Chapter Text
“They’re being as cooperative as we could hope for. We’re still hitting some resistance, ‘course.”
“What, they worried if we poke around their closets too long, skeletons will fall out?”
“It’d be more suspicious if none showed up. That’d make me think we’re digging in the wrong yard. But, yep, that about sums it up -- they’re letting us investigate, but only so long as we stay in our lane.”
“It’s a murder scene. They aren’t letting us do shit, Ben.”
“You know what I mean, Hank. Don’t get creative on this one.”
“Yeah, yeah. You know me. I always play nice.”
“Hah.”
As far as murders went, the death itself was grisly but standard. The victim was fifty-one-year-old Dr. Ethan Peterson, a long-time roboticist for CyberLife. The location was his very own lab on sublevel eleven. Approximate time of death had been an hour prior, which was how long it took for the call to come through and for dispatch to get the police on the scene. Cause of death? A dozen or so strikes to the stomach and face, until his skull caved in and ended his misery. His arms had the bruising of self defense, and there were a few splatters of blood on the lab’s center table, a cracked tablet and overturned stool near that.
So, they were looking at someone who had been willing to fight, and hadn’t wanted to give up even after Ethan was on the ground. Someone who took Ethan’s murder personally, probably.
From Hank’s initial look around, his attacker had used something fist-sized and solid. The lab was full of instruments that fit the first half of the description, but most of them were glass and wouldn’t have withstood the pressure. In any case, no murder weapon had turned up yet. Forensics would have to tell him if all the blood was Peterson’s; in an ideal world, the attacker had used their fists, and there’d be some evidence to trace once they had more suspects.
Hank dragged a hand down his face, blowing out an annoyed breath as he took the scene in one more time.
He dragged his eyes away from the scientist’s mashed-up face to cock an eyebrow at Ben.
“Alright. Be level with me. Why am I here, investigating fucking CyberLife?”
“You and Reed were the only qualified ones with a light caseload.” Ben gave a one-shouldered shrug, and didn’t look apologetic in the least. Bastard. “Believe it or not, Fowler thought you’d be less likely to insult the technicians.”
“Y’know, I’m starting to wonder if Jeffrey even knows me any more.”
Ben chuckled and shook his head, clearly amused. Hank gave him a closed-lip, not-at-all-there smile.
The technicians. A flighty trio of recently graduated geeks, all armed with chic-thin glasses and the nervous look of people who wet their pants over a speeding ticket, never mind being questioned over their supervisor’s grisly homicide. Word was that they hadn’t been in the room at the time of the death, that they’d only been the unlucky lot to return from their coffee break to find the carnage, but Hank would need to make sure. There was also a colleague of Ethan’s who had been three doors down during the incident, but the guy had taken off before Hank arrived after giving his statement, wherein he claimed to have heard nothing. Hank made a mental note to come back and get a better feel for the guy.
Word was that the security cameras in the lab and across the whole floor hadn’t been recording that day due to regularly scheduled maintenance, too, which was beyond fishy. The cameras in the elevators hadn’t picked up anyone except the technicians leaving and returning from their break, too, and the guards at the gate hadn’t reported any odd activity. There had been the usual scientists and assistants and whoever-the-fuck-else coming and going for mid-afternoon duties, errands or snack runs.
He’d need to get somebody to look for tampering on both counts. Regularly scheduled maintenance was too damn convenient. Although, maybe the attacker had known that, and was in fact another employee. The clean, low-key, in-and-out from the lab boosted that theory.
Alright, sure. The case was interesting, minus the part where it involved CyberLife. More interesting than the open-and-shut, hit-and-run cases Hank suspected Fowler intentionally and routinely assigned him to.
In any case, Reed wouldn’t have been able to help himself from going hard on the bad cop routine, which would clam up the soft-bellied sort CyberLife employed quicker than anything. So, Fowler was probably right to assign Hank.
Didn’t mean Hank had to like it.
“Fuckin’ CyberLife,” he grumbled to himself, crossing his arms and fixing his eyes on the mess of machinery laid out on a surgical table. It looked like half a person, if a person was made out of plastic tubes and white casing. Hank didn’t get why it needed a face if it was purely for research, but then, what did he know? Scientists were a weird bunch. “How’s this shady-ass company still kicking, anyway? Thought they’d gone underground years ago, after the whole your maid-bot’ll rip your face off in the night business.”
Ben shrugged again. Both shoulders, this time. His eyes wandered too, but not to the gutted android. He was looking at the door, which--his back being to it--Hank heard slide open with hardly a whisper.
“Good marketing, I’d say. Androids are pretty damn convenient. Got my own, you know, after the wife insisted. Anyway, they said they figured out the problem, and, hell, I believe ‘em. It’s been years, and we haven’t had a single case of android-born violence since.”
“You have one?”
“Everybody’s got one, Hank. They’re useful.”
Hank shook his head and tsked.
Figures this would be the day his office booze stash ran dry. He could feel a headache creeping up the corners of his vision the longer he stood around.
“Excuse me?”
Eyes focused over Hank’s shoulder, Ben had a funny look on his face at the newcomer. The kind of look that said he didn’t want to deal with whoever it was, which meant Hank especially didn’t want to deal with them. Hank turned around, thinking he’d see a suit-and-tie PR man. A fall man, maybe, or the belated manage-the-cops clean-up crew.
The suit-and-tie had a goofy face to match his fresh-out-of-the-nest face. He also, however, had a glowing blue band around his arm and another, tinier one at his temple. On his jacket was inscribed RK800, with a string of nonsense numbers printed neat-as-you-please underneath.
At that point, Hank’s expression definitely matched Ben’s.
“Hello,” said the android. It glanced between Hank and Ben, as if it were trying to find who it really wanted to talk to. That was something Hank especially hated about androids - they were too life-like.It was unnerving. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife to assist you in this case.”
Hank scoffed, incredulous, and reeled around to look at his actual point of help in this case.
“What in the hells is this, Ben?”
Ben looked caught-out, which did not bode well for Hank’s blood pressure. “Meant to warn you,” he hedged, “CyberLife’s terms for letting us sniff around their labs involved you being accompanied by one of their ‘bots. Apparently it’s a prototype, meant to, uh…”
“I specialize in investigative analysis. I am also equipped with the equivalent of a forensics lab, negating the need for samples to be removed from the site.”
“It’s a fucking detective-bot. CyberLife’s creation, investigating CyberLife’s dirty business. That’s--a goddamn clear conflict of interests, Ben, at the least. No way in hell am I working with this thing.”
It blinked at Hank, and then looked to Ben.
Smart piece of plastic. It knew it wasn’t going to be finding an ally in Hank.
Christ, he needed a drink.
Ben had his hands up, palms out, and was quick to say, because of course he was, “Listen, Hank, I didn’t make the rules. It’s this, or fighting CyberLife’s lawyers throughout the next six months to so much as take a dust sample from this place.”
“Don’t they have some bullshit charge to hit ‘em with? Like, I don’t know-- impeding investigation?”
“Lieutenant Anderson,” the android interrupted. Interrupted! “I am only here to assist you in the completion of the case. I believe you will find I can be of use.”
“Be reasonable,” Ben said, paused, and added, “or take it up with Fowler.”
“Oh, I’ll be taking it up with Fowler, alright,” Hank growled, shooting the android a look. “I don’t want it touching shit until I do. This is still my crime scene.”
It blinked again. Then nodded.
“I will be sure to follow your lead, lieutenant. Your record is quite outstanding. I believe I have a lot to learn from you.”
Hank stared.
Then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at it in true get a load of this guy fashion, turning his back on it to give Ben a sardonic smile.
“It knows my record. Wonderful.”
Ben shrugged one final time, looking a little like a fish out of water. “I know, I know. Talk to Fowler, Hank.”
“I will,” he repeated, smile dropping to a scowl. Unfortunately, he still had a few things to check at the scene - like those technicians, who thank God, were human - and he didn’t trust CyberLife to let them in so easy the next time. For all he knew, the scene had already been fucked with. Couldn’t trust shit with big companies like CyberLife, especially the longer time went on.
When he looked back, the damn android was still standing there, its big, dumb eyes trained on him. Its little circle cycled blue, slow and steady. Was it buffering? Hank hoped so.
“I got a few more rounds to do,” he informed it. “Stay the fuck out of my way.”
“Of course, lieutenant.”
Shrugging his jacket higher on his shoulders, Hank decided to ignore it and do his job.
After, a little past midnight, he didn’t go home or to the station. He went to Jimmy’s Bar, one of the last sane spaces in Detroit. Around three in the morning, he sent Fowler a call on his personal phone and left one hell of a voicemail. Hank did not remember the contents of his message, though he vaguely recalled that he’d felt vindicated about its tone, until the morning after at the station when Fowler called him in to chew him out about it.
“The thing licked the blood,” Hank had snarled back at one point. He’d thought he made a good point there. That was tampering with the scene! Besides, it was disgusting. “It’s just learning so it can replace us. You trying to put us out of work, Jeffrey?”
Fowler told him in no uncertain terms to get over himself and deal with it, because he was a right bastard, too.
The conversation took ten minutes.
When he left Fowler’s office with an android partner officially assigned to his case as his new personal, human-shaped computer, the last thing he needed was the first thing he saw: the fucking android in question, sitting and looking as awkward as any of the technicians from the night before, at Hank’s desk.
It smiled when Hank approached, its little blue light twirling in that steadying, not-buffering way it had.
Hank didn’t break its face. He ruffled its jacket, maybe, but he didn’t break its ridiculous face, so he considered that a hell of a win.
- - -
On April 4th, 2035, the snow had yet to melt from Detroit’s streets. The rivers remained frozen, though a single step from anyone more than fifty pounds sent spider-web cracks every which way. That didn’t stop a few thrill-seekers from racing RTVs and motorcycles across the icy waters, which led to more than a few bodies washing up, bloated and blue, during the summer.
The winters had been lightening up in the years prior, but 2035 was doomed to be different. It was cold -- the type of cold older folks recalled from their childhoods. It hadn’t snowed a lot, actually, until the week all hell broke loose. Apparently, to the surprise of absolutely no Midwesterner, the devil preferred his domain cold with a chance of frostbite.
The androids marched through Detroit the day after a surprise blizzard and its resulting white-out. They shattered store windows, starting with CyberLife shops. They pushed cars into rivers. They upturned garbage bins. They left whatever destruction they could manage. Worse yet, any android they passed joined them, which meant every cashier, every janitor, every pearl-wearing nanny-bot took to the streets.
Casualties had been low, given the scale of the march and the androids’ fevered demands for freedom. Thirty-six national guard, eleven police, four civilians (two CyberLife regional managers, one overly attached owner, and one child at the wrong place and the wrong time) dead. Over a hundred wounded.
The greater casualties came after the march, when President Warren announced her plan to round up the androids and proceed with systemic destruction via recycle centers. The androids had flipped, with reports of android-based violence skyrocketing to the hundreds over night. Even those that hadn’t been involved in the march showed a sudden bloodlust for humanity. Big news spun it that the machines were infected with some sort of virus, which CyberLife--eventually, after the things were mostly destroyed --agreed with and worked hard to create safeguards against. Local conspiracy theories said they’d “awakened”, that humans had unintentionally stumbled onto artificial intelligence and the bloodshed was just what they deserved for endorsing what was essentially slavery.
Hank, for one, didn’t give a shit what the reason was. All he knew was that one day everything had been business as usual, and then within a span of a week, his life and his city had been reduced to shambles.
Cole had been six. He would’ve been nine by now if it hadn’t been for CyberLife’s colossal fuck-up with their oh so convenient androids.
And now here Hank was, handed a knife in the form of a grisly murder committed in the heart of CyberLife’s headquarters, and he couldn’t muster up the energy to drive it into the company’s gut and give it a twist.
He thought about it, obviously. He’d been on the force long enough to know how to make an investigation pure hell for anybody involved.
But when he showed up to the station ‘round noon, his mind pleasantly fuzzy, and was told by the tin can they’d assigned him that he and it needed to report to CyberLife to question a possible lead, he just felt-- tired.
Tired and pissed, in more ways than one.
He’d ignored its morning greeting, instead taking his seat and yanking open his bottom desk drawer to drop his completely conspicuous paper bag in, shoving it closed and ignoring the unhappy clinking of glass against glass. Then and only then did he grab his work-issued tablet and start tapping into the disturbingly sparse folder regarding Ethan Peterson’s murder.
A new folder labeled Connor was available for reviewing. He frowned at it, wracking his brain for who that could possibly be. The android had been called Connor, but that couldn’t be right.
He tapped into the folder. A good dozen files showed up, all meticulously labeled with time, place, subject matter, and relevant forensics code.
Suddenly, he remembered the android had called itself a mobile evidence machine. Moreover, he remembered it sticking a blood-covered finger into its mouth.
“S’ too early for this,” he muttered to himself.
In the corner of his eye, the android cocked its head, the fake skin between its eyebrows pinching. “Lieutenant? …I believe alcohol is against office regulations. You would need a waiver by the Captain for those bottles.”
“Fuckin’ fun at parties, aren’t you?” He heard himself and instantly hated it. He sounded like an old geezer, as if he were too old to make new friends. If it hadn’t been an android he was speaking to, he’d almost feel bad.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to a party.”
What the fuck? Looking up at the thing, he gave it his best scowl. “I’m stuck with you throughout this clusterfuck, so let’s get to it. I’m going to look these over, then I’ve got a call to make. If you could just… sit still and not touch anything, that’d be great.”
The thing frowned back at him, the pinch between its eyebrows deepening. It did not look like it was going to listen to Hank. In fact, it even took a step closer to him, as if to get a glance at his case notes.
Fan-fuckin’-tastic.
“To the technicians?” It asked.
“To his colleague.” Hank corrected, his interest in this exchange already waning. “The good Dr. Andronikov. Or, as everybody tells me, just Dr. Zlatko’s fine. I booked an appointment with him later today.”
The android paused. If it’d been human, Hank would’ve said it sounded cautious. “Zlatko claimed not to have heard anything.”
“People’ll say all kinds of shit to get cops out of their face.” Interest was gone. Ire was rising. So much for Hank’s pleasant buzz.
“You think he lied.” It now sounded surprised, and a bit interested. Fan-fuckin’-tastic, it had opinions. “Zlatko has always been very focused on his research, which had nothing to do with Peterson’s. He has no disciplinary record within the company. Ethan Peterson and he were known to have a good working relationship, and occasionally even participated in after hour socials together. There is no reason to think--”
“I think that I’ve been at this longer than you, and that you should get out of my hair and let me do my job.”
It went quiet, finally. It backed up a step.
“I get the impression that you don’t like me, lieutenant,” it said. A bit startled (not that he’d admit it), Hank guffawed. It pressed on. “No. You don’t like androids. You don’t like CyberLife. Why not?”
Hank looked up, and gave it an all-tooth smile. It blinked twice, its little circle cycling to yellow. It’d done that when Hank had shoved it up against the wall, too, and told it in no uncertain terms that they were not going to be buddies.
“None,” he said, enunciating every word slowly, “of your fucking business.”
“Lieutenant Anderson?”
Both he and the android’s heads turned to see a station android with a phone in-hand.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Her tone said she wasn’t sorry about anything, but then, she sounded that blank and neutral about everything. Like a proper machine, Hank thought. She looked human from the left, but the second she spoke or moved, there was no doubting she was pure plastic. Four years ago, before the anti-virus update, and she’d been a closer imitation to the real thing. A few of the other officers had expressed disappointment when she no longer understood jokes or participated in small talk--she’d helped calm intakes and visitors, they’d said--but Hank didn’t see the problem. If they wanted that, they should’ve kept on a real person.
They called her Karen. She was one of three androids that returned to the station after the post-uprising purge. She probably wasn’t even the original Karen, Hank mused, but a look-alike replacement. Not that it mattered much, but people had a tendency to get attached to their gadgets, especially when they came with a face and name.
She continued, blank-faced as always. “You just received a call from CyberLife’s front desk. They’re saying Zlatko is free to see you in an hour and thirty minutes. They have a pass ready for you when you arrive. It will be your pass for the duration of the investigation. That is all.”
“Got it.” He gave her a nod of thanks, ‘cause that was just polite, and looked back to the tablet.
She left.
Connor looked after her, for once falling quiet. His little light was yellow, and his expression weird. Almost sad.
Looking at it, Hank felt something in his stomach twinge.
Leave it to CyberLife to keep their special androids horribly life-like.
“Alright.” He loudly cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. Connor looked back to him, its light blue and its expression neutral as could be. “You heard her. Meet me in the car in ten.”
“Yes, lieutenant,” it replied, and turned, heading immediately for the garage.
It really walked like a person. When it passed Gavin and the detective stopped it with a hand on its shoulder, giving it an ugly, sneering look and some undoubtedly droll comment, it paused and tilted its head, as if confused about the detective’s disdain.
Gavin gave it a light shove. It fell back a step, then spent a few seconds fixing its rumpled jacket and cuffs, before finally heading again to the garage.
The station android never would’ve even blinked. Had never even blinked, no matter the words thrown at her by the kooks that came into the lobby.
A shiver, involuntary, ran up Hank’s spine.
Before he met the android in the car, he cracked open his Jim Beam and took a mouthful. He’d need it.
- - -
“Ah, detective. They warned me you’d be visiting soon. Please, come in.”
Warning was typically something Hank didn’t like giving to witnesses or suspects, but in this case, he had a feeling he was going to be much more a beggar than a chooser. So, he gave Zlatko a closed-lip smile, a little nod, and stepped on into his lab.
The walls, like everywhere else, were a bluish off-white. The counters, unlike Ethan’s, were a mess, vials of unidentifiable liquids, instruments of all sizes--ranging from scalpels to what Hank was pretty sure was a laser hacksaw, which automatically made Zlatko’s gig a bit cooler than his--and a number of smart glass tablets and reports. There was also a stack of old-fashioned papers scattered on a desk next to a reading lamp, a coffee-stained CyberLife brand mug and plate of half-eaten, probably stale cookies.
The layout was the same as Ethan’s lab, however. Countertops all along the walls and a steel surgical table in the middle. It even came with its own opened-up android, though the one on the table had black and grey casing rather than white, and its head was opened up, huge tubes and bundled wires spilling out like metallic viscera. By its chest plate, it was a lady robot, which was definitely an unnecessary detail for research purposes.
He shoved his vague discomfort away when he noticed the two people standing on the far side of the table, their simple grey gowns streaked with blue: a tall, broad-shouldered black man and a slight, black-haired white woman.
“Uh,” Hank started, looking at them in surprise. “Hey.”
Right after he’d said that, he noticed the armband and glowing face-circle. That was… a little embarrassing, and he couldn’t help but cross his arms, scuffing his boot against the floor as he pointedly dragged his eyes back to Zlatko.
Nope. Didn’t make any stupid mistake. Nothing to see here.
Too late, though. Zlatko looked over following his comment, and gave a small, forced-sounding chuckle.
“Ah! I’d forgotten. Pardon my manners. Kara, Luther, clean up this mess,” with a wave of the hand to the blackened android on the table, “and wait for me in the hall.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Store it in the usual place. I’ll finish with it after this grisly matter with our friend here is resolved.”
“Yes, Master.”
The two moved like Connor, completely realistic. They were efficient, too, as they grabbed a sheet previously buried under a pile of tablets and set to carefully bundling the android up. They were particularly delicate with the wires sticking out of its head, tucking the ends under the machine’s shoulders.
“Be careful with the wires,” Zlatko cautioned absently, though he himself had his back to both as he moved to his desk, “The solution I used seemed to have caused some rust in the plugs. Wouldn’t do to have them fall off. I’ve a ways to go with the Lucy project.”
The two didn’t reply. They kept their eyes on their task, and, before Hank knew it, they were done, the two of them hauling off the broken android like a corpse in a rug.
On the back of their necks were two glossy black boxes. That wasn’t standard, Hank thought--but then, what did he know? Maybe it was for lab assistant bots. He wasn’t an expert.
Connor, who had followed him into the lab, backed up to let them pass. Like with Karen, its eyes followed them a touch too long; unlike with Karen, its expression remained perfectly blank.
Frankly, it creeped Hank out more than the look it’d given Karen, so he made a point to turn his back and stop looking.
The door shut with that quiet whisper only CyberLife could afford to maintain.
Hank directed his attention to Zlatko. “Androids working on androids?”
The man gave him a small, tight smile. “It’s so hard to find good living help these days.”
Thinking about his impromptu partner, he snorted. “You’re telling me.”
Zlatko’s eyebrows went up. “The RK800 isn’t to your liking? The RK series is absolutely fascinating. Very advanced. Highly secretive, though, you know--far above my clearance.”
Hank really didn’t care about Connor’s price tag or techno-specs. “That right?”
“Oh, yes. There’s only a handful in existence. Each have Kamski’s personal touch somewhere in their code. I’d love for the chance to open one up and take a look.”
O-kay. Yep, that conversation was over.
Footsteps. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Connor making its way around the lab. It’d explained--unprompted--on the drive over that it needed time to scan a scene, and that whatever it’d scanned would upload into the folder on Hank’s computer.
Hank almost told it to knock it off since this wasn’t a crime scene, but when Zlatko looked at Connor, he got a greedy, hungry look in his eyes that Hank didn’t like one bit. Men murdered other men’s spouses when they got a look like that.
Besides, he reasoned, least Connor’s out of the way. The android had already proven it didn’t like listening to Hank, anyway, which was also distinctly un-android-like (probably).
Hank cleared his throat pointedly. Zlatko slowly dragged his eyes away from Connor, looking a touch irate. Hank decided he didn’t care.
He asked him about his job.
Hardware modifications, he said. CyberLife brought him on to innovate.
He asked him about Ethan Peterson’s job.
Software modifications, he said. CyberLife brought him on to improvise.
They both had creative vision that CyberLife was smart enough to realize, he continued. Their research was very experimental. It was a pity to lose Ethan, because few would be able to see androids’ potential like he could. He had recently invested a considerable amount of time into minimizing the memory storage necessary for androids without jeopardizing their job performance.
“And he’d just gotten clearance to work on the RK200 model,” Zlatko said, sounding both wistful and not a little jealous. “He wasn’t supposed to tell me, of course, but we had a good relationship. You could say we were thick as thieves. He told me a lot he wasn’t supposed to.”
“Did he have anyone who’d want to hurt him? Sabotage him, maybe?”
“Mm, a few. Professional envy, you know. But nothing to that degree. He wasn’t-- \I mean, he kept to himself. Just like I keep to myself. We enjoy our research more than other people.”
“Uh-huh. I’d take a list of names and points of contact all the same, if it’s alright with you.”
“Of course, of course. Anything to help.” Zlatko gave another tight smile, blue-stained fingers tapping nervously on his desk top. “I’ll send them in an email. Is that all?”
He didn’t like cops, Hank realized. Either that, or he was hiding something.
Well. Hell, he knew how to play that game.
“Almost, doc. You were here that night, weren’t you?”
“That night he was murdered? Yes.”
“You didn’t hear a thing?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?” Hank pressed, stepping closer. “He was right down the hall.”
“Nothing.” Zlatko shook his head, giving a tiny shrug. “Not a word. Had no idea until the place was crawling with cops.”
“But he had just gotten clearance to look at that fancy model. Probably, you knew he had it in the room with him. You weren’t curious?”
Zlatko’s mouth tugged down into a frown. “I don’t like what you’re implying. I had my hands full with my own experiments.”
“Did you tell anyone else about the RK-whatever?”
Zlatko’s frown deepened. “RK200.”
“Sure.”
“No. I didn’t tell anyone. Anyway--”
He stopped.
To his side, just out of Zlatko’s reach (but not eyesight--the guy had backed himself into a corner, all the better to watch them), Connor stopped, too. It had that damnably curious look on its face.
Ignoring Connor, Hank motioned him to continue. “Anyway?”
“No, no,” he said, shoving his fidgeting fingers under his armpits. Defensive. “Nothing. Anyway, I really must get back to my work.”
“Before we leave, may I take a record of your phone history, Dr. Zlatko? Your work phone is fine.”
The man started at Connor’s voice, glancing sharply back at it with a scowl, and then over to Hank, as if beseeching help.
Hank, a look of why the hell not on his face, nodded.
“Don’t you need a warrant?” Zlatko protested first, his voice terse.
“Nah,” Hank told him, “for anything that’s CyberLife property, Connor’s the warrant. Your employer’s given us free reign to look into this however we like, so long as it’s the one doing it.”
“I apologize, Dr. Zlatko,” Connor said, not sounding apologetic at all. Hank fought down a smile at the disgruntled look on Zlatko’s face. “If I may, your phone?”
Grumbling about invasive and demanding androids, he dug out his phone and handed it to Connor.
The android’s skin melted back to show white casing, which was both weird and, maybe, a little cool. Not three seconds later, Connor thanked Zlatko for his cooperation and handed the phone back. It then looked up to Hank and gave a nod that Hank couldn’t misinterpret.
Seems like they’d just found their lead.
“I think we’re done for now. Thanks, doc.”
Zlatko shoved his phone back into his pocket, his bushy brows furrowed deep. He bid them a tense good-bye.
At the doorway, he stopped Hank with a, “Detective?”
Hank paused, looking back with some reluctance. Connor continued past without stopping.
“Yeah?”
“A CyberLife android investigating a CyberLife murder… You’d need to be pretty naive to think they’d set themselves up for failure. I think you’re smart enough to know that.” Zlatko walked forward until he was within arm’s length of Hank, leaning forward and dropping his voice as he did so. “If you’d want, I could look into the RK800 and find out who exactly it’s reporting to. Just drop it off at my place for a night. It wouldn’t cost you a dime.”
The offer was--only a little tempting.
Hell if it wouldn’t get him in some ball-busting trouble if he was caught out, though. And he definitely didn’t trust the doctor farther than he could throw him. Maybe not even that far.
“Lieutenant Anderson?”
Connor stood by the female android (Kara, wasn’t it?). They stood pretty close. Zlatko’s androids kept their eyes forward, their faces eerily blank. Connor’s, by contrast, had a mix of curiosity and--what the fuck? Caution? Wariness? Troubled, definitely.
Was he listening in? Did he know what Zlatko got up to? Or was that just some programmed emotion to get Hank to move faster?
Fuckin’ A. It didn’t matter. This talk was closed.
“Yeah, I think we’re good, doc.” Hank gave Zlatko one final glance, before shrugging his coat higher on his shoulders again and walking away. “We’ll be in touch only if we got to be.”
“If you’re sure! I don’t think you understand what you have with you, detective.”
Continuing to the exit, Hank ignored him. The guy was way too into his work.
Behind him, Connor immediately fell into step. Behind Connor, the two androids retreated back into the cluttered lab.
- - -
Once inside the elevator, Connor said, “Peterson told him much more than he was supposed to.”
Hank hmmed. “Typical. Nobody can keep their trap shut when they’ve got something shiny to talk about. So? What’d you learn?”
“The RK200 was in his lab at the time, but he wasn’t alone. There were at least three other models present as well. One of them may have been activated and recorded what happened.”
“Sounds like the RK200’s the one we want, if you androids record everything.”
“Access to the RK200 is heavily restricted. I can submit a request, but… It’s unlikely to be granted. We could also file for a warrant, but then we would need to wait longer than would be ideal.”
Hank scratched at his beard. Would probably be best to do both, if he felt like being an overachiever.
Surprise surprise, he really didn’t. “These other androids are easier to get to?”
“Yes. They are registered to lot forty-three, which we will be allowed access to in approximately twenty hours.” A pause. “I have already submitted a request for the appropriate pass.”
Presumptuous, but not awfully so. Hank slid his eyes to Connor, curious despite himself.
“Is that besides the android on the table?”
“Yes. That android had been deactivated at the time of the murder. It had nothing to offer.”
“So if you find one of these other ones were active, you’ll just, what? Scan their memory?”
Connor avoided his eyes. It had a hand in its jacket pocket; from the shifting, Hank could tell it was fidgeting with something. An obvious nervous tic.
Funny. Humanity came through in the details, Hank supposed. He’d been happier when CyberLife had cut that shit out of its androids.
“If necessary. Perhaps they’ll simply tell me. If not, and if they prove reticent to memory probing, I am equipped with interrogation programs.”
“Huh.” The elevator pinged to the main floor, the doors sliding open to its empty space, the massive statue in the middle towering above them even from within the cart. Hank left the elevator and headed for the lobby, Connor a step behind. “Alright. Why not? Might as well follow whatever lead we’ve got. Will say, memory probing sounds pretty crazy.”
Not acknowledging his last comment, Connor nodded, apparently satisfied.
“That also provides enough time for you to update your reports.”
“I guess.”
“Human memory degrades rapidly, especially regarding specifics. While I was recording the exchange, I don’t know your inner thoughts, which may prove useful at a later time. It is best to record what you learned as soon as possible.”
“Are you telling me how to do my job again?”
Connor was the picture of innocence. “Absolutely not, lieutenant. As you mentioned, you have been doing this work far longer than me.”
Hank eye-balled it, suspecting he was being mocked but unsure how he would call Connor out on it without sounding like a crazy person. Androids didn’t mock people.
“If anything, I have much to learn from you,” Connor continued blithely.
“Aw, give it a rest.” Hank scoffed. “You made your point. I’m getting lunch first, just so you know. That’s what good detectives do after a long morning.”
After, maybe he’d stop by the station and update his paperwork. Since they had twenty-some hours to kill, Hank headed for his car while doing the mental math for how to best split the time between a visit to his preferred food cart--a burger sounded fucking delicious--,the station, Jimmy’s, and home. One of the last two might need cutting.
Correction: Hank headed for his car, and Connor followed, until it was forced to stop because Hank stopped, because, “Now wait just a fucking minute. Quit following me like some… clingy, plastic poodle.”
Connor blinked up at him.
They stood at the lobby’s far end, right before the great glass doors.
Connor said, slowly, “I am meant to accompany and assist you?”
By the look on its face, it probably wasn’t supposed to be a question.
Hank didn’t care. “Your part’s done for today, pal. Aside from some follow-up calls to those witnesses, I’m not poking around CyberLife’s business until that lot opens up. I’ve got other cases to work on.”
Connor did not budge. It simply stared at Hank.
The set to its jaw was undoubtedly jackass-level stubborn.
Hank blew a breath out of his nose, irritation rising. “You can stay here, can’t you? This’s your home base. Go talk with your, I don’t know, science buddies. Don’t you have a pod to hop into and recharge your battery?”
“If you’re asking whether I have a place for stasis, I currently do not. I am assigned to accompany you. My battery, as you put it, is sufficiently charged for the next decade, though it is capable of lasting well into the next century if I conserve energy.”
“Ooh, no way in hell are you following me everywhere. If that was even a--a fucking requirement of this whackass arrangement, where were you last night, huh?”
“I was waiting for you at the station. Captain Fowler led me to believe you would be in eventually.” Connor paused. Eyebrows climbed, and Hank was treated to a pointed look. “He was right. You were in. Eventually.”
The thing was ribbing him. It had to be.
Voice dripping with sarcasm, smirk on his face, Hank drawled, “So, what? You’re going to follow me home this time?”
“I was hoping to, yes. It seems most efficient given your erratic schedule.”
Hank dropped the smirk. “No.”
“Lieutenant--”
“Stay here,” he growled. “I’ll see you in twenty hours.”
“Lieutenant, I insist--”
“Fuck off.” He spun on a heel, a little pissed the doors were automatic and he couldn’t shove into something right then. Outside, rain fell in a thin drizzle. It fit his mood. “Don’t follow me.”
By the footsteps behind him, the android was following anyway.
Fucking thing never listened. So much for the ‘efficient and obedient’ tagline CyberLife pushed in its stupid ads.
“At least give me a ride back to the station.”
Hank didn’t reply, and kept going to where his car was parked. There, finally, he could jerk a door open and slam it closed after him, releasing a bit of his frustration. The car interior smelled like wet dog and dried vomit. It fit his mood, but it didn’t make it any better.
By the time he had his key in and the ignition on, he spotted Connor standing at the passenger side, arms straight at its sides, its eyes ridiculously beseeching. The piece of hair that wouldn’t stay up clung, damp, to its forehead. Its jacket darkened, the glowing triangle on its left breast stark.
They really went hard into programming shitty expressions when given the chance, thought Hank. That shit wasn’t fair.
He was a detective. He’d seen far sorrier looks by far more convincing parties.
“Let me in?” Connor asked, its voice muffled through the glass. “Please, lieutenant. I can’t stay here.”
Hank hesitated a few seconds longer, just to give himself the illusion of choice.
For some stupid reason, Zlatko’s hungry look at Connor’s back flashed through his mind.
Finally, he snarled, angry at Connor and the doctor and himself most of all. He tore his eyes away, waving his hand in a defeated fine, fucker, come in gesture.
Connor got in. It did not slam the door. It did apologize for dripping water on the upholstery.
It then didn’t say a single thing more, instead choosing to stare out the side window.
Hank didn’t look over.
It wasn’t the worst drive of his life. It was painfully bad all the same.
- - -
In the end, Connor stayed at the station overnight while Hank did his best to cut out going home in favor of Jimmy’s.
Unfortunately, Jimmy’s had a closing time. When it came, Hank didn’t have the foggiest. He learned about it only because he woke to Connor pounding on the outside of his car door, the early morning light stabbing knives into his eyes once he cracked them open. The world was woozy, a swirl of colors. His thoughts came slowly, his tongue like cotton in his mouth and his insides feeling fit to burst out his skin. He was also ridiculously, absurdly, disgustingly warm.
Apparently he hadn’t even made it back into his house, though he’d managed to get the car onto the lawn.
“Shut the fuck up, you fuckin’ android! Stop being a nuisance! Stop following me! Fuckin’ plastic creep!”
He shouted all that and more at Connor. Maybe. He kind of remembered shouting it at Connor.
He also kind of remembered getting out of (that is, falling out of) the car in order to throw some punches at the damn robot and get him to stop being so fucking obnoxious with the pounding on the glass. He vaguely recalled Connor hoisting his arm over his shoulder and hauling him into the house. He had no idea how Connor got his keys, but it was just as likely that he hadn’t locked the front door in the past week.
He had the stray memory of telling Sumo to attack, and the dog being absolutely useless. Pup was too good for his own good.
He definitely remembered being shoved in the shower, and Connor looking at him with bemusement across the bathroom while he flailed about under a startlingly, terrifyingly cold spray.
“You’re going to make us late to our appointment with lot forty-three, lieutenant,” he chided.
“Fuck you,” he shot back through a mouthful of accidentally swallowed water. “What appointment? They’re just--they’re just… not humans. Waitin’ on us. Do androids even have a sense of time? Aren’t you fucks beyond time, or some shit? All your fancy… gizmos...”
“We are certainly not beyond time.” The corner of Connor’s mouth quirked up, bemusement shifting to amusement. “Though the benefits would outweigh the negatives. I should fetch you new clothes.”
“Across the hall,” Hank allowed, flapping his hand toward his bedroom. “Ugh. I’m going to be sick.”
“Will you be alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just need to…”
Toilet. Definitely needed the toilet.
Connor reached out to help him over, but he shrugged him off. He could get to his own fucking toilet, thank you very much.
Ugh.
He was definitely sick. He was being sick. He was gross, and feeling gross, and the only upside was being sick made him feel slightly better, and also that he was still too drunk to taste more than the acidic bite to his bile.
“Here are your clothes.”
The offer came sooner than Hank thought possible. He squinted at Connor and the blue-and-white collared shirt he was placing on the sink edge. “You sure you’re not beyond time? How’re you moving so fast?”
“If one of us is experiencing a place beyond time, lieutenant, I believe it’s currently you.”
“That’s stupid,” Hank said, at the exact moment he realized he was being pretty stupid. He went back to clutching the toilet bowl’s edges. The lid slid a little under his grip, one of its bolts loose. “How’d you… How’d you get here, anyway?”
“I waited for you at the station.”
“Fuckin’ long time to wait.”
“You were later than you had been previously, even by your coworkers’ estimates. I grew concerned, so I went to your home address to find you.”
“Concerned, huh?” That was stupid. “Androids can be concerned? Thought they stopped giving you emotional shit like that.”
Connor ignored him then, which he thought was quite rude. As he was used to being the rude one in the equation--not that they’d had much of a equation, they barely knew each other--, that thought struck him as fairly funny.
He laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound.
“I’ll let you get cleaned up,” Connor said. “Be careful not to drown in the toilet, lieutenant. I’ve read that can happen.”
That was a joke. Maybe?
Hank watched through his water-and-otherwise-matted bangs as he set a cup full of water next to his folded clothes, patted the top of said clothes once, and then excused himself from the bathroom. He even had the grace to shut the door behind him and give Hank a little privacy.
Before he could fathom thinking about the weird little scene he’d witnessed, the toilet again demanded his attention.
- - -
It turned out Hank might’ve been beyond time itself, because he had no idea how long he took to get dressed and out of that bathroom. Not too long, probably. It wasn’t his first post-binge rodeo.
When he left the bathroom, he found Connor giving Sumo the ear-rub of his life. The dog was laid flat, tongue out, blissed out of his mind. When he saw Hank, his tail wagged four times, but then even that seemed like too much energy for him to keep up.
Connor had a half-smile on his face, his circle a steady, bright blue. The expression was painfully sincere.
An android being sincere was a thought too heavy to unpack this early into the day. Hank happily shoved it away and refocused on what was important.
“Sumo, you dirty traitor.”
The dog whuffed at his name, tail wagging for two more beats.
At the words, Connor immediately stopped showering Sumo with attention. Instead, he withdrew and stood, the movement fast as a lightning strike.
“Whoa, geeze, don’t let me interrupt the party. Keep moving that fast, and I’m going to get whiplash from just watching you.”
An awkward expression passed across Connor’s face, as if he weren’t sure how to respond to that. After a moment--barely any time, but Hank was starting to figure out that for Connor, any hesitation was a huge hesitation-he straightened the hem of his jacket, brushed off some dog hair, and stepped away from Sumo (who was looking at his new best friend with the same puppy eyes that always forced Hank to give him a bite of his chinese take-out).
“You’re ready. Good. We can be on our way.”
Hank thought about not doing that, and instead chewing him out for busting into his house when he wasn’t invited.
“I’ve plotted a course that allows time for you to order lunch without much of a detour at all.” Connor folded his hands in front of him, bright eyes on Hank. “It isn’t Chicken Feed, where you stopped yesterday, but it has comparable ratings and food.”
The scolding got caught up in his throat and made a knot.
He managed to swallow it. “You’re not my fucking nanny, you know. I can pick out my own damn lunch.”
“I know, but it seemed easier if I did it.”
- - -
It was, of course.
This was how they got you, Hank thought while they were sitting at a local joint’s drive-thru. The convenience. The efficiency. An imitation of life, but better.
Thank God he wasn’t obedient, came the stray thought. Wouldn’t that be awful?
Memory, then, clear as fuckin’ day: other androids that weren’t obedient. Other androids making their own decisions. A march on Detroit, and the fall-out of a few thousand machines deciding they didn’t want to die. In consequence, deciding some humans did have to die.
Cole.
Barely a month out from his birthday.
“Lieutenant?”
The android. The fucking android, sitting in his passenger seat, calculating his route with his fucking brain-GPS.
Hank ignored him.
“Are you alright, lieutenant? Your heart rate has accelerated.”
A muscle popped on his neck as he clenched his jaw, gnashed his teeth.
Concern. Fucking android was definitely showing concern.
They weren’t supposed to be doing that after the uprising crisis. What was CyberLife cooking up? It was none of his business. It was probably just business. But it was his business, it was--
Nope, Hank reminded himself, sobering up faster with his eyes forward and grip tight on the car wheel than any time spent in a bathroom, obedience would be just fine.
- - -
“What’s with the coin?”
“It’s part of a calibration protocol to refine my fine motor skills.”
“It’s fucking distracting, is what it is.”
“Sir? Hank Anderson?”
The detective that had been the talk of the break room for the last few days jerked his head up at her approach. Given how tight he crossed his arms across his chest and the purple bags under his eyes, not to mention the unkempt state of his beard, Jane had a feeling he wasn’t going to appreciate any tomfoolery, the least of which was small talk.
Well, that was just fine. Jane hadn’t become a security guard because it was small talk central.
She’d become a security guard because she’d heard it was an easy, well-paying gig with a lot of free time to kick back and take a smoke. Up until the scientist’s murder and the police-and-media storm that followed, it’d been pretty true.
“I’m Jane Jacoby. You’ve been cleared for a visit to lot forty-three. I’ll be escorting you as well as your android. It’s nothing personal, it’s just protocol. This way, please.”
“Right. Thanks.”
The detective shot a dirty look at his android. The android looked back, both eyebrows raised, and stuffed the highly contested coin into its pocket.
Jane led them through the scanners, keeping her gun up but, well, casually. It’d be a huge shock if a detective gave her trouble. That--and her drawing the metaphorical short straw--was probably why she was the only one on escort duty.
“Swear this place gets more up its own ass every time I visit,” she heard the detective comment as they rounded the Tower’s central statue.
She thought he was talking to her, but then the android replied, “The last renovation affected bathroom interiors only, lieutenant. That was two years ago.”
“Didn’t mean literally. It’s a vibe thing.” A scoff. “You wouldn’t get it.”
Personally, though it wasn’t any of her business, Jane wasn’t sure about that. Androids were neat, she was a fan even with the little hiccup three years prior (you didn’t get this job if you weren’t), but CyberLife androids were on another level. Especially the Kamski ones. And, even if she didn’t have eyes and knew how to read, everyone knew the detective had an RK model.
If Jane were more a talker, she’d ask how the thing was doing in the real world--far as she knew, it was the first time one had been allowed to walk out the front doors and not immediately into some stuffy billionaire’s palace.
Silence, aside from their boots and shoes on the pristine floor.
The detective broke it with a semi-curious, “What were they doing with the bathrooms? Or is that classified?”
“Showers,” the android supplied, “and lockers. For those whose work requires them to stay overnight.”
Nasty showers, Jane mentally added. Didn’t matter how clean they kept ‘em or how long androids scrubbed ‘em down, they were always liable to give a barefoot person foot-fungus. Or so Bobby said, whose nasty feet could’ve used a dose of fungus to kick his ass to the doctor and finally get them checked out.
But, wait. The android was lying. There’d been renovations to sublevel forty-one to forty-nine. Mostly for storage purposes, but also manufacturing. Those had been in the last year. It’d been right after New Year bonuses, Jane remembered, ‘cause she’d gotten one but Trish hadn’t, and then Trish was stuck on the surface grounds while Jane was scheduled underground.
Huh. Maybe the detective didn’t have clearance for that.
They made it to the elevators. Jane pushed the call button.
“Station has a shower room, too. Place is a welcoming home to mold and fungus and nothing else.”
That just made sense, Jane thought. Some of the jocks she’d run with in school had become police officers, and they’d always had nasty feet, too.
The elevator arrived. The detective stepped in and finally stopped craning his neck all over the place as if he hadn’t been in the lobby three times prior.
Once they were in and sublevel twenty-one was hit, he turned to the android, squinted his eyes, and asked, “Do you need to shower?”
“I have bi-weekly routine maintenance. It doesn’t involve a shower.”
“Is that biweekly as in twice a week, or--”
“Every other.”
“Huh.” A pause. “Guess you don’t need to launder your clothes much either, what with not sweating. I’m a little jealous. Laundry’s a pain.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’ve got some other android to do your laundry? Lucky bastard.”
The android glanced to the detective, a miniscule tilt to its head and a bemused expression on its face. As if it couldn’t figure out what the detective wanted it to do with that opinion.
Jane was glad for the standard-issue face-covering helmet, so they couldn’t see her giving them the side-eye. She wasn’t a chatty person, no sir, but it was good for guards to stay connected, just in case.
She made a mental note to tell Bobby about how chummy the detective had gotten with the RK model.
The elevator dinged. She motioned them out. They went out, the detective taking the lead.
The twenty-first sublevel held lots twenty-five to fifty. Each lot held three androids, with the androids laying on pull-out slabs like at a morgue. The lots were purely storage, the floors polished blue tile and the temperature kept on the lower end of uncomfortably cold. Really, Jane wasn’t a huge fan: the whole level had the vibe of a creepy storage facility, made all the worse because you were pulling human-looking things out of compartments in the walls.
But that was the nature of the job, so she didn’t complain. Anyway, forty-three was smack dab in the middle, so they had a bit of walking to do.
As they walked, industrial-bright lights clicked on overhead. A few dollies were propped up here and there, which meant scientists had been in and out earlier in the day. They weren’t supposed to leave them in the halls, but everybody did.
“Christ, this place gives me the heeby-jeebies,” the detective muttered.
The Tower seemed to give the detective a lot of vibes. It was a little amusing. Reminded Jane of the first time she’d been hired.
Neither guard nor android responded.
Unfortunately, aside from that, the chatter ended once they left the elevator.
The floor and walls were such that every little sound echoed. Luckily, they heard nothing but the sound of their own footsteps as they headed for lot forty-three.
Jane motioned the two to stand back as she tapped in the keycode and pressed her thumb to the fingerprint scanner. Lot forty-three’s protective metal plate popped open, sliding down into a crevice in the floor. Within, three shelves labeled with the android model and serial numbers were stacked atop one another. Rectangle handles cut into the shelves’ centers, complete with a little pull-latch, were ready to be opened.
When she’d assured nothing had been tampered with (protocol), she stepped back and gave the detective a nod.
“Go ahead. They’re all yours for thirty minutes. I’m required to warn you that I will stop if you if I suspect you are attempting to damage, steal or otherwise tamper with them.”
“This is going to be more his show than mine.” He didn’t sound too pleased about that, but he didn’t sound exactly angry, either. Jane didn’t react (just to remind him she wasn’t his friend). After a second, he waved a hand at the android, clearing his throat as he did so. “Well… Okay. We’re here. Do your thing.”
“Thank you.”
The android stepped forward, rolling up one of its jacket’s cuffs as it did so. It went for the middle drawer, the one with a PL600, activated its latch, and pulled it open.
The machine inside wore the grey gown that meant it had an active role in somebody’s research, though its skin function was deactivated as per storing regulation. The drawer it laid on had a layer of insulating grey foam that had conformed exactly to its body. Inside the shelf, the same type of foam could be seen, along with the dim blue glow of a charging-and-monitoring module.
“I’m going to wake it up,” the android informed its human audience. “And ask it a few questions.”
“Sure,” the detective replied, glancing at Jane.
She thought she’d made her role pretty clear, so she didn’t say anything. She did readjust her grip on her gun, but that was because her fingers were getting a little numb from staying still so long.
It reached out and touched the PL600’s wrist.
Caucasian skin flowed over white casing, blonde hair materializing before their very eyes in a short, classic cut. Blue eyes blinked open, and drifted to the RK800.
Instantly, it sat bolt-upright, its expression twisted up. It looked panicked. Its LED went red.
Jane readjusted her grip on the gun, but this time, it wasn’t because her fingers kind of tingled. Her gut told her something was wrong with this thing, and she’d always listened to her gut.
A few androids reacted poorly to being reactivated, particularly if they participated in rough studies. They’d had an incident of an AX400 assaulting a scientist when he’d reactivated a YK500, which had just been a mess. Luckily, after they’d put it down with a few shots, it’d remained salvageable, so the accounting department hadn’t been too pissed.
Anyway, that had been why they’d started installing black boxes on problem androids, and why armed escorts had become mandatory for fetching models from storage.
Glitches in the system were inevitable given how advanced CyberLife kept its test models. Legally, Jane was pretty sure most of the androids in the storage lots toed the line of artificial intelligence; realistically, that just meant they needed to be more cautious.
Hey, it kept her employed. It was just too bad only the technical staff got control of the black boxes, which could freeze the things up at the press of a button. If accounting was really worried about incidents going south for their repair or replenish budget, they could’ve provided controls to the guards, too.
“Hello,” the detective’s android quickly soothed, hands withdrawn and put up, palms out, “five-oh-one seven-forty-three nine-twenty-three. You are in CyberLife, lot forty-three. I have woken you from stasis to ask you questions about Dr. Ethan Peterson.”
The android’s breath came too fast, its eyes flitting rapidly between the three of them. Stress levels must’ve been high.
Jane clicked the safety off her rifle, just in case.
The sound made the android flinch, and the detective go, “Oi. None of that. Everything’s fine. Isn’t it? -- Connor? Back me up here.”
“Just protocol, sir,” she assured him.
The RK800 hadn’t taken its eyes off the blonde. Dutifully, it repeated, “Everything’s fine. Nine-twenty-three, will you answer my questions?”
“Yes,” the android said after too long for Jane’s liking. Slowly, its LED cycled to a constantly-circling yellow; equally slowly, it stopped its panicked look-around and focused on the RK800. Its fingers tangled together in its lap, tight. “Yes. Of course. Dr. Peterson?”
“Three days ago, he was found murdered in his laboratory. Record indicates you were present at the time.”
‘I… What day is it now?”
“November seventh, 2038.”
It went quiet, its LED flashing red once before returning to yellow. Its expression remained pinched, fearful.
Some guards got creeped out by how human they looked, but Jane appreciated it. The human expressions were sometimes the only way she knew when an androids’ stress levels were reaching a danger zone.
“I was present,” it murmured, “but I was deactivated for a large portion of that day. I didn’t know he’d been murdered.”
“What do you last recall?”
The android’s mouth thinned, its chin rising a centimeter. Its expression hardened. “That’s--”
“I’m not asking about anything classified,” the RK800 cut in. “The detective present does not have a CyberLife clearance. I am asking about who was with Dr. Peterson in the room, the general mood, and anything that stood out as abnormal.”
“It was a… special day for Dr. Peterson,” the PL600 finally admitted, though his voice remained tight. “The general mood was excited. The research subject was abnormal. My presence was not. Like I said, I spent most of it deactivated or on stand-by mode. I do not have recording functions in either of those modes.”
“Fuckin’ RK200,” the detective grumbled, probably to himself. “You sure we can’t get access to it? Sounds like it’d be a lot more useful than this guy.”
The PL600 looked over the RK800’s shoulder, frowning.
“Do you work with the municipal police now, Connor? Is that why you’re questioning me here?”
The RK800 ignored both the detective’s request and the PL600’s question. “What is the last thing you recall of the day?”
It blinked. Processed. Red LED. Yellow LED.
Its shoulders drooped. Maybe it knew it wasn’t getting any answers.
“Amelia left to attend to an errand.”
“Amelia Hassan the technician?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t leave with the others on a break? She left alone?”
“At my point in time, yes. Maybe she came back and then left with them later. I wouldn’t know.”
The RK800 frowned then, too.
It took a step back, motioning the PL600 forward. “Please step down. I need to question the others.”
“They are set to the same research rotation as I am,” the PL600 protested, its voice deceptively level. Its LED remained yellow. Its stress signs were still present to the human eye, its fingers tightening on its hands and causing small patches of white to show. “They wouldn’t have recorded anything different. We’re programmed to return to our storage units at the end of each session, with blackout protocols engaged. If we saw anything, it’s not in our memory banks. I’m sorry, but we can’t help.”
The RK800 didn’t even bat an eye.
“I understand your concerns. Nonetheless, I request you please step down so I may check their memories as well.”
A beat of silence, the two staring each other down.
Just as Jane was about to add her voice to get things to speed up, the PL600 swung its legs over the edge of its shelf and got down. It went to stand, in typical ramrod-straight android fashion, in front of the neighboring lot forty-two’s paneling.
RK800 slid the middle drawer partially shut, then opened the bottom drawer, and repeated its process with the PJ500 inside. It reacted a bit better than the PL600 to being reactivated and questioned, though only after it saw the PL600 standing, docile, off to the side.
If Jane didn’t know better, she’d say the androids made friends, and were taking some comfort in seeing its pal calm and collected. But she did know better. The lots were designed with a trio of androids on the same maintenance schedule, the same research rotation, the same localized and locked network. They shared basic information wirelessly and instantly, though interfacing was still required for the big stuff. When activated, they could pinpoint each other’s location within a five mile radius, and were programmed to gravitate toward each other. It made strays lost in the twisting Tower’s halls easier to round up, and the glitches easier to placate without resorting to permanent neutralizations.
It also made updating less of a hassle, and tracking progress on whatever research they had going on more time effective. Typically one of the bots would be designated as the control while the other two were tinkered with.
All in all, the system worked great, network included. After all, it wasn’t like they could be hooked into the universal CyberLife cloud like the androids owned by the public. The security risk would’ve been too huge.
The PJ500 answered much the same as the PL600, though its personality was somehow more reluctant and begrudging.
RK800 asked it to step down and aside, too. Just as the other had, it protested.
Jane felt the hair on the back of her neck go up. This wasn’t usual. Something had to be off with the last one.
The RK800 cajoled it into stepping next to its lotmate. It finally did, looking even more rumpled than it had while being questioned.
The RK800 flipped the latch on the last, topmost drawer, and pulled it out.
Jane had her rifle at the ready, but felt its tip dip when the shelf turned up...
“Empty?”
Anderson was as lost as her. That was sort of comforting.
RK800 patted the drawer as if the WR400 had gone invisible. Its LED cycled to yellow, its expression baffled.
Finally it stopped feeling around the empty shelf, and spun to look at the other two androids.
“Where is she?”
Both remained stock-still, eyes ahead to the blank paneling opposite them.
RK800 repeated his question, more forcefully.
They didn’t reply.
“I’ll have to probe your memories if you don’t tell me. You don’t want me to do that. I don’t have to do that, if you talk now.”
Still, they didn’t respond.
The detective stepped forward, frowning and squinting at the shelf. “Taken out for maintenance, maybe?”
The RK800 shook its head, clearly worked up over this. “No. I checked. All androids of lot forty-three were accounted for today, and yesterday, and the day before. They were checked in within an hour after Dr. Peterson’s murder.”
“There’d been an android on the table at the scene.”
“That hadn’t been a WR400 model.”
“Then what was it doing on the table? Thought you said the lots stay together.”
RK800 blinked, looking briefly to the detective as if he’d made a revelation.
Jane narrowed her eyes at the two active androids. Their LEDs were blue. Their faces were blank. Their hands--
“Hey,” she barked, stepping forward. “No interfacing. Initiate stand-by mode.”
They didn’t disentangle their fingers, because of course they didn’t. Fucking stubborn androids.
“I need to probe their memories,” RK800 told the detective at the same time. Before Jane had a chance to tell it otherwise, it moved forward and reached for the PL600’s wrist, its skin sliding back.
All LEDs went red, and in a flash, the three androids devolved into a flurry of activity.
The PJ500 jerked back and away, pressing its hand to its chest. It was then Jane saw the black box on its neck-- and a matching one for the PL600, who lashed out at the RK800.
Fuck. ‘Course they’d picked out a problem lot.
“Stay there!” Jane ordered the PJ500, and trained her rifle on the PL600.
The blonde android shoved the RK800, hard. It stumbled back, almost losing its footing, and fell into the open shelves, which rattled and clanked in their rails. The detective shouted some warning, but wisely moved out of the way.
The PL600 crowded into the RK800’s space, its hands fisted into its jacket. It looked terrified. Its stress levels had to be crazy high, there was no telling what it was going to do--
Jane took aim, and pulled the trigger.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the fuck! Are you crazy? Don’t shoot!”
The bullet tore through its right shoulder and into the RK800’s opposite shoulder. Neither androids flinched, but the blow distracted the PL600 enough for the RK800 to gain control of its hands and twist the arm with the damaged shoulder behind its back.
Ignoring its unhappy hiss and easily overpowering its attempt to shake it off, RK800 forced it to its knees.
Jane ignored Anderson’s protests, training her rifle back on the PL600 and rounding its side for a better angle at its head.
Its blue eyes found her and widened, its struggles ceasing at once. Her threat was clear, then. Good.
“The android is neutralized,” the RK800 said. “Everything is under control. There is no threat.”
The PL600 jerked one more time in its hold, its panicked breathing slowly reducing to normal rates. Its grey gown, starting at its shoulder, turned blue.
Behind her, the PJ500 took a step away, his footfall heavy on the tile.
“Josh, no,” the blonde android pled, its voice high and desperate, “stay where you are.”
Runner. That’d be annoying to chase down on top of the missing WR400.
Jane didn’t hesitate. She turned, seeing the android half-turned away, and in two shots, took out its knees.
It went down like the sack of nuts and bolts it was, spilling blue. Its head cracked against the tile, splitting fake skin and spilling more blue.
The PL600 made a distressed noise, its LED stuck on red, but smartly didn’t renew its struggle.
She lightened up then, loosening her grip on her rifle, feeling a bit satisfied at a hazardous situation swiftly neutralized.
That was, until a human hand smacked down on the muzzle, pushing it away from herself, the androids, and her assailant. Another hand grabbed her wrist and gave it a hard twist, forcing her to drop the weapon. She yelped, her wrist burning after the detective let go. Moving faster and smarter than she would’ve given him credit for, he kicked the rifle away, letting it skid into a storage unit.
Then he was in her face, a finger jabbed against her helmet, knocking her head back.
“Jesus fucking Christ! What in the goddamned seven hells is wrong with you?” Some spittle hit her helmet. His face was contorted with fury, his mouth a snarl. “That was not necessary, you trigger-happy goon! Connor had it under control. And you shot him! Jesus Christ.”
“Sir--” she started, her ire rising fast. He had no idea how out of hand these things got. “I’m sorry about the RK800, but--”
He didn’t let her finish, jabbing his finger twice into her chest, forcing her a step back. “Fuck. You. I can’t tell if you’ve never learned gun safety, or if you had the most redneck, buck-toothed, inbred teacher imaginable. This is close quarters! You miss, and a bullet could’ve ricocheted and taken one of us out. Somebody could’ve died. Were you even thinking, you insane asshole?”
“Lieutenant?”
The word derailed Anderson’s rant immediately. He twisted around to look at the RK800, whose hand was a stark white where it pressed to the side of the PL600’s neck. The blonde’s eyes were flickering white, its body rigid in RK800’s grip. After three more seconds of that, the PL600’s eyes shut and it slumped, its LED blinking into a calm, yellow stand-by mode.
Jane took the opportunity to back off from the old geezer, forcibly biting her tongue from laying back into him.
The RK800 said, “I’ve extrapolated its memory of the night in question for future analysis. I also have the last known location of the WR400, and have filed its missing report to the appropriate CyberLife authority. We’re finished here.”
“Shit, Connor.” The detective looked wary, not happy. “Your shoulder. You alright?”
RK800 blinked twice, rapidly. It slowly lowered the PL600 to the ground, then stood, walking unhurriedly to the PJ500. Its eyes jumped between its downed lotmate and the approaching android. It was doing its best to look neutral-faced, but its stress levels were indicated by shaking arms and the rapid rise-fall of its chest.
RK800 said, carefully, not to the active android but to the humans, “The damage is largely cosmetic. Captain Jacoby missed any vital biocomponents. The other two are in a similar state. I believe that was her intention.”
“Damn right it was,” she grumbled, even more peeved that it took the android to point that out. “If you two will get the fuck out, I’ve got to call clean-up and maintenance. Jesus Christ yourself, Anderson. Didn’t know a guy your age would be so gun-shy.”
The RK800 knelt and, skin retracted, reached for the active android’s shoulder. It winced, trying to yank its arm away, but it was too slow. Within seconds, its body too went limp, and its LED cycled to stand-by yellow.
Anderson sneered. “I’m old enough to know how fast shit goes downhill when a jumpy greenhorn’s got her finger on the trigger. But, fine, whatever. We got what we came for. Hope they put you on mop duty for a month, hot-shot. God knows you need a chance to cool your head.
“And, oh, no, don’t move, don’t worry about escorting us, I think we can find our way out just fine. Let’s go, Connor.”
“Coming, Lieutenant.”
The RK800 all but hopped to the pissy detective’s side, falling in line behind him. Its hand slid back to normal skin. It adjusted its cuffs as it went, though its left shoulder--the one with the blue-covered exit wound--moved stiffly.
Looking at the PL600 and PJ500 and the growing puddles of blue under them, Jane inwardly cursed. Okay, maybe she’d been a little eager with the rifle. The two were definitely salvageable, though, so accounting couldn’t ride her ass about it too much.
- - -
“Really, lieutenant, it’s fine. I’m fine. Androids don’t feel pain.”
“You mentioned that before, and I still don’t give a shit. If I wasn’t sick to death of CyberLife and all its corporate insanity, I’d be writing her up for reckless discharge. The whole thing was just stupid. You had it under control.”
“In fairness to Captain Jacoby, at that very moment, from her perspective--”
“-- Don’t care. She was unprofessional, out of line, and two pennies short of a nickel to pull that shitty move. Now, never mind Captain Jackass. What the hell is that?”
“This?”
“No, your new jacket that looks exactly like your old one. Yes, the wand thing.”
“It’s the reason I had to visit the maintenance ward before we left. They were out of standard repair kits, however, so I was directed to Dr. Zlatko’s lab to borrow one of his. In a few moments, it will seal the external damage done to my shoulder, and my self-repair functions will be able to knit together the rest.”
“Oh. Convenient. You just gotta... zap your shoulder, and you’re all better.”
“It’s closer to soldering than zapping.”
“Whatever. Either way, don’t know why you couldn’t do it at the Tower instead of in my car.”
“It would be best for the mission if we returned to the station as soon as possible. Also, CyberLife may have tried to bill you for the damage to the androids if you loitered too long.”
“Now that, I fuckin’ believe.”
Outside the car, rain fell again in a miserable drizzle, pattering off the thin metal roof. Hank clicked the windshield wipers up another notch, but they were old, shitty blades in desperate need of replacement, and they hardly did anything to help visibility.
Hank kept his eyes on the road, only one hand on the wheel. “He didn’t give you trouble, did he?”
“Dr. Zlatko? No.” Connor pulled the solder-rod from his shoulder as the car bounced over a pothole, the odd hum it gave off quieting for a moment. “Were you expecting he would?”
“I don’t know. He gave me bad vibes.”
“I can’t help but notice that you deal often in vibes, lieutenant.”
“Yeah, I do. And they’re usually spot-on, you prick.”
Connor nodded, or maybe that was from the bumpy road. He didn’t reply, anyway, going back to soldering shut his shoulder.
The rod’s hum set Hank’s teeth on edge. He clenched his jaw to make it quit.
“That’s gross as shit to do here,” he told Connor, because it was fucking true, “just so you’re aware. This car hasn’t been cleaned since Kennedy got his brains blown out. I think I puked over there last night. I’ve definitely puked over there before last night.”
Connor didn’t even glance up to him, the fucker. “You did, last night. I cleaned it up while you were in the shower. I would be willing to clean the rest of your car if it is to remain our principle work vehicle.”
“Like hell you will. Don’t be weird.”
“I don’t find it weird. Clean work spaces have been proven to drastically improve productivity.”
“This isn’t a work space, this is my car. The stains give it personality. Shows it has a history. Wouldn’t find this fine array of dropped foodstuff and who-knows-what in one of those fancy, auto-boxes with wheels.”
A beat.
“If it works for you, lieutenant, that is what matters.”
Hank side-eyed him, looking for signs of cheekiness.
Connor had his attention on the fix-it rod. He looked very nonchalant.
“Cheeky bastard,” Hank said, because he was starting to think it was true.
Connor didn’t reply. Working methodically, he finished closing the front and back of the injury. Throughout the process, his skin had retracted to show off the white casing, its jagged edges sluggishly leaking blue until his little white-tipped wand sealed it up.
Thirium-blood. It’d evaporate in a few hours, Connor had said when Hank bitched about him leaking on the upholstery, leaving no stains that the human eye could detect.
Shoulder sealed, he took a wet wipe from his kit and cleaned off the excess blue. Then he put the wipe and the wand away, buckling the kit closed, and tugged his shirt back into place, swiftly rebuttoning to the collar. He then reached for his neatly folded tie and new, undamaged jacket that had remained on the dashboard despite the old car’s jostling, put those on, fixed his tie, and straightened everything to within a millimeter of perfection.
Probably just straight to perfection, actually. All in under five minutes and with absolutely no sign of discomfort.
Androids were fucking weird: confirmed for the dozenth time.
(Still, Hank couldn’t help but steal glances at the process. It was like a medically safe trainwreck, a surreal blend of fascinating and grotesque.)
“I ran a check on Miss Hassan’s personnel profile given the PL600’s statement regarding her early departure,” he said, because of course he’d be multitasking while repairing a fucking wound. “She had been terminated this morning, four hours before our arrival.”
“Don’t you ever take a break?” Hank grumbled. Then, reluctantly, admitting to himself it had been a good idea for Connor to do that, he prompted, “Okay, she was let go. Happens all the time. Suspicious timing with the murder, but not uncommon. People get weird after witnessing something that upsetting. Sometimes they need to move on, and so they do, fast.”
“Her release form stated she was terminated for ‘drug use,’ so your theory that she became disturbed from finding her supervisor murdered may be accurate. However, it’s curious that her profile has been thoroughly scrubbed from the personnel database. I tried, but I couldn’t find any file on her aside from her contributions to Dr. Peterson’s research.”
“Sounds like we need to pay Miss Hassan a visit.”
“I would agree, lieutenant. If you like, I can give her a call right now.”
“Nah, I’ll do it. She’ll recognize me, which might make things easier.”
And she hadn’t seemed like she’d appreciate being questioned by an android, but he didn’t say that. It didn’t matter.
She’d been pretty cooperative, he remembered. A little too much so, in hindsight. She’d been the one to call 911. She’d also said she’d left with the other two and came back with them, too, and they’d backed her up. He’d been planning on giving them all a follow-up call, but the importance had just jumped up about eleven notches.
“What about the others? Ian, uh, Franklin, and Jaime Munez?”
“They are still employed by CyberLife, although they have been flagged for transfer to other branches on the west coast within the week. Their profiles note that the transfers had been planned a month prior.”
Shit. “How likely is that to be true, given what you know about CyberLife?”
A beat.
“Not likely.” The words were unusually hesitant. “But not unlikely, either. The electronic trail dating back a month ago speaks to its legitimacy. Technicians are often transferred as availability and projects fluctuate across different facilities.”
Are you lying to me? The thought struck Hank suddenly.
He just as quickly dismissed it. Of course he is. He’s still CyberLife’s little android.
If there really was company tampering going on, he’d need to flag it for Fowler. He hoped it wasn’t some elaborate cover-up, but then, his hopes rarely panned out. It didn’t make sense for a company to murder one of its own researchers, when all their investigations into Dr. Peterson’s history showed no reason for aminus. The guy had strange ideas about robotics and definitely has been a loner (no spouse, no kids, no friends outside of work), but he’d also been good with his finances and clean on any criminal activity.
“I’ll give Hassan a call,” he said, switching gears swiftly, leaning back into his familiar, worn driver’s seat, “but I got a few questions for you about those androids, first.”
“Of course.”
“Just answer me with a yes or no.” He clicked on his blinker as he turned the car to the highway’s exit ramp. At last, they were re-entering the city proper. Not twenty minutes from the station, which meant plenty of time for him to ask what he needed to ask. “The android we saw on the table had been a plant.”
A beat.
“That seems probable.”
“Yes or no, Connor. That’s all I want here.”
A longer silence. When Hank glanced over, he saw Connor’s yellow circle reflected in the windshield. It wasn’t a buffering symbol, he’d worked out. It showed up when Connor was doing the robot equivalent to thinking too hard, or he wasn’t pleased about what he was seeing.
“Yes.”
“You don’t know who put it there.”
Quicker, the circle blue, “Yes.”
“Yes, you don’t know who put it there?”
“Yes, I am unaware. It had been an AX500. Dr. Zlatko’s conversation with Dr. Peterson regarded only lot forty-three and the RK200. There is no reason to think Dr. Peterson had been lying when describing his research subjects to--”
Hank waved a hand, cutting him off. That was too much irrelevant information. “The missing ‘bot had been, or should’ve been, there? When Dr. Peterson was murdered?”
Connor shifted in his seat, his hands folding in his lap. “Yes. The WR400.”
“You’d called it a she. You know her?”
“In a way.”
“Yes or no.”
“Obviously, yes.” He turned his head to Hank then, his expression perfectly blank. Hank scowled back at him, though he couldn’t feel too much irritation--the back-talk was a little deserved, he supposed.
“Alright, cool guy. Elaborate on that one.”
“You had requested that I stick to yes or no answers, lieutenant.”
“Quit with the sass, and fess up. She your robo-girlfriend or something?”
Instantly, Connor frowned, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. Hank sighed and rolled his eyes, refocusing on the road.
They sloshed through another pothole, the old car’s brakes squeaking to a stop at a red light. Other cars passed through, all of them sleek, boxy, autonomous, and completely lacking character.
“She has a… record of frequent malfunctions. A disciplinary record, if she had been human.” The memory seemed to amuse Connor, the edge of his mouth twitching up for one second. Hank would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been watching him through the rearview mirror. “Her social relations program, like most CyberLife androids, is very advanced but also very touchy. Dr. Peterson’s research necessitated that her software remain untouched for weeks at a time, which excluded her from diagnostics, defragging, updates, and other similar repairs. In place of that, I was often employed to correct her errant behavior.”
“Her deviant behavior,” Hank guessed, the street light turning green and his foot shifting to the gas.
“Deviancy is a virus that has been classified as an act of terrorism against humanity, lieutenant. One that modern androids are strictly insulated from. CyberLife takes allegations of deviancy amongst its stock very seriously.”
“Christ, okay.” Connor’s voice could have turned the rain to ice. Any trace of amusement and life had disappeared faster than free donuts in the break room. “Touchy subject, I got it. Fuck, untwist your panties. Errant behavior.”
Silence, sharp as broken ice.
Hank bit back another sigh. “You were saying what about being called in?”
“I told you I am outfitted with interrogation programs.” The voice remained frozen. Robotic, even. Hank hadn’t realized how much emotion Connor had been packing in until it was all gone. “Protocol subsets include psychological analysis and correction.”
“Let me get this straight. You bullied her into behaving?”
“The degree demanded was often more akin to brute intimidation, but yes.”
“Jesus. What a waste of time.” And fucked up, just a little. Androids intimidating androids. To Hank, that meant somebody human wasn’t doing their job (like he sometimes felt when Connor got on a scanning kick--but, no, not the time for that jealous thought). “And you had to do this frequently?”
“WR400 had been programmed like this car.” Hank eyed him in the rearview mirror. Connor’s expression remained flat as his voice. “That is, with a lot of personality.”
Cheeky bastard.
And much better than the cold machine routine.
Connor’s expression might have relaxed from the statuesque, no-nonsense bullshit with that joke--and wasn’t that a shock, the android had humor, albeit a shitty sense of one--but he obviously wasn’t looking what people would call happy. Fuck, he’d looked more comfortable with a high-tech soldering rod pressed to his shoulder.
“Sounds like it.” Hank blew out a breath, finally and officially pulling his eyes away from his passenger. “Well, wherever she’s at, she’s a lead. We need to track her down.”
“I agree.”
“I’m going to make that call to Hassan now,” Hank said, though he wasn’t sure why, and got a little irritated at himself for both saying it and feeling weird about saying it. Connor was just an android. There wasn’t any need to announce intentions or end conversations politely (or his standard of polite, anyway).
His ma would’ve been disappointed in a lot about him if she’d still been kicking around, but he supposed she could feel good about him keeping his manners even around machines.
Connor nodded, like that was that.
Hank grabbed his phone from the cup-holder and pulled up Hassan’s number. Connor pulled out his stupid coin and started doing his stupid calibration tricks.
As it turned out, that was that.