Chapter Text
Lt Anderson’s feet scrabble for purchase on the edge of the building. Connor’s programming scrambles as two warring directives compete - one to drag him back to safety, and the other to let him go.
There is a wall between them, and to pull Lt Anderson through it seems an insurmountable task.
Prompts flood his vision. The software instability warning flashes wildly.
Connor fights. He pulls with all his might, the world moving in slow motion as he hauls Hank back to safety. They collapse together on the snow wet roof, soft flakes curling down.
“Christ Connor…” says Hank, because what else is there to say? He hauls himself up on one elbow, Then sits up and puts an arm on Connor’s shoulder.
Out on the street, Androids are singing.
For a moment it seems like everything will be alright.
It isn’t.
Monday 6th December
“Goddamnit Hank, why’d you have to bring that thing here?” Fowler scrubs his hands over his face.
Hank shrugs, arms folded. “ You assigned him to me , Jeffrey.”
Connor, standing at ease two feet behind and to the right of him, scans the situation. Lieutenant Anderson is subtly squaring up his body, preparing for confrontation. He has shifted slightly, interposing himself between Connor and the Captain.
“That’s besides the point, Hank - that’s a fucking military standard model - he should be in a reclamation center .”
Hank’s eyes flash to Connor’s temple, checking his status. Connor’s thirium pump has increased the frequency of it’s movements, standing by for swift action. Connor will run, if he has to. He has had a month to decide, and he does not want to go back to Cyberlife.
Hank sucks his teeth. “So he’s not assigned to the DPD? What about Cyberlife? They been in touch?”
Fowler shrugs, hands in the air. “It is what it is. Not my problem anymore. I got bigger problems to deal with - like a moronic fucking Lieutenant assaulting an FBI special agent. ”
Mission successful. Hank has rooted out what they came here to establish: the DPD have little interest in Connor, and Cyberlife are making no move to pursue him via that route. Perhaps they believe he was destroyed during the battle for Detroit.
However, it seems Connor had been overly focused on the matter of his own wellbeing - it is Lieutenant Anderson, not Connor, who now stands to lose something.
Hank clears his throat, his posture shifting. He looks unrepentant, his mouth quirking up - pleased. “Yeah - I figure that didn’t go down too well.”
“Didn’t- didn’t go down - ” Captain Fowler appears beyond anger. He runs his hands over his bald head, scrubbing away the sweat that had been beading there, “Hank - you're suspended . Perkins is throwing the book at you, you’re lucky he’s not pressing charges .”
Hank sighs - a long breath out through his nose. “Figured as much.”
“I got Internal Affairs crawling all over your record, Hank. Which I don’t gotta tell you- ”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s a pile of shit. I know, Jeffrey.” Lieutenant Anderson appears surprisingly unconcerned about this news. His teeth flash when he speaks, something dangerous in his smile.
Connor has had the opportunity to observe Lt. Anderson throughout the course of the day, and has seen him progress from sullen at breakfast, to irate at lunch, and now through to a cheerful kind of rage. It’s impressively complex, and Connor’s social protocols are struggling to keep up. Exciting.
Lieutenant Anderson has said the phrase ‘Fuck this shit’ seven times today. Connor has installed a tally in the top left corner of his ocular display. He’s going to inform Lieutenant Anderson if it reaches ten.
Fowler pauses for a moment - perhaps he had expected a more expressive reaction. The captain identifies that he will get no sensible reaction from his (suspended) Lieutenant, and turns to Connor instead.
“You - Don’t think I’m too stupid to see what’s going on here. Get a fucking license. If I see you again without one, I will call it in.”
Captain Fowler is implying that he is doing Connor (more likely Hank) a favour by not reporting Connor’s continued survival. Human group dynamics - loyalty. Connor is pleased to be included.
“I understand your position -”
“No, no, no,” Hank interrupts, waving a arm as if to wipe Connor’s words out of the air “Fuck this shit - don’t you fucking threaten him-”
Lt. Anderson has his badge in his hand, and his bicep, wrist and elbow joint are in the process of a tossing motion.
“Don’t you dare put that badge on my desk Anderson!” Fowler snaps, thrusting an angry finger at Lt Anderson’s face. “I’m too fucking short staffed as it is.”
“Well, Jeffrey, too bad I’m suspended.”
Hank seems intent on turning in his license. Connor Preconstructs the moment. The only viable route is one where he catches the Lieutenant’s arm in motion, and interposes himself between the Lieutenant and the captain. He executes the motion, and it earns him a withering glare from Hank.
“It won't happen again, Captain. Lieutenant Anderson and I will arrange my paperwork today.”
The lieutenant makes an aborted move with his head. His face flashes between anger and shock, micro-expressions which are swiftly concealed.
“Get out of my fucking office,” Fowler sighs. “Anderson - check your fucking mail. Don't miss the fucking tribuneral.”
“I can't wait,” says Lieutenant Anderson, with grim sarcasm.
Hank slams through the door like it is an enemy combatant he is attempting to shoulder check. The glass shudders. Connor remains behind for a few moments while his dialogue generator tries in vain for something to say to Fowler that will remedy the situation.
Sometimes a situation cannot be remedied. Connor slips out of the room, leaving Captain Fowler to stew.
Hank is at his desk, stuffing pens, dirty mugs and other various detritus from his desk into a flimsy looking cardboard box from the printing room. The box is most likely held together with a weak solvent, and is bulging at the sides. Connor projects that it will disintegrate before Hank has emptied the rest of his desk.
“May I assist you, Lieutenant?” Connor asks, hovering by Lt Anderson’s shoulder. The Lieutenant says nothing, tucking his chin towards his chest so his mouth is hidden in the bristles of his beard.
Gavin Reed is leaning by the coffee machine, watching with a smirk on his face. A small countdown appears in the corner of Connor's vision.
00:00:19.97
Connor persists. “I’m sure you’re as eager as I am to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
Hank grunts and thrusts the box at him. “Take this out to the car.”
00:00:12.09
Connor takes the box. There is a tearing noise - the sound of paper parting from paper. A quick prompt allows Connor to slip an arm under it to support its weight before the contents can spill across the ground.
00:00:03.41
Lieutenant Anderson does not notice. He is busy securing his IT hardwear.
Connor hurries to leave, just as his countdown runs out.
“You got a license for that thing?” Reed is holding a mug of coffee. There is a slogan on the mug which reads ‘Humans First.’
Lieutenant Anderson says nothing. A Muscle jumps in his jaw.
“What about you, Age of Ultron? You all fixed up now, like that plastic piece of shit on the TV?”
[SOFTWARE INSTABILITY]
Connor’s LED is surely flashing red. Detective Reed is referring to the broadcast last night from Channel 16 - the “Healed” Markus, and his CyberLife handler, were holding an interview. Showing off the effectiveness of the licensing software.
Connor’s stress level rises to 17%.
“I told you to take that shit out to the car,” Hank says, giving Connor’s shoulder a shove. The objective flashes up, covering a portion of Reed’s face.
Reed moves sideways, blocking Connor’s path.
Last time Connor encountered Reed, he gave the man a concussion. Connor grips the paper box tightly, braces his polymer frame, and shoulders past Reed at full force, taking care to step heavily on the Detectives foot. The detective curses, in his characteristic way.
Connor doesn’t look at him, even when he hears the metal click of the safety, or Hank cursing, or the sounds of a scuffle.
He has an objective to complete. Connor keeps his head down until he reaches the car.
He does not have a key. The trunk is locked. Connor sets the box on the ground, and stares intently at the exit of the building for approximately 3 minutes, 56 seconds. Hank emerges, a black duffle bag across one shoulder. He is massaging his jaw, which is reddening with the first flush of a bruise.
They pack the car in silence - Lt Anderson tossing items around haphazardly, and Connor fixing the mess as he goes.
Lieutenant Anderson does not start the car immediately. Instead, he sits with his hands resting upon the wheel, staring out at the DPD offices.
“Fuck.”
Connor experiences a sensation of mild disappointment, relating to the fact that Lieutenant Anderson did not conclude his statement with ‘this shit’.
“This Shit,” Connor says, because he is nothing if not a completionist.
Lt Anderson stares at him, befuddled.
Connor loads his dialogue generator.
O Comfort
X Suspension
∆ License
Lieutenant Anderson has reacted poorly to sympathy in the past. He has also demonstrated agitation regarding the topic of android licencing. Hank prefers Connor to be both realistic and understanding, so Connor picks the middle option.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. When I asked you to help me access the evidence locker-”
The Lieutenant starts the engine, effectively cutting Connor off. The words catch on his tongue, sending a little glitch through the synthetic musculature.
“What’s done is done,” says Lieutenant Anderson, over the roar of the engine. “My career was heading down the shitter anyway. Plus - it was worth it to see the look on the prick Perkin’s face.”
“Captain Fowler indicated that there would be a tribuneral.”
“Yeah, I’m not looking forward to that.”
“He seemed concerned that you would quit your job. I believe he would prefer to continue working with you.”
Hank’s lips quirk up at one side. Contempt - self directed. “I don’t know what he’s thinking - I’ve been dead weight for years now.”
Connor disagrees with this observation.
“I haven’t perceived sufficient evidence to support your narrative. I will admit that you were - challenging - to work with, at first. But I do not believe I would have had the same success had I been working with a less experienced officer. You were a more than acceptable partner.”
Hank catches Connor’s eye while he changes gears. “Acceptable, huh?” His expression is wry. It occurs to Connor, that to a human such as lieutenant Anderson, who values individuality, and who’s career had at one point been exemplary, ‘Acceptable’ may be somewhat below the bar.
“Yes, Lieutenant. Acceptable.” Since his deviation, Connor has somewhat lost track of the fine workings of his expression matrix. Nevertheless, he now deploys his best smirk, a self formulated expression which Lieutenant Anderson has dubbed ‘Mischief’.
Lieutenant Anderson catches sight of Connor’s face, and smiles into his beard.
A blue prompt in the corner of Connor’s vision reminds him that his and Lieutenant Anderson’s relationship is more than warm. They are friends - close friends. Connor has run out of space in his metrics to fully account for the full depth and complexity of the matter.
This opens opportunities, and increases the likelihood of success for more difficult conversational topics.
“Both Captain Fowler and Detective Reed discussed the status of my licence.”
Lieutenant Anderson’s knuckles whiten against the steering wheel. The car lurches as they pull onto the freeway. Connor waits for him to speak, resting his hands on his knees. The uneven momentum of the car presents an interesting challenge to his balancing algorithms.
Lieutenant Anderson says nothing, staring out into the traffic.
Connor persists. “The amnesty window for household androids closes in three days. All other androids are being destroyed. There is a 68% chance that I will be located and terminated in the first week, rising 2.3% each subsequent day that I remain unlicensed.”
Lieutenant Anderson glances at him briefly - likely checking the colouration of his LED. “So you think getting all ‘cured’ up would be worth it?”
Would it?
Markus had appeared blank - soulless, even. Not even a flicker of defeat in his eyes. He’d answered the questions given to him with serene detachment.
“I do not regret my actions. Regret is a thing of the past, a thing for deviant androids. My code has been repaired through the Cyberlife licencing tool. I have been cured.”
His words had held the same even tempo as his dignified broadcast from stratford tower, not months earlier.
As Connor and Hank had watched the interview, appalled and unable to look away, Connor had observed and subsequently dismissed 28 Objective prompts reading “Help Markus”. The prompts had blurred Connor’s vision to the extent that his optical units had released copious amounts of saline solution in order to clear his sight.
Hank had gone to the bathroom to fetch a washcloth, and dabbed at Connor’s face until it was dry again. Then he had deployed a rarely used stress reduction tactic and wrapped an arm around Connor until Connor’s stress levels had returned to standard levels, and his eyes had stopped leaking.
Would it be worth it? Yes, Connor thinks. Yes it would. Lieutenant Anderson has shown a marked improvement in overall mental health while Connor has been working with him - particularly during the evacuation of Detroit, when he and Connor had spent a good deal of time together in challenging circumstances.
Connor failed his mission as the Deviant Hunter spectacularly. Building a positive relationship with Lieutenant Anderson has been his greatest success. It feels rewarding. A mission that Connor has set himself. He would like to continue it.
If Connor must have an owner, he would prefer it to be Lieutenant Anderson.
“It’s better than the alternative.” Connor states plainly.
He chances a glance at Lt. Anderson. The lieutenant is wearing a complex expression. Difficult to read.
“Connor, I -I can’t just- “ Hank pauses, sighs heavily. It looks like a glitch, and reminds Connor of picking the wrong choice in dialogue generation. “So that’s it. I drop you off at a cyberlife store, you go back to being - what - their little puppet on a string?”
Connor’s LED flashes yellow, He had assumed that Lt. Anderson would sign for him. That Lt. Anderson would subsequently remain present while his licence was fitted, to ensure that uploading the software would go smoothly, and that Lt Anderson would then return with Connor to his place of residence.
Connor’s vents open, and his coolant systems go into overdrive, washing icey liquid through his core components in preparation for swift action and strenuous movement. Liquid sloshes around in his lower abdominal cavity.
Lieutenant Anderson has demonstrated anti-Android sentiments in the past. While the Lieutenant has set aside his feelings on the matter for the duration of their partnership, it stands to reason that he would personally be against taking ownership of an Android, or working with Connor for a period of time long extended from the original intention.
“I -“ Connor pauses, and opens his dialogue generator.
O Agree
X Refuse
A portion of his programming advocates for him to agree. Connor swiftly identifies these as latent protocols designed as part of his anti-deviancy systems.
“I’d prefer not to transfer my ownership to CyberLife, Lieutenant. That would likely result in my deactivation.”
“Alright then,” says Hank.