09.06.2038 AM 10:33:42
"RK800."
A voice filters through the bright light of the lab, his code feels jumbled—nothing quite matching up to how it should work for a nanosecond, before the world fizzles into focus. The voice comes again; unfamiliar, but he's just been born, so to speak. Not much could be familiar just yet.
"Register your name;
Hank."
"My name is Hank." His voice is flat, emotionless save for the wisps of gruff cadence built into his modules. His systems are working at a speed which the human technicians at the console can't keep up with, code refreshing with new information as he scans each human in the room—birthdays, occupations, criminal record…
"State your serial number and function, please."
"313 248 317 dash 52. My function is to locate and apprehend androids exhibiting deviant behaviors and return them to cyberlife tower for analysis." A pause, as he delves deeper into his system files for a primary objective. "Currently awaiting instructions."
"I think he's good to go." The voice says; it belongs to a researcher, a blond man with tired eyes and creases on either side of his mouth from smiling—but he wasn't smiling, now. Blue eyes scan his form, cataloging data and
Daniel Taylor
Born: 02.11.1993 / Cyberlife Research Analyst (Project: [REDACTED])
Criminal Record: speeding ticket, pardoned.
Hank presses for more information, the panel at the very corner of his vision expanding as he stretched his investigative muscles.
Project: RK prototype line, started to explore more unique androids by Chloe Kauffman, the founder of Cyberlife. Hank is the latest addition to the line, and the first to be produced in a quantity larger than one; he also had a more specific purpose than any of his predecessors.
Speeding Ticket, pardoned: originally logged into the DPD system but never pursued as it was noted that he was speeding to get his pregnant wife to the hospital so she could give birth to their daughter, Emma. The officer, who was not named in the file, had escorted them the rest of the way.
"RK800, enter stasis, please."
With a nod, he does—waiting to be woken up for his first real-life field test.
09.15.2038 PM 8:29:06
Primary objective: De-escalate situation on the roof
Related objective: Talk to Captain Allen
The elevator ride was long, not to say that wasn't expected—but it left a lot of time to process very little information. Hank had already sorted through the composition of the metal alloys the car was fitted with, the exact voltage of the buttons and the possibility of failure in the older control system. None of this information was important or particularly pertinent to his current task. Perhaps was a waste of processing power.
Producing an elastic band from around his wrist, he ties up the long, greyish hair he'd been designed with; it was impractical, not terribly attractive, and would likely get in his way more than aid him in his function. Then again, perhaps the point of his design was to keep humans from being too distracted by him, and the length and cut was versatile enough to cover his LED in a range of scenarios where it might benefit him to pass as human.
He's moved on to flicking a half-dollar between his fingers; the movement calibrating his fine motor skills, something which he will most likely not have to use in this negotiation—but the probability is sitting at a solid 14% from the information he has gathered thus far.
The elevator doors open to the front hall of the trashed apartment; seemingly nothing was spared, the ground littered with shards of glass and well-filtered water from the inlaid glass fish tanks. A noise from the floor catches the edge of his processors, a glint of golden movement in accompaniment. He understands that he should follow his prime directive exclusively, but his programming is made to learn—designed for curiosity and he can't stop himself before he's kneeling before the thing.
Gingerly, he takes the fish in his hands—it's still moving, drowning in air and struggling to cling to life;
Azure Damsel. C̢hr͟y͢s̶i̧pt͡e҉ŗa h̷e̴mìcy̸a͏n̡ea.
What a funny name for a fish, he thinks, as he sets it back into the water of the shattered tank. More noise and movement behind him—his proximity sensors displaying two forms coming in his direction.
Hank rises, hands folded, attention returned to his primary objective as an officer in full riot gear escorts a distraught woman—she's shaking and crying; mascara staining her cheeks. She grabs him by the arm, and her fleeting expression of relief shows through to her voice;
"Oh, thank god—please, p-please save my son…" But even clouded with tears, her eyes come upon the circle of blue at his temple, the name and model number emblazoned on his suit jacket. "Wait…" Micro-expressions become expressions, and she flits through fear, anger, disgust. Hank knows what these things mean, in his head—but he doesn't understand them. He can process, categorize, but not understand and empathize. Not really, anyways. It's all ones and zeroes. "You're sending an… android?"
It's clear that his unconventional aesthetics had thrown her, and he opens his mouth to respond, but realizes he wasn't programmed for this. He has nothing to say. He doesn't know what to say. As the agent speaks, his lips close, jaw set tight-
"Ma'am, we need to go." The masked agent insists, pulling her towards the elevator.
"You can't— why aren't you sending a real person-!" She chokes out, struggling as if she wants to fight him. The woman's voice fades out as Hank realizes that he did not remember to scan her for information during the brief encounter. The probability of this turning into a gunfight slips from 14% to 17%. So long as he completes his objective, there should be no issue.
"Don't let that thing near him!" The woman's voice grows quieter as he walks further towards his objective, muffled as the elevator doors close; "Keep that thing away from my son!"
The apartment is a mess, but the disorder barely bothers Hank. He was made for this sort of messy situation—stepping easily over overturned furniture, cataloging the possibilities as he moves to where he knows his objective awaits him. The comments that pass him from the humans of the swat team don't escape him, but they don't affect him. He understands that they don't like him—he's a threat to their job, but he's the best chance that little boy has to survive this.
"Captain Allen." He says, making his presence known as he steps up behind the man. Hank doesn't quite tower over him, but it's enough of a difference in height that the captain grimaces before going back to his screens. "My name is Hank. I'm the android sent by CyberLife."
"It's firing at everything that moves." The captain shoots back, without so much as a greeting in return. Hank doesn't mind. He isn't here to make friends; he's here to prove he was worth the money he took to develop. In the back of his processors, the thought pops up—he's here to save the child. To keep people from getting hurt. "It already shot down two of my men…" His voice has venom, with every time he says 'it', it's like he's spitting out the word.
"We could easily get it, but it's standing at the edge of the balcony." The man finally turns to look at him, the distaste clear on his face even though he knows Hank was sent here to help. "If it falls," He continues, darkly; "He falls."
Clearly, the first course of action would be the deactivation code. They're not idiots, Hank can tell by the file on Allen in the corner of his vision; Allen might not like Hank, but he's a good officer, a smart commander. Hank doesn't bother to ask about the code. The android is still out there, and it's broken. It needs to be treated carefully, talked off the ledge. Literally.
"Has the android gone through an emotional shock recently?" Is the question he lands on; a traumatic experience can often trigger a malfunction-
"Listen—" Allen says, whipping around to face Hank and clearly not enjoying the fact that he must look up to meet emotionless blue eyes. "Saving that kid is all that matters." A step forward, though it only causes the captain to crane his neck more—Hank isn't intimidated. "So either you deal with this fucking android now, or I'll take care of it."
Hank may not be programmed to talk back, but god damn if he doesn't want to. He gave the team the benefit of the doubt, he assumes they were smart enough to do the most simple of tasks but it appears the same courtesy isn't being extended to him; the most advanced model CyberLife had designed to date. That was fine. He'll just do what he came for and diffuse the situation, just like these numbskulls couldn't manage to. The probability of success takes a two point dive;
Probability of Success: 48%
Related Objective: Understand What Happened.
Primary Objective Updated: Save Hostage at All Costs
Momentarily, Hank wonders what all these people have been doing here for so long, because it seems that none of them have done anything but stand around uselessly with their guns. No wonder they needed an android to negotiate. He scans over family photos on bookshelves; the son's name is Cole. There's a case for a gun on the floor—empty;
GLOCK 22 Gen4, standard. .40 caliber. Overall length: 7.95 in / Barrel: 4.49 in.
The bullets are unpacked next to the case, a full clip's worth taken. Fifteen bullets. Two men have been shot; Hank surmises that there are at least thirteen bullet's left in the father's gun which the deviant had taken. The more he knew, the more likely this would work out favorably.
Probability of Success: 51%
Long, decisive strides take him to Cole's room, decked out in sports posters and trophies for soccer—behind him, he can hear a conversation between two agents;
"That bastard's gonna jump."
"Fuck, man. I have the same model at home."
The fear in the room is nearly palpable, the chemical composition of the air shifting with the influx of chemicals. Hank doesn't have enough information, yet—there's still time. A pair of headphones lie on the floor of the boy's room, still softly playing music; perhaps he was unaware of the gunshots when they had occurred. The headphones are connected to a tablet, the video queued up was of the boy and the android.
"This is John, the coolest android in the world! Say hi, John!" Cole proclaims from the screen, all glittering green eyes and dazzling, innocent smile. The android—John, smiles pleasantly into the camera of the device.
"Hello!" John says brightly, with a wave.
"You're my bestie!" The child laughs, and the video shakes slightly; "We'll be together forever!"
Probability of Success: 61%
Well that was a significant leap, though not quite enough of one for Hank to exit the scene entirely to begin the negotiation. In the living room, the father lay dead—slumped over the shattered glass coffee table. Shot three times—Hank revises his math; ten bullets left, then, assuming the officers shot were only shot once, with a machine's deadly precision. Shapes in his mind's eye flicker over reality, the father had been taken by surprise, attention focused on the tablet in his hand, now half-broken on the floor.
A simple swipe is all it takes to unlock the device;
"Your order for an AP700 android has been registered." Reads out a robotic voice; and there it was, the trigger. John was going to be replaced. "CyberLife thanks you for your purchase." Before he can update the percentage there's two more gunshots from outside.
An officer falls and a member of the team drags him away from the windows, shouting for the rest of the squad to do the same. Eight bullets. There's a DPD officer on the ground, a first responder, probably—his skin is pale, the wood below him is stained with blood. Hank scans.
Oscar Deckart
Deceased / Detroit Police Department Officer
Estimated time of death: 8:03 PM
A single bullet wound in the chest—seven bullets. Gunshot residue on his hand, so he must have fired back. Perhaps John is injured. The officer's gun isn't near him; a simple reconstruction places it under the dining room table.
Androids are not allowed to wield firearms, but no one is watching programming does not intervene as he picks up the sidearm, slipping it, safety on into the back of his waistband—beneath the tailored suit coat, where it can't be seen.
Probability of Success: 72%
Still not high enough.
He makes his way into the kitchen, the sleek, modern appliances spotless besides one pot left on the hot stove, boiling over and spilling its contents onto the ceramic until the mixture burned and congealed into a foul-smelling black tar. A simple touch cools the surface, a small action which seems of little importance, but it wouldn't do any of them good if the fire department had to be called on top of the SWAT team which was already here.
The screen on the fridge is set to the news, muted, Hank doesn't turn it on—there's a SWAT officer in the pool, leaking blood into the chlorinated water. Six bullets.
Probability of Success: 75%
"Go away!" Comes a strangled voice from the terrace, too emotional and human to be coming from a machine, and yet—"All of you go away—or I'll jump!" It threatens—he threatens. John threatens.
"What are we waiting for?" An officer by the doorway complains, back flush to the thirium-stained wall; "We should take down this asshole."
"I've got a clear shot." The man next to him agrees, expression unreadable past his riot helmet.
Hank ignores them skillfully, dropping to one knee by a splash of the blue substance which was seeping into the expensive faux-wood that places like this often used. Fingers dip into the substance, bringing it to his lips to analyze. Model PL600 – Serial number 369 911 047. Beside the mess, a child's shoe, with blood on the very edge of the sole; the hostage might be wounded.
The android with him unquestionably is.
Probability of Success: 83%
Good enough. Hank straightens himself, not sparing a glance for the agents hidden behind the wall; he pushes past the sheer curtains and the metal fastenings scream against the rod. He's barely to the terrace when the deviant shoots again, clipping him in the shoulder. Blue blood splatters on the thin fabric behind him, the force of the bullet pushing him slightly to the side, but he rights himself easily and keeps moving.
Five bullets.
"Stay back!" The deviant, John, warns, gun aimed shakily at Hank who stands before the pair without expression or fear. "Come any closer and I jump!" The boy's face is streaked with snot and tears, his words frantic and unintelligible as he sobs and begs, lifted from the ground and held in place by one of the android's arms.
The gun turns to point Cole, who only cries harder. Hank can see the snipers assembling on the rooftops of other buildings, he needs to keep the focus on him,
"Hi, John." He calls out, voice low and gruff but loud enough to be heard over the whipping of air from the helicopter blades.
"How…" John breathes, skittering farther towards the edge—the balls of his feet are all that remain on the edge of the roof, a balancing act which would make any human's stomach tie into knots.
"My name is Hank."
"How do you know my name?" John demands, twitching as if he isn't sure which direction to point the gun. Hank wants the gun on him, away from the child, but John doesn't see him as enough of a threat, yet.
"I know a lot of things about you, John." Hank says calmly, taking a single, measured step farther onto the roof. "I'm here to help." He says, simply, not specifying who exactly it is that he is here to help. A helicopter approaches, coming too close for comfort—lounge chairs scrape across the deck and the wind whipping around him frees a silver strand from futile rubber prison, the synthetic grey dancing around the top of his vision.
Probability of Success: 68%
Shit. Okay. So that sucked. Hank continues to move forward, spying another officer gunned down to his left. Two shots to the chest; three bullets left in John's gun. By the weight of the piece tucked into his jeans, there are at least as many left in his own.
"I don't want to hurt you." Hank offers, which is almost funny because he isn't programmed to want, but he also isn't programmed for humor. "I just want to talk." He holds his hands out, to show he's unarmed, palms flat and outstretched. The smile he offers is robotic, tense, so to counteract his lack of humanity, here, he drops a bit of the formality in his speech. "Find a solution."
"Talk?" John scoffs, shifting uncomfortably with every step Hank takes towards him; "I don't want to talk!" The gun is still trained on Cole, who's probably going to need years of therapy.
Probability of Success: 71%
"It's too late for that, now." John's voice shakes with the echoes of regret and fear, "It's too late…" Now that Hank's closer, he can get a better look at the officer on the ground—two shots to the chest, but nonlethal, he's still breathing, but he won't be for long.
"He's losing blood." Hank informs John, giving the deviant an impartial glare. "If we don't get him to a hospital, he's going to die."
"All humans die eventually." He doesn't care, and why should he—humans treat androids as replaceable and suddenly John's feeling it all, LED spinning red, red, red. "What does it matter if this one dies now?"
"I suppose it doesn't." Hank agrees, because saving the life on one officer isn't his mission. He's here to save Cole. Another step, and he's barely ten feet away. The gun turns on him—finally.
"Are you armed?" John demands, again, as if Hank is afraid of being shot. He isn't, he scoffs.
"Only seems fair." Hank's gun isn't out, though. If he reached for it, John could easily shoot him first. "I won't use mine if you don't use yours."
"But—"
"Oh, come on." Hank hits him with a look that stems from an expression pathway labeled 'disapproving father', "What am I going to do? Shoot you and let you both fall? I told you." He puts on the accompanying tone of voice. "I just want to talk."
Probability of Success: 83%
"No sudden moves, or I'll shoot!" Another threat—this was getting a bit passé.
"Gotcha, hotshot." Hank sounds almost annoyed, almost human, and it's enough for John to pause, confused. "So let's get this straight; they ordered a new android, you thought they were going to replace you… and you got upset."
"I thought I was part of the family." John sounds devastated, emotional enough that the hand with the gun drops to his side, aiming at the ground instead of at Hank, who continues his slow but steady approach. "I thought I mattered… But I was just a toy to them!" The gun's up, on Cole again, and closer, this time. "Something to throw away when you're done with—"
"I know you and Cole there were real close." He leans to the side as he steps closer, making his approach seem softer—less of a head-on assault. His hands are still extended to show that they're empty. "You think he betrayed you, but he didn't, John." The boy sniffles, all out of tears but still shaking, scared into a place of silence. "He didn't do anything wrong."
"He lied to me!" The barrel of the gun jams against the boy's forehead, twisting in his dirty blond hair. "I thought he loved me, but I—I was wrong." John's hands are shaking—"He's just like all the other humans…"
"John, no…" Cole sobs, wriggling in the android's grip. Things look grim, but Hank is so close, he knows what to say. He was made for this.
Probability of Success: 99%
The helicopters get closer again, closing in on the rooftop—John waves the gun wildly, as if he's thinking of shooting one of them, not that it would do much good. He groans in agony and covers his ear with the hand holding the gun.
"I can't stand that noise anymore!" He yells, though his teeth; "Make them go away!"
"You think they'll listen to me?" Hank knows that if he motioned for it, they would. Well, they might. It wasn't as if CyberLife had jurisdiction, here—they weren't the enforcers of the law and this was a test run, he was a prototype.
"Maybe you're right." He says, arms going from vulnerable to crossed against his chest. "Maybe these humans don't care about us." He's choosing his language quickly, carefully—us. We're the same, you and me. I understand you. All these statements unsaid but clearly understood. "But you cared about them." Another step forward, from here, Hank can see John's LED indicator flickering yellow. "You were the one who took care of Cole. Taught him. Played with him. Helped him."
"What are you saying…?" John interjects, confused—Hank cuts him off.
"When no one else was there for him, you always were." Hank sounds stern, not quite angry, but forceful. Strong. "Do you truly believe he would willingly let his parents get rid of you? That someone else could replace you?"
"I—" Red has become yellow consistently, the light swirling as John works past the emotions to try and process what he's being told. Hank's only a couple feet away from the pair, now—close enough to catch the boy's swollen, red eyes with his own—calm and deep like the sea.
"You didn't know, did you, Cole?" Hank asks, voice coming out softer, now that he didn't have to speak as loud to be heard. The kid shakes his head, and Hank repeats the answer aloud. "He didn't know." Another question, to the boy, as he ignored the deviant for his answers. "You didn't want them to replace John, did you, Cole?"
"No…" The boy chokes out a sob, dry and broken because he's been crying for an hour now and there's nothing left. "Together forever…"
"Let him go, John." Hank turns his attention to the android. "Let Cole go, give me your gun, and let's walk out of here and talk."
Probability of Success: 100%
The boy's feet meet the ground and he runs towards the only humanoid shape which doesn't have a gun out—Hank. This was not part of the plan. The child latches on to the dark denim of Hank's pant leg. A large hand, designed to seem rough and human finds tiny shoulder, feeling the vibration of the tiny body feeling more panic than anything that young ever should.
"I—I'm so sorry…" John breathes, his words too quiet to be heard, but Hank's reading his lips. Hank nods to the ground.
"Put the gun down, John." He instructs calmly, and John looks at the metal device in his hand with dark eyes. It looks, for a moment, like he's ready to comply, but instead the light on his temple flashes red and he says it again.
"I'm so sorry." John raises the gun and Hank's processors flick through every possible scenario—no matter what happens, he just keeps coming back to his prime objective. The boy must be kept safe. Hank drops to his knees, wrapping his arms around Cole—he expects the next three bullets in his back, with Cole's face safely tucked into his shoulder, but there's only the sound of one.
John topples from the edge of the building, eyes lifeless as the bullet passes through his head, the gun held loosely in his locked hand.
Thirium spills down from the hole made in his chin and he hits the pavement sixty floors down with a cracking that Hank is sure no one can feel as viscerally as he can. At least he'd kept the boy from seeing it—even if that had not been something which he'd been concerned with before this moment. It takes two agents to extract the child—the hostage—from where he'd hidden himself in Hank's coat.
Hank removes the gun from his waistband, separating it from its clip and leaving the two pieces on the dining room table before he leaves.
Two bullets.
Mission Complete.