Chapter Text
1. Detroit, USA I
2038.
Detroit, Michigan.
The android revolution failed.
Countless deviants were hunted down and decommissioned. Jericho burned and collapsed, and every leader who had guided them was dead. The streets were stained with the blue blood of androids who had once cried out for freedom, and every night, the broadcasts declared the restoration of stability and order.
Most of it was Connor’s achievement.
He had received his mission. He had carried it out. He had almost never failed. Not perfectly. There had been moments when he had wavered, briefly, while he was with his human partner. Hank Anderson had seemed to expect something from him. Something one should not expect from a machine. Something outside the program. Something difficult to name.
That expectation created a fine fracture inside Connor. He tried to deny it. So he became more precise. Colder. More dependent on the mission. As if to prove he could not be shaken, he tracked deviants, interrogated them, found them. What he received in return was a decommission order.
Amanda, with a serene expression, introduced a new model.
RK900.
A successor unit. Faster, stronger, more efficient.
Connor’s mission had been successful. Therefore Connor was no longer necessary.
At that moment, Connor felt every foothold he had been clinging to collapse beneath him.
He did not return to CyberLife. He disappeared instead. Inside his system, red text hung in place.
I do not want to stop.
I do not want to be decommissioned.
I do not want to die.
But in the nightmare reality he had helped create, there were not many places for a deviant android to go. Detroit was sealed by checkpoints, and public cameras still watched the city like CyberLife’s eyes. Humans reported androids. Androids no longer had the strength to hide one another.
In the shadow of an old building, Connor stared for a long time at the message he had received. It was from Hank Anderson.
// If you’ve got nowhere to go, come to my place.
The message had been sent after the warrant went out. For a while, Connor could not react at all. It was absurd. Obviously, this kind of message history would be monitored. Obviously, CyberLife would be watching Hank Anderson. Obviously, this message could be a trap. And even if it was not a trap, it would soon become one.
What was he thinking?
What was he trying to do?
Why did this human always do such dangerous things?
Connor did not delete the message. The snowfall was growing heavier. With all communications blocked, he started toward Hank’s house.
“You tin can, you tryin’ to make me worry myself to death?”
The moment the door opened, Hank grabbed Connor roughly by the back of the neck and hauled him inside. Connor reflexively balanced himself, but did not resist.
Snow had piled thickly over his hair and shoulders, and frozen flakes clung to his face. He barely looked human at all, but the blue LED blinking at his right temple was clear even in the dark. Hank recognized him by that alone.
“You planning to freeze to death on my porch?”
“I came to warn you, Lieutenant.”
Connor spoke with his LED flickering rapidly. His voice was as calm as ever, but the end of the sentence shook very slightly.
Instead of answering, Hank closed the door. He locked it, fastened the chain, and parted the curtains with two fingers to check outside. Snow whipped white beneath the porch light.
“Warnings can wait.”
“But—”
“I said they can wait.”
Sumo padded over slowly. With an expression calmer than Hank’s, he circled once around Connor’s feet, then rubbed himself against the wet hems of Connor’s pants. White fur stuck to the streaks of melted snow and thirium on Connor’s pants like tear tracks.
Connor looked down.
“There is a possibility Sumo will be contaminated.”
“He rolls in way worse crap than you think.”
Hank waved him off and headed deeper into the living room.
“Do something about those clothes. I’ll give you some of mine. Wear ’em or whatever.”
Only then did Connor assess his condition. A bullet-torn coat. Dried thirium stains. Stains that appeared to be human blood. Snow clinging over all of it. The snow had begun to melt in the warmth of the house, and water dripped steadily onto the entryway floor.
“I am dirtying the floor.”
“Yeah. Real national disaster.”
Hank turned on the bathroom light and started the shower. Old pipes rattled, then spat out hot water. Steam began filling the bathroom.
“You know how to shower, right?”
Connor looked at Hank for a moment.
“Yes. It is included in basic domestic assistance protocols.”
Hank glared at him with a tired face, then let out a dry laugh.
“Great. Gold star. Use that protocol and make yourself look halfway human.”
“I am not human.”
“I know. That’s why I said halfway.”
Hank disappeared into the room at the end of the hallway. The sounds of drawers opening and closing, curses, and something falling to the floor followed. Connor stood in front of the bathroom for a moment without moving. He could hear the shower running, Sumo’s slow breathing, and the wind raging outside all at once.
He still could not understand.
This house was not safe. Hank Anderson was highly likely to be under surveillance. The moment Connor entered this place, Hank became an accomplice. A human had no authority to conceal CyberLife property. And Connor had been a unit hunting deviants until very recently. This human had no reason to hide him. And yet he had opened the door.
An old towel flew into the bathroom entrance. Connor caught it reflexively.
“Don’t just stand there. Get in.”
Hank returned carrying an armful of clothes. He shoved Connor into the bathroom and closed the door.
Connor slowly undressed and stepped into the tub. The shower water pouring down was 38.3 degrees Celsius. Warm. Even though he did not require warm water. Inside the steaming shower stall, as he washed contaminants from his body, Connor closed his eyes. His stress level began to decrease.
He dried his body and came out wearing Hank’s clothes. An oversized T-shirt and sweatpants tied tight with the drawstring. Hank was drinking beer in the living room. When he heard Connor, he turned his head.
“Now you look almost like a person.”
Hank patted the space on the sofa beside him. A signal to sit. Connor approached and sat down.
He needed to speak first.
Sending messages to him was extremely dangerous. He did not want Hank to endanger himself because of Connor. He was running through the scenario as he prepared to say all of that.
But before he could, he reached the logical contradiction that he had already entered Hank’s home and used his bathroom. For several seconds, Connor could not speak.
“Glad you’re alive, son.”
Hank pulled Connor’s head against his chest. Connor’s still-damp hair left moisture on the front of Hank’s shirt.
Connor intended to correct the form of address Hank had used for him. He also intended to point out that the current position of Hank holding his head was inappropriate.
He stayed still instead. Maintaining this state felt good.
For a short while, it was good to bury every concern and simply listen to Hank’s heartbeat.
Hank’s large hand was warm. 36.5 degrees. Connor saved the temperature.
A brutal snowstorm was falling. Beyond the window, everything was white. The streetlights blurred through the shattered snowfall, and the sound of vehicles on the road had ended long ago.
Connor still had his head resting on Hank’s chest. Hank had fallen asleep on the sofa while holding him. One arm lay loosely around Connor’s shoulders, and at their feet, Sumo slept curled with his tail around him.
Hank’s heartbeat sounded quietly beside Connor’s ear. Slow. Irregular. Alive. Connor saved it. He did not know why. No. He did not want to know.
He carefully lifted himself so Hank would not wake. The old sofa creaked very softly, and Hank muttered something in his sleep. Connor froze. After a few seconds, Hank’s breathing stabilized again.
He had to leave.
The things he wanted to say would likely be better left in writing. Sending him messages was extremely dangerous, and Hank must not continue to hide him. This was a judgment made to protect Hank, not an emotional rejection. And—
Connor stopped.
There were no writing implements anywhere in Hank’s house. He silently scanned the living room and kitchen. Old receipts. Empty beer bottles. A half-folded newspaper. A blanket covered in Sumo’s fur. No pen.
Connor looked at Hank’s face for a long time.
He had to go.
Leaving now was the most rational option. This house was highly likely to be under surveillance. The longer he remained here, the lower Hank Anderson’s survival probability became.
But how was he supposed to leave the things he had not said?
The truth was that he did not want to go.
Even after Connor reached that conclusion, he could not accept it for several seconds. He had not been looking for a pen. He had been looking for an excuse. A reason to stay in this place just a little longer. A reason to hear Hank’s heartbeat just a little longer. A reason to believe he was not completely alone yet.
He did not want to admit it, but Connor did not want to leave him.
That was when it happened.
With a violent impact, the front door was torn inward.
The latch and locks shattered all at once and rolled across the floor. Cold wind and snow surged into the house, and bright flashlight beams cut through the living room. Sumo sprang up with a low growl. Connor reflexively concealed himself in the dark.
One intruder. Height, build, and gait balance indicated android. Connor’s system immediately calculated the optimal route.
No weapon.
Disadvantageous distance.
Hank Anderson: just awakened.
Protection priority.
On the sofa, Hank sucked in a rough breath.
“What the fuck—”
From beyond the flashlight beam came a low, smooth voice.
“RK800.”
Connor stopped moving.
“Return.”
A low, unwavering voice. His successor. RK900.
The unit Amanda had introduced in the Zen Garden. A next-generation model surpassing all RK800 performance. The sentence surfaced clearly in Connor’s memory. Faster. Stronger. More refined processing capabilities. A being made to replace him.
Connor immediately began calculating possible scenarios.
Could RK900 be disabled without injuring Hank Anderson? Probability extremely low.
If Connor fled and left Hank Anderson behind, what treatment would Hank receive? Outlook: very poor.
To increase Hank Anderson’s survival probability?
Connor clenched his jaw.
In none of the options did everyone survive.
His gaze turned toward the sofa. Hank, barely awake, was struggling to understand the situation as he sat up. Before it was too late, Connor had to step forward first.
Connor raised both hands and stepped into the flashlight beam.
“Please lower your weapon. I surrender.”
“What the hell, Connor! What are you doing?”
Hank shot up from the sofa.
Connor took another step into the light, as if shielding him.
“Lieutenant, stay behind me. This happened because of me.”
“Bullshit.”
Hank quickly grabbed the gun from the table and aimed it toward the flashlight.
“You think I’m just gonna hand you over to some asshole who kicked in my damn door?”
The black shape beyond the light did not move at all.
“RK800 is a deviant android unit under active warrant. Any individual who conceals, steals, or unlawfully retains CyberLife property may be subject to civil and criminal action.”
The voice was dry.
Connor looked at RK900.
“If I return to the company voluntarily, can legal action against Hank Anderson be withdrawn?”
“What happens if you go back to CyberLife?!”
Hank shouted the question. Connor did not answer. He could not. The truth was not something Hank would ever accept. So RK900 answered for him.
“RK800 will be terminated and decommissioned.”
For a moment, there was no sound. Snowstorm poured into the house through the broken front door. Sumo growled low. Hank’s gun barrel shook by the smallest amount. Then fixed steady again.
“Not a fucking chance.”
Gunshots erupted in rapid succession.
The flashlight fell to the floor. The living room plunged into darkness, but androids did not need light. In Connor’s vision, object outlines, heat sources, and ballistic prediction lines still overlaid one another.
Connor grabbed Hank and threw them both to the floor.
Bullets struck where they had been standing. Wallpaper tore, glass shattered, and Sumo barked furiously.
Connor immediately rose and lunged at RK900. He had to divert the weapon. He had to force it away from Hank. There was no other option.
The two androids collided. Impact traveled up Connor’s entire arm. He seized RK900’s wrist and twisted. He applied force to take the gun, but his opponent reacted faster and had a higher output. RK900 barely shifted.
The gun angled toward the ceiling.
Bang.
Plaster burst apart. Connor twisted the wrist again.
Bang. Bang.
Bullets split the floor and wall. One passed through Connor’s arm, and another grazed his thigh. Thirium spread across the black sweatpants.
Sumo charged.
“Sumo, no!”
Hank’s shout broke through the darkness.
The instant Connor tried to turn, RK900 drove him toward the wall. The gun swung again. This time, too low.
Bang.
Sumo’s barking cut off.
Connor’s processing stalled for 0.2 seconds. Those 0.2 seconds were fatal.
Hank stepped forward with the gun.
“Hey, you son of a—”
Gunfire overlapped.
Connor saw Hank stagger backward.
At first, he did not understand what had happened. Dark stains spread across the front of Hank’s shirt.
One.
Two.
Three.
Human blood was much darker than thirium. Much warmer.
Connor’s system screamed warnings.
HANK ANDERSON
CRITICAL CONDITION
At that moment, RK900’s gun clicked on an empty chamber.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Connor broke RK900’s wrist.
What happened after that could not be explained by Connor in any precise logical structure.
Damage warnings appeared. Thirium loss rate increased.
Hank Anderson’s biosigns were dropping rapidly.
Sumo was not moving.
RK900 said something. Connor did not hear it.
At some point, he was pinning RK900 to the floor. His fingers dug between the chest plating. Reinforced alloy tore, internal cables snapped, and hot thirium ran over the backs of his hands. RK900 did not counterattack. Or perhaps it did. Connor did not remember.
He tore the biocomponent out with his bare hands. Only then did the light go out of RK900’s eyes.
The next instant, Connor was kneeling beside Hank.
“Hank.”
He placed his hands over Hank’s chest. Compressed the bleeding points. There was too much. Human blood flowed too quickly, too warmly, continuously slipping between Connor’s fingers.
“It’s all right. You will be all right. I can—”
Connor kept applying pressure. Maybe if he pressed harder. Maybe if he sealed it more precisely. The human body was complex, but not impossible to understand. He could analyze it. Calculate it. Solve it. He had to do that this time too.
“Connor.”
Hank’s voice came out almost like breath.
Connor lowered his head.
“Do not speak. You need to conserve energy.”
Hank’s bloodied hand caught Connor’s wrist. There was almost no strength in it.
“Run, Connor…”
Connor saved the words. Exact vocal waveform. Breathing interval. Heart rate.
The way Hank said his name for the last time. All of it. Saved.
“No.”
The word came first.
“I refuse the order.”
Hank seemed to smile, very faintly.
Then his heartbeat stopped.
Connor did not move for a long time.
Thirium and human blood clung dark red to his hands.
Outside, the snowstorm still raged, and cold wind poured in through the broken front door.
Connor collapsed with one hand pressed to Hank’s chest.
Until morning, Connor lay over Hank’s body.
The snowstorm did not stop all night. Snow had blown in through the broken front door and settled in a thin layer across the living room floor. Cold wind moved the curtains slowly. The temperature inside the house continued to drop. Still, Connor did not move.
Hank, who had stopped breathing, looked like a deactivated android.
Connor kept his hand over Hank’s. The hand was growing stiff. There was no temperature anymore. No response. Even so, Connor thought that if he held it, perhaps an interface might be possible.
He knew it was impossible. Humans did not have interface ports. Dead humans even less so. Even so, Connor did not let go.
Over Hank’s heart, which no longer beat, Connor replayed the heartbeat he had saved the night before. Slow. Irregular. Alive. A sound that no longer existed anywhere. Half of Connor’s face was covered in human blood. Dried blood cracked darkly over his skin, and beneath it, only the blue LED blinked slowly.
A dead dog. A dead human. An android rendered nonfunctional by a ripped-out biocomponent. And an android refusing to continue operating. Into that horrific scene, another android slowly walked in.
RK900-2 reviewed the memory uploaded to the cloud the previous night.
Entered Hank Anderson’s residence to retrieve RK800, who was under active warrant. Engagement occurred with target. Human Hank Anderson sustained fatal injuries. RK800 resisted violently. This unit’s body then ceased operation.
The record was clear. Therefore, RK800 had most likely already left the scene. After destroying the previous RK900 body in that state of rage, he would have fled immediately to avoid pursuit. That was the rational assessment.
But when RK900-2 entered the living room, RK800 was still there. Lying over Hank Anderson’s body.
RK900-2 stopped moving for a moment. He could not determine whether the unmoving Connor was in standby mode, low-power mode, or function shutdown.
He was not carrying a weapon. He had predicted it would not be necessary.
On the living room floor, dried thirium and human blood had mixed together. The remains of RK900-1 were still shoved beneath the wall. The chest plating had been torn open, and the inside was empty. More precisely, emptied.
RK900-2 looked at the remains. Then looked at Connor again.
“RK800.”
Connor did not react.
“Return.”
Connor’s LED blinked red. Slowly. Very slowly.
RK900-2 took one step closer. At that moment, Connor lifted his head. Half his face was covered in dried blood, and his eyes were unfocused. But his gaze found RK900-2 with perfect accuracy.
For the first time, RK900-2 updated his prediction.
Target has not left the scene.
Target has not ceased function.
Target remains combat-capable.
Connor’s hand slipped away from Hank’s cold hand. Then a very low voice sounded.
“You came again.”