I could help analyze it.”

“Oh, shit, I forgot about that.” During their first case, Connor was the only one unaffected by the odour of putrefaction of 19 days. The android even stole a taste of the dried bloodstain. “I'm smelling tomato pasta.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” the elder police officer asked, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Why was she cooking while her children are nowhere to be found?”

He didn’t get a response from Connor, so the pair descended to the living room in silence. The informant stood in the open kitchen, where a sweet and sour aroma of tomatoes emanated from the pot as she stirred it with a spoon. They observed the woman's every move as she skillfully added salt and pepper to the pot, while neglecting the sauce that spilled onto the stove.

“Ma’am,” Hank couldn’t stand the bizarre scene anymore. He called out, “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

The woman was so engrossed in her cooking that she was startled by the question and dropped her spoon into the pot. Buring-hot tomato sauce splashed onto her chest and cheek. Despite every sensible reaction, she just reached her hand into the boiling soup to seek for the spoon.

Connor retrieved the woman’s hand from the pot before his partner could react. She seemed to be entirely unaware of her surroundings or the fact that her hand was covered in bright red sauce. She merely followed Connor to the sink and let the android to use the faucet in order to wash her wound. Hank silently opened the refrigerator, took out ice cubes from the freezer and placed them by the sink, waiting for Connor to treat the burn.

“Oh… I’m sorry,” The women turned her head, showing her dilated pupils with no reactions to the lights, "I didn't hear you coming downstairs."

"Can you see us?" The woman nodded before Hank made a gesture, "How many fingers?"

"What did you say?"

""I’m holding up my fingers. How many do you see?"

"I... I don’t see it."

Pseudo-blindness. A common coping mechanism for the brain. Blind people could still see their familiar living environment, without seeing the changes within it. For example, they can see a TV that won’t be easily moved, but not the programs playing on the TV. It is only when they are made aware of their blindness that they can finally accept the darkness that has been present all along.

Connor turned off the stove while Hank guided the poor woman to the sofa in the living room. Such a big blow had caused irrational behavior, poor hearing as well as deprived vision. The woman collapsed on the sofa with tears streaming down her face, her eyes so red it was almost black.

“I was just wondering…” the owner murmured to herself in the darkness, “What if they are coming back soon…?”

"Don’t be too hard on yourself," Hank said, regretting his earlier suspicions of the mother. "You can always call us if you remember anything."

“I suspect my ex-husband,” the woman said, capturing their attention. “He always hated Zoe, constantly picking on her just because she’s an android… Now he’s asking to see both Zoe and Brand.”

“Do you have your ex-husband’s contacts?” Hank prompted urgently, “Do you know where he lives?”

“No. I cut him off as soon as the divorce dispute was over. I don't trust a man who is addicted to alcohol and gambling...”

“OK. Thank you for the information.” Hank said, standing still. He truly had no idea how to handle emotional citizens. He glanced at his partner, who was dealing with the mess in the kitchen. “Do you have any other relatives in Detroit?”

The woman couldn’t answer him. Sobbing turned into uncontrollable bawling, Hank tried his best, but the best he could think of was some polite phrases before leaving the house. Right as he was hesitating, Connor slowly sat down next to her and asked in a soothing voice: “Do you have friends or acquaintances here?”

“My landlore… She’s here…”

“Do you need help contacting her?”

“No, it’s OK, she’s just next door,” the woman choked up, wiping her tears with her left hand. “No need to bother you guys.”

“Do you like tomato pasta?”

“Yes…”

“How about this: in a minute, I’ll inform your landlord that you are going to her house to rest, and have another tomato pasta.”

Thre was no further resistance. Connor noticed that Hank was looking at him in an expression akin to surprise. This might be new to his partner, since Hank wasn’t there when the android apologised to Kara. For Connor though, expressing remorse and being comforting was part of the job. To some extend, he could understand the mother’s despair. They waited until the lady calmed down a bit to called her landlord. After that, the pair walked back to the car through the snow, leaving the decapitated house behind. A heat wave ambushed Hank’s icy cheek when he pulled open the car door.

“Wait, you didn’t turn off the engine?”

“Considering the outdoor temperature, I thought it would be better to keep the engine on.”

“I should dock your pay for this,” Hank bantered. He sat in the passenger seat like a good boy, and turned on the phone to contact Ben, “I need to investigate that asshole.”

“There are coffe and cookies behind your seat,” Connor set his palms on the wheel and waited for an order from his partner. “They should be warm from the heat now.”

“Damn this high tech shit. You even predited this!” Hank said before hitting send, hoping for a reply ASAP. “I didn’t know you’re good at comforting people.”

“Appearently, you’re not.”

“HEY!!!”

“I have always been good at these kind of things,” Connor poked at the dancing Hawaiian figure in front of the wheel. He had taken a liking to this figure, especially when it was wobbling with the music in the car. “You’ve got a reply from Ben.”

"This person visited a thrift store 40 minutes ago," Hank read as he scrolled through the messages. He paid attention to the license plate and phone number, it didn’t take long for him to receive the man’s purchase history on his phone. "The address is-"

"I have successfully located it."

Hank raised his eyebrows at that. “Faster, better,” he dug out the coffee from the back of the seat, pulled off the ring before taking a sip and nearly choked on the bitterness. “… and bitter,” he added.

“It could clear your mind more quickly.“

“Shut your damn mouth.”

Connor started the engine. The sky had gradually darkened. Road visibility remained too low for human eyes, despite the snowfall having slowed down significantly. Hank leaned his head against the window; even a can of coffee, as bitter as his life, couldn’t stop him from feeling sleepy. Fuck it, he had to admit Connor was right. The gas bill was high, but it was better than being freezing cold in his own car.

“By the way,” Hank glanced at his partner, “I thought you had direct access to the file data.”

“Not anymore. I have been off the grid since the revolution. While I can still capable of analysing samples, I am unable to provide geographic locations or Internet information.”

“Oh… alright.”

“I’m deeply sorry for that, Lieutenant.”

“No need to be sorry.”

“Should we buy dinner on the road?”

“We’ll see if there are any diners next to the thrift store.” Tired, Hank looked out the window. The volume of the car music went down the moment he closed his eyes, so the man startled awake and met Connor's eyes through the rearview mirror. “I caught you.”

“Yes,” Connor smiled, pressing a button to wipe the rain off the windshield. “You caught me, Lieutenant.”

Hank sized up his partner, only looking away once he was certain Connor was completely focused on driving. Sleepiness quickly overtook him; hangover was a bitch. He cursed in his head, at least he didn’t barfed in front of that lady. He soon drifted into a light sleep. In this half-awake state, he felt a warm wind blowing, caressing his hair. It felt as if the breeze was about to carry his heavy soul to some distant place. Was he going to hell? Hank had pondered this question before, it wouldn’t make sense for someone like him to gain entry to heaven. As his soul descended into the depths of the dream, a sudden brake jolted him awake.

“What the hell?”

“Wake up, Lieutenant,” Connor opened the door of the driver’s seat, using the cold wind to wake up his drowsy partner. “See that license’s plate in front of us?”

“Shit.”

Hank got out of the car and followed Connor. They trudged through the thick snow and came to the rear of a dilapidated black car. No one answered when Hank knocked on the back door. The pair then circled to the front, only to discover a large hole in the windshield, exposing the passenger seat. Hurriedly, the man wiped the glass in front of the driver’s seat. A black shadow loomed inside the car. The experienced lieutenant immediately took out his pistol and flashlight, however, his partner remained silent. Connor had already known the answer through his detection component.

A peculiar smile on a blue and purple face popped out once the light illuminated the driver's seat.

It was the smile from dying of hypothermia.

Chapter Text

“Based on the body temperature, the victim lost their life to hypothermia ten minutes ago.”

“Fuck!” Hank walked up and yanked the door to the driver’s seat, sincerely hoping there wouldn't be another surprise from the back seat. “We’re late.”

“The door isn’t locked, Lieutenant.”

“Oh damn you—” The door opened with a thunk, causing Hank to stumble and fall onto Connor. “You should’ve told me earlier!”

“Next time, I’ll warn you sooner.”

“Oh God,” Hank directed the beam of his flashlight at the corpse. Matte, dark blue nylon threads coiled round and round against the victim’s exposed skin. Taut threads blended with the flesh and blood, turning the body of a man a deep purple, reminiscent of a tropical fish tied to the driver's seat and frozen to death. "This is seriously twisted."

“No victims in the backseat,” Connor said, opening the back door as Hank inspected the driver’s seat. “There are thirium stains from a YK500 on the seat.”

“Which means that both children were in this car briefly,” Hank shone the beam at the passenger seat, which thankfully contained only a battered blue tropical fish plush toy. “Anything else in the back?”

“No other items,” Connor said as he examined signs of a fighting inside the car. Small, half-moon-shaped fingerprints remained on the leather seats. "But there are signs of a struggle, most notably scratches. Based on the depth and size of the marks, it's safe to assume they came from a child."

"Get to the point."

“The fingerprints are from the blind boy, Brand. There was a fight inside the car, which means the blind boy was still conscious when he was taken away. There is no blood.”

“Fuck! This is a child abduction case. No sleep for us tonight,” Hank pounded on the car door before he pulled out his phone to call Fowler. “We have to find them within 24 hours. Any other clues…. Hey!!”

“Heavy metal residue,” Connor said. He was done licking the evidence before Hank could grab his hand. “There's a lot of thirium, some rust, and then silicon, lead, chromium, and mercury."

"This sounds like a fucking paint factory.”

"I can't pinpoint the source yet."

"I know," Hank raised an eyebrow as his call finally got through, "downsides of being off the grid."

"Pros and cons are relative, Hank."

The lieutenant frowned at that, he never enjoyed philosophical discussions. Connor took advantage of the call to reconstruct the scene: linear strangulation marks were visible on the driver's seat backrest, indicating the victim had been strangled before being bound with nylon cord. Children's scratches extended from the passenger seat toward the back seat; it would have been difficult for one person to control a child while strangling the victim unconscious. There must have been an accomplice.

Having reached this conclusion, Connor left the back seat and went to the trunk. It wasn’t locked and could be easily opened with a flick. The inside appeared to have been deliberately emptied. He reached into a blind spot and discovered a small bag of a red substance attached to the roof of the trunk.

“I’m all too familiar with this stuff,” Hank said, getting off the phone and strolling beside his partner. “Chris will arrive as soon as possible.”

“I see.” Instead of highlighting the red ice, Connor activated his analysis component. “There are residuals of thirium in the trunk, mostly concentrated in one spot and appearing to be splattered on it.”

“Sounds like the android child was in the trunk,” Hank said as he put his hands in his pockets. Although he was sturdy for his age, the cold night of Detroit wasn't to be trifled with by middle-aged bones. “Accomplices, red ice, androids… Did I miss an invitation to the New Year ’s party?”

“So you were waiting for my deduction deliberately during the Otis case so you could check my answer. Am I correct, Lieutenant?”

“What’s your deduction for this case, then?” Hank was quick to change the subject. “Our famous Sherlock Holmes.”

“Premeditated, organized, serial killer. All things you’ve mentioned,” Connor returned his gaze to the trunk. “I can provide you with some details—based on the extent of leaked thirium, the android child was trapped in the trunk for around 10 minutes. We should investigate the thrift store after the backup arrives. What do you think, Hercule Poirot?”

“Sure,” Hank shrugged as he saw his partner approach the passenger seat. “Is there anything special about that plushie?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you staring at it, then? Do you like fish?”

“The way you like Knights of the Black Death.”

“Oh my god…” Hank said, resigned. They had to wait a few more minutes with this car and the corpse. “Fish, and your quarter-dollar coin minted in 1994.”

“You could go back to the car if you’re cold, Lieutenant.”

“It’s none of your business!”

"But you look cold, so after we go to the thrift store, we should find a restaurant with a better-than-C rating for dinner."

"I forbid you to give a bad review of Gary's burgers."

They bantered for a bit in the chilling snow, the presence of a corpse only adding to the weirdness of it all. Fortunately, those ten minutes weren't as agonizing as Hank had imagined. You could always count on Chris, the young officer on duty, to arrive promptly. After handing the matter over to him, Hank sped off towards the thrift store.

The snow had stopped by the time they reached their destination. Hank didn’t comment on how Connor kept the engine running this time—he had glanced at the gas tank before they set off, and it was enough to keep them going until the next morning. Of course, electric cars had long replaced gasoline cars by the 2130s, but Hank, clinging to a nostalgic past, kept his muscle car running on gasoline. While modifications were possible, he never bothered with the hassle of converting it from gasoline to electric.

They got off and traversed the ankle-deep snow. Hank pushed open a yellowish glass door to a decrepit shop. The interior resembled a flea market, with a dusty plastic Christmas tree by the door. God knows how many years it had been there. Next to the tree were several boxes of toys, and the rest of the merchandise was scattered across the shelves. Hank walked to the counter while Connor began to inspect the shelves.

"Lieutenant Anderson, Detroit Police," Hank called to the young clerk behind the counter, who gave him a sleepy glance. "I have a few questions for you."

“Welcome… See anything you like? Wait, what?!” The clerk was startled into sobriety once the policeman's words registered. He stood up, wiping drool from the side of his mouth. “What happened? We are a legit business.”

“It’s not about the store,” Hank’s reassurance managed to calm the clerk down. “Were there any customers in the past hour or so?”

“Yes, one or two.”

“Could you describe them?”

“There was a man who was smoking, along with a little boy. I was organizing the shelves at the time,” the clerk recalled. His eyes were looking left, Hank noticed. Connor’s deductions resurfaced in his mind. “That boy was acting weird. He had touched every single toy on the bottom shelf.”

“Go on, please.”

“I was a bit annoyed, so I asked him not to do that since I was organizing,” the clerk frowned. “Then the boy just grabbed a tropical fish toy in front of him and handed it to the man. The man paid for it and left with the boy without saying a word.”

“What next?” Hank glanced back at his partner, who was contemplating something near the tropical fish plushies. “Anything else?”

“Nothing. They were quiet the whole time.”

“Thank you for your cooperation. Please call us if you recall anything else.”

“Wait, what exactly happened?”

“I guess you’ll see on tomorrow’s newspaper.”

The clerk looked baffled. He shook his head before going back behind the counter. Intrigued, Hank walked to Connor to stare at what his partner was up to.

“What’s the matter, Lieutenant?”

“Have you found anything?”

“I have detected Bland’s fingerprints on two of the toys out of this box.”

“Oh, uh, hm…” Hank grunted and raised his chin at the plushies. “Looks like you really like that toy, and since Fowler have authorized of your salaries…”

“No, Hank, I just like tropical fish,” Connor interrupted, turning his head to face his partner, “since the autopsy report and other test results aren't done yet, let’s find a fast food restaurant nearby.”

“Did the hell freeze over after all? I would’ve never expected you to be the one suggesting a fast food place.”

“Well, you’re hungry.”

“…”

“Nothing. They were quiet the whole time.”

“Thank you for your cooperation. Please call us if you recall anything else.”

“Wait, what exactly happened?”

“I guess you’ll see it in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

The clerk looked baffled. He shook his head before going back behind the counter. Intrigued, Hank walked over to Connor to stare at what his partner was up to.

“What’s the matter, Lieutenant?”

“Have you found anything?”

“I have detected Brand’s fingerprints on two of the toys from this box.”

“Oh, uh, hm…” Hank grunted and raised his chin at the plushies. “Looks like you really like that toy, and since Fowler has authorized your salary…”

“No, Hank, I just like tropical fish,” Connor interrupted, turning his head to face his partner. “Since the autopsy report and other test results aren't done yet, let’s find a fast food restaurant nearby.”

“Did hell freeze over after all? I would’ve never expected you to be the one suggesting a fast food place.”

“Well, you’re hungry.”

“…”

There was no delicacy at a fast food place, but Hank was never the type to care about a balanced diet in the DPD. He'd only have time for one meal a day during his busiest shifts, which was why he often had stocks of high-calorie donuts on his desk. After he was assigned a partner, though, said partner would sneakily swap the donuts for whole-grain bread. Not that Hank had anything to complain about—Connor was trying his best to keep Hank healthy without sacrificing his taste buds.

If only the whole-grain bread had more sugar.

At the moment, Hank ordered a large burger with tropical fruit-flavored soda, as usual. Connor sat quietly across from him. The android didn’t raise any concern about his eating habits today, nor did he bring up unpleasant topics. Could it be that the android had understood the reward system at last? Hank pondered as he made his first bite.

It made him miss Gary’s burgers so terribly.

The meal only served to fill his belly. It was not so much that it tasted bad, but rather that his appetite was half gone the moment Hank realized that he had to find the missing children within 24 hours. Besides that, the atmosphere during the meal was extremely strange. Connor was quiet, far too quiet and so unlike the Connor who would nag him about his gambling and unhealthy food habits. However, the fact that the android kept staring at him without a word was a very Connor-like move. The staring contest went on for 3 minutes before the older man yielded: “Do you have to look at me like this whenever I eat?”

“Which way should I look, then?”

Which way? Hank Anderson stopped dead. It was a shock that he didn’t know the answer to this simple question, as well as so many other ‘simple questions’. Before Connor—before that snowy night—he had dined with various people who entered his life then quietly departed, leaving no words and no strings attached. Most of them had actually left Detroit for their own reasons, while a few simply passed away, never to return. As a cop, Hank was always ready to lose colleagues or his own life to death.

He was not ready to lose a son, though.

Which way should Connor look? A book would be his first instinct: a children’s book, with the latest fairy tales and a text-to-speech tool. Perhaps he could work out some self-deprecating jokes with the ebook in hand, about how kids these days haven’t even smelled the scent of a paperback. But this was Connor. He wouldn't read a fairy tale. His life, from the moment he opened his eyes, had nothing to do with fairy tales. From that life-or-death rooftop, from that rainy night they'd walked together to the crime scene, conflict and life and death raced through his memory, each one brutal and without exception.

Which way should Connor look? Hank Anderson seriously had no idea.

“Lieutenant? You seem distracted.”

“Oh…” Hank came back to the present, pushing all those random thoughts out of his head. "Oh, I was thinking..."

“You were reminiscing.”

“I was reminiscing about something from the past.”

Connor didn’t press. However, Hank knew that the android—who had some of the worst experiences of anyone during his two short years on this earth—was waiting for his answer. After all, Connor had always been an expert at seeing through lies.

“I was thinking,” it took a thorough brain-racking for Hank to come up with a plausible excuse, “about going to Jimmy's Bar to watch a game tonight.”

“The game does not start until tomorrow night.”

“Oh! Um… You see, this is where your memory is better than mine.”

“Are you alright, Hank? Perhaps I should buy you another coffee—”

“I don’t want no espresso from you—”

Hank barely finished the sentence before a sharp ringing assaulted his cochlea. He covered his ears out of instinct and cursed inwardly: whatever had he done yesterday? Memories of last night were about non-existent. He woke up today at noon and was in a state of constant dizziness state until he took over the case in the afternoon, so he guessed he had to be really drunk. He couldn't have achieved this without three Zombie drinks mixed with two Long Island Iced Teas and a Negroni.

“SEFOSw==——”

Hank heard Connor calling for him, but the hangover struck a far more devastating blow. The android’s strange voice, accompanied by the blaring of sirens, pounded his ears, transporting him back to that snowy night four years ago. The police siren penetrated the blizzard, only to shatter his hope. The light of the operation room flickered on and off. A child’s life, vanished as the light dimmed. He had no choice but to chase this memory out of his mind, leaving it as a distant thought, accompanied by the smell of alcohol and self-loathing.

“V0FLRSBVUCEgSVRTIEZMQVNIQkFDSw==——”

Why was he remembering all this all of a sudden? The collision of memories doesn't create a new planet; it only makes him dizzy. Brown eyes jumped into his view when he glanced up in a daze, bringing back the simple question again: which way should Connor look?

And which way should he, Hank Anderson, look?

“Are you alright, Hank?”

“Don’t mind me. You should…” Hank pressed on his ears a few times to ease the discomfort while he concocted a justifying reply, “just check the report first…”

“I have yet to receive a new report. Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m fine…”

Seriously, what happened last night? He couldn’t ask the android in front of him, for the negotiation expert would no doubt have informed him if he really had done anything stupid. However, Hank could not recall any of last night’s events for the life of him, not a single thing. What if Connor hadn’t said a word just so he could learn the pain of a hangover and learn to control his thirst the next time around?

After all, lessons learned from experience were far more valuable than listening to the constraints of others.

“You don’t look fine, though.”

“Oh, come on. You have to know this already,” taking advantage of the absence of tinnitus, Hank said as he finished the burger as quickly as possible, “the results of a hangover, and, uh, whatnot…”

“What?”

“Alright, moving on.” Hank's mobile phone buzzed inside his pocket, signaling a detailed report. Hank swiftly buttoned up his jacket and headed for the door. “Let’s hurry up. With luck, we might even get some sleep in the wee hours.”

"But I don't understand what you're talking about."

"What do you mean?"

"Hangover," Connor stood up and followed Hank. "You haven't had a drink in a week, Lieutenant."

Chapter Text

Hank paused when he heard this.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asked, confused. “Perhaps you need a health check.”

“Sure, once the case is over.” Hank had to agree with the suggestion. The two of them pushed the door open and were greeted by the night's snowy wind. “How’d you receive Fowler’s message? I thought you were off the grid?”

“I have built-in communication. I'm just disconnected from the terminal and have lost access to the investigation data. The ability to receive messages and search the internet remains functional.”

“Let me guess,” Hank said as they trekked to his vintage muscle car, “you’ve finished analyzing the report.”

“Correct.” Connor settled in the driver's seat before browsing the car playlist. “I could summarize and relay it for you.”

“Thanks, but I ought to use my brain once in a while,” the older man said, unlocking his phone screen. It wasn’t anything high-tech like a holographic touchscreen tablet; learning to use an iPhone was already progress for him. "The autopsy report looks consistent with our theory. Let me review the victim's information and the analysis report."

“The victim is confirmed to be the father of those children. He was indicted three years ago on suspicion of domestic violence and illegal gambling. A chemical analysis report came after the autopsy—”

“Oh God, Connor!” Hank was only halfway through the personal details, and his partner was on the verge of delivering a formal report right there in the car. “I can’t keep relying on you like this!”

“You can rely on me, Lieutenant.”

“Connor… I was trying to not depend on modern technology too much.”

“I know, that’s written on one of the post-it notes on your computer.”

“Hopefully those are not your only impressions of me,” Hank quibbled as he moved on to the analysis report. His only knowledge of the found chemicals was limited to textbooks—which existed in a time when wisdom was shared through paper books. With the passage of time, such knowledge would likely fade from his hippocampus, returning to the yellowed pages. “Paints from a discontinued line. Very interesting.”

“The factory that produced this special kind of industrial coating was shut down 5 years ago due to excessive heavy metals. The building hasn't been sold since. It should be abandoned now.”

“These paints…”

“Industrial coatings, Lieutenant.”

“Whatever you call it…”

“Captain Fowler also asked you to investigate the factory ruins a few minutes ago. Ben and Chris will handle the rest.”

“He’s for sure pushing the dirty jobs onto me again!” Enraged, Hank put down his phone in order to fold his arms and sulk. “Sail ahead, Captain! Never mind that we haven’t even solved the initial toy block conundrum.”

“May I play ‘Voices in My Head’ in your playlist?”

“Of course? Why are you asking me?” Hank looked at his partner in confusion; it was reminiscent of Connor saying he liked heavy metal music during his first visit to the DPD. “Do you like this song?”

“Yes. I find it… rhythmic.”

“Hm…” Hank raised his eyebrows as his partner started the engine as well as the CarPlay. “So, back then…”

“Back then?”

“Nothing.”

Connor didn’t press on. They stared at the monotonous snowy scene in silence. Back then, Hank didn’t believe an android had the ability to like any music, and who even uses “full of energy” to describe a death metal rock song? However, both from Markus’s singing and the speech and actions from Connor just now, Hank had to admit that his partner might genuinely enjoy this song.

Not to mention, just now, he looked at his playlist in despair to find out that it had been shuffled by a certain android.

As for why Hank didn’t rush to fix his playlist—he was self-aware enough to know that a man who used his middle finger to change the order of songs one by one was like a stubborn tortoise, while the android who hacked the system was like a hare. Everyone knew the outcome of The Tortoise and the Hare by heart: a nanosecond of program modification could render Hank's meticulously sorted playlist, which he had spent half an hour on, completely meaningless. Perhaps a new playlist was more doable, unless his partner was determined to listen to every single song and rearrange all of his playlists while he wasn't paying attention. As the man’s mind wandered, Connor spoke.

“I have listened to every song on your account.”

“…” A few more sulks for the day, and Hank might become the sulkiest cop in the whole of Detroit. “And when did that happen?”

“While you were sleeping.”

An awkward silence followed.

Fucking hell, this prick could read minds! He definitely, absolutely, read his mind! To cover up his uneasiness, the man in his fifties fumbled his phone open and, for the first time in months, flipped through a shopping app. Hank was still a conservative in this field, accustomed to offline shopping. He didn’t trust online shopping, let alone the idea of a package safely waiting at his doorstep for more than half a day.

“What do you need? I can place an order for you.”

“Hey! Stop peeking at my phone! Just drive!!!”

“But you’ve been stuck on that Qwerty keyboard for a long while.”

“Leave me alone!!!!”

Exasperated, Hank yanked up the left half of his jacket as a shield so he could browse the website at his slow pace and prevent the android from seeing the screen. Alright, what were the keywords? Tropical Fish Toy? Blue? The results were overwhelming, some of them even incomprehensible. How did one find a coin toy, or even a tropical fish toy that didn’t look unsettling in this world? What was wrong with people's aesthetics these days? These new-gen toys weren’t even as cute as the clownfish in the cartoons back in the day. He cherry-picked for a considerable amount of time before finally settling on a blue and white skate fish plushie. He gritted his teeth and sent the link to Chris, asking him to place the order for him, along with a transfer of double the amount.

All done, he sneaked a glance at Connor, who was staring straight ahead with a smile. Hank curled his lips and continued to flip through the report on his phone.

Based on experience, or starting from the toy blocks, the long-serving detective would categorize this case as a serial kidnapping case carried out independently by a sociopath. However, judging from various pieces of evidence, there seemed to be a core figure who was luring unemployed people down the path of crime with a large bounty. A cautiously planned locked room, with numerous trails left by two heedless criminals. This inconsistent modus operandi put Hank's logic in a dilemma. He stroked his chin and felt the caress of warm air on his cheek from the AC. From the corner of his eyes, a few strands of hair were swaying slightly, but the air was gentle enough that it wouldn’t fully blow them away. “Did you touch my hair while I was dozing off?” Hank asked.

“No.”

“Do you know that you always pause for three seconds and blink when you lie?”

“No.”

“Fine,” the older man replied and stared at the missing child files. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I tried to wake you with a pat, but you didn’t wake up. So I thought about it and decided to slam on the brakes.”

“I’d rather you pat me,” Hank caught a glimpse of his partner from the rearview mirror. “You look happy.”

“Yes.”

“Any good things happen?”

“Nothing special.”

“You are blinking again, Connor,” the Lieutenant looked down to zoom in on the texts on the screen with his fingers. “The victim received a debt invoice before his death.”

“Not a small amount.”

“There seems to be a transaction,” the seasoned Lieutenant deduced, gradually sorting out all the known clues. “The planning style of the locked room doesn’t match up with how it was carried out. I’m leaning toward a contract killing.”

“I also noticed a debt invoice on top of the shoe cabinet at Ms. Caroline’s house.”

“Caroline?”

“The mother of the children, Caroline. Her android child was named Zoe; the blind child was Brand,” Connor answered as he used his right hand to scroll down the other party’s screen, pulling up the original report. “Perhaps you were distracted at the time.”

“No…” Hank opened his mouth, then closed it. He turned to look at Connor, but still failed to find his words after a long while of pondering. “It’s… wrong…”

“What’s the matter, Lieutenant? You look lost.”

“Am I being forgetful lately?”

"No," Connor said, shifting the car into fourth gear as they neared their destination. "Are you saying you’ve forgotten something?"

“Quite the opposite. Everything feels very familiar to me, like we've had this conversation a long while ago. It's been happening all along.”

“Lieutenant,” they’d arrived in no time. Connor pulled the car over and, as if he hadn’t heard Hank at all, opened the door on his side. “We’re here.”

“Oh God,” Hank pushed the car door open in a rush, took a deep breath of the cold air, and threw all irrelevant thoughts out of his mind. “Are they really going to make us search an entire factory…”

“They promised backup within half an hour, however…” Connor scanned the snow quickly, “I’m afraid we have to hurry, Lieutenant.”

“What?” Hank questioned at the same time he noticed the footprints on the ground—indicating at least three sets of footprints had entered, but only two had left. “Fuck!”

“According to the footprints, one person was left behind,” Connor was the first one to run, while being careful not to destroy the traces in the snow. “That person is most likely a child.”

“I fucking know that,” retorted the precinct cop, who had traversed every Detroit neighborhood in his early years and whose pursuit and investigation speed rivaled Connor's. "Can you determine when the suspects left?"

“5 minutes ago.”

“Hope we can make it…”

With flashlight in hand, they ran across the snow-layered square. Absent was the moonlight, or any light at all; only endless darkness remained. Hank stayed behind Connor’s back as the two followed the footprints to the back of the factory and came into view of a ramshackle iron gate. Half of the ruin had collapsed while the other half hung on to the iron frame. In the cold wind, it swayed and banged on the wall relentlessly, causing metallic noises to reverberate.

They squeezed through the gate. Hank pointed the flashlight at the metal ground; the white beam revealed several footprints extending from inside to outside. The man shone the light further inward. The dust, still undisturbed by the cold wind, revealed two intricate rows of footprints and traces of dragging. Several balls of pristine blue nylon thread were hooked onto the iron pipes on either side. There was no trace of blood on the surface of the threads; they hung cleanly and silently.

“Did you detect any blue blood?”

“No, not from the factory gate to the inside.”

“They didn’t bring Zoe,” Hank strode in front of Connor and continued to follow the footprints to the right. "But they brought Brand to this damn place."

“Yes.”

“Hurry up,” the man threw out as he explored to the end of the first floor, where all the footprints disappeared behind a half-open iron door. "The boy must still be here."

“It would be in your best interest to not kick this door open. This factory was shut down due to excessive heavy metals, and excessive movement will stir up a lot of dust, which is harmful to your health.”

“You make the calls,” Hank replied before pulling out his gun. Gently, he pushed the door open. It led underground; the connecting iron stairs were in a state of disrepair, so much that they made a shrieking, grinding sound the moment he stepped on them. “Let’s stick to the side.”

The sound of dripping water echoed around the dim place as they descended cautiously yet swiftly. The basement level showed them rows of iron barrels stacked chaotically in front of the door, their serial numbers marked in white paint. Hank took a step forward, and the ice-water mixture soaked his leather shoes. He looked down promptly to find the anti-slip rubber floor soaked in a layer of water. Some of the raised areas were covered with a thin layer of ice.

"What the hell..."

A ball of blue nylon rope slowly drifted to their feet. Water was overflowing from the front left of the basement. Hank glanced back at Connor, motioning him to stand behind before taking small, cautious steps toward the direction the rope had drifted from. They were slowed due to the wet and icy ground. The water was accumulating from a rusty iron door. A red prohibition symbol had been sprayed on it. Hank flicked his flashlight toward the doorplate next to it, which read "Reservoir."

"The water level behind the door won't be very high. This door is old and can't withstand excessive water pressure."

"Oh, thank you, my dear humanoid self-propelled detector."

"My pleasure."

Hank proceeded to ram the door open with his upper body. The sound of water, mixed with the thud of impact, reverberated throughout the basement. Many blue nylon threads clung to the floor, while others were frozen in thin ice. The man didn't bother to pay attention to the tangled threads around his feet. He shone his flashlight toward the end of the reservoir, revealing a catastrophic scene before them.

Now they understood the meaning of that toy block.

A boy was bound vertically to the end of the reservoir, half his head above water, his body below his mouth and nose submerged. Hank reacted faster than Connor as the man got rid of his cotton jacket and passed it to Connor along with the flashlight. Wearing only a thin shirt, he ran toward the reservoir, while Connor stumbled behind because of the thin ice on the floor.

“Hank! Wait for me!”

“Fucking stay there and don’t move!”

“But Hank—”

“This is a fucking order, ya hear me?” The man shouted without turning his head, “Move an inch and never talk to me again!”

With that, Hank jumped into the pool. A bone-piercing cold enveloped his body. Ice water bit at his eyes, blinding him. Relying on instincts, the man smashed the thin ice in front of his chest, his palms stinging from the splinters. He pushed the ice off his head, emerged to the surface and wiped the frost off his eyelashes. Hank’s eyes were bright red from the cold, yet his movements never stopped. The reservoir was 3 meters deep and about 10 meters wide, which would be nothing for the old officer during summer; however, in -15 degree Celsius weather, he had to struggle forward, smashing through the uneven ice before him. The cold spread from his ankles to his cervical spine, and for a moment, everything felt completely warm—damn hypothermia! Hank gritted his teeth and sped up his ice-breaking strokes.

Faster, just a bit faster.

The man arrived at the child’s side. The consequences would be unimaginable if he failed to unravel the cords within 10 minutes. Hank commanded his hands, but the calloused hands were shaking uncontrollably. Frantically, he tore at the tangled mess without any progress.

“Hank! Catch it!”

Hank looked back: Connor tossed a pair of pliers at him. He caught it, fumbling to cut the nylon cords off one by one. As for the cords binding the boy’s ankles, Hank had no choice but to submerge himself and cut the taut cords carefully while enduring the chilling darkness. Immediately after the last cord broke, Hank single-handedly lifted the boy up, head facing the roof and above water. He tugged at Brand, quickly swimming backstroke toward shore. Within minutes, Connor grabbed him by the shoulders from behind and pulled him ashore.

“Oh… Shit. So cold,” Hank didn’t have time to get dressed. He lay the boy flat on the floor, head aligned with his body. “Give me some space.”

“Alright,” Connor stepped back for his partner.

“Wake up…” Hank checked Brand’s pulse and breathing before he quickly removed the boy’s turtleneck. With proficient movements, he found the midpoint between his breasts and applied pressure with one hand. "Wake up!"

"Hank, when two people perform CPR on a child, the frequency should be 15:2."

"I know! I can handle this alone!"

Connor didn't insist. He waited until the other person had pressed 30 times before helping to support the boy's head and keep his airway open. He watched Hank repeat the CPR cycle over and over, sensing a complex mix of expressions on his face: anxiety, anger, sadness... even a hint of despair. Finally, after the fifth cycle, Brand's pulse and breathing began to return. The man held the child in his arms, trying to maintain his vital signs with his own body heat.

“I’ve sent a message to Ben; backup will arrive in 5 minutes,” Connor said as he covered Brand with a dry cotton jacket. “Hank? Are you alright?”

The officer did not speak. He hung his head, hiding his expressions; Connor was unable to gauge his partner's emotions as he normally would. The android could only take off his own jacket and gently drape it across Hank’s shoulders without comment. He reached out to brush away the hair on the man’s forehead, inadvertently touching the man’s cheek. There was liquid on his face—104 degrees Fahrenheit, the warmth of tears.

Connor knelt. He patted Hank’s shoulder in an attempt to soothe his partner’s anxiety with some kind of benign gesture. He could feel him shivering, but he couldn't analyze if it was from the cold or the nerves. Those five long minutes felt like the darkest night before dawn. Snowy wind rushed through the gate, filling the entire factory before it brought Hank’s mind back to four years ago. Lights of the operation room seemed to flicker on and off, red and blue flashing before his eyes. He recalled how Cole lost his warmth as time went by. Instinctively, he held the boy in his arms even tighter.

Five minutes… hold on for five more minutes. You are still so young, so inexperienced.

Ben, rushing in with Chris, was startled by the scene before him: the disarray of blue nylons, the half-frozen, half-wet green rubber floor, and their colleague in a soaked, tattered shirt. The poor man in his fifties looked freezing, with a handful of his hair strands covered in frost; however, the breathing of the child in his arms gradually became even.

“Oh my god,” Ben exclaimed as he rushed to Hank, who didn’t react, “Where are the paramedics?! Get in here!"

“Lieutenant! Anderson!” Chris called to his senior while shaking his shoulder, “Hank! Look at me!”

The man’s wandering mind finally broke free from a frozen past. Hank rushed to stand up and placed Brand gingerly on the stretcher brought by the paramedics, covering him with his thick cotton jacket. 

Dazedly, the boy blinked open his eyes. His world was still shrouded in darkness. He was not greeted by his father, nor his mother.

Instead, it was an old police officer—a grieving father, atoning for his mistakes in life.

Chapter Text

A whistle. Distant and shrill.

Distant? Shrill? Those two words had no relation to each other. The stubborn soul dawdled in place, its obstinate head emptied out. The universe in a nutshell, but only the nutshell remained; the universe had long been abandoned by the Soul. Ideologies had yet to be born here, but concepts and principles prevented the ancient reptilian brain from taking over.

Fine. The Soul stood in the darkness, drifting lazily, clear from whispers beside his ear, clear from discourses over the meaning of life.

The temperature in this place was so high that the soul might as well be in hell, in Satan's cauldron. Oh my god, the Soul scoffed. Does he need to pour a bottle of water of life on the raging flames? The Soul would much rather have a bullet in its temple than have life or some ancient reptilian complex fuck its brains out.

I’m burning out. The Soul muttered to the still air. It couldn’t feel its limbs, let alone its spine. Why was he even consious? The world was ridiculous enough! The Soul shouted into the darkness: I’m a fucking cop, not a fucking philosopher, and I won't discuss philosophy with anyone.

Yes, I’m a cop. The Soul had no doubt. I’m a cop, so why did I fall into internal darkness? God damn I would be disappointed in myself if I died outside the line of duty. Who would even wait for me outside of this darkness? Maybe there was someone. Some people. The sould tried raising a hand to stroke its non-existent chin. Alright, alright. An exasperated sigh. He just needed some motivation, some precious chance. He had conviced himself that he was Godot—someone was waiting for him. This was why he must go back, back to that shitty life, back to a broing, profanity-filled poem.

All of a sudden, a shrieking whistle pierced through the dark matter wrapped around the Soul. The noise transformed into sharp applause. The Soul practically leaped forward to throw a punch. He was an assertive man, a man steeped in Detroit spirit, ready to throw a Joe Louis punch at anything fucked up.

And so the punch landed on Connor's face.

“Hank!!!” Even Connor, who had no pain receptors, could not help but scream at the solid punch as he covered his nose. “You!!!”

“Oh! Connor!” Hank jerked awake from dreamspace. His swollen throat stopped him before he could protest. He coughed with a hoarse voice.

“You!”

“Me?”

“You fu…” Connor swallowed back the curse that was about to slip through. He carefully push a coughing Hank back against a pillow. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“I… cough cough!  I feel like… I’m burning.” the old man covered his face, feeling like his airways were blocked by cement. “Like a medieval wizard, tied up and set on fire, with vodka poured on me...”

“Your current temperature is 103.28°F.”

“Cough cough… They should’ve just pour gasoline on me.”

Hank leaned back against his pillow, savoring the pounding headache, the clogged nasal passages, the swollen throat, and the red eyes—all reminders of what had happened a few days prior. He cursed inwardly, "Damn those bastards!" His last memory was of getting Brand to the ambulance, and then, as if he'd drunk a whole bottle of whiskey, he blacked out completely.

“How long… have I slept?” Hank tried lifting his eyelids, but the tearing pain at the corners of his eyes forced him to close them. A native Detroiter would never have been frozen to this state by a pool of icy water; that reservoir must have been incredibly filthy. "How's Brand?"

“You’ve slept for three days. Brand's condition has stabilized, and Ms. Caroline is with him in the hospital.”

“Good….”

“Hank, you should care about yourself as much as you care about others.”

“Do all androids mess around with their programs as much a you do? Moving on to applied psychology after mastering criminal psychology, hmm?”

“Curiosity is a virtue. Moreover, I’m not learning from downloaded data this time.”

“Oh… I’ve forgotten about that.”

“I tried to read the paper books you raved about,” Connor glanced at Hank's watch on the bedside table. After checking the time, he stood up to get the water glass. "You said in Rupert's hiding place that I'd probably never understand the feeling of reading a paper book."

"Wow..."

“Although I read faster than humans, it still took half an hour to finish a book. This process of absorbing knowledge was a nice experience for me.”

“Wait a moment,” Hank remembered something, “which of my books did you read?”

"Edimonto de Amicis' 'The Education of Love.' I found it in your warehouse. I hope you don't mind."

“Oh, that’s not my book…”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s fine,” He took the glass from Connor. It was time to swallow those god damn pills. “Read it if you want.”

“I’ve been in with contact with Markus and Kara these past three days, managing Jericho business as well as learning a lot about nursing.”

"Harvard would have to open a few more branches if students everywhere were as eager to learn as you," Hank’s eyes finally managed to open a slip after the pills. Blurrily, he saw Connor in a jacket, standing in front of him. “Connor? Why are you wearing a jacket? You wouldn’t have stood here for three days, would you?”

“No, I was sitting.”

“Oh my god, Connor!” Hank held his forehead. His partner exercised his unique machine mechanism in the oddest times. “Change your damn clothes. You didn’t have to always stay by my side.”

“But Kara told me to. She also gave a few other pieces of advices.”

“What advice?”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence before a chill nestled on his forehead. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, only to get jumpscared by a pair of brown eyes and leaned back. With a “thud”, the back of his head made intimate contact with the wall.

“God damn! I’m not a kid! I’m not Alice! The Mad Hatter and Queen of Hearts won’t appear in my dreams, I don’t even gamble with pokers! ‘Cause I have a shitty streak of luck!”

“Although I could’ve just detected your temperature, Kara said that touching foreheads with another could improve the patient’s mood. It’s supposed to make the patient feel cared for.”

“You didn’t mention that you were taking care of a middle-age man.”

“No.”

“Somehow I miss going to work for the first time in my whole life,” Hank covered his head and huddled back under the covers. Sometimes he seriously wondered how the shitheads in Cyberlife had programmed Connor. For now, he would blame it on Kamski. “Where’s Zoe? How's the investigation going?”

“Hank, you should talk less. It'll help your throat heal.”

“Here, you clever little bastard. Come here.”

Connor, a little confused, complied anyway. He leaned down and waited for the next order.

“Let me ask you,” Hank’s hand caressed the other’s skin component, placing his thumb on Connor’s eyelids as he asked: “Have they found Zoe?”

“You fucking blinked! Connor!”

“But you need rest.”

“Oh damn, I’m a middle-age cop. I’m not going to die alone at home from a fucking cold.”

“I think the cold could cause your death, Lieutenant. Per my assessment, now is not the right time—”

"Do I look like someone whose PTSD would make him so fragile that he couldn't handle the progress of the case?!"

“Yes.”

“Fuck you!” Hank sat up abruptly, then promptly fell back onto the bed from the dizziness that followed. Aggrieved, he wrapped himself with the blankets and vowed not to look at his partner again until he told him the truth. “Fuck you, Connor!”

“I don’t know why you are so angry, Lieutenant Anderson.”

“Hey! Are you at work right now? If you’re calling me Lieutenant Anderson, then report the progress of this case in this instantly!”

After some minutes of deadlock, Connor gave in. He slowly sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Hank.

“In the state park.”

“What?” Hank lifted over the blanket, looking at Connor.

“She was found this morning in the state park, by the Michigan River. Her body was damaged from being submerged in icy water for an extended period of time.”

“…”

“Hank?”

“Fuck!” He slammed his fist on the bedside table, sending the watch flying. "Fuck! This place is only about 1.3 kilometers from the DPD. And these guys were supposed to be on duty?"

“Hank, please don’t shout,” Connor caught the watch in the air. God knows how many times it's been flung by its owner. "You want to get better soon, right?"

"That's a provocation."

"Hank, listen to me..."

The doorbell rang. Connor patted him before walking towards the front door. Hank, with folded arms and closed eyes, tried to control his temper. He shouldn't take it out on his partner, at least not now. He heard the sound of a door opening, plastic ripping, and a chuckle.

“Connor… I can hear that…”

“You heard wrong.”

“I’m half blind for the moment, not deaf.” Hank rolled over, fishing for his phone that he had no idea where Connor had put it while he was asleep. “Where’s my phone?”

Right on cue, Connor came back with two items on his arm. Although he could only make out the outlines and colors, the blue and white one was definitely the skate fish toy he had bought.

What about the other one? Hank couldn’t tell.

“Unfortunately, your jacket was unsalvageable,” Connor said, showing Hank a new jacket. “Which was why I had asked Markus to help me pick a Detroit industrial style jacket while I was calling him.”

“…”

“Hank, I like the skate fish you gave me. Do you like this new jacket? You couldn’t try it on yet, but I believe the size will fit,” the jacket was out of his hand before Connor could finish. The man with poor eyesight fumbled to put on his gift. “Hank?”

“I’ll wear this next time I go to the precinct.”

“Are you saying ‘thank you’?”

“It’s the perfect size.”

“I took your measurement, there won’t be any mistakes.”

“How did you do that?” Confused, the man buttoned his jacket up— it was neither too big nor too small, just the right size. “You scanned me again!”

“I did not.”

“Fine,” Hank took off his jacket and tried to fold it with blurry vision, “Thanks, Connor.”

“You’re welcome, Hank,” Connor said, taking the jacket from him He was significantly better at household chores thanks to Kara’s guidance. “Here, I’ll do it.”

“Connor, please take care of yourself the way you take care of children.”

“Hank, you should care about yourself as much as you care about others.” Connor repeated.

“Are you going through puberty? The way you talk back to me feels like it.”

It took another three bed-ridden days for Lieutenant Anderson to finally wear the new jacket as he wished. He had to admire Markus’s impeccable fashion sense, as expected for an Andriod leader taught by Carl. He also sent Chris a thank-you text that morning, for the honorable young cop had returned half of the double amount he'd transferred, which made Hank even more embarrassed. Then, he got to push open the glass door to DPD in his brand new outfit. Chris said good morning, Fowler nodded through the glass, Ben was preoccupied with the murder case, and some jerk named Gavin was playing with his new phone next to the coffee machine.

Hank sat in front of his deask and considered the moldy bread and six-day-old coffee cup. His partner’s desk, on the other hand, was impeccably organized. Free of junk, only neatly arranged documents and an MP4—wait, isn't that my MP4? Seemingly oblivious to his staring, Connor was absorbed in sorting through the pile of case information he'd accumulated over the past six days. The tail of a blue skate toy peeked out from behind him.

Hank moved his gaze.

You don’t start things the hard way. Hank ought to get back by starting from the basics: like organize his desk, throw away the bread, wash his cup in the pantry and replace his potted plant. Instead, he surveyed his chaotic sticker board—he did like the “IF YOU’RE NOT A BARTENDER, THEN GO AWAY” one. As for the rest, though…

He took a deep breath, then, in front of his partner, ripped everything anti-android off.

Connor noticed him. The android watched as Hank scraped the stickers with his fingernails, bits by bits, leaving only the phrases about moving car and bartenders. Connor stood to pick up Hank’s mug and moldy bread, prepared to help him with these mundane tasks.

“Hey, put that down. I can handle it myself.”

“I’ve finished the schedule for today, Lieutenant. You could review it.”

“Gavin’s next to the coffee machine,” Hank lowered his voice and batted an eye at the pantry. “What you gonna do if he provokes you again?”

“I will pour coffee on his face?”

“For that, you got an A+,” Hank gave a thumbs up, “my proudest student.”

“My pleasure.”

“Three brown sugar, no milk, thanks.”

“One diet sugar.”

“You won,” Hank shrugged before starting to review the schedule, “one is better than none.”

Hank opened Zoe’s case report after Connor took a turn. The android was destroyed only 1.3 kilometers from the DPD; any experienced cop would have recognized the taunt for what it was. Updates from Ben over the past few days showed that the 2^nd and 3^rd cases had made some progress. Two bodies of android children had been found on the riverbank of Belle Isle Park. Just as the blocks had foreshadowed, one was charred, the other severed. Hank clenched his fists unconsciously. Cases of android abuse were common, but the nature of android child abuse was clearly different.

The word pedophilia came to mind.

Connor came back with coffee in hand. The android didn’t return to his own desk, instead, he sat on his partner’s desk to wait for instructions. Meanwhile, the older police officer mused, like a spider unraveling its cocoon, tracing the evidence in his silk room, searching for connections. Androids went missing every day, most were sold on the secondhand market, then scrapped and added to the pile of garbage. However, this was a special buyer, a sociopath who, on the occasion of the success of the android revolution, relished the thrill of defying history. Suddenly, just as Hank decided to discuss the details, a window popped up on the desktop: a crime report. When he hurried to click on it, the fifth block made its appearance.

The red and blue block had the letter S and N written on it.