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The subtle chill of the morning breeze weaving through Connor's brown curls, vague presence of post-rain mist promising sunlight, bird song threaded in the pine and oak — it means nothing important. Nothing of great significance that he can latch onto and study. Yet it washes over him, like a wave of calm, reminding him that the world is-
"Someone thinks he's cool, huh?" Hank slaps his back, only to hiss at the pain in his palm. "Fuckin' hell… you made of metal or something? Jesus."
"Not metal per say, but something similar." Simon chimes in from the distance, hauling a duffel bag into the truck that North insisted on renting, its vibrant red gleaming in the faint streaks of sunlight graced upon them. "It's this, like… like metal, but more malleable. Not quite plastic, but it possesses some properties of plastic. Sorta like this combination of-"
Markus leans his head out of the driver's seat window, "Think of it as liquid metal. "
"You're making it more confusing, Mars." North huffs from above, legs swinging back and forth as she downs the rest of her Dr. Pepper.
"It's more like the stuff that happens when you mix starch and water." Simon mutters, brows furrowed at the both of them. "And don't interrupt me."
"Yes, sir. My apologies, sir." Markus chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender.
The clouds part just ahead, angelic, almost, Connor muses. Hank throws an arm around his shoulder, it's the kind of quiet gesture that doesn't need words, and he drinks it in. Every leaf bristling in the wind, every droplet of moisture lingering in the air, every dash of flitting sunlight.
Markus and Simon bicker, something about how Markus never leaves the console clean and how he's already eaten all of their snacks from the last pit stop. North is perched atop the truck, stretching out and dropping a small instigating comment every now and then just for the fun of it. Josh sits in the truck bed, clearly not listening to the quarrel as he sketches into a notepad.
"Alright," Hank puffs out his chest, poorly masking his amusement before taking a deep breath and shouting. "Hey! Stop fightin' and buckle up, we're heading out!"
This moment is nothing significant, it won't be recorded in history, it'll become a memory on worn data bases to be forgotten and replaced.
But in the cool air of spring, amidst the water vapor crawling down his spine, breathing crisp eucalyptus, Connor feels the scratching ache in his throat subside. The twitch in his idle hands is no longer there, his chest no longer being pulled towards an invisible fight.
"Connor, get your ass over here!" Hank calls.
"Coming, Hank!"
"Think 'm getting too old for this shit…" Hank grunts, his back popping as he moves. It's their first pit stop today, a town conveniently placed along the way. The kind that's been relatively untouched by technology, still stuck in the days of human-manned wheat fields, praising organics and homemade jam.
Hank points at the five androids, narrowing his eyes with the promise of a lecture. "I don't have t' go over the rules again, do I?"
"Nope." Markus salutes, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he nudges North.
"On my best behavior, as always." North grins.
Hank crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing them with suspicion and resignation. That pair never fails to stir up some sort of trouble, the last pit stop they'd made was a disaster in and of itself because of them (Connor still shivers at the memory of it, it's the reason the two aren't allowed within a ten foot radius of meal prep duties anymore).
"I'll keep an eye on them." Simon sighs reluctantly.
Josh shrugs with a smirk, playing into neither side. "Don't worry about me, lieutenant."
They split off from there, with Hank wandering off to book a room at the town's inn, mumbling something about cars and horrible sleep. Markus and North took off the moment Hank's back was turned, racing one another into the diner.
"Guess we're having breakfast first." Josh breathes a huff of laughter from his nose, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he trudges behind the overeager pair. Simon jogs up from the truck, falling into pace beside Connor.
"Think they have a laundry mat here?" Simon sighs, tugging at his previously pristine white shirt, now stained with the stark blue of thirium. He glances at Connor, a shy smile playing on his lips. "I didn't bring detergent, or, uh, bleach."
Connor's LED swirls yellow momentarily before he shakes his head, Simon groans and visibly droops. North waits ahead, waving her arms enthusiastically outside the only diner around. Jazz plays from a beaten radio on the front desk. The walls are painted a pale blue, barely visible behind an extensive collection of ads, posters, and pictures. He slips into the booth Markus has claimed.
"They have cream soda!" Markus declares like some sort of grand reveal. "The waitress told me we're lucky. It's today's special."
"What are you, five?" Simon chuckles, bumping his shoulder into Markus'.
"Let's all get one." Markus says solemnly. "It's all about unity. We've gotten experience it together."
North bursts into laughter, shaking her head. "Don't phrase it like a revolutionary protest when you're talking about soda with ice cream in it."
Connor drifts in and out of the conversation, his attention focused on the plants dotted around the diner (there's an Aloe Vera sitting in the corner across from them, he thinks it would've been helpful when Simon got sun burnt the other day. Who knew that androids could get sun burnt anyway?). There's a license plate nailed to the wall behind Markus, formerly registered under the name of McKinley Adams (do people refer to them as McKinley, or Adams? And why did their parents choose McKinley of all names?).
Connor hums softly to the song playing from the diner's radio, tapping his sneakers against the wooden flooring along to the rhythm. The voices of his friends mingle with the jazz, each one distinctly them, from the smooth baritone Markus possesses to North's high shrieks that scream 'troublemaker'. Simon's soothing calm, Josh's ever excited cadence.
Does his own voice suit him the way theirs suits them? Maybe it does, in its own way. Slightly mechanical, awkward but not wrong, pitched somewhere between boy-next-door and reliable cop. His voice was made for a purpose, every aspect of Connor was, really. No detail went overlooked, down to the freckles lining the crook of his arms and the barely there flecks of gold in his eyes. He was made with a goal: to appear kind, to integrate easily, to be welcoming.
They were all made with intent, but they grew beyond it.
"We're so heading to the river later." North juts into his thoughts unintentionally as she speaks around a mouthful of pancakes, a glass of apple juice raised to her lips. North has long since erupted from her vessel, her carefully manufactured intent — that, Connor can say for certain. It's a strange thought he has yet to come to terms with, the idea that they are their own people. The idea that even after everything that's happened, life goes on.
"Can we stargaze again?" Josh proposes, leaning his elbows on the table while gesturing with his fork. Hank would scold his table manners if he were here, though they all know it's just for show. He doesn't actually care for societal expectations, not in that way, at least. What Hank cares about is, even if he refuses to admit it, making sure the public has nothing to scrutinize them for (the habit developed after an article was published on North's brazenness. Not that she particularly cared, but Hank did, if not just for Connor's sake as her friend).
Markus perks up, his smile all teeth and radiance. "And make Connor name all the constellations again? I'm down."
North gasps. "Fuck yes. And then Simon gets to tell us one of those bedtime stories he has-"
"-Seriously, are you guys five?" Simon half grumbles and half groans, using his hands to shield his face. Markus leans all some hundred pounds of his weight on Simon.
"Aw, you don't want to?" Markus teases. Connor's lip twitches with amusement, and again when he catches a glimpse of a familiar shadow outside the window.
"I can't fall asleep without your bedtime stories, Simon. Are you going to take accountability if I'm sleep deprived tomorrow?" Josh presses with his best attempt at puppy eyes.
North pulls the most repulsed face she can and playfully punches Josh's shoulder. "Ew, don't do that with your eyes, it's-"
"-No fuckin' fighting." Hank sighs, standing at the foot of the table with his arms crossed over his chest. Markus freezes, Simon melts into the booth, Josh turns his head slowly, North yelps, and-
And Connor laughs.
The kind of laugh that's stupid perfect, the kind you stumble upon maybe once or twice in your life and never really forget, the kind that's straight from your heart.
The kind you don't expect from Connor, an ex-deviant hunter who moves like a machine: precise, efficient, stoic. The kind that makes you wanna laugh too, like you're in a shitty comedy show or kid's cartoon where everything is good and perfect.
The kind that just is.
"You-" Connor breathes, though all he gets is a puff of oxygen- "You're all so-"
"Don't say stupid." North cuts in.
"Language." Hank grunts.
Josh gapes. "Stupid is not a curse word."
"But it's not nice, now is it?" Markus coos, mimicking Simon's gentleness.
"You're the worst." Simon shrinks as his face flushes.
And Connor realizes.
Even after he betrayed CyberLife, even after Jericho sank, even after the revolution — he's still him. He's still Connor, long after those chapters of his life ended. Time will keep passing, the world will keep spinning, but he doesn't have to rush.
This will still be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.
It'll pass, but it won't disappear.
It'll be nothing in the face of history, but it'll still have existed.
In the warm, golden sun, sitting in a diner far from Detroit, breathing in the scent of syrup and cream soda, he feels it wash over him, like a wave of calm, and it reminds him that the world is patient.
Life will wait.