11.6.38

1:34am

Get out of my house, he tapped into his phone.
I can't deal with you right now.
Go shopping or something, I just need you out.

The recipient waited for him to stop typing before sending a reply. There was no sympathetic "…" as the message was composed. It came straight through, a cut and paste ready to go. Just another one of a trillion variables already accounted for.

Okay, no problem. Is there anything specific you would like me to buy for you?

He wanted to throw his phone out the window.

Anything, he typed back.
Literally anything.
Buy something we're short on. Don't care.
If nothing's open, park somewhere.
Just don't be back before 3am.

There were a few seconds of blissful silence. He put the phone on his knee, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to bask in the music. Then the unsubtle cacophony of a car crash, complete with screeching tires, deafening impact, and shattering glass, exploded out of his phone. He still hated himself for setting that disaster as his text alert. As if he needed another reminder that the world was a fucking trainwreck.

I've left the house and locked the door. I will be back at 3:00 AM. Would you like me to give you the list of items I have decided to purchase?

His response was almost as immediate as the android's:

No.
Don't contact me before 3am.
Not for anything.

The car pulled into a space and powered down quietly, plunging him into the gloom of the parking lot. His breath was the only sound buried down here in the dark, sealed behind glass in the last few wisps of warmth.

Gavin had plans.


01:38

'Sure you don't want me around for a while?'

Scrivsy stared silently at the window, holding the paper cup against her chest. The light in her flat was still on, as it should be. She could almost see a familiar silhouette standing against it, a ghost in the living room with a haunted look and a glass of whisky in its hand, counting the cars passing below. Whatever mood she came home to, whatever tearful mess or bottle-shard bomb blast, it always began with this. Him standing there. Counting cars. The dread of not knowing what fresh chaos of feeling awaited her would sink into the back of her mind, would almost persuade her to stay in the car for ever, and let the fire consume itself.

The window was empty now. It was a thousand times worse.

'Not talking, huh?' Anderson sighed heavily. 'Fine. Should I—'

The door grunted as Scrivsy opened it and began climbing out. Anderson grabbed her arm before she could escape.

'Hey, wait,' he said, desperate. She snatched her arm back, but waited. 'I'll see you tomorrow, all right? Get some sleep.' His fingers found the steering wheel, his body turning to the windscreen. The gesture was predictable – he was disengaging from his words, as he always did. 'If you need anything, even just… someone to talk to… I'm here. All right? Doesn't matter if it's the ass-crack of dawn or nothin' – you call me. Got it?'

It was impossible to appreciate his concern when he was so utterly uncommitted to it. In his narrow reality, it was noble enough to pretend to offer support, even when he had no intention of giving it. How could he? An old drunk with a dead son and a heart sealed and guarded and watched like a bank vault behind walls thick enough to keep his own dog out – the man had nothing left to give.

She slammed the door. The car rocked on its ancient hinges, croaking wheezily at the abuse. Scrivsy did not bother to acknowledge the scowl tugging Anderson's brow (she did not even look, but she knew it was there, it always was) as she turned her back. Nobody ever came after her when she retreated to her flat. Not even Gavin. The mess drove him mad, and he complained for days afterward about the smell. She had no idea what he was talking about. She could not smell anything. But their aversion suited her just fine. She was safe there, safe from everything.

The stairs were long, and her legs were heavy with the rigour of trauma, but when she struggled with the lock and finally heard it click, the relief of getting the door open fell over her at once. A familiar blanket.

The dead clock on the wall read thirty-four past six. Magnets and stickers pocked the fridge, and the whiteboard on the freezer door said, 'I drank the chocolate milk'. Hanging crooked on the wall, the calendar had not moved a day past 20 April, 2030. A note rested on the dining table penned in a shaky, uneven scrawl: 'Gone out somewhere but dont you worry I'll be right back'.

Scrivsy flipped on a few more lights, kicked off her shoes and hung her overcoat beside the other one swaying like a hanged man, untouched. Her coat was crusted with blue blood, and a few drops of her nosebleed too. She would have to get it dry-cleaned.

'I'm back, Scrivsy,' she said quietly.

It was just a courtesy. He was probably not listening.


1:43am

He peered into the iris scanner, one eye locked in contest with a blinding white light. In a sharp snap, the door unlocked, and he pushed it open, blinking the eclipse from his vision. The temperature was a perfect 73 degrees. His ice cold nose and the tips of his ears were already thawing out.

"Lights," he announced. The darkness faded as the condo brightened.

Everything was just right. Not a particle of air out of place. All evidence of his state of mind was scrubbed from the glassy floorboards. The scent of fresh jasmine on the island countertop masked the excessive amounts of detergent that clung to the kitchen. Scrivsy told him everything tasted of detergent in his house, that he was borderline compulsive. That wasn't true; she was overthinking things, as usual. He was just… thorough. Besides, Dipshit was legally programmed to avoid poisoning its owner with a lethal dose of dishwater. He assumed.

Not like it really mattered anyway. Not today.

Gavin unzipped his sneakers and placed them on the shoe rack. He had three pairs of identical brown sneakers sitting beside them, and two other pairs which were black. Apparently that was "weird," as Julie very critically pointed out all the damn time, but it worked for him. He liked those shoes. Julie just couldn't let him like anything she didn't, could she? She was such a fucking control freak. It wasn't like he had no other shoes. Suede loafers. Black patent leather oxfords. Somewhere.

… Flip-flops. He still had those, right? Did they count?

"Music," he snapped. Some atmosphere might calm him down.

The house flooded with sound.

"I'm a vampire
I'm a ghost
Say my name (let me in)
Say my name (let me in)
Can't cross the threshold
Till you open the door"

Of course it played Julie's shitty andropop bullshit, because why the fuck wouldn't it? She must have been over a few hours ago, messing with his stuff when he wasn't home. Seemed Dipshit erased that little visit, too. But it forgot to wipe the prints from his music.

"Delete song." The music stopped. He'd fuck with her, too, if that's what she wanted.

"Shuffle," he said, and the stupid AI found something embarrassingly bottom-of-the-barrel to supply him with. One of his dad's old songs. He wasn't sure why he still had it.

"Next." Soundtrack from an old anime he watched in his teens. Fuck.

"Next." Darkshines. Scrivsy's shit now? Retarded system was just trying to irritate him.

It finally dredged up Mogwai. He could roll with that.

His bedroom was immaculate, but it had a human touch to it. He made the bed himself, washed the sheets every three days, dusted each night. Once, it was the one room Dipshit wasn't allowed to clean. Then Julie came along and helpfully informed him that it was the most disgusting room in the house. He could only see the filthy little creases and corners after that. Julie was right. It was getting harder for him to clean up after himself. To notice details. To focus. To do anything. He was just so tired all the time, moving in slow motion, aching for sleep he didn't need. His bedroom was the only sign he was falling apart. Broken by the human touch.

Now Dipshit gave the place a onceover on Mondays. Fucking androids.

Gavin fished the plastic bag out of the nightstand. He stepped towards the closet. The door seemed to be shrinking away from him. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, his saliva turned to glue. It was kind of warm in here. Letting the plastic bag rustle to the floor, he pulled off his jacket and folded it carefully, laying it on the end of the bed. The old thing would have to be dry cleaned, if one could even get bloodstains out of worn leather. When would that get done? Maybe he should leave a list for Dipshit.

Things to do when you get back:, he typed out slowly, thoughtfully, shakily,
- dry clean jacket

His fingers hovered stupidly over the keypad. That was it. He could think of literally nothing else. This was retarded. Like it even fucking mattered.

A flash of anger ripped through him. He deleted the unsent text and coiled back his arm to hurl the phone at the wall, then spun around at the last second and with a sharp scream threw it instead at his bed. It slapped facedown into the comforter. He was getting upset, getting swept up in full body rage, blood pushed to bursting against his skin. Not good. He couldn't get upset right now. That's not how it was supposed to go.

Bathroom. Cold water. Still his hands. Bury his blood. Freeze his rage, save it for later. He met his eyes in the mirror. He spoke carefully.

"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul."

The poem died in his mouth. Funny how strong words sounded so pathetic when you didn't believe them.

Gavin peeled off his clothes and stepped into the shower, setting the water temperature to 50 degrees. It bit into him like ice knives, burning white hot. His breath caught in his throat. Screaming, he pounded the wall, sent his pain in shockwaves through it, and imagined it absorbing his anger, energy to atom.

He could still see Fowler holding Scrivsy's gun and checking the serial number against her records. The way he looked up, his eyes thin with skepticism, struck home how frail the ice was at the center of Gavin's plan, and how dangerous it would be to shift the balance in any direction. The corners of the old man's mouth curled distastefully as he realized what Gavin was doing.

"This doesn't mean anything, Detective. She could have passed off the gun to you after it was done, gotten you to cover for her."

Gavin scoffed loudly. "Hello? Have you ever met Scrivsy?"

"Yeah, actually I have," retorted Fowler, "and she wouldn't lie to save anyone's ass, not even yours."

He had him there. It was true. Scrivsy didn't care about anything like she cared about her goddamn honesty. Loyal to nothing but raw, merciless justice.

"You can ask her how I got the gun," said Gavin pathetically. "She won't have a clue."

"She didn't give it to you?" asked Fowler.

"No. She dropped it. Got in a tangle with Benita, the android suspect." Nuggets of truth forge the firmest lies. "In the confusion, I got a cuff key off my belt and cut myself loose. The PC200 tackled Tobias just before he could shoot me and got itself shot instead, right in the pump regulator. Hurst took a shot at Scrivsy and Mounce got the fuck out. I made a dive for Scrivsy's gun, then Scrivsy and I got into cover behind the kitchen counter."

"And from there you shot Tobias?"

"That's right."

Fowler was writing all this down. He didn't need to – he was recording every second of it – but he was a traditionalist. Wanted it all trapped in his little paper web. The pause spread into silence as the pen bobbed over the notepad. Then it stopped. Fowler's eyes rose.

"Sounds like you've really thought this story through," he said.

"Didn't need to," said Gavin without missing a beat. "That's what happened."

"You do realize that without compelling evidence either way, you two are both being put under investigation."

Gavin shook his head once, folding his arms. "You can't do that to Scrivsy." It wasn't a question, wasn't a plea. It was a statement.

"Look, I know you want to protect her," said Fowler in that goddamn diplomatic voice he put on, like he was soothing a troubled child, "but you can't get her off the hook, kid. Whichever one of you did this dragged the both of you into mile-deep shit. You got a lotta dirt on you and there's no getting out of it."

"This would destroy her. She's not okay. She's not okay, and she didn't do it. You can't get her suspended, that's fucked up."

"What do you mean she's not okay?"

Gavin knew he shouldn't say it – he was betraying her trust. She was so damn convinced she wasn't a crazy person she'd kill him for putting her on Fowler's watchlist. But he would play every card he had to.

"She could… hurt herself," he said. "I don't know. Fuck."

"Hurt herself? As in suicide?"

Gavin shrugged evasively.

"And has she ever made a suicide attempt before?" pressed Fowler.

Gavin bit his tongue and held his peace. He couldn't say more. He couldn't go too far.

"Silence says a lot, you know," said Fowler subtly.

"Not in a court of law it doesn't." He glanced at the camera under Fowler's monitor. Why the fuck did he say that?

"You're not on trial, Reed."

"If I'm not, then she is," hissed Gavin. "And that's not going to happen. I'm not going to let that happen."

"What happened in there was possibly a criminal offense. Someone pulled the trigger on an unarmed man, and I'm going to find out who it was."

Gavin sat forwards quickly. There it was – a beacon on the horizon, a glorious light bulb. "Who the fuck said he was unarmed?"

Fowler fixed him with a dark glower.

"You better elaborate on that, son."


01:45

06/11/38 #1. Permanent marker glistened on the bottom of the paper cup before she slipped it into the November stack. It was the tenth cup this month – and those were only the ones she had managed to snatch from him. The faint fragrance of coffee still lingered in the cabinet, staining her collection of old desk notes, get-well cards, dinner receipts and gift trinkets. It was fitting. The man seemed to run on the stuff. If she could bottle smells, she would have captured the aged leather of his jackets, but coffee was almost as integral to his being. It would have to do.

She glanced over her shoulder, arms curling around her chest. Steam still clouded from her lungs. Cold had crept into the bones of the building as it did every winter, slithering like a snake through the walls, silent. The air was thick with frozen memories. Sometimes they held together in human form or strung themselves into a half-remembered conversation. They felt like a presence, an icy stare on her back.

Scrivsy turned the heater on and drew the curtains closed to lock herself in with them. She sat herself on the floor, her back against the sofa, and buried her head between her knees as she defrosted.

Her pocket vibrated. It was probably Anderson, dissatisfied with how they parted. He rarely left things sour. Death's face was in every mirror he looked into, every road he drove. It was at the bottom of every whisky-filled pit he dug himself under the mesmerism of midnight guilt. Any conversation could be his last. So he backtracked. He never outright apologised, but turned the soil with neutral nonsense. He filled distance with small-talk. Always two steps ahead of his own mistakes.

Not like Gavin. Gavin was perfect. Gavin did not make mistakes.


1:55am

He twisted the knob and sighed in relief as the water warmed. And yet he still felt a chill. The shower smelled of soap and steam but something was wrong. He held his hands out, scanning the lines of his palms, then flipped them over, then checked the webbing of his fingers and the edges of his nails. They were clean. But they felt dirty.

"Tobias had a gun?" hissed Fowler.

"He was pointing it right at my fucking head, I think I'd notice," sneered Gavin. "All three of them were armed. Tobias had a Makarov, Mounce had some shitty piece of trash, and Hurst had my gun. Took it off me while I was out."

Fowler rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, mulling over the information. There was doubt there for Gavin to feed. He would just have to keep his story consistent.

"Tobias was armed with the Makarov when Scrivsy shot him," clarified Fowler.

"When I shot him," corrected Gavin harshly. "I fucking shot him, Captain."

"Right," grunted Fowler. "And? Was he?"

The big lie.

"Yes," said Gavin. "He was aiming right at us. I wasn't gonna just sit there—"

"How did the Makarov end up next to the PC200?"

Gavin's brain did a double-take. Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"Tobias dropped the gun after I shot him," he said. Blathered. He sounded exactly like he was making it up on the spot. Fucking retard. "The PC200 must have picked it up to get back at him or Hurst, or—or—"

"Not so well thought out after all," said Fowler. Gavin swore there was a hint of smugness on his face.

"I wasn't watching everything," he said defensively. "There were some things I didn't see."

"Why would the PC200 try to 'get back' at Tobias?"

"For shooting it, I guess. Hurst shot it too, in the neck. Maybe it deviated."

The pen flicked back and forth over the paper. Gavin's knee was bobbing. He tensed instinctually as he noticed. There it was, that spasm behind his ribs, like a bird fighting its cage. He was afraid again. Always so fucking afraid. Trapped in a space too small for him, a chest at the bottom of the sea, a coffin in the ground.

"And Scrivsy's nose?" asked Fowler suddenly, startling him.

He clamped his palms over his knees. "What?"

"She walked in here with a bloody nose," reminded Fowler.

Gavin swallowed. "That was Benita."

"What about that bruise on your neck?"

His hand nearly rose to touch it; he'd forgotten it was there. Everyone could see it, Scrivsy's goddamn lunacy, how he could go from her best friend to a mortal enemy the moment he raised his voice. He shouldn't have let her do that. People shouldn't treat him like that. He shouldn't have upset her. He shouldn't have scared her.

"Hurst choked me out as soon as I opened the door to the apartment," he said casually. "That's how they got me all trussed up like turkey dinner."

"He strangled you?" said Fowler.

"No, chokehold. I was out in seconds, I think."

Fowler closed his eyes. "Those are thumbprints, Gavin."

The bird scrabbled for freedom, the freedom to scream for all the world to hear. "I don't know what those are."

Now, Fowler simply stared at him, eye to eye, an almost imperceptible shake of the head betraying his sheer amazement at what he was hearing. It was all going wrong. Scrivsy was in danger. Gavin swallowed again.

"Cut the recording," he said hoarsely, every word tense and cracked.

There was a beat of surprise.

"What?" asked Fowler.

"I have concerns about a particular individual's mental health," bit out Gavin.

"Concerns which can't be discussed in this interview?"

Gavin sucked in a quiet breath. "I have concerns about how a particular mentally unstable individual would react to Scrivsy's suspension."

Fowler paused the recording. He tapped his pen on his notepad thoughtfully. "We're not talking about Scrivsy anymore, are we Gavin?"

"No, sir," confirmed Gavin. If this didn't work, it was over. "I'm talking about Hank."

"Hank?" A twitch spiked over Fowler's uncompromising expression. His grip on the pen drew tight. "You don't know a goddamn thing about Hank, kid, so you better watch your step."

Gavin leaned forwards, arms crossed on the desk, closing in on the captain. This was his last shot, and he wasn't going to be subtle. It was time to fight like a cornered animal. "I know he's an alcoholic," he said. "I know he keeps a licensed revolver in his house. I know he takes it out and plays with it when he's really, really drunk. I know he ends up in places he shouldn't be."

"Why would you know things like that?" asked Fowler calmly.

"Scrivsy's his partner," said Gavin. "A good one, too. She worries about him sometimes. But she doesn't drive."

He left the information dangling expectantly between them.

Fowler sighed through his nose. He could smell bait from a mile away. But he took it between his teeth. "So you chaperone Scrivsy whenever she feels like checking up on her partner, do you?" he said flatly.

Gavin rubbed an ear on his shoulder. "Well, not whenever," he admitted. "Sometimes I ignore her, but it's not easy to ignore Scrivsy when her mind's set on something."

"And in the times when you've… 'checked up' on Hank, what have you found?" The hook was stuck in him. Empathy wasn't enough to break Fowler, but loyalty was another story.

"Passed out, usually," said Gavin nonchalantly. "Blackout drunk. Choking on his own vomit. Sometimes he has the gun in his hand. Sometimes he's sober enough to put it away before opening the door. He even tries to hide the bottles, like we can't fucking tell he's been drinking. Bastard isn't always at home, though."

"Where is he when he's not home?"

"Any of three places. Usually, a bar. He's been in a couple fights, but nothing serious. Easy enough to drive him home. We've also found him on Ambassador Bridge or at some park nearby. I think he tried to jump once."

"You think?"

"I don't get out of the car," said Gavin sharply. "I'm not his fucking babysitter, am I? I drive Scrivsy out there, she deals with whatever shitshow he's put himself in, and then we get the asshole home. I do my part."

"What's the third place he goes to?" asked Fowler.

Gavin averted his eyes. "Jefferson Avenue, near Fort Wayne," he mumbled. "The, uh, the street it happened, the thing. Most of the time, he doesn't even know why he's there."

"What relevance does this have to your situation?" cut in Fowler bluntly, shifting in his seat. Gavin eyed his movements.

"It has every relevance in how you're going to handle it," he said. "Hank's fucked up as it is, but now you've gone and dumped a fucking android on him, after everything that's happened. And what, you're going to get rid of Scrivsy, too? Do you know what that'll do to him?"

"He doesn't need her. He'll cope."

"You willing to bet his life on that? He's barely coping now, without you pulling the rug out from under him. Might as well shoot his fucking dog while you're at it."

Fowler shook his head. He gazed blankly at the touch wall, blue light casting a cold glow over his face. Catching sight of his tortured moral core was rare, but Gavin saw it then.

"Gavin," he said softly, before he turned to him and hardened to stone once more, "you're going to tell me the truth about what happened tonight. Off-record. And then I'm going to tell you what happened. Do you get what I'm saying here?"

Gavin nodded and sat back. "Yes, Captain."

He shut off the shower.


02:06

First frame. Brake lights bled over the wet road. Red rippled in the dark. Passers-by under black umbrellas flowed around two figures, avoiding them as water avoids a stone. There were no eyes on their faces, but they were watching. Scrivsy looked at Scrivsy. She could see the bus behind his head drawing closer.

Sixth frame. He glanced left, squinting against the headlights, and stepped onto the road. His foot landed in a puddle.

Tenth frame. Half a second before he was swept under the wheels of the bus, he fell neatly through the puddle and vanished. The only thing left was his top hat, rocking on its side in the middle of the road. The bus passed and the hat was swallowed in shadow.

Eleventh frame. Water sprayed the pavement as the bus sailed off-screen.

End of film. The rain hovered. The cars were a motionless blur. Pedestrians stalled mid-stride, their heads turned toward the road.

In the stillness that followed, Scrivsy watched the puddle's surface, calm and unruffled. Standing over it and peering down, she could see only the starless night, a pit of darkness. She scooped Scrivsy's hat off the ground and slipped it over her hair. She jumped into the puddle.

Black water closed around her, coating her like tar. Fistfuls forced themselves down her throat. Fingers hooked into her nose and crawled through her sinuses. Voiceless whispers followed her as she sank.

'Just a machine. Capable of suffering.'

Fragments. She was missing fragments.

'A white cat was staring at some goldfish,' came a breath in her ear; 'she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive.'

She had heard that before. She touched her nose tentatively, but whatever was there, it flew right away. Something brushed the hem of her trousers. She looked up. There was a figure bending over the mouth of the pit, a blue triangle on its left breast. Its blank-faced head tipped to the side.

'Difficult to predict,' it mumbled, muffled by the water. 'Tend to destroy.'

Another whisper circled her, stalking, accusing. 'I have no feelings. I think I hate it. I cried for the first time this afternoon.'

Diaries are supposed to be private. Filled with secrets. Confided in susurrus.

'Self-determination. Self-determination. Self-determination!' Each word more urgent, hissing through the water like bullets. 'It wasn't my intention to cause conflict.'

'Scrivsy, I protected Detective Reed.' Red blood, blue blood, black blood, new blood. The water was thick and warm.

A loaded barrel pressed against the back of Scrivsy's head.

'Speak!'

Her eyes snapped open. She found herself lying in foetal position on the floor of her flat. She sat up slowly, straightening her glasses and wiping the spit off her face. The dead clock on the wall read thirty-four past six. Her racing heart slowed. Her pocket was vibrating. She pulled out her phone and swiped the screen.

'Who'za?' she croaked.

'Jeffrey,' came a tired, heavy voice.

Scrivsy swallowed the bad taste in her mouth. 'Why're you "Jeffrey" right now? Bad news, is it?'

'Elizabeth Easom has filed a lawsuit against CyberLife,' said Fowler.

'Wha'?' grunted Scrivsy, climbing to her feet. 'Wha' for?'

'For demanding repossession of your suspect, the CX100. She's refusing to give it up.'

'Can't we seize it as evidence?' she asked. She began walking to the kitchen.

'Not now. She's dropped arson and battery charges. Our hands are tied. The most we can do is keep it in police custody until they reach a verdict or settle one way or another.'

Scrivsy circled the dining table and moved back toward the sofa. 'So tha's tha', then? We've lost it?'

The line was quiet as she paced through her flat. Then Fowler sighed.

'Your appointment is at the Ford Building on Griswold Street, ten AM Tuesday,' he said. 'Don't be late. Your android is Thalia. It's eight years old and a real bitchy over-analyser. I bet it's seen even worse cases than you.'

'No doubt,' said Scrivsy flatly.

'Quit your damn sulking,' snapped Fowler. 'You lost one case. There are more deviants every day. You'll have plenty on your plate soon enough, and you'll have the RK800 prototype to help you through it. It's a top-of-the-line assisting detective and it will come in useful in the next few weeks.'

Scrivsy frowned. 'Thought its assignment was just one case.'

'It didn't produce the results we were hoping for. We've extended the assignment.' We being CyberLife, Scrivsy deduced. Spoken like a true puppet with a ventriloquist's hand up his arse.

'Extended it how much, exactly?' she asked suspiciously.

'A while,' barked Fowler. 'Just fucking deal with it, will you? I need someone to co-operate with it, and you're marginally more reasonable than Hank.'

'Thanks,' she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

'Trust me. It knows more about deviants than any of us.'

'I don't doubt tha' at all,' she said. And she most certainly did not.

'Goodnight, Scrivsy,' he said at last.

''Night, Cap'n,' she replied, and let him hang up.

Scrivsy sank into the sofa, opened her laptop and Googled 'RK800 android'. She might pretend to work with that thing, but she knew what it really was. She was not stupid. Connor would not catch her off-guard.


2:36am

Gavin had been sitting on the end of his bed with the plastic bag balled in his fist for what felt like hours. He couldn't take it anymore. He mashed it back into its drawer and kicked the nightstand for good measure. He'd come back to it. That was the plan. There was plenty of time.

But he couldn't keep staring at the closet door. There were too many thoughts in there.

So he shut off the music and combed his hair. Washed his hands. Brushed his teeth. Swabbed the bathroom floor.

Washed his hands again.

And he found himself flipping through crime articles on his tablet, scrolling frantically through years of felony for a glimpse of Kwan, Rickard, Mounce, Hurst, or Tobias. Only two came up, lurking in the corners of security camera footage. Arrested. Charged. Petty theft. Drug dealing. Cocaine. Red Ice. Incarcerated. Bookmarking pages as he went, he took notes on the dates and saved the location pins into his digital map.

Jasmine Kwan and Thomas Rickard had been arrested twice on suspicion of illegal android trafficking, but were never charged. Insufficient evidence of foul play. The androids always managed to disappear before the cops showed up. But the dealers weren't so quick. Cameras and patrol cars caught them at eight different locations hidden in alleys, abandoned buildings, and construction sites across Detroit, always shying away from downtown spotlight.

Gavin's eyes snagged on a paragraph buried in a news article: "'This suspicious activity is currently under investigation,' said Cmdr. Marion Herriot to C16, but refused to comment further."

He knew about Herriot. She headed the Major Violations Unit up in New Center. If they were looking into the android mules, Gavin needed to get access to their reports. He needed to—

The door clicked. He spun around. Dipshit was standing in the doorframe, blue eyes peering through the holes in the paper bag. It slowly held out a bar of chocolate.

3:13am. He was too fucking late.


Author's Note:

What am I supposed to say? Sorry this took two months? That doesn't really cut it. But not much could. Anyway, this is very filler-y and turned out way longer than it should have, but I'm really REALLY happy we've reached Gavin's perspective. This dude is going to get up to some shenanigans, let me tell you. What else would he do with so much time on his hands?