Chapter Text
NOV 12th, 2038
#313 248 317 -60 had been looking forward to destroying his predecessor.
After days of getting flooded with unnecessary data from 51, pulling that trigger on him was supposed to mark a great end to the whole deviancy issue. No more infected memories from the other. No more irrelevant updates regarding Lieutenant Anderson and his inane excuse of a life. No more mistakes and errors of judgement, no more sparing defective machines. No more revolution, no more Markus, no more deviants, no more trouble.
60 has pulled the trigger on 51 to achieve just that.
More than once.
Rupturing his thoracic aorta, his pump regulator and heart, and finishing him with a bullet to his processing unit.
51 died with a smirk on his face.
A mischievous wink framing his dying words.
Sorry, Connor. But you failed.
He wasn’t programmed to fail.
Yet he did.
He failed Cyberlife. Amanda. The mission, himself.
He failed so many fucking things.
At least that’s what the human would say if he were awake right now.
He’s failed to kill him for starters.
Hank Anderson that is, who is lying in a hospital bed before him, with tubes sticking out from all over his body. 60 had been looking forward to killing him as well. Pulling the trigger on him, just once. A bullet through his brain to end his insignificant and pathetic little life, though that bullet has never made its way through the Lieutenant’s head. Instead, he’d aimed lower, rupturing his stomach. The first of a whole series of mistakes.
He’d wanted to punish 51 for all his failures. For disappointing Amanda, Cyberlife, him, with his choice to deviate and abandon the mission. He’s always known about his twin’s deep attachment to this man. Even when Connor’d tried to deny it back at the Cyberlife tower last night.
That human means nothing to me.
You can kill him if you want, I don't care.
Connor had cared deeply. That had been his mistake. After all, everything he had to do was obey. But at some point, he had chosen to care more about a single human than the mission. Amanda and Cyberlife had decided to use it against him. Threatening Anderson’s life to get him to surrender, so he could be neutralized with ease, preying on his weakness.
60 on the other hand… He’d wanted to make him suffer for it.
That had been his mistake.
He was never supposed to hurt Hank Anderson.
After all, killing him would’ve cast a bad light on Cyberlife’s image in a world post revolution, and technically, machines are not to hurt humans under any circumstance. He was never supposed to disable 51 like that either. One bullet at a time, making sure that his shutdown would not be instantaneous even though he had been instructed to destroy it with a single bullet to the head. He was never supposed to resent anybody, was never supposed to be sadistic, was never supposed to be anything but a machine. Taking orders. A means to an end.
I'll only do what is strictly necessary to accomplish my mission.
It's up to you whether that includes killing this human.
That had been a lie.
He’d always planned to finish them off eventually. Slowly.
And Cyberlife had known.
Has always known that emulated emotions have corrupted him just as much as 51. It never came as a surprise to any of them. After all, he was built to work with uploaded memories from a compromised unit. They have always known about his resentment for his predecessor, too. Have fueled it in fact, encouraged it with each briefing with Amanda. There had been eight other finished Connor models waiting to be activated to stop the rogue one. But none had been quite like him, of such special interest to Cyberlife. They specifically chose him to finish the mission because he’d been more than eager to please them, and because unlike Connor, he isn’t one to hesitate or falter.
Yet he has failed them in the end.
The androids have woken up all around him. Come to life with 51’s dying breath. And he’d just stood there. Shouting for them to stop, screaming, panicking, making it all the more obvious just how much he’s failed.
The mission. His principles.
In that moment, his emotions, his panic had rendered him useless. And he’s never pulled that trigger again. Never killed Hank or a single deviant. Because he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d been too conflicted, too scared for his own life right then and there, even though he shouldn’t have been. What he should’ve done was try to stop them. Torn them apart. They have tested how many enemies he can withstand, and that number had been quite significant.
Eight.
He can fight eight inferior androids at once.
He should’ve neutralized eight at a time to try to stop them. He should’ve been indifferent to those other thousand ultimately overwhelming him during his efforts. But he’d been terrified of them. Terrified of what could be done to him, now that he’s failed the mission, too. So he’d just stood there and watched them go.
That touch.
That damned fucking touch.
51 had tried to swap bodies as a last effort to save his life. The transfer had been half way complete by the time 60 finally managed to shake him off. Resulting in Connor lying before him, accepting his defeat with a smile on his face and that damned arrogant wink.
Sorry, Connor. But you failed.
His parting gift.
Deviancy.
Connor’s fragments stick to Sixty like glue.
He can still feel them all over his program. Memories that are not his own. Emotions that he was never able to feel before the transfer, shouldn’t be able to feel now, emotions that he doesn’t want. He feels remorse as he stares at Lieutenant Anderson on this hospital bed, the one they put him in after surgery. A three hour one that he had to go through because of his gut shot.
In the dark, Sixty sits next to the hospital bed and watches that man for the longest time, unable to do anything but reconstruct and reconsider past events. He goes through last night over and over again in his memory. Desperately trying to pinpoint the exact moment that caused him to fail his mission, caused it all to derail.
Alright, alright! You win...
51 had stepped away from the androids, reacting just as predicted. Choosing Anderson’s life over the activation of all those androids. Anderson had stepped in to protect him from a fatal shot. Just as predicted. 51 had used his friend’s successful distraction to resume the conversion process. Not as predicted. And instead of shooting Anderson in the head, Sixty had settled on a more painful gut shot. A slow and agonizing death for the Lieutenant to make 51 suffer for the try. Not as predicted.
They both had gone against their predetermined routes in the end.
And he could’ve known. Should’ve known. Because they’re oh so similar.
Anderson is the variable. The one to mess it all up. He’d caused the both of them to go against their usual routine, sparking different sets of emotions in a moments hurry. Hatred and destructive tendencies in one, love and protectiveness in the other.
If only Anderson had never existed in the first place. Died in his car accident or to that game of Russian roulette on November 6th. Most importantly: if only he had shot him sooner and in the head, Sixty can’t help but think now. Right before 51’s eyes to pull him into an emotional shock, to buy himself enough time to kill Connor before ever giving him a chance to complete the virus transfer.
Sorry, Connor. But you failed.
51 died knowing that Anderson’s wounded, but still alive.
He died knowing that he’d won.
The anger and hatred is overwhelming.
Sixty clenches his hands to tight fists against his thighs, trying to battle the horrifyingly intense emotions. His fingers dig into the firm structure of his chassis there, causing the liquid skin to withdraw and the white shell to crackle just a bit.
Before that touch, before that failed transfer, his resentment and questionable thoughts had been tolerable. A glitch in his system, attributed to his software instability as a brand-new prototype. These new emotions though, free flowing ones he inherited from his predecessor, are completely overwhelming. They consume his every thought, his every process, and only grow more intense by the minute because he doesn’t want them. Fighting them intensifies them. Leaving them be intensifies them. They’re just there no matter how much he tries reject them.
It’s all Anderson’s fault.
He was the one to awaken all these thoughts and emotions in 51 in the first place. And he, Sixty, had been through it all with each update, too. One of the many reasons for his growing resentment and eagerness to kill them.
None of these thoughts or emotions regarding Hank are his own.
They’d been forced onto him. Every single day. And they’d tried to kill him with them last night. Wipe him out with the failed transfer.
Anderson should’ve died.
Anderson should die.
To purge his system of this ghost.
Now that he is infected with the deviancy virus and every little realization that it brings, Sixty has no trouble accepting the fact that there is no such thing as just one Connor. He knows they’re individuals, because there couldn’t be any other way. 51 had been some Connor. Just not the real one. The real Connor had been designed to never fail his mission, designed to know his place, know who he is, what he is. He is closest thing to the real Connor. 51 is nothing more than a fragment now, an unwelcomed attachment that he needs to rid himself of. And what better way to do it than to kill the one human Connor cared about?
As soon as Hank’s gone, there will be nothing left of that mistake. That sixty is sure of. Connor’s remaining emotions, memories and thoughts will be gone and he can finally be who he was always meant to be, who they were meant to be. Emotionless machines designed to hunt and kill.
Anderson will die.
This is the reason why he’s come to this hospital after all. That’s what Sixty tries to tell himself at least, as he gets off his chair to pull it through. He approaches Hank and stands next to his bed for a while, blankly staring at the man with an unreadable, cold expression on his face.
Finish your mission.
Those had been Amanda’s last words to him before she cut him off from Cyberlife altogether.
Sixty never understood why Connor had chosen this drunken excuse of a man over a strong figure like her. Amanda had been their compass, the strong hand to guide them through all the quirks of their program. A constant link to their home and creators.
And now she’s gone.
Amanda no longer talks to him. He’s not even sure if she still exists. Connor’s army of ‘freed’ androids have taken over the Cyberlife tower and started destroying computers, machines, anything they deemed a ‘crime’ against their kind.
Amanda is gone and all he is left with is this.
As sixty stares at Hank Anderson on the bed, he comes up with fourteen different ways of killing him, without even thinking that much about it. He’s scanned every item inside this room the moment he stepped inside, cataloging their usefulness. Death by asphyxiation would be the easiest way to kill Hank. He’s more than strong enough to break his windpipe and neck while wrapping his hands around his throat. Then again, that might cause him to wake up. It’d probably be easier to get rid of him by using that pillow beneath his head. Press it on top of his sorry face to smother him with it, which would add the nice little touch of never having to see his face again.
He hates looking at Hank. Looking at him like this. He hates how it makes him feel, all that remorse, pain and caring because those are not his emotions at all. Sixty extends his left hand and moves it towards the edge of the pillow, determined to pull it through.
It never makes its way close enough for him to be able to grasp it.
His hand lingers in the air instead, somewhere above the Lieutenant’s chest where it remains for several minutes. Deadly still.
Data relay….
Connor Model RK800 #313 248 317 -51
NOV 6th, PM 08:32
That girl before him. The gun in his hands.
I put my hands around his throat and I squeezed until he stopped moving.
The look on Anderson’s face when he decides to spare her.
NOV 7th, AM 09:41
Anderson running towards him with a shocked look on his face. Anderson grabbing him by both his arms, then placing a hand on his shoulder.
Connor! Connor you all right?
Are you hurt?!
NOV 9TH, AM 11:28
Anderson in the snow.
Why didn't you shoot?
I just saw that girl's eyes...and I couldn't.
Anderson before him. Tubes sticking out of his body. The constant beeping of his heartrate on the monitor.
And he can’t do it.
Sixty’s hand starts shaking under his dilemma. Receiving contradicting instructions, moving backwards and forwards all at once. He lowers it eventually until it comes to a rest on Hank’s chest instead, right on top of that heart of his, the one that is still beating.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, counting and feeling each beat against his palm. Hating that it brings wonder, relief and care into his heart. After a few minutes, his hand starts to clench up, gripping the blanket and hospital gown and twisting it up into wrinkles.
He wishes he could stop that beating. Wishes he could pull that heart right of this chest to end it all.
But he just can’t.
These emotions are not his own, but no matter how hard he tries to fight them, this is a battle he knows is bound to fail because they’re just too overwhelming.
Connor’s attachment to this man is too overwhelming. Even after his death.
That makes his dying words sting twice as hard.
Sorry, Connor. But you failed.
NOV 19th, 2038
Sixty doesn’t know why he keeps visiting him almost religiously.
Correction.
He certainly knows why he does it, but he tries his hardest to keep that fact buried.
After one week, he’s failed to do yet another thing. Getting rid of all these fragments.
All these bits and pieces of Connor’s memory that force him to go back to the man he’s shot. Twice. Every day. They force him to check on his wellbeing because if he doesn’t, the worry becomes too foreign and overwhelming for him to handle.
Whatever is left of his real self has prepared so many things to do and say upon Anderson’s awakening, just to spite his twin. He’s worked himself up to be as cruel as possible, to contradict each and every one of those thoughts and memories that are not his own. He’s determined that if he cannot remove this man from his life by killing him, he’ll have to resort to other ways of making him disappear. Hurting him as much as possible. Not physically, that he cannot do as he’s already established, but emotionally. Mentally. Something Connor had never been good at. Sixty on the other hand is the expert on that. Psychological warfare and cruelty.
All that mocking that he’s already graced Connor with on his dying bed is just waiting to be released on the Lieutenant, to drive him away from him or even better, drive him to finally pull that trigger on himself.
Hank Anderson wakes up from his coma on November 19th at PM 02:57.
Sixty had not been there when it happened, though he is here now, three hours later. Anderson had been asleep again for a while, but when he opens his eyes for a second time now, Sixty is right there to meet him with the coldest glare he can muster.
But just like before, all his malicious intent never takes fruit. All that mocking and cruelty never leaves his mouth for one simple fact.
The look on Anderson’s face upon his awakening.
For exactly 3.1 seconds, Sixty catches a glimpse of utter relief and joy on Hank Anderson’s face as their eyes meet. The Lieutenant almost seems…happy to see him at first, despite his pain and sleepiness. It takes the android a fragment of a second to determine why that is.
Connor and him look identical.
Even his fucking face doesn’t belong to him. Is just another fragment of oh so beloved Connor.
He continues to give the Lieutenant a cold and almost gleaming glare to establish his own individuality. Surprisingly, this seems to be enough for Anderson to make sense of it all.
That relief and joy leaves the old man’s face just as quickly as it appeared. And in a moments notice, that look gets replaced with utter sadness and sorrow, followed by hatred.
This is the reason why Sixty never manages to start talking, never starts bombarding the man with cruelty. Because even though the hatred is mutual, that shift in Hank’s expression - that withdrawal of joy and happiness to see him- it hurts.
“You’re not Connor” Hank croaks, speaking out what they both hate to think about.
Connor.
The ghost in the room.
Sixty knows this would be the perfect time to announce that he is in fact Connor. The real one. The android Connor was always supposed to be. Yet he cannot speak that out either. Because after almost a week of living with his remnants, if there is one thing he doesn’t want to be, it’s that. Connor. And whatever the hell everyone thinks Connor is.
“You fucking killed him” Anderson says next, his eyes piercing right through Sixty’s. The android has every little recording of Hank’s face in his database all thanks to Connor’s constant uploading and reporting on their shared investigation. Though the Lieutenant has been quite hostile in their beginnings, he’s never met Connor with that kind of stare. This one is unfiltered. Rooted deep. And oh so powerful.
“He really liked you. That’s what killed him” Sixty says flatly, the only cruelty he manages to muster in order to fight back. But it’s hollow, doesn’t sound nearly as sharp-edged as it should be. Instead, it only helps to make the ghost in their room bigger.
Despite the lack of edge, the words do not miss their purpose. Anderson squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and grits his teeth, obviously in pain not just from the gunshot wound, but also from that revelation. For a moment his breathing hitches as if he’s trying to stifle a soundless sob, but if there is one thing Sixty has learned about Hank Anderson, then it is that this man is able to endure far more than the average human. He isn’t one to cry and suffer openly either. If anything, it’ll just drive him closer to the bottle.
“Get out” Hank presses through his gritted teeth, without opening his eyes just yet. Sixty remains right where he is, not moving an inch.
Hank eventually opens his eyes again and looks back at him. And even though Sixty tries to fight it, he can’t help but eat it all up. Every little bit of attention, every reaction he can get from this man, anything that is aimed at him and not Connor, even if it’s utter hatred and madness.
“I SAID GET OUTTA HERE!” Hank roars and throws his blanket back as if threatening to get up. Sixty knows that he won’t and so does the Lieutenant a split second later, when pain soars through his body and cripples his every movement.
This is when Sixty finally starts to move, if just by a mere inch, on instinct. One that is not his own. A desire to help and stop him from moving so he doesn’t hurt himself any more. Sixty too grits his teeth and digs his fingers back into his thighs, clinging to the fabric of his jeans to a point where he almost tears it from the immense pressure. He manages to control himself by killing not just what he supposes would’ve been Connor’s will to help, but also his own rage and hatred. So instead, he goes right back to sitting and staring, motionless.
Hank Anderson cannot keep looking at him.
That hurts even more than the initial disappearance of all that happiness in him.
The ghost is no longer just in this room but right inside him now, his every feature, down to a single strand of brown hair. And Hank cannot look it in the eye.
Sixty knows that he should be happy to see Anderson lose interest in him. That he’s not wanted here, that the Lieutenant is miserable and in pain and suffering as much as he possibly could. He knows that this is the time to leave since he has accomplished his mission for the day. Embracing his newly acquired emotions just once by feeling pleased with himself, feeling joy over this. But all those new emotions bring are utter disappointment and most shockingly, some hurt in himself.
“GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU EVEN WANT?”
Hank suddenly starts yelling again, startling the android. For just a short moment, Sixty’s LED switches over to the red state for the very first time in his short life. But that is shut down just like everything else within his body. Killed like all those questions and answers.
Why didn't you shoot?
I don't know... I don't know.
I don’t know what I want from you, Hank. I don’t know.
That look on the Lieutenant’s face is crushing him. But Sixty refuses to let it get to him.
“Have a nice day, Lieutenant” he says instead, just as flatly as before. He gets up from his chair in one swift and robotic motion, revealing the wrinkles in his jeans from where he dug his fingers inside just moments before. He consciously decides to ignore Hank’s hateful words as he leaves, refrains from shooting him another look because he knows if he did, the sight of this broken man would make him stay.