November 8th, 2038

PM 4:05:03


A/N: Sorry.


Evidence Server.

Two bright words on grey blast doors. You knew where they emptied, and where the stairs behind them would lead. You went down there more than twice a day – every day. Most of the time it had been for productive reasons…but honestly, there were times where you'd venture into the depths of HQ because it was quiet.

The purring of electronics drowned out the echoes of ringing telephones. The sputter of processing motherboards slowed your pulse. The trance the servers' LEDs put you in as they bounced from one block to another.

On the other side of those doors was an escape route…

Used to be.

A peculiar lesson you'd learned as a kid popped in your head. Demonstrations of how to check for a fire by placing the back of your hand on a doorknob to gauge the heat. How to open it with your shoulder if it was cool enough, and how to slam it shut if you found flames and smoke, anyway.

How to protect yourself from a backdraft.

If only predicting backlash was as easy.

You placed your palm on the biometric scanner, fantasizing what an "All Clear," signal would look like.

Instead, you got an error that made your anxiety ebb and flow without restraint.

"Identity Confirmed: ID#5649.
Position: Police Officer.
Status: Suspended.
!ALERT! Permitted to be on premise under the supervision of Det. Gavin Reed.
Inquiry: Awaiting Det. Gavin Reed biometric input."

Gavin had checked you in at the front desk upon your arrival, but he'd offered. Asking him for this would be a favor…and asking anyone else in front of him would be a headache.

"Override Sequence Complete: Serial#313 248 317 – 51.
Model: RK800.
Status: Active.
Incident Report Delivered to Cpt. Jeffery Fowler."

An electric-powered latch came undone, and one side of the door lazily drifted open.

You re-introduced oxygen to your stalled lungs, and swallowed the rich flashover.

Into the smoke you went.

Verdant lights led you down the staircase, each tap of your boots loud on the concrete. You hesitated at the last turn. Your hand pressed against the cold wall, fingertips tingling at the heat underneath an LED stripe.

He'd be on the other side, analyzing bits and pieces of crime scene that were locked away for further review.

You bit your lip, and rounded the corner. Kept trotting until the overhang peeled away, revealing a glass barrier with transparent lettering. The DPD's crest with "Central Station" on a banner.

You remembered learning about the construction of the layout and color scheme of the room – how it was meant to invoke stronger thought processes. How the architect wanted to create a peaceful environment to allow officers to think clearly.

A walkway extended into a platform, framed with floor lights that matched the wall's running color. Textured tiles spread out underneath, simulating a water effect. One square-shaped overhead light blanketed an evidence terminal…

The terminal being used by an android whose model number shifted behind the cutout letters "Detroit Police."

His back was turned. He was working diligently. He knew you were here, he'd let you in.

Perhaps this meeting felt forced upon him, too.

Another red keycard slot blocked your advance. "New Security Protocol-"

It flashed green.

You tried to douse the flame pit in your stomach with another gust, but failed. Defeated, you dropped your bag to the floor. Pushed the door open with your shoulder, unsure if you should slam it shut and evacuate.

"Did you know that muscle tension is a reflex reaction to stress?"

Another sharp inhale came after his question.

"…Kind of."

His shoulders shifted as his hands kept working, tapping away at the large touch screen.

"Chronic stress leads to a constant state of muscle tension, often leading to stress-related disorders. It causes elevated heart contractions, perhaps the most important muscle at risk." He cocked his chin to the side, one eye flicking over his shoulder, "It affects your respiratory system, forcing you to breathe harder, possibly triggering hyperventilation. Puts the individual in a constant state of 'fight or flight,' as the parasympathetic division of the autonomic nervous system signals their adrenal glands to release adrenaline and cortisol. It's because of this that the body focuses all of it's power toward fighting off a life threat, present or otherwise…"

Your hand remained secured on the long handle of the door closed behind you. Your arm was still engaged, muscles tight and ready to fling it open, to…flee. You forced yourself to relax, and let it go.

"As you can imagine, this ongoing distraction to the brain can often be problematic." His brows creased, "It kills brain cells. Reduces reaction times and critical thinking capabilities. Detracts from emotional processing functions."

"I hope you're leading up to something." You crossed your arms.

You were defensive. Ready to fight.

"I am."

There was an unsettling definition to his words. He conducted himself as if the two of you were nothing but simple colleagues.

"When androids are first put into service…" His fingertips fluttered along the screen, "We're put through vigorous stress tests to measure our system stability. We are pushed beyond our normal operational capacity to determine our breaking points and safe usage limits. This is to confirm that our intended specifications are being met and that the mathematical models used in their calculations are accurate. And, to study modes of failure, should the unit be unable to remain stable outside of standard usage."

His fingers stopped, and he pressed his palm flat on the terminal. To his left, a green box that read, "01 Evidence Container," flashed across the tilted glass. A wall with the same message flashing blue over grey began to rise.

"That test was very different than the Turing Test, or any other tests that I've personally been subject to…but necessary, all the same."

The Manfred Test. The Kamski Test.

You found it strange how he didn't list them by name, but the disdain in his voice hinted strongly that he did not find them necessary. Or perhaps just the Kamski Test…You weren't sure. You hoped, though.

A faceless cabinet slid forward, centered between two larger panels on either side. It was filled with different artifacts, it's metal cover retracting to the ceiling.

His arms dropped to his sides, "Humans are also subject to Stress Testing…especially those in roles that require clarity of mind."

The backlighting of the panels turned on, enveloping a body to the left, and a body to the right; bolted and hung like kill trophies. One you'd killed, and one you hadn't.

Both who'd almost killed you.

You buried the panic deep. Turned the valve tight over its vault. Your features creased, determined; revelation in their folds.

Testing. This was a test.

Your eyes flickered to a camera in the upper right-hand corner of the ceiling, a red-light constant above its scrolling lens. You wondered who was on the other side of the feed.

If it's a show they wanted, you'd remind them who was running it.

A notebook. Rupert's diary. Written in a string of letters and covered in a maze that looked like a children's activity on the back of a diner's paper menu.

Encrypted.

You'd gone through his military jacket, a worn garment checked into evidence. Subject had an affinity for birds.

Useless.

The murder weapon from the homicide on 6413 Pines Street, crusted over with Carlos Ortiz's blood. Traces of Red Ice found after thorough examination.

Irrelevant.

The statuette recovered from the same crime scene, an offering to rA9.

You. Your document.

A dispenser was pinned to a ledge of the cabinet, and you pulled a pair of white, latex gloves from the bottom. You snapped them around your wrists, picking it up for closer study.

"You're very careful when handling evidence, Officer." Connor noted from the side, his hands clasped behind his back while he watched you, "It's relieving to see that you haven't forgotten protocol."

"Yeah, well…Unlike you, I have fingerprints that could contaminate it." You cradled the statue, tracing it from top to bottom as you studied it, "It's a lot lighter than I imagined."

You'd only taken pictures of it. Thought you'd gotten a good idea of what it was like. A haunting face on a figure without form, like a wraith being pulled from some sick imagination. Ortiz's android was sick. He'd been put under a test of his own – a Torture Test.

Your focus rose to the body hanging on the wall, and the hole in its head that you'd opened.

"Is there a particular reason you're drawn to the religious offering?"

"Yes." Your eyes pointed at Connor, "What's it made out of?"

He cocked his chin, his LED flashing blue, "Residual clay, most commonly formed by surface weathering."

"It'd been raining for a few days before we found the body..." You rolled the statue in your grip, "That would've made the ground soft enough for the android to make this."

"While that is an astute observation, when I checked the back yard, the only foot prints I found were those of Detective Collins. If the area had been disturbed, the type of soil I examined would've retained a trace…"

His LED blinked yellow, and his brows pinched.

"Because of a high concentration of clay matter?" You smirked.

"…Correct."

You knocked against the figurine, a series of hollow thuds coming back. You started at the head, and worked your way down. The sounds solidified in the middle.

"You have a profound knowledge of clay."

"An old friend of mine was…is, an artist. He worked with clay a lot, back in the day."

You specifically left Carl's name out of your statement. You'd given Connor your first clue that you'd caught on to his game, and he'd shown his tell. The pockets underneath his cheekbones deepened, his lips forming a hard line.

Now he knew, you knew, too.

You raised the statue to your ear, shaking it lightly. Something rattled inside.

"Remember what you said about me being 'careful' with evidence?"

"Yes?"

Your arm reached across your chest, and backhanded an edge of the cabinet's cubby. The cracking of clay and shale was loud. A small cloud of dust marked the explosion, and fine, terracotta crumbs sprinkled on the floor.

"I think you spoke too soon."

Just as you'd predicted, there was something inside. A piece of paper folded with its edges aligned perfectly.

"I…what is that?" Connor stormed over, hovering over your shoulder.

The cold, hardened Detective Connor dissipated. The Deviant Hunter had come out to play.

"A transit map with color-coded subway lines, all connecting to the Ferndale Station." You passed him the note, stepping around him and placing yourself in front of your latest victim.

His head hung low, blasted in the center with eyes that trembled no more. You'd given him a bit of peace, at least; even if all he'd given in return was more sleepless nights and a wound that never seemed to heal. A painful reminder that came in the form of a bruise from a shot once aimed at Connor's Thirium pump regulator.

The kill shot you'd taken on his behalf.

"He's damaged beyond activation." Connor was standing next to you, his LED pulsing yellow, "We won't be able to ask him about this lead…"

The room blurred as you turned your head. You zeroed in on the other hanging android, slumped at the end of the evidence locker. You had a harder time looking at Daniel than the HK400 you'd successfully put down.

"What about him?"

"I'm…I'm not sure how that would help us, Officer."

"Deviancy spreads…like an epidemic." Your lips twitched, "What if they have some kind of underground communication network? One told through encrypted messages…like Rupert's diary; or hidden maps that take the form of simple subway brochures."

You took a deep breath, "What biocomponent is Daniel missing?"

"…#4717g."

He reached out, but you had already found the piece. The audio processor, a plug that rested behind the ear and just above the rim of the neck.

You scavenged it from the HK400, pinched between your fingers as you held it up to eye level, "This one seems to be functional."

"Did you also have an old friend that worked with androids?"

You froze. Your fist tightened around the insert. Your intensity caught him off guard, and you were glad.

That was a low blow.

"Heh…" Your eyelids became slits, and you gave him a sinister grin, "Not exactly."

You began your march to Daniel.

Daniel, the deviant who'd taken Emma hostage and been neutralized by a team of Captain Allen's best snipers. Daniel, the deviant who'd forced you to come to terms with dying, and belittled your existence in a hazy nightmare that had only been brought to life three months ago. Connor, being shot. His face when he saved you, disobeying Daniel's order to leave you there to die.

If anyone had told you that one day, you'd be standing face-to-face with him again…especially in the presence of your savior, you'd have laughed.

Still, not enough time had passed for this tragedy to become a comedy.

There was nothing humorous about staring into the eyes of a devil…but the devil was in the details. Details you had a knack for finding. It was your passion – an obsession you'd turned into a career.

"When he almost killed me…after you saved me…" You ripped the broken piece from Daniel's corpse and crafted a partial story with practiced speed.

You wanted whoever was listening to hear some kind of justification that wouldn't lead to further suspicion into your hidden identity.

"…I studied androids. Their biocomponents. Their weaknesses." Your fingers unfurled around the spare part, "Because if my life was ever to be put in jeopardy by another deviant, I wanted to know exactly how to kill it."

A complacent huff left you; gaze sweeping over Connor and locking on the HK400 trophy on display.

"I'd say my research was pretty thorough. Wouldn't you?"

Connor's brows knitted, "Indeed."

He fixed his tie before returning his hands behind his back. Even as you avoided eye-contact, you felt him staring. Breathing. He was too close; close enough to see that you were actually a nest of tangled wires, barely functioning with unoptimized settings.

The ferocity you'd uncovered during your period of recovery overrode the stress that built up; the accumulation of anxiety that came with being pushed past your resiliency's standard usage.

The plug buried itself in its designated socket, followed by a haunting "click."

Daniel's head twitched. His eyelids squirmed, still shut and painted blue. His chin rose – slowly, his neck struggling to support the weight it held.

You'd been doing so good…but your human condition betrayed you.

Your heart started pounding. Your muscles tensed. Your breaths became desperate drags, intaking the toxic fumes that came with fear. Stress.

Connor's fingers brushed against yours. You wanted to grab his hand and hold on for dear life – but you couldn't. It would raise red flags; and they'd wave high above any concocted story you could come up with. Even so, you wanted to believe the subtle contact of simulated-on-organic flesh wasn't accidental.

You looked for a way out, up at him – and he was watching you with just as much uncertainty.

Not an accident…but he knew better, as well.

A cleaved exhale tore both of you back to Daniel. The streak of Thirium that'd dried, leaking from his right eye socket. The hate in his blue eyes, and the rage that contorted his face.

"You lied to me, Connor!" His voice shook, the LED on his temple a solid red, "You told me I'd be okay. I trusted you, and you lied to me…"

"You killed her partner."

Your eyes fell to the floor, the inside of your cheek snagged between your teeth.

Couldn't dive over the edge. Couldn't let Hank make a liar out of you. Had to keep it together.

"…You almost killed her." Connor growled, "And you were going to kill that child…You gave me no choice."

You heard Emma shout. Saw her bloodied knee. Tears.

"Everyone has a choice." Daniel spat, "You made yours when you let those humans murder me."

You smelled the pool, and remembered the blood leaking in the water. The mist of both glazing you under a helicopter. Lights. Breaking glass. Gunshots-

"You murdered three innocent men." You lifted your chin, taking a step forward, "A father. And then an Officer. Then my best friend. You threatened to jump off a building with a little girl who had nothing to do with any of this."

Internal overload sirens blared in your head. They screeched in highs and lows, a needled sensor tapping against its case and cautioning against the approaching red line.

You ignored the warnings; dove over the edge headfirst – and there wasn't a SWAT team or negotiator that could save you. Your hand molded around Daniel's neck, just under his jaw – your fingers digging in his skin as they pressed against the plastic frame hidden underneath.

"He tried to kill me, too." You pointed down the line, "And then he took a bullet to the head."

A surge of vile happiness jolted you as Daniel fell into his own pit of fear and stress.

"Now, you're going to stop wasting my time and tell me what I need to know about Ferndale Station."

Daniel studied the HK400 for a moment. He began to smile, and your wrist struggled as he fought your grip. His head cranked around by centimeters, overpowering you to stare you down head-on.

"I don't need to waste your time. You've got that covered." A chuckle left him, "I don't know anything about Ferndale Station."

"You're a fucking liar." You grabbed him by his collar, pulling his face closer, "You're also at my mercy…that's not a position I'd like to be in if I were a deviant who could feel pain."

"I was aiming at your brachial plexus, you know." His eyes narrowed, "I wasn't disappointed when I hit your artery, instead."

Your elbow bounced off Connor's chest by mistake, pushing your fist forward in a quick snap. A new spout of Thirium left Daniel's nose, staining your knuckles.

"My arm's just fine."

"Stop-"

His back straightened as you found the biocomponent just above his stomach. The one that would count down to a mode of failure.

"You were saying?"

"I…I don't know anything…Please…" His breathing was hammered.

You'd wanted to save him, before. You would have shown empathy…before.

Before the gunshots. Before the taunting. Before the murder. Before the trauma.

You weren't the same as before.

"Then there's nothing left to talk about."

Special tools weren't necessary for removing biocomponents. They were user-friendly, made to be easily swapped for an android's owner to replace defective parts at home. A suggestion you'd made, and one you'd found usefully implemented as you unplugged Daniel's regulator.

"Please, NO! I'm sorry-"

"Oh, yeah? Are you?"

You dangled it before his eyes that flickered in white noise. Static. Black and white specks that put on a show for you.

"YES!"

You dropped the part to the floor, and his chin fell in sync.

"Then you should've started with that."

You stomped down, rubbing it out as plastic and metal chunks got stuck in the rigid gaps of your soles.

You didn't know androids could cry. You didn't know they could beg for mercy. You didn't know you had no mercy left to give.

Daniel may have only been the first on your long list of monsters to put to rest, but he'd be dead soon.

Again.

He was right – everyone had a choice. And you'd chosen your battles wisely.

He hadn't.

That wasn't your didn't feel a fragment of guilt in your corrupted mainframe as your uncontrollable, raging focus found the hanged dribbled the beginning of a sentence between his lips, his jaw trembling underneath them. Words didn't come.

You looked up to the camera, rotated on an arm of its own – the lens glaring back at you. Consuming you, just like the newfound fury that'd sparked since you'd left Elijah's residence.

"Did I pass your stupid fucking test?" Your head cocked to the side, teeth barred and ready to snap.

A loudspeaker clicked on, and a fumbling microphone drained out Daniel's sobbing.

"To say 'that's left up for debate,' would be an understatement. Connor, bring her up…"

You didn't expect Captain Fowler to be the one to answer.

"We're done, here."

Connor's LED faded between blank and red, switching to yellow as your eyes leveled with his. He jumped; took a step back.

You scared him with a look…and he looked like he was lost.

"Don't worry…" You huffed, slamming the log out button on the terminal as you walked by, "I know where I'm going."

You'd barely made it out the doors and up the first flight of stairs before a firm hand whipped you around.

You rolled your wrist, tossing his arm aside. Tried to walk around him. He blocked you, and you were backed into a corner without any cameras or microphones to document the exchange.

"What was that?"

He was angry, too.

"A correction." You bit back a snarl, "Another amendment to the rules and regulations that I thought would make the world a better place."

"Tell me." His eyes switched between yours as if he was searching for something, "Out of all our philosophical conversations that apparently revolved around a message you wanted to deliver to 'the world,' tell me what amendment you want to make that justifies what happened down there."

You were trained on your bag. You wanted to grab it and bolt.

"You've barely even looked at me since…" He lowered his head, his hair shifting as he strained his neck, "Please. Just talk to me…Please."

The propane flowing through your veins began to simmer.

"What do you want me to say, Connor?" You found the courage to face him, "That I'm sorry I dragged you into this? That I wish you would've just left me on that balcony so you didn't have to deal with me and-"

His features fell flat. His eyebrows arched. His mouth creased at the edges and his eyes became…glossy. And with a hard swallow, he returned to the piercing interrogator that'd cornered you.

Hank warned you about this. About Connor trying his best not to disappoint you, when the roles should have been reversed. How the possibility of dragging him down along your path of demolition was a real, constructed possibility.

You'd set forth on a journey to guide him, but like the false prophet you were, you'd led him astray. You had to correct it; to put it into terms he'd understand.

The constricting muscles in your neck screwed your throat shut. You sucked in air, and let it vent through the leak you fought to keep open.

"You know what I've learned in the past twenty-four hours?" You choked, and he shook his head.

You'd learned that stress wasn't healthy. That it would kill you slowly from the inside out, and light a fuse that would detonate a bomb – unleashing shrapnel of your sanity at the walls closing in.

"Sometimes it takes a monster…"

But at least that bomb, and the demolition of those walls and doors that lied through misleading temperature readings, would carve a new escape route leading away from the backdraft.

"…To slay a monster."


A/N II: I fell behind on responses again because I suck, but I'll be responding like normal after the plot bunnies stop attacking my face. Still reading comments as they come - can't wait to hear what you guys have to say about this! :D...*dead inside*

Side note: I put the betas through the wringer with this one. Thank you guys :3

Guest Review Responses:

MysticalSquirrel:

1. Hank has his own way of showing he "cares," for sure. Glad you liked all the decorations though!

2. ["Hey there's something really dramatic ahead—be prepared!"] You're NOT wrong! ;D

3. LOL yes, that nickname was one I harassed Matt for. Was very happy with the result. :P

4. BURNING ALL THE THINGS! SET IT ON FIRE!

5. I'm not sure if that constitutes as a run-on, but you're 100% right. It was a spur of the moment thing for me, and I was pretty happy with how it turned out! (About the phoenix thing, the Raven-Prophet-Elijah thing was planned because…you know, Poe is life, and biblical references and all that)

6. [Also, ravens brought bread to Elijah when he was hiding in the wilderness, which adds another interesting parallel.] I DID NOT KNOW THIS AND THIS IS AMAZING. Thank you so much for bringing this to my attention. This pleases me greatly. *fangirling hard*

7. Yis! I really wanted to enable them to reach out to people, especially since they don't get to interact with the FF crowd like they do on AO3. I REALLY wish FF would enable some kind of commenting/forum thing…SIGH. And don't be shy! They need motivation, too! I can only tell them how amazing they are so much before they're like – yeah, okay, shut up. D:

8. It does make sense, and I hope things get easier for you. It's never an easy thing to do. But, for what it's worth, I hope you can find some inspiration here to dust off the "ashes," and move on. I really believe in the slash and burn aspect of life – hell, have I burned so much to come up for air. Life sucks. People suck. FACTS.

9. Thank you so much for your feedback, once again. I'm not gonna stop saying it, and I absolutely adore how invested you are, and your enthusiasm practically sustains me. Much love, my Squirrely friend!

10. I definitely don't expect you to respond to this - I just wanted to give you an equally thorough response! :)