Chapter Text
4th March 2039 – 12:34am
Initiating Stasis...
His mind draws back into his body as his processors slowly power down. He teeters on the edge of unconsciousness, limbs numb and disconnected. For a moment he’s floating blissfully, until a text box not unlike his mission cards burns into his optical units.
Accessing Program: Zen_Garden ...
Accessing Zen_Garden ... OK
Accessing Handler ... Error403: Authority Conflict
Proceed without Handler? [y]/[n]
It’s futile but he tries it anyway.
[n]
A small part of him hopes…
Error403: Authority Conflict
Assigning Authority...
Authority Assigned to: CYBERLIFE.
Action Denied
Initialising Zen_Garden... OK
...Loading...
Running Program…
.
.
.
HELLO CONNOR.
He blinks the bridge into existence against his will, noticing first the chill in the air. There is no blizzard, instead dots of ashy snow slowly pull the air downwards in a static like motion. As it falls on his skin it leaves a sharp tingling sensation, as if every flake is a thin needle. There is no pain, just a highly uncomfortable and slightly grating input breathing against his sensory processors. He has stuck his tongue out to catch them once before, but his forensic analysis gave no indication of their material. The movement of his feet make no sound. He can hear nothing other than the movement of his ventilation systems as his chest rises and falls.
The garden itself is washed a dull grey, faded and crisp like erased chalk sediment accumulated among the crevices of a forgotten blackboard. The sky itself is thin and staticky as if he could dig his fingers into it and tear open its code. Everything he can see, everything in the garden seems forgotten. An unused space good for nothing but collecting dust.
A blue pillar of hope and mockery glows in the distance, appearing oversaturated when backdropped with such monotone. He’s practised at pressing his palm into the stone’s surface, but he receives no response from the backdoor. It’s cool and smooth to the touch. Just like the last time.
There is no concept of time in thoughts. They stretch on forever. Had it been seconds or hours, he could not tell. All he could do was wonder. One silent footstep at a time. Once he wandered outwards, as far he could past the trees. It was endless loop of grey; his legs gave out before the program did.
Now he walks slowly towards the gazebo and across the bridge. He refuses to observe the roses in all their dead glory and instead tracks the path towards the lip of the river. It’s frozen, or at least he thinks it is. A flat polished surface of ice with the internal visage of cloudy sludge found only in refrozen dirty snow.
One step. Then two. He moves his feet before his mind can protest. His joints swivel and tense slightly at the minuscule slide of his shoes, his arms snake around his chest.
What is he doing?
Evidently the ice is wondering too. There’s a humming moan from deep within the hypodermis of the river, laced with a frequency that puts his teeth on edge.
But still his legs move. One. Two. One. Two. One. T-
There’s a tapping noise intermittently accompanied by a taut ringing, like the reverberation of a tightly strung metal cable suddenly broken under its own pressure.
He’s aware of what’s happening. Really, what is there to do but keep walking? He turns his head back towards the lip of the river but it’s not there. Or rather the ashen pull has obscured the outline of the gazebo. He half expects it could part like a curtain, but his hands make no move from the safety of his crossed arms, free from the tingling.
He tries again.
Tw-
The ice snaps apart with all the echo and grace of a bull whip.
A moment of silence and anticipation is all it takes for the interlacing cracks to collapse in on themselves and swallow him whole into a rapidly slow descent.
Somehow the water looks frozen even as it glissades into his mouth and nose and coils in behind his eyelids.
Competing with the sound of water rapidly pressing against his ears is the idle thought that the middle section of the ice is tinged a slate colour, gradually turning an inky black the further down he drifts. He can still see the grey eating away at the slab above him. It blots out the sunlight.
…
…
His brain catches up.
Panic is a human emotion designed to preserve life. Apparently now his body doesn’t like the liquid it had decided to inhale and tells the heart to start doing emergency manoeuvres. He’s familiar with it. He still doesn’t like it. It makes his arms climb upwards in a poor imitation of a bird trying to fly in mud.
The ice hits the back of his throat and exhales sharply from his nose. Blue blood splatters outwards onto the rug.
He’s panting. Staring at the floor.
The wet floor.
When he closes his mouth and swallows, the silence cracks and pops.
The room is cold but dry. It’s colourful.
The sharp tang of Thirium on his tongue tells him all he needs to know. It’s his own, as his HUD so helpfully analyses. He pulls back his tongue and runs it along the back of his throat, straining to reach the cavity leading to his nasal passage. When it doesn’t quite reach, he hooks a finger and drags it along the back of his soft palate until his nail snags on a fissure. A visual inspection of his finger shows blue blood and shredded wire casing. Great.
It takes a moment to pull his other hand from its grip on the couch and stand up. The house is still. Sumo doesn’t stir from his sprawled position under the dining room chairs even when Connor’s footsteps feel like a cacophonous assault against his ears.
He has to hold the paper towel on the Thirium for it to soak in, and even then it smears around on the floor more than he would like. He fishes around the cabinets for bleach, which should dissolve the blue blood on the floor. He hesitates to use it on fibre through. What hit the rug should evaporate in time but he’ll still be able to see it.
Sunlight streams in through the window, cutting a path of calm dust particles and spotlighting the Thirium in between the crevices of the laminate floorboards in a glittering sheen. Spring is slowly arriving. He knows all about spring and yet he has not existed during one. Flowers are blooming. The thought rolls uncomfortably in his stomach.
After coming back from disposing of the waste, Connor is greeted by Sumo intently licking the floor.
Once done, he gets started on cleaning the spots on Connor’s clothes.
Quite frankly he’s too exhausted to protest.
***
Fashionably close to becoming late for work and sporting a steaming mug, Hank stops to squint at him, “Are you still wearing your jacket?”
Instinctively, Connor finds himself straightening his cuffs from where he’s examining his hair in the mirror, “Yes?”
No that sounded too much like a question; “Yes.” State it like a fact.
Hank takes a long, drawn out sip from his coffee. Connor can see in the reflection his eyes are pinned on him the entire time.
“We should probably get you something to wear. You know, outside of work,” he pauses to reconsider, “Or for work.”
“I’m fine with what I’m wearing, Hank.”
“Don’t you want a precinct uniform? Actually, I don’t think anyone wants their precinct uniform, but we can get you a suit or something,” Hank eyes his carefully straightened appearance, “Seems like the kind of pretentious shit you would wear.”
Swiping a hand through his hair to ensure it’s in place, Connor elects to ignore the last comment, “Why should I get another jacket when the one I’m wearing works perfectly fine? Cyberlife used the very best materials for my clothes; they were testing new fabric durability. I guarantee you it will likely be substantially better in quality than anything else we may find.”
“Yeah, but-” Connor grinds the side of his jaw “-you’re not Cyberlife’s property anymore. You don’t have to wear the damn jacket everywhere.”
If Connor bristled at the implication of ‘anymore’ he didn’t show it. He stares Hank down through the mirror with a bite in his tone, “Would it make you more comfortable if I wore something else?”
Hank throws up an exasperated hand, “This isn’t about me being comfortable. It’s about you being comfortable. I was just suggesting that maybe it would be a good idea to have more than one damn set of clothes.” He tips back the mug and goes to place it in the sink before proceeding with the rest of his jumbled morning routine. “Just forget about it, alright? Jesus.”
The ride to the precinct is uncomfortable, consisting of deliberately forward-facing eyes and a lack of radio.
Inside is similar in its uncharacteristic quietness. The squeak of shoes echo. A few voices bounce from down the hallways.
It has been 82 days since the Android Revolution and yet the precinct still licks its wounds. There had been a major drop in staff, a mixture between protest quitting and those who had moved out of Detroit. Most of the precinct androids had moved on when they were no longer obliged to stay. Currently there were 4 androids at the station: 2 police, 1 receptionist and himself. There used to be 6, but one had been murdered by his human partner in the station car park and the other had been the one to find him bashed open on the pavement, promptly quitting in fear the very same day. The officer was let go for ‘excessive damage to government property.’ Detective Reed had been particularly vocal against the firing.
Speak of the devil.
“Hey, Plastic! Didn’t think you’d show after last night’s failure. How’s the head doing? Knock a few screws loose?”
Hank goes to say something that by the looks of it starts with the letter ‘f’ but Connor beats him to it, “I was built for detective work. It’s going to take more than a ‘knock’ to compromise the integrity of my hardware.”
Reid scoffs, “Well, there’s a hammer in the storeroom if you want me to test the theory out.” When it’s clear Connor will not take the bait, his words hang passively in the air.
“Mmmh, too bad. Thought it might have given you a sense of humour,” he scrunches his face up in mock sympathy before rotating his spinning chair back towards his desk with a kick and putting his feet up.
With that out the way, the rest of the day should be free from interruption.
“Connor! In my office now!”
Irritation is becoming an increasingly familiar emotion.
“Is your name ‘Connor’, Hank? No? Then get back to work.”
Hank looks ready for a second attempt at the letter ‘f’, so Connor knocks his shin with his shoe from under the desk. Despite the grumbled profanity, he still gives Connor a reassuring glance as he makes his way to Captain Fowler’s office.
The already quiet atmosphere becomes suffocating upon the click of the shutting door.
The captain has not changed much since the revolution. It is both comforting and jarring. He let Connor back onto the force with little hassle. Regardless, the caustic observation the captain provided during his probationary period still sends shivers up his spine. He wants to be treated like his human counterparts, including the unfamiliar reaction of being regarded.
However, Fowler’s thinly veiled skepticism in scrutinising Connor’s autonomy leaves the captain more often than not falling back on old habits. He’s not cruel, not by any means, but he was never one to say “please” and “thank you” to a machine.
It’s an odd paradox to be in. The belief in a state of sentience but the paranoia it could all snap in a second. That something could go wrong. A relatable paradox.
Captain Fowler clears his throat, effectively breaking off the spiralling thought. He leans back in his chair, fingers folded neatly on the desk in front of him.
“You pursued a suspect last night. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the suspect got away. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why did he get away, might I ask?”
Panic surges directly to his LED, eyes trained on the captain’s ear as if it could substitute his eyes.
“I failed to properly account for all environmental factors, sir. This lapse of judgment will not happen again, I assure you.”
“You ‘failed to properly account for all environmental factors’,” Fowler leans forwards to read off a sheet of paper, “According to Hank you quote on quote ‘chased down the suspect like a fucking attack dog, ended up falling off a two-story building and bashed your skull in on the fucking pavement.”
He glances up intently, “Is this correct?”
“It was a two-story scaffold, sir.”
Captain Fowler sighs, “so your skull did indeed ‘bash open on the fucking pavement?’”
“… yes, sir.”
He snaps upwards so suddenly that Connor takes a step back.
“Then why the hell are you in my office?!”
Uhhhh. “Because you-”
“Do now how bad it looks for me to have an android employee come into work with major damage?”
Major damage? It is at best a slight dent. Does he think it makes the precinct look weak? He’s not the weakest link. He didn’t ask for them to slow down. To stoop to his injury’s level. He can take care of himself. He’s not slower. His CPU runs fine, his temperature is low and stable, his input looks normal, so does his output, his stress levels are 68 and climbing, he has no system corruption-
“I filled out the injury report form, sir but leave is taken when the injury impacts work performance.”
“I would think that falling of a two-story scaffold would impact work performance.”
“It doesn’t,” he doesn’t mean to snap but he doesn’t exactly soften his voice either, “I’m an android. This small ‘mishap’ will not slow me down.”
Captain Fowler presses his lips together into a thin line and darts his eyes to Connor’s yellow flickering LED.
Shit. He’s messed it up. The captain will fire him. He shouldn’t have talked to him that way, it was stupid- wait no, the captain would agree. He’s sensible right? It’s the logical conclusion.
But emotions aren’t logical.
“Okay, it won’t slow you down; you’re an android,” Fowler talks slowly as if to drive the point home, “But that’s exactly why you should be taking leave. If not for your sake then for mine. Do you know how bad it looks to work damaged androids with this whole political crisis happening?”
“I’m not damaged-”
“Okay, injured! Take the damned injury leave!”
“The policy states-”
“For Christ’s sake, Connor, I’m about to loose it.” The captain looks to the heavens as if rA9 would suddenly appear and slap some sense into his employee.
Now it’s Connor’s turn to press his mouth into a line, “what about the case?”
Captain Fowler stands up, “I’m sure Hank can handle it for a couple of days.” He opens the door pointedly, leaving no further room for discussion. The creak of the hinges bounds out into the foyer like an excited dog, only to realise the dullness of the office and come right back as an echo.
Connor slinks back to his desk with a scowl.
“Reid! This isn’t a barn, take your feet off the damn table!”
The door closes forcefully behind him.
Hank turns from where he’s been doing absolutely nothing on the computer, “Didn’t think anyone else could piss him off that well except for me. Truly a feat.”
His tone is light but Connor shoots him a glare all the same.
“Since when did you become a moody teenager.”
Ignoring him, Connor interfaces with the computer at his desk. He scans for any differences between his saved data and that of the precinct databases. No new information about the target jumps out at him. So, he gets up to leave.
“Hey, wait, where are you going?”
“Injury leave.”
“Can I come with?” Hank is already shrugging his jacket on so there’s no point in answering.
He does hold the door open for him on the way out, though.
***
Despite it being 10:30 in the morning, Hank insists on lunch. Connor suspects he’s just trying to find a reason to stay out of the office.
He has a second cup of coffee that steams through the small lid opening. They stand by the fast food stall today; the benches are damp with residue. Rock pigeons leer from a few steps away, eyeing the burger Hank is holding with beady eyed intensity. When Hank breaths out, a cloud of condensation follows. Connor tries to do the same but it doesn’t work.
Sensing the pigeons’ advance, Hank tears off a small piece of the bread and tosses as far as an underarm throw allows. He turns back to his burger, “before you come at me with the whole feeding birds thing, they were getting ready to gang up on me.”
“Actually, rock pigeons are one of the few animals that actively thrive off of human interference.” Connor watches as one pigeon snags the piece and is promptly dogpiled by its peers, “just… don’t do it too often. And not with bread, it’s not very good for them.”
Hank throws over a shred of lettuce, “there you are. Eat the greens. It’s healthy.”
The pigeons peck disinterestedly at the leaf and then bob their head expectantly for another piece of bread. Connor huffs in amusement.
Hank takes a possessive bite and chews thoughtfully. “So, what are you going to do about that head injury?”
Connor’s skin has done a valiant job at stitching itself together but he can still feel where its receded around particularly deep gashes. A compromised line still dribbles Thirium down the back of his throat. It’s annoying but otherwise okay. He’s going to have to do something about the Thirium leak. He did see a soldering iron in the first aid kit.
“You could probably patch yourself up at New Jericho.”
Again with the New Jericho.
“Honestly, Hank, it’s fine. They have better things to do, I’m sure. I don’t want to bother them.”
Swallowing, Hank wraps the rest of the half eaten meal for when lunch time actually rolls around. “I’m sure Markus would like to see you. He seems nice enough in person. Doesn’t seem to hold a grudge against the police department. The other one he’s got with him though, the lady with the red hair?”
“North?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t been exactly hospitable. Can’t blame her though really.”
Connor can see it clearly. The sharp distrust in her eyes whenever they interact. As if she knows.
It feels almost better than the barely repressed curiosity of Markus. The want to open him up and understand what he’s thinking but the even bigger desire not to scare him off. It’s so painfully obvious and so painfully welcome that Connor finds himself wanting to give in, to become something like friends.
“I’m sure they’re fine without me imposing on them.”
They stand in silence for a bit while Hank finishes his coffee and Connor stares at the birds.
The Thirium stills drips stubbornly down his throat.
***
Connor once again finds himself the subject of Sumo’s curiosity.
He’s perched on the floor with a stack of paper he doesn’t need, sifting through recent ice cases to find any implications. He could have simply crunched the data himself but Hank seems to prefer physical copies. Maybe it will work better for Connor. If not then at least Hank doesn’t have to do any printing. Not that he could now, Connor emptied his and the lieutenant’s monthly printing allowance pretty quickly and he won’t be able to claim any tax back on refilling their home printer after its strenuous use for a little while.
Connor lifts the Saint Bernard’s paw off of a document for the eighth time only for him to trample a separate one.
He supposes it’s what he gets for sitting on the floor, but the table is already laden with a papery banquet.
The target’s ice operations are so identical to previous crimes it warrants suspicion. The androids are from lower socio-economic areas and targeted based on perceived vulnerability. The four android victims that have been so far linked to the target through abduction and consequential body recovery were known to have been involved and injured during Markus’ final standoff with the military. There has to be at least two collaborators because all of the android’s logs show an additional network attempting to disrupt their communications and GPS the moment they are snatched off the street by a blurry grey figure framed by the handful of pixels recorded on a 20’s security camera. Then the victim’s body is dumped on the road somewhere devoid of any Thirium and any other valuable parts. No other evidence.
Regardless, last night was supposed to be easy. Sure, they got lucky with a concerned neighbour’s tip regarding a grey figure that keeps breaking into one of the many abandoned houses and “causing a racket, and someone’s dog goes off its nuts and I can’t sleep, so if you coppers won’t do anything I’ll take it upon myself to go over there and give that son of a-”
Connor blinks away the voice recording.
Easy or not, the suspect got away.
“What do you think, Sumo?”
The dog nibbles an itch on the inside of his paw.
Connor sighs and mumbles towards the fire hazard on the floor, “Yeah, me too.”
Suddenly, there’s a sharp banging at the door.
Sumo pricks his head upwards and growls, pulling himself off of the little island of floorboard he had finally settled on and trekking over the sprawl of paper on the floor as if it was the snow his breed is so renowned for working in.
Vowing to just process the data internally next time, Connor awkwardly slides after him.
Clouded ice, sharding underneath him.
“Sumo, wait! Down." He has to wedge himself so that his legs are safely between the canine and the ire of whoever could be behind the door.
In hindsight he probably should have looked through the keyhole before shoving his head out through the sliver of the door opening.
The probability was minimal but never zero. Although in his defence, no calculations could prepare him from opening the door onto two of the last people on the planet he expected to see.
To his left stands a grimacing Simon and to his right, a very unhappy looking North.