NOV. 27 / 2039 / DETROIT, MICHIGAN
Her heart rate is elevated. Blood flow to her face is making her cheeks turn pink. She paces a tight circle in front of him and he watches, expressionless, as she comes to a stop.
"I want-" She begins again, and goes silent as suddenly as that. Exhales harshly, rubbing at the back of her neck as she looks at her feet. Her glare softens as she raises her eyes to look at him. "Never mind what I want. What do you want?"
His response is automatic. "Nothing more than the success of this mission."
She laughs bitterly. "You know that's not what I mean."
He takes one step closer, frost crunching under his shoes, looming over her-she holds her breath as he leans down, mouth close to her ear. "What would you have me say, Detective?"
She bites her lip as he straightens, and he sees a bead of scarlet form as the chapped skin breaks. Her jaw twitches at the sting as she breathes in, and her exhale is a puff of white into the winter air.
"That I meant something to you. That I was more than just-a task. That you...that you..."
love me
"...feel...the same way I do."
The air has grown cold and tight around the two of them as her voice trails off. He sees her fists clench and then relax, fingertips pink from the cold. Her breath shudders out of her lungs in a cough; a brief scan turns up a 67% possibility that she has been infected with a rhinovirus in the past 48 hours. He can see the column of her throat move down in a swallow, the almost imperceptible shiver that runs down her shoulders as the temperature drops further.
He waits.
Behind her, the streetlights flicker on, illuminating the empty street down the lane.
"Fuck, just say-something!" Her voice breaks on the last syllable.
His LED flickers red for a brief moment. She notices. She takes a step forward.
"I was built to be… a controlled variable. Designed as one last safehold for humankind, should Connor have failed to… terminate the android insurrection. There are over fifteen hundred anti-deviancy subroutines written into my coding."
And she's slipping. The exhaustion of the past day is catching up to her. The exhaustion of her recovery, the bandages on her side. Something flickers over his artificial synapses as she blinks, slower than usual-as he hears her heartbeat dip just a little bit, a soft murmur. He wonders if she will make it home safely, at this time of night. The LED on his temple shines red again.
"Just a machine." It doesn't sound like an insult-it wasn't meant to be one. She just sounds... tired.
He breathes in again, though he does not know why, artificial lungs filling with her scent and the cold, thin smell of a coming snowstorm.
Fragrances detected: Earl Grey tea, cedar wood, ginger.
"I am not deviant, like RK800. Nor will I ever be."
She inhales sharply at those words, knowing what he means but cannot say out loud.
And then again as he hears her breath hitch, when he sees her hand jerk upwards to cover her own mouth, frozen fingers pressed tight against her lips. Her eyes have grown wet, dimly reflecting the orange half-light of the streetlamps. And he desires-he wants, more than anything, to touch her face, to hold her close to him again, to comfort her. Wants to make her pain go away.
He does not.
Instead, he watches as she stiffens, shoulders straightening, and exhales. The tension drops from her neck, and all of a sudden, she looks tired to the very depths of her soul.
A gust strengthens, blowing past the pair. His blazer lifts with the wind, and she hunches over only slightly, hand coming down to touch the healing wound at her side. Her chin trembles, face twisted with still unshed tears. She turns to leave.
The apology feels inadequate even before it is simulated by his vocal modulator.
"I'm sorry."
He hears her speak, voice nearly torn away by the wind. Already distant.
"Yeah, well…So am I."