Chapter Text
Hank has no idea how the fuck Sumo keeps getting in the garage — especially because by the time he wakes up to check on the goddamned dog, the door’s closed again, and Sumo knowing how to open and close doors is a bit too much for his brain to fucking deal with on his schedule. It reminds him of the scene from the original old Jurassic Park - which he had watched three times in the theaters despite the fact that he was seven years old and the movie was PG-13; not his fault his mum had loved it - where the dinosaurs learn how to open up the doors. Still a shame that the franchise had gone down the shitter, but hey — even in these days of realistic-looking robots and operational androids, the original Jurassic Park remains a goddamned classic. Fucking 1993, and it still holds up against all the hyperanimated shit his kid watches.
But Sumo’s not a velociraptor, Hank’s no Alan fucking Grant, and his floor remains an absolute disaster of chewed-up paper and, occasionally, dog vomit.
Hank literally doesn’t understand. He gets home from night shift around six-thirty, eats Morning Dinner and fucks around a bit until passing out in bed around eight- or nine-o-clock. Because he sleeps as well as a caffeine addict on their fourth cup, he wakes up at about noon, maybe a bit after. It’s not a bad schedule; it gives him a bit of time in the world of the Day People to get shit done if he needs. He usually eats, and then passes out again until about five, when he wakes up again and gets ready for his shift. The point is, there are periods in his day where he has no fucking idea which doors Sumo is opening to chew on whatever his current favorite fucking flavor might be. Because Hank is a-fucking-goddamned-sleep.
But this is, like, the tenth day in a row that he’s woken up to a paper and newspaper mess all over his fucking floor. Hank’s not stupid; he doesn’t even get a goddamned newspaper. They cost too much to get on actual paper, these days; it’s all accessible on his tablet, even the crossword, which is programmed to prod him into doing it to ‘maintain mental health’. Hank’s mental health is just fine, thank you. Or it will be, when he figures out how the fuck his dog is finding so much shit to tear up in his fucking house.
Plus. Plus! The trash is very deliberately and carefully kept in the garage, because as intelligent as Sumo’s breed might be, Sumo himself is the kind of dog that would eat shoes to see if they taste good and then need $4000 worth of surgery to deal with it. The dog has about as many brain cells as Hank has left, these days. But brain cells aren’t necessary to stay awake, and Hank thinks maybe it’s time for a pot of coffee.
God bless the goddamn Day Coffee.
Hank came home earlier today - a Friday morning, the beginning of his three-day weekend because he works four 12-hour days on night shift, and fuck, that overtime is so good - and couldn’t sleep past ten. Which is fine, because he has a three-day weekend to deal with; he can stay awake long enough to figure out what the fuck is happening with his dog and his trash. Sometimes warm drinks make him sleepy, but Hank is on a mission here. And the first step of the mission is to ensure he stays awake long enough to watch the Sumoraptor open doors, or whatever.
Coffee gurgles. Hank grabs a cup. He might be fucking his sleep schedule here, and he knows it.
But he is determined to figure out what the hell Sumo has been spreading around his living room, so he sits down on the couch and puts on his favorite true crime show, keeping an eye on the dog at all times. Hank is well aware that it’s a really fucking stupid kind of irony, watching true crime shows as a lieutenant detective, but he’s just partial to the really shitty actor reenactments. He’s seen too much of the real shit, maybe; he’s partial to watching three-bit actors play out scenes the narrator thinks might have happened. Also, he really enjoys finding the weak points in the narrative, because for all that he’s maybe checked out of society, he’s still a good goddamn detective despite it all. Cheesy can be entertainment, and it isn’t like he wants to engage his brain too much at this hour. Hell no. It’s bad enough to be entertaining but familiar enough to not require any kind of critical thought. Except when the other detectives are stupid. Then Hank just feels super cool.
It’s a strange, liminal kind of day. Hank dozes a bit, never fully asleep but occasionally floating in this direction or that. He’s in-between everything, just watching his show and his dog. At one point he wakes up convinced that Sumo is going to start marching in place and demand a more regulated feeding schedule - while Hank’s work schedule is fixed, his personal one is a bit shit - and he has to sit up, rub his face, and remind himself that Sumo is a dog, not a goddamned union employee with hope splayed across his face. Lucid dreams always fuck him up just a bit.
Sumo is, in fact, sleeping innocently. As he has been all morning. Sumo’s an old dog, and set in his ways, and Hank’s been on nights long enough that Sumo knows exactly when walkies might happen and when walkies are definitely not going to fucking happen, and Sumo likes to sleep through the latter in order to get to the former. The highlights of Sumo’s day: breakfast, dinner, and walkies. What a life.
Fucking hell. Hank fills up another cup of coffee and pays particular attention to Evil Lives Here, which has been a guilty pleasure for decades. It’s just so fucking bad. Hank chuckles into his cup of coffee as he watches the fucking K-tier actors reenact another scene that should have been empathetic and touching and instead has Hank wondering whether it’s too late to move to Hollywood and become an actor typecast on tired old assholes. There has to be a role for a guy like him, right? God. Can’t have shit in Detroit. Hank’s convinced that most of this is computer-generated anyways. They’re all probably fucking robots.
And then Sumo gets up.
The thing is: Yes, Sumo is a Saint Bernard, a breed raised on hunt and rescue, and to be honest he’s really a good fuckin’ boy, all things considered. But Sumo is a rescue dog in the same way that Hank is still a cop, at this point: lowest fuckin’ common denominator, settled into the easiest shift possible, most comfortable on days where neither one of them has to move. If a goddamn golden bone filled with peanut butter appeared over Sumo’s head, he’d think twice about standing up, and Hank respects that, because it kind of describes his whole life right now as well. So when Sumo stands up, shuffles towards the door, and lets out a low and rough but unmistakable Boof!, Hank gets nervous.
Sumo knows routine as well as Hank does. Sumo knows Hank’s routine. Sumo’s smart enough to know that there’s no way he gets walkies at this time of day. So what the fuck is he waiting for?
Hank pauses his show, scrabbles his way off of the couch, and heads over to where Sumo is — watching the door.
Sumo's two inches from the stupid old-fashioned mail slot in the door, and he's panting (and drooling) as if the world's tastiest and most delicious duck is waiting on the other side, roasted to perfection. Hank's eyes narrow. And then there's a sound he's actually never heard before - having lived here for five years, for fuck's sake - but it's the fucking stupid thing on his door, being rattled, as if someone's testing it.
Pissed beyond belief, Hank stands up. He shoves Sumo out of the way and crouches down, ignoring the clicks in both knees because he is an old fucker and, you know, whatever. He reaches out, and slowly raises the brass template flap that, on normal days - normal days being every day because Hank has an actual godsbefucked mailbox - sees no use whatsoever. If this is some neighborhood kids trying to prank the grumpy old man on the corner, well, some neighborhood kids are about to get their asses walloped by the grumpy old man on the corner. Hank’s ready.
The first thing he registers is brown. It's a warm brown pair of eyes that seem perfectly speckled, dark rich chestnut striped with gold. Hank sighs, because honestly, it's a very nice pair of eyes. He could get lost, looking into those eyes. They’re gorgeous. And then he — jesus FUCKING christ, for shit’s sake, he tumbles backwards until he’s splayed on his ass in his boxers, because there’s some goddamn creep looking at him through his mail slot.
Sumo, because he is an asshole, barks, a giant rough woof of greeting.
“Traitor,” Hank mutters.
But he scrambles his way up, ignoring the creaking of his knees and the stabbing in his hip, and hurls the door open, because what the fuck is going on?
Standing on Hank’s porch is a younger man in a mailman uniform that looks like it crawled out of the 1980s - ha, just like Hank - and desperately wants to go back. The fucker is wearing a uniform shirt with a really stupid-looking tie and fucking shorts, with socks pulled up high and sensible but really goddamn ugly shoes. He’s wearing a postman cap and has a bag slung over his chest. Seriously, it’s a blast from the fucking past, and Hank barks out a laugh that’s probably really goddamn rude.
A blast from the past, except for the brightly-lit LED ring on the man’s temple. It’s spinning, shining blue, blue, yellow-blue blue, as the man gives Hank a perfunctory perfect smile.
Hank looks him over again. The 80s? Maybe the fucking 1880s. He can’t decide whether it’s the hat or the shoes that are the worst part. No, honestly, the worst part is that the robot’s face is ridiculously attractive. Texture, a few forehead wrinkles, dotted with freckles — and they stuffed the thing into stupid shitty uniform shorts. It - he - looks like an absolute bargain bin stripper. Imagine asking for a sexy firefighter and getting this - this - whatever this is.
What the fuck is this.
“Hello, Lieutenant Anderson,” the man says. His voice is a bit goofy, a little too even and defined. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by the United States Postal Service.”
“What the actual fuck are you doing,” says Hank.
“I am delivering your mail,” says Connor, as if it’s obvious but he’s very glad to assist.
“No shit, Sherlock,” says Hank, rolling his eyes. “What I mean is, why the fuck is there a robot standing on my porch, fucking with my mail slot.” He points. “Use the goddamn mailbox. That’s what it’s there for.”
Connor looks at the mailbox, then back at Hank, so he adds nastily, “Understand? Beep beep boop?”
“You don’t check your mailbox,” Connor says, his voice straight-forward and blunt. “I’ve had to resort to other methods to ensure you get your mail in a timely fashion.”
“What the fuck are other methods,” says Hank, because it isn’t like he’s gotten any important mail for a while now.
Connor reaches out, and for a second Hank thinks the guy’s gonna brain him in the nuts with the post, but instead he hands a single envelope to Sumo, who has stuck his head out under Hank’s arm. Hank watches, bewildered, as Sumo gently takes the post from Connor’s hand.
“You have a dog,” Connor says happily. “You obviously don’t check your mailbox, so I’ve been handing your mail to your dog. If I can’t get it to you, man’s best friend certainly will.”
Hank’s befuddlement increases as he watches Sumo bring the envelope to the middle of the hallway and drop it on the ground. Sumo settles in beside it and, very carefully, rests one fat paw on it while starting to tear it all apart with his teeth. Sumo, obviously, is in his element. The enjoyment is obvious all over his slobbery face.
The garbage Hank has been finding all over the living room floor suddenly, and somewhat shittily, starts to make sense.
He looks back at Connor and raises an eyebrow. This is actually worse than he’d imagined.
“Oh,” says Connor from the porch. He sounds distinctly surprised, as if he’d thought this was a foolproof way to deliver the post.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hank says. “You’re the asshole who’s been jamming shit through my mail slot so that my dog can destroy it while I’m asleep.”
“He was supposed to deliver it to you,” says Connor, the words strangely weighted, as if Connor’s waiting for it all to make sense. As if somewhere in Connor’s perfect goddamn android brain this was some kind of plan that made any kind of sense. Christ.
Hank - not for the first time - invites whoever invented androids to go fuck themselves. That’s just sad. Man’s best friend? Who the hell says shit like that unironically? He snorts, just to himself. Connor fucking Postman, apparently that’s who.
Hank scrubs a hand over his face, wondering whether the goddamned robot has ever been wrong before. “Well, you fucked up. Now piss off, would you?”
Connor raises his arm, offering Hank the remaining two envelopes. “You have letters,” he says, again like it’s obvious and maybe he needs to clarify things.
Hank rolls his eyes. Again. Harder this time. “You know where you can stick your letters?”
Connor’s hand immediately brings the envelopes to the fucking mail slot in the door. The look on his face is eager, as if he’s pleased to have the right answer and waiting for praise.
“No,” Hank barks, louder than intended. It hits him, frankly, how fucking ridiculous this is. He’s standing in the doorway in his goddamn underwear, talking to a robot that looks like a porn star twink who attempted uniform kink and failed miserably, his dog is behind him happily tearing up legal tender, and Hank just worked a forty-eight-hour week and is suddenly, desperately, tired.
He needs a fucking drink. Instead, he grabs the post out of the guy’s hand and slams the door in his face. He has the momentary satisfaction of watching the machine blink wildly at him before he’s staring at the back of his front door, that LED spinning yellow-yellow-yellow as Hank shuts him out.
“Fuck,” Hank says, as he walks over to the couch and flops down into it. He idly looks at the two letters in his hand. They are, of course, garbage advertisements disguised as important mail. One’s an insurance company Hank recognizes, and one’s probably a credit card offer. Hank tears both up and throws them on the floor. Sumo can eat them for all he gives a fuck.
Yeah, he didn’t want Sumo eating the post before. Now, Hank thinks, he’d pour gravy on it.
Fucking robot postman. Who thought that was a good idea? Thing is, paper mail’s still mostly obsolete, just like it has been since the 10s. Even Hank, who struggles to change the settings on his own goddamn phone, has his bills set up for digital payment. So why the hell design an android to deliver shitty ads and old-fashioned catalogs? Hank doesn’t even know why companies still print the goddamn things. It’s all online and the Utilities Act of 2029 pretty much made internet access a human right. And then there are the fines the EPA charges for excessive paper use since the 2032 Global Warming Referendum; yeah, it’s still required in some cases - Hank thinks of his divorce papers in their folder - but there’s no way the Big Bob’s Big Chairs catalog is considered ‘necessary to print’ as per actual fucking law.
Who the fuck is out there still paying for paper mail? Enough that the USPS decided to get a fucking robot postman? What a world.
“Government’s probably spying on us,” Hank tells Sumo calmly. Sumo pauses in his destruction, tilting his head at Hank, and then goes right back to the envelope, which he’s now chewing on contemplatively, having shredded it into bits.
Well, the mystery is solved. Hank stands up, creaking in all his creaky parts, and shuffles on back to the bedroom.
He’d initially switched to night shift five years ago, after the divorce, because he was so fucking tired of everybody’s questions and gestures of concern. He’d just wanted them to leave him the fuck alone. It was meant to be temporary, maybe a six-month stint, but Hank’s still on night shift because he fucking likes it. Cop shows always have the break-in happen at night because it’s scarier to watch, but Hank knows more crime actually happens during the day. People are busy during the day, and all it takes is a bit of confidence and some equipment to make yourself look legit. Besides — if he can make it past midnight, when the bars and clubs close down and people go the fuck to sleep, the odds of anything serious happening for the rest of his shift are slim.
The downside is that the more violent crimes happen at night, but Hank’s okay with that. As the senior detective on night shift, he usually isn’t the sad fucker that actually has to respond to the crime scene, and solving the more serious cases gives him a satisfaction that he just doesn’t find resolving, say, a convenience store robbery.
The other downside is that his schedule makes it hard to see Cole, but his fucking ex-wife makes that hard enough anyway — not that it’s her fault. They have a system, and it mostly works out. Hank stubbornly doesn’t want to think about that right now.
It’s comfortable. Hank’s comfortable. He doesn’t want to change shit. And the shit he doesn’t want to change includes the ability to ignore his fucking paper mail without having to worry about his goddamned dog having an abdominal blockage from envelope glue.
He climbs into bed. It’s Friday, and he can sleep away as much of the day as he needs. He doesn’t have Cole this weekend, either, so he has plenty of time. Plenty of time to figure out how the fuck to keep the pretty, annoying, stupid robot off of his fucking porch.
— — —
Connor RK-800 313-248-317-51 stands on Hank Anderson’s porch for five minutes and thirty-six seconds, processing.
He is a civil service prototype. His current assignment is as a postal worker. His mission is, in the words of his handler, quite simple: to ensure legal and timely delivery of the mail.
Connor has always been a bit… different. His handler laughs, tells him that after fifty-one iterations of the same self-learning program of course there will be a few quirks. Sometimes he wonders what sort of civil positions his previous models held. Sometimes he wonders why he wonders at all.
Today, he wonders how on earth he got things so wrong.
Connor likes dogs. So when he’d started this particular mail route, and realized that Lieutenant Hank Anderson did not frequently retrieve mail from his mailbox, Connor had been determined to ensure he could complete his mission. The mail slot on the door had been a lucky find, and after the first two days, the Saint Bernard waiting for Connor on the other side had seemed an even better stroke of luck.
Connor had done extensive research. Dogs were referred to as man’s best friend, so obviously they are reliable and loyal partners. Plus, the Saint Bernard breed was initially bred for rescue work. The perfect friend to help Connor ‘rescue’ his mission!
Except Connor’s assumptions had been …incorrect.
His preconstructions are not often incorrect. However, as a postal worker, it is not necessarily a function Connor is entirely familiar with. He will need to obtain more data.
Connor turns to continue his route; he will not allow one single instance of misled calculations to affect the rest of his performance today. In addition, he will not allow this instance to interrupt his new mission: Ensure Hank Anderson, specifically, receives his mail in a timely fashion.
Connor is the most advanced prototype ever produced, and he always accomplishes his mission.
