Chapter Text
July 13th, 2039
8:30am
“You can’t be serious, captain. I-”
“I am serious, Detective Fontaine,” she cuts you off, voice heavy as lead. It’s odd to see her this stern. You clutch onto your notebook as her eyes carefully track your own. This was supposed to be a regular one on one.
The only sound in her office is the continuous pinging of email after email from the tablet display. She watches you a moment longer, letting you suffer in silence before breaking into a cheeky grin.
“You should have seen your fuckin’ face,” she busts out laughing, leaning back into her chair as it squeaks right along with her. The fair skin on her cheeks and neck flush a strawberry hue from the endeavor. Real fucking funny.
You laugh along with her out of obligation. “But honestly, I don’t think I’m the best suited person in this precinct to take on these android cases.” You’re simmering in your seat, leg bouncing like it’s been possessed by a rogue pogo stick.
Your work usually revolves around the usual shit that serves as the black lifeblood of San Francisco: vandalism, petty theft, robbery, minor drug incidents, anything that the detectives higher up than you can’t be bothered to deal with. But to go from stupid teenagers tagging graffiti to…what, exactly? Android trafficking? The haywire deviants going after their own? After humans? The countless instances of android related crimes that you’ve heard about in the precinct shuffle in your mind like an infinite rolodex.
“You may not think so. But I do. You have a lot of potential. A fast learner, flawless year-end reviews…" She lists off the compliments in that sing-songy tone that tells you she prepared this well in advance. Buttering you up is the easiest thing she has on her to-do list today.
You sigh out of your nose with a tiny smile. It works every time.
“Alright, alright, fine. You said I would have help, at least,” you slump down in the rigid chair as you gradually accept your fate. Leave it to the SFPD to overbudget on fancy autonomous police vehicles and subject everyone to sit on the equivalent of upholstered concrete. Embarrassing.
“Domestically imported?” you snicker with raised brows. To resort to help out of state leads you to believe the police chief has been getting their balls busted by the mayor themself. Sadly for you, your captain isn’t enough of a gossip girl to spill the beans. Yet.
“That’s right, Detroit’s finest,” your captain grins and adjusts the coiled blonde bun atop her head. “Hank Anderson and his android partner, Connor.”
You have no idea who Hank is, but the internet wouldn’t let you forget who Connor is. The news clip of him leading the swaths of stock androids from the Cyberlife tower was posted and reposted on every social media site imaginable. He had his fangirls, that’s for sure. You can’t argue that he’s a very, very pretty android.
After that night in Detroit, San Francisco fell into a state of chaos, even with the pre-existing “fair ownership law” bullshit they tried to establish to make people feel better about buying their own androids. To be fair, the integration of deviant androids in the city has gone better than other locations. But if it was all sunshine and rainbows, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.
“No shit? I guess I have nothing to worry about, then. They’re the pros,” you shrug, already absolving yourself. Sometimes you forget this is your boss you’re talking to. The corners of her lips pull into a frown.
“Detective Fontaine, you’re representing the entirety of the precinct in this collaboration. Don’t embarrass us, please,” she turns from her tablet screen to stare you down. “I see that look on your face.”
“Ma’am, I would never. I will do my utmost to preserve the reputation of the San Francisco Police Department,” you jut your hand up in a salute, pursing your lips closed as you stifle a giggle. She almost breaks. Almost.
“Get out of my office, detective. They’ll be here any minute now.” Her slender fingers wave you towards the door. The amusement laden in her voice waters down any authority in the command.
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s easy to have a funny ha-ha moment about this entire situation, but the reality is that, in all honesty, you're freaking the fuck out. You can’t even fathom what you’re in for. It’s like a bridge just collapsed in front of you and you’re being told to jump, as if there isn’t 500 feet of ocean roaring beneath.
Your somewhat peaceful life of handling tech bro coke deals and department store shoplifting was over the minute Hank and Connor waltzed towards your sad, harshly lit corner desk. Your head is swimming and it’s not even 9am.
Hank approaches you first, donning a dark green jacket that’s definitely seen better days. It’s way too warm for the city’s mild weather. He notices your displeasure almost immediately, unsurprisingly so, as he looms over your desk, a wry smile on his face.
Behind him is none other than Connor himself. Why is he still wearing an android uniform? You haven’t seen one in so long that the sight itself is jarring. He’s behaving as Hank’s shadow, gliding steps a complete juxtaposition to Hank’s lazy, bumbling strides.
Hank holds out a weathered hand and you shake it after a long pause. “Name’s Hank, but I guess you already know that. Judging by your thousand yard stare, I’m guessing you’re the junior detective that’s been assigned to shadow us,” he gives a gruff laugh, an attempt at lightening the mood as he plops down in an empty chair across from your desk.
Embarrassment runs hot up your chest and neck as you clear your throat. You adjust the red bow of your blouse, instantly regretting the suffocating outfit choice.
“Nice to meet you Hank, that would definitely be me… I guess I should thank you in advance for your patience,” you chuckle, drawing out the handshake for way longer than necessary.
Connor takes a seat as well, in a fluid motion that almost unsettles you in the preciseness of it. He swiftly holds out his hand to shake yours. You’re so busy studying how pretty his face is in real life that you nearly miss the handshake completely. You get it on the second try. Barely.
“It’s nice to meet you, detective, I’m confident you’ll be a great asset during our time here.”
You’re busy being distracted by his deep brown eyes and perfectly coiffed hair in lieu of a response. Shit. You rub your sweaty palms on your black slacks, trying to stay focused.
“Oh, uhh, thank you, I don’t think I’ve ever been referred to as an asset before.”
Hank emits a low chortle, patting Connor on the shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch, likely already predicting this entire exchange. His eyes hold a hint of amusement.
“Connor here still has a weird way of talkin’. He’s working on it,” he says with a final firm pat.
“Not as weird as some of the shit I hear on the daily, so don’t worry about it.”
Connor’s lips turn up in the slightest of smiles at that, his LED a pulsing blue.
Hank leans forward as he observes the station, face pulling down to the floor. “Look kid, I know you might feel in over your head here, but it looks like this whole fuckin’ station is underwater already.” He shakes his head in clear disapproval. You can’t argue. It looks and sounds like a zoo. The city should charge admission at this point.
“Yeah…there seems to be a new case dropped on somebody’s desk every hour on the hour. It’s been like this for a while,” you sigh, feeling your body sink at the thought.
“And I appreciate…” you pause, eyes boring into the desk, trying to find the best way to talk optimistically through this one, “...the captain’s confidence in me to help with these cases. But I know nothing about these android cases. Or homicide. Or trafficking, I mean, aside from some videos that I watch in my free time,” you laugh nervously as you ramble on. You’re doing it again. You have technically done your research. Kind of.
“The captain said you were a fast learner, so we believe that you will be of the utmost importance in helping us with these cases,” Connor perks up, his voice lifted, in a tone that’s reassuring and clearly meant to flatter you. His eyes lock onto yours, endlessly deep and encouraging.
Considering that his model was designed for interrogation and negotiation, you can’t say you’re that surprised at how adept he is at social coaxing. Maybe that’s why they made him so hot. How can you say no or argue with a face like that? Your heart rate is already on a steady incline. Your head was swimming before. Now it’s just as underwater as the station itself.
“Fine, fine, but I’m gonna need to be compensated for my local expertise,” you manage to steel yourself despite it all and plaster a stupid grin on your face. Hank can only let out something between a scoff and a laugh. He already knows you’re going to be almost as much of a pain in the ass as Connor is.
Connor hasn’t moved the entire time he’s been sitting across from you, so it catches you off guard as he leans forward, head tilted in what is no doubt a very well-calculated ploy to look adorable.
“And what would you require for compensation?” He asks curiously, puppy dog eyes and all. Your mind goes blank, aside from admiring the small cluster of freckles that you can now see across his face.
It takes you a beat to even muster the very obvious answer you have prepared. “Coffee. Pastries. Non-negotiable,” you say in a half-joking tone, tapping your pen on your notepad.
“What, you want a couple truckloads delivered to your house?” Hank jests, matching your energy with a raised eyebrow.
“That can be arranged,” Connor interjects plainly, so much so that you can’t help but laugh. Oh, wait. He was dead serious.
“Okay, maybe not truckloads…” you backpedal, drumming your fingers on your desk.
“Too late kid. Now that you already said it, Con’s probably handling the shipping logistics as we speak,” Hank quips with a glint in his eye, and you see Connor’s LED flickering an alarming yellow.
Hold on, this wasn’t actually happening, was it? Your eyes widen, genuinely caught off guard.
“Hey, uhh, Connor, you’re not actually scheduling any deliveries, are you? Because-” you’re interrupted by him.
“Don’t worry, detective, Hank has a tendency to joke in hyperbole. There are no trucks inbound to your house. But, I can certainly make sure to meet your needs as requested. Is there a coffee and pastry preference you have?”
You suddenly feel like you’re back in college, and the professor just put you on the spot. There’s something about the sincerity and eagerness in his voice that’s causing your mind to go all fuzzy, and you’re maybe slightly panicking at how much it has an effect on you.
You avert your gaze from him and finally feel like you have your mental faculties back. “...Cold brew with light half and half. Pistachio croissant,” you clear your throat as you answer, folding your hands on the table as you twiddle your thumbs. You didn’t think you would get this far.
Connor nods quickly, and you can practically see the information being logged into his memory. “Consider it done,” he smiles again, the corners curling with something closer to mischief than politeness.
“Well, I’m going to leave Connor to that. Don’t be expecting any gift deliveries from me,” Hank snarks, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “He’s good at playing fetch, still follows me around like a poodle too,” he continues with an undertone of fondness in his voice.
In any other situation, that would definitely be an insult, but as you look back to Connor, he’s unphased, even showing a softened expression. They are clearly close in a way you don’t understand yet.
“I don’t do that as much anymore, Hank. I am much more autonomous now,” Connor shoots back. Were you detecting sassiness in his voice?Hank ignores him, hoisting himself up with a grunt.
“Well, kid, we have work to do. Your captain already has a pretty little laundry list for us, starting with a bar out in…” Hank trails off and he closes his eyes in frustration. Connor finishes for him without missing a beat. “...North Beach.”
You hike up your eyebrows at that. You aren’t a total party girl, but since you live near North Beach, you’re more than familiar with the nightlife. In comparison to the rest of the hotspots in the city, it’s way more subdued.
“And what is happening at this bar?”
“Possible android trafficking. One of the bartenders has their suspicions,” Hank explains. “We need to case the place, keep an eye out for any odd behavior.”
You rack your brain about all the bars you’ve visited near your house. You can’t imagine any of them having this type of operation going on in the background. But to be fair, it’s not like you were in a state of mind to notice anything like that three espresso martinis deep.
You laugh in short bursts as reality starts hitting you. “We” definitely meant you, but you just can’t help yourself.
“We, as in me? Tonight?” you squeak out, and you can tell Hank is already losing his patience.
“Yes junior, that actually does include you. Think you can’t handle it?” Hank eyes you, egging you on.
“No, no, I know the bars around that area. I can handle myself,” you defensively say with a flip of your hair, and your eyes dart back to Connor. “...But I will tell you right now, we are getting nowhere if he wears that uniform out,” you let out a bit of a titter as Connor just stares at you, his LED blaring a bright yellow.
“Detective, you grossly underestimate me if you think I would attempt wearing this uniform in a public setting, at a bar full of deviant androids and humans, no less,” he narrows his eyes at you as he speaks.
Oops. He did not like that.
“Hey, I’m just making sure,” you muse with a twinkle in your eye. You have to admit it’s kind of fun pushing his buttons, but you decide to move on quickly and not overindulge. “What’s the name of the bar that we’re going to, anyway?”
“Some place called Vesper,” Hank says as he stares at his notebook littered with scribbles that seem to be only legible to him.
Oh, god.
July 13th, 2039
6:00 pm
You open your measly, dimly lit closet, hastily pushing hangers out of the way to try and find a sweater that won’t look like total shit. Most of your clothes hang haphazardly, clinging for dear life, creased and smushed together to represent more of an amalgamation of one cursed piece of clothing rather than individual ones. You scold your past self for allowing it to get this bad, but it also isn’t your fault that the closets in the city are literally the size of a pillbox.
A burnt orange sweater catches your eye and you yank it from the closet, a few sacrificial pieces of clothing simultaneously falling to the ground in response. You hold it in front of you as you stand in front of your mirror, struggling to really see it since you insisted on only having string lights and the smallest of lamps to illuminate your room. The sweater is old as hell, but had the square neck cut out that you liked. It accentuates your collarbones, too. Not that it really matters. You are working. Thankfully, jeans are jeans, and that’s the easiest decision you have made thus far today. You grab their stuffed form from your lavender dresser and throw them on the bed.
You bite your lip nervously as you start getting dressed, and you glance over to the gun sitting on top of your nightstand. It glistens in the low light, the sheen surface staring back at you. Being armed was something you’re not used to. You have been trained, sure, but the crimes you deal with never really warranted the use of a gun.
So much for that.
“It’s gonna be okay,” you exhale, holstering the gun at your side and tucking your sweater over it. You replay the training you had taken over and over in your head, trying to remember every nuance. Even so, it’s not doing much to relieve your anxiety. You have to swallow your pride and just accept that you were going to have to follow Hank and Connor’s lead. If shit goes down, there’s no way you’re being the hero here. You may as well have just given yourself a fake gun and called it good.
You take another deep breath and stare at yourself in your flower-clad mirror, fixing a few loose strands of hair, satisfied enough with how you look. Connor’s face flashes in your head again, and your mind wanders to what he could possibly look like without wearing his typical android uniform. You feel your stomach burn in a familiar way that’s both exciting and sickening.
“We are not doing this,” you scold your own reflection with a pointed finger, a vocal grounding to keep your mind from running wild. You have a tendency to get carried away. Tonight’s really not the night to go full schoolgirl crush on an android you just met.
Grabbing your things, you throw on your reliable puffer jacket and head towards the door, wind already whipping you in the face as you walk out into the misty air.
You are working.
July 13th, 2039
7:00pm
“Lietenant, I don’t think this is really necessary,” Connor protests, nearly being dragged into one of the many eclectic thrift stores of the city.
“Ah, come on Con’, just come over here,” Hank says with a huge smile on his face, ushering Connor to a row of men’s shirts that were every color, pattern, and fabric imaginable. The store has the same blinding ceiling lights that most would have, but the amount of product they have lovingly packed into the space makes it look like half the power was out. There’s a subtle smell of dust and a loud mix of classic rock booming from the tilted speakers perched on each corner.
Hank scans the row of shirts, flipping through each one casually with an array of disapproving grunts and curious hums of consideration. Connor’s eyes follow his movements, also scanning each piece with analytical precision. He picks one of the flannels from the endless line of shirts and holds it up, head tilted and eyes holding a tint of judgement.
“This garment is approximately 15 years old and has lost 40% of its original tensile strength,” he states clinically, and Hank feels his soul start to leave his body. “Considering that many of these other garments also have the same characteristics, I think it would be unwise to purchase any of them,” Connor finishes his analysis with raised eyebrows, flipping the flannel around and placing it back on the rack to join the other failures.
“I think it would be unwise for you to continue runnin’ your fuckin mouth like that,” Hank spurts out, rubbing the weathered crease between his eyebrows. “Can’t bring you anywhere,” he mutters, half-annoyed, continuing his task of flipping through shirts until he lands on one that catches his eye. A simple wine red sweater that was still plush to the touch despite the mileage it clearly had.
“This one,” Hank concludes with the confidence of a man who has never once questioned his own taste. He holds the sweater in front of Connor’s torso, squinting one eye closed as he approximated how it would look on him, an unnecessary but automatic compulsion. Connor’s LED spins yellow, his eyes examining the sweater that was thrust in front of him critically.
“Like I said, I-”
“Just put it on,” Hank yells in encouragement, shaking the sweater in front of him. “You’ll look sharp, trust me,” he says confidently. Connor’s eyes examine Hank’s, then the sweater, then back to Hank again. His processors are working overtime as he carefully considers his response.
“If me agreeing will get us to leave this place, then fine,” Connor sighs in defeat, begrudgingly taking the sweater from Hank’s hands. Hank grins in triumph and starts to steer Connor to the nearest sticker-clad register.
“Perfect, now let’s make like a tree and…?” Hank turns to Connor expectantly with a hitched eyebrow, waiting for him to finish with giddy anticipation.
“...Leave…” Connor finally manages to mutter, casting a side eye of bombastic proportions. This isn’t the first or last time he would be subjected to Hank’s repertoire of cheesy phrases. Hank can’t help but let out a loud guffaw as he palms Connor’s shoulder firmly. Connor doesn’t respond, but his lips twitch upwards despite himself.