I was truly sad to kill Fathia, especially since a lot of readers like her. So, a few weeks ago, I asked may-fire-yana to illustrate this fic with Fathia and Gavin. The fanart is on Tumblr and I don't regret it, it's so beautiful!

Have a look right now~

may-fire-yana "." tumblr "." "com" / post/178448453207/another-two-kofi-doodles-the-right-one-features


Fowler had insisted that Gavin take the rest of his day right after the meeting with the medical examiner. The event would be already difficult despite the presence of the RK900 which hoped to support its teammate.

As the hospital was a few subway stations away, system that had finally been established in Detroit for ten years, they had taken the line C to go to the morgue. Gavin felt a floating sensation, close to the dream that lasts too long, exhausting, and the rocking of the wagon comforted him in this state made of cotton. On the other side of the glass panel, among the other androids, Conrad could not do anything. Still worried about its malfunctions, it watched the other robots around it. With their still eyes and their frozen mines, all these automatons were docilely insouciant. Conrad was no different from them: its stoicism proved its nature long before passersby noticed its LED and its armband. But something was changing.

Gavin was leaning against the sealed doors, not looking at anyone in the wagon, keeping his headphones at an extreme volume. Basically, he knew that the android was not wrong, and yet there was this hope that persisted. Hope makes live as it may kills as well. And now there was an ounce of guilt: Fathia would not have been so involved in her role as an informer if she had not been so close to Gavin. She would have dropped the pimp and left the police station without intending to return, maybe she had fallen in love and this doubt made his heart ache. His questions would never get an answer. At the level of his shoulders, he began to feel a sharp pain, imaginary blade that pierced his muscles and scraped his bones. Gavin put a hand on his neck with the vain hope of relieving the pain a little. If Gavin was an android, his diode would have adopted the same shades of red, just like the RK900's one.

Seeing him so lonely and bent, Conrad made the decision that it should stay with its partner. Go to CyberLife to be refurbished and forget the sweetness of Fathia, obey the investigative programs, or stay with the growing virus to offer its help and support to Detective Reed to resolve this investigation around the victim who was the only one human being who had shown sympathy for the robot. Conrad did not draw a parallel with the situation that Lieutenant Anderson and the RK800 had known, not right away.

Once freed from the androids compartment, Conrad approached Gavin with the intention of reassuring him, but it found nothing to say: it was useless to give him false hopes. In the hubbub of the station, it leaned forward to its partner and murmured:

"You surprised me, detective, when you accepted the investigation, but I wish you to know that I'll do everything to help you."

"That's why you're here."

Gavin did not even look at it and Conrad realized it should have picked stronger words. The mission was a priority, yet Fathia's death also obsessed its programs, fitting in each task to such an extent that the ghost of the young woman seemed to haunt every connection of its structure. But it would have been confessing a degeneration and Conrad was refusing it. Then the road to the hospital seemed long, just like the descent down the spiral staircase that leads to the morgue, punctuated by the sound of the metal steps, a rhythm of knell that would resonate in the depths of a sub-ground rather than in the sky. After the iron, the linoleum dampened the footsteps.

Ordinarily, the volubility of doctor Christopher Landru, a forensic pathologist for over twenty years, echoed in the corridor in deafening sounds, but today, out of respect for detective Reed, the doctor in his fifties kept a mournful silence. Because of his size, the coroner would have had his place as a conductor in an immense opera: his considerable height and his outsized arms gave him the appearance of a virtuoso musician. Still he was more talented with a scalpel, not a baton. Going up to his high-pitched head, gaze would clung to his thick, black, shining mustaches surmounted a long diabolical goatee. This neat, well-presented beard contrasted with his bald, pale head, which reflected all the lights of the morgue.

At his side walked Moira, a KL400 assigned to assist in the analysis of the bodies that the tragedies of the city brought them. It was an old model which had been striding along the hospital's tunnels for a long time, protected by the affection of Dr. Landru who had always refused a newer android. Nobody knew why the KL400 was so essential to the doctor, anyway, its red and curly hair still imitated a tawny torch in this cold place. Its diaphanous face, riddled with freckles, had the same seriousness as Conrad and looked like a dreamy Irish girl.

When the door of the cooling cell opened, Moira pulled the board where Fathia's body was resting, covered under a respectful sheet. The white hands of the android held the corners but it was waiting for the doctor's order.

"Shall we start, Detective Reed?"

Gavin nodded and the sheet was raised, leaving the bony head and shoulders.

The olive skin of Fathia had changed, adopting shades of a swamp, but at least her eyelids were finally closed. Conrad clearly saw the now-clean wound in her head: in the middle of the forehead, the bullet had left its bite in the shape of a sharp circle, the red of the blood rhyming with the gray of the metal. Christopher Landru noticed what the RK900 was looking at and confirmed:

"No doubt: the death was caused by a bullet fired at close range. Moira, connect with the young man and give him the details," his assistant held out its hand to grab Conrad's one as the two humans chatted, "I'm not going to bother you with details, Reed, I don't retain them anymore myself, but everything has been listed."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"She was up and the gun killed her from the front. The body was not moved, but you already know it with the amount of blood on the spot."

Lead, titanium, antimony— all these bullet residues were embedded in the skin of the young victim, where they should not be here.

"So she knew she was going to die."

"Probably, yes." Christopher paused, aware that the information was shocking. He slipped a finger on one of his whiskers and went on: "The traces of wrestling are very light. Under her nails was found silicone gel type A35."

The component did not recall anything to Detective Reed who was about to ask for clarification, but the RK900 raised its head:

"Android skin?"

"Precisely. No trace of thirium 400 that said, she only scratched the android without bleeding."

"Wait, wait," Gavin raised his hands, trying to put the pieces together, "what does that mean exactly? When skin is found under the nails, we hold a first trace of the culprit, do you suggest that Fathia was killed by a machine?"

The doctor shrugged:

"My job is to make an inventory of my observations, detective. Conclusions are your area." His skeletal hand slipped under the shroud to extract Fathia's bare, clean arm. "However, I would be curious to have the answer to this mystery."

If the arm was covered with tattoos, a part was missing: a square of absent skin that left a hole in the flesh and, at the same time, removed a piece of this enigma. Conrad slowly approached Gavin:

"Detective, I didn't want to rush you with this information, but you don't have a clear memory while mine is intact: I recorded the tattoos of Miss El Harbi, at least, those that I could see."

"Excellent!" Dr. Landru pre-empted Reed, teeth shining in his black beard.

"And what was it, Playmobil? Spare me your little moment of suspense."

"On her wrist was tattooed a number: 'ZK200'."

Gavin did not remember that tattoo. Fathia collected on her biceps some flowers, on her forearms some leaves. One of her shoulder blades was marked by a sentence in Arabic but he had never asked for the translation, not excepting losing her so soon. Just like he had never asked her why a stylized triangle adorned her ankle, or what the blue and purple orchid on her ribs meant. All these pictorial secrets, she carried them in her last sleep.

But this code was different.

"ZK200?"

"It looks like a model number and it turns out that the ZK200 are models of children androids."

Gavin tried to speak, without success. Christopher mixed his fingers in his beard, unraveling the long hairs with a pensive air. Investigating was not his role, but the links with androids were obvious and intriguing. Despite what he said, he showed great interest.

"Landru, the gel found under the nails, can we see which model it belongs to?"

The doctor put his hand on Moira's shoulder. The golden eyes of the android remained fixed: in spite of the warm color that imitated the yellow of twilight, no light shone there.

"Moira tried but she couldn't find anything."

"If you allow me, Dr. Landru, I would like to try myself. I'm a newer model than your KL400—"

"Moira, everyone calls her Moira."

Conrad inclined its head apologetically: its own teammate was constantly playing with its name, the RK900 had come to denigrate the surnames.

"I've more abilities than Moira, maybe I could get a result."

The doctor looked at the detective, an eyebrow raised:

"Gavin, am I mistaken or your android is insulting mine?"

Then he burst out laughing, ready to tease the whole world despite the presence of the corpse. Accustomed to death, Christopher was no longer afraid to joke around those sordid basements, discussing restaurants, movies and literature with a knife in one hand and a saw in the other. Gavin had still liked this nonchalance, but today he was impervious to it: if the RK900 wanted to try to analyze the sample, so he would let it, for the moment, the detective had bathed enough in this aseptic odor and he needed to go out.


The analysis of the gel gave nothing: the quantity, united to form a small translucent slug with beige reflections, was so tiny. After several attempts, the material in the palm of its hand, the android accepted its defeat.

Christopher was next to it, leaning with his arms crossed.

"See? My little Moira may be eight years old, she isn't defective or late."

The ginger android was smaller than its sidekick, even though exceeding Dr. Landru's height would be a feat, and this difference made the duo look like father-daughter. The father was attached to the girl, but what about reciprocity? The KL400 cleaned the tools with a conscientious care, taking care of the metal as if it were its very own skeleton. It was evident it was insensitive to the doctor's affection. Conrad wondered where this attachment came from, perhaps to understand relationships between humans and androids, but one of its programs censored this question: it was not part of its mission. The task had been deleted.

"We'll find a way to get the culprit, doctor."

"I don't doubt it, Conrad."


"I'm going with you, detective Reed."

It was a fact and not a proposition that Gavin could refuse, although he tried.

"Your family is two hundred and fifty miles away and you're going through a difficult time, I won't leave you alone."

"You think I want to finish like Anderson?"

"Exactly."

Gavin shrugged, giving no answer. To dive into death was not an idea that seduced him: he had lost a friend, this death announcing a new sad period, a new winter of mourning, and although no one is accustomed to the sudden absence of loved ones, Gavin still had ties that kept him alive.

He just needed time. He needed support. So in the streets of Detroit, the RK900 had become the shadow of that shadow, slipping behind the human being, watching over the man who had perhaps caused degeneration in its program. Yet, without the detective Reed, the android could not investigate: it needed this teammate to accomplish its mission. Artificial intelligences hated paradoxes like the one the RK900 faced, so it took refuge in work, just like its partner, to forget the improbabilities of brutal deaths and tangled codes.

The whole trip passed with a heavy silence and it was only when they arrived in front of the building that the android spoke, proposing initiatives:

"You need some rest, detective, still I suggest that we return to the hotel tomorrow: the accident and the murder of Miss El Harbi are chronologically very close. The probabilities of coincidence are meager."

Normally, its teammate would not have hidden his skepticism, but he still felt too dumb to see clearly and assemble the pieces:

"As long as you let me sleep a whole night, we'll go where you want tomorrow."

The pain in his shoulders still stabbed at him, blocking his neck, but he leaned over anyway as he reached his apartment to take his cat in his arms. Sensitive to his grief, Gnocchi rubbed his forehead against his master's chin, purring so loudly his hymn of joy that he covered the noises coming from the street. The rain had not given up its comfort and its gray clouds had cast such a gloom in the living room that Gavin had to leave the light of the living room on.

Exhausted, he did not even bother to remove his coat and lay on the couch, leaving Gnocchi knead his chest.

"Hey, Richard."

"Conrad."

"It's the same: it ends with the same letters. Androids can transfer pieces of memory to a tablet, right?"

"Yes."

"Show me the tattoo." Show me Fathia when she was still alive. It was a painful request but the RK900 executed it: the hand resting on the tactile surface, its white fingers created connections to share its memories. Once the transfer was complete, Conrad opened the video file and handed the screen to Gavin. Keeping his cat against him, the detective sat up better to watch the memory.

Even Gnocchi turned his head, fascinated by the glimmers of the excerpt, attracted by the familiar voice.

"I think nobody's more human than Gavin. When we know the pain, we become irreparably human."

This sentence snatched a smile from the detective.

Although it could relive those moments in its memory, Conrad leaned down to see the screen better, its shoulder against his partner's.

"This weekend, you said that CyberLife had estimated that you could work for a hundred and fifty years, right?" The android nodded. "It means that these excerpts will still exist the next century."

"Yes, detective. They will still exist."

"So don't delete them. You manage the place in your hard drive the way you want, but keep it in memory, at any price."

"I won't forget Miss El Harbi, detective, I promise you."

Because it had no intention of erasing that first sweetness. Could it transmit its memory to a 313 248 317-88? There was a great risk that this memory, obsolete for a new RK900, disappeared.

"But in return, I ask you to eat a little."

"You met my mother yet, you should know that I don't need your overprotective mother program!"

"She also blames you for your eating habits. You lost a lot of weight after Lieutenant Anderson's death, right? Around thirty pounds I would say, comparing with photos."

The android was not far from the exact number. It knew full well that the detective was not close to anorexia, on the other hand, he was close to depression and his reluctance to eat was a symptom.

Gavin kept Gnocchi against him, ignoring his partner.

"You'd understand if you were human, but you're just a machine. You don't know what it's like to lose someone."

Conrad clenched its fists and surprised itself: this reaction was a reflex that was accompanied by a temperature that climbed, warming the thirium. The philosophers of antiquity had identified this defect program, calling it anger. The android would have liked to hit the human, the mechanism of its arm would have exercised a slight discharge so that its knuckles hit Gavin's cheek, just once, just to keep him quiet. But it was against the rules of robotics and it would have been obeying the bugs of its programs.

It was not angry, it could not be. It was impossible.

"I'm just a machine, detective, but I expect you to be effective so I can accomplish my mission. Taking care of yourself is essential."

Why did thirium continue to boil? Why did it have to block the joints on its shoulder and elbow? Why did Fathia's death, a murder similar to so many others, trigger all that?

The RK900 got up, grabbed the tablet and went back to work, moving away from the detective. It was only a machine performing its duties.


The garbage had piled up for years. Since everything has an end in this old world, there are cemeteries for everything: those of human beings had spread over the centuries, the ruins were decompositions of architecture exposed to the view of all, and androids too had their last home, tumulus without verdure, gray because of the amount of metal.

The RK900 identified heads, arms, legs, attaching them to mostly missing models. A bronze dusting stuck to the abandoned bodies, encrusted in synthetic flesh or plastic. The android was moving slowly, balancing on skulls with dead diodes and disabled torsos. The sight of these machines did not trigger any anomaly and the robot did not fear its own future. It was insensitive to these deaths.

The visit to the hotel did not help: a busy weekend has passed in the corridors of the establishment, washing the memory of human and mechanical employees. More than a hundred customers had crossed the doors of the entrance last Friday, accompanied by domestic robots, lovers, customers. An android child could have been mistaken for authentic humans. Thanks to the serial number that one of the officers had carefully written to address the request to CyberLife, still in progress, the RK900 could identify the right android in this cluster of automatons. Luckily, the kid models were not numerous. Meanwhile, Gavin had returned to the police station, the motivation still numb. He had agreed to eat before going to work. A positive sign that comforted Conrad. Even in the gruesome rubble, Gavin was preoccupying it.

Its foot slid on a tiny wrist and it hung up on other limbs so it did not lose its balance completely, detecting under its fingers the residue of weeks of Detroit pollution and autumn dust. The RK900 straightened up, taking care to analyze the surroundings with more precaution.

Finally, it located the remains of the android. The machine knelt down near the detached head of the trunk, which lay a few inches away. The child no longer had arms or legs: just this round face and this curly black hair. It was a ZK200. Conrad immediately warned its teammate, confirming the doubts. Then it placed its hands toward the curved jaw and raised its head, straightening at the same time. The forehead was dented and one eye was sunken, reminiscent of the unhappy look of the old-fashioned plastic dolls, making its face look ugly. The RK900 turned off its skin and tried to connect, but the little head was too damaged. It removed the plate from the temple and the circuits, torn by the accident, spat dark thirium on its white sleeve. Its fingers infiltrated through the opening and searched through the tubes, clearing a path to one of the memory cards, noting the damage. When the tips of its fingers touched a metal plate, Conrad's arm was paralyzed for a brief moment: there was nothing left to transfer, neither image nor sound, only a very sharp sensation, a fire that reverberated in its own circuits.

Malfunctions, such as the ghost of fear, continued to haunt the ZK200's biocomponents and, realizing that the deviance had contaminated the programs well before the robot fell. The android quickly withdrew its hand, fearing to welcome the virus, fearing to feel again. The RK900 had to get rid of this infected component, so it raised this head above its own, high, before throwing it against the ground, striking other rubble and completing the execution of the child. The skull cracked, shedding indigo blood.


Leaning on one of the tables in the staff room, Gavin watched his coffee. No matter how many liters he swallowed, he did not wake up, either from his sleep or from his reality. Tina held out her hand to caress his back, sympathetic. Usually, she knew how to be flippant, yet, she did not know what to say.

After a silence, the young woman finally let out:

"What a shitty job."

Gavin nodded with a tired laugh.

"Fucking amen to that."

Tina still had her hand against his back, a true sister, then tilted her head, scrutinizing her friend's profile. Detective Reed was an ambitious man, always ready to impose rules by order or by force. His service weapon's barrel would always be pointed at the temple of a difficult criminal, never his own, but this certainty had been crumbling since he began to work the RK900. The fact Detective Reed could follow the same fate as Lieutenant Anderson was a frightening idea for the police station.

"Gavin, I want you to know we're all here. We were all affected by Fathia's death, all without exception, but you were closer to her than us and you're with the android— So if one night, you're tempted to do something stupid, I want you call me. Whether it's five o'clock in the afternoon or the morning, I want you to call me."

"Thanks Tina, but it's fine. Really. I don't want to do that."

"What's it like working with the RK900?"

Connor's look-alike was the source of Officer Chen's worries; if the new prototype provoked the death of the detective, she swore to herself: she would sue CyberLife's ass.

A month ago, Gavin's answer would have been spontaneous and unpleasant. To give himself time to think, he took a sip remembering that the RK900 had driven to Milwaukee even if it was not for work. There was something else: when they found Fathia's body, the android had supported him, helping him to leave the scene. And there, to protect him, Conrad had enveloped him with its jacket, inviting him to take refuge under this wing. Gavin had not bothered to think about it, but now he wondered if this gesture was part of the social program of the machine, creatures yet so cold and distant.

"It's useful."

Tina was waiting for him to go on, surprised by the brevity of the answer.

"Will you continue to work with it?"

"Yeah. As long as it does its job, I'm fine. If I can pinch faster the guy who did this to Fathia with this machine, then ok, I play along with it."

At that moment, his cell phone vibrated, transmitting messages from the RK900. When he read that the fallen android was a ZK200, Gavin felt a cold spill on his back.

"Especially since I've already fucked up—"

He should have gone to interrogate the hotel staff at the time of the accident, act otherwise, listen to the android and Fathia. But he could never know the extent of the butterfly effect and he could not save the young woman anymore.


Sitting at the nearby office, the RK900 had just drawn up a list of buyers. If the information within CyberLife was confidential, the franchises had more flexibility and the android could gather several names. They could not wait for CyberLife to finally accept their request: they were already wasting too much time.

"You didn't tell me what you saw with the machine in the dump."

Leaning over its shoulder, Detective Reed watched as the information was sorted by his partner. The RK900 remembered the sound produced by the plastic shell that had cracked under the impact.

"The ZK200's components were too damaged, detective," the robot lied, "I couldn't see anything and I don't know what it went through before being destroyed."

"All we're doing is useless—"

"Maybe we're on the wrong track with the ZK200, detective, but it's a track anyway and we can't neglect it."

Finally, the list added the last name, associating it with sixty-three other couples of customers. When Gavin saw the length, he sighed with disappointment. And yet, it was a small figure: the children's models were new and still met rigid habits. For many, human beings had to reproduce or adopt children of flesh, not set their emotional sights on automatons.

"You want us to go and question everyone?"

"This or you can spend the afternoon near the coffee machine until CyberLife finally agrees to answer us."

The prospect of going door-to-door to interview parents did not please him at all.

"Ok, Oleg. Who do we start with?"

"Amelia Stilton and Robert Clinton live a few meters from the police station, it's a good start."

Conrad did not even correct the detective anymore, abandoning this battle and, at the same time, the hope that its partner finally agrees to call it with its real name.


Amelia Stilton was a pretty young woman of twenty-nine, married to Robert Clinton, three years older. The spouses kept their respective names as a modern couple. She was wearing a golden sweater, a trendy color for this fall, with long sleeves and a high collar. She also followed the fashion of the hair fantasies, dyeing the tip of her blond hair in electric blue, while her husband shone with his black shirt with silver highlights, liking metallic shades. A greyhound wandered back and forth in the living room, articulating his long slender legs with grace, competing proudly with the android watching him, comparing the lean animal to Gnocchi, thick, plump, and much more affectionate.

All that was missing in this perfect couple's décor was a child.

Amelia had offered detective Reed a cup of coffee or a soda, which he had to decline, but at least he could sit in one of the thick armchairs in the living room, while his teammate remained standing behind him, its hands crossed behind its back.

The couple did not know the reason of the visit, so when Gavin told them about the ZK200 that had fallen on a car and its still unknown owners, they remained dumb with amazement.

"Yes," Robert finally confirmed, "Amelia is— sterile, so we adopted a ZK200 in June 2036 and we called him Theodore." The father still spoke of the android with affection, a detail that did not escape the detective. "But with all the events of last year, we were afraid it would become deviant and we separated from it in December."

"Did you take him back to the CyberLife store?"

"Er—" Amelia scratched one of her eyebrows, hiding her eyes. "No. We should have but— many families were scared and they brought back their robots, there were so many. We bought Theodore in a franchise, so we didn't have priority unless we had good contacts."

"We finally found a technician who agreed to recover it quickly to recycle."

Then the android had been destroyed. This information was of no use to the detective who could not wait to get out of this frame: the bastard that had killed Fathia and cut her wrist was not Robert Clinton, even less Amelia Stilton. Gavin had never boasted of having an instinct, believing little in this kind of mysticism, but the suspicions were driven by details and he saw none.

He got up apologetically, but the RK900 stopped him.

"Do you have the ZK200 serial number?"

"I kept the bill in my mailbox, all the information is there, but I have to find it—"

"Send us the number once you find it, please. It's possible that this is an important element."

Gavin stared at his partner, tired of its obstinacy.

The duo met two other couples who still had their ZK200. Gavin had never encountered a child model and he was destabilized by these youthful and yet so rigid faces. Children's lips usually twist to make smiles or grimaces, their eyes are always bulging, eager for discovery, insensitive to fatigue. Excitable, they run and jump to start any adventure. But the ZK200 he had met were just sitting, wise and imitating the old pictures of studious pupils. Expressions rarely flew over their little faces and the authenticity was barely convincing. CyberLife had more work to do, and Gavin wondered how parents, no matter how unhappy they were, could adopt this kind of robot, before understanding: a mechanical child was easier to manage and to neglect.

This was the case of Alice and Ivan Sergovich. With eighteen years apart, the Sergovich were undecided about their plan for the future: they had returned to Detroit recently, but during the revolt of the androids, they had lived in New York a few months. In April 2039, they had adopted a ZK200 that looked like a little Asian girl before leaving it to a technician two months later, no longer wanting to take care of it. Like the first couple, buying an android in a franchise delayed CyberLife's steps and turned to another outing.

"Do you remember the name of the technician?"

Alice took a drag on her cigarette, contracting her strong jaw, frowning.

"Well— he had a very common name. John Smith or David Williams, nothing extraordinary."

"Did you write it on somewhere?" Conrad insisted, ready to gather the most data even though, the more they dug, the less detective Reed saw an interest. "This detail could be important."

"I think it was Smith, darling. We'll send you the confirmation."

"Thank you," Gavin rose, the pain in his shoulders accentuated his fatigue, and he was in a rush to finish his day, "Sorry for the inconvenience, we're leaving now."

The door of the car slammed a little too hard and Conrad realized that his partner's patience was wearing down.

"John and Samuel Watson live five blocks from here, detective, we could go see them."

"Or go home and focus on the murder of Fathia."

"That's what we're doing right now."

"No, we're wasting our time. We go home: I'm fed up with these stories of kid androids. I'm a cop, not a trader or a social assistant."

Conrad did not insist: it admitted the detective had provided enough efforts so far, considering the benefit of the doubt. Now he did not believe it anymore. The engine started for the last time of the day.


The android had noticed the detective's habit of massaging his neck. In terms of posture, Gavin was not a model to follow: he could spend hours with his legs crossed on his desk or leaning on a high table, twisting his back and putting his spine to the torture. When Conrad asked him about these pains, Gavin sent it packing, countering any comments it might have made about his deportment.

"At the first remark on my nearing, I'm chucking you out of the window."

"Posture isn't the only source of ills. The locution "pain in the neck" also reflects a truth, you know."

"Do you mean that supporting the presence of an android all the time causes pain in the shoulders? Great, so get lost."

Frustrated, Gavin became execrable again, rejecting his bitterness on the only thing capable of answering. But Conrad was not offended, knowing the reasons for this mood: anger, grief, disappointment— all these emotions so vivid that the android could not feel but that fascinated it in a certain way. The heartbeat, the heat that exploded in the chest, the barely perceptible tremors: all these physical reactions that animated the human machine intrigued the mechanical one.

Conrad put its hand on Gavin's shoulder, trying to soothe those emotions, perhaps hoping to calm its own as well, simple hints of sadness but torturing its programs anyway.

"You just need to relax, detective." Conrad rested its fingers in the shoulder, probing the stiff muscles, "I think I can untie those tensions. A doctor or nurse will not be needed."

"What do you mean?"

"With a massage."

To support the suggestion, Conrad began to practice circular movements, already effective. Under the touch, the policeman's anger became numb, falling asleep. If Conrad were human, Gavin would certainly have seen an intimate approach, but the RK900 was just a machine designed to serve and obey.

He then agreed to sit on the edge of the sofa, Conrad sitting behind him, its knees serving as armrests. The android began with the lumbar, pressing its fingers on the rigid muscles, settling them with precise circular motions. Sometimes its forefinger met the bump of a vertebra or slipped on a vein, perceiving the circulation of blood.

"Could you remove your sweater? I risk strangling you with your collar."

Without answering, Gavin removed his top, rolling it into a ball beside him. The thirium pump missed a beat when the fabric moved away, revealing hollow ribs, signs of thinness that made them fragile. Conrad put its hands on it with the desire to protect them, its palms getting warmer as they went up along this back to soothe. Gavin bent slightly, breathing deeply under the touch, feeling the tension melt. The android followed his movement, bending over as its hands reached his shoulders. So close to his neck, it could smell cedar again.

It then noticed near the scapula a scar of about ten centimeters.

"Where does this scar come from, detective?" Conrad asked, dragging a finger along the line.

"It was four years ago, during a search, one of the dealers tried to pierce my lung."

"You were lucky he missed you."

"I dodged in time and the doctor who took care of me was good. Before you ask, yes, he was human."

Gavin chuckled until he felt the thumbs of the android sinking into his shoulders, feeling the tip of susceptibility, then the touch became soft again, though strong.

"I'm kidding, okay?"

He slowly raised his face, stretching his neck to unlock all his joints. The massage felt really good.

"Besides, I never asked you where the scar from your nose came from?"

"It was a cat."

"A cat attacked your face?"

"That bastard tried to burst my eye! I was twenty and he was stuck on a tree," Conrad had already noticed the detective's habit of talking with his hands every time he told a story, "I wanted to help him but he was too wild. He thanked me with a swipe in my face! There're cats too wild to be approached, even when you want to help them."

"I fully understand what you mean, detective."

But the allusion escaped Gavin.

"It's stupid, huh? The most impressive scar is all the time hidden while the most ridiculous is in the middle of my mug."

"That's right, but your secret's safe with me: I would invent a story if someone asks me."

If the android had been able to wrap its arms around this torso, the warmth of its palms would have spread along its joints. It would have put its head in the hollow of this shoulder, breathing the smell of dense forest, listening to Gavin's laughter. Frightened, Conrad interrupted this task before its execution and stared at the man's back, so fragile and so pale. He should not do that.

If the detective was responsible for its dysfunction, it could also simply grip his throat and press its fingers on the larynx. It took three minutes to kill a human by strangulation; the RK900 would be able to lock the hug for several long hours.

With a cold gaze, the android slid its hands to the target.

It thought that easing the detective's emotions would silence its dysfunctions, but on the contrary, the contacts duplicated them, amplifying the seriousness of the errors in its codes.

Gavin's cell began to vibrate and the detective grabbed it, escaping unknowingly from a fatal embrace that would have ended their collaboration. Conrad remained immobile, divided between several tasks all prioritized: it would have liked that the notion of elimination gives way to the desire to take refuge against Gavin, but the rigid machine continued to oppose the sensitive deviant.

Urgent restarts were necessary.

"Hey, Caleb, it's Stilton and Clinton: they just sent the number." Gavin handed it the screen where a series of numbers and information were gathered. The revelation saved the RK900 from its degeneration:

"Detective, it's the serial number of the ZK200 that fell off the roof."

"Fuck! I ask them the name of the technician right away."

Gavin quickly wrote his request, feeling the motivation return, animated by a last hope. The massage had removed some acute pains and the news ended to calm the evils.

"The technician's name is David Smith. They're sure of it. Ah! It's always a pleasure to meet organized people!"

The RK900 no longer dared to touch Gavin, fearing intentions that might develop. It wanted Gavin to get up and move away, so while adjoining, it focused on the name and thought:

"It's a common name but if it comes back regularly, it has to be the same person."

"Yeah. And maybe it'll lead to something, or it won't help at all. We'll see."

Gavin finally got up, grabbing his sweater and getting dressed before stretching just like a real cat capable of twisting in surprising positions.

"Do you feel better, detective?"

He rubbed his shoulder and neck which were still blessed with traces of heat.

"Yeah. Yeah, I feel better. I know that I bawl you out as soon as you want to play the protector, but keep this function: I like this one."

Conrad did not really agree, but if it controlled its joints, mastered its deviousness, it could perhaps touch Gavin again without fear? This supposition was immediately suppressed, the task in contradiction with its programs. Really, artificial intelligences did not support paradoxes.


The next day, the detective and his android sounded at the Watson's door. Same age, same sex, same love and same projects, the two men approached the quarantine with an admirable serenity. John wore bright orange glasses, giving his tawny eyes and sun-tanned color, erasing his merry companion. Samuel seemed shy, when he was actually deaf. To Conrad's surprise, Gavin confessed that he could not speak sign language, so he spoke mostly to John.

Once again, the couple became attached to a small android during the month of January 2037 before parting a year later, also making them feel guilty about the responsibilities that a "new form of life" brings. At these words, Gavin refrained from contradicting them, especially since he wondered if Conrad's presence did not influence their vocabulary because Samuel, with the same icy look as the android, observed the robot, scared and intrigued at once by a potential sign of deviance.

"You bought the ZK200 in a franchise, you brought it back to CyberLife or you had to call a technician?"

"Yes, we had to contact a technician," John replied, surprised, "we weren't in a hurry, but we were so afraid that Monica would change and she would suffer."

"Who was this technician?"

John asked his husband to check. Gavin understood what the man was signing but did not let anything appear, already disappointed when John replied:

"Magdalen McMurphy. The name sounds so good, it had marked me too."

With a nod, the detective confirmed the musicality of the surname, but he felt stuck again. Although a closed door did not shut the lead for all that.

"Do you still have a number or an email? So we could try to contact her?"

"Of course, I'll get you that right now."

Confused, Samuel asked his husband what he was going to do and tried to hold him back with a few brief signs that John interrupted. While maintaining a deceptive calm, Gavin noticed words like 'other', 'false' and 'disappeared'.

"What's happening?"

"Nothing: my husband actually thinks he's seen our child, but the faces of androids aren't unique. And then, Monica was recycled, I don't understand why she would do in a hotel while McMurphy took it several months ago."

Gavin felt his stomach fall between his ribs, perhaps becoming slightly pale, but he remained silent while John repeated to Samuel that he had certainly confused. A few minutes later, Gavin recorded the number to contact the technician during the day.

Conrad had the presence of mind to wait to be in the hallway of the floor before asking the detective's opinion:

"You think McMurphy and Smith are working together?"

"Maybe not, on the other hand, it's weird that Samuel thought he recognized the android somewhere else."

The elevator was taking its time, moving with old-fashioned laziness, lighting them up with ugly yellow neon lights.

"Do you believe in his story?"

"Not really, but I can't believe or not a story of which I don't know anything about. I'll call him in to the station so I can chat with him without his guy."

Subsequently, the name of David Smith was again pronounced by Mary Schwartz and Patrick Patterson who had entrusted their android to the care of this technician last January, just like Elizabeth and Margaret Collins. If the two Englishwomen were over sixty and intended to finish their days in the north of the United States, their living room had a good London atmosphere where a smell of black tea hovered.

Gavin asked the same questions and got the same answers, repeating the same dialogue, until Margaret put her black and parchment hand on Elizabeth's one, white and just as fragile. Their contrast made their beauty.

"I must confess, detective, that we contacted Mr. Smith two months ago. We separated from Sophia six months ago, but we regretted our choice."

"You wanted to get it back? Adopt it again?"

"Yes," Elizabeth confirmed, "according to some media, androids become deviant and violent when they are mistreated. For our part, we spoiled it with our love, but we were afraid for its future: what would happen to Sophia once we left? A human child grows up and becomes autonomous, a machine appears on an inheritance, at most, and we were afraid of that."

"What changes your mind, then?"

"Elizabeth has two children from a previous marriage who still live in England; we would have sent Sophia there, playing with the administrative procedures. Fortunately, we respect the wishes of the dead with more rigor today."

Conrad, sitting next to the detective, was looking at the cat who had already fallen asleep on the thighs of his partner, pensive about so much affection for machines. Where did this stubborn love come from? How it was gathered?

Gavin spoke again:

"And what did David Smith tell you?"

"That he had recycled Sophia. That she no longer existed."

The embrace of their hands tightened, expressing the pain of mourning. Mourning a machine. And perhaps the end of the investigation: the androids, bequeathed for several months, were all destroyed, canceling the chances of deviance. As for the other couples who still had their ZK200, they had nothing abnormal to report.

Conrad glanced at its teammate, wondering if Gavin would be as touched if the robot disappeared.


Gavin could not stand it any longer: his hands caught threads that were fading and fading, disappearing in a mystery that made no sense. He felt the solution escaping him. With his forehead against the wheel of his car, he was waiting for the RK900 to sit on the passenger seat. On the tablet, Conrad observed:

"The next couple is named Smith. This may be a coincidence, since eight percent of the American population is named with this family name."

"What are the first names?"

"Sarah and Oliver."

The detective sighed, the contact still cut off. The RK900 heard him mumble insults.

"You have to stay focused, detective, and pursue."

"It's useless, Playmobil! We still have nothing on Fathia's murderer! The only thing we're taking care is this fucking kid who fell on a car last Thursday after being sold, and his owners don't give a shit!"

They had not yet contacted the first parents, uncertain about the rules of protocol. The most important thing was to understand how Theodore had left its first home to fall on a car in Gratiot Avenue.

Conrad put its hand on Gavin's shoulder, wishing to bring back the calm it had managed to inspire the day before.

"Detective, the two investigations are maybe related."

"Maybe! You see, that's the problem: they're maybe related."

"What do you want me to do? You're angry, you're frustrated just like after the Lieutenant Anderson's suicide." Conrad had begun to raise its voice. "Is that why you started sleeping with Miss El Harbi? So you could forget? Do you want us to go to visit some prostitutes? The Eden Club perhaps? What should I do? Should I replace Miss El Harbi in your bed? Maybe after a soixante-neuf, you will agree to get back to work?"

Gavin punched it hard in the cheek, causing no pain. On this failure, he got out of the car, fuming. Why did androids want to be so free in a shitty world? People with a heart of gold like Hank Anderson or Fathia El Harbi had their brains fired, giving up the fight while bastards continued to walk on the surface of this earth.

The synthetic skin repaired along the jaw, supporting the blow, then Conrad also left the car, without any fear, approaching the detective, ready to apologize if Gavin agreed to listen.

"Detective. I have to tell you something."

"Kiss my ass."

"It isn't just an investigation: I want to find the culprit. Not for increase statistics, not because I was designed for that, but because I find that's— unfair. Miss El Harbi's death is unfair and it woke up something in my programs."

"What?"

Arms crossed, Gavin leaned on the hood supporting the look of the android. The machine had to confess.

"Before I followed you into Fowler's office, I was planning to go to CyberLife for repair, maybe even to be replaced. I've became defective. Since a few days, I've the impression of feeling emotions."

"You're talking rubbish."

"I felt sadness when I saw Miss El Harbi's body, I still feel it when I see you in this state. Or at least something that looks like it. I know that androids can't feel emotions, but I can't deny or ignore these reactions."

"Feeling emotions is just the worst thing that can happen to you, machine. Don't make me think you can be sad. You can't be."

Gavin did not believe him. After all, the RK900 was not sure to believe itself. However, the thirium was boiling but the android did not initiate any cooling process, leaving this chemical anger burst. It grabbed the detective's collar to hold him against it, giving him a view of it hot red LED.

"It's your fault, detective. As soon as I arrived at the police station on September 6, you all bathed me in a terrible hatred. All of you hated me because my predecessor did not please you. You ridiculed me with Officer Chen, you pushed me away." Its fingers continued to tighten the collar. Gavin remembered some security reflexes and held his arm between the metal body and his, a simple piece of meat. "Without knowing it, I discovered an extreme before knowing another one with Miss El Harbi: nobody spoke to me with so much respect, with so much benevolence. And now, another grief is striking you and your emotions are so strong that even I can't remain indifferent. You're too 'alive' and now, I know, things would have been very different with Lieutenant White. So congratulations, detective, you've done it: my programs have become degenerate. Thanks to you."

Finally, the android released him, leaving Gavin stunned. He did not think a machine would be able to talk like that. Connor had never spoken that way.

"Do you plan to go to CyberLife?" His question was stupid, but he was unable to say anything else.

"If I do that, the memories you asked me to keep will disappear. Just like you, I've tasks to do, detective, so help me: show a little goodwill for this case to be concluded. You've caused my dysfunctions, you owe me that. And after that, maybe I could become a machine again."

Gavin needed to smoke. He lit a cigarette and watched the swirling smoke fade into the moist air, still shaking. From the outside, humans imagined that working with an android was like working with a computer that could talk. But Gavin realized that it was much more complicated.

"Fathia was right." Conrad eyed him. "We become human when we've suffered. By hanging out with us, androids adopt our behavior and mime us. That's why you're all blowing a fuse."

The man could have spoken angrily, but he seemed mostly worried. Fatigue, exhaustion— this cocktail of his everyday blurred his character yet strong. Gavin exhaled again before looking at Conrad with, for the first time, sorrow:

"I'm sorry. Don't go to CyberLife, don't be replaced."

Finally soothed, the thirium stopped boiling in its circuits, like a rested sea. It should not have released this bug, this foreign code, but Conrad felt a comforting calm. And it finally heard Gavin's apology.

"I just want you to help me, detective, and I'll help you too. We should be able to do that."

His partner was about to answer but he was interrupted by his phone. The RK900 allowed itself to look for him.

"Detective, CyberLife just answered to tell us that the android belonged to Amelia Stilton and Robert Clinton."

"They can go fuck themselves."

"I agree with you."

And the duo returned to the car to visit the Smiths.