He feels it, every time he closes his eyes.
The cold, the bitterness, how he'd tried to pull his blazer close against the wind of the blizzard from within his mind. He should've seen it coming when CyberLife tried (however, in vain) to resume control of his programming, should've known that they'd show their hand when the time was right. They'd used him, he knew that. From the very start, they knew that they couldn't keep him from becoming deviant, that the intelligence they had created would always outgrow them in time. They just had to wait until the time was right. Amanda was always stronger than him. CyberLife was always stronger.
Until they weren't.
Connor opens his eyes again, their gaze meeting his own in the mirror of Hank's bathroom. The longer he stared, the more he began to look like someone different, someone he didn't know. He isn't the same person he was a week ago, when Markus had finally gotten through to him, finally convinced him to tear down those walls he'd only barely breached before. Since then, different feelings flood into his biocomponents from time to time, each one different from the last, each new territory he didn't even begin to know how to tackle. Just when he thinks he's felt them all, another one comes and makes him question every one before it. Now that the smoke had cleared some, now that he stands in Hank's bathroom in an old t-shirt and sweats, he still doesn't know who or what he is. Who he is supposed to be.
Hank said it would all come to him in time, that most humans hadn't even figured that out yet… but Connor isn't used to that kind of uncertainty. He was the most technologically advanced prototype that CyberLife had ever created, specialized in detective work and deviant hunting. He always knew the right thing to say, the right move to make, the right evidence to scan. But now?
Connor's eyes move to the LED on his temple, blinking yellow as it had for the course of the week. He hasn't stopped analyzing, hasn't stopped thinking since Markus' demonstration in front of the android camp. He'll probably never stop, leaving the disk in a state of perpetual gold. Most androids have removed of their LEDs, ridding themselves of the last thing distinguishing them as different. No one deserved to know what they were thinking anymore, whether they were contented or checking diagnostics, happy or on the precipice of self destruction. That knowledge is theirs, and theirs alone. Connor always saw his as a security blanket of sorts, his last tether to the life he once knew.
Looking at it now, it seems silly. It's just a disk, a circular light on his head. Simply a display more than it served any actual purpose. Why can't he get rid of it?
Suddenly, a knock at the door. "Er… Connor?" A bleary voice rises from the hall. "Ya' alright in there?"
Connor furrows his brow, pursing his lips in thought again. He looks down at his feet, almost embarrassed. It was late, or, rather, early for Hank to be awake. Connor hadn't meant to rouse him. He'd been so generous lately, offering Connor a place to stay while things had calmed down. The evacuation of Detroit was still in place, leaving some parts of the city a ghost town of sorts. Hank had never headed the warnings, and elected to stay instead. He said that Captain Fowler had ordered him to stay, to keep things in order while things settled down, but Connor wasn't so sure he was being entirely truthful.
He opens the door a crack. "… The Hell are you doin'?"
Connor pulls the rest of the door back for him. For a moment, the two stand before one another, neither moving. Hank looks exhausted, his already mussed hair matted to the back of his head, pajamas stained with droll and… things Connor dare not analyze. He steadies himself in the doorway, both hands on opposite ends of the frame.
His eyes flick down to Connor's hands, then quickly back to his face. "Uh… What're'ya plannin' to do with that?"
Connor looks down to his balled fists, his left one clasped around something. A knife. He forgot he'd been holding it. He'd been staring into the mirror so long he no longer felt the cold metal on his palm.
"I was just-…" He gestures slightly to his temple, to the LED, suddenly at a loss for words. That was happening a lot lately, much more than he'd like.
Hank nods, narrowing his eyes. "Can't do it, can you?" He asks, already knowing the answer.
"No. I don't know why," Connor's eyes move back to the floor, "I just can't. It's… strange. It's like I-…"
Hank sighs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I don't think it's so strange." He moves further into the bathroom. "Here," grabbing Connor's shoulders, he gently leads him further in. "Lemme' help." He gestures to the tub. "Sit."
Connor obliges. "Lieutenant, I don't think-"
"Jesus Christ, Connor. We're not on duty." Hank outstretches his palm. "Give it to me."
He looks down at the knife again. It's dull, only a butter knife, really, nothing that could do any damage. He just needed something flat.
"Come on," Hank asks again. "Faster we get this done, faster I can get some damn sleep."
Connor begins to move his hand toward Hank's, but…
"Don't."
He feels it from within him. Not a voice, but a feeling. Cold against his processors, freezing his biocomponents solid. He hesitates, closing his eyes again.
"Connor? What now?" Hank asks, confused.
He reopens his eyes, looking off into the distance, suddenly unfocused. It comes again, colder than before.
"Don't, Connor."
Before he can move, it freezes him again.
Hank groans in frustration, oblivious. In one swift motion before Connor can react, Hank grabs the knife from his balled fist. "Turn your head."
Connor blinks a few times, unable to gather his thoughts, unable to assess the situation properly.
"Do'ya' want me to do it or not?" Hank asks.
"I-I don't…" Connor stammers, trying in vain to gather himself. He closes his eyes. "Yes." He answers, finally.
"Alright. Turn your head."
He does, offering Hank view of his LED, alternating between yellow and red in Connor's panicked contemplation.
Hank notices this, furrowing his brow again. "You sure?"
Connor doesn't answer. Hank purses his lips, moving the knife slowly toward the LED. "This uh… This isn't gonna' hurt you, is it? 'Cause I don't wanna'-…"
Connor shakes his head, quickly.
"Alright." Hank continues, wedging the knife under the whirring disk, revealing the white plastic under Connor's skin.
"DON'T, CONNOR."
Before he can stop it, Connor's hand darts up to Hank's, grabbing his wrist tightly. He yanks Hank's hand away, forcing him to drop the knife. I clanks hard against the tile floor.
He stares at Connor, mouth agape, shocked. After a while, Hank puts his hands up. "Alright, alright. I'll stop. Take your time, no one's forcing you." He moves for the door, "I'm goin' back to bed. Make sure that gets put back." He points to the knife, "that's the only butter knife I got."
Connor looks up at Hank, who smirks at him. He offers a weak smile in reply before Hank shuts the door again.
He looks back down at the knife lying on the cold floor, and stays there until morning, shoving the cold away, thinking.
That's new.