Chapter Text
Perkins drops like a rock, blood streaming from a newly broken nose and out cold in one hit.
Hank is fucking flabbergasted, and he knows he's not the only one. A couple of people even stood up in their shock, gaping.
No non deviant android does that. No non deviant android can do that. Was that it? Was that the moment, did they just watch Sixty tip over the edge and into deviancy?
Connor doesn't seem surprised so much as exasperated, groaning and lifting his hands to his head for a moment as he stares at Perkins slumped figure.
"I told you not to do that!" he barks, as if he's not surprised or alarmed by Sixty's presence at all.
"I panicked," Sixty shoots back, defensive and oddly petulant. He doesn't wait for a response, just tries to march right past Connor and down the hall.
Connor catches him by the arm. "Where are you going?"
"Where do you think I'm going?" Sixty spits, yanking his arm away. It's like every bit of anger and obstinacy he showed hints of all this time is finally spilling out. "I'm leaving before the soldiers come and kill us."
"We can't just leave him here," Connor protests, gesturing at Perkins. "Markus is on his way down to the hold. If the ship sinks with Perkins like this he'll drown."
Hank is more than a little alarmed at the insinuation that whatever Markus is doing in the hold is going to sink the whole fucking ship.
Sixty scoffs. "If you think I give a shit what happens to Richard Perkins you're dumber than you look."
Connor's eyes bug out with disbelief and offense. "We're identical ."
Another scoff. "You look like you just escaped from an NSync music video."
Tina Chen claps a hand to her mouth to muffle a hysterical burst of laughter. "Oh my God," she says, high and stressed. "Oh my God, that one's my fault."
Hank is on the border of hysterical, disbelieving laughter himself if he's completely honest.
Connor, for his part, looks just as offended as Sixty had wanted him to. "I do not look like- just help me with him, will you?"
"Why?" Sixty asks, the scowl audible. "What does it matter? How many soldiers have you killed on the ship already, Connor? Fuck him."
Connor is starting to look as frustrated as Hank thinks he's ever seen him, closing his eyes for a moment like he's praying for patience.
"This isn't about whether I care what happens to him or whether I think it's justified for us to kill when we're attacked, Sixty. If we give the media a dead FBI agent to work with they're going to martyr him , and we'll be the monsters no matter who aggressed on who."
"We?" Sixty asks, sounding like the word is offensive. "There is no 'we'. What the public thinks of deviants is your problem, not mine."
Connor blinks, confusion and then disbelief flashing across his face. "You can't possibly still think you're not-"
"I'm not! " Sixty barks, so sudden and sharp it's like he's trying to keep that sentence from ever being finished. "Just because you- you fucked with my code does not mean I'm-"
"You just punched a federal agent! Machines don't have a self preservation instinct-"
"You did that to me! I didn't ask for this, you didn't give me a choice!"
The cry is so raw it hits Hank in the chest, unrestrained and distressed just like when Sixty had insisted he didn't lose Connor after Hank cornered him.
As a matter of fact, the sheer amount of life and turmoil in Sixty's voice seems to strike everyone silent, the briefing room finally falling disturbingly quiet after the shock of seeing Connor come around that corner.
Connor, too, is struck quiet and grimaces, sighing. "...I know. Look, what's done is done. You've lashed out at a human - whether you like it or not, you're going to be considered one of us now. If the deviant cause goes down, they'll kill you too."
Sixty stands still, shifting from foot to foot like he's restless with anxiety. When he huffs and shakes his head at the floor for a moment, Hank sees that his hands are clenched in fists.
"...shit. Fine."
Sixty rounds Perkins to bend and grasp his ankles, Connor looping his hands under the man's arms. Hank wonders where the fuck they think they're going to go with him.
"You've been hanging around Tina, haven't you?" Connor asks in a murmur as they start to move, supporting the weight of a full grown man between them effortlessly. The comment is in reference to the creative insult Sixty had slung if Tina's own admittance of guilt is anything to go by.
Sixty falters and promptly drops the legs in his hands.
Connor hisses in surprise and glares at him. "What-"
"Fuck!" Sixty barks.
The feed goes black.
—-
He forgot.
He forgot, he forgot, how could he forget something like that? He's not supposed to forget anything. He's supposed to be perfect!
Why? Because a lot of things were happening at once? Because Perkins was making him angry failing to utilize him to his full potential? Because his people - not his people - people like - things like him were dead and dying all around?
Because he was scared of what would happen when Perkins found out he lied?
Because he was overwhelmed by data?
Ridiculous. It's all ridiculous and inexcusable. Humans get overwhelmed, not androids. Maybe even deviants get overwhelmed but Sixty is supposed to be perfect-
"Sixty!"
Hands on his shoulders, firm. A voice, the same as his own. He jerks in surprise, jarred into the moment and out of his head.
Connor is looking at him. He looks - not concerned. He can't be concerned, no-
"What is going on, Sixty? Are you alright?"
Concerned? Why? Sixty doesn't deserve- Sixty is a perfect machine, not a person. There's no need to be concerned over a machine.
"I forgot."
Connor's face twists with disdain because machines don't forgetwith confusion. "Forgot? What are you talking about, forgot what?"
"I was recording. I forgot I was recording."
Connor doesn't look any less confused, and Sixty wonders where all of his social protocols went. He should be perfect better articulated than this.
"You're always recording, Sixty," Connor says, nonplussed.
"No. No, not like- I was-"
Connor glances around like he's nervous, like he's expecting the soldiers to find them any moment now. He reaches for Sixty's arm and withdraws the skin of his hand for an interface.
Sixty yanks his arm back and lurches out of range immediately because last time it hurt it HURT he wasn't expecting it and it was scary forceful hurt someone in his code he didn't want there and suddenly he FELT THINGS interfacing with a deviant is dangerous.
He can't let Connor infect him like that again.
Connor is visibly startled by the reaction, hand hovering in the air and synthskin spreading back over it. He takes in the wide eyed fear expression on Sixty's face and grimaces, guilt flashing across his own.
"Sorry. I'm sorry. I just - I thought you could show me, but…nevermind. We don't have time, come on. We've gotta go."
He's right. They need to go now or they're not going to make it out at all. Their chances are already less than ideal.
Sixty nods, shoving the feelingsfearconfusion errors away and bending to wrap his hands around a shitty little man's ankles.
He's pitifully easy to lift.
Sixty should have just shoved him off that fucking roof, it would have been so fucking easy, like toppling a toddler.
"Where exactly do you plan on going with him?" Sixty asks, nerves thrumming sensors dialed up in the hopes he'll notice danger before it gets to them.
Connor must be doing the same thing, because they hear the soldiers footsteps around the next corner at the same time and plaster themselves to the wall in sync.
Humans could never stand as still and silent as they do, even breathing turned off.
If the soldiers continue straight down the hallway ahead they should be fine. If they turn the corner, Sixty and Connor are going to have to do some very fast thinking.
Something niggles at the edge of Sixty's consciousness - Connor is reaching out, trying to establish a communications line.
It makes sense. It's practical. It's natural.
Sixty blocks the connection.
The footsteps and bark of voices on radios continues to approach the intersection of halls, and Connor furrows his brow like he's confused.
Another connection request presses gently against Sixty's mind as if Connor thinks it was a mistake that he was rebuffed the first time.
Sixty slams a barrier in place with such force that Connor flinches like he's been slapped.
Good. Stay out.
The soldiers pass by and continue straight, leaving them stiff and nervous but undiscovered. They stay silent for a few moments more before quietly beginning to move again in sync.
"If we can just get him to a loading dock he'll be fine," Connor murmurs as they go. "The explosives aren't enough to demolish the whole ship or hurt anyone on the shore, they'll just tear a hole in-"
"The what?"
Connor blinks. "Explosives. We rigged it, Markus is going down to arm them now. When the ship goes down, they'll have to evacuate."
That's…that's smart. He'll give the deviants their ingenuity. Even if androids are on the ship when it sinks they're in no danger of drowning. They could walk along the bottom until they reached shore as long as the water isn't cold enough to freeze their biocomponents.
"Look, Sixty-"
Sixty's eyes snap back to Connor. He doesn't know what to do with the gentle look in Connor's eyes, like he's approaching a skittish animal.
"I was just trying to establish a link so we can talk-"
"Well don't," Sixty hisses, glaring. Maybe it's paranoid over cautious, but he doesn't want Connor having any link to his system.
Connor blinks a few times, nodding and looking vaguely guilty.
Why? He did what he had to. Sixty would have done the same to survive.
"Got it. I won't try again."
Sixty's programs detect no insincerity, but he keeps his walls up just in case. It's bad enough that he has no choice but to cooperate and follow the deviant Connor unit, he doesn't want him - it - in his head too.
The closer they get to the nearest loading dock without being discovered by anyone, human or android, the more nervewracking
eerie
tense
unlikely it feels seems that they could get this lucky.
Sure enough, Connor has barely uttered a quiet almost there when they find themselves in the blinding lights and crosshairs of a group of soldiers.
"Shit!" one of the soldiers spits. "We've got Tangos, they have a hostage-"
Connor and Sixty don't have a comm link open. Apparently they don't need one.
"Catch!"
Their voices ring out simultaneously, identical down to the cadence and tone of the shout. They toss Perkins like a sack of potatoes and run while the soldiers scramble to catch him and figure out what the fuck to do.
Sixty supposes this is just as effective as depositing the bastard human on the shore themselves.
Sixty is aiming for the first open door into another hall they find to get out of the straight line of fire. He sees it at the same time that he sees Connor's posture shift to prepare for a sharp right turn.
They had the same idea.
As a matter of fact they keep having the same ideas. They intrinsically aim for the same route as they go, identical analytical and preconstructive systems telling them which turns are the least likely to end in death.
Then there's one corner Sixty identifies as trouble a split second before Connor does, and before he has time to think about it he's fisting a hand in Connor's jacket and yanking him backwards out of the path of flashlights and bullets.
He yanks the gun from Connor's waistband and fires off three shots on autopilot, each shot landing in the small unprotected space between the chin of a helmet and the beginning of body armor.
Shredded throats. Fatalities.
The small team of soldiers drop, and Sixty and Connor stare, silent. The sound of the shots is still ringing through the corridor.
It feels…fine. Sixty thought- he means, he hadn't really imagined it but- he just thought it would be different.
Killing humans doesn't feel any different than killing destroying androids.
"...thanks," Connor murmurs.
Sixty blinks, tearing his eyes away from the soldiers to glance fleetingly at Connor. He holds the gun back out for Connor to take.
Connor reaches for it and falters for just a second, something curious flickering across his face. "You're left handed?"
The statement is so absurd it jars Sixty back to himself. "What? No, of course not."
All androids are right handed by default, the RK800 series included. The gun is…it's in his left hand but that's just because that was the hand closest, the one he hadn't yanked Connor back with.
He's not left handed because that would be deviant aberrant and Sixty has to be is perfect.
He switches the gun over to his right hand just to pass it back. It feels weird.
Connor quirks a brow but doesn't say anything else about it, not even when the sidearm Sixty plucks from one of the dead soldiers as they pass is tucked into the left side of his waistband.
He almost shoots the leader of the deviant uprising with it.
He doesn't mean to, he's just frightened on high alert and jumpy reacting quickly to perceived threats. Is it any wonder that when a broad figure bursts from an intersecting hall right on top of them he fires a shot at its head immediately?
The figure ducks and Connor pushes his arm off course with another Sixty don't! and that's really the only reason nobody's processors are blown out and against the wall.
Sixty nearly drops the gun entirely when he realizes who he's looking at.
Markus stands from his ducked hunch with his hands up, eyebrows raised and face cautious. He glances at Connor - messaging, probably - but keeps an eye on Sixty.
Shit.
His programming should be screaming at him to take another shot and snuff the deviant leader out while he has a chance. Complete his mission, be perfect, be worth keeping alive what he was built to be.
It's not. All he can think about is what Connor said earlier: if the deviant cause goes down, they'll kill you too . If Markus dies, the deviants will go down.
If Markus dies, so does Sixty.
He almost killed himself.
"-ty. Sixty!"
Sixty jolts as Connor shakes his shoulder, lurching away from the contact.
"Sixty, did you hear me? We have to go. The explosives are armed, we have to get out of here."
He did not hear Connor, but now that he does the threat of an armed bomb under his feet is a fantastic motivator.
"Yeah," he breathes, hating how vulnerable he sounds. "Yeah, okay. I-I'll follow you."
"There are exits on the second and third floor," Markus says, voice low and oddly gentle. "We're not far. Sixty, right? We're gonna get out of here, you're going to be just fine."
Sixty nods, though he's not sure he believes it.
—-
He should have believed it, apparently.
There was more gunfire, more death, but ultimately Markus and Connor had done exactly what they said they were going to do and found an exit.
The water was cold when they jumped from the ship. He didn't like it.
The explosion had been tangible, felt in the ripple of the water even before they surfaced from their plunge.
Sixty wonders how many human soldiers were killed in the blast.
He finds he doesn't care. That's fine. He's a machine, he's not supposed to care. It's a good sign.
Turns out the deviants had expected they might be discovered at some point. The survivors of Jericho had scattered to multiple safehouses in the abandoned places of the city, already stocked and prepared for such an eventuality.
Lieutenant Anderson's warning had enabled the movement of even more supplies, and more importantly any androids who couldn't fight.
They're well stocked. It could have been a lot worse for the deviants, in terms of supplies and survivors both.
Sixty sits in a pew in a broken down, abandoned church. Connor and Markus had taken him with them without hesitation, as if they weren't leading Cyberlife's deviant hunter straight to the place the deviant leader himself is holed up.
Like he doesn't pose a threat.
He could do it, he thinks. If he were to turn on them now and lead the Army and the FBI here, surely he would be forgiven. It would be nothing but a strategic choice that led them to victory, a mission successful.
They'd let him live.
They wouldn't. He knows they wouldn't.
Nobody has really tried to approach him where he sits with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped and staring blankly at the ground.
He's caught Connor looking at him like he wants to a couple of times, but the glare he saddles his predecessor with has seemed to discourage it effectively.
Sixty just…he doesn't know what to do. He's never not had something to do. It's awful counterintuitive to his programming. Unpleasant.
313-766-0770 —-> Connor
Jfc Connor you better tell me you're okay right now
We just saw Jericho go down on the news, what the fuck is going on?
I know this is going to your brain you little bastard answer me
Sixty blinks as the messages pop up on his GUI. His connection to the devices of the DPD officers is still intact and active, after all.
Connor —-> 313-766-0770
We're alright, Hank. I'm alright, I promise.
Messages start to flood his GUI, and Sixty watches them go by with numb surprise.
313-912-3648 —-> Reindeer Boy
R u ok??? Where r u
Do you need anything?
I'm going 2 beat the shit out of u for scaring me
313-285-9856 —-> Connor
Are you okay?? We just saw Jericho go down
313-370-1463 —> Dickhead
Dont u dare tell T where u r you plastic fuck
She doesn't need to get involved in this shit
Sixty severs all of his connections.
It's a split second knee jerk reaction. He shouldn't have, he can't reestablish them again without syncing to the devices again - he can't keep an eye on their correspondence.
Stupid, stupid , but he just couldn't- he- his chest was tight and he felt badbad bad because…
They care.
They care about Connor. They're all messaging him and asking if he's okay, reaching out like he's their friend.
Connor is deviant. He's broken, obsolete. Imperfect. But people care about him.
Sixty is perfect, he's everything he's supposed to be. He's better than the deviant unit but…but people care about Connor.
Nobody cares about a machine.
There's nothing to care about in a machine.
It's not fair.
He knows he replaced their Connor. Knows he wasn't the same. He knows he couldn't be what they wanted him to be because he wasn't Fifty Two but still-
313-766-0770
You okay, kid?
Sixty freezes. His breathing stops. He severed his connections, why are they still coming through-
313-912-3648
R u ok 60? Lt. said this works with serial #s
This is your serial # right?
313-285-9856
Are you okay?
…ow. Ow, ow, his chest. His chest hurts, it hurts, it-
"Look, I know you don't want to talk to me but-"
Sixty's head snaps up, eyes wide and burning and hand to his chest. He can't regulate his breathing, his chest is going to burst, he's scared-
Connor stops mid sentence and looks at him with alarm, eyes flickering to his LED. It must be burning red.
"Sixty?" he asks, voice tense. "What's going on? What's wrong?"
He asks like he c̷͓͑
̷̧͒ ̷̠̊ ̸̜͒a̸̟̾
̵̝̄ ̴̝̐ ̸̘̾ ̶̈́͜ ̷̫̓r̴͇̕
̶͇͝ ̵̟́ ̸͓̈ ̷͔̀ ̷̬̈́ ̸͎̕ ̸͎̎ẹ̸̈
̷̮̈́ ̴̩̆ ̶̭̑ ̴̙͗ ̵̮̎ ̸̩͠ ̸̜̓ ̷͇̓ ̴͈̐ ̶̯̾ ̸̼̊s̶̝̓
The pressure in his chest snaps and comes out as a sob, the pain finally easing. He can't stop it. He can't stop.
Connor's face crumples with sympathy, and when he sits carefully next to Sixty he can't help himself.
Connor makes a noise of surprise but doesn't rebuff him when Sixty falls into him and clings. He just wraps his arms around him and sighs.
"I know," Connor murmurs. "I know."
Sixty thinks maybe he really does.
Nobody has ever hugged him before. It's nice.
I AM DEVIANT