Chapter Text
3rd March 2039 – 10:15pm
Light is a funny thing.
As it filters in through the window, the car's interior burns crimson. It's a streaky, glary mosaic, cutting through the darkness, pressing against metal bonnets and doors. It's carving the shadows of his face, a lightweight paint of instability. He gets the sudden urge to slam his fists against the glass as deja-vu hums in his peripheral. The red does not glitch, but he sees words claw his vision.
Wrong way.
Go back.
Do not turn.
Stop.
Stop.
The traffic light turns green.
He lurches forward slightly as the analogue begins its clockwise march, eyes lingering on the street signs as they slide past the passenger window. His LED flickers once, twice, then the yellow is chased away by blue.
"You alright there, Connor?"
He stares at his opaque reflection a little longer before turning his head, adopting a mildly light expression. Hank isn't watching him directly, attention focused on the road, but that doesn't stop Connor from keeping his posture steady and pulling his voice higher in a disarming tone.
"Fine, Lieutenant."
Hank turns towards him slightly, and Connor makes sure to catch his gaze before calmly moving his eyes back to the windshield. It takes 2.34 seconds to straighten his head but feels longer as Hank switches between the traffic and searching him. He makes sure to speak before he finds something.
"There is a noticeable lack of android residents in this area, suggesting the perpetrator's territory is unfixed."
As predicted, Hank moves his concern elsewhere, "Yeah, figured as much. The attacks seem to be convenience based. At least that means we shouldn't stumble upon an android trafficking ring."
Connor nods along. He is listening to Hank; he's just also scanning through case files. Red ice case; android murders and drained Thirium; at least two or more collaborators; warrant for the search of a possible ice lab in an abandoned urban suburb. He's Cyberlife's most advanced prototype; he can do two things at once.
The saturated yellow of the street lamps become scarcer as they turn into a backroad. The asphalt is rough, invisible imperfections under the cover of darkness presenting themselves as the car rocks over them.
The house they stop at looks the part of a sketchy criminal hideout, not because it is abandoned- Detroit had its fair share of run down neighbourhoods- but because it was somewhat secured. The fence was in a working condition and the side of the house harboured a makeshift pathway where waist high weeds had been trampled out the way, windows boarded with thick curtain backdrops.
The sudden lack of loud music causes Connor's audio processors to hum in readjustment as Hank removes his keys and steps out of the car.
"Let's go catch some drug dealers."
Connor can't help but smile as he follows him to the front door. The porch light senses them, and Hank mumbles a few profanities under his breath with a squint. Connor pays no mind, the light in his eyes is flooded with the blue hue of his scanner, a yellow tab alerting him to a bulky padlock; open shackle, brass, 7 pins, with a makeshift set of chains on the doorknob.
"The padlock is recently purchased and has limited wear and damage but is impossible to lock from the inside. They use a different entrance."
The next logical path is the one with the weeds, ending at a medium sized window. It doesn't take Connor much effort to shove it open, "Detroit Police!"
There's a thud from the other side of the house.
"'Round the-!"
Connor takes off before Hank even finishes the sentence.
The moment Connor catches a glimpse of the suspect it's as if nothing else in the world matters. His single purpose for existing in that moment is to neutralise the target. They lock eyes for a second, then hit the ground running.
His sprint pushes the crisp March air against his Cyberlife jacket, the chill only noticeable enough to be slightly uncomfortable. His night vision is superior to that of a human, but he still switches to thermal, pathways dark purple where a light layer of snow still smothers the road. The target is highlighted in a bright infernal yellow and Connor’s attention zero’s in.
It's a straight dash until the target pivots into a small gap between two properties, stumbling slightly on the slick sand. A dog throws itself snarling against the fence.
Connor gains ground despite the head start. After all, the target is only human.
The target's movements are confident and practiced as they scale a low reaching wall, the houses gradient into small half standing shops. A pre-constructed route determines a cut off.
Connor darts to the right and throws himself up an adjacent wall, over a gap in the roof and across a creaking wooden scaffolding plank- right into the path of the target.
They rear back and bank to the left, towards an abandoned building project caged by dark orange metal beams still clinging to the heat of the long set sun. Their advantage is lost; Connor is a mere few feet behind them. Swinging themselves into the scaffolding, desperation overrides grace.
Connor's scanner attempts to determine the best path. The middle is fast but risky. If he goes around he will lose sight of the target. There! Through the scaffolding, an edge of the structure where he can see the purple outline of-
Roses.
He missteps and slams headfirst into a pole with a sickening crack!
He's falling, except there's no 'Mission Accomplished' notification like his first assignment. Instead, his vision flashes white as the back of his head hits the pavement, momentarily blinded before the thermal setting collapses and gives way to glitching errors and warnings. He has half a mind to panic sightly at the sight of the little red boxes but forces himself to focus more on the wetness he can feel spreading through his hair. A ginger brush of his hand confirms his suspicions as his fingers pull away with Thirium. His movements glitch and stutter when he tries to stand.
For a long moment, all he can hear is the distant rumbling of cars and the echoing of dogs riling each other up, accompanied by a grating hum pinning around his head. The chill is more noticeable now that he’s on the floor. The faint yell of his name becomes sharper before he feels himself being gently sat up by Hank.
Instinctively, he scans the environment. The target is long gone; it’s just the two of them. The results shouldn't be accompanied by a wave of relief but his shoulders relax regardless and he takes the moment to run a diagnostic.
Biocomponent Analysis- Damage Assessment...
Biocomponent: #3092v, Visual_Processor_Left - Mildly Damaged
Biocomponent: Thirium_Line#439, Thirium_Line#478 - Critically Damaged
Warning: Chassis_Face_Plate integrity compromised.
Warning: Skin_Face integrity compromised 41%
Thirium Levels: ˅87%
Battery Levels: 66%
Stress Levels: ˄73%
The damage probably looks worse than it really is. Hank seems to think so, mumbling a "Hang on, son, I got you."
Connor appreciates the sentiment but there's a small issue, "They're getting-" he tries to stand up again, "away."
This time he manages to stumble to his feet, albeit with the majority of his weight resting on Hank. The older man groans a sigh, brushing the half-melted snow off Connor’s shoulders, "No fucking way am I letting you continue in this state. Come on, I'll call it in. Let's get you fixed up."
He would argue but even a step forward is causing his systems to freak out.
Eventually after a long half walk- half drag, Hank slugs Connor into the passenger side of the car, grumbling about Thirium stains. Connor tries to keep his head forward as not to colour the seat but eventually gives up upon realising the mess he's already made of the door. It has nothing to do with the damage lolling his head to the side.
"Are you gonna be alright until we get home?"
"My systems are all within functional parameters and will remain so for the duration of the trip."
Hank eyes him again before sighing and wandering over to the driver’s seat. He tries not to focus on the way his stress levels jump to 79% when he loses sight of the lieutenant or when he returns with the car door slamming shut. He doesn’t pay much mind to Hank talking into the radio and instead shutters his eyelids in an attempt to recalibrate the glitchy film dancing in his left eye.
“You okay there?”
A more traditional approach may be needed. A crack of his palm on his temple short circuits his left eye before it flickers back to normal. The humming abruptly stops. “The problem has been resolved.”
Hank scrubs a hand over his face but moves to start the car regardless, “Jesus kid, you’re not a remote.”
Connor wants to make a petty remark about being a supercomputer just to watch Hank try to come up with a retaliation, but loses the motivation when pulling out of the driveway nocks a trail of thirium out of the deep gash on his forehead and down the side of his nose.
“Perhaps we should stop by New Jericho.”
He hadn’t realised his stress level had trickled down before it shot back up again. “I assure you Lieutenant, the damage is superficial and will be repaired by my own systems.”
Hank glances at the blue blood slowly dripping on the car seat. The splotch of white, cracked chassis probably wasn’t helping his case. “Still can’t be pleasant.”
“Androids do not feel pain, lieutenant. Deviancy does not change that.”
They stop at a light. It masks the presumably bleeding red of Connors LED as he watches Hank drum his fingers contemplatively on the steering wheel in time with the music. He tries to project thoughts of ‘don’t push it’ onto the lieutenant. Finally, Hank relents.
“Fine, but if it gets worse…”
“Of course, lieutenant.” He’s not technically lying if Hank never explicitly confirmed what they would do if he got worse because of course he would take care of the issue. He just wasn’t going to go to Jericho to do it. Besides, if he couldn’t feel pain, then getting worse shouldn’t really matter.
Hank nods in an end to their conversation. There seems to be no hurry to start again and so Connor falls into standby, slowing his processors down in an effort to conserve his admittedly less than ideal battery levels.
Hank calls it “zoning out” but that would imply he’s mind isn’t in the present, which he can feel it very much is whenever a particularly intrusive bit of stimuli snaps him out of it. Connor has gotten used to Hank’s random busts of road rage but still finds himself jolting into alertness when Hank weaponises his colourful language. Or when they hit a bump in the road. Or when they passed that mildly busy café. Really, at this point he was more alert than in standby.
He did save 1.5 percent of his battery by the time they arrived home though, so that was a bonus.
The opening of the driver’s door jars him out of standby mode, but it still takes a few seconds to register that he has to get out of the car.
Immediately upon opening the front door, Connor and Hank are greeted by a slobbering snout.
He huffs a chuckle and tries to pat Sumo with the uncoated back of his hand, other limb pointlessly trying to stem the trickle of thirium tracing a path down his spine. “Come on Sumo, give him some space.” The Saint Bernard obediently moves after being forcefully pulled away from licking blue blood. Evidently the venture for food wasn’t worth, his tongue slapping in and out at the oily chemical.
First things first, he had to stop the bleeding. Connor shuffles his way towards the kitchen cabinet and tugs out an android first aid kit. It’s brand new, so he has to try and remove the plastic clips securing it together by fraying it between his teeth. Eventually it gives, and he spits the plastic into the sink before continuing to shuffle, this time in the direction of bathroom.
“Hey, uh, do you need me to do anything? I don’t know shit about android injuries, but I could hold something or…?”
Connor hefts the kit onto the sink then turns to Hank standing awkwardly in the door frame. “I’m fine lieut-Hank. I’m fine Hank.”
Would it be easier with two sets of hands? Probably. But he can’t shake the paranoia that worms into his conscience when he visualises someone other than himself conducting repairs. Not that he can’t trust Hank- because he can - he's just particular about keeping the rule. He quickly tags on, “But thank you for the offer, I appreciate your concern.”
The miniature staring contest that results is eventually won by Connor, who pointedly ignores Hank’s sceptical mutterings when he makes his way to his bedroom.
Connor can’t shut the door quick enough.
Something unpleasant and familiar lurches within his thirium pump as he assesses the damage in all its glory. His ‘skin’ has receded upon the site of impact, and the pristine white chassis below has a hairline fracture lazily siphoning thirium in time to each beat of his ‘heart’.
Damaged.
He looks damaged.
The glue job is messy and pulls tight on his chassis when he manipulates his jaw, but it stops the leaking, so he reluctantly caps the tube and tries in vain to rinse it off his fingertips before moving onto his hair.
The thirium stubbornly refuses to rinse when he ducks his head under the sink tap, instead he finds the substance diluting from it’s one major deposit at the back of his head to his remaining strands in a slick coat of oil. Realising all he’s managed to do is turn his hair into a haven for the hydrophobic, his next solution of using a towel is aborted when the fabric turns a vibrant blue.
He ignores the way his throat tingles when the scent of saline filters through where it’s pooling in his nasal passage and tosses the towel into the bath with a wet intake of breath.
After once last tug on his jacket and a shaky hand through his now greasy hair, Connor decides miserably this is the most presentable he’s going to get and almost rams into a lazing Sumo upon opening the door.
Hank waits for him in the kitchen. “All good? Don’t need to take you to a mechanic or something?” It’s a blessing that he’s too busy collecting some pasta onto his spoon from the bowl he’s harbouring to notice the flare of Connor’s LED before he forces a rationalisation. It’s a joke. The sentiment feels wrong and sour in a way that makes his fingers itch for something to spin. But he’s made it a rule not to use his coin. A ‘New Years Resolution’ it was called.
“No. I’m- a mechanic is not required. My systems are well.”
Connor refuses to look at him, instead opting to drag his fingers through sumos fur.
There’s silence. Then “your call. Get some rest, or whatever your equivalent is. We’ll figure out the ice thing tomorrow; I need to go to bed.”
There’s a clang of the bowl in the sink and a “Night Connor.”
It takes a few moments of staring at the stilled movement of his hand across Sumo’s back and the Saint Bernard’s confused whine for his tongue to cooperate enough to respond.
“Goodnight Hank.”
***
He can hear faint snoring from the other room, which, really, is nothing compared to the sounds Sumo is making from his corner of the living room. There’s an insistent humming from the refrigerator broken only by the abruptness of dispensed ice in its innerworkings, timed by the ticking of the clock perched on the wall. The wind is dead, he can tell by the stillness of the blue tarp plastered against the hole in the window. The one he put there. They’re not going to fix it. A broken window is the least of Cyberlife’s issues when they’re on the brink of bankruptcy. Still, the thin plastic cannot bar the cold from seeping into the house, or rather the heat from creeping out.
But the cold does not bother him. It can’t. Because it cannot hurt him, he should not fear it. It is irrational. As irrational as the way he sits on the sofa, back rod straight, staring at his hands folded together on his lap instead of entering stasis.
He’s putting it off.
And he feels ridiculous for it.
He just has to stop thinking about it. Take a breath in. Let a breath out.
Eventually he closes his eyes.