After leaving the precinct, Hank went in search of his old barbershop, a nearby privately owned business that managed to preserve the atmosphere of easygoing camaraderie and shoot-the-breeze from his father's day. It got harder to find such places when a simple order to an android could give you the perfect haircut from the comfort of your home.
Figured it'd closed down.
Hank sighed at the abandoned leather seats, the dust-covered television sets and dirty floor. There'd been some good times in this shop. He remembered walking in with cigars after the birth of his son, like the old-fashioned guy he was.
Without much else to do and a mission to complete – he was spending too much time with Connor – Hank continued down the block, observing rows of bankruptcy notices and For Sale signs with his hands shoved in his pockets and a cynical air.
Close to the end of the third block, he stumbled across a newly opened salon. Shielding his eyes from the sun and squinting, he peered inside the tinted window to see a female android sitting at the receptionist desk, the same ST300 model as the one staffed at the police station. Then he glanced to the side to see a line of women sitting on a couch around a table covered with magazines, and one guy with frosted tips sipping on a coffee.
Hank nearly turned around, but noticed that the android at the front desk had seen him staring, and feeling the tops of his ears heat up, reluctantly stepped inside. She greeted him with a casual friendliness, the way she always did – stop it – though Hank caught a note of amusement in her voice and smile that went a long way towards helping him relax.
As it turned out, the window was only tinted on one side. He would have laughed at the goofball unwittingly waffling in full view, too.
A male android showed him to a seat, and once he was settled, a young woman roughly college-aged showed him a card covered in names and prices that were written in looping cursive and mostly in French. Swallowing a groan, he dug out a newspaper clipping from his pocket and placed it on the counter, pointing at the white-haired man in the image under the bolded heading, "Can you make me look like him?"
As she frowned at the picture, Hank became aware of a quiet whirring emanating from her. She blinked rapidly. "You're Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the DCPD. You're the officer assigned to investigate deviants." That information had never been made public, and even if it had, Hank doubted a young girl like her would've been interested in his career.
"You sound sure about that," he said breezily, going for non-threatening, and apparently failing because she stiffened, glancing frantically at the exit. Quietly, with his gaze locked on her reflection in the mirror, he continued so hopefully only she could hear, "I'm not here to hurt you, and I don't care what you are." Louder, and for the benefit of any humans listening in, he tacked on jovially, "I know I'm not pretty to look at, but there's really nothing to be afraid of."
Slowly, she relaxed, easing into a smile. "Who said I was afraid?" Hank chuckled, allowing her to guide him to the back where the sinks were for a hair wash that Hank didn't remember agreeing to, but he wasn't about to complain. "Personally, " she said as he clambered onto the lounge seat, and scooted to lower his head into the sink, "I think you're very handsome for a man of your age."
He winced at the same time she applied shampoo. "Ouch." She hesitated, asking with concern if she had hurt him or if the water was too hot, but he just laughed. "How old do you think I am?" Before she could reply, he waved his hand dismissively. "Nevermind," he said. "You don't have to answer that."
Once that was done, she led him back to the leather seat, then secured a black smock around his neck. Meanwhile, his phone buzzed incessantly on the counter, demanding attention.
She picked it up, glanced at the screen, then with a teasing lilt, observed, "It looks like your son is very worried about you," and handed the device to Hank, who frowned at the dimmed screen in blatant confusion.
"My son?" He activated it, revealing a wall of texts from Connor that ran the gambit from mildly curious to low-key panicking. "Oh no, he's not my – He's actually a colleague. He's my partner."
She blinked, and then, "The RK800?"
"His name is Connor." A mild rebuke, though Hank still felt rather silly for saying it to an android, and a deviant at that. Luckily, she smiled, her gaze warm. "Of course. I could give him a call if you like."
Hank regarded her with renewed curiosity. "You can do that?"
"All Cyberlife androids come with a built-in cellular communication system." Huh. The more you know. She disinfected a pair of scissors in a cup, then combed out strands of his gray hair. "You'll have to give me the number of his implanted device, but no further assistance will be required." Come to think of it, Hank had never actually seen Connor use a cellphone. Since it served as a good distraction from the locks of hair falling into his lap and on the floor, Hank rattled off the number for her. He wasn't sure if he was expecting a dial tone, but what happened nearly made him shoot of the chair. Her lips parted at the same time her eyes took on a glazed, nobody's home appearance, and then Connor's panicked voice issued out, "Lieutenant?!"
Clutching his chest, Hank stifled a shout. Connor must have heard something, though, because he continued in a rush, "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Annoyed, Hank grunted a negative. "I checked several bars and contacted Chris and Detective Collins, but they all said you'd left the day. I became concerned when you didn't answer your phone or respond to my texts."
Hank groaned. "I'm fine, Mother. Cool your jets, would ya?" Opting for a change of subject, he asked, "Did you feed Sumo?"
"Affirmative." There was a pause. "Are you in need of any assistance, Lieutenant?"
Tiredly, Hank pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. "No, Connor. I'll see you back at the house." Then, plaintively, he added with some stress, "Please hang up." The young woman blinked, her jaw worked, and it was like a switch had been flipped.
She beamed, "Did you enjoy your conversation?"
When Hank grunted noncommittally, she didn't press the issue and got back to work. About fifteen minutes later, she'd proudly grabbed a handheld mirror for him to hold, "How do you like it?"
His own reflection looked back at him, more weathered than before, and with a few more wrinkles here and there, but on the whole-
"I look like a million bucks," he admitted, and the way she lit up at the praise didn't make him feel half-bad, either. On the way out, he surreptitiously dropped a tip on the counter for her, knowing she'd find it, eventually. It wasn't like androids needed food or water, but they had needs and desires, same as anyone else.
The receptionist at the DPD greeted Hank when he walked through the entrance the next morning, then did a double take, her eyes widening, "You look nice, Lieutenant."
The positive attention making his cheeks burn, he quickly thanked her and moved on, making his way past the female android cop manning the gate, and into the office. He wasn't expecting wolf whistles, per se, but grew suspicious when other than a few surreptitious glances from the rookies and a thumbs up from Chris, there didn't seem to be much of a reaction.
Fowler intercepted him before he could make it to his desk, but afterwards, the answer for the suspicious lack of ribbing became clear.
There was a Missing poster displaying an image of himself with his old hairstyle scowling back at him. Mirroring the expression, he grabbed the paper and read:
Have you seen this man?
Name: Lieutenant Hank Anderson
Physical Description: A hobo wearing a thrift store
Age: 50-?
Last Seen: Leaving work early
He shook the page, glaring at his colleagues accusingly, "What is this?" None of his so-called fellow officers deigned to fess up, so he tossed the poster into the bin, and lowered himself into his seat, only for Brown to suddenly blurt, "Hey, you can't sit there!"
"Yeah?" Hank challenged. "And why not?"
"It's Lieutenant Anderson's desk. He's the dude showing up late to work with a mop on his head."
"Hy-sterical. I take it this was your doing, then?"
"Nah," Brown rested a chin on his palm, looking inordinately pleased with having something to talk about that wasn't homicide, theft, or paperwork. "Chris did that." The smothered sounds of laughter emanating from the desk beside Hank's abruptly stopped. "I just sat back and enjoyed the show." When Brown noticed Chris staring at him with a stoic expression, he just shrugged. "Sorry, but Hank's scarier than you, especially with his new do."
The detective's accusing stare lingered, making him fidget, before he looked down at his desk, commenting casually, "The Ninth level of Hell is for traitors, Officer Brown.
The young officer chuckled nervously, "May the record show that I retract my previous statement," and that was the end of the conversation.
Soon after, Connor stepped in, glanced around, then made his way towards his desk, all without acknowledging Hank. He waited for his partner to say something, such as why he was showing up to work when he was supposed to be taking a few days off to prepare for the exam, but got nothing. Finally, he broke, "What in the blazes "are you doing here, Connor?"
Very seriously, Connor replied, "I'm sorry, but that seat belongs to Lieutenant Hank Anderson." Hank felt his eyebrows rise. "If you require assistance, I could help you file a request for another at reception."
On impulse, Hank grabbed a dry-erase marker and tossed it at him. It bounced off Connor's forehead with the plip of plastic hitting plastic. He hadn't even made an attempt to dodge. Instead of angry, he just looked mildly put-out that he didn't have any markers to throw, and that somehow pushed Hank over the edge. Clutching his stomach, Hank laughed until his lungs hurt and tears beaded in the corners of his eyes.