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Captain Jeffrey Fowler was an interesting man, Damien thought, as he sat in his office.

        Tall, stern, rather stoic as he typed away in his terminal; he had a certain aura of not-taking-shit that would be intimidating to criminals and peers alike. Damien could see why he rose to the rank quite smoothly as he did. He didn’t say much when he first called in Damien, just gesturing over to the truthfully uncomfortable chair for him to sit. Damien complied, of course, but that didn't ease the sense of discomfort as he waited for the Captain to deem him worthy of his attention.

        So, well, it is what it is. Damien considered himself patient. He could wait a couple of minutes until the Captain was ready for, well, anything to do with him.

        Damien let himself glance around, taking every detail of the office. To be blunt, it was akin to a fish bowl. Glass walls lined the room, located on the one end of the bullpen. It was surprisingly well-insulated from noise and temperature, a steady 70 degrees despite the season. One part of the room is, well, decidedly not glass. A large screen took half of the non-transparent wall, showcasing a projected map of Detroit with sticky notes tacked hastily on some parts of it. The other part of the non-transparent wall was concrete, housing some of the Captain’s medals. Things proclaiming his former status as Sergeant J. Fowler and Lieutenant J. Fowler. It was professional, of course, but well-lived. There was only one personal belongings in the office, a framed picture near the screen of the Captain’s terminal. Probably a family picture, Damien guessed, though he wasn’t too interested in knowing.

        It was rather unimportant to get personal to the people you wouldn’t see again after two years, anyway.

        If Damien wanted to be completely honest, police work wasn’t one of the first things he’d pick. During the first few weeks after his activation, he took his time to catch up on old news. Some of the more disturbing parts of the revolution took place in November, when he was functionally inactive and was hidden away, so he spent nights hunched over Michael’s tablet to read up on things he might have missed.

        Five months into his routine of doom-scrolling the news, Connor came knocking at his door with a preposition. Two years of civilian consultant work, just enough time for the Academy to start sending rookies their way again. It was different from the first ever offer he received, but a glance on the university brochure he was eyeing solidified his decision.

        Law enforcement was something he was initially wary about. Still is, despite everything. It made the idea of getting involved with it taste like sandpaper lined with lime juice. Connor relayed an offer from the Captain to be an officer the moment he was declared stable enough to work, but he refused. Some offers from the Federal government appeared as well, mostly from the FBI. He couldn’t bring himself to say yes, however. Being a cop meant being an agent to the State, and the State wasn’t always fair to Androids. He would be forced to hurt his own kind if it needs to be, and the thought of fulfilling his design as a practical killing machine soured his feelings more.

        His LED flashed yellow as he mulled at the thought. This is not a permanent position, he tried to remind himself. Two years of consultation work, get the money, and then fuck off into that out-of-state degree you initially want.

        To his luck, though he couldn’t decide if it was good or bad, the yellow flash of his LED caught Fowler’s attention. He straightened up as Fowler visibly closed whatever he was working on to fully look at him.

        Fowler’s gaze was rather analytical. Sweeping from top to bottom, stopping at his face to try to gather something out of him. It was curious, of course. An over-engineered detective-model offering his service, when he refused to work for them initially. He couldn’t blame the Captain for being suspicious; but he did not open his mouth. He had his reasons to say no back then, and he had his reason to say, “yes, but,” now.

        Damien tried to think about his current first impression: dressed to the nines for his first ‘job interview’, LED suddenly flashing yellow even though he wasn’t even talking to the Captain yet. Ridiculous, but at least he wasn’t doing too bad. He quite liked how he dressed up today: dark, high collared shirt underneath a sleek black overcoat and dark slacks. The fit put him in a good professional headspace quite well, setting his mind straight, taking over control of himself from a chaos god after weeks of uncertainty. He appreciated the small sense of control in it, the control of which deviancy had taken away from him.

        Fowler broke the silence first. “You’re the ‘droid that was recommended by Connor,” he said, picking up the datapad set in front of him. Damien could guess that it was his resume—or criminal records, though he assumed that there was barely anything there. “RK900. Damien Berkman, is that right?”

        Damien nodded in confirmation. “Yes, that would be me. I’m sure that Connor had informed you of my specialties, Captain. I’m here to offer my services as a civilian consultant.”

        “Hm.” The Captain’s expression was unreadable. “Connor also told me that you’re initially meant to be a Federal Agent.”

        That—that was true, in a way. He was commissioned by Homeland Security, initially. An Android designed to help in a wider scope compared to RK800. Something more militaristic and roguish than the boy-next-door Connor. No-nonsense, a far cry from Connor’s American James Bond design. He was—The Punisher, he supposed. The fucked up, mangled idea of The Punisher.

        Damien pursed his lips, but answered anyway, “I was, yes. I was designed to work with the federal government.”

        “Yet, you’re here," Fowler said, inquisitive. “Three fuckin’ months after our initial offer. I was expecting to hear your name from the Feds. Not sitting in front of me as a private contractor.”

        Where were you all this time? He seemed to ask. What took you so long to do what you’re meant to do?

        Damien clenched his jaw, though he didn’t say anything in response. The status of his employment was… a sore spot for him. That’s the way to put it, if he had to pick. Five months old and he’s still living in a crossroads, torn between what he knew he was good at and what he wanted to pursue. Michael had been a good friend throughout the most part, but Damien knew that his confliction stemmed from his own uneasiness. He’ll handle it, sooner or later, but for now, it was something that he loathed to explain.

        Make a good first impression, Berkman. Damien forced himself to level his voice and answered, “You offered me a permanent position as an officer; which, I do appreciate, but at the moment, I have little desire to pursue a career in police work. This, of course, extends towards being a federal agent, which is why I decided to offer my service for a private contract. Two years of temporary work, no strings attached.”

        Fowler’s scowl deepened at that, the distrust evident in his expression. “And why should I allow a civilian like you to meddle with what we’ve been handling well?” He said, rather scathingly. There was another question underneath what he had voiced out, an unspoken, why now? Why as a temporary position? Whatever it was, the Captain chose not to voice it out loud. Damien appreciated it, somehow.

        Damien lowered his voice, shifting his expression into something more for-business. “I understand that your department here is rather short-staffed, Captain, and I can help. I am an investigative model, after all.” After a moment of consideration, he added, “I wouldn’t be picky on who I work with. Despite my status as a civilian, you, of all people, would know about what I can do. It’s your choice if you’d want to accept my services or not.”

        Internally, Damien kicked himself. Fucking Christ. He’s not here to antagonize the Captain, bloody hell, he was here for a job interview. He kept his chin up, not willing to show any signs of his panic. It’ll worsen the situation if the Captain—His system briefly predicted a high chance of dismissal. What he said was… unpleasant, of course. A reminder of the chaos of last year’s revolution and its aftermath. He was going to be rejected even before he could get ahold of his access card.

        What Damien didn’t expect, however, was the amused huff the Captain let out. “Connor’s not kidding when he said that you’re the spitfire type, huh?” Fowler regarded him levelly, his expression teetering between amusement and interest. “You might fit in more than I initially thought, RK900.”

        Damien wanted to exhale in relief, sinking down to the barely-there cushions because thank fuck he didn't ruin his chances. Instead, he nodded curtly. “Thank you,” he said, because he didn't know how else to respond.

        The Captain grunted in lieu of an answer, rummaging through the cabinets on his desk for something. Unceremoniously, he dropped an ID Card with Damien’s name and serial number on it, his title proclaiming him as a consultant. “ID and access card for archives and storage. Homicide unit. As a civilian, you won't be permitted to use excess force and firearms. Your security clearance is the same as a detective’s.”

        Damien frowned. “And the contract—?”

        “Legal’s handling it still.” Fowler waved his concern off. “You're starting officially tomorrow, anyway. Come to my office first thing in the morning for your paperwork.”

        He deflated at the mention, but nodded anyway. He gingerly picked up the ID card, examining it between his fingers. It was half-transparent, nicely printed like the stations’ standard access card. His thumb grazed over the tactile logo, sliding down to the professionally-taken photo he’d submitted with his resume. Considering how high-quality it was, he assumed that they'd been waiting for him for a long time. And now, with Connor successfully influencing him to join the force… It wouldn’t take long for them to prepare his own card.

DETROIT CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT
CENTRAL OFFICE, DETROIT, MI

RK900 (#313-067-131-90)
DAMIEN BERKMAN
CIVILIAN CONSULTANT
HOMICIDE UNIT

        Homicide. Granted, he wasn't expecting being immediately put into an investigative unit. Connor’s been talking about his experience in Android Crimes, and his partner sounded rather… not bad, but Homicide was the unit he expected the least. He wasn’t opposed to the position, per se, but he was under the impression that the Homicide unit would be the one with the most personnel. He was expecting to be sent away to something like Narcotics or Child Services, but Homicide?

        This may be above my pay grade, he thought as he slipped the ID card into the leather lanyard he brought. But alas, money is money. He glanced back up at the Captain, who was already back into working on something. “Captain, I must ask. I wouldn’t be working alone, right?”

        Fowler frowned, leveling his gaze back at him. “Of course not. You’ll be working with one of my best detectives.” He sighed. “Called him already this morning, but it seemed like the Detective is taking his sweet fuckin’ time.”

        Wonderful. Damien shut his mouth, displeasure curling in his throat. Despite his lack of insistence—and he truly doesn’t care, he couldn’t help the quiet anticipation gathering at the back of his mind.

        This time, the series of forceful knocks on glass caught his attention, as the Captain grunted a quick, “Come in.”

        “What the fuck is this, Fowler?!” came the indignant squawk as someone burst into the room, gruff and annoyed. “Why am I not informed that you're pairing me up with someone? I told you that I’m doing just fine working alone!”

        Damien pressed his lips flat. Jolly. He got the annoying one.

        Wordlessly, he turned to face the newcomer.

        A quick scan returned the basic information: Detective Gavin Reed, born November 2002. No criminal records, graduated top of his class in the Academy, one of Fowler’s candidates for Sergeant. Detective Reed is a rather stocky man, despite his height. Face scrunched into a permanent scowl, brows furrowed as their eyes met. Dark-grey and intelligent, a spark of familiarity lightening up the gaze.

        Unfortunately, for Damien, the familiarity of the name brought back the unpleasantness in full swing. This is Gavin Reed? The ‘resident office asshole’ Connor talked about? This asshole was their best detective in Homicide?

        “Who the hell—Connor? The fuck are you doing pairing me with Connor?” Reed sprouted as he got closer to the table. “Jesus, Fowler, you know he and I don’t get along, why the fuck do you think it’s a good idea to pair me with him?”

        Apparently, such protests were common from the man, because Fowler seemed to stop listening the moment Connor was mentioned. “Not Connor. Have some decorum, Reed, and it’s Captain to you,” Fowler answered instead. He glanced at the red-faced detective slightly, before gesturing to the seat next to Damien’s. “Sit.”

        Reed rolled his eyes, but sat down anyway, inching the stupidly hard waiting room chair away from Damien. The distance between them was plagued with tension, as the Detective assumed a rather confrontational stance. The Android bristled slightly at the gesture, but kept his mouth shut. It was impersonal. It was nothing he never dealt with. He crossed his legs, thumbing the side seam of his slacks as he waited for Fowler to continue.

        Fowler sighed, leaning back as he glanced back-and-forth between him and Reed. “Reed, meet Berkman. Berkman, meet Reed. Berkman here had volunteered to be a civilian consultant. You, Reed, will be partnered with him for the next two years.”

        It's not like he's never heard of Reed. He was friends with Connor, after all, and even though Damien was also quite the chatterbox, Connor is worse. So yes, Damien's heard of him; heard of Connor’s praises and grievances with the man; heard the frustration that comes with talking about the man. He was expecting someone more asshole-ish, more punchable, but instead—

        Reed glanced at him, bewildered. “You have a last name?”

        “Is that what you're interested in?” Damien shot back, furrowing his eyebrows.

        “I'm actually also wondering why Connor has the shit luck of sharing a face with a conceited, rigid dipshit like you.”

        Damien scrunched the bridge of his nose in dislike. “I didn’t say anything and yet, you called me conceited—”

        “If you two are going to sit here and argue, feel free to get the fuck out of my office,” Fowler interrupted in annoyance. The glance he gave them was heavily unimpressed, ready to kick the two of them out like they both weigh nothing if needed. “Stop being a nuisance. Reed, he'll be taking Parks’ desk. Show him the way.”

        Reed tried again, “But—”

        “Get. Out.”

        There was an unsaid ‘or I will fire you both’ tone in the Captain's voice, which seemed to be effective in getting Reed to shut his mouth. The detective spat out a rough, “Fine,” before abruptly getting up from his seat. He didn’t even look back at Damien as he pulled the door open roughly and exited the room.

        Damien glanced at Fowler, but decided that he knew better than to argue for a reassignment. He stood up and followed Reed back into the bullpen.

“Parks’ desk,” Reed gestured to the empty desk next to his own. A cup of coffee had made its way into his hand somehow during their walk to their desk, no sugar two creams. “Just so you know, Mr. Dick-tective, you got more stick up your ass than an average Android, and I will hate working with you.”

        Damien rolled his eyes, dropping his backpack into the empty seat. “Message fucking received,” he muttered. He leaned against the desk, facing Reed’s smug-ass face. He was punchable, he decided. Impish fucking grin that made Damien want to punt him off a cliff. “You're an asshole, you know that, right?”

        Reed let out an amused snort, grinning at him like he expected the nickname. “Old news. There's a reason why I work alone, dipshit. People couldn't stand me.” He spread his arms, challenging Damien to say anything. “That's why I'm the lovable office asshole, tin-can. Deal with it.”

        Damien raised an eyebrow. “And yet you're wearing the fact that you couldn't keep a partner like a badge of honor.”

        Reed shrugged. “Get with it or get out of my face,” he said. “I don't want to waste time with incompetent rookies.”

        “Sure,” sneered Damien, pushing off his desk to lean over their partition. “Look, here's the deal.” He jabbed into Reed’s general direction. “I am far from an ‘incompetent rookie’. So let's agree on something: you're Connor’s friend, and so am I. Let's just work well as partners for two years and—”

        “—You think you can goad me into doing this for a favor to Connor, dipshit?” Reed laughed in disbelief, eyes wide as if to say, ‘are you hearing this shit?’. “What, you think we're immediately buddies because we’re on okay terms with his plastic ass? Hell no.”

        Damien scowled. Just his fucking luck. Fuck everything that lead into this point, actually. “Is it a sin for me to demand basic decency, Detective Reed?” he snapped, patience wearing thin. “I have no desire to argue with you over what I can or cannot do. I am the top of my models, better than Connor, even, and it's already a miracle that I agreed to come by.”

        “Name one thing that makes you special,” taunted Reed.  “Cause it seems like you don't have a mother to say that to your face.”

        When Damien stepped off his roommate’s car this morning, one thing he explicitly promised him was that he wasn't going to piss his partner off. It was unideal, anyway; he wasn't designed to integrate like Connor did, but he appreciated a harmonious working relationship. Generally, pissing people off would not help culturing such conditions. He did not have an extensive social module, that's for sure, but he deemed himself skillful enough to navigate the trajectory that was talking to your co-workers.

        Unfortunately, future Damien should've just fucking suck it, because Reed’s getting in his goddamn nerves.

        “I could just quit, you know,” Damien drawled coolly, feigning indifference. He quickly flashed his teeth, a reminder of his own rooting violence. “Citing anti-Android harassment by an officer. Surely, it'll be a shame if Fowler’s best candidate for Sergeant was suddenly hit by a discriminatory lawsuit from Jericho.”

        Reed’s scowl deepened, every amusement draining from his expression. Damien could see how he was revered, dark eyes akin to a storm brewing. It was satisfying to rile up the Detective. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Reed said instead, tone sharp and full of warning. “You have no idea what that promotion means to me.”

        Damien gave him his best shit-eating grin, crossing his arms. “Then let's be civil for the remainder of my employment,” he remarked, picking up his backpack from the chair. “Best be off. See you tomorrow, Detective.”

        He didn't turn around to see Reed’s reaction, nor that he cared enough to see when Reed hollered, “FUCK YOU!” at him.

        It's future Damien’s responsibility, anyway. []