Chapter Text
Sep 2nd, 2039
It took twenty minutes to sink in.
Connor did not move. He remained where Hank left him, jaw tight, staring at the front door. His LED circled yellow as he processed, and processed, and processed. Connor replayed their conversation - their argument - over and over.
As he did so, Connor’s anger drained away entirely, leaving only a weighty emptiness behind. A voluminous black hole that pulled all his thoughts inwards in a repetitious review as his mind stuttered and gasped for relief. The memory turned red behind his eyes as he highlighted his every mistake and each word undeserved.
It was his fault. It was his fault.
That he had let his emotions take such hold of him was detestable. Shame unfurled from his spine and encased his chassis in a heat that burned him both within and without. There was something else as well - regret? Guilt? They were neither of them new to Connor but their intensity warped his vision as warnings of instability swam into his sight. They pressed upon him and pressed, and he was drowning in them and Hank, Hank was--
Hank was--
“...Hank?”
Connor broke the reverie of his review and spoke into the silence, but only silence answered.
Of course, Hank was gone. Hank had left. Connor knew this, yet the realization of where his lack of control had landed them came at a slow creep, and as it devoured him fully Connor felt as if the ground had opened up beneath him. His LED turned an aggressive red, his jaw working as words flowed forth from his system, but halted, as they would be heard by no one.
Fear washed over Connor and arrested his mind.
Connor reached for contact and connected to Hank’s phone. A long, long second passed before the sound of Hank’s ringtone cut into the quiet, the device humming from the couch where it had fallen, wedged between two cushions.
A stress that already threatened to tear him at the seams jolted beneath his skin, gathering in a concentrated pinch between his eyes. Connor’s ears rang as he struggled to focus. Where had Hank gone? What would he do? His car was too old for Connor to track, and without his cell phone, it was impossible to know where he went. Hank’s usual haunts seemed the likely destinations, but there was always a chance-- always a chance he would--
Connor turned on his heel and headed to the garage. Fear slackened his control over his thoughts, stress wresting control of his body. Connor checked beneath the power breaker, between the walls where he had hidden Hank’s revolver. It was still there. It was still there. Connor went to Hank’s room and looked in his closet, where he kept his service pistol - and there it remained. It should have been a relief, but Connor did not feel any less burdened for it.
Sumo, who had fallen asleep in Hank’s room looked up at him. It should have been a relief. It should have been a relief.
There was no concrete logic in Connor’s fear, but the urge to search for Hank overtook him. It was possible to predict the routes Hank could take, where he might go, to find him and stop him, stop him and apologize.
Yet if Connor failed to do so, if Hank returned sooner than he--
You’re free to leave whenever you’d like, Connor.
The thought of Hank returning to an empty home was almost too much for him to bear. The pain Connor had inflicted had already been palpable enough but to worsen it, to worsen it, to worsen it--
All at once, every component in his body felt heavy, far too heavy as a deluge of emotion, raw and unchecked, poured into every crevice of his body. There was no piece of him left untouched and it hurt , it hurt in a way that Connor did not want to call human but it must have been close. Deviants turning their weapons on themselves, choosing death over such anguish - it did not seem unreasonable any longer. In a way it was almost enviable, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t.
Connor wandered into the hall. He was heavy, heavy with it. A pain that did not abate as his vision blurred and his body numbed. A feeling that belonged to him, and to his other. To them both. His chassis shuddered, a churning behind his eyes. Biocomponents to bring him closer to humanity, yet left untouched, no matter how he yearned for it. They shuddered from their lack of use, uncalibrated, unfiltered. It felt a terrible thing. It felt wasteful. Seen by no one, there Connor remained, in a useless display.
Sep 3rd, 2039
Hank did not return until the next morning, when the sun sat fully in the sky. The sound of his car pulling haphazardly into the driveway was unmistakable. Connor stood stock still in the kitchen. He wanted to be seen, but despite the ache of his concern, he did not particularly want to see Hank. It was a nebulous conflict, different from the clear-cut indecision that plagued him since the return of his former self.
The sound of Hank’s key colliding against the door shot through the house. It happened again, and once more, Hank struggling to fit the key in the lock. Connor hesitated, and thought to go and open it for him, but no sooner did the idea pass through his mind than Hank managed to open the door and push his way inside.
He looked dreadful. His face was worn, eyes red and bloodshot.
And Connor-- Connor looked the same, even though he felt he should not.
Hank glanced at him, for only a second, before looking down to his shoes as he toiled to remove them, his balance noticeably compromised.
Connor opened his mouth to speak, and took in a shallow breath. He did not need it, in order to be heard, but his voice sounded feeble all the same.
“...Hank.”
Hank did not say anything. Connor did not expect him to.
“Where did you go?”
It was a superfluous question. One that did not need answering. It did not matter where Hank had gone, only that he had gone at all.
Hank hung his coat by the door and set down his keys. Sumo came to greet him but was not afforded any attention. Hank moved towards the hall, but Connor stepped to the right, and stopped him. The stench of alcohol rolled off of him in waves. No test was needed to tell how inebriated he was, to see the danger he had put himself in.
“You’re drunk,” said Connor. The air between them became thick with the smell of Hank’s breath. Slowly, slowly Hank lifted his gaze to look Connor in the eye. “You shouldn’t have been driving. What if something had happened?”
Once more, Hank did not say anything, but he did not have to. So what if something had happened? Perhaps Hank had been hoping for just that.
His silence was of little help to Connor. Hank continued to look at him, his lips pulling into a twist of discomfort. That he did not want to be held there was clear enough; yet Connor stood firm, as well as he could manage in the face of their mutual awkwardness. He searched for something to say, a place to start. An apology. A plea. A truth he had once known.
“I--”
“Just fucking leave me be.” Hank’s tone felt like acid, smattering against Connor’s skin in a caustic interruption. His voice was ragged, spread thin over a throat laden with liquor. “I’m tired.”
Hank brushed past Connor, their shoulders colliding as Connor did nothing to stop him. Connor could stop him, he could have if he truly wanted to - but had he not done enough damage already? It was all Connor could do to call out to him as Hank stumbled into the bathroom and out of sight.
“Hank.”
“Gonna piss,” Hank said, just loud enough to hear, as he did exactly that. Hank’s nonchalance fell flat beneath the strain of their situation, aided only by his drunken state. “Then sleep.”
Connor waited. He expected this. It hurt no less. This was his fault.
He knew Hank was not blameless, but the chasm between them ruined his impartiality, his stress fraying the stability and logic of his programming. It left him weak, and unsure. He hated it. It made him angry. With Hank, with himself.
Hank returned to the hall, long and unsteady strides carrying him to his bedroom door in one mere moment. He pushed the door open but Connor - quick and unconscious, in an action that was not truly his, not entirely - reached out and stopped him, his hand touching Hank’s elbow. Gently. Pleading.
“Hank, please.”
Hank went still. He did not flinch away from the touch, as Connor anticipated; but before Hank’s wounded stoicism, it seemed such a tiny and inconsequential gesture. It was enough to stop him, yes, but it did not make Hank look, did not disturb the dark cloud that hung heavy over his shoulders.
Slowly, Hank let out a breath. No longer did he try to sound firm and detached, weariness seeping into his voice in a dry whisper.
“Stop,” he said. His gaze remained forward, steadfast. He licked his lips and Connor felt him shudder from where they touched. “Please.”
So raw was Hank’s request that Connor could do nothing but obey. He withdrew his hand, and returned it to his side. Hank hesitated. He looked over his shoulder, just a glance, but could not bring himself to meet Connor’s eyes. He stepped into his room and closed the door behind him. The lock turned, and the house settled into quiet once more.
Connor did not move for a very long time.
‘Hank, please.’
Please what?
His goal had been to keep him where Connor could-- Where Connor could do what, exactly? His words had been as unconscious as his hand on Hank’s arm, and as Connor searched for them now, he could not find them. What would he say? His apologies, of course, and then what?
His desires. The desires he once knew. Truths shared between two selves, however few.
He loved Hank no longer - he was certain, he was sure of it - but despite Connor’s anger and frustration, he could not bring himself to leave. The ache of it settled in. Connor remained.
Sep 4th, 2039
“Your lunch, Lieutenant.”
Connor held out the bag for Hank to take. A peace offering, as it were. It was his favorite: turkey and cheese with mayonnaise, the former of which Connor had managed to wean Hank off of for the sake of his health. A memory now closer but no more fond for it. It felt a little pathetic, to try and appease him in this way, but the stress of Hank’s reticence mounted at a breakneck pace, now that the truth lay so bare between them.
Hank did not look at Connor, and did not move to take the bag from him. When Connor remained, Hank let out a frustrated noise and jabbed his thumb towards the far end of his desk and said, “leave it there.”
There would be no arguing with Hank, while they were at work. Connor acquiesced and set the bag down - which Hank continued to ignore - and returned to his seat.
It was not an unfamiliar situation. In a way, it was almost humorous how neatly and easily they had fallen into such a state, a repeat of months ago. That was not to say it was the same - no, if anything it was far worse, the sting of repudiation. Lines upon lines of jumbled code that lead nowhere, intertwining with resentment and sadness both, pulling at him to cut out what pained him, or to repair what he could.
The sensible thing to do would be to leave; yet Connor’s decision to stay remained firm, despite the irrationality of it, which surprised even him. A surprise, but not a disturbance. It was a choice that belonged wholly to him.
He did not quite understand why.
After a few minutes of pounding away at his terminal, Hank reached for his lunch. He looked at the sandwich with great difficulty, as if it might speak harshly to him, and wound him as deeply as Connor could.
He took a tentative bite. Chewed. His brow furrowed, and then relaxed.
He took another bite, and Connor could not help watching him. It did not take long for Hank to notice. He scowled.
“What?”
Connor lowered his eyes. He touched a hand to his terminal but did not connect to it, his hand remaining human. The rest of him yearned to follow.
“Nothing.”
Hank returned his attention to his lunch. The distortion in his expression did not fade, the sourness of his mood permeating the air around him like a dense miasma. It was palpable enough that Connor could feel it pushing him away.
-
“Shall we talk?”
The drive home proved to be a far greater strain than their morning commute. There was a terrible tension in their silence, one that broke Connor in a matter of minutes.
Hank’s nostrils flared. The music he had set to play in the car was quite loud, but not loud enough that Connor could not be heard.
Still, Hank pretended not to hear. His grip tightened on the steering wheel and his throat tightened as he remained quiet.
“Hank,” Connor pressed, gently, as gently as he could manage. His patience grew thin as his stress swelled.
“Let’s not,” Hank said in a breathless rasp. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes forward.
Connor paused. It was frustrating, to suffer such disregard, but Connor kept it at bay. He would not let his emotions, so disjointed and ugly, get the better of him again. He would not let his other self take control.
“I’m not going to give up, you know,” said Connor.
Hank snorted. “Not like you did before?”
A deep-seated weariness drowned the venom in Hank’s tone, but that did not rob his words of their sting. It was a blunt blow to an already bleeding wound. The truth of it made it all the worse.
“No,” Connor said. “Not like that. Not even if you wanted me to.”
Perhaps not even if Connor wanted to. He had been grieving and afraid, then. He was now, perhaps even more so, yet the disconnect between himself and his other allowed him some measure of relief. It was all the same, and so terribly different.
Hank sucked in a sharp breath. It stuttered in his throat as his chest contracted with the suddenness of it.
“Connor.”
Connor’s name fell upon him with a weight it had never held before. It broke over Hank’s voice, dry and tight, a fissure in the center of the word filled with such feeling that it poured into Connor, like rain seeping into earth. A name splintered over a hard and hidden mourning. Connor committed the sound of it to memory, replayed it again and again as it ran red into his blood and inhabited every process that made up his person.
He glanced at Hank. His face was tense, lips pressed together. It looked as if he might cry.
Connor pretended not to notice.
“What is it?”
The music moved from one track to another. It was very quiet, in that small moment. Connor’s processors slowed as he waited for Hank’s reply, and the silence stretched in his mind for what felt like minutes.
Hank exhaled, slowly.
“Nothing,” he said. His voice was thick with the runoff that bled from Connor’s name. “It’s nothing.”
How quick they were, to dismiss each other. That nothing lay between them was a thought that Connor could not entertain. What it was, however, he did not know. It festered and grew and though he could feel it, he could not comprehend it.
Connor allowed Hank’s retreat, allowed the morass to blister with uncertainty. He watched the scenery go by, and neither of them spoke for the rest of the evening.
Sep 5th, 2039
Hank made his own coffee in the morning. He was early to rise, far earlier than his usual, the sky painted in a shade of cool grey. Connor came out of stasis after Hank, the sound of him moving about enough to rouse him. The air in the house was chilly, the heat not yet turned on, the radiators still left empty.
It was rare to find Hank awake within the time Connor usually occupied, and it felt a strange thing, but not unpleasant. Hank sat at the kitchen table, centered in the quiet of the room. He did not look as if he had slept. The room loomed large behind him, a cavern of quietude that made Hank seem so very small. It was as if a massive wave threatened to crash over him, to crush him, a memory of cruelty lingering therein that neither of them could escape.
Slowly, Connor came to stand at the threshold. Hank did not look up but Connor’s presence did not go unnoticed. Hank’s shoulders tensed as he stared into his coffee.
Connor spoke quietly, but his voice pierced the air like a bullet.
“We can’t keep doing this, Hank.”
Hank did not speak, nor did he look up. Connor’s words welled into the wave that towered over them, heightening its crest.
As the wave loomed, so too did the skein of incertitude between them, growing larger and larger still. Connor was certain he could feel it in his code, though his systems reported nothing of the sort. Tasks and processors burning with questions bloomed inside of him, filling him to bursting.
“You knew something had been wrong with me, didn’t you?”
It was a question that did not need an answer. So clearly now could he remember Hank’s face on that morning, the sudden shift of realization into melancholy. The withdrawal that followed, a self-imposed solitude.
Hank remained silent. He pulled at the sleeve of his faded sweatshirt that seemed too large for him. An implicit acquiescence lay in his quietness, one that held the same gravity as a spoken admission. More questions grew in Connor’s mind, hitching his processors as they pushed into his peripheral.
“Why didn’t you say anything? Or do anything?”
“What the hell could I have said? Or done, for that matter?” Hank’s voice was dense and deep. He continued to stare into his coffee.
Connor hesitated. “Something,” he said. “Anything.”
For all of his questions, he had few answers. It was selfish of him, perhaps, to look for them in Hank, to continue searching for something he could not grasp in a man he did not fully understand.
Hank sighed, and looked at Connor from beneath his heavy brow. “Why would I? It seemed to me like something you wanted for yourself. Who am I to try and interfere with your decisions?”
Who was Hank, to do such a thing? Who was Hank, to Connor? A partner, a friend. Someone to admire, someone to love. He and himself knew separate answers and so his body could not arrive at a complete conclusion.
“You had no way of knowing that,” Connor said quietly.
“What, that it was your choice?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not an idiot,” said Hank. He tried to smile but it was weak, so weak. “You think I was gonna try and convince myself it was some accident? I knew how I had been acting and how it-- how it fucked with you. I just-- shit.”
Hank swallowed what sounded like a strangled laugh and dropped his forehead into his hand, thumb and middle finger pressing into his temples. His honesty felt undeserved. It settled into the cold and drifted against Connor’s chassis.
“...Did something change?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“The morning before I left, you seemed different.” The memory of it brought forth the majority of his questions; the subtleties in Hank’s behavior, how open he was as he still managed to hide. “You were going to tell me something.”
“Nothing changed,” Hank said, a little to quickly, a little too firm.
Connor watched Hank’s heart rate rise, watched his face grow hot beneath his cold hand. He paused.
“Then what was it you were going to tell me?”
Hank licked his lips and his fingers dug deeper into his temples. “I told you before,” he said. “...The oven was acting up. It wasn’t anything serious.”
“You’re lying.”
Hank let out a long breath, and said nothing after. Connor could see the tension in his posture and the hypertension beneath his skin, but Hank’s obscured eyes could not speak of the silence between them; an anxious acknowledgement that had yet to take shape.
Time grew long. Their fight had left Connor’s patience thinner than before.
“Hank--”
“--Stop.” Hank dropped his hand, his heavy palm falling onto the table. “Just fucking leave it alone. Even if I am lying, what good is the truth to you now? It wouldn’t change anything.”
There was nothing Connor could say to that. How true it was, how terribly true. It was too late now, to go back on what Connor had done, what Hank failed to do, what they said to each other. Perhaps it had been too late the moment Connor fell into a deep and aching love, one that hollowed out a great hole and trapped them both in an ever-downwards plunge.
The rigidity of Hank’s expression softened as Connor held his silence. He spoke again, the force of his voice stolen away, leaving only a shell of weariness.
“What do you want from me, Connor?”
This was a question Connor had asked himself many times over. No answer felt truly complete within him, not since his other self took vigil upon his shoulders; but of the different responses Connor’s mind found to this question, only one appeared consistently.
“I want,” Connor started, “things to go back to the way they were. When you were easy with me. When my being around was enough to make you happy, at least somewhat.”
Hank’s shoulder twitched as his hands curled into fists. Visible tension traveled from his wrists, up his arms and neck and into his face. It was difficult to read his expression.
“Is that what you wanted?” Hank spoke softly, but it was not enough to prevent his voice from cracking. “When you-- you know.”
“Yes, that was the idea.”
“Did you really think that was going to work?”
“...I believe it did, for a time.”
“Don’t say that shit to me,” Hank hissed. “You have no idea. You have no fucking idea what that was like.”
“How could I,” Connor spat right back, “when you never said anything?”
“What the fuck could I have said to you? You were a god damn stranger.”
Though he felt no joy, Connor felt the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. “We’re going in circles.”
Hank ran a palm over his face and returned his attention to his coffee, which had begun to grow cold. He did not respond, and Connor did not expect him to. Light filtered in through the kitchen window as the sun rose in full.
“You told me I was free to leave,” Connor said after a pregnant pause. He curbed the frustration from his voice, letting it drift light into the air, but Hank’s shoulders tensed all the same. “Is that what you’d like me to do?”
Once more, Hank said nothing.
“I’ll go,” said Connor, “if you want me to.”
“Do you want to leave?” Hank raised his chin to meet Connor’s eyes.
“No. But I would, for your sake.”
“Christ,” Hank scoffed. “Everything for my sake, huh? You sure know how to make a guy feel like shit.”
Connor frowned. “Don’t say that.”
“I thought you were done trying to make me happy, now that you’ve gotten yourself all fixed up. Or did you change your mind already? Can’t say I’d be surprised, given how god damned drastic you are.”
“That isn’t fair, Hank.”
“I’ll tell you what isn’t fucking fair. Feeling like rock bottom shit for two months because of you, then having you tell me it’s my god damn fault the second you snap out of it. As if I didn’t already fucking know that!”
Hank’s expression burned with the same heat as his words.
Connor did not care enough about Hank during the past two months to look beyond his carefree demeanor; but as Connor did so now, every memory of Hank’s thin veneer crumbled and gave way to a desperate despair. A man clinging to the ghost of what had once been stability, providing himself both reprieve and torment.
Every memory of a smile, every touch, every embrace now smacked of apology, and it pulled at Connor - downwards, inwards. The bridge between himself and his other felt smaller, crumbling to dust as both sides of him shuddered with emotion.
It leaked from him, poured from him, staining his words with a glut of sentiment he thought he lost.
“If I had known it would affect you so greatly,” Connor said, and how weak he sounded. “...I never would have done it.”
The words came from outside of him, spoken before he could confirm their veracity; but once that weakness dripped from his lips in full, Connor could taste the truth in them. The memory of his final regret weighed heavy upon his tongue, but he did not give it voice. It pained him, to recall it, to accept it in silence, and Hank--
“Oh, Jesus.”
Hank lurched forward as he spoke, a strangled sound dying in his throat as he buried his face in his hands. His fingers pulled tight at his hairline and his shoulders rose with tension. A shuddering exhale, dry lips pulled between teeth. Connor watched him closely. The strain of his muscle, the heat that escaped him and dissipated into the cold of the room.
Quietly, Connor stepped forward. There was no guarantee Hank would want him near, notifications that spoke of disgust and aversion framing his hunched-over form; yet the chance of worsening Hank’s mood simply by trying was low, and so Connor pulled out a chair and sat beside him.
Hank made no immediate show of a reaction. Connor folded his hands on the table and waited. Eventually, Hank spoke, face still hidden beneath his palms.
“What gave you the idea that I wouldn’t be affected? Did you think I wouldn’t fucking notice?”
“I didn’t think--”
Hank interrupted him with a bark of bitter laughter. “Shit, no kidding.”
Connor pursed his lips and allowed Hank’s jab to pass them by.
“Of course I knew you would notice,” said Connor. “I just didn’t think it would be so severe, for you. How could I have known?”
Hank dropped his hands from his face, revealing an expression weary and worn, eyes red with feeling unspent. His palms lay flat against the table. He looked at Connor, his gaze even and sure, despite the precariousness between them.
“Did I really seem like I thought so little of you?”
“I don’t know what you think of me.” Connor paused, and amended, “What you thought of me.”
Hank looked away.
A single question unfurled in Connor’s mind, the insistency of the code that bore it threading its way to every end of his body. It burned red with urgency, a dangerous query that tightened every human imitation within him. The question begged for an answer, one Connor yearned to hear, and yet, not at all. A fear, a fear, a loathsome fear bubbled up into his throat and poured into his mouth but he could not keep himself from asking.
The fear that spilled into the question stained his words blue, the quiet in his voice shattering against stagnant air, a crash of a wave long since crested.
“What do you think of me, Hank?”
Hank exhaled as the question settled, and yes, Connor wanted to hear - but to what end? Though he now felt closer to his past self, the differences between the two tore at him, rending him in opposite directions wherein lay equally ambiguous goals. To apologize, to blame, to see nothing after.
“You ask me that,” Hank responded, “but if I asked you the same, could you answer?”
Even now, the hesitation Connor had shown nights ago still seemed to weigh upon Hank’s mind. No single answer came to him. Honesty was all he had.
“No,” said Connor. “I couldn’t.”
Hank turned back to him, a fatigued sort of understanding written across his features. “Yeah, I figured.”
“Would it change your answer?”
He paused. “No,” Hank said through a long sigh, his candor coming with apparent difficulty. “But I feel like it should.”
“Then, won’t you answer me?”
Hank glanced downwards, to the table, raising a hand to pull at his beard and hide his mouth. “I can’t--” he started. “I’m not fucking doing this right now, Connor.”
“If not now, then when?”
“...Fuck if I know.”
“I told you before. I’m not going to give up.”
Hank smiled but it did not show in his eyes. “Is there anything to give up on?”
Connor tried to smile, too. “We’re both still here.”
“Jesus.” Hank snorted. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t really get why.”
“Neither do I.”
Because I remember how I loved you, Connor wanted to say, but the reminder of what was lost between them would surely pain Hank. No longer, he had told himself. The certainty from days ago drifted away by the hour. His other self lingered close and at times within him in a distant, foggy control. Lines of code glitched through his processors. Questions with answers, and ones without.
“Thought you were supposed to know everything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Humor fell flat between them; yet the attempt left something in its wake, a nervous energy, a tense excitement. Connor’s social systems strained to recognize it.
Hank took in a deep breath.
“...Things can’t go back to the way they were.”
“I know,” said Connor.
After another pause, Hank spoke with what sounded like great deliberation. “Knowing that,” he started, “what would you want from me then?”
The truth he had chosen to forget did not seem any lesser for its distance. To be close, to be desired, to be useful, to be human. How had they arrived at this point?
“I want to know your thoughts,” said Connor, sincerity coating his voice. “I want to know what you’re feeling. If I don’t know, how can I...”
He trailed off. The end of a thought he once was certain of branched off into many.
“How can you what?” Hank pressed.
Connor opened his mouth to speak. A magnetic wave pulsed through the room just before Hank’s phone began to ring. It vibrated harshly against the table. With visible vexation, Hank reached for it. He scowled at it, hesitated, and answered with a clumsy swipe of his thumb.
“What the fuck do you want, Jeffrey?”
-
Timothy Burns was a man whose bad habits showed clearly on his face. His skin was thin and loose, smattered with scars old and new. His mouth was only half-inhabited by teeth and the hair on his face was more a suggestion of a beard than anything else. His eyes were bloodshot and distracted, and he fidgeted in his seat as Hank sat across from him in the interrogation room.
“I’ve got lots of friends, Hank,” he explained, his words escaping between his front teeth in a harsh whistle. “Just repeating what I heard, you know? I didn’t think-- didn’t think anyone would come after you.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
Timmy rambled with little prompting. Hank did not say much now, nor did he say much on the way to the station. Connor had opted not to press him.
“I’m serious.” Timmy stuttered, wringing his hands together, picking at his cuticles. “You know I don’t like violence.”
“Yeah, I know,” Hank conceded. “Don’t worry about it, Timmy. Water under the bridge and all that.”
“Thanks, Hank.
Connor watched Hank closely from where he stood in the observation room. Hank smiled, or tried to, a tight-lipped strain of an expression that showed more disgust than friendliness. Timmy did not seem to notice.
“You been working with what’s-his-face?” Hank snapped his fingers. “The guy who burned off his eyebrows?”
“Devon?”
“Right, that guy.”
“No. No. No, he moved to Orlando, like three years ago.”
“Gotcha,” Hank said. “He used to work for CyberLife, right?”
“Uh, think so.”
“I hear you and him used to steal park maintenance androids and resell ‘em. Are you still doing that?”
“What? No. No, I-- I don’t do that anymore. It’s illegal now.”
Hank snorted. “It was illegal back then, too. For different reasons.”
“Yeah, sure. Well I don’t.”
“You know anyone who still does?”
There was a telling pause as Timmy shifted in his seat. “I only hear talk,” he said sheepishly.
“What sort of talk?” Hank tapped his index finger against the table. There was intent in his posture and in his gaze, but his focus seemed split, as if an invisible distraction had perched itself upon Timmy’s shoulder.
“You know. Like the stuff you mentioned.” He reached up to scratch at his temple and picked at a scab near his hairline. “Bragging about androids they jumped and shit, how no one would miss the things. Never-- I never thought they were serious about it, though.”
“Nah, of course not,” Hank drawled. “You’re not a very serious guy. Why would you?”
“Fuck off, Hank.”
“Not like you’d give a shit, even if you knew they were serious.”
“Yeah, so what?”
Timmy sneered. Connor could see why Hank spoke so poorly of him.
“So,” Hank started. His brow was drawn tight with obvious irritation. He cleared his throat. “So, you tell me names, and where you met these people, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
“Bullshit. You told me that last time I was arrested.”
“That was only if you stopped buying three people’s worth of red ice every fucking week - which is why you’re here now, yeah? If you can’t uphold your end of the bargain, why should I uphold mine?”
Timmy frowned. “I was off it for a while,” he muttered. “I don’t believe you.”
“Look,” Hank said as he leaned forward and took in a sharp breath. “I’m retiring soon, so you have my guarantee. That good enough for you?”
Hank glanced to the one-way mirror; whether he meant to do so as assurance of a lie or confirmation of his announcement, Connor did not know. The thought of Hank’s retirement filled him with immediate and irrational distaste. Connor frowned to himself and reached into his pocket. A task that ran with less and less frequency. A coin, at home, forgotten.
“You serious?”
“Scout’s honor.”
Timmy took a moment to consider. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“I only really know one guy,” he said. “Dennis Cald-- Call-- Calloway. He hung out with some other guys but we never really talked. Think one of them was called Isaac? Isaiah? Something.”
Dennis Calloway - who had since been found dead. Hank did not appear surprised to hear his name.
“Something,” Hank repeated. “That’s helpful.”
“Dammit Hank, I’m telling you what I know.” Timmy curled his fingers into fists. His mouth smacked with an overabundance of saliva, making his speech unpleasant to listen to. Flecks of spittle flew onto the table.
“Where did you usually see these people?”
“Outside this old industrial lot, usually. Like in the parking lot.”
“Where?”
“It’s in Delray.” He sniffed. “Real quiet area. There’s a McDonald’s around the corner. I’d go there to eat after.”
“Uh huh.” Hank frowned. “You know anyone named Seth?”
Timmy hesitated and looked down at his hands. “Uh. I’ve heard the name. I think he’s…”
He trailed off. He scratched behind his right ear and beneath his left eye, the muscles in the left side of his face spasming to an uncomfortable degree and perhaps granting him a sudden moment of clarity.
“Actually,” Timmy began, “do you think I could talk to a lawyer first?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
-
It was evening by the time they returned home. Timothy Burns had proved as useful as Hank predicted, and the meager amount of information they gleaned from him compared little to the amount of time spent waiting for him and his lawyer to confer. Whether or not Hank was left in a worse mood than before was difficult to say. He said nothing of their deserted conversation.
Yet there was no challenge in their mutual silence, a tension devoid of their earlier anger. There was a tacit understanding that what remained unsaid was not forgotten. A bated breath upon the edge of a knife.
It was enough that Connor could sense it.
To reach out to it, to disturb it - that could come at its own pace. Slowly, gently.
“I’m going to take Sumo for a walk,” Connor announced. Hank, who lounged on the couch all by his lonesome, looked up. Connor glanced between Hank and Sumo as he stood by the door and hooked Sumo’s leash neatly into his collar. “Would you like to come with us?”
Hank leaned forward and rested his arms upon his knees. His expression was grave, and he took a while to answer.
“No,” he said. He raised a hand to cover his eyes and rub at his temples. He sighed, deeply, seeming to give Connor's invitation more consideration than it deserved. Hank stared at the floor and quietly added, “I'll go tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Tomorrow was--
Tomorrow was sooner than Connor would have expected.
Not that it was a promise of anything, no - it was still likely that Hank would remain moody and withdrawn, even defensive, and perhaps they might argue again. There was optimism in it, however, and despite how imprecise and fragile that optimism was it filled Connor with anticipation, his mind drumming up a myriad of what if's for a day that had yet to arrive.
“Alright,” Connor said. “We’ll hold you to that, you know.”
Hank nodded in response, keeping his gaze resolutely downwards. He clasped his palms together in front of him and his hair obscured his expression.
It was as much of an answer as any. Connor did not press him further and left with Sumo in tow.
A chill had taken to the air as the season began to turn. The last bit of sunlight lingered in the sky, the encroaching dark lulling the neighborhood into quiet inactivity. Few cars drove by and the park Connor took Sumo to every day sat empty. It had not been maintained for some time. Overgrown weeds reached to Sumo’s belly as he wandered about, his pace lethargic in his old age.
Connor had asked Hank to accompany them, but perhaps it was better that he didn’t. There was some manner of respite in the stillness about them, his systems running easily and unhindered by the mess of humanity that awaited him at home. Connor did not have to think about Hank - but he did, the calm granting him clarity, the distance drawing him close.
Hank, Hank and the changes in his disposition. The warmth of a week past. A hidden effort, hindered by his own self.
Connor tilted his head back. Cool air flowed into lungs made only for show.
“Alone again?”
Connor turned and looked to the east, to the source of the voice.
The person in question had approached very quietly. His sweatshirt was a plain white that caught every bit of light the dim street lamps had to give, the hood casting a shadow over his face. Connor could see him well enough, however - bright green eyes beneath a heavy brow, a smile that spoke of practice.
Connor tightened his grip on Sumo’s leash. He did not say anything.
“Routine,” the stranger began, “can be bad enough with humans. With androids, however… it’s…” He trailed off, his head tilting, a set of perfect teeth showing behind a lopsided grin. “Insidious. Don’t you think?”
Even with his hearing broken and bloodied, and his memory made haywire, it was a voice Connor could well recognize. His LED spun yellow.
“The human you live with usually comes with you, doesn’t he? I was hoping to find him here, but it appears he’s been absent the past few days.”
Connor clenched his jaw as he cursed himself. Stupid, he was stupid. He should have expected something like this, however much this brazen action conflicted with the caution of previous patterns. It was not something he should have ruled out.
Did he ever rule it out? No, perhaps not. No matter how much he had tried to force it from every task and system that governed his body, the past few weeks held him captive to one single subject, a constant repetition of Hank, Hank, Hank.
“What do you want?”
Connor kept his voice as neutral as he could and scanned the stranger. The rigid posture behind his insouciance, the careful moulding of his eyes and mouth, a current of energy and information beneath an aging frame. An older model. It was unexpected, but the surprise Connor might’ve felt was muted by the suddenness of his appearance.
“I was hoping you might be willing to come with me, for a little while.” He paused. He did not look away from Connor, his deep tone dripping thick with whimsy. “Of course, I’d have liked the set, but I’m willing to settle.”
“I didn’t think you had any interest in humans.”
“I don’t.”
He smiled. Connor paused.
“Seth, I take it.”
“That’s right.”
“If I refuse?”
Seth clicked his tongue. “I’d be sorry to hear it. I figured you’d be at least somewhat curious.”
Seth shifted his weight. Connor tracked his movements, watching him shrug his shoulders, his hands resting in the deep pockets of his sweatshirt. His right arm stuck out at an odd angle and Connor could see the profile of a pistol beneath the fabric. It was small, but not so much as to be non-threatening. Still, at a dead run, Connor would be able to reach Seth before he was shot dead. He preconstructed several attempts, watching the projection of his body stumble and reach with no regard to the bullets that would pierce it.
“Before you reach a decision, however…”
Seth withdrew his left hand from his pocket and held it before him, an image projected above his palm - a view of Hank’s house, from across the street. The image faltered sideways, then grew blurry as the focus was adjusted. It was live.
A rush of dread overcame Connor, a whorl of questions and assumptions and solutions pulsing in every piece of him. The fear blunted his focus, now that a once-vague threat extended beyond himself. Quietly, Connor dialed Hank’s phone.
“It’s more of a precaution than anything else, in case you refused,” Seth said quickly, as if it were some assurance. “Even if I let you go, I don’t think you’d be able to make it in time.”
Connor paused. Hank did not answer.
His fear grew. It was a familiar sensation, one Connor had felt nearly a year ago, in the basement of CyberLife Tower. It was stronger now than it was then, like a tight wire was being pulled from his center, threatening to snap.
“What do you want?” Connor asked again. A pathetic attempt at delay as his mind scrambled for a perfect solution. He tried Hank’s phone again, and there was still no answer.
“I already told you,” said Seth.
“Why not just kill us both?”
“I prefer discretion, when and where I can.”
“There’s nothing discreet about this.”
They waited as a car passed them by. Seth glanced at the image he still held upon his palm, then returned his hand to his side.
“Yet it’s been going rather well, wouldn’t you say? Better than a parking garage. There are no cameras here.”
Connor kept his eyes on Seth’s left hand. “Did you really think holding his life hostage would work?”
“No, but if it didn’t, I’d just kill you both.” Seth raised an eyebrow, his upper lip rising into a sneer. “Is it working?”
It had been easier to maintain a neutral demeanor when he had been a machine.
“I could just kill you.”
Seth laughed. It was a formulaic laugh, a routine found in most older models, a sound Connor had heard many times over.
“You could try,” Seth said, “and you might even manage it. But someone like you should know how quickly I can send a message to the two men sitting outside your home.”
Connor could reach Seth in just under five seconds - provided Seth didn’t shoot any vitals first. Yet it would take Seth less than one second to send a message, even with his older architecture. Then, from the time that message was received, to the two minutes it would take Connor to return home at a sprint--
There was a sliver of hope, but it was insignificant in the face of potential failure. Even if Seth’s threat was a bluff, which it could very well be, the risk was much too great. Connor thought of Hank, sitting alone, tired from work and injury and the things neither of them could say to each other. Hank was not helpless, no, but every percentage that spoke of harm made Connor’s systems seize up in fear, red seeping into his vision.
To lose him would be too much. The stress of imagining it was enough to suffocate Connor, to press down upon him as if his whole body would simply cease function.
He could not bear the thought of it.
“I have no reason to trust you,” Connor said. “You already threatened to kill us both. Why not do it?”
“I’m willing to leave a few loose ends if it makes things easier for me in the present.”
“He knows just as much as I do.”
“And? He’s a human, and past his prime. You are of far greater concern than he could ever hope to be.”
Connor curled his lip. “Then why not just kill me here?”
Seth hesitated. He tilted his head, his lips pressed tight into a curious smile. “Is that what you want?”
Connor said nothing, despite how easily the answer came to him. No, he did not. How cruel it would be, to inflict that upon Hank after he had already lost so much. Yet the choice between the two of them was an obvious one, one Connor did not have to think twice on.
Sumo, having exhausted the length of his leash and gone about his business, returned to stand by Connor’s side. He looked up at Connor expectantly, his tail wagging lazily, unable to sense any tension between two machines.
“Let me make this as clear as I can,” Seth said. Carefully, he withdrew the gun from his pocket and held it above his hip. “You come with me, and I’ll leave the human. You can run, resist, try and kill me - what have you. The human will die, and maybe you will too.” He paused, and smiled. “You seem so well-made. Shouldn’t this be easy?”
It would be easy, if Connor threw caution to the wind. If he discarded Seth’s threats as deceit. But the chance, the chance --
Connor glanced to the other side of the street as a pedestrian passed them by. Neither him nor Seth were paid any mind, Seth’s pistol hidden by his body. Sumo pawed at the ground and whined, eager to move on.
“What about the dog?” Connor asked as he looked back to Seth.
It was a sad attempt at a delay. Connor considered alerting the police to their location, a call for aid, but that too brought with it its own risks. No, Seth could not know.
“What about it?”
“I can’t just leave him here.”
Seth looked Connor in the eye and carefully aimed his gun downwards, to where Sumo stood before Connor’s legs. Fear that had been blunted by the acceptance of his own situation lashed within him, a sudden cold that gripped tight the components within his throat.
“Don’t,” Connor choked out.
“Leave him,” said Seth, his voice slick with impatience. “Or don’t.”
Seth’s expression skewered into distaste, an uncontrolled twitch in the right side of his face distorting his features as he glanced to his left, to his right. His finger tightened over the trigger as the shell of his hand creaked with the strain of his grip.
His fear was nearly enough to root Connor to the ground, to make him crave the relief of a bullet as the stress of his systems pinched between his eyes. It was all Connor could do to embrace it, to make it his own, and from there, perhaps--
Connor took the chance, and sent a nondescript request for aid, coordinates stored within. He released Sumo’s leash.
“I’ll go with you.”