He'd always expected to die first. Age was a funny thing, but there was a comfort in knowing that you wouldn't have to grieve, that you wouldn't have to deal with the upset of those closest to you. But he didn't die first. He was alone. He had to grieve. First it was Cole and then Sumo. He'd never known pain or sorrow like it. He'd cry, he'd get aggressive, but this time was different. When Connor closed his eyes for the last time, Hank felt nothing but numb. Part of him died with that android.
His calloused palm ran over the butt of his revolver, picking it up. His gaze dropped to the reflection in the metal. He was old, but not old enough. Not old enough to outlive his android. He span the barrel and pressed it to his temple. Click. Empty. Nothing. He took another drink of the whiskey he'd poured into a glass. The thick, silent air being broken by the rattle of ice against glass. Hank had no reaction to his failed attempt. He'd have to try again.
It wasn't even part a case. Hank had stopped taking Connor to work with him as the android grew more human. Partly because Connor's interests had changed and developed, but mostly because Hank was scared to death of him getting shot. He was deviant now, it wasn't like Cyberlife could send him another copy. Connor would be dead, or dying, and they'd take him away and tear him to pieces to see how he'd malfunctioned. No, it was safer for Connor at home; or so Hank thought.
This day in particular was just a normal day. The two of them were walking to the store, just like everyone else. Connor had wanted Hank to become healthier, forcing him to eat less take-outs and walk more. Of course Hank complied to get him off his back, but he actually ended up enjoying it. Long walks with Connor, spending time with him in the kitchen as they cooked. It was nice. It was normal. It was supposed to be normal.
Connor had noticed the woman first. She had been following them, and Hank had told him not to worry, they were probably just going to the same place. Connor didn't forget about it, which is why he was so vigilant when a gun was pointed in their direction. Hank had no idea what was happening - one minute they were walking, and the next Connor had pushed him to the paved ground and the woman was running off. "What the fuck," Hank had begun to say, until he noticed the splash of blue that stained his new shirt.
After that, Hank hadn't had another feeling. All the aftermath blurred into one. Clinging to Connor, begging for help. Nobody wanted to help an Android. Nobody could help the Android. So Hank was left to just deal with it and go home. Home. It was so empty without him. The only sound he could hear was the calling of his name by the bottle of whiskey that sat on the counter, flaunting its curves seductively to Hank.
So he sat in his kitchen. Alone. He'd smudged the gun with the blue that lingered on his hands. The last bit of Connor he had.
He span the barrel again, pressing it to his temple.
Click.
The gun clattered against the tiled floor of his kitchen. He was old, and he wasn't going to get any older.