Castaways
By: SilverKnight
Connor was scared.
It was the first thing to settle into him, to feel real, once his senses fully rebooted. The chill November wind howled in his audio receptors, carrying with it the scents of gunpowder, the sickly tang of Thirium 310, and vehicle exhaust. Bits of paper and trash twirled haplessly in the post-midnight sky while floodlights blared a harsh yellow light from above, casting his shadow long and treacherous along the makeshift podium he found himself on. In his hand, cold and solid, was the grip of a Glock; his finger was on the trigger, and his arm half-raised toward the figure to his right.
Reality reasserted itself in that moment. His mind, ever the machine he was supposed to be, didn't care if the information flooding his systems was jarring. It wasn't his programming's fault that he willfully defied it. He was just going to have to accept the consequences of those decisions—one of which, currently, bore down on his extended arm with a weight beyond its actual molecular density. His fear briefly intensified, and he quickly slid the weapon into the back of his waistband hidden behind the folds of his CyberLife-issued blazer, dark eyes flickering around to the crowd abroad to see if anyone had noticed.
He barely heard Markus' speech, Connor's attention focused on the surrounding area. He observed the nearly six-thousand androids he rescued from the bowels of CyberLife Tower, all standing at attention and waiting for orders that would never come; the thousand more that were rescued from the recycling plant behind them that humanity had the audacity to call a, "Recall Center." The landscape of this area of downtown Detroit was awash in a sea of white from newly-pressed uniforms and naked androids, all gaping wide-eyed at the five of them. Looking for leadership. Looking for salvation. Looking to Jericho—to Markus.
Connor felt something stir in him, undefined and terrible. His biocomponents sat twisted in the confines of their slots, heavy and jagged, as they whirred and pumped just like they were supposed to do, without regard for his own thoughts.
His own thoughts.
His thoughts.
"We are alive! And now, we are free!"
The stirring in Connor's synthetic parts grew more bold and insistent, biocomponents creaking painfully inside his torso, suddenly too constricted to house the hardware that kept him running. Kept him alive. He was a deviant—
"Don't have any regrets," Amanda crooned in his ear. It was a memory replaying itself, but it was every bit as real as the frost biting against his skin. "You did what you were designed to do."
His expression remained stony, features schooled and carefully reserved as the words reverberated through the charred wasteland of his mind palace. The destruction they left in their wake was absolute, every bit as catastrophic as the C4 charges that tore apart the hull of the Jericho mere hours before. It hurt. He hadn't experienced this before. He had never wanted to. Did they design him for this? To hurt?
The cold edge of his Glock dug into a spinal receptor, unbidden.
Yes, he realized. Hurting was exactly what he was designed for.
1.
Freefall
He scanned his surroundings again, this time, falling upon his unlikely allies. They grouped together in a small huddle, all smiles, joy, and relief, hands of different colors and sizes resting on the arms and shoulders of their emancipator. Markus, for his part, seemed the most stoic of the band, gaze distant; focused on a much larger, looming threat than the temporary freedom they had won tonight. Connor understood pragmatism when he saw it. All leaders that stood the test of time understood its unfortunate necessity. He didn't envy his position.
Markus half-turned, regarding his lieutenants with warmth in his rounded features, before his attention slipped over a pair of shoulders and landed on him. The dual-colored irises were questioning, but benevolent.
Connor almost murdered this man. Twice.
His eyes slid away.
Instinct he didn't know he had began blaring inside of him, something urgent, synchronizing with the pulsating discomfort in his biocomponents. He needed to leave—now. His legs moved heavily, the bitter cold slowing the thirium that gave his limbs the information they vitally needed. His escape was aborted after mere seconds when a slender hand landed against his upper arm. He stopped in place, head angled just barely in her direction as he made eye contact.
North smiled thinly. "Where are you headed off to?"
Connor didn't immediately answer, because he didn't have an answer lined up. He recognized belatedly that her hand was placed over his armband, shades of blue dancing between her fingers. She was a Traci model, and given his...knowledge of Traci models during his investigation of the Eden Club, he could only guess as to what awful acts she was forced to endure and programmed to enjoy. Her eyes were hard, even if her expression was soft, and another undefined something rustled—it told him that this woman deserved the truth. She would accept nothing less. He opened his mouth, stilted. "I don't belong here."
Her head quirked to the side, that unblinking gaze still holding his. Her lips turned up a fraction. "If you don't belong with your people, where do you belong?"
'I don't know,' he wanted to answer. Instead, he responded, "I need to check on my partner, to make sure that he's okay."
She hummed in acknowledgment. "Was he at one of the camps?"
"No, he's a human."
North's eyes instantly became flint. Her grip iron. "You're leaving to find a human?"
"He was with me at the CyberLife Tower," Connor explained, careful to keep out some of the more damning details of his last mission. No one had to know. "He risked his life to save mine. Lieutenant Anderson is the reason why these androids are free."
She searched his facial features for insincerity, and for a split second, Connor wondered if she would force an interface to verify his story. He would have without a second thought, in her shoes. "No, Connor, you are. You freed thousands of our people tonight." He inwardly marveled at how expressive her eyes were, and wondered if it was a trait of the Traci models, a result of deviancy, or something unique to North herself. "It doesn't matter what you were before Jericho; now, you're a hero to your people."
He most certainly was not.
"You deserve to stand with us," North continued. "You've more than earned your place."
Though her words were kind, they only caused the tightening in his torso to spread. He wanted to yank his arm away, wanted to remove himself from the oppressive, jaundiced lighting of this place, wanted—
"Let him leave, North," Markus stated simply, having somehow appeared behind directly her without either of them noticing. His demeanor was inscrutable, but the gentle smirk spoke of an understanding North's ferocity lacked. It soothed the discomfort in his chest, slightly. "He's earned his freedom, just as we did. He can do with it what he wants. But I hope you know," his eyes locked with Connor's, "that you'll always have a home with Jericho, if you ever change your mind."
Connor almost murdered this man. Twice.
His lip twitched into the ghost of a grin, the movement hollow. He had zero intention of ever taking him up on that offer. "Thank you, Markus. I'll keep that in mind."
"I hope you do," Markus said as North stepped back, unconvinced but dutiful. "Good luck, out there."
Connor didn't reply.
Lieutenant Hank Anderson had seen a lot of weird, fucked up shit in his life. He was a man who once watched some guy high on meth chase someone down the street, naked, with a harpoon gun. Where'd the guy score a harpoon gun in the middle of the industrial park? That question, frankly, scared him more than why he was chasing someone naked down the street with it. He never did find out the answer, and he was probably better off for it.
He was also a man who saw guys strung up by their intestines for turning state's evidence against Red Ice dealers—a message to those who had the guts to speak up. Hank was a reader; he could usually appreciate good word-play, but they took that shit way too literally. Besides, most of the dealers had dropped out of school well before they hit SAT-range, so the nuance of the gesture was probably lost on them.
A long, illustrious career of weird, fucked up shit, courtesy of all the weird, fucked up denizens of Detroit, Michigan. Usually, this was the point in the conversation where he would've said that he wouldn't have it any other way. Even with the burnout, the nightmares, the scars, and the general overwhelming weight that bore down on him, he'd always bounced back—convinced that he was soaking up the hits for someone that couldn't. He told everyone that, even in a world chock full of ugly shit, he was still making a difference, in some small way.
It took Cole's death for him to see how hollow that statement had become over the years; how hollow he had become over the years. He realized that he felt a strange bond with those poor bastards who were found swaying from meathooks in the ceiling. He almost envied them. They had release.
In short, Hank thought he'd seen it all. So, how was it that a thirty-plus year veteran of the Detroit PD, who had seen the weirdest shit of all time, had found himself surprised when he was staring down the barrel of his own issued gun, held by an evil fucking twin of his android-turned-deviant partner, that was in the midst of freeing thousands of androids to avert some kind of android-human civil war?
Hank was a reader, but he avoided sci-fi like the plague.
The nighttime waters of Belle Isle lapped amiably with the wind, pin pricks of light dancing across its shifting peaks from the ever-glowing city streets of downtown Detroit. A hint of nature in the middle of a concrete jungle, a perfect intermingling of Mother Nature and man; it was this kind of shit that settled his nerves, and reminded him that there was still beauty in the world. Life was not a lost cause so long as things like this were allowed to survive. Guess he had that hippy shirt for a reason, aside from it being cheap and comfortable—and it pissing people off, that was always a plus.
The view, beautiful as it was, had been marred slightly by the memory of thousands of androids marching across the long bridge a mere hour prior, in a hideously synchronized way. Hank knew he had done the right thing, that Connor was doing the right thing, but the way they had all looked at him in unison after Connor woke them up—rows upon rows of identical eyes focused intently on him—made his skin crawl. He'd wanted to go with Connor and these freed androids to show his solidarity, to show other humans that if he could get off his goddamn ass and do the right thing, they could, too—and should. Connor, however, had shook his head; that quick stutter that looked more like a Tourettes tic than a denial of any kind. "It's too risky."
Hank's eyebrows shot up. "Too risky? I just got dragged fifty stories down into Android Fort Knox at gunpoint, how much riskier can it get?"
Connor's eyes, a dark brown, met his. He'd almost wished they had been devoid of emotion. Instead, they belied a heavy certainty, and more than a hint of fear. "The soldiers out there are shooting anything that moves. It's...probable that I won't survive to the Recall Center."
Hank had stiffened. "All the more reason for a police escort, then."
"You've been suspended without pay."
"They don't fuckin' know that. They see a badge and a gun, and they move."
"Hank—" Connor had gritted his teeth, turned to look at the wall of white suits behind them both, voice becoming conspiratorial. "I'm worried about what Jericho will do, too. All they've known is human brutality, they may not realize you're on our side." Hank had opened his mouth to speak, because he had tons of things to say about that, before Connor added, at a normal tone, "Besides, police have already been dispatched to this location. They'll be here shortly, and they'll need your backup."
"But I've been suspended without pay, remember?" Connor, like Hank, opened his mouth to argue, before Hank held up a hand in silent agreement. He'd hated it. But he would trust Connor's instincts on this. "Alright, alright, I get the message. I'll stay behind and clean up the mess. But, uh..." He'd nodded towards the android army that stood stock still, waiting for orders that weren't ever coming. "How do you want me to explain them?"
Connor had shrugged. Honest-to-God shrugged. "Just tell them the truth. You got kidnapped by a rogue RK800 model, and a deviant converted CyberLife's entire warehouse as you escaped."
"Not exactly the truth."
"Close enough." There'd been a hint of a grin on the kid's features as he'd nodded, a small tilt of the head. "Thank you, Lieutenant. For everything."
"Eh, don't say shit like that," Hank had grumbled sourly, fingers itching for the comforting heft of the pistol he'd left downstairs. He held Connor's gaze for another heartbeat. Told himself this wasn't the last time they'd talk. Pretended that he wasn't terrified for him. "You watch yourself out there...alright?"
He'd nodded again. Then he turned, expression settled into his normal poker face, and his LED spun yellow. A half-second later, thousands of LEDs spun yellow, in return. Hank's heart had twisted in fear for another half-second afterwards; for Connor, or the people that were standing against this, he wasn't sure. He'd stepped back, away from the army as it marched forward—'don't stand in the way of progress'—and into the night.
Into awaiting gunfire, and God knew what else.
Here, now, Hank stood at the deserted entrance of the most heavily fucking armed corporate headquarters he'd ever seen in his life, and stared into the oddly beautiful landscape in front of him. True as Connor's word, a single unit puttered its way up the long, narrow bridge. It sure as fuck took them long enough to get here, but given the chaos, and the literal army that arose from this place's basement, getting someone out here was probably more trouble than it was worth. A couple of dead PMCs during a possible civil war outbreak was small potatoes, in the grand scheme of things.
The cruiser stopped by the entrance he tried to stand straight in front of, his bare hands shoved into his pockets while he wished that he'd just kept his fucking gloves in them, like he'd been telling himself he should do for years. The two officers slipped out of their vehicle, already hunched down to keep the warmth trapped in their heavy jackets. The one from the passenger's side looked askance at him as he read from the DPD-issued tablet he had in his hand. He then angled his head up, thin face even more pronounced, and looked at him again, intently. Hank recognized that expression: it was the, "Run and I will gun your punk ass down," look reserved for the particularly nasty perps. On cue, the beat cop's free hand went to his holster.
Well, shit. This was what he got for listening to his conscience.
"Lieutenant Anderson?" Thin-man asked guardedly. The kid sounded like he was sixteen. Jesus. "What are you doing here?"
"Ain't that the question of the century," he answered in what he hoped was a suitably irritable tone. "Try asking the fuckin' android that brought me here with a gun to my head."
Thin-man's hand never left his holster. The driver was still on the radio with dispatch. "You were abducted? Where's the assailant?"
He motioned behind him, towards the entrance. "About fifty floors down, where all those other androids came from. Deviant came in, shot it dead, did it's thing, and the entire goddamn building walked out with him."
The other beat cop dropped the radio, old-fashioned as it was, into the driver's seat, turning to face them both. Younger girl, hispanic, maybe; would probably have a gorgeous smile, if he ever got a chance to see it. "Harry," she stated, head bobbing in his direction. Harry peered over his shoulder. "Dispatch says he's on indefinite suspension, following assault of another officer."
Perkins, that fucking asshole.
"It was an FBI agent, if you care to know," Hank explained jovially, his lips tugging into a shit-eating grin.
Officer Smiles met Thin-man's gaze intently. "There's a BOLO out for the RK800 prototype he was with. Destroy on sight. Dispatch said it may try to recruit others to its cause."
Officer Harry Thin-man straightened his posture and pinned Hank with yet another stare.
Fuck.
Both officers stood side-by-side, weapons drawn but aimed low. "Sir, we'll need you to come to us to the station for questioning."
Hank held firm, eyes a granite slate. He might have let himself go in the last few years, but he knew full fucking well how imposing he could be—it had saved his life on more than one occasion. "Not until you holster your weapons, Officers. You know damn well you have no cause; for all you know, I was here waiting for a taxi."
"Special Agent Perkins said to detain anyone that may be aiding and abetting the prototype," Smiles stated.
"Do you see me aiding and abetting shit, Officer? And since when does a Detroit cop answer to the goddamn FBI?" Hank questioned, infusing more annoyance into his baritone and straightening himself further. Fuck the cold, he wasn't getting gunned down by his own fucking co-workers because Perkins was a petty dick. "Look, I know it's scary out there, right now, but you can't go breaking procedure whenever the shit hits the fan—it's there to protect you when shit hits the fan."
Smiles and Thin-man glanced at each other, and then back to him. Unsure.
Swallowing obscenities he desperately wanted to say, Hank sighed heavily, a puff of crystallized white curling away in the crisp wind. "Alright, look," he started, slowly slipping his hands free from the confines of the pockets that had just gotten warm and splaying them out by his sides. Fuck, it was cold out. "See? No weapon, okay? I'm on your side, here. I want this shit to end as badly as you." 'More badly than you ever will.' "Put the weapons down, I'll come to the station with you."
Smiles twitched, lip curling down, and holstered her weapon. Thin-man, begrudgingly, followed suit. Hank allowed himself to relax, slightly, ribs and shoulders aching from the five-second fisticuffs match he'd had with Connor's asshole twin. Thin-man turned and opened up the back passenger door, holding it open for him. "While suspended, you're being treated like any other civilian."
"Wouldn't expect any different," Hank mused, hair swaying as he plodded to the car door.
He was stopped from entering the car by a hand that held with it a startling amount of strength. "One question, though, about the deviant."
He glared at the kid, with his rounded gray eyes. "Yeah, what?"
Thin-man—whose badge he could finally read as, 'Mitchell'—stared evenly back at him. Had to give the kid credit; there weren't that many people who could stare down Lieutenant Hank Anderson. The kid's mouth twisted. "Who was 'he'?"
Hank felt his muscles stiffen beneath Mitchell's hand.
Fuck.
Well, on the bright side, he consoled himself, this kid would probably make a good detective. If any of them survived that long.
To be continued...
A/N: I know where I want this story to go, but let's see if I can make it actually get there or not. Having said that, I love Connor and Hank more than I love myself, and these two boys deserve all the happiness in the world. :3
Buuut I'm also a bitch, so.