Chapter Text
At what point did the growing amount of androids become one too many? Because whatever that point was, they had well and truly passed it. And you know what? Gavin was sick and tired of turning the corner to reach his favorite food truck only to come face to face with another goddamn Connor clone. One was enough to ruin his day, and one literally worked with him. He didn’t want to see another one crop up at the grocery store, walk down the street, or whatever else they got up to since they were mass-released from Cyberlife Tower.
No, that wasn’t even right. Recently, it wasn’t one Connor making his life a living hell. No, because that would be too merciful. It was two. Two! Following Anderson around like lost puppies! Guess Anderson got over his dead son enough to take in two strays after all, huh? Got his head out of the bottle long enough to start parenting Cyberlife’s prodigy androids. Not that Gavin could critique him without being a massive hypocrite, but damn was it disappointing to watch one of the best detectives look at his own gun with the same glint in his eyes as the people they talked down from bridges. Then, he had to find out that the bastard pulled his life together because some random ass android nobody even liked was foisted off on him. What a miracle.
He couldn’t even get any enjoyment out of the Connors. Or Connor and the RK900, since Connor was very annoying about allowing the RK900 to choose his own name. Not that Gavin gave a shit, but it would’ve been extremely convenient to have some distinction between the two pieces of glorified scrap metal. It would’ve been helpful if the fucker actually spoke. He tried doing the coffee-intern bit and instead of answering, the android threw lukewarm coffee in his face. He bet his entire leg that if their shitty coffee machine worked properly that day, he would’ve been severely burned. Any other time he tried to heckle the android, it would give him this look and turn away. Whenever Gavin tried to do the whole ‘actions speak louder than words’ thing, he would get him right back. So, basically, not only was it another Connor clone that acted like it wasn’t a deviant, but it was also even more aggravating.
Gavin could feel its eyes on him when he left Fowler’s office, new assignment in hand. He resisted the childish urge to flip it off, at least until he got to the door. He deserved some stress relief in the form of giving the RK900 shit, especially since God himself was gunning for his head. One of his cats, the android one he picked up from the trash since Cyberlife decided to capture their likeness and did a too-good job of it, had done a stupid cat thing and jumped from the top of his fridge into his garbage disposal. Her paw got shredded when one of his other cats flipped the switch because they also hated androids. Though, that cat had deviated recently, from what he could tell, which led to it jumping into his garbage disposal , since no programmed cat would ever risk doing that. So maybe it was okay.
His usual dealer in all things androids, Donovan something or other, had sent him a terse warning to stay the fuck away from his apartment for a while. He, therefore, couldn’t repair his idiot cat. If that wasn’t bad enough, Fowler gave him another nothing case while the lovely, perfect Andersons took another red ice one. If it was just jealousy talking, then maybe it would’ve been salvageable, but no. Of course it wasn’t. Because God hated him. No, instead, it was a Cyberlife warehouse break-in that resulted in the death of a security guard. According to Tina, these break-ins were known but not investigated because they were minuscule in the face of Cyberlife’s shifting PR image. The only reason he was even assigned to it was because a human died, never mind the few androids destroyed beyond recognition that had deviated recently.
The drive to the warehouse was agonizing. He couldn’t overstate how much he wanted to bury his head in the concrete and let the wheels drag over his head. By the time he got to the warehouse, with only one other cop car there, Gavin was contemplating ditching to go fuck with RK900 again. Though, last time he tried, the bastard unscrewed his chair so that it collapsed as soon as he sat on it. There was still a bruise from where he smacked his leg against the bottom of his desk.
“Detective Reed,” a woman from the forensics department—uh, Mallory something? Or maybe Mallory was her last name—greeted him, pulling his thoughts away from the android. God, what a statement. He didn’t like the idea that the android took up any room in his mind at all, and here he was. When had that happened? He was pretty sure the only time he gave Connor any thought was if the mutt was in his direct eye line.
Whatever. Whatever . The woman was giving him a weird look. “What the hell we’ve got here, Mallory?” he asked, pretending he hadn’t been obviously zoned out for the past few seconds. “Let me guess, an open and shut case.”
The woman looked surprised at the use of her name—which was Mallory, thank Christ—but slipped into work mode. She gestured for him to follow and he obeyed. “I can’t make any assumptions. That’s your job, detective. At around 6:50, the police got a call from one of the truck-loading androids that the security guard was dead. The victim was Liam Mortimer, the security guard on shift. Bullet to the head, clean through. I’ve placed the time of death at 6:42,” she reported, leading him through the warehouse. They avoided the very obvious truck skid marks, which gave Gavin a pretty good idea of how the culprit escaped.
He was led into a shabby break room that smelled faintly of mold, cigarettes, and coffee. Vaguely reminiscent of the station break room, but theirs were better maintained. Mainly because the RK900 prevented him from smoking there anymore. There wasn’t a notable smell of a rotting corpse in this room, though, so Liam must’ve been discovered and moved fairly quickly. Mallory gestured to where the body was found, so he started his circuit there. A bullet, now lying beside one of the table legs, had created a sizable in the metal support. Beside the adjacent leg, a fairly sizable blood stain dried on the linoleum floor. Said table was crooked, marks dug into the ground where it was likely shoved aside in a scuffle. Shards of glass from the shitty ceiling light were strewn about and the bullet lay within the piles. His route finished at the ajar back door, marked with a bloody print against the handle.
That gave him pause. The rest was expected; Liam put up a bit of a fight before being killed. But the exit led away from the garage, where the escape skidmarks were. It would’ve made more sense for the culprit to leave through the break room door. So either one of the androids came to check things out, this was an unplanned murder, or they had an escape vehicle stashed elsewhere and there was another person who hit the gas. This seemed unplanned. No criminal worth their salt used a goddamn transport truck as an escape vehicle.
“Three gunshots all accounted for?” he clarified, staring hard at the hinges of the door. It was too far away from the place of the fight to be from that, so escape was the only answer. “How many people were there?”
“All accounted for, from the same gun from I can tell. The victim’s gun was missing from its holster when the body was found, so they were likely shot with their own gun,” Mallory reported, leaning against the doorway with a blank look on her face. She looked like Gavin whenever Fowler forced him to play nice whenever those FBI guys started prowling around. “Rough way to go, but nothing special.”
“Ain’t that morbid,” he muttered, feeling unnerved by the lack of investment in her eyes. Sure, he didn’t really want this job, but the guy had still died. “We got a security room ‘round here?”
She shrugged, looking at him like he was the dumbest motherfucker in the world. “I’m not the detective here. I came for the autopsy and to play messenger to you, since they didn’t want to ‘waste manpower’ on this case . ”
“Oh fuck off, it’s not like I asked to be here, either,” he spat, brushing past her into the main warehouse. The hell was she getting mad at him for? They were both here to do their job, however shitty it was.
Gavin rapidly realized that he didn’t know where the security room was because Mallory decided to be pedantic about a place he was bound to find anyway. He didn’t want her to watch him waltz around and confirm her belief that he was an incompetent grunt she had to bend the knee to, so he headed toward the truck marks instead.
He didn’t get very far before slowing to a stop. A group of three gathered further in the warehouse he hadn’t noticed earlier, wearing Cyberlife uniforms. Two of them were crouched beside tire marks while one was dragging a legless, powered-off android toward one of the other doors exiting the warehouse. Beside the shelves, he could spot another, not currently damaged android looking unbelievably nervous. She looked vaguely similar to the way the RK900 had entered the station those first days. According to Connor, the other android was the only one of its line, and being his prime predecessor, basically took him in. Gavin knew this because Connor and Anderson liked airing out their personal problems in the station and the rest of the officers were subject to their family drama.
Origins notwithstanding, the RK900 had first entered the station looking like he had a stick up his ass. All picture-perfect posture, eyes that scanned the entire room, whatever the hell else. Gavin hated him on principle and made that very clear by interrupting Connor’s introduction of the RK900 as much as possible. Enough that Fowler had to kick him into the break room. Anyway, later in the day, when the RK900 wasn’t being touted around like some new shiny toy, Gavin caught sight of him standing by the holding cells. He looked. Depressing? Pathetic, honestly. His picture-perfect posture hadn’t faded, but that scrutinizing look in his eyes had become uncertain.
Gavin had taken that as the RK900 choosing to play brave and robotic, because anything else hurt his head to think about. But, well, looking at this android, he could very clearly place the fear in their eyes. She was a model sex-bot, which he could only tell because there was nothing else to look at in that fucking strip club except for their faces. Her hair was cut short and dyed a frankly awful shade of yellow. She was wearing another Cyberlife uniform, probably for their warehouse workers. And, like the RK900 way back when, she looked terrified.
Look at him, empathizing with the tin fuckface vicariously through some random, traumatized android. His non-existent therapist would be so proud of him.
A part of him was tempted to treat her as he did the RK900, but he didn’t want to be responsible for freaking her out further. Or get reported for harassing a civilian. “Hey. They haven’t cleared you out yet?” he asked, keeping his pace steady and ensuring he walked in her line of sight. “Figured that was procedure ‘round these parts.”
The woman snapped her head up, making it obvious she was staring forlornly at the group of three. Her pupils flickered to his gun and his worn jacket before her shoulders purposefully went back. “Nobody has directed me anywhere and I’m not moving,” she insisted, voice pitched low. “You can try to arrest me, but I—”
“Jesus, I’m not here to arrest you. Calm your tits,” he interrupted, quietly impressed. It took some balls to stand up to someone you’re terrified of. Confidence, shaky or not, was admirable. Made it feel like he wasn’t talking to an actual doormat, like Connor. And the RK900, kind of. The RK900 acted out in different ways, though, which made him leagues more bearable than Connor ever was. “Question you, sure, but I’m not looking to lose my badge today.”
“Ah—I see. Sorry, I’m just… on edge. I’m sorry.”
He waved a hand, reclining against the wall beside her. “I’ve seen it before, dealt with worse. You’re fine,” he deliberated over how to introduce herself before deciding to go a bit more formal. She seemed like she needed some stability and ‘Gavin Reed’ wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of sanity. “I’m Detective Reed. Who am I speaking to?”
It was the right move. The reiteration of his occupation must’ve given her some sense of safety since she let her eyes drift from his shitty jacket. “They called me Patches,” she murmured, sounding close to tears. Like she was about to float away or something.
“I had a cat named Patches once. Fiery bastard, kept scratching up my furniture, but he loved basking on my windowsill,” he blurted. Her head turned toward him, confusion written across her furrowed brows. “You name yourself?”
“Devon and Achilles—the other workers here—did. We spent an entire shift brainstorming,” she admitted, fidgeting with her sleeve. She must’ve been a new deviant if she hadn’t developed her identity yet. At least she had broken through her glorified sex bot role.
“And where are they now?”
Patches jerked her head toward the three stooges off by the tire tracks and he grimaced. Good going, Gavin, really pointed out her mangled friends while trying to keep things light, huh? He bit his tongue harshly, craving the feeling of a cigarette between his lips as he hunted for the words. “What happened?”
The woman glared at the ground, twisting and turning her sleeve within her hands. “I went to go call the cops—I was closest to the gunshots, you know. Then, I tried to go check it out. The security android, Seer, stays cooped up most of the time so I thought I’d get things started,” she recalled, pointing to an untread room. He found the security room after all. Take that, Mallory. “There were three shots before I went into the break room. When I came in, Mr. Mortimer was already dead. And—and then I heard the squeal of tires. Two people had gotten into the recently arrived truck and just barreled through them like they were nothing. I don’t—I don’t know what happened, but they wouldn’t talk to me—they wouldn’t answer me at all. And now—and now they’re being taken away and I—”
Well fuck, Gavin thought sourly as she began breaking down in hysterics. He was not the person to be here for this. “Ah, shit, come on, onto the ground we go,” he directed, gently guiding her to the floor. The RK900 would’ve known what to do, that bastard. Would’ve looked up all those how-to guides on panic attacks or whatever. Even if he couldn’t talk, his presence would’ve been soothing enough. But, the RK900 wasn’t here, so Patches had to deal with him, he guessed. “Alright, see? All grounded. The floor’s good at that shit.”
“Y-You’re not helping.”
“Well, I’m doing my fuckin’ best, woman, give me a break,” he retorted instinctively, before shaking his head. “Now come on, breathe with me. I know you androids can. Focus. What’s the method? Four in, hold four, four out. You can do that.”
It took a while, but her breathing evened out eventually. Gavin’s thighs hurt from the squat he’d assumed beside her. Her head lulled against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. Her mouth formed words, probably trying to thank him, but sealed once no noise escaped.
“Oi, you okay over there?” one of the Cyberlife people called. He was a lanky man, glasses practically escaping his nose, and a beard to rival Santa. “We don’t got the stuff to reboot ‘er if she short-circuited.”
Gavin grimaced, feeling his brief victory slip through his fingertips. He shucked off his jacket and covered her with it, even though it was virtually useless. Androids couldn’t even feel temperature. The RK900 shivered sometimes, for god knows what reason, and the kiddy bots did too, but sexbots weren’t among the few that had the feature programmed in. He just felt bad, was all. She looked just as pathetic as the RK900 after a particularly philosophy-bending case. It was practically a necessity to cover her up.
With the bad feeling curbed by handing out his jacket, he strode over to the man shouting. “She hasn’t short-circuited, we’re fine. The hell is your stock doing here?” Gavin demanded. None of the unnatural gentleness from his interaction with Patches carried through. “Last I checked, this is an active crime scene where Cyberlife has no jurisdiction.”
“And last I checked, this is still Cyberlife property,” the man shot back, crossing his arms firmly across his chest. “Look, your department told us to pick up the scraps and send back the damage reports, so that’s what we’re doing. Don’t bust my balls over something you guys told us to do.”
Glorified trash collectors with half of the respect. Great. What a delight. He loved his job. “Fuckin’, whatever. Who the hell are you?”
“Why the hell—”
“Officer, could you just let us do our jobs?” the exhausted-looking trash collector interjected, scooping up a few miscellaneous parts from the ground. “Our crew won’t be here for long. I’m Edwin, Vivian’s out back putting stuff in our truck, and this delight is Lawrence. We’re literally just here to pick up what’s left over of those two androids and see what’s salvageable. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
He threw up his hands in surrender, only slightly mocking. “My entire point here is to investigate, my god. But I’ll gladly leave you alone.” He spun around, deeply irritated but satisfied that the Cyberlife lackeys weren’t curious about the other Cyberlife lackey anymore. Patches had taken the opportunity to slide to her feet, one hand placed flat against the metal shelf. She was taking deliberate breaths, which was good.
The woman dipped her head gratefully as he approached her, clutching his jacket around her like a cloak. “I’m okay now,” she reassured and sounded like it, too. Good, since nobody ever sounded okay when they were ridden with anxiety.
“I wasn’t asking,” he dismissed, because he wasn’t and didn’t want to become a support pillar for some random android he wouldn’t see again. “Take the time you need and get the hell out of my crime scene. Go—” cry over your friends. “—take a nap or something. Use your vacation time.”
Now acquainted with far more people than he thought he’d be today, Gavin approached the security room. He barely got his hand on the door before fast footsteps made him tense. Briefly, he wished the RK900 was at his back right now, just so he didn’t have to be on guard for a purely investigative task. Embarrassingly, the android’s presence would’ve probably been soothing, even if the fucker didn’t talk. Gavin’s hand rested on his holster as he tilted his head, waiting for an unwanted figure to trap him against the door. He’d be ready.
The wind swept out of him at the sight of whatever the hell his name was—Cyberlife lackey One—approached. “Look man, don’t shoot me. We just have to check up on the remaining androids,” the guy soothed, like Gavin was some sort of deranged animal. He certainly felt like one. For no good reason, really. Just his fucked mind running wild again. The dude seemed to be telling the truth since the Cyberlife Lackey Three was talking with Patches.
“Whatever. Keep your ass out of my way,” Gavin scoffed, pushing open the heavy door. The security android was standing ramrod straight next to the locker within the room, and Gavin could feel his scowl deepen. Seer, his nametag proclaimed, and the rotating yellow circle on his temple displayed its nervousness. He didn’t feel like dealing with a goddamn program right now, so he strode over to the security cameras. Lackey One walked over to the android in his place.
A little bit of fiddling got him the footage he needed. The RK900 would’ve done it faster, the cheater, but the piece of scrap metal wasn’t here, so they had to deal with Gavin’s glowing expertise. A truck left the garage at 3:07, dropped off their shit at 3:36, and came back at 4:28, which was suspicious as hell. Unless they were taking the long way back, there should be no reason for a 30-minute discrepancy for any normal work day. That must’ve been when the culprit(s) hijacked the truck, but there were no recorded warnings within that period. They must’ve taken the keycard or made a forgery. Either way, there was no doubt that whatever happened was a planned operation.
He saw two individuals exit the truck before vanishing from the camera’s sight. No other trucks left or arrived, either, despite the warehouse being a 24-hour facility. That shot his count to at least three: the murderer and two accomplices. Which, while a little more exciting, made more work for him. More things to keep track of. In short, it was a pain in his ass. The three storage androids, Patches included, could be seen walking around moving boxes, but it was uneventful. At least, until a little later, the cameras suddenly stopped working. It caught the truck whipping out of the garage before the footage became unusable, time and all. Gavin tentatively placed the escape around the time of death, 6:45.
Cyberlife was a multi-bajillion dollar corporation and couldn’t even afford decent cameras. What bullshit. Sure, maybe someone hacked into them, but they were rich! It shouldn’t have mattered if Markus himself was the one hacking, they should have better protections! Gavin slammed the mouse down before resigning himself to other evidence he’d yet to gather. The security room was lucrative in information, but it would’ve been so much easier if the security cameras just. Fucking. Worked.
Whatever. Whatever! Nobody paid him enough to care. What was important was that Liam Mortimer clocked in for an eight-hour shift at 12:03. Only the other androids were on duty until the fated 4:27. One Fisher Rot, hell of a name, clocked in for his eight-hour shift. Lo and behold, the man hadn’t clocked out and was missing entirely from the crime scene. Nobody else even mentioned him. Another open and shut case. Sure, he didn’t know the other culprits, but Fisher was one of ‘em. Once they caught the main killer, things would wrap themselves up in a nice little bow and he could go back to heckling RK900.
It was almost picture-perfect. Fisher wanted to do something in the warehouse but had to be stealthy about it. He used his expertise as a security guard to steal a truck and clocked in at the same time two of his buddies rolled it into the garage so he’d have an alibi. Unfortunately for him, now-dead Mr. Mortimer caught wind of whatever Fisher was doing and tried valiantly to stop him. The gunshots happened, the accomplices fled, and Fisher hauled ass out of the warehouse before the cops arrived.
Plain and simple. So why did it feel so wrong? The questions would get answered once they caught the fuck, but Gavin couldn’t get it out of his head about how elaborate it all was. Why steal a truck if you’re stealing from the warehouse? What the hell was the dude’s goal? Why not use his own gun to shoot Liam, and where did they stash the truck? Cyberlife hadn’t reported its location yet, so it must’ve still been out there somewhere. More questions cropped up in his mind and irritation set in. He was no RK900 or god forbid, a Connor , but he was still a worthwhile detective. Why was he doubting himself this much?
An aggravated groan tore him out of his scrutiny regarding his theory. “The hell is your problem?” Gavin asked, not turning his head away from the monitors.
“Seer here is one of a kind,” Lackey One complained. “Fella has ‘hazy spots,’ where he can’t remember a thing. What luck that Cyberlife chose one of the defective models of GJ500 to hire for this warehouse. Guess you’ll be picking up the slack.”
“Oh joy. Thanks for the in-depth evaluation of my responsibilities,” he replied, a wry twist to his mouth. He didn’t need to be here anymore. He got all the information he needed and came to the conclusions he wanted.
“Just tryin’ to help your sorry ass.”
It wasn’t like he was gonna see this dick again. “Yeah, well, shove your help up your own.”
The door closed behind him and Gavin let his shoulders slump. He’d be thankful to never come to this damn warehouse again. He just had to go hunt down Fisher first. The other two Cyberlife employees weren’t anywhere in sight and Patches was talking to Mallory by the break room. It gave him the opportunity to check out the trucks before leaving. Maybe the RK900 would be back at the station. Having two super androids on one red ice case was overkill, but Fowler didn’t say shit because they were both prototypes and he liked Hank too much. Or Cyberlife threatened him, or something. Gavin didn’t know and didn’t care.
Admittedly, the androids were good for the old hack. He didn’t have to like it, though. They weren’t the ones watching a graying old man lose himself day after day. Honestly, Gavin should just blame his alcoholism on Hank’s whole deal. It would be dishonest, but not by much. He idly smacked the side of a truck he was passing, glaring at the blue symbol attached to the many boxes strewn about. Hank was living his best life with his son-surrogate, and Gavin was still an asshole. What else was new? What absolute horseshit. He didn’t want to dwell on this anymore. When he got back to the station, he’d destress by interrogating the RK900 about his role in the red-ice case. Better than thinking about Hank—
Only a few seconds passed. He could’ve counted them. One second, he was distracting himself, and the second, he was hitting the ground with a grunt. Iron-hot pain laced up his side, and it was only instinct that forced him to roll. Every twitch of his body ached and screamed as he smothered the fire. The acrid smell of smoke filled his nose, an incessant ringing joining it. Everything hurt .
The ringing receded, replaced by frantic yelling. That was never good. He wrenched his scattered mind back into gear and struggled to get to his feet. His elbows gave out the minute he tried, forcing him back to the ground. Fuck, he was better than this. He wasn’t even shot! It was just some burns. Just some burns. Just burns, Gavin repeated over, and over, and over, until the mantra drowned out the agony. He stumbled to his feet, reaching out to the truck—to where the truck was—to catch his balance.
His hand met nothing. The truck had blown up and he was caught in the crossfire. The truck had blown up. The. What? Why the hell did the truck blow up? Through the haze of smoke and pain, Gavin tried looking around. A little further away, just underneath some of the truck rubble—because the truck blew up—was what looked like a remote. He scooped it up, gritting his teeth through the fire, and was rewarded for his efforts. It was the detonator. A mangled one, but a detonator nonetheless.
“Detective!” a piercing voice called from outside the cloud of smoke. A good reminder that he would probably collapse if he didn’t get the hell out of dodge. And, well, he didn’t particularly feel like heading to the hospital. “Detective, answer me!”
“I’m fine!” he called back. It came out as more of a wheeze, but it got his point across. A few seconds later a set of hands yanked him away from the wreckage. A flare of pain shot up his injured side, but he made no sound. Patches’ worried face stared at him, cataloging his injuries. She didn’t immediately break out into hysterics, so it was likely there was nothing long-lasting. That was good. The pain was from him not expecting it, not from third-degree burns or anything of that sort. Which basically cleared him for takeoff, right?
Ah, who the hell cared? It wasn’t like he was going to listen to anyone who told him to take it easy. Gavin patted Patches on the back before hobbling out of the warehouse and scrounging his phone out from his backseat. He got a weird look from a passerby, which he returned with a tried and true middle finger without looking up. The dude kept staring at him even when Gavin made eye contact, eyes flicking between the detonator clutched in his hand and his phone in the other. Gavin didn’t have the energy to care about other people’s opinions right now, though, so he slid into his front seat with a mission.
He was tempted, so, so tempted, to send the RK900 a mocking text. It always worked to get his mind off things. But no, because he was a responsible police detective, he called up Fowler and reported a code ‘Truck exploded and there were probably more bombs in there somewhere.’ Fowler reminded him that if he wasn’t injured at all, it’d be advisable for him to come back to the station. But then he’d get yelled at like a child for ‘hiding injuries’ and ‘keeping a detonator’ even though it was out of commission, on account of being blown up. Then he’d be entirely retired from this case because the bomb squad would be too busy defusing the place to properly investigate.
Fuck that. He could find a way to blame the RK900 for his going missing later.