A/N: I cannot stop writing this story. So many pages to post eventually. Past bits first, then onto the present continuation. ^^ Fair warning, this chapter is long at 13K words. Sorry, not sorry?

Tags: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, CyberLife is a Dick, Urban Fantasy, Background Canon Events, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Plot Twists, Whump, Human Experimentation, Developing Relationship, Past Character Death, Blood and Violence, Phoenixes, Immortality Eventual Happy Ending


Chapter 2: This Fire Inside Me

Side A: Connor

March 24th, 1986

Halfway through his lunch, Brian idly looked around the diner, the seats only half-full. A family of four were at the table next to him, three generations sitting down for a meal. It was a nice sight, but something bothered him as his gaze landed on the oldest man's face.

It took Brian a minute to place it, then he turned away, feeling eyes bore into his back. He raised a hand in the air, trying to signal the waiter so he could get the check. The faster Brian got out of the dinner, the better.

"Grandpa, what's wrong?" The kid's high voice was near, much closer than Brian thought. He glanced to his left, startled by the elderly man standing at the end of his table. "Grandpa?"

"David?" Aaron Wilson. A blast from the past, another lifetime ago. Brian heaved a mental sigh, meeting Aaron's eyes steadily. Despite having been through it countless times, he would never get used to seeing his friends and loved ones bow underneath the relentless passage of time.

It was why he always resettled elsewhere upon starting a new life. Still, events such as this happened once in a blue moon, proving life could be a bitch when it wanted to be.

"That was my father," Brian said smoothly, hoping that would be the end of it. "I've been told I resemble him a great deal."

"Sound like him too," Aaron contested, leaning closer to Brian, scrutinizing him. "Eerily so."

A younger man with similar facial features came up beside him, touching Aaron's shoulder. "Dad, let's not bother the nice man."

"But, Jason, it's David." He hated having to undermine his old friend's presumption because he was right. Once upon a time, they'd gone through hell together, and now Brian had to pretend he had no idea who Aaron was. The deception ate at him. He hated lying and if Brian could have gotten away with the truth, he would've, but that wasn't the way life worked for him.

"C'mon, Dad." Aaron let himself be led away from Brian's table, still looking upset but powerless to do anything about the situation without drawing further unwanted attention. The waiter finally brought him the check, Brian putting down enough cash to cover it and the tip.

He shot one last look in Aaron's direction, seated next to his son and grandchild, the man's eyes still watching him. A sad smile gathered itself on Brian's face, then he pushed through the door, leaving the remnant of his past behind.


April 2nd, 1986

"You are David Delano."

The unexpected voice made Brian turn from the shelf of potato chips, taking in the young man who'd led his father away from him in the diner a week ago. Had it been Jason?

He was standing next to Brian, staring at him intently as if he'd seen a ghost. "As I explained a few days ago, he was my father. I really don't appreciate being harassed like this."

Jason slowly took an item from his back pocket. When he held it out to display it, Brian's stomach dropped.

A photo. It was at least 20 years old and showed a small group of people sitting on a porch with drinks in their hands. Despite being a touch grainy from wear and tear, Brian's face was clearly visible.

He cursed internally, wondering how the photo had been taken without his knowledge. As a rule, Brian avoided cameras of all kinds if he could help it, keeping away from big historical events as well. There was no need to tempt fate.

"I really thought Dad had lost it until he dug this out of his closet," Jason said. "But after examining it and seeing you in person again, there's no mistake. I have no idea how it's possible though."

It was the worst possible situation for Brian. "Just because I bear a strong resemblance to my father doesn't mean we're the same person. That's crazy." If he could just talk his way out of it.

"Dad's the most honest person I know. Why the hell would he lie about this?" Jason took a step forward. "Your face went pale when I pulled this out. That's not the reaction of an innocent man."

"I've been under the weather lately," Brian said quietly, his grip tightening on the handle of the cart. "Look, I don't know how much more of this I can take. I've explained again and again.

"My name is Brian Bailey. Do you want to see my driver's license? Birth certificate? Social security card?" He'd raised his voice, attracting the attention of the other shoppers around them.

Jason stepped back, self-conscious of the sudden public scrutiny. He tucked the photo back into his pocket, beginning to turn on his heel. "This isn't over," he promised.

Brian didn't doubt it. Aaron had passed on his stubborn streak to his son, which made everything worse. Finally left alone, Brian slouched over the cart, his hands trembling slightly.

"Are you okay?"

He waved off the kind woman's question, flashing her a smile. "Yeah, thanks."

Nothing was fine. He had a feeling Jason wouldn't let the issue go, and the thought of encountering him again in town wasn't pleasant.

There was nothing for it. Brian had to start over.

As calmly as he could manage it, not wanting to draw attention to himself, Brian returned to his apartment. No one followed him there as far as he could tell.

Once the front door shut behind him, he walked into the kitchen and knelt in the middle of the floor.

He grabbed the rug lying before him and threw it to the side. Once the baseboard had been revealed, he dug a finger into a loose slat of the floor and lifted it and its brother up, revealing a hidden compartment.

The metal box was cold as Brian pulled it out, shortly placing it on the kitchen table. Inside was everything he would need to secure a new life. Money, papers, etc.

He took the box into his bedroom and packed it and the absolute bare minimum into a large suitcase. Like Brian was just going away for a few days.

There were lots of things he'd miss, his job as an English teacher and friends first and foremost. Second was the woman he'd just started dating. Resentment stirred inside him and Brian dismissed it quickly. It was wasted energy that could easily be spent on worthier endeavors.

He took one last look at his apartment, then left, locking the door behind him.

For a long time, Brian simply drove. Distance the sole aim, putting several states between him and California.

At a rest stop, he got out a road map and located the closest national park. It turned out to be Shenandoah National Park, a stone's throw from Washington D.C. with over 300 miles of wilderness. He smiled.

It was the perfect place to bury someone.

When he came back to himself, he breathed a sigh of relief. With the weight of the accumulated years cast off, he could do anything. Be anyone.

The main benefit of regeneration.

Given he hadn't used the name in a while and it had always been one of his favorites, the decision was an easy one.

Brian Bailey was dead.

Long live Connor Campbell.


October 5th, 1996

Connor spun the key ring around his finger, his other hand holding a cup of coffee as he walked down the sidewalk. He whistled merrily, thinking ahead to the new shipment that had come through the loading dock and how long it would take to unpack it all.

He raised his keys to the front door of the shop, pausing when he noticed that the lock was broken, part of the glass door cracked. Having only gone out for a coffee run and leaving his college part-timer Tina behind to take care of some things in the back after closing up, Connor's cause for concern rode high.

Pushing through the door as quietly as possible, he placed his coffee and set of keys behind the counter. He lifted the receiver of the phone next to the register up to his ear, expecting to hear a dial tone, finding only silence. Connor knelt down, following the phone cord to the jack in the wall. It was still connected but severed at the very end.

Frowning, Connor returned the receiver to the phone cradle. Even if the option of calling the cops had existed, it was too risky for do so. Though the paper trail behind his current identity was solid and wouldn't raise suspicions, Connor still preferred avoiding any type of authoritative body.

It had been easier before technology had improved by leaps and bounds. Now even touching things presented a risk. Connor started towards the back of the bookstore, slinking through the aisles, using them as cover. When he got close to the employees only entrance, a pair of voices were audible.

"Open the safe." They must have been in the back office.

"I told you already, only the owner knows the combination." The sharp intake of breath on Tina's part conjured terrible images in Connor's mind, wondering what kind of weapon the owner of the deep male voice was holding.

"Well, where is he?"

"He should be back any moment." Connor looked around for something he could use as a weapon, frustrated when the only option nearby was an umbrella that had been set up to dry earlier that morning. He picked it up, holding it with the pointed tip out.

There was no more delaying, not when Tina was in danger. Trying for a casual tone as he entered the back section of the store, Connor called out, "Tina? It started raining again."

"Oh, god, Connor." The relief on Tina's face was immense as he walked into his office. The large man with a bandana over the lower half of his face turned to him, the knife in his hand looking huge and threatening. "Just give him what he wants." There was a red mark on Tina's cheek that hadn't been there before Connor had left.

"Did he hit you?" Tina's lower lip trembled as the man approached Connor, her small nod escaping his notice. Anger started up in Connor and his grip on the umbrella tightened.

"Listen, pal, open the safe and nobody needs to get hurt." But somebody already had and though she'd only been working at the store for a few months, Connor was fond of her. She didn't loaf around during shifts and was always eager to help out whenever a customer had an inquiry. He couldn't have asked for a better employee.

Connor carefully moved closer to the man, trying for an optimal angle. "Okay, just relax." He was almost to the safe, his heart in his throat as his pulse hammered wildly. Only a tiny bit more…

"Don't try anything funn-"

Before he could remind himself how bad an idea it was, Connor lurched to the side, rushing the man, the tip of the umbrella puncturing his left arm. He pushed with all his strength, which given was a touch above a normal human's, got the impromptu weapon into the robber relatively far. Unfortunately, he was right-handed and Connor was aware of a sharp burning pain in his chest as the robber struck back, his knife flashing in the overhead light.

Tina screamed before the man cursed, heading for the office door. "Screw this." He pushed Tina aside, the girl too startled to react, falling against the door as he fled. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, then Tina's chin flopped down on her chest.

The strength in his legs gave out, Connor dropping to the floor. He unclenched his grip around the umbrella, letting it drop to the floor. He heard the front door slam shut loudly, the robber probably left thinking the whole thing was a wash, not wanting to stick around in case all the noise attracted other people.

Breathing was hard, Connor thinking a lung had been nicked by the blade, copper a bright taste on his tongue. He swallowed back the blood, more worried about his unconscious employee than himself. Warmth blossomed in his chest as regeneration kicked in, Connor thankful it made fast work of his injury.

When he could finally take a breath without effort, Connor slowly stood up. He looked down at his bloody shirt, a macabre reminder of the experience. Making checking on Tina a priority, Connor was relieved to find that she just had a small bump on the back of her head.

He'd been reckless, gambling with just not his life, but Tina's. At his age, Connor was old enough to know better. Still, the situation had pissed him off. There had been no reason for the robber to take his frustrations out on Tina.

Certain she was all right, he left her lying in the office, going to the bathroom where he shut and locked the door. Connor shucked the bloodstained long-sleeved shirt, going for the spare he kept in the cabinet that was similar in color and style.

Connor used the old shirt to blot a small area on his chest, then made a small cut with scissors in it. He looked up at his reflection after washing his face, forcing a smile. "Time to lie again."

He sighed. Why did the robber have to choose his bookstore out of all the businesses on Main Street? It was terrible luck. Before he left the room, he stood on the toilet and pushed up a ceiling tile, stashing his bloody shirt on top of it. Connor washed his hands, then returned to Tina's side.

He gently shook her shoulder, Tina stirring after a moment, opening her eyes. She sat up, awareness making her eyes go wide as she took in the blood on Connor's shirt. "The robber…he's-"

"Gone," Connor said, silently checking Tina out for signs of a concussion. If needed, he'd drive her to the hospital. Still, she didn't seem disoriented, her coordination was intact, and so far she hadn't looked remotely nauseated.

Tina clutched at his shirt sleeve, brow knitted in worry. "I saw him stab you. I was so afraid he'd killed you." Connor pulled her hand down, smiling gently at her.

"It looked worse than it was. I think I threw his aim off when I got him with the umbrella." As flimsy as the story was, Tina appeared to accept it, relieved Connor was okay. He helped her stand up, wondering how to proceed without sounding incredibly sketchy. "Tina, I need you to do me a favor."

She stopped feeling the back of her head, turning to regard Connor questioningly. "Since neither of us is seriously hurt, I would prefer not to notify the police about this."

"What?" Disbelief gradually crept into her expression.

"It's not like he did much damage," he added, going into the small kitchen area to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer. "It'll also be bad for business if customers are scared off by this." He wrapped the pack in a few paper towels, then handed it to Tina who silently took it. "Do you understand?"

"No," she replied quickly, studying Connor as if searching for an ulterior motive. "What about the broken front door?"

"It can be repaired. Tell you what," Connor said, placing a hand on Tina's elbow as they walked to the front of the store. "Take the rest of the week off while I get things back in order. How's that sound?"

"All right, I guess I'll see you next Monday then."

Connor stopped her before she crossed over the shop threshold, leaning a hand against the side of the open door. "Tina, I can trust you to keep this secret?"

Tina nodded after a long moment, still skeptical about the whole situation.

Connor beamed at her. "Thank you."

As she walked out the front door, heading for the parking lot, Connor frowned. He watched her drive off, fearing he might have mishandled the situation.

If he heard any approaching sirens in the next hour, Connor would know Tina had called them anyway. He felt sick at the thought of being helpless to stop events if they turned against his favor.

Connor tied a cord around the front door handles on his way out, the best he could do. Tomorrow, he had to call the phone company and a repairman. With any luck, everything would go back to normal.

"Hey, Connor, I need your help." Looking up from his seat at the register at Tina's voice, he put down the book he'd been reading during downtime. She gestured to the back of the store. "There are still a few boxes we've yet to unload and doing it together would be faster."

"Of course." Though he'd feared Tina might have gone to the police against his wishes after the robbery, she'd showed up after the impromptu vacation, acting entirely normal. "Gary, watch the front." His other part-time employee nodded, walking towards the front desk as Connor headed to the back storage area.

One of the boxes was heavy enough that Connor could see why Tina struggled with it. Once they got it on the table, he held down the top of the box as she ran a box cutter down the middle. She turned the device sideways to cut the tape on the sides, moving faster when she hit the last area.

Without warning, the blade in her hand slipped, plunging into the side of Connor's hand. He jerked backward, automatically pressing his other hand against the wound. "Oh, god, are you all right?" Tina hovered next to him, looking distressed. "How bad is it? Let me see."

"It's fine," Connor insisted, the blood leaking from between his fingers doing nothing to improve the situation. He had to get away from Tina as soon as possible so she wouldn't see him heal. "I need to wash this. That box cutter has seen better days."

Tina moved to block his way when he started for the bathroom. "Are you sure I can't do anything?" She touched his arm lightly, eyes trained on his hands. "Call an ambulance maybe?"

Connor smiled at her reassuringly, holding back a groan when a muscle spasmed inside his hand, inner workings being put right again. That the process took a few minutes to kick in said much about how deep the wound had been. "No need. Really."

She pulled at his arm. "Please let me help you. It's my fault after all." His fingers began to slip from the blood, and Connor pushed past Tina forcefully, almost slamming the bathroom door in her face.

What the hell had gotten into her? Connor shook his head, turning on the light to get a closer look at his hand. Though it was mostly healed, there was still a deep gash running alongside a few fingers.

Experimentally, Connor flexed and fisted his hand. The fingers appeared to work fine. He wondered if he would have lost use of it had he not been of the supernatural variety.

It wasn't like Tina to be so clumsy. Connor dismissed it as simple human error. To avoid suspicion, he bandaged the area where he'd been cut, now completely healed, coming out of the bathroom a few minutes later.

While he couldn't do anything about the lack of scars on his body, Connor planned to play up the injury for a few weeks, something that had become second nature to him after years of practice.

"Everything okay?" Tina asked, fidgeting with a pen and clipboard, updating their inventory. Connor nodded, giving her a stiff wave with his previously injured hand. She sighed in relief. "I thought for sure you'd have to get stitches."

"It was more superficial than it seemed." Her eyes narrowed, but Tina didn't comment further, peering at Connor as he cleaned up the blood he'd spilled on the way to the bathroom. Once he was done, he helped her unload the box of books onto a metal trolley that would later get distributed around the shop.

He went back to his spot near the register, only vaguely noticing Tina collect the trash around the various bins around the shop, shortly disappearing outside to deposit them into the dumpster out back. Connor hadn't asked her to, but it was nice to see Tina take the initiative.


Days later, Tina picked up the phone, her face freezing for a moment as she listened to the voice of the other end. "Uncle Vic, this isn't a good time. I'm at work." Her eyes flitted up to Connor, flashing him a nervous look. "Yes, right, I'll call you back later."

"Family in town?" Connor asked. Though he preferred employees took personal calls on their own time, if there was a good reason he had nothing against it.

Tina shook her head. "Dad's been having some health problems and I'm keeping my uncle in the loop. I told him to call me at home though."

"He's probably just concerned. I know I would be if it were my brother."

"…Do you have any?" Tina sounded anxious asking, Connor hiding a smile. "Family, I mean. You've never mentioned them."

"Nothing to say really."

"Oh." Tina's face fell, fingers tapping the book resting on the counter. "Sorry, I didn't know."

Connor shrugged, long used to avoiding the subject. To say it was complicated would be an understatement. "No worries." He was slightly confused by Tina's reaction to the subject. Perhaps she was afraid of offending him.

"Do you at least have anyone special?" The question had been mumbled, as if Tina hated herself for asking, but couldn't help it.

Connor frowned a bit, tilting his head. "No. Why the sudden interest in my love life?"

Tina fidgeted some more. "I-I'm just curious. You're a really nice guy so I wondered…"

Connor's intuition piqued, making him ill at ease with the whole conversation. On the surface, it was innocent enough, but there had to be a reason beyond mere curiosity. "The store takes up a lot of my time, and dating is…it's hard to find someone with similar interests."

Not to mention being a resident of the supernatural world threw all sorts of kinks into the affair. Total honesty sometimes wasn't the best course when it came to matters of the heart.

He'd settled in Nashua five years ago, growing comfortable enough that barring any unpleasant surprises, Connor would spend the rest of this lifetime here. Business was good, Connor managing to build a pleasant life for himself.

As far as Tina knew, Connor was a 30-year old loner in the community. Maybe she questioned why he kept a healthy distance between himself and other people.

Or she...Oh. Tina had a crush on him. That explained her excessive worry whenever Connor got injured, as well as her embarrassment about asking about his life outside the store.

It was flattering but wouldn't go anywhere anytime soon. Age might not have held much importance to Connor compared to other people, yet he wasn't so desperate as to hit on his own employee. He had too much respect for her.

He fumbled for words, trying to address the issue without being obvious about it. "If you're trying to set me up with someone, Tina, I'd rath-"

"Oh, no," Tina replied swiftly, hurriedly waving a hand in dismissal. "I'd never do that."

The front door opened, a middle-aged woman stepping into the store. Tina turned to greet her with a smile, seeming to welcome the distraction. "How can I help you?"

"Do you have Servant of the Bones?"

"We do, yes." As they walked over to the rack displaying bestsellers, Connor shook his head. Hopefully, Tina had gotten the message and they could continue working together without incident.


When the doorbell rang at ten o' clock at night, Connor was concerned. Late night news was rarely good. As he put a hand on the front doorknob, his intuition flared up, telling him it was a bad idea.

Heeding it, Connor stepped back, instead looking outside on his stoop using the door's peephole. The black mask that stared back at him was startling, Connor's heart lurching in his chest. He jerked back from the door, heading further into the house, going for any available weapon.

The kitchen was closest, Connor going for a few knives. He swept into the rear of the house, kneeling down, placing his back against the wall. He leaned his head out to keep an eye out as something slammed into the front door, causing a large crack that ran down the bottom of it. A second impact broke it entirely, three men decked out in black clothes entering his house.

The one in front of the group signaled the other two to move to his right and left while he moved straight ahead, taking the front. Each of them held a gun in their arms, a light looking affair with a long hollow barrel.

Tranquilizer guns? Confused, Connor pressed back into the library, furiously thinking about what to do next. The odds were stacked against him at three to one. He wasn't without basic self-defense knowledge but doubted he could take on so many at once.

That left him with using his familiarity of the house against them, separating and taking them out one by one. After that, as much as it pained him to do so, Connor would have to cut and run, starting over elsewhere. It was too perilous otherwise.

He glanced down at the small remote control in his front flannel pocket, smirking when he remembered he'd muted the TV upon getting up to check the front door. It was a perfect distraction.

Connor readjusted, going to his knees, focusing on the man in the middle of the trio approaching his kitchen. He hit the unmute button on the remote control, frowning when nothing happened. Was he too far away?

He shifted his arm up, lining up the remote so it was nearly level with the TV. This time, a burst of canned audience laughter erupted from the family room, the man turning in alarm, giving Connor the perfect opportunity.

He renewed his grip on the knife handle and threw it as hard as he could, the hilt end of the blade striking the man on the back of the head. He grunted in pain, his knees going unsteady, but didn't go down for the count.

Biting his lower lip in concentration, Connor threw his other knife, getting lucky as the sharp end sunk into the man's shoulder. His grip on the strange gun loosened as he held it against his hip, the man's other hand trying to grab the knife hilt while he groaned in pain.

"Smith, what happened?" One of his companions asked, returning from their search of the basement.

"He's goddamn here and fucking with us. Help me get this out, Brown." Connor sat back on his heels, filing away the names, though they were rather common surnames. Probably why they didn't mind saying them aloud.

Wait. Where had the last man gone? Connor had lost track of him.

He'd gone to the left, which meant the man had hit upon his bedroom and bathroom. Any moment now, he would be coming up in the hallway that led to the library Connor was currently occupying.

Beyond books, he didn't see any weapons in sight. That meant he would have to rely on the element of surprise. Connor put himself flat against the wall, wishing he'd been able to reach the back door located next to his bathroom. That way, he could have slipped through the backyard and been long gone by now.

The two men in the kitchen were busy retrieving the knife from Smith's shoulder, Connor going still he sensed someone approaching. Crossing his fingers mentally, he tossed the remote into the middle of the library, watching the third man pause, then start to kneel next to it to see what it was.

It put him in perfect alignment with the bookshelf that held his heaviest books, thick volumes of classic literature and a set of encyclopedias. Connor sprung into action, coming out from his hiding spot while the man's back was still turned. With little effort, he tipped the bookshelf over, the tomes slipping from its shelves, knocking the armed man to the floor.

His grip on the gun loosened as the frame of the hefty bookshelf itself joined the fray, finishing the job. Knowing the man would only be dazed, and that the noise of it all would bring his companions running, Connor kicked him in the face, knocking the man unconscious before grabbing the tranq gun he'd wielded.

One down and two to go.

Connor started for the hallway, halfway down it when he heard, "Wilson?" Looked like they'd finally recovered the knife from his friend's shoulder.

He ducked low, hugging the wall, the bathroom in sight now. He could make it, he was less than five feet from his freedom. Some sixth sense took hold of Connor and he moved to the left, something whizzing past his shoulder.

Without hesitating, Connor spun around, the man named Smith who he had stabbed in the shoulder in his sights. He squeezed the trigger, satisfaction blooming within him when it hit Smith square in the side of the neck.

Smith seemed mildly annoyed as he pulled out the dart, his partner lining up his own shot.

Not knowing how to reload the weapon in his hands, Connor threw it aside and scrambled for the bathroom, figuring he could go out the window if needed. He'd almost gotten through the door when something stung the left side of his chest.

Connor looked down, seeing a long tube with colored bits on the end. He yanked it out, venom in his eyes as they met those of the man called Brown who'd managed to finally get him.

"Nighty-night." It was said mockingly as if he was sure that was the end of the matter.

Oh, no, he wasn't going quietly.

Even if he fled, Connor had no idea how far he could get before the drugs took effect. It was better to fight back while he still had a chance. Maybe he could get lucky.

Seeing an opening as Smith staggered against Brown's side, slowly crumbling to the floor as he went unconscious, Connor charged back down the hallway, driving his fist straight into Brown's nose, breaking it. He followed it up with another punch, striking the man firmly on the left cheek.

Brown rocked back on his feet, one hand rising to clutch at his profusely bleeding nose. Connor's vision began to go blurry and he pressed his attack while he could, slamming a knee into the Brown's midsection.

Connor stumbled back almost the same time as Brown fell forward, rapidly losing strength in his legs and arms. The color bleached out of everything, a long dark tunnel fast approaching him.

He'd been so close. One more blow would have ended it.

Connor's breathing rising in panic, he stared as Brown caught himself at the last moment with a hand on his knee.

"Mild-mannered bookseller, my ass."

The world died all around him.


October 15th, 1996

The blindfold was tight across his eyes as well as the binding on his mouth. They hadn't bothered tying his hands and feet together. Whatever drug they'd pumped into him left Connor's head swimming, his limbs heavy with no strength left in them. No one had spoken since they'd exited his home and thrown him into a vehicle.

Connor kept trying to get his thoughts together, but couldn't maintain a hold on them beyond a fog of confusion why this was happening to him. They could have been driving for minutes or hours, it was difficult to tell.

When they did stop, Connor felt hands grab him, maneuvering him into what felt like a wheelchair.

"You're late." It was a baritone voice, slightly peeved from the sound of it.

"Traffic was a bitch."

"You look like hell."

A low snort. "He put up a hell of a fight."

"Hmm. You're sure this is him?"

"Yes."

"Forgive me if I need to see proof before I believe you."

The pair pushing him fell silent until a variety of voices surrounded him, the wheelchair stopping. Someone touched his arm, pulling it straight up at a painful angle. They pushed down his shirt sleeve. Connor stilled as cold metal brushed against his skin, his stomach twisting into knots.

"Are you recording?"

"Yes."

Connor jumped when a sharp burning sensation ran down the length of his forearm, realizing he'd been cut by a blade. With what he presumed was a room full of witnesses, he couldn't heal like normal.

Gritting his teeth, Connor suppressed what was a natural part of himself, wanting to scream as his whole body fought against it. His nerves were in absolute agony at every excruciating inch of skin that slowly pulled itself together, fusing shut.

Tears ran into his blindfold as Connor shook in his seat.

"Did you see that?" Someone asked incredulously. The hand holding his arm flipped it this way and that as if searching for the secret trick.

"Do it again," the baritone voice commanded.

"I can play the footage back."

"No, I want to make sure it's not a fluke."

The knife bit into his arm again, deeper than before. Connor squirmed, sure he'd be shouting if his mouth were free. It took slightly longer this time, likely due to the deep tissue damage, yet the wound still knit together.

"Amazing."

"How the hell did you find him?" Somebody else asked.

The baritone voice chuckled. "My niece worked for him, believe it or not. Even got me a blood sample so I could be sure he wasn't human."

A wave of disappointment and equal parts disbelief sweeping through Connor. Uncle Vic Tina had said…her odd behavior during the last few weeks suddenly made sense. It had been no accident she drove a box cutter into his hand.

He wondered if there was a part of Tina that felt guilty at ratting him out, whether it would keep her up at night knowing she'd put him in this situation.

And here Connor had thought she'd had a crush on him. He'd been so wrong.

"Can you imagine working alongside this?"

The adrenaline rush from the experience was beginning to wear off, blackness slowly eating at Connor's vision. He embraced it with a sense of relief, his head falling back against the top of the wheelchair.


"It's incredible. We've cut, stabbed, ripped, and eviscerated, and The Asset keeps healing. It makes me wonder…"

Through exhaustive experimentation, they'd found Connor's system took care of mortal wounds first, usually within a few minutes. More minor injuries sometimes took a bit longer.

They hadn't done enough to completely activate the regeneration process, which Connor wanted to keep completely under wraps. If they eventually got bored, maybe they'd exterminate him and dispose of Connor's body, leaving him to simply heal up and make good his escape.


After a few days, they removed the blindfold and gag but increased the dosage of whatever drug they were giving him, leaving Connor barely conscious of his surroundings. He knew he was in a barred cell, a small bathroom in the corner, yet little else.

He looked up with effort when a man and woman in white lab coats entered his cell, picking him up under the arms. They traveled through a few nondescript rooms before placing Connor on plastic sheeting.

The damn camera, the familiar witness that always observed him in experiments, was sitting on a tripod at the front of the room, running as usual. "If you're wrong, sir, they'l-"

"I'm not. Now hand me the gun." It was the same baritone voice as before, belonging to a tall lanky red-haired man.

They were upping their game. Connor struggled to sit up, his hand slipping briefly on the plastic, raking his eyes up to meet the gaze of what he assumed was the man in charge.

What had Tina said that day in the shop on the phone? Vic. It had to be short for Victor.

There was no sympathy to be found in his dark green eyes. He turned to look at the blonde woman at Victor's side instead. She, at least, looked nervous about the proceedings.

Connor cleared his throat, voice coming out raspy. "You don't have to do this."

"I really do."

He saw Victor's finger squeeze the trigger, then nothing at all.

The main problem with living forever was that no matter what happened, be it a paper cut to a broken bone, one healed. There was little choice in the matter, and it was accepted merely as the price of existence. Connor had avoided confrontation most of his life, simply to stay underneath society's radar. Attention was dangerous to his kind after all.

He had never caught a bullet with his head before.

Its entry was violent, scoring across the left hemisphere, ripping brain cells to shreds, neurons blindly misfiring, precious connections lost.

Connor lay prone, utterly paralyzed, the link between his mind and body abruptly severed. He forgot why it was happening, struggling to maintain his identity.

The floor was cold, the plastic sheet little relief as he laid there, the bullet's passage finally stopped, more than halfway through his head. The knowledge that the brain itself felt no pain wasn't the least bit comforting. Nor was the information that it had been a low-caliber bullet that hit him, the gun's barrel short, limiting the amount of damage it could do to him.

The small piece of metal lodged there uncomfortably, looming larger than it really was. If Connor could have squirmed, he would have. As it was, he couldn't remember where he was, his eyes beginning to itch uncomfortably from lack of blinking.

Faces of a man and woman appeared over him, the man holding a gun at his side, forehead narrowed in what looked like anger. Sound was muted at first before gradually snapping back.

"Oh, god," the woman moaned, her hand locked over her mouth. She gagged, turning away for a bit, coming back a second later looking paler than before. "You killed him."

"Nonsense, Watson." There was a tiny bit of doubt in man's voice, even as he appeared confident about the situation. "Give it time."

The bullet shifted lightly as brain matter began to regenerate around it, neural pathways rebuilding themselves, cell by single cell. It suddenly stalled, unable to complete the process. His body did the next best thing, beginning to push the foreign object back the way it had come, tissue quickly reforming behind it.

Shifting on his feet, the man brought a foot forward to jostle Connor's body. "Come on, you bastard. Don't you dare disappoint me."

He drew nearer to him, squinting. His eyes went wide, Watson gasping softly while the bullet ejected from Connor's forehead, the leftover heat from the projectile burning his face, metal edges scratching his forehead before it fell to the floor.

"This is so wrong," Watson said as the man called Victor slowly smiled in triumph.

"I fucking knew it. It can come back to life."

Connor's eyes flittered multiple times, acutely aware that by regenerating, all the drugs they'd given him had been purged from his system. He stayed on the ground, the blood on his head and neck growing cold.

He caught a glimpse of confusion on Watson's face as she hovered over him, emitting a soft gasp. "Is he…younger?"

Connor's blood ran cold. He had little control over that aspect of the resetting process, and it was only one step in the logic process to assume that if he healed from any wound, Connor could recover from the aging process as well. It was the one piece of knowledge he had hoped to keep to himself.

No more apparently.

"He is. Mr. Morgan, do you know what this means?"

"Think about the ramifications, Watson. If we could learn how to duplicate the process in another subject, the mone-"

Feigning weakness while Victor knelt over Connor for a closer look, he moved swiftly, punching him straight in the throat. He got to his feet, stopping to kick Victor in the stomach as well.

The woman, Watson, stared at him, frozen in indecision. Connor left her standing there and ran, going through a multitude of doors, coming to a series of hallways. He was underground somewhere, that much was clear. He hadn't seen one ray of sunlight yet.

Voices behind him spurred him into action and Connor slipped into the nearest doorway that wasn't locked, taking care to shut the door slowly behind him. He held his breath as he listened to the sound of footsteps nearing his location, then faded into the distance.

Looking around the spacious office, Connor went straight for the computer monitor and woke the machine from sleep mode. He moved the mouse cursor to the right-hand corner and stared at the data that popped open on the screen.

Three months had passed. Connor had thought it was merely days. Clicking around the computer folders, he found out the man in charge of him was named Victor Morgan. There were various file names on the desktop that gave him pause, and he clicked on the first one named RA1096.

The information he found there was too much to take. Every single thing they'd ever done to him was listed in stark clinical terms, some of which Connor didn't even remember. He suspected he'd blocked it out to preserve his sanity.

Connor scrolled back up, skimming until he found the information he was looking for.

"CyberLife Industries, huh?" He'd been taken from New Hampshire but his current location was Detroit, Michigan. Over 500 miles from home.

Closing out the folder, Connor clicked the next one, a file by the name of MA795. From what he could discern, the subject was also supernatural, though the type was difficult to pinpoint. The list of experiments was short, ending with a note that the subject had been terminated due to inconclusive results.

"Bastards are blindly shooting in the dark," Connor said to himself, wishing there was such an easy out for him. His only recourse to escape was suicide, which had never held any appeal throughout his long life. It also would have the unpleasant side effect of exposing his true nature.

No, that wasn't an option. Not yet anyway.

Connor reached for the telephone on the left side of the desk, fingers poised over the keypad. There was no guarantee the police were beyond CyberLife's influence, but he'd take his chances. If someone at least knew he was here…

"Find him now!"

"Shit." Connor put the receiver back in the cradle, looking around the office for a hiding place. The only option was under the desk and he tucked himself there, breathing quietly as the door opened. "Of course you can use live ammo, it's not like you can kill it.

"Goddamn idiots," Victor snarled roughly, walking towards the front of the desk. He slammed a hand on top of it, momentarily shaking the desk. Things went silent until a click of the lighter sounded, Victor apparently having a smoke.

"Sir," someone said, the door opening gently. "Security might have caught him on the surveillance system."

"Show me." Their footsteps faded away, and Connor swatted the leftover smoke from the air as he stood, fast realizing that even though no one had eyes on him now, they would in a matter of minutes.

Connor had to move.

He slipped out the door and went down the hallway, turning around the corner, the security cameras positioned high up in the corners of each walkway watching his every move. It was like a maze, Connor quickly getting turned around.

He spied a large door with a metal handle and raced to it, looking through the thin window to see it led to a large stairwell that connected to different floors. Pulling hard on it, Connor grunted in frustration that it was locked, considering for a moment using fire to melt the damn lock.

Sudden pain erupted on his back and shoulders. Sinking to the floor, Connor looked back to see a set of armed guards, gun barrels pointed at him.

"Let's not make this more difficult than it has to be, RA1096."

Blood bubbled up in his mouth, slipping down his chin. They'd hit a lung, maybe both of them. Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult, his vision blurry at the edges.

Connor rasped out two words with his final breath. "Fuck you."


He woke up back in his cell, barely able to take a breath before a needle pierced his neck. The familiar lethargic feeling took hold within seconds, Connor slowly becoming aware of someone sitting next to him.

A hand tucked the used needle away into their shirt pocket. The owner of it started to get up, Victor's voice calling out.

"Stay in the cell, Philips. I need you to do something else. You see that hammer on the floor?"

"Yeah?"

There was no emotion in Victor's next command. "Use it to break its legs."

"Sir?" Philips hesitated, his hand traveling half the distance to the hammer before he paused.

"I told you to fucking break them."

Connor watched Philips struggle to reconcile his superior's reasoning, glad he couldn't feel much of anything because of the drugs in his system. "What purpose would that serve? They'll just heal again."

"It's about teaching it a lesson," Victor said coldly, his tone brooking no refusal. "So keep breaking them until I tell you to stop."

Philips' hand fully gripped the hammer, going on his knees over Connor. It was clear in his body language he didn't want to do it. "I'm so sorry," he whispered under his breath before finally turning his head away as Philips brought the tool down on the back of Connor's knee.

Over the next hour, healing the injuries over and over again, Connor screamed until he lost his voice, then soundlessly until Victor finally raised his hand and stopped the torture, his inner sadist apparently satisfied.

"Thank you, Philips, you may go now."

The man scrambled to leave, Connor's cheek plastered to the floor, blood running from his fingertips down into his palms from clenching his fists together so hard.

His breath was ragged, dreading the moment he had to move. Hate burned in every fiber of Connor's being for the man standing across from him, smiling brightly at him before he walked out of the room.

He swore one day Victor would pay, and dearly at that.


The meal the next day was an overcooked beef patty lacking seasoning, mealy mashed potatoes, and diced carrots. Upon starting into the unappetizing food, Connor undid the paper ring holding his napkin and plastic silverware in place.

He rolled them out, placing the ring on the side of the metal tray. Halfway through the lackluster meal, Connor noticed a smudge of black on the ring's inner paper.

Palming it in his hand, Connor stood and walked to the far left corner where the small bathroom sat, the only bit of privacy they afforded him. The shower and toilet were close together, hardly enough room to walk through them.

Sitting on the closed toilet lid, Connor examined the paper ring thoroughly. There were exactly three lines on it, written sloppily as if the owner hadn't had time to be neat about it.

What they're doing is wrong.

I'm going to save you.

-W.

Despite his first thought that it was a horrible trick, Connor's hands began to shake as tears filled his eyes, the full impact of the message hitting him. Someone knew he was here. They actually had scruples. They had to be in the lab to alter and deliver his meal, meaning one of the people involved in the project was on his side.

It was more than Connor could have expected. Once he had collected himself, he flushed the message and went back to the main part of the cell, wishing he could see through the wall, at the small throng of people working in the lab next door.

One of them was his salvation.


"Connor?"

The sound of his own name was strange. Everything in the lab called him RA or just The Asset in what Connor assumed was a further effort to dehumanize him, thereby making their jobs of tearing him apart daily looking for answers easier.

He looked up from the book he'd been reading, taking in the woman named Katherine Watson who served as Victor's personal assistant. She was standing before the cell, looking worriedly towards the door leading to the lab every few seconds.

"That is your name, right?" Her voice was pitched low in a whisper. Suspicious, Connor stared at her, questioning what she wanted from him.

Frustration crossed Katherine's features. "Listen, I know you have no reason to trust me," she started. "But what they're doing is wrong."

Connor dropped the book before crossing the room. The way Katherine had worded her statement was familiar. He realized she had been the one to send him the message.

Seeming encouraged by his move, Katherine leaned forward a bit, looking utterly sincere. "I'd like to help. My position affords you the best chance of escape, don't you think?"

"…If this is a joke, I'm not laughing." He wanted to believe her so fiercely, but knowing what a bastard Victor was, suspected her motives in offering assistance. Connor had to be sure. False hope was worse than no prospects at all.

Katherine redoubled her efforts. "I'm serious, Connor. I know everything about this project. If anyone could be of use to you, I would."

"Okay," he replied. "Say I chose to trust you. How would you help me get out? I know they're watching me on the cameras."

"The surveillance system only records proceedings outside the lab. You're too sensitive a project to let your existence become known to the general public. I know every blind spot here. We simply have to leave at the best opportune time of day and no one would be the wiser as to where you'd gone."

"Victor would know what you'd done," Connor said, starting to believe Katherine's sincerity despite his initial skepticism. If she was acting, she was doing a damn fine job of it.

"Not necessarily. Yes, the lab retains a small staff, but there are other people here who also think this is wrong. It crosses professional lines on many levels. If I can convince them to help too, we can pull the wool over Mr. Morgan's eyes. So to speak."

Connor mulled it over for a few minutes. "Don't do it if you're not sure. I don't want other people to suffer because of me."

Katherine smiled. "You're a good man, Connor, but you need to get out of here. No one deserves to be treated like this." She paused for a moment. "Do you trust me?"

What felt like a grin lifted the corners of his mouth. "I'll have to, won't I?"


Over the next few weeks, Katherine visited him during periods where Connor assumed Victor was otherwise occupied. Any day he didn't see the man was a good day as far as he was concerned.

During one planning session, Katherine brought in blueprints of the massive building, laying it out on the ground before the clear divider. Leaning as close to it as he could, Connor watched with interest as she pointed out security checkpoints, entrances, and exits. There were multiple sublevels, each dedicated to a different branch of science.

They currently resided on sublevel 12, which seemed to be the pharmaceutical floor. Connor chuckled at the irony of being trapped in a place that was supposed to develop new medicines to help heal people.

"Hey." Connor looked up at Katherine who watched him warily. "You okay?"

The answer varied depending on how bad a day he'd had. Connor avoided replying altogether by pressing a finger against a security booth located on the main floor of the building. "What's their schedule like?"

"CyberLife is very serious about protecting its secrets. Security cameras are everywhere but inside the labs to protect proprietary secrets. Multiple guards are stationed here during the day, less so during the night. They patrol every hour on the hour.

"However," Katherine said with a grin. "There's a five-minute lapse in security when the day shift switches over to the night shift. If we can trigger a blackout during that period of time, we can get you out during the ensuing chaos before anyone knows what's happened."

"How would you do that?"

"Set an explosive charge or purposely overload the power grid. I'm still looking into our options there."

"It's straight forward and simple," Connor admitted, not sure if a plan relying on the element of surprise and a lot of luck would turn out well. But he and Katherine had gone over what seemed like hundreds of less promising plans. At least in this one the risk to other people was minimal.

He ignored the niggling doubt in his heart and nodded. "Okay, let's try it."


Connor stared at the clock, willing it to be wrong. Katherine had said midnight and a whole half hour had gone by since then. At the sound of the lab door opening, he pressed close to the cell door, all his hopes for securing freedom dying when he saw Victor enter the room.

The self-satisfied smile he wore said it all. Even though Katherine had promised she would take great care in affecting Connor's escape, she must have given something away by accident.

"I expect I'm the last person you want to see right now, but I felt I had to come and make my point."

Victor came to stand directly across from Connor. "You are far too valuable to simply let slip from our grasp. Put simply, everything you are is ours. Who you were before is meaningless. From now on, every single person who works on this project will be carefully vetted to make sure they can maintain objectivity. Incidents like this must never happen again."

"…And Katherine?" he asked hesitatingly, dreading the answer.

Victor sneered. "Worried about her, are you?" Connor fisted his hand, never wanting to strike someone as badly in his life. "After I confronted Watson and learned of her, let's call them misguided, plans, I strongly suggested she take advantage of a position opening up elsewhere in the country. Doing otherwise would have resulted in things I can't mention in polite company."

Connor took a step back, appalled at the monster who masqueraded as a man in front of him. He'd practically admitted to threatening to kill someone because they'd dared to rebel against him. While glad Katherine had managed to get away unscathed, Connor only wished he'd been able to go with her.

"Perhaps now you finally understand your place." Not wanting to even acknowledge the stupidity of the statement, Connor turned away, returning to his cot.

Throughout his whole spiel, Victor had never once referred to him by name. It was as if he only saw the potential profit in Connor rather than a real person. Being objectified like that spoke volumes about Victor's twisted personality and morals.

With him at the helm of the project, Connor was never getting out. He closed his eyes as he took a seat, swallowing down the bitter pill of truth.

If time would fix the matter, that was fine. Connor had plenty of it to spare.

Mere days after Victor had confronted Connor about Katherine, most of the staff were replaced. People he'd grown to despise for their part in his captivity, simply never seen again. Presumably paid off or threatened by ruin if they broke their contracts. Victor being true to his word of finding new impartial staff.

It took a while for Connor to realize the new policy instituted amongst them. Any discussion of a time of reference was banned. Birthdays, holidays, anything that would lead him to pinpoint a specific date.

Even the books they gave him were always classics from some long-forgotten era. Shakespeare, Verne, Dickens. With nothing else to distract him, Connor devoured them, savoring every written line. It didn't matter if he'd read it before, not when it helped to pass the time.

He fell asleep one night and woke up to find his cell completely transformed, the thick metal bars replaced with a clear plastic divider that spanned from the ceiling to the floor, pocked with a pattern of holes. Connor bitterly assumed they were for easier access to him.

They must have drugged his food to do it, there was no way Connor would have slept through its installation otherwise. From that day onward, he ate and drank the absolute bare minimum to get by, resolving to never be caught unawares again.

Connor eventually stopped talking altogether, lost in a void of perpetual restlessness and the powerlessness that resulted from the utter inability to do anything to change his situation. He was waiting for one thing and one thing only.

For Victor to admit defeat. It was only inevitable that he would break first, his lifespan significantly shorter than Connor's. No matter how long it took, Connor would be there to witness it with a smile on his face.


Time passed. How much, Connor couldn't say. He hadn't seen Victor since the night he'd come to flaunt his position and power, so when the man walked in with streaks of gray in his hair and new deep-set wrinkles in the lines of his face, Connor was surprised.

He started towards the clear divider, Victor stopping before the cell, his hands laced behind his back. "So the reports were right. You haven't aged a single day. Still as fresh-faced as ever with no scars whatsoever to show what you've been through."

Maybe if they actually let him live past a week, they'd see Connor could age given half the chance.

"Still not talking, huh? That's probably for the best," Victor said. "I wouldn't like what you have to say anyway."

He sighed. "You know, when I first heard about you, I was excited. This will make or break my career, I thought. But no matter how much we poke and prod, or rather stab and cut you, you give us absolutely nothing. That wall of silence is nigh unbreakable. I'm starting to think you'll forever be our guest.

"Still, one of these days, we're going to find out what makes you tick. I very much look forward to that moment." Connor pondered what he'd done to inspire such strong hatred. Was it merely because he was different than Victor? If so, that was rather sad and pathetic.

"Of course, it could very well be I won't live to see it while you go on and on. Kind of unfair, don't you think?"

Victor took a seat on a chair someone had left in the room, almost eye to eye with Connor. "There's a theory I've been kicking around in my head for a while now.

"Traditional scientific methods seem to be going nowhere. Perhaps technology isn't there yet. But I've been wondering what would happen if we turned to the occult. If I brought a so-called witch or psychic in here, what would they make of you?"

Connor let none of his uneasiness show, Victor soon losing his easygoing smile at his lack of response. Truth be told, even such a person did meet him, he doubted they would be able to out him so speedily. Phoenixes were rare and some in the supernatural community probably doubted they existed.

"The only reason I haven't done it yet is it's difficult to get the required clearance and approval from above. No average joe can just walk in from the street."

How well Connor knew that fact, and how like Victor to grind the knowledge home for the perverse pleasure of it.

"You're likely curious about the reason for my visit. I have a protégé who'll be taking over some of the project's responsibilities. He's young but eager. I expect he'll fill my shoes and then some. He might even show you new tricks you never even dreamt of."

The parting shot landed weakly, Victor leaving the room afterward, seeming unsatisfied in Connor's passiveness.

Whether he knew it or not, the news the man had left rekindled something inside Connor that he thought had died: hope. New management meant potential mistakes, holes in the lab's security, and Connor would seize on them as soon as he saw any open up.


The new addition to the lab perplexed Connor at first. The dark-skinned man named John was fast to do the staff's bidding, never stopping to rest except when told to. A strange lit circle was imprinted on the side of his forehead, which spun around endlessly.

It was only when one of the women, their nametag marked Miller, began complaining about how much machines creeped her out that things fell into place for Connor.

He was shocked artificial intelligence had advanced so far. If they simply dressed John in different clothes, no one would have been able to differentiate between the android and a human being. It was amazing, but at the same time worrying. It made Connor wonder how long he'd been locked away.


During a normal routine afternoon, the staff out to lunch, the android John stood against the opposite wall of the cell, Connor trying his hardest to ignore him. It was difficult to tell, but he thought John looked slightly perplexed as he studied him.

"What are you?" The question came without preamble, out of nowhere.

At first, Connor didn't understand John was talking to him. Everyone looked past him as a person, seeing him as a thing, focused solely on running their experiments.

He was slow to open his mouth, trying to speak for the first time in years, the only exception the groans of pain the staff managed to wrangle from his body in the name of science.

No sound came out and Connor tried again, clearing his throat a few times.

"I'm sorry?" His voice was a weak mangled thing, hardly above a whisper.

"You're not human," John said confidently. "I don't understand why others can't see it."

The android went up several levels in Connor's estimation. Still, it wasn't something he'd cop to if he could help it. "Why do you think I'm inhuman?"

John's LED flickered to yellow. "Your body temperature, when they aren't monitoring it, always goes up to 113 degrees, which would kill any normal human. Whenever you heal from injury or death, an ultraviolet light seeps out of your body. If they brought in, say, bees or certain species of bird, your other nature would be pegged within seconds. You're never afraid of fire, no matter how they use it against you. Do I have to go on?"

"No, you don't." A grin pulled at Connor's lips, amused at the development. It was the first interesting thing that had happened in a long time. "What do you think I am then, John?"

"Provided I'm able to pull from the fictional realms, tenuous as they are, I'd say that you are either a kitsune, ifrit, or phoenix."

All of them were fire spirits, proving John wasn't merely a machine designed to run errands. There was a fierce intelligence in him that had driven him to research the subject until his inquisitive nature had been satisfied. Curious behavior for a glorified robot.

Connor leaned forward, finding John had far more depth than he'd ever thought possible. "I won't insult your intelligence by lying. You're correct on all counts, though I was unaware you could see in the ultraviolet spectrum. I'll remember to watch for that in the future."

John's brow knitted. "If you're so powerful, why aren't you trying to escape? Why are you letting them do this to you?"

"Because it's not just about me," Connor said, wondering if John could truly understand the altruistic act. Still, he needed to know one thing. "Can I trust you to keep my secret?"

John's expression went tense, and he looked down to the floor, glancing towards the lab a moment later. As the staff trooped back in, Connor peered at the android until he saw John nod slightly.

Once upon a time, he had asked the same of his employee Tina with far less information on her part and been let down entirely. Maybe putting his faith in a machine would yield a better result.


With someone to talk to who didn't want to use him for nefarious purposes, Connor made it his mission in life to befriend John. Android or not, he'd proven himself to be enough of an individual that Connor had no trouble seeing him as another person.

There was only one problem.

As a machine, John followed orders without complaint, which included keeping Connor out of the loop regarding the passage of time. He tried anyway most days, out of habit than anything else.

"John, what's the date?" Connor asked, running his fingers down the spine of a thick horror anthology, the raised lettering that spelled out the title rough against his fingers.

"I can't tell you that."

He rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't want to know."

"Why?" John asked, perplexed, as always, by Connor's persistence in the matter. "The knowledge would do you no good in your present situation."

"That's not the point and you know it," replied Connor, starting to think John was being obtuse on purpose. It wouldn't be the first time he'd played ignorant.

"Make me a sound argument and maybe I'll change my mind."

Connor threw the book down on the floor, frustrated by the lack of progress. "You know, John. You're getting real uppity of late. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were becoming more human."

"I'll take that as a compliment," John replied with a smile, completely misconstruing Connor's words, ignoring the implied insult in them. Likely deliberately.

"Fine," Connor admitted reluctantly, turning to face the wall. He was suddenly tired. "You win today."

John made a soft inquisitive sound. "I wasn't aware we were fighting."

Connor groaned into his pillow in exasperation.


They'd locked the door leading out into the lab. Drawing on previous experience, Connor knew the staff was having something inside the lab serviced. He closed his eyes, focusing on the voices outside the room, talking in hushed tones.

"I'm beginning to think this floor is cursed," a woman said. "If it's not the security cameras, it's the lock, fridge, computers, or the damn coffeemaker. I've lost count of how many people have come down to fix stuff. It has to be a record somewhere."

A man replied, "You'd think the android would be of some help in that regard, but strangely no."

Silence before the woman spoke again, sounding bemused. "Androids are weird."

"Why?"

"Because John, when he's not actively assisting us, is always out in the hallway. I swear I saw him fiddling with the security camera the other day. When I asked him about it, John said he was merely he was correcting a misplaced wire."

The man blew out a breath. "Well, see, there you go. Mystery solved. He was trying to be helpful like always."

The woman seemed doubtful as she said, "But it felt like there was more he wasn't saying."

"Androids can't lie. They're just machines."

"I'm not so sure…"

"You are so paranoid."

Puzzled by the conversation, Connor laid back down on his cot, opening his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. While he could do nothing but wait things out for a chance to escape, the tedious nature of his life had begun to wear on him. Connor was patient to a fault, but even he had his limits.

Something had to change soon.


The red digits on the clock flipped slowly, Connor watching it from the corner of his eye as he laid on the bed. He was convinced they left it in the cell on purpose so he could see time tick down before restarting, unable to do anything about it. It didn't even have a radio, more's the pity.

A spike of anger seized him and Connor kicked it, the radio banging loudly, sliding to the middle of the floor. Good riddance, he thought, bringing the blanket up from the bottom of the cot, spreading it out underneath him. Connor brought his legs up to his chest and closed his eyes, preparing himself for a long night of struggling to sleep, dreading what the next day would bring.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him jump and Connor stayed where he was, wondering what was going on. Had one of the staff members forgotten something? Light danced over the wall above Connor and he turned, almost as stunned to see the security guard as he was to see Connor.

The ID tag hanging from his chest pocket said Anderson, disbelief in the bright blue eyes that raked down Connor, taking stock. The black uniform did little to flatter him, but there was some definite muscle mass pushing through his upper legs and chest. Despite the rough looking facial hair adorning his chin and semi-long silver hair, there was a vulnerability and a devil may care attitude he exuded that intrigued Connor.

"Who are you?" he asked roughly, his throat sore from the treatment he'd been through hours earlier.

"I'm Hank," the guard said, doing something completely unexpected. He stuck his hand through one of the holes and held it out in invitation.

Connor couldn't remember the last time someone had offered to touch him without wanting something in return. Blood, pain, and death. Those were the laws that governed his world.

The show of kindness and politeness was such a simple thing that Connor was unprepared for the swell of gratitude in him. The acknowledgment that he was a person.

He swallowed down the majority of it with effort, clasping Hank's hand, his fingers tightening around it, relishing the feel of skin against his.

"I came down here to fix a camera, but…" Hank scratched the back of his head with his free hand. "I never expected this. Who are you?" His eyes flicked to the nameplate on the outside of the cell, confusion showing in them. "It's not R.A., is it?"

Repulsed, Connor quickly shook his head, the horrid codename raking him wrong. Stunned yet grateful Hank was even interested, Connor squeezed his hand. "No, my name is Connor."

The sound of his name felt good like he'd reclaimed his identity. When had he last heard it? Connor only had a bare estimate of how much time had passed, which was marred by long periods of sedation and resurrections. His only clues were the various forms of technology that minimally changed size, from big to small.

"What's R.A. then?" Hank asked innocently, Connor finally letting go of his hand with regret as he shook his head. That didn't matter, there were more important questions like…

"What's today's date?" He'd never worn John down.

Looking mystified, Hank nevertheless answered him. "It's October 6th, 2038."

Little wonder John hadn't wanted to tell him. The truth hit him like a physical blow as Connor sank to the floor, trying and failing to wrap his mind around the date.

So much time lost. Almost half a lifetime. People he'd called friends before he was taken were old enough to for their kids to have kids. Connor wondered how many of them would even remember him.

He could feel his mouth moving, but couldn't stop it. His body was on autopilot. Connor hoped he wasn't saying anything he shouldn't.

"Connor!" He had a feeling that wasn't the first time Hank had said his name. Connor looked up, Hank's expression pinched in worry, exhibiting more empathy than he'd ever gotten from the team working in the lab in years. "What's the big deal?"

A complete stranger felt bad for him. Connor smiled, rather amused by the irony. "It's nothing."


November 11th, 2038

His insides had gone cold, the heat blowing from the car vents doing little to warm Connor up. As soon as he'd seen the guard point his gun in Hank's direction, instinct had kicked in and he'd taken the hit, knowing as he did that the sharp stab of pain meant something major had been hit.

He couldn't say anything to Hank. Not knowing what he was, Hank would insist on taking Connor to a hospital, and he couldn't risk the exposure. The only option left to him was to endure it, revive, and…hope Hank didn't think Connor a freak.

He'd been careful to keep his secrets close to his chest despite wanting to match Hank's honesty with his own. Now he had to put the bond they'd built between them to the test. After everything Hank had done for him, Connor owed him the truth if nothing else.

Connor's lower half mercifully went numb and the arm he'd pressed over his stomach slowly slid down, his strength giving out. His heart, which had helped pumped so much blood out of his body into Hank's car seat, began to slow.

It was coming.

Idly, Connor wondered what vital organs had been hit and decided it didn't matter. In a matter of moments, everything would be reset.

In the lab, Connor had restricted his regeneration to the surface only, healing without extending his aura outward to make it a painless process. He reveled the thought of simply going to sleep and waking up. It had been so long, he almost couldn't remember what it felt like.

Connor raised his head, taking in Hank's profile as the car passed under a street light. His brow was knitted in concentration, biting his lower lip, utterly focused on the task in front of him.

His trust in Hank had been tremendously rewarded. Connor only hoped it extended both ways.

Please don't hate me, he thought, eyelids growing heavy, unable to keep them open any longer. Connor let out one final breath, then slipped away into nothingness.

Fire, primal and fierce, sparked within his core, spreading quickly, consuming all it touched. It stretched beyond the confines of Connor's body, and for one instant he could spread his wings wide, breaking free of his earthly bonds. He looked down upon his human shape, thinking it was such a pity he had to occupy it to avoid detection. A flesh prison forced on him by societal expectations, so easily prone to breakage and emotional turmoil.

When the pull became too much for him to resist, Connor sank back down into his human form, filling each and every recess once again. He took a deep breath as he opened his eyes, savoring the feel of a younger stronger body. A tiny lick of fire balanced itself on one of Connor's fingertips as if biding him farewell before extinguishing itself.

He steeled his nerves and turned to look at Hank, only to get the surprise of his very long life when he saw Hank's skin shining with a familiar light and heat just as his had been seconds ago, the rigors of time shifting backward in a rush until stopping at an age not dissimilar from Connor's own.

Hank was completely unaware of what was happening, hunched over the steering wheel, his eyes squeezed shut. He was starting to blink madly to clear his vision when Connor stretched out a hand, touching his shoulder, unable to believe what had happened.

Understandably, Hank didn't react well, banging his head against the car window, knocking himself out.

Worried and feeling a tad guilty about his part in the proceedings, Connor slid over to the driver's side, leaning over Hank. He'd been an attractive man before, but youth clearly favored him, enhancing a strong jawline and sharp cheekbones. Connor ran a hand over Hank's forehead, a small bump visible on the side of it.

If he'd sustained any internal bleeding, his new nature would have healed it, leaving the superficial damage for later. Glancing down at Hank's waist, Connor pulled aside his jacket.

He thought he'd taken the full brunt of the bullet, but he'd obviously been wrong on that count. At the time, Connor had wanted to protect Hank. Perhaps some small token of that desire had taken effect, reshaping the rules of reality itself.

That or Hank had been born under a goddamned lucky star. Either way, Connor couldn't find any drawback in the situation. He wondered how well Hank would take the news when he woke up.

Gently gripping Hank's arm, Connor shook him, heartened when he stirred, slowly opening his eyes. Even they were more vibrant in color, catching Connor off-guard for a moment. "Hank?

"Hank, are you alright?"

He focused on Connor, features creased in apparent confusion before he relaxed. Hank reached out, putting a hand on Connor's cheek. "This is a nice dream."

Connor smiled, placing a hand over Hank's, pleased to see his instincts hadn't led him wrong. There was something between them after all. But a dream? No, for once, reality had outdone itself in matching extraordinary expectations.

"I can assure you that you're wide awake."

And there was nowhere else Connor wanted to be but at Hank's side.