After all he'd been through, Hank was having a case of the fuck-its and he planned on getting trashed. Drinking had become a ritual — he coined it his four-step program and followed it religiously. It was pretty much used to cover his ass, to make it look like he didn't drink as much as he did. It probably didn't fool anyone, but it did make him feel less shitty.
Step one was simple: pick an establishment.
He wouldn't be going to a bar tonight. He didn't care much for socializing and was pretty short on cash after placing that bet with Pedro. Going to the park wouldn't happen either since it was cold as hell and he'd rather not freeze his ass off. His house would work just fine.
Step two was a necessity: get alcohol.
The crucial part was making sure there was enough. One bottle of hard liquor was typically plenty, but sometimes he threw in a couple beers, just to be on the safe side. Hank was more of a budget drinker, so he didn't really care if the alcohol he purchased was top-shelf or not. Most everyone thought he drank Black Lamb for the taste, but he honestly bought it because it was cheap and strong.
Step three was a natural extension of step two: look like a casual drinker.
At the bar, he'd set a hard limit, staggering each drink with a glass of water. Whenever he brought alcohol home, he rotated between liquor stores, never going to the same one twice in a row. He used to consider himself a loyal customer and frequented only one shop, but that was before his drinking had gotten out of hand, before all the cashiers recognized who he was. They'd anticipate his visits, greet him by name, get chatty. He felt like they were privately judging him, most likely gossiping about his drinking habits after leaving the store. The thought made him cringe.
Hank was currently sitting on his couch at home, working the fourth step: drink until numb.
He had wanted to catch the game, but every channel was airing non-stop coverage of the android demonstration. A couple smartly dressed anchors sitting at a news desk cut to a jumpy correspondent reporting from a helicopter. He was wearing protective earmuffs, yelling hoarsley into his microphone to make himself heard over the din of the chopper blades.
"...the deviants have started marching down the road and none of them seem armed." He gasped and spoke more urgently. "Wait a second… something just happened. Yes, a couple tanks have swerved through a group of protestors. It's too early to tell if anyone was hit or not."
Hank knocked back a shot and grabbed the liquor bottle, immediately pouring himself another. He folded his hands together and leaned forward anxiously, his eyes glued to the television set.
"...the army has begun firing live rounds of ammunition into the crowd of demonstrators. Bodies are littering the streets."
Another shot, another update.
"...the remaining deviants have walled themselves off, using whatever they can find to create a barricade. I hear Jenny Chan has an update for us. She has been covering this breaking situation from the ground, just feet away from the barricade. Have you received any official statements from the FBI, Jenny?"
The camera cut to a shivering reporter wearing a puffy black coat, thick gloves, and a fur-lined hat. She spoke into the microphone in hushed tones, her eyes shifting from the barricade to the rolling camera.
"The FBI has informed us that all attempts to negotiate with the deviant leader known as Markus have failed. It has yet to be seen what their next move will be, but many suspect they will use force."
At that moment, a soldier lobbed an explosive device over the barricade, barking for the rest of his squad to take cover. Split seconds later, the bomb detonated, The reporter yelped and covered her ears, ducking to avoid shrapnel. The cameraman ran to join her, abandoning his video camera. It clattered to the ground, filming just the pavement, but the microphone was able to pick up screams of panic and automatic gunfire. Hank stood up abruptly and yelled at his TV, resisting the urge to lob a book at the screen.
"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!"
Sumo whimpered and hid his head beneath his paws, startling at the outburst. Hank's expression softened. He ran his fingers through his graying hair and knelt down to apologize, reassuring Sumo by scratching him between the ears.
"Sorry, boy," he slurred. "Just a little wound up."
Sinking back into the sofa, Hank watched the chaos unfold as he reached for the bottle. Liquor sloshed onto the coffee table as he refilled his glass. Aerial footage filmed a handful of cornered deviants, surrounded by armored soldiers waiting for the signal to open fire.
Hank froze, his glass halfway to his lips, gaping as the remaining androids linked hands and began to sing. Androids could sing?
Well, duh.
Of course they could sing, Hank thought as he scoffed at himself. It made sense that they could but the thought had never occurred to him. He set his glass down, closing his eyes as he listened to them harmonize.
"Hold on just a little while longer… everything will be all right. Everything will be all right."
One soldier touched the side of his helmet, as if he had just received a message. He gestured at the others to lower their rifles. At that moment, the TV station cut to a live national broadcast of President Warren. She appeared pallen, slightly unnerved, but she read from the teleprompter in a steady, composed tone.
"I have called for the android destruction to be suspended until further notice. I have also ordered a Senate Select Committee to review the facts, establish contact with the deviants, and determine if they can be considered a new form of intelligent life."
Hank absently poured himself another round and drained the glass, clutching it tightly as he glared at her face. Not one bit of her looked remorseful about her decisions, actions responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent people. If he remembered correctly, she was up for re-election in a couple of years. He made a mental note to vote her out.
"TV off," he scowled.
Hank swore as he checked the time on his smartphone. He hadn't realized how late it was and wasn't up to passing out on the couch. Before heading to bed, he emptied his pockets, dumping a bunch of spare change onto the coffee table. He automatically began to sift through them, checking the dates. He had picked up the habit when Cole was little and he had just started teaching him his numbers. They'd spread out coins on the dinner table and Cole would go through them one by one, proudly proclaiming this dime had a three and this nickel had a nine. Hank had no real reason to do it anymore, but it was a routine he wasn't ready to part with.
There really wasn't all that much, a couple nickels, a penny, a rusty dime… and a quarter. He picked that one up first and studied it curiously. It wasn't from his transaction at the liquor store, but it still looked familiar. He turned the coin over and noted the year it was minted: 1994. He clenched the coin tightly, hard enough to leave a mark on his palm.
Oh.
That quarter.
They were riding an elevator to the top floor to investigate a crime scene. Hank was struggling through a nasty hangover and the shrill ping the quarter made each time Connor flipped it was making his head throb. He snagged the coin mid-air and shoved it into his pocket.
"You're starting to piss me off with that coin, Connor."
"Sorry, Lieutenant."
Hank slumped forward, the coin slipping from his hand and clattering onto the floor. He wondered where Connor might be now.
"Fucking android," he muttered softly.
After everything Connor had said and done on the rooftop, Hank regretted ever throwing a punch for him. He had stuck his neck out for him and for what? Sucker-punching the head of the FBI at the station had almost cost him his career. He thought for sure Fowler was going to fire his ass, and considered himself lucky to only be suspended without pay. The main problem was the suspension was indefinite.
Hank felt a sudden wave of nausea and he stumbled from the couch, hanging onto the wall for support as he staggered to his bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to change his clothes. The pillow felt cool and soothing. Before completely blacking out, Hank fumed once more about that goddamn android, his job, and how long he might need to grovel to get it back.
