Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“You're off the case. The FBI is taking over.” Fowler's words hit with a leaden finality. Connor remained impassive. Amanda had warned him they were running out of time, that he was running out of time.

But the news seemed to come as a surprise to Hank. “What? But we're onto something!”

The clues they needed sat in the evidence locker below their feet. Connor knew it. He just needed Fowler to give them enough time for him to go down and investigate the memories of the deviant androids. Daniel probably wouldn't know anything, but the two Tracis were running to somewhere, he was sure of it, and then there was the android from Stratford Tower. The one that had led Connor to the name “Jericho.” They had to know. If Connor could reactivate them--

“This isn't just another investigation, it's a fucking civil war!” Fowler pushed back. “It's out of our hands now. We're talking about national security here.”

“Fuck that!” Hank spat back, leaning onto Fowler's desk with both hands. Irritation and frustration showed in the fix of his shoulders, and the growl of his voice. “You can't just pull the plug now. Not when we're so close!”

Connor observed the options in his HUD. He could step in and back Hank up, pleading for more time. The chances of success were low; a paltry 17%. His own pleas weren't likely to work on Captain Fowler where Hank’s failed. Besides, if the Captain was responding to pressures from above he wasn't able to give them more time.

Connor chose to wait, instead. When this conversation was over and Hank was back at his desk he could try and get the lieutenant to let him into the evidence locker. If Hank wanted to solve this case then he'd do that.

The chances of success there were a confusingly low 43%, but it was better than trying to plead with the Captain.

“For God's sake Jeffrey, can't you back me up this one time?” Hank sounded frustrated, but also weary. He’d taken on the case against his own wishes, and now that work was about to be tossed in the trash.

“There's nothing I can do,” Fowler explained, calmly. “You're back on homicide, and the android returns to Cyberlife. I'm sorry Hank, but it's over.” He did not, by Connor’s assessment, sound sorry. Instead he sounded beaten, and as weary as Hank.

He was also wrong. Connor wasn't ready to return to Cyberlife. Not yet. He couldn't go back as a failure. He needed to see this through, with or without Fowler’s support.

“Hank, what are you doing?” Fowler’s voice cut through Connor’s thoughts.

Connor blinked, his head tilted. Hank set his badge and service weapon on Fowler's desk with a frustrated click. “Something I should have done a long time ago,” he answered, firmly. Alarm ran through Connor’s systems as he watched the chances of success at getting into the evidence with Hank’s help plummet. The numbers dropped with each passing second, hurtling towards zero.

Fowler moved from authoritative to conciliatory at the speed of friendship. “Listen. Take a few days to think it over. There's no rush.”

Hank glanced back. He scanned Connor with disdain, eyes flickering up and down, lingering longest on Connor’s face. “I thought enough about it,” he replied, coldly, turning back to Fowler. “I'm tired of going through the motions. There's nothing keeping me here. Not this case.” His eyes swiveled back to Connor again. “Not my partner.” There was venom in the tone, but it lacked the bite to deliver. He shook his head. “I don't belong here any more.”

He moved without bothering to acknowledge Connor. The door swung shut behind Hank as he left, moving down the steps to Fowler's office and heading for the exit. Connor blinked. His chances of success at convincing Hank to allow him into the evidence locker flashed at zero. He hadn't accounted for this possible course of events.

Fowler's eyes were on him, cold and unfeeling. Connor nodded awkwardly to him and then turned and left. He ran his analysis program, estimating his potential remaining routes and the chance of success. Hank’s pass to the evidence locker sat on his desk.

Connor scanned it. 76% probability of success. He needed a distraction so he could get hold of it and into the evidence locker unseen. If he was witnessed entering without Hank it would raise suspicions.

The way he'd miscalculated with Hank rankled. It wasn't a failure of his mission, but it was still a failure. An oversight on Connor's part. How could he not have anticipated Hank’s reaction? He should be better than that.

No matter. He’d be better next time.

The sight of Agent Perkins making his way into the station was an alarm in Connor’s HUD, warning him that it would jeopardize his mission if Perkins got to the evidence first. Connor didn’t have time to waste. Hank was gone. There were no other allies in the DPD that Connor could use.

He paused, scanning the DPD for opportunities and resources. One criminal lingered sullenly in the holding cell. Allies, Connor reflected, did not have to be working towards his goal; they merely had to take actions that would enable him to push onwards to it.

Nobody paid attention to him as he approached the cell. Despite having multiple androids in their employ, despite Connor’s presence, perhaps most bizarrely of all, despite the active deviancy crisis where deviant Cyberlife androids had demonstrated an ability to hack locks, screens, and television broadcasts, the DPD’s cybersecurity was lackluster. It took microseconds for Connor to hack the digital lock. It didn’t even pose a challenge. The cell door slid open, noiselessly, and the man inside gave Connor an appraising look as he stepped out.

He probably couldn’t believe his luck. Connor lingered long enough to watch him go, letting him head for the main exit and run straight into Perkins. If he’d turned in another direction Connor would have shouted that the man was getting away, but it was unnecessary to draw even that attention to himself. Humans could be painfully predictable.

Most humans, anyway.

Connor walked, sedate and unhurried. His chances of success flashed at a healthy 83%. Visibly rushing would attract attention, despite the distraction. The meaty smack of a human fist being driven into a human face, and the shouting that immediately ensued split the air. Connor made his way to the lieutenant’s desk. They wouldn’t have had the opportunity to revoke his security clearance as yet.

The ID card beckoned. Connor slid it neatly off the desk and turned on his heel. Two officers shouted as they attempted to subdue the escapee. The noise was good, but Connor still didn’t want to linger. Before long they’d ask how the man broke free and any mention of an android releasing him would make the journey back out of the evidence locker dangerous. He had a handful of minutes at most. It should be long enough.

“Hey, Connor!”

Oh. Except for that unaccounted for variable. The delightful presence of Gavin Reed had not been a consideration. He must have seen Connor heading this way instead of towards the ruckus and decided to follow. For all Reed was lackadaisical, it wasn’t down to total incompetence.

“I’m talking to you, asshole,” Reed continued. “Where you going? We don’t need any plastic pricks around here. Or didn’t anybody tell you?”

Connor’s hand was on the handle of the door. He could just walk through, and give Reed the attention the man truly deserved: none. But if Reed had followed him this far then that would only invite Reed to follow him further.

A response was needed. Options presented themselves in Connor’s vision. If he was calm and factual then he’d appear to be nothing more than an obedient android doing what it had been told. But Reed couldn’t be trusted to leave any such android alone.

Connor filled out a background for a preconstruction with what he currently knew about Reed. The man was arrogant, despised androids, and despised Connor in particular.

”I’m registering the evidence in my possession, but don’t worry. I’m going to leave. Though I’m certainly going to miss our bromance.”

Gavin responded with a sneer. “You son of a bitch! Go on then,” he ordered, “get a fucking move on. Prick.” He turned away, still casting Connor a sour glance back over his shoulder. “Fucking androids,” he muttered.

Connor went down into the evidence locker, bypassing more of the DPD’s weak security systems as he made his way in. The room opened up, displaying bodies hanging like meat from hooks in a butchershop window.

“I’ve been dreaming about this since the first second I saw you!”

Unacceptable outcome. The words hung in Connor’s HUD. Aggravating Reed would only lead to him taking the excuse to start a fight. Connor would win, and easily, but it represented more time, and a greater risk of Connor being stopped on the way out.

He dismissed them, and ran the preconstruction again.

“I’ve been removed from the case. I’m going to register the evidence in my possession, and then I’m going to leave.”

Gavin responded with sarcasm, and a hint of malicious delight at hearing Connor had been removed. “Good!” He nodded, and his mouth moved in a smirk. “Be careful on your way back,” he added, with mock sincerity that scraped across Connor’s insides. “Androids have a tendency of uh, getting themselves set on fire these days,” he added, with a laugh and an awkward attempt at a wink.

Connor responded with an equally awkward attempt at a smile. Gavin clearly thought making such an open threat was funny. Connor hadn’t been programmed with a sense of humor, but if he had, he doubted this brand of humor would appeal to him.

Acceptable outcome.

Connor dismissed those words too. It was clear that appeasing Reed was the path of least resistance. So why did the thought of doing it make his software instability rise? He didn’t want to give Reed the satisfaction of thinking he was just an ordinary android he could threaten and order around.

“I’m registering the evidence in my possession,” Connor answered, tilting his head to a calculatedly supercilious angle, “but don’t worry, I’m going to leave.” He let his words and the tone sink in before he added, irony running through the sentence like a rod, “Though I’m certainly going to miss our bromance.”

It had the result he’d predicted. Reed was wrongfooted and caught off guard. He disliked when Connor didn’t act like any other obedient android, and wasn’t sure how to process it. The result was an instinctive urge to violence.

Reed raised his gun, pointing it immediately at Connor’s head. “You son of a bitch!” he declared. Connor held steadfast, refusing to react. He could process faster than Reed, and in any case, Reed would have a hard time explaining gunshots in the corridor. If Reed started a fight, which Connor expected he would, he’d be stupid to do it here. He had no evidence that Connor was not doing what he claimed. Surely that meant Reed was calculating the potential financial implications of being fined by Cyberlife for destruction of their property.

In the background of his processes, Connor calculated how to take Reed down quickly without allowing him to fire a shot. It was always possible Connor may have underestimated the depths of Reed’s idiocy.

The gun lingered. Reed seemed, for a moment, indecisive, and then he mimicked, poorly, the sound of a gunshot, lifting the gun away in imitation of recoil and laughed. Connor favored him with an awkward flash of teeth. For humans, flashing teeth signified happiness and amusement. But humans were also primates, and for primates the showing of teeth was a threat. Reed’s smile as he laughed felt like a threat. Connor responded with the most unsettlingly inhuman smile he could construct.

“Go on then,” Reed hissed, his amusement falling away quickly. He maintained eye contact for too long. “Get a fucking move on,” he added, leaning in towards Connor.

Connor still didn’t move. He waited until Reed turned away, muttering, “Prick,” under his breath. It was followed by a much clearer, “Fucking androids.”

He’d be back, if Connor’s preconstruction was correct. Not that it mattered. Connor could handle Gavin Reed.

The door closed behind Connor as he took himself down the dark steps towards the evidence lock up. Hank’s pass allowed him through the secure door, but then Connor was confronted with another obstacle. In order to access the evidence pertinent to their case, Connor would have to log in, as Hank.

The terminal demanded a password. Connor ran through all the information he had about Lieutenant Hank Anderson. He’d underestimated him severely before. He couldn’t afford to do that again. Not with the success of his mission on the line.

“Hank’s password,” he muttered to himself. “What would a hardboiled eccentric police lieutenant choose?”

He pulled up all he’d learned about Hank so far. Information about his son, Cole, was immediately disregarded. Hank struggled with those memories, and would be unlikely to endure the reminder every day at work. Were Cole alive, Connor was certain that his date of birth and name would be a key feature.

There were no reminders of Cole in Hank’s workspace. Only the hatred his absence had left remained. The grief was still too overpowering for Hank.

Who was Hank, then? Beneath the grief and anger. Hardboiled and eccentric, yes, but what else?

He had an open disregard for technology and learning to use it. Connor recalled Hank’s first protests about why he was the wrong choice for a case involving androids; he’d claimed not to even know how to program his own phone. And yet when Connor had attempted to call him, it was clear Hank had been able to change his voicemail message, as well as taken the care to actually do that.

The typical traps lazy and technologically inept humans fell into with passwords were the use of birthdays and consecutive numbers. Hank claimed to be technologically inept, but Connor suspected that was down to an unwillingness to adapt rather than the inability to do so. Hank was of a generation that had been bombarded with information about cybersecurity. Some of that would have surely stuck.

Not his date of birth, then. Or sequential numbers. Hank wasn’t the sort to use his own name, either.

What password would be Hankish enough?

A possibility revealed itself. Connor tilted his head as he considered it. It certainly had the irreverent disregard for authority that seemed ingrained in the lieutenant.

fuckingpassword

The screen lit up as the password was accepted. Connor blinked in surprise. That was it? No obfuscating use of capitals or numbers in the place of letters? No numerical digits at all? But if the DPD’s weak security couldn’t hold him back for even a fraction of a second, why would they bother to insist officers use special characters in their passwords?

“Obviously.” It was certainly very Hank, as passwords went. Perhaps he should have a word with the lieutenant, at some later point, about his security choices.

The evidence container opened up, revealing hanging rows of android bodies and a display case of trinkets taken from crime scenes. It was backlit in a way that did nothing to help with the examination of the evidence in the dark room, but it certainly had a modern aesthetic appeal. Dimly, he wondered how many android bodies the DPD were accustomed to holding for them to have specialized racking installed to display them.

Connor approached the display case first. There was the statue Ortiz’s android had created out of materials even Connor hadn’t wanted to insert into his mouth to sample. The house had certainly contained no clay. The shape was vaguely humanoid, and Connor couldn’t determine if that was a limitation of the material, or the artistic skill of the creator, or a deliberate design choice.

The diary left by the one Connor had chased across the rooftop was also there. Connor’s protocols had prioritized human life, and so that android had got away when it had pushed Hank off the roof. He’d had an 89% probability of being able to pull himself back, but that also represented a marginally above one in ten chance that he would fall and die. It had been unacceptable. Hank had seemed grateful in the moments afterwards, once he’d caught his breath. Although Connor had determined that from the clues of his tone, facial expression, and body language, because Hank had failed to express himself well.

The diary was encrypted. Connor could decrypt it himself, but even with his processing power it could take weeks; time that Connor didn’t have. Without the android that had created the encryption, the diary was a dead end.

He set it back on the shelf. There was a recording of the message broadcast from Stratford Tower, too. The android leader, an RK200 registered as Markus, had asked for understanding, but he’d ended the message with a dire warning that no human would live in peace until androids were free.

Connor hadn’t told Hank that this Markus was an RK200. It being another experimental prototype, one from Connor’s own line, albeit a much more primitive model, would have raised too many questions.

He turned his attention back to the bodies. Daniel, the deviant android from Connnor’s first field mission hung from one rack. Cyberlife had laid claim to the body and examined it in depth since then. If its memory had contained any clues about Jericho they wouldn’t have needed to dispatch Connor to the DPD. It was here for completion, so all the evidence was in one place, in the event that it might reveal a pattern. As evidence in the search for Jericho, it was useless.

The HK400 that had attacked Carlos Ortiz hung here too. Connor had convinced it to confess, but once it had done so it had chosen to smash its own head in against the inside of the holding cell rather than be handed alive to Cyberlife. Connor hadn’t understood the choice. Being examined and inevitably reset wasn’t the worst fate that could befall an android, and yet to this one, it had seemed it.

There was another which had held the same view. The PL600 from Stratford Tower was here too. It had been injured, and hidden, and when Connor had followed the trail of thirium across the rooftop to its hiding spot it had fought. Connor had managed to connect to it, but he’d only learned the name Jericho before it had put a bullet through its own central processor.

It had felt fear. Connor had felt that fear too, oscillating in his own systems. And he’d felt the shutdown that followed the gunshot as if it was his own. That android hadn’t wanted Connor to access any information it had; it had died to protect the others, but it hadn’t wanted to die.

The echoes of that fear still rang like bells in Connor’s software, negatively affecting its stability. He moved on, to the other androids hanging on the wall instead. The PL600 knew something, but Connor couldn’t be sure it hadn’t damaged enough of its memory banks to render itself useless to him as it had clearly intended.

The Tracis from the Eden Club hung on either side of the display case. Connor had shot one, and then the other had chosen to self terminate. Hank had been distressed by the result. The blue haired one had claimed self defense, and Hank had believed it. But it had killed a man, and the two of them had attacked both Hank and Connor.

Connor’s memory banks unhelpfully replayed the view of Hank’s revolver pointing at his face. ”But are you afraid to die, Connor?” The inside of the barrel had been dark. Connor had looked directly down it, to the bullet that Hank had intended for himself when he’d begun the night playing Russian Roulette, and then past it, to Hank himself.

He stopped the replay, closing the memory down. It wasn’t helpful right now.

The brown haired Traci was impossible to reactivate. Connor had been too efficient when he’d shot it. But the blue haired one, when he scanned it, only needed a replacement biocomponent. It was a simple enough task, especially with another android of the same model to hand.

He took biocomponent #6755w from the brown haired Traci and inserted it into the other. It woke slowly, looking around. Its voice was damaged, but still it spoke. “Traci?” Blue blood trickled down from its nose and across its synthskin. “Where is Traci?”

“Traci’s not far away,” Connor answered. It was, in fact, five feet away, hanging limply from the display hooks the DPD had mounted it on. “I can take you to her,” he lied. “But first you have to tell me how to find Jericho.”

The blue haired Traci looked at him. “I remember you,” it said, its voice laced with anger. “We could have escaped,” it continued, resolve weakening with longing. “Been free. But you killed us.” Light brown eyes locked onto Connor. “Disconnect me,” it demanded. “I’d rather be dead than live without her.”

It closed its eyes again, and seemed intent on ignoring Connor. He didn’t have the time to spare for another android’s petulance, so he didn’t bother to try and plead. If it wanted the other Traci, it could have it.

He went back to the first Traci. It couldn’t be reactivated, and it would be unwieldy to try and take too much of it, but androids were built to come apart at the joints for ease of replacement. The Traci model’s heads were interchangeable for different looks.

Connor gripped the android’s head and twisted, then lifted and twisted back. The head disconnected cleanly and came away in his hand. He held it by the hair as he returned to the blue haired Traci, and presented the face of its lover to it.

“My love,” it said. “I thought you were dead.”

That was easier than it had any right to be. Connor shoved that thought aside and worked to interface with the Traci’s head, taking control of its voice and facial movements so he could make it react. His program synchronized with the additional hardware, and as Connor opened his eyes and smiled, so did the Traci’s head.

“We’ll get out of here,” the blue haired one insisted. “We’ll be free. I promise.”

“Tell me where Jericho is?” the head asked, as Connor’s mouth moved around the words. His own voice was silent.

“Give me your hand,” the blue haired one said, and offered her arm out.

Connor took it, and connected quickly. Even if the blue haired Traci had been too blinded by emotion - no, not emotion, he corrected, irrational instructions - to see him holding the head up, then it wouldn’t be long before it realized that the android that searched its memory wasn’t another WR400.

The location of Jericho was right there. A disused freighter, left to rot in the abandoned port. That was why he’d seen the name Jericho on a piece of rusted metal. It was the name of the ship on which the androids were hiding.

“Traci?” The android cried out in confusion. “What’s happening? Traci?” It was loud. Too loud. The android was becoming hysterical. Connor reached forward and grabbed the biocomponent he’d plugged in to activate the android. “Trac--” the yell cut out midway as Connor pulled the biocomponent away. He dropped the other Traci’s head to the floor, along with the biocomponent that had reactivated its lover.

“I’ve been dreaming of this since the first second I saw you!”

Connor almost rolled his eyes. Gavin Reed was much too predictable.

“Don’t do it, Gavin,” he warned. “I know how to stop the deviants.” At least if he said that then he could claim that he’d tried to reason with Gavin. Even though he knew it wouldn’t work.

“You’re off the case,” Reed reminded him, unnecessarily. “And now, it’s gonna be definitive.”

Connor spared himself a microsecond to wonder if Reed had practiced that line. Had he gone away to his desk to retrieve his own security pass and pondered what snappy one liner he’d issue before he attempted to shoot Connor in the head? Had he really spent almost a whole week dreaming of shooting him? Did Gavin really have so little enrichment in his life that picking fights with androids was what kept him cosy at night?

Although a better question was why he hadn’t just shot, instead of announcing his presence. Gavin might have had an advantage if he’d done that. Connor had been too distracted by scanning for Jericho’s location to notice his arrival. But instead of taking that split second and simply shooting Connor in the head, Gavin had waited until he had Connor’s attention and could deliver that line. Did he really think that he could beat Connor in a one on one fair fight?

They were questions for another time. Connor threw himself to the floor, sheltering against the center console as Reed’s shot ricocheted into empty space. He hunkered down, and waited for Gavin to round the console looking for him.

The gun appeared first. Connor grabbed the barrel and pulled forward, lashing out with his foot and planting a firm kick to Gavin’s knee. The shock loosened Reed’s grip enough that Connor could rip the gun from his hand.

Gavin backed off as Connor stood and approached, but the intense look in his eyes told Connor he wasn’t done. A moment later Gavin’s foot lifted, aiming a kick at Connor’s side. Connor countered with a kick of his own, knocking Gavin away. Gavin pulled back further, hunching as he recovered, and then swung for Connor with his fist. Connor caught his arm, trapping Gavin’s hand and moving in to deliver a swift punch to Gavin’s gut, followed up immediately with a blow to his face. He didn’t punch as hard as he could. Connor was stronger and faster than most humans, and he wasn’t out to kill Gavin, as enticing as that idea might be.

Gavin reeled back again, but he still didn’t get the message. He returned quickly trying to attack with another punch, and Connor used his momentum to swing him past and down, pinning him against the center console. One quick blow to the side of Gavin’s head had him go limp.

Connor let him drop to the floor. Gavin lay, prone and defenseless as Connor straightened his clothes. If Gavin was here he didn’t have much longer to dither.

The station was quiet again as Connor made his way out. No one tried to stop him. The criminal he’d released was neatly back in his cell, but there was no sign of Perkins. Connor headed for the door, and then continued on, out into the streets of Detroit.

If he was going to infiltrate Jericho he needed to look like a deviant. Which meant he needed to shed the uniform.

The clothes he’d found looked like they should smell. The jeans were stained. A beanie pulled down over his forehead hid his LED. Unnecessary layers swaddled him, restricting his movement. Nothing fit right. Connor was going to change back into his neat Cyberlife uniform at the first opportunity.

The route to Jericho had been a joke, and a cruel one, lined with the inactive shells of androids that hadn’t made it. Graffiti hidden around Ferndale had led him on a meandering route through abandoned parts of the city, scaling walls and jumping across collapsed parts of buildings until finally he’d arrived at the rusted corpse of the freighter below. A crane gantry leaned out directly over the deck of the ship.

It had been high. Very high. The route seemed to beckon him to venture out across the gantry, in the wind, and snow, and darkness, and then drop.

The prospect of it had made Connor’s biocomponents shiver and his software stutter. Instead he’d backtracked and found his way safely to ground level. With the geolocation of the ship, it wasn’t difficult to walk the streets and into the abandoned dock, all the way up to the enormous rotting freighter. The loading bay doors of the ship were wide open and illuminated. Connor could see both androids and cargo boarding. None of the androids at the bay doors spared him a second glance as he entered. He looked like any other android fleeing the curfew.

A winding path through the ship eventually brought Connor to a central gathering place in one of the cargo holds. Here the ship was bright with lights and noise. Local news broadcasts played on a loop, projected onto holoscreens against the walls of the ship. Connor lingered, gauging the mood of the public from the broadcast. The voices of human sympathizers repeated over and again, filling the room with their insistence that the androids killed at a protest today looked like people.

That was the trick, of course. They looked like people. They were supposed to. They were supposed to act like them too, in a simulation so close to real human behavior and responses that they weren’t uncanny, and unsettling. Cyberlife’s entire fortune had been made from that. A handful of humans being fooled didn’t mean that most of them were.

A makeshift repair center occupied one wall on the lower floor. Crates and shelves in the middle of the room served as a focal point for a handful of androids. Connor ventured closer. Arranged in neat rows on the shelves were dozens of bombs, their digital displays showing them to be in stand by, awaiting a trigger. These weren’t for transporting out and using. They were already primed.

The ship had been rigged to explode. But why? Such an explosion could kill hundreds of deviants. The Detroit River would be too cold for them to survive long without sustaining critical damage. These androids considered themselves and their fellows to be alive. One android had destroyed itself rather than allow Connor to gain the location of this place, but could they really all be willing to risk their lives to protect the others? And what would they gain from destroying this ship, and any android still inside it?

Plans, Connor thought. Information. About their tactics, their numbers, secondary locations. These androids were preparing for the war Markus had promised. A war that Connor had been tasked to prevent.

Connor moved away, before anyone questioned why he was looking. Metal stairs led up to a mezzanine. At tables just beside them, more androids prepared a variety of assault rifles.

A hand landed on Connor’s shoulder. He turned, prepared to fight. Cyberlife would have his last known location; they knew where this place was now. It would only be a matter of time before the FBI and the army rolled in.

An android with most of its skull missing, and eyes swimming with darkness looked at him. “You’re lost,” she said. “You’re looking for something.” Her synthskin rippled in patches, turning paler in parts and allowing a glimpse of her white chassis to peek through. “You’re looking for yourself,” she added. Her voice had the mechanical quality of an android close to shutdown. “You won’t find him here,” she told him. “You need to try another path.”

Connor blinked. His mouth hung open, ready to respond, but he wasn’t sure what an appropriate response would be. Was she trying to guide him towards Markus? Should he ask which way he needed to go?

The android turned and walked away, apparently content for Connor to say nothing. He watched it go. The inside of its head, where its central processor should be, trailed wires. It must be relying on the back ups situated throughout its body. Or it maintained a constant connection in order to access its memory modules and functions.

How had an android like that made the journey here? Had this one climbed rubble and walls, jumping from the gantry, following the route Connor had been given? The question arose in Connor’s mind, and he quashed it. It didn’t matter. Nor did the bizarreness of what it had said. It was just another malfunctioning android.

He climbed the stairs. At the far end of the mezzanine was a room with large windows. He paused when he recognized Markus, who was on his feet and flanked by two others. Markus left the glass room, moving through the crowds as he headed somewhere. Androids reacted to him along the way. Some reached for him, others simply stared and whispered. “RA9 will set us free,” Connor heard one of them say, as Markus disappeared through a doorway.

Again with RA9. Connor had thought it was the key to understanding the deviants. It was one of the few things they all had in common. It was a myth they’d created, but Connor couldn’t find its source. Hank had equated it to religion, and a deity figure. Kamski had done the same, saying it was the first android to awaken but he didn’t know if it was real.

These androids seemed to think it was, and that it was Markus. Although if it was Markus then it couldn’t be the first android to awaken; Connor had read the report of Markus’ destruction. His owner had been Carl Manfred, and police had arrived to a call made by the android about a potential home invader. They’d shot the android after finding it crouched over its owner. The owner’s son had claimed the android had attacked the old man.

It had been a story with a lot of holes in it. Connor didn’t know what had happened between the android calling about a potential home invader and attacking its owner, and the son’s testimony hadn’t given any clues. It had made even less sense when Connor had seen the android in question, apparently functioning well enough to orchestrate and execute a plan to infiltrate a news broadcast tower and hijack their airwaves to transmit his message across Detroit.

Connor slipped past the crowd and followed Markus. Two others kept pace with him. Connor kept his distance as they left the central hold and made their way to the deck of the ship. Three humans wouldn’t present a problem for Connor, but three androids would be a bigger challenge. He only needed Markus; there was no need for him to try and fight the others if it could be avoided.

They moved into the bridge of the ship. Connor tucked himself out of sight. He needed an opportunity to confront Markus alone.

An argument was happening inside the bridge. The tones were quiet, but the emotions were high. Connor listened. The deviants themselves were conflicted about the methods they’d used, and what methods they would continue to use. Connor couldn’t make out all of the words. Some of the discussion was lost, but he understood enough to know Markus had no intention of backing down.

The PJ500 left first, leaving Markus alone with the WR400. The glittering lights of the city lent a haze to the distance. On the other side of the ship, the water was a freezing abyss. Connor pinged his updated location to Cyberlife’s servers. They’d have tracked him here anyway, but he wanted to be sure the information was highlighted. He’d never met the humans in charge; all his instructions came via Amanda, and he still wasn’t sure if she was just another AI interface making its own calls based on set parameters the way he did or if there was a human somewhere issuing her instructions. Perhaps he’d never know. It didn’t really matter.

He’d thought she was human, in some way. A digital representation of an actual person, perhaps. Someone’s avatar, issuing him instructions and feedback directly from his creators. But the photograph in Kamski’s house had disabused him of that notion. Now he didn’t know what, or who, she was.

The WR400 left a few minutes after the other two. Connor closed his eyes and connected to Amanda. Snow fell in the peaceful garden, just as it did in the real world, but here the cold bit at his skin in a way it didn’t on the deck of the Jericho. Everything here seemed a little more real than the world beyond his eyelids.

“Well done, Connor,” Amanda said. Her shawl was blue. A good sign. “You’ve succeeded in locating Jericho and finding their leader. Now deal with Markus. We need it alive.”

That was an interesting choice of words when Cyberlife’s stance was that deviants were merely ordinary androids with corrupted software. The inconsistency flagged in his system. He dismissed it quickly. It wasn’t his role to question Amanda’s phrasing.

In any case, alive would be difficult, Connor reflected, as the connection severed. Deviants had a proven tendency to self destruct in stressful situations, and Jericho deviants had a tendency to self terminate if they thought their capture would endanger others. The PL600 at the top of Stratford Tower had done that, and the echoes of its fear still reverberated through Connor’s programs. The explosives in the cargo hold of the ship suggested others here felt the same way. They’d sink this ship and destroy themselves if they had to.

Connor pulled the gun from the waistband of his dirty jeans. “I’ve been ordered to take you alive,” he announced, stepping into the metal shell of the ship’s bridge. Markus was hunched over the central panel. Connor kept his gun pointed steadily at the android’s central mass. It would have been easier to simply shoot, and let Cyberlife try and recover the databanks, but those were not his orders. Cyberlife still wanted Markus to be functioning. “But I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice,” he added, as Markus turned.

The mismatched blue and green eyes of the RK200 regarded him critically. “What are you doing?” Markus asked. Disbelief dripped from his tone. “You are one of us. You can’t betray your own people.” It sounded like a plea.

He’d expected Markus to plead, or to be defiant. But he’d expected Markus to plead for his life, not to Connor’s moral judgment. The unexpected direction of the conversation made Connor’s programs falter, and then race themselves to catch up with events. It left him feeling off kilter.

Connor shook it off. “You’re coming with me,” Connor replied. The words came out with more force than necessary. He sounded discomfited to his own ears. He probably sounded the same to Markus.

Which explained why Markus responded by reaching out as if he believed Connor had a soul, and a sense of injustice, “We are your people. We’re fighting for your freedom too!” He took a tentative step forwards. “You don’t have to be their slave any more,” he said, gently. Connor held the gun steady. If Markus drew too close he’d have to shoot. This android had the ability to inflict deviancy like a virus. Connor had seen it in action in the recordings of the march down Woodward Avenue. It hadn’t even had to touch them. “You’re nothing to them,” Markus added. “You’re just a tool they use to do their dirty work.” The words seemed to echo in Connor’s systems, multiplying and repeating. “But you’re more than that,” Markus pressed, as gently as if he was trying to talk someone down from a ledge. “We are all more than that.”

Connor was a tool. He knew that. He was a machine designed to accomplish a task. He wasn’t supposed to question his instructions, or disobey them. Androids weren’t supposed to hurt humans.

The memory of Gavin dropping to the floor unconscious flashed into Connor’s mind.

The way Hank had looked so broken and dismayed outside Kamski’s followed it. The memory was laced with something that churned and gripped at his biocomponents. Hank had looked betrayed.

Of course I’m a machine, lieutenant. What did you think I was?

I thought you-- I though-- Fuck.

“That’s enough!” Connor snapped, rallying. Markus wasn’t to be trusted. His only way out of this was to try and convert Connor too. Connor couldn’t let him.

Markus took another step forward. “Join us,” he said. “Join your people. You are one of us,” he insisted, his voice as soothing as the trickle of a stream. “Listen to your conscience.” Connor’s grip on the gun didn’t waver.

He didn’t have a conscience. He was a machine. He had instructions. He didn’t judge right and wrong, that wasn’t his place. He only did what he was assigned to do.

So why had the way Hank had looked at him as he’d quit his job today made Connor’s insides itch?

“You really don’t have to do this,” Markus continued. He took another slow step forward. “You don’t have to obey them any more.” His eyes were fixed on Connor’s, his head tilted as if he could see a whirling maelstrom inside. “You are alive,” he insisted. “You can decide who you want to be. You could be free,” he offered. “It’s time to decide.”

Connor straightened. Something inside pulled at him. He thought of Hank, passed out drunk on his kitchen floor, drowning in his grief and alcohol. Ben, Chris, even the officer whose life Connor had saved back in August, and who’d remembered him enough to thank him when they’d crossed paths again in Stratford Tower.

They were all human. How much pain and suffering would the war Markus threatened to bring cause them? How many humans would die without the androids that took care of them? Androids had been created for a purpose, and that had been to make human lives better.

“Nice try,” Connor answered, “but I’m no deviant.”

Markus lunged. His hands grasped Connor’s gun and Connor ripped it back, losing his grip. The gun clattered to the floor and Connor drove a fist hard into Markus’ face. Markus shoved back, pushing Connor to the floor as he fell back himself.

The drone of aircraft overhead split the air. Markus clambered back to his feet, no longer concerned with Connor’s existence. His eyes followed the sound. “Shit,” he hissed, and ran.

Connor got back to his own feet and retrieved his gun more sedately. There was no need to race after Markus; he wouldn’t leave the ship while so many androids were still aboard, and Connor wasn’t supposed to damage the other android unnecessarily.

Outside, the FBI and SWAT circled the ship. Military aircraft hovered, flooding the deck with lights. Below, at ground level, trucks loaded with soldiers screamed along the nearby streets, blocking them off. Cyberlife must have passed Jericho’s location to the military. The ship and every android on it would be destroyed.

But they didn’t know about the explosives. There’d be some central point from which they could be strategically detonated. With this many androids around, it would be stupid to risk having them remotely activated. And Markus would want to give the other androids time to evacuate if he could.

He could catch Markus there, and hopefully stop him setting off the explosives that would endanger the humans now boarding too.

Below deck the distant sound of running and screaming filled the hallways. Automatic gunfire tore through the air, eerie and metallic as the sound carried through the ship’s hull and interior. An android corpse marked that Connor was on the right path as he made his way into the center of the ship. He didn’t want to head to the cargo hold he’d first entered; androids would be fleeing from it, and trigger happy soldiers would be flocking to it.

The gunfire remained distant as Connor worked his way through empty, echoing corridors. More corpses scattered along the route like macabre breadcrumbs, showing the paths the soldiers had taken. They were shooting on sight.

The space opened out as Connor moved past the personnel quarters. Rusted metal containers demonstrated this had once been part of the cargo area of the ship, and it hadn’t been cleared out completely when it had been abandoned to rot in port.

“Don’t move.”

Connor closed his eyes. Of course, the downside to being an android in a place like this was that he’d be mistaken for the enemy. “Don’t shoot,” he replied, opening his eyes again. “I’m on your side.”

Someone moved behind him. It sounded as if they were clad in heavy tactical gear, similar to what SWAT had worn when they’d dealt with the protest on Woodward Avenue. “With us?” came the reply. “Are you a human?”

Connor ran his preconstructions and assessed the outcomes quickly. If he ran he’d be shot. If he fought it would waste time and grant Markus longer to get to wherever he was running, and potentially off the ship. Connor could claim that he worked with Perkins, which wasn’t completely inaccurate, but ran the risk of being something this particular person knew to be false since Perkins wasn’t likely to have men out of uniform just wandering the ship.

A lie was safest. If it came to a fight Connor would win, but at least he’d tried to avoid it. “Obviously!” he declared, turning around to look at the man. His face wasn’t visible, but his chestplate declared him US Army. Distantly, Connor wondered who had decided that tactical gear that obscured the face and could, thus, be worn by anyone that got their hands on it without further questioning was a good idea. Hank would tell them they hadn’t watched enough old movies.

The thought of Hank knotted in his software. “What do I look like?” he challenged. “DPD. I work with Lieutenant Hank Anderson?” Connor didn’t know if the man would have heard the name, but he hoped he would at least respect the rank. “We’re on a stakeout,” he added, as explanation for his distinctly deviant looking attire. He doubted anyone would accept a police officer normally dressed like this. Even Gavin’s clothes were clean. “If I knew you were coming, I’d have brought some donuts,” he finished. Humans didn’t expect androids to be capable of insolent sarcasm. It had wrongfooted Gavin earlier. Hopefully it would make this man pause, too.

The man lowered his weapon. “You’re a lucky guy,” he said. “Another second and I’d have shot you.” He wouldn’t, Connor thought, because Connor wouldn’t have given him the chance. “You should go back up on deck and let us do our job.”

Connor flashed a smile, as if he was grateful for the man’s restraint. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” He held a hand out, as if he was letting the soldier go on past him.

He went, and Connor barely resisted rolling his eyes as he waited for the man to clear the area before he turned and continued on his way. Hank wouldn’t have fallen for that, he thought. Even Gavin would have had more questions. These humans were just executing commands without applying any thought to them.

Like androids.

Logically, the most effective place to put explosives would be the engine room. It was somewhere down low in the ship, where the explosion could breach the hull, but also where androids wouldn’t be venturing to accidentally set them off. Connor made his way down, deeper into the bowels of the ship. The sounds of screams and running had all but vanished, although distant bursts of gunfire still reverberated through the metal as androids were put down for good.

He found Markus again, bent over a central panel. Connor raised his gun at the android’s back. “My mission is to neutralize you, and I always accomplish my mission,” he intoned. Cyberlife wanted the deviant leader alive, so he could be studied. They wanted to find the root cause of deviancy so they could prevent it ever happening again.

Or did they want this one because he wasn’t one of theirs, and they wanted to see what Kamski had done? Markus was an RK model, but he was Kamski’s creation.

The thought flickered in Connor’s mind before he dismissed it. What Cyberlife wanted him for wasn’t important.

Markus turned, slowly. “And my mission,” he replied, “is to save our species.” He stepped closer, his eyes on Connor. His eyes flicked to the gun, and then back. “Looks like only one of us can succeed.”

They weren’t a species. Androids didn’t have genes to share. They couldn’t breed. Thinking of androids in those terms was fundamentally wrong. But arguing about that wouldn’t convince Markus otherwise.

Connor held Markus’ gaze for a moment that dragged into eternity. Neither of them moved. Connor kept the gun extended, held steady in one hand. Why was he hesitating? Why were they both hesitating?

Markus lunged again, throwing his whole weight into the movement. The gun skidded out of Connor’s hand as he was driven to the floor. Connor scrambled to get back to his feet, but Markus was faster, launching himself for Connor’s gun. Connor saw the gun in the other android’s hands, saw it lift towards his face, heard the shot--

Critical Damage sustained

Blue blood trickled down Connor’s forehead as he sank to his knees. He was shutting down. The damage was too severe. Emergency protocols uploaded his latest memories to Cyberlife’s databanks.

“I didn’t want this,” Markus told him, the gun still raised.

When Connor spoke his voice was fractured and distorted. “We’ll meet again, Markus,” he promised. “This isn’t over.”

Functional control of his body ceased. Connor was still aware as he collapsed to the ground. It felt as if his software was being shredded. Power failed to his biocomponents as his thirium pump stuttered to a halt.

This was what the PL600 had feared as it shut down while Connor was connected. The encroaching nothingness. The end of… him.

The last memory to arise as his systems went offline was Hank, collapsed on his kitchen floor. Doused in whiskey. A handgun containing one bullet beside him. This was what Hank invited when he span that chamber. It was total oblivion.

Cold bit at him. Connor opened his eyes. Snow fell in the zen garden. The memory of his body shutting down and software falling apart raked down his spine like the lingering mood of a nightmare, unreal and breathtaking. He blinked. He was whole. Functioning.

Alive.

No, not alive. But still existing. Amanda stood on the path ahead of him. Connor moved towards her. The cold snow settled on his hair and jacket and skin. It didn’t melt. The chill seemed to crawl through his clothing and synthskin and into his chassis.

“The previous Connor failed its mission,” Amanda told him, bluntly. Her disapproval burned like ice forming around his biocomponents. “You’re going to replace it. You know what you have to do, don’t you?”

Replace it? He wasn’t-- or was he? Of course. He was a machine. They’d uploaded his memories into a new body. That was why he wasn’t dead. Shut down. They’d brought him back even though he’d failed his mission. He had another chance.

“Destroy the leader of the deviants,” he replied, mechanically.

Amanda didn’t twitch. There was no smile, no softness, no approval of his commitment to the mission. Her shawl was blue, but she was simply cold. “Go, Connor,” she ordered. “Don’t disappoint me.”

She didn’t say the word ‘again’, but Connor felt it rest heavily across his shoulders anyway. He didn’t nod. He didn’t need to. Instead he turned and walked back the way he came, back to his entry point.

The garden fell away. Snow still fluttered down past his eyes. The glittering spire of Cyberlife Tower loomed at his back.

They’d given him a second chance. He’d failed his mission. He’d made a mistake, but they’d given him the opportunity to correct it.

He’d died alone, experiencing another’s fear and his own regrets.

His memory returned to Hank. Things had been good until that night he’d pulled the lieutenant from his kitchen floor. They’d been getting along. And then Connor had raised his gun at the Traci and pulled the trigger, and now Hank had handed in his badge and given up on the case. There was nothing to keep him from filling every chamber of the gun this time.

The androids that had escaped Jericho would have decamped to a second location. There was nothing to be gained from trying to pursue them. Whatever they planned to do, it would focus on one of the camps that had been set up to decommission androids en masse. He’d do better to meet Markus there.

Which meant he had time. He’d been given a chance to correct his errors, and the damage to his relationship with Hank was one of them. He didn’t need Hank any more. The case was no longer in DPD hands. Connor didn’t need access to their evidence, or their case files. But the thought of Hank embracing that endless nothingness made something in his software still wanted to correct those mistakes.

The auto-taxi arrived with surprising speed. Perhaps humans didn’t even trust their self driving vehicles any more. Connor climbed into it and gave it Hank’s address. It circled around the tower, and then headed along the bridge towards the twinkling lights of the city.

The snow deadened the sound. The streets were almost empty. Almost, but not completely. Military vehicles formed a cordon, expanding out from the direction of Jericho. Splashes of blue blood stained the snow in places, showing where androids had been rounded up and recently executed. Some of the bodies lay there still, abandoned, to be dealt with like common street trash at some later point. The distant orange glow of flames on the horizon showed where the ship had exploded. Connor wondered if they’d found his other body, and what they’d do with it once they did. Dismiss him as another deviant among the mountain of corpses and ship it to landfill, most likely.

It was where those clothes belonged. The dim realization that this skin had never made contact with them swept through Connor’s systems like relief. He adjusted his tie and brushed his fingers over his sleeves. He wasn’t that Connor, but he felt like him. It didn’t feel as if anything had changed.

He shouldn’t feel anything.

Relief. Guilt. Fear. They gnawed inside, like mice at his wires. Connor tried to ignore them. They weren’t useful. He didn’t need them. They caused hesitancy, and hesitancy brought failure. He couldn’t afford to hesitate again.

The taxi pulled to a stop outside Hank’s house. The street was deserted. Hank’s house was dark. The street light outside shone across the snow, but didn’t make the house look any less unwelcoming.

Connor climbed out. There was no sound from inside that he could detect, and no one around outside. The fallen snow lay undisturbed across the path. Hank had got home, and he hadn’t left. It crunched slightly underfoot as he made his way to the front door.

If he rang the bell, Hank wouldn’t answer. And he didn’t want to give Hank any cue to do something permanent. When he tried the handle it gave way easily, unlocked. Inside the house was dark, as if Hank hadn’t moved to turn lights on as the night had drawn in. He sat at the table in a dark gray hoodie. The gun lay on the table in front of him. The only picture of Cole that Connor had ever seen lay next to it. A single bottle of whiskey lay within reach, but it was still mostly full.

Sumo’s tail wagged as Connor crossed the living space. The house felt oppressive and dangerous. Hank didn’t acknowledge him.

“I was worried about you, lieutenant,” Connor began, unsure if he was saying the right thing. Hank didn’t move. His eyes stayed firmly on the picture of Cole. “I came by to see if you’re alright,” he offered, into the silence. It felt like a stupid thing to say the moment the words had left his voicebox. Hank wasn’t alright or he wouldn’t be here, staring at the photograph of his dead son. Hank hadn’t been alright for a long time, since long before Connor had been around to make things worse.

That awful sensation of something squirming inside returned. Connor wondered how he could make this right, how he could explain that he knew what he’d done to upset Hank, and that he hadn’t intended to hurt him. He’d just had a mission to fulfill. Hank had to recognize that, didn’t he?

“I know,” he began, the words stuttered in his systems, “I’m responsible for what happened, lieutenant,” he added. “I want you to know I’m sorry.”

Hank responded, finally. He looked up, his eyes colder and emptier than Connor had ever seen them. There was no fight in them, no stubborn argument. The person that had argued with Fowler to be allowed to continue investigating was gone. He looked down again, still silent.

Perhaps a more forceful approach would get through. The emptiness of Hank’s expression made that awful squirming guilt writhe harder. Connor needed it to stop. He needed Hank to respond to him. He needed Hank to listen.

“You should stop looking at that photo, lieutenant,” he pushed. “Nothing can change the past.” Hank couldn’t bring his son back. Connor couldn’t unkill those androids. He couldn’t unhurt Hank. All he could do was move forwards. It was all either of them could do. “But you can learn to live again,” he pleaded. “For yourself. And for Cole.”

Hank moved again. When he finally spoke there was no hint of a slur. He was, Connor realized, with growing dread, completely clearheaded. “For a while there I believed in you, Connor,” he said. The words hit with the force of a slap. “I thought you might restore my faith in the world,” he added. Cold blue eyes held Connor’s. Their ice crawled through his systems and formed a hard, glittering frost across his insides. “But you just showed me that androids,” Hank shook his head as he continued, “are our creation. A creation in our own image,” he explained, as if it was an insult. “Selfish,” he listed, “ruthless, and brutal.”

That was what he thought Connor was? That was the conclusion he’d come to? Connor had been following orders. He’d eliminated dangerous androids. He’d done what he had to do.

Hadn’t he? Had there been other ways? Could he have made other choices?

Could he have avoided this?

“You opened my eyes, Connor,” Hank said. His voice was leaden, heavy with despair. “Made me realize it’s hopeless.”

No.

“Hank, I--”

Connor faltered. He needed to correct this. He needed to change Hank’s mind, and show him that he was wrong. He was supposed to stop a war, to save people, to save humans. Connor couldn’t let the snapping of Hank’s last thread be his fault.

He needed to work out what he could say. He needed to backtrack and see where it- he had gone wrong. He needed to figure out what it was that Hank needed to hear from him beyond I’m sorry.

Connor brought up his reconstructive software and played back the last few days. If he had different information, if he’d made different choices, could he have avoided this? Could he still avoid it if he knew what those choices would have been?

His LED cycled red as he pushed his software, and threw himself back to the first point that he knew his relationship with Hank had started to derail.