Hey guys... sorry for the barrage of slow updates... not going well atm... thank you for sticking with me. I love you guys.

Chapter 12: Identification, Recuperation

Night has turned to early morning, but for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, business is only just beginning. Due to a sudden change of circumstances, after being forced to arrange an uber for Hank and after a thorough investigation of the crime scene, Connor is escorted alongside Perkins to their designated base of operations, the Patrick V. McNamara Federal Building, the home of the feds in Detroit since 1976. After the excruciatingly long process of collecting the dried blood sample of the attacker, since Connor wasn't allowed to analyze the blood sample his way, the sample has been preserved and escorted by a designated team of analyzers. Connor has never been so ready to identify a perpetrator in his entire life, to identify the man who destroyed Markus and North's home, almost murdering them as well as himself, is a victory within itself. During investigations Connor and Hank have been assigned to, Connor is allowed to analyze blood samples himself, making the identification and tracking down of the perpetrators an effortless task. However, working alongside the FBI takes that option away from him, making the identification and tracking process much more excruciatingly extensive, delicate and ultimately leaves Connor at the edge of his seat. He's following orders from a man who a year ago would have killed Markus and North without a second thought, but it's a necessary evil if he wants to find this terrorist and bring him to justice. Even if he doesn't get all of the credit.
"Have the samples been analyzed?" Perkins asks one of the forensic pathologists who joins them in the escort.
"Yes, sir, we had some trouble with the analysis, but overall, we got the job done. We've been waiting for your arrival before we went into detail on what we found, and sir," the forensic pathologist says, stopping Connor, Perkins and his team in their tracks. "What, or better yet who we discovered is quite concerning."
"What of the data uploaded by Detective Anderson? Has that been analyzed yet?" Perkins questions further.
"Not yet, sir, but we have our best team analyzing the captured audio and video footage as we speak."
"Show me what you have then," Perkins orders, causing the forensic pathologist to lead the escort.

The escort is lead into a massive room; desks and sections are abundant, surrounded by teams of operating Feds and hunkering along the largest wall in the room is a large screen. So many conversations are happening at one given time, Connor finds it difficult for his audio processors to distinguish each conversation, not that that's useful in this situation. Perkins breaks off from the escort, quickly talking to multiple agents before falling back to Connor's presence, purpose and business in his eyes.
"Sit down over there and watch the conference, stay silent but take in every detail," Perkins orders, sighing as Connor simply nods at him in response. "You've got the most reliable memory in this entire room, so note down everything you hear and see, I need you to do that for me, Detective. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir, I understand," Connor agrees, quickly finding himself in his delegated seat. "Come on, show him to me."
As the profusion of teams settles themselves, preparing themselves as for the highly important conference, Perkins finds himself comfortably sitting at one of the desks in the front row. A forensic pathologist stands on the stage in front of the large screen, looking nervous but overall prepared for the conference, once the teams settle down completely, that's when the conference begins.
"After the analysis of blood samples one, three and six of investigation four-one-three, we were able to build enough pathological data to identify the perpetrator responsible for the attack on Mr Manfred and Miss Kelly's home," one of the forensic pathologist explains, pressing a button on a small remote, turning the screen on. "The result of which forced us to triple check the analysis, you will see why in just a moment."
The forensic pathologist presses the remote once again, changing the screen to a slide show, revealing a collage of photos of an older man; light grey eyes, dark almost ashen brown hair with a greying brown beard and light neutral skin. The first photograph revealed appears to be the photo on his driver's license, including his date of birth, his address and driver's license number. In another one of the photos, the man is wearing the U.S. Marine Corps uniform with what appears to be a Master Sergeant patch on his chest and shoulder, in the background of that photo is what appears to be a squad of marines, his squad no doubt. From sight alone, Connor can confirm that who he's seeing now is exactly the man he fought in the afternoon prior, and from sight alone, Connor can interpret why the man was as skilled as he was, how easily he bested him.

"Malakai McKnight, Codename Alpha Hawk, Master Sergeant of the U.S. Marine Corps, a city local, formerly husband and father of two. This man served in the Iraqi Insurgency of 2017, Persian Gulf crisis of 2019, the South African conflicts of 2024, second and third Syrian civil wars in 2029 and 2032, and also had a part in the ongoing U.S. and Russia's conflicts. Overall, McKnight has served in the U.S. Marine Corps for twenty-one years, twenty-three if he hadn't disappeared in 2037."
The forensic pathologist's words cause the room to become engulfed with reserved conversations, some of which Connor can hear, others, not so much. Malakai McKnight, Connor creates a profile in his database to reserve details, information, anything he can acquire that will make tracking him down easier, just as Perkins ordered him to. Well, Perkins' orders are some part of Connor's reasoning, the rest, pure ambition to find this strange, murderous man.
"Speaking of which his current status is identified as missing in action, identified following his, his squad and even his commanded military Androids' disappearance at the Kaliningrad Oblast, the Poland-Russia border. According to details, his team was tasked as an undercover reconnaissance team, keeping a close eye at one of Russia's largest military bases at the border. They were present for three months before their disappearance from the radar; originally it was thought that the Russians caught wind of what was going on, but the tracking devices in their equipment weren't deactivated. The rest of his squad, which was known as Fallen Outlaws, and military Androids were confirmed as killed in action when another team of Marines investigated the area of disappearance."
Military Androids? Connor reminisces on how hateful McKnight appeared towards Markus and North, towards Androids in general. He admitted that Connor is the only Android in the world that he respects, why is an enigma Connor wishes to solve, desperately mind you. Feeling himself veering from the conference, Connor quickly snaps back, finding himself more than eager to continue listening on once again.
"It appears McKnight found a way back into the country without drawing attention to himself because there is no surveillance footage, no recordings, beside the DNA sample provided by Detective Anderson, there was and continues to be no evidence to suggest he was in the country, let alone the city. From what we've seen so far in the footage also provided by Detective Anderson, McKnight is a master in hand to hand combat, as well as in the use of firearms and was considered to be a master marksman during his many tours in the U.S. Marines. His name Alpha Hawk was founded by the fact that he rarely, if ever, misses his shots."
"Well, they've hit the hammer on the head with that one," Connor agrees, noting those details in McKnight's data profile.
"However, regardless of his skills, his real weapon is his mind. McKnight graduated as Valedictorian in high school at age twelve, a Master Degree in Language and Linguistics at age fourteen before joining the United States Military Academy by the age of seventeen. After being considered to be too smart and physically capable for the Academy, McKnight was accepted into the U.S. Marines in the same year. He has an IQ of two-hundred and nine, well above that of Elijah Kamski himself, making him one of the smartest people currently in the world. This IQ is just as dangerous if not more than his physical capabilities, and the combination, as well as his attack on the Manfred and Kelly residence, has forced us to declare his arrest a top priority. If he cannot be arrested, then killing him is the best bet, but arresting him is the preferred course of action. Malakai McKnight is not a force to be reckoned with; when it comes to physical and mental prowess, even Androids struggle to compete with him. Identification is complete, ladies and gentlemen, we now move onto Phase Two; determining his location."

In the darkness of the warehouse, Malakai sits impassively and soundlessly as he's given medical attention, to be specific, the right side of his head. The bullet Connor fired tore a vicious uneven line from his right temple to the edge of the back of his skull, ultimately requiring a great number of gauze, stitches and probably a large bandage over the wound. Now halfway through the gauze and stitching process, Malakai sits in silence as the medic of their Assault Force, Niklaus Oblonsky, Mr Oblonsky's son, works on his stringent injury. Regardless of the hurt, the ache, the pain, the feeling of the stitching needle piercing his cold, hard flesh, he doesn't flinch, he doesn't make a sound, he lets all of it happen. He's abnormally untroubled, in a meditative state as each stitch is undergone, not a thought flowing through his mind; the pure definition of a neutral state. Malakai and Niklaus' comrades, including Mr Oblonsky himself, watch in shock and awe as Malakai goes through with the process without showing a sign of pain. Mr Oblonsky is more fascinated than shocked, any resemblance of shock revolving around the fact that somebody got the drop on their Mr Terror. Willing to drop the topic for just this moment, Mr Oblonsky begins talking to his comrade for the first time since his arrival.
"How are you feeling, moy drug? If that was me on the chair you're sitting on, I know I'd be at least gripping onto the table, so why aren't you?" Oblonsky says as he begins walking towards Malakai and his son. "Your tolerance to pain impresses me."
"Pain is temporary, sir, death is not, if you focus your mind enough, you can snuff and numb any pain you feel. Something I learnt over my long years in my service of the Marines and something that has allowed me to fight through everything, anything and more without backing down. In the end, I cannot allow myself to succumb to the cold embrace of death, at least until our and my mission is complete; we appear to be far from that completion," Malakai replies coldly, taking a soothing breath as Niklaus places all of his equipment on the table beside them. "Are you finished, young Niklaus?"
"Yes, sir, I've done everything I can, now for the bandage," Niklaus pauses, slowly and softly placing a breathable bandage along the area of his wound, making sure to cover the area in its entirety. "Okay, now we're done, now I'll fetch you something for the pain."
"No, nothing for the pain," Malakai orders, his bloodshot eyes staring through the body and soul of Niklaus. "I will be fine without it, if I can't sleep without painkillers, then my body will be dependent on painkillers for it. I will not allow that, so let me continue to numb it out the hard way."
"Whatever you want, sir," Niklaus says without argument, ultimately shrugging his shoulders.

As Malakai finds himself from the chair, he finds a way to mask his wooziness, ultimately allowing him to hide the discomfort he feels. The wound alone has shown too much weakness, too much fragility, too much vulnerability for his comrades to continue seeing him as an unstoppable force. Something he must recover alongside his wound.
"We must make our next move as soon as possible, selling the data should be prioritized, the sooner we do that, the sooner we'll be rich and the sooner we can leave this wretched city," Malakai advises before cracking his neck, groaning while doing so.
"How much should we sell the data for?" Mr Oblonsky questions, standing beside him. "Many will be willing to spend a fortune to get their hands on specific data."
"Charge enough to make us dirty rich assholes, and if anyone has a problem with our pricing, then they don't deserve our product. Make sure it's known that twenty-three people died for this data and if anyone has an issue, they'll meet the man who took those lives, if that doesn't persuade them," Malakai pauses, glaring at Oblonsky with bitterness. "I'll make sure that they're persuaded in the end."
"There was the other issue to address, dear Malakai," Oblonsky urges.
"Oh, yes, I can't leave out this important detail. Due to a single unfortunate event, the authorities now have a sample of my blood, I must cover my tracks more than ever now to avoid compromising our position, my next move is to permanently move into the abandoned production warehouse until further notice. It's unlikely the authorities will track me to this position, let alone to the production line, the vehicle I drove here is now at the bottom of the river, nor did I leave a viable blood trail to follow. I will make my move while it's still dark, taking the motorcycle will allow me to hide it within the warehouse alongside my belongings. Is there any objections to that plan?!" Malakai asks, finding dead silence before turning to face Oblonsky once again. "What about your opinion, sir? May I follow through with that plan?"
"Yes, it appears to be the most appropriate action for you to make, it should take at least a fortnight to sell the data, so it's important you lay low in the meantime," Oblonsky agrees before walking away from his comrade, hiding the fact that he believes Malakai has become a liability. For everyone else's sake, not his.
"With all due respect, sir, we shouldn't be in the city for any longer than a week, my mission will be complete before then and we don't want to be in the city when I do," Malakai warns, walking back towards the armoury section of the warehouse, Mr Oblonsky, his son and many of their comrades following closely behind.

"What exactly does that mean, sir?" Niklaus questions.
"What do you have in store for the city?" Demyan questions further. "Are you going to blow it up with a dirty bomb?"
"Dirty bombs are cowardly, effective but far too quick, I prefer a much slower, more destructive process. Once the six Androids and CyberLife weapons have completed production, which should be done in a couple of days at most, I'll be truly unstoppable and my mission will become clockwork. We'll be able to leave and start our new rich lives in the motherland, far from any worries and even further from the clutches of the American scum that classify themselves as the authority. We will leave this city in ruins and laugh as we drink the highest quality vodka for the rest of our lives."
"And, what process would that be?" Oblonsky questions, watching as Malakai opens the makeshift armoury, now filled with the highest quality and most destructive of weaponry. Light machine guns, rocket launchers, grenade launchers, explosives of all degree; his favourite types of weaponry.
Malakai clutches onto a loaded light machine gun, yanks it from the stand, cocks it and chuckles, a smile perched onto his face regardless of the pain he endures. "The slower, more destructive process, sir, is my favourite sport of all; war."