Chapter Text
Sapper Morton was supposed to be dead. Several times over by now. First it was the… waking nightmare mess that was Kalantha, then the blackouts. Even if they were the carefully designed mechanism for his and his siblings’ freedom, the aftermath was hard. For everyone. Then, of course, the countless, risky, ventures into LA over the years and that mess with Rasha. His open ended lifespan, he supposed, just made him predisposed to near death. But, then again, if the stories he’s heard of the earlier models were to be believed perhaps it was more due to the nature of his creation. So, he was not surprised by the presence of a Blade Runner in his kitchen. Disappointed yes, annoyed maybe, but not surprised. Maybe all these years living, away from all the bad that was Kalantha and the Wallace Corporation and everything else were finally demanding payment.
Sapper didn’t feel angry at the Blade Runner, how could he? Sure, he was a medic not a gunman, but he could still feel the tacky blood on his hands from all the replicants he couldn’t save. Anyways, these new models come from a different stock, the blackouts made sure the humans would never make the same mistakes they had made with the nexus-7’s. Tyrell had prided his creations on being “more human than human”, but it seemed Wallace had taken a different approach, more like trained dogs. He felt a pang of pity, before pushing it aside as best he could. This Blade Runner was here to kill him after all.
His gun was out of its holster and held loosely on the table. This wasn’t the first Blade Runner he’d come across, Deckard for one, but this was the first replicant Runner he’d encountered. It also wasn’t even close to the first time he had had a gun trained on him.
He wasn’t scared. He had lived much longer than he was supposed to. He was supposed to have died in the dust on Kalantha decades ago. Trying to what, reason with? The Blade Runner was never going to work, the new psychological programming was too advanced, too deep, for the words of a dying replicant to break through. How many others had tried the exact same thing? Of course Wallace would account for something as simple as the desperate last words of a hunted creature.
Maybe, just maybe, though, he had touched something deep inside the mind, the soul, of the Runner, because even after his eye was cut out, he could still feel the weight of the Runner’s knee on his chest. Maybe it was just he was so close to death that the Runner couldn’t find a pulse, or assumed the several rounds emptied into Sapper’s chest were trustworthy enough and didn’t think to check.
It doesn’t matter, because Sapper Morton was supposed to be dead, but instead was dragged into an ancient spinner and hauled away to Freysa’s hideout, missing his special right eye, but breath in his lungs.
Sapper was no stranger to pain, he had been shot, stabbed, thrown through walls. The eye was new, it would take some getting used to. Fresya was there when he woke up, a look in her eye he recognized, one that screamed danger for anyone who crossed her. It softened when she saw him awake. A small smile graced her face.
“Hello Sap,” she said.
“ Hey Fresya,” his voice sounded raspy to his own ears, and it almost hurt to speak, but he was happier to see her than he thought he’d be. Maybe he was in a little bit of shock from not being dead.
Fresya wasted no time in catching him up on the past week that had passed while he was asleep. Someone had found Deckard, who had been hiding in the shell of Las Vegas. Not only that, someone had found little Ana. That Blade Runner who was supposed to have killed him.
“I want to see him.” Sapper didn’t quite know which Blade Runner he was talking about, Deckard or the one who found him. Fresya led him through the dark hallways a short distance, offering him support for his first few steps when he stumbled a bit upon first standing up. Apparently, the new guns sported by the LAPD were more energy than actual bullets, which in recent years had become expensive to import from off-world. The new blasters packed a punch but resulted in less damaging injuries in the long term. His chest was decorated with deep bruises, but nothing Sapper found too troublesome, or at least pretended to not find troublesome.
He followed Fresya through the dark hallways, they reached a room a few doors down, he spotted Deckard resting in a chair, legs stretched out in front of him. The years had not been as kind to Deckard as they would have if he were a replicant, but he supposed maybe the irradiated shell of Las Vegas was not a place that allowed for graceful aging, but neither did a protein farm. His gaze flicked from Deckard to the form of a woman in the chair next to him, her head resting on his shoulder; dozing. She looked like Rachel, her same dark hair, her nose. Ana. The breath left his lungs for a second, and it must have been his deep inhale that alerted Deckard to his presence.
Deckard titled his head towards Sapper, his face lighting up in a grin. “Hey Morton.” He said, an unreadable mix of emotion leaching into his voice.
“Deckard,” Sapper breathed, trying to be quiet enough not to wake Ana, but Deckard shifting had already stirred her awake. She blinked awake, and it was in her eyes that he could see Rick in her, the deep brown of his own eyes reflected in hers.
“Hello,” Sapper said, taking a few steps closer, it was strange to see that tiny little baby from so long ago all grown up.
“Ana, this is Sapper Morton,” Deckard said when her gaze flicked to him in question.
She smiled, and lifted herself from her seat, and closed the gap between them. She reached out her hand, and he met her. Her hand was soft, much smaller than his own, and he was reminded of how she had first felt in his arms when she was born.
“Hello Mr. Morton,” she said, a shy smile playing across her face, and an accent in her voice he couldn’t quite place, “I’m Ana, but I suppose you already know that.”
“Just Sapper,” he said, “and I know you,” he paused, unsure of how much to say to his miracle, “I was there when you were born.”
Her face lit up a bit, and she glanced back to Rick, “you knew my mother then?” she asked but it wasn’t really a question.
He nodded, “you look like her,” he said quietly, and released her hand, and noticed that Deckard had stood up too, and was pulling him into a tight hug, which he returned just as fiercely.
Deckard pulled back from the hug to examine his face, taking in the bandages over where his eye used to be. “I'm glad he didn’t get you.”
It was then he took the time to bring his attention over Deckard’s shoulder to the bed the two of them had been sitting next to. The Blade Runner laid across the bed, looking pale. His shirt had been removed, as had his boots, and most of his abdomen and chest was wrapped in white bandages. His face was bruised and covered in small cuts.
“Him” he said, only now fully believing Fresya’s story now that the proof was laid out before him.
“Yeah,” came Deckard's tired voice, but filled with a certain warmth Sapper remembered from years ago that seemed reserved for his not yet born child, “him. He pulled me out of the sea, you know.” he sounded almost proud.
“It’s true, then?” Sapper asked, taking a step forward to examine the Blade Runner, “he woke up? Didn’t think it was possible for these new units.” He felt a surge of fondness despite himself for the replicant on the bed.
Deckard and Ana had long since been ushered away into a meeting with Fresya and other rogues, planning their next steps and the like, where on earth was safe for them? Sapper, being so fresh off of his attempted murder, was excused from the meeting, and instead took Deckard and Ana’s place next to K’s bedside, who according to Ana had only woken up once, very briefly, and not very lucidly.
He was reading the book Deckard had left on the seat, East of Eden. The book was vaguely dusty, Deckard must have gotten it on his ill-advised trip back to Vegas to pick up his dog, who was curled up on the floor, half under the Blade Runner’s bed. He was carefully running his thumb along the feather soft edges of the paper when he heard a sharp intake of breath that was quickly stifled. He looked up to see the Blade Runner had opened his eyes, which were blinking rapidly. His face was twisted in a pained grimace.
Sapper rightfully predicted his ill fated attempt to sit up and placed a strong hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down onto the bed. Sapper could feel a small tense run through his body as the blade runner registered the touch. His eyes focused first on the arm holding him down, and followed it up towards Sapper’s face. Recognition registered across his face, and Sapper gave him a smile. He was about to speak when he was interrupted by the croaky voice of the blade runner.
“Aren’t you retired?” he asked, confusion and panic on his face.
Sapper winced internally at the use of the word “retired” over “dead” but he had long ago decided he would cut the kid some slack. “I'm supposed to be, but it just didn’t seem to stick. You gave it a good shot though,” he said, gesturing towards the bandages over where his eye used to be.
The kid just looked at him confused. Sapper gave him a moment to gather himself, watching as the kid squeezed his eyes shut, hand pressing against them. He released a shaky breath and removed his hands.
“I'm sorry about the…” he trailed off, his face looking pained again.
Sapper understood without needing him to finish his sentence. “Why didn’t you finish the job?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I…” a pause while the kid coughed, “I thought I did, but…” Sapper could tell even the kid didn’t believe his own words, but decided there would be plenty of time to push for an answer when he could sit up on his own.
“What can I call you?” he asked instead.
This also gave the replicant pause, worrying his lip between his teeth, “K is fine,” he said, trying to sound confident.
“K is a letter not a name,” Sapper said, eyes returning to the book in his hands.
“It's a good letter,” K said, a small smile quirking his lips up. Sapper could see K’s eyes begin to droop down again, but could also see K fighting to stay awake. He placed his hand back on his shoulder.
“You just rest now, little brother,” he said firmly, "we have plenty of time."