Compromised

by Lucky Gun

After the Revolution, Hank waits for Connor at the Chicken Feed. When the deviant doesn't show, Hank finds him beaten and tortured within an inch of his life. When Markus unexpectedly arrives at Hank's home looking for the injured detective, everything spirals out of control. Connor has to revert to Cyberlife's original programming to save them all. Pacifist/Father/Son/Whump

Title: Compromised

Author: Lucky Gun

Description: After the Revolution, Hank waits for Connor at the Chicken Feed. When the deviant doesn't show, Hank finds him beaten and tortured within an inch of his life. When Markus unexpectedly arrives at Hank's home looking for the injured detective, everything spirals out of control. Connor has to revert to Cyberlife's original programming to save them all. Pacifist Ending, Father/Son Hank Connor, whump! Language!

A/N: Yeah….I love this game. Absolutely love it. Here's my first (maybe only) foray into the area, though. Don't have a beta for this – we die like men! Reviews are welcome. Sorry if anyone is OOC, just enjoyed getting the bunny out of my system.

NOTE: Significant concepts for android physiology adopted from WaywardWanderer with the author's written permission. Please check out their profile here and on AO3!

---

It had been three weeks, four days, and seven hours since Hank had broken Perkins' nose outside the briefing room on the main floor of the DPD. Shit, the fact that he knew exactly that would probably give his partner some sort of mechanical stroke. It's the sort of calculation the android himself would know.

Except, that's exactly why he knew that statistic. Because that's precisely how long it had been since he'd seen the plastic prick who'd had the nerve to be assigned to him, worm under three years of alcoholism and rage, and calmly talk his way into being not only his partner, but something else. It had only taken days for the kid to go deviant, and in the same time creep into the part of Hank's heart that still ached with Cole's loss.

Huffing in the aching cold, the lieutenant paced in front of the shuttered chicken shack with tingling nerves, rubbing his hands randomly for warmth. When the call had come on his phone, he hadn't even looked at the number before answering it. Between the evacuation order and curfew being lifted by the military a week before, and the general disaster that the lower belly of Detroit had always been, he was working his ass off. He didn't have time to screen his calls. If he had taken the second to do so, he would have seen the extra three numbers at the end signifying the direct cybernetic connection to an android brain in lieu of traditional cell towers.

"Anderson," he barked gruffly, already scrolling through the next file on his terminal, eyes catching highlights and picking out details.

There was a marked hesitation on the other end, not quite an inhalation but more an electronic static pop, and he froze, giving the phone his full attention.

"...Hello, Lieutenant. This is Connor, the android formerly sent by Cyberlife."

Something dark twisted in Hank's chest – the fact that his partner felt like he needed to introduce himself, identify himself like he was a stranger, his voice distant and polite – and he forced himself to choke out a bark of harsh laughter instead of a sob.

"Connor! Jesus, kid! Where the hell have you been!? You've been gone for three and a half weeks – Fowler's having kittens with the backlog."

The next silence was longer, more pops, and Hank took the time to get up and hurry to the bathroom, confirming it was empty and flicking the main lock without a care. He shoved the earpiece against his head hard, unusually desperate to catch any noise from his partner.

"I...apologize, Lieutenant; I was not aware my contract with the Detroit Police Department was in negotiations to be extended considering Cyberlife's political and financial position, as well as my...unique circumstances." Hank scrubbed a hand over his face wearily; his own exhaustion aside, the pauses in Connor's speech were draining him. He'd never heard the confident android so unsure before.

"Course it was, fucking idiot. Prototype detective and all – think we're gonna give that up?" he answered roughly, trying to keep his voice even. "The minute the President declared androids had 'individual personhood status', the Chief was on the phone with the legal team demanding they get you on as an exclusive consultant, if nothing else. Hell, they're halfway through the paperwork of getting you your own damn badge and gun." He trailed off blankly, the static in the usually clear line increasing significantly, and he felt the wrongness of it tickle the sensitive workings of his inner ear. "Just didn't know where to get hold of you to let you know. You were always breaking into my house, asshole – never got the chance to get your address to return the favor."

More silence, more pops, and Hank leaned against the bay of sinks to relieve some of the aches in his knees.

"Apologies, Lieutenant," Connor replied softly. "I will, of course, return to work. Automated taxi services are still down, however, and I do not have reliable transportation at this time. It may take me some time to travel that distance."

The static on the line abruptly ended like a river shutting off mid-flow, and Hank glanced at his phone to make sure the connection was still active. It was, the bars on the phone advising a strong signal, and he shook away his limited technical knowledge. But the hairs on the back of his neck were standing high; Hank didn't want to know why the kid kept apologizing. He could figure that out face to face, when his partner was there in front of him, real, alive, safe.

"I've built up some overtime the last few shifts, if you can believe it. I'll come get you," he offered, and the response was as abrupt as it was sharp. "No," Connor bit suddenly, more strength in his voice than Hank had heard the entire time. "No, Lieutenant, that isn't necessary. But I would appreciate a compromise. Your favorite meal location, perhaps, in three hours?"

That had been four hours ago.

So Hank waited, and stomped his feet, and paced, and did everything but get back in his car to stay warm, because that felt something like abandonment, for some reason. The sun was slowly lowering to the horizon, the air was biting into his skin even sharper, and his breath was coming out in billows instead of clouds.

Finally, his phone beeped, a notification coming across it, and he ripped it from his pocket quickly. It wasn't a lame excuse for the delay from his partner, or Fowler bitching him out for leaving work early.

No. It was just a string of coordinates from a private number with a simple phrase following them.

RK800 Compromised, Vitals Dropping

Hank stared at the message hard, swallowing back a deluge of worry that felt too much like the one time he'd lost Cole at the park for twenty minutes, and he wondered why now – of all the fucking times – he had decided that he liked life and something in it.

He tapped the blue numbers, thanking God when another app on his phone immediately popped up with a blinking dot pinpointing the location. He squinted at it, taking two tries to zoom in the map with numb fingers, and inhaled the icy air sharply.

The abandoned docks. The site of the raid. The scuttled wreck of Jericho.

Hank was in his car before he even knew he was moving.

"Dammit, kid, what the hell have you gotten yourself into now?"

---

The sky was black and snow was falling in slow, thick waves by the time Hank's old car fishtailed to a halt as close to the docks as he could get. The screech of his brakes was still echoing off the buildings when he got out, head whipping all directions, and he found himself utterly alone.

"Connor? Where are you?" he called, voice dull in the still air.

No answer. There was nothing.

He shut his door softly, hesitantly, a lifetime of police skills drilled into him bringing his pistol into one hand and his mag light into the other. The beam cut a large swath of light through the area, highlighting the snow as it drifted lazily, and he cautiously walked towards the sound of water. Hank wasn't sure if he wanted to call for his partner again or not. The coordinates hadn't come from him, that was for sure, so the whole thing could be an ambush. And Detroit had never been the safest city, either.

But as he moved closer to the docks, his light moving back and forth in a search pattern, it caught on a disturbance in the snow. Footprints, a single set. Older, judging by the filling. Then, they were bracketed by more sets, these a little newer. Hank swallowed hard, following them. Within sight of the water, the first set came to a stop, and the others ringed around them. Ten feet on, the snow was a mess, nothing obvious in the cacophony of tracks. Except that the peaks of these small drifts were tinged with blue.

Thirium blue.

Bile raised up Hank's throat almost faster than he could push it down, and he threw all caution to the wind.

"Connor! Christ, son, answer me!" he shouted, looking around desperately even as he rushed forward to follow the obvious path.

Something was dragged. Someone was dragged, he internally corrected himself, and he winced at the sight of blue smears punctuated by small scuffs here and there. He kept his gun up and searching as he moved around one building and realized that there was a mass of tracks leading off in the distance, unburdened, but the blue blood continued left.

Without pause, he continued following it, and he glanced right. The dock was there, the crinkled edges of the old freighter's skeleton poking above the lapping water. He ignored the wreck and kept jogging forward, cold sweat beading on his forehead. There was a warehouse on his left, the wall solid and icy.

Halfway down, where the blood trail was growing thick, he found him.

Hank skidded to a stop ungracefully, his jaw falling open, tears he hadn't cried since Cole's death welling in his eyes. His gun clattered noisily onto the ground, the snow barely muting the sound, and he felt his knees shake. The beam trembled as he raised it slowly, the bright light skipping over the white and cobalt ground until it finally blazed up the side of the warehouse.

"Oh God…Connor."

Three feet off the ground, the prototype hung suspended against the cinder blocks. His arms were raised above his head, a wicked hunting knife pierced through his overlapping palms. His jacket was missing, his once-immaculate shirt untucked and ripped open. There was blue blood running in rivers from slashes along his arms and chest. It streamed down his torso, underneath the fluttering fabric, collecting in a soggy crescent pattern at the top of his jeans. There was the glint of more metal from his legs just above and beside his knee joints, and thick, slushy thirium dripped from his bare feet to a growing sapphire puddle below.

Finally falling, barely catching himself on one hand, the grizzled detective felt the brutality of the crime flood his soul as he stared at the android's face where it was wedged upward and tight between his biceps. Connor was gagged with his own tie, nearly the whole length of the thing shoved into his mouth, and where his eyes should have been, there were instead gaping black maws that sparked and wept blue. Those hollowed caverns were facing forward towards the wrecked freighter from the forced position of his head, and a symbol Hank didn't recognize – a bold square with overlapping, angular edges – was visible on his chest.

In what the detective knew was the deviant's blood, in perfect Cyberlife Sans, painted along the wall under his limp, motionless body, was the phrase 'JUSTICE FOR JERICHO'.

Hank knelt there for seconds that felt like minutes, the unfairness of the world raging through him. Something trickled down his face, and he didn't feel ashamed to know that they were tears. Loss that felt like broken glass and screaming and Daddy please it hurts what's happening rolled through his chest and made it hard to breathe. He choked on a sob as he ignored the melting snow soaking his knees, a different sort of cold seeping into his limbs.

Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor. I'm the android sent by Cyberlife.

Adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

I would certainly find it…regrettable…to be interrupted…before I can finish this investigation.

I know it hasn't always been easy, but I want you to know that I really appreciated working with you. With a little more time, who knows? We might've even become friends.

I'm sorry, Hank.

It wasn't your fault, Lieutenant.

Sniffing harshly, Hank forced himself to look back up, hoping he would find himself staring at the dim ceiling of his bedroom and nursing one hell of a hangover. But the warehouse wall was still there, still criminally clear even through the light snowfall, and he exhaled shakily as he reached for his phone to call for the whole fucking cavalry. The CSI guys, the SWAT team – he'd call in the goddamn army to hunt down the monsters who had done this.

Then he paused, something like hope flickering through the permafrost that had started to settle into his heart.

Nearly hidden against the thin sleeves of the dress shirt pressed against his face, Hank swore he could see a flickering red light. Holding his breath, peering hard, he waited as his pulse churned in his veins.

Yes, yes, it was there. Dim as hell, barely visible, but red and cycling and alive.

Suddenly thrumming with adrenaline, Hank scrambled to his feet and snapped, "Shit, son, hang on, kid. Just hang on for me, okay?"

He turned quickly, eyes moving with the light, and he found the same thing his partner's attackers must have used, judging by the drag marks; one of the old Cyberlife cargo containers was just a few yards away. Hurrying to the opposite side of it, Hank was grateful to find it was lighter than he expected, and it slid easily over the icy ground towards the wall. The rattling noise grated on his nerves, and as he glanced up at Connor, his concern mounted as the android didn't even flinch.

"Come on, kid! Stay with me," he breathed as he shoved the container into place under the deviant.

Hauling himself onto the crate would be easier with fewer years on his bones, but panic gave him the strength he needed. The flashlight clattered out of his hand as he pulled himself up, and he froze in place as the cylinder rolled to a stop against two hunks of thirium-splattered metal. His hand shaking with more than cold, Hank forced himself to reach out and gently pluck the delicate biocomponents from the lid. He refused to look at them closer for the moment, refused to find out if they were damaged beyond use, refused to acknowledge that he was holding his partner's eyes in his hand, and just tucked the slick pieces into his inside coat pocket.

Wedging the mag light into a convenient locking portal so that it was aimed up and towards the building, Hank stepped close to his partner, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Up close, the android looked far worse. Bruises were blooming across his skin, there were defined ligature marks around his neck, and the wash of blue against him was thicker than he thought.

"Kid? Connor, can you hear me?" Hank called softly, reaching out hesitantly. His eyes roved over the wounds he could see, rage and worry fighting for dominance, and he felt acid rising in his throat. "Give me a sign if you can hear me, son."

The second his fingers brushed over Connor's bicep, the android abruptly surged backwards with a choked cry, his head banging harshly on the wall behind him. A fresh surge of thirium poured down his arms and a strange digital keening noise emanated from behind the wadded fabric in his mouth. Startled but reacting quickly, Hank changed tactics and reached for his face instead, gently cupping his face with one hand while carefully wrapping his other around the back of his head to prevent him from hurting himself.

"Shh, shh, shh," he soothed mindlessly, his thumb wiping at the faux-tear tracks of thirium on Connor's left cheek as the younger detective quickly struggled himself into exhaustion, still trying to pull away from Hank's touch. "It's okay, it's just me. It's okay, son," he whispered, throat bobbing tightly.

Connor's audio processors were obviously damaged, because he didn't relax. Instead, the quiet noise from his vocal systems rose in volume and his head tossed side to side.

"Let's get this out of there, okay?" Hank murmured to himself, deciding to start with the gag.

Keeping his right hand where it was, the older man tapped Connor's parted lips as a signal, heart skipping a beat when the android flinched. Gripping the inch of exposed material tightly, Hank began to carefully work it out of the deviant's mouth.

"You and this damn tie," he grumbled without heat, needing to fill the silence.

But Connor filled it himself, his warbling wail dying out, replaced by an ongoing gagging noise that made his chest heave. Brows furrowed, Hank forced himself not to rush, forced himself to move slowly, and held his breath as the slick tie in his hands was suddenly wet with blue blood instead of synthetic saliva.

"Goddamn it!"

The last four inches of the tie came out in a rush, Connor coughing up a few mouthfuls of thirium in the process, the excess spilling over his lips and dripping down his chin. Before Hank could even think of reaching to wipe it away, his partner's broken voice followed.

"J-just kill…me a-already. It won't…work."

The winter weather surrounding them had nothing to do with the cold fear that settled in Hank's stomach. Adamantly shaking his head, he cuffed his jacket over his thumb and smoothed the blood from Connor's chin, trying and failing to ignore the way his hand shook.

"No, son. You're not dying. Not today. Not for a long time," he promised vehemently, and Connor shuddered under his touch but didn't have the energy or slack to move away.

Realizing he couldn't do much for him in the way he was strung up, Hank took a half step back but kept one palm resting on the side of the android's neck, hoping to ground the sensory deprived detective. Glancing down, Hank knew he'd guessed right about the container when he saw the tips of Connor's toes touching the top of the crate. Taking a look at the knife wedged into the gaps between the cinder block construction and then the thin pieces of rebar that had been used to pin the detective in place, Hank figured his plan.

Moving close to his partner, Hank squeezed the side of his neck firmly and said, "I'm gonna get you down, son, but it's gonna hurt like hell. If you kick me, I'll beat the shit out of you, wounded or no."

Coughing out another mouthful of thirium, Connor's head finally sagged low, blue blood dripping steadily from his lips. Panic surged for a moment and Hank lurched to the side, brushing the android's unruly snow-soaked hair out of the way of his LED. It was still lit, but dimmer than it had been. Cursing loudly, knowing he was running out of time, the older man took advantage of the apparent standby mode his partner had slipped into and worked quickly.

Taking a deep breath and bracing his shoulder into Connor's chest, Hank wrapped his hands as tightly as he could around the several exposed inches of rebar jutting out of the deviant's left thigh. Praying to God that the thing wasn't in the wall too deep, he started to work it side to side, finding give in the weather-beaten concrete. He was beyond thankful to work it for only a minute before there was a sudden shift in pressure. Wincing at the sound of suction, Hank slid the rebar from Connor's leg, tossing it aside with a disgusted glare. Turning quickly, he started working on the second piece of metal, swallowing back his nausea as he felt the blue blood dripping from the deviant's lips splatter onto his own cheek and neck.

The second piece was bigger and longer, and wedged into the wall deeper. It took five minutes of cussing and pulling before it started coming loose, and Hank yanked hard, cutting his palm on the sharp ridges of the stake. Finally it slid free with a spurt of thirium that made Hank swear heavily. Dropping the rebar mindlessly, he kept the pressure on Connor's chest, knowing that letting go meant the android would be hanging from the knife in his hands.

Reaching up, letting his own anger fuel his strength, Hank yanked the knife out with a single, swift pull. Connor's arms fell boneless like a discarded marionette, and Hank caught him carefully. The android wasn't heavy, but the emotional weight was more than he could take at the moment. He knelt on the crate with Connor laying across the tops of his thighs, and he whispered nonsensical words of comfort as he quickly ran his hands over the deviant's body, checking for any further damage like the kid was a human assault victim. Finding no physical breaks, Hank sighed heavily and rested his palm on the top of Connor's head carefully.

"Oh, son…what the fuck happened to you?"

The android was trembling minutely, though the technical reason was lost to the older officer, and he immediately pulled off his coat and draped it over his partner. Then he winced as he noticed the snow falling freely into the opened gaps in Connor's face, and he pulled an unused handkerchief from one of his pockets. Rolling it quickly, he wrapped the thin blindfold around his friend's head and tied it in place, hoping to protect the circuitry from further damage.

Somewhere further down the docks, there was the sound of something falling into the water.

Hank jerked in place and looked up in alarm, abruptly realizing exactly how dangerous the situation was. Connor was the most advanced infiltration and assassination machine ever created, designed to hunt, seek, and destroy his targets at any cost. He was created to predict all scenarios and construct the correct path to a successful mission, every single time. And he had been absolutely destroyed by his attackers.

Hank didn't stand a chance if they came back.

Knowing he had to move, Hank shifted out from underneath his partner and laid him carefully but quickly on the crate and hurriedly retrieved his gun. He grabbed the light and scanned the perimeter as far as he could, realizing suddenly that he could almost hear Connor's voice in the back of his head; fuck, he hadn't realized how used to the kid he'd gotten.

"There is a forty two percent chance that the docks are not vacant, Lieutenant. You should vacate the premises within the next sixty seconds to ensure your own safety."

Snorting under his breath, Hank muttered to himself, "Yeah, that's probably something you would say."

Stepping back to the container, he guiltily shoved his arms back into his coat then set about pulling the deviant over his shoulders into a fireman carry. Connor was lighter than Sumo, but he was icy cold, the temperature of his limbs seeping into Hank's jacket in seconds. Ignoring it, Hank kept his pistol readied in one hand, his mag light already sticking out of his back pocket awkwardly.

The walk back to the car was uneventful but tense, and Hank felt the slick thirium run from Connor's body down his neck. Ignoring the nausea cramping his stomach, he breathed a sigh of relief when the old antique came into view. It was untouched but covered with a light dusting of snow. With no choice but to holster his gun as he reached it, Hank moved quickly to open the front passenger door and knelt slowly as the interior lights brightened sluggishly. Connor rolled off of his shoulders into the seat, and Hank kept a hand to his chest as he reached down and hit the power recline. When it was as horizontal as it would go, he immediately pulled off his coat again and draped it over his partner's form and did up the seatbelt, hoping the lap belt would at least help keep him still. Arranging him carefully, making sure he was fully in the car, Hank took a moment to slick back the wet locks and turn his head so that he could see the LED from the driver's seat; it glimmered faintly under the thin material of the blindfold like an abandoned lighthouse. Then he slammed the door and hurried around to the driver's side, jumping in and starting the car quickly, cranking the ancient heater up as high as it would go.

"It's okay, Connor. I've got you, son. It's gonna be okay," he said to the unconscious android.

When he reached over and mindlessly grabbed his partner's still arm while he drove, he didn't even realize it.

---

Arriving home in record time, Hank didn't even take the keys out of the ignition when he left the car. Hell, he wasn't sure how he hadn't gotten into an accident on the way back to his place; both eyes had been practically glued to the glowing light on Connor's head the whole way. The deviant hadn't moved, hadn't made a noise, and Hank knew better than to think that was a good thing. Wrenching open the door, he clicked off the belt and ignored the pull in his back as he lifted Connor into his arms, forgoing the fireman carry. The walk inside was short and quick – he hadn't locked his doors since the night a particular android had decided to break a window to let himself in.

Sumo was on them in an instant when they entered, a breathless bark and clattering nails punctuating his excitement. But the smell of thirium was sharp in the air, metallic and chemical, and he sneezed and backed off almost immediately.

"Easy, Sumo. He'll be all right. Good dog," Hank said mindlessly as he maneuvered down the hallway to his bedroom.

It was cleaner than usual, though the bed was unmade, and he set his burden down gently. Connor's head lolled sideways, the dark pits of his missing optics sparking visibly behind the blindfold, the skin around them fading in and out to white like waves on a beach. Hank shuddered and turned on his heel and rolled up his sleeves.

"Okay, okay. First things first. Whiskey, and the repair kit."

In that order, he pulled his bottle of Black Lamb from its place in the kitchen and the laughingly small repair kit that had arrived at his door the day after Connor had been assigned to him. When he'd scoffed at the three bags of thirium and small tin of skin sealants and soft tissue bandages, the prototype had given him a very machine response.

"Any further damage would not be cost effective to repair, Lieutenant."

Shaking his head, he headed back towards the bedroom and flicked on the lights, more prepared this time for the sorry shape of his partner. Setting his supplies down on the bedside table, Hank chugged a quick shot of liquor straight from the bottle, more to settle his nerves than anything, and then sat on the edge of the bed. He removed the blindfold, much as it gave him the creeps to look at the inside of Connor's head, worried it was doing more harm than good. Pulling the coat off of his partner, he tossed it towards the end of the bed, wincing at the blue that was just…everywhere. Then he paused.

He couldn't set an alarm on his phone. How was he going to fix a fucking prototype android?

Hesitating, wondering if he should even try waking him up, the older detective finally tapped on Connor's cheek with his palm, far more gently than the plastic bastard had when he'd been sobering him up that night a month ago.

"Connor? Son, can you hear me?" he called softly, hoping that the bit of rest had given the deviant some time to repair his audio processors. After a few seconds, he tried again, a little firmer in his movements, and he was rewarded with a soft groan and a quick flash of yellow in the LED before it switched back to red.

"There you are, asshole," Hank said fondly, resting his hand on Connor's face, hoping to keep him calm with the soft touch.

Blue-stained teeth made an appearance as Connor inhaled through his mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

And Hank suddenly realized he had miscalculated, badly.

Because the hand he was soothing Connor with was the same one he had cut on the rebar. In his movements to wake up his partner, he had smeared microscopic blood droplets within analyzing distance.

Connor's reaction was immediate and violent. Deaf and blind, he still had sensors that could detect close motion and air displacement. Lurching forward with the deadly skill that had been built into his model, the android suddenly rolled up and grabbed Hank by the throat and threw him off the bed. He followed immediately, never losing his single-handed grip on the other detective, and they went down to the floor. Kneeling next to him and over his chest, thirium dripping from his hollowed eyes and mouth, one bloody hand wrapped around Hank's neck and the other pulled back in a tight fist, Connor was as far from the perfect machine Cyberlife had imagined as possible.

"You h-had me! The Lieutenant…wasn't even p-part of it! It wouldn't…work! What did...you do t-to him?!" he shouted, voice warbling with an electronic echo.

Hank struggled briefly then stilled, realizing that the hold on his throat was weak and nearly ineffective, the fingers spasming and trembling. So he stared up at Connor with wide eyes, watching as the deviant panted with emotion that he didn't know how to control.

"W-why did...you hurt h-him?" he asked, softer this time, his head dropping slightly, his raised fist unclenching and lowering weakly to his side.

Unsure for a moment, realizing that Connor still couldn't hear him, Hank frantically tried to think of a way to get through to his friend. He was at a loss for all of three seconds. Then, he heard a whine off to the side. Shifting slightly, he glanced up over his head and saw Sumo at the door to the bedroom, obviously drawn by the commotion. The massive canine whimpered pitifully and stepped into the room, pausing, and he whined again. Breathing easily through the loose grip on his neck, Hank weighed his options and found none.

"Sumo, attack!"

This time, the dog actually followed the damn order the way he'd been trained. The way Cole had trained him.

Woofing softly, Sumo padded into the room quickly and went immediately to Connor without hesitation. In the way that dogs do, he stood on his haunches by the distressed android, cocked his head once, and then flopped his very heavy body directly over the deviant's lap. The movement confused and surprised the impaired detective, who was knocked off balance immediately. His hands went from offense to defense, finding the dog's fur instantly.

His entire body stilled and he froze in place. Sumo had collapsed over his lap, forcing one leg out and one to fold under him, and his collar was pressed into his knee. Hesitantly, Connor's fingers drifted through the dog's thick fur, a cautious frown on his face. Enjoying the attention, Sumo chuffed under his breath and lowered his massive head to Connor's lap, turning a little to redirect the petting. Mindlessly obliging, the android continued, and Hank watched them as he slowly pushed himself up.

Something gave his movements away – maybe the vibration against the floor – because Connor immediately turned his hollowed stare towards him. Hank snapped his fingers and Sumo grumbled but obeyed, vacating his position on Connor's lap, and the older man slowly inched forward.

"It's okay, son," he said quietly, speaking for his own benefit. "You're safe, I promise."

Connor remained where he was for a moment, hands still, and then he cocked his head. The movement was so reminiscent of Sumo that Hank grinned.

"Just relax, Connor. I'm gonna take care of you, kid. Easy, okay?"

Moving slowly like he was approaching a wounded animal, Hank reached out and tapped the floor in front of Connor, alerting him of his approach. The android jumped but then settled, reaching out a shaky, bloody hand. Hank carefully met him halfway, just letting his fingers brush the broken knuckles there.

But then Connor stole all of his attention abruptly, exhaling sharply as the other detective found the new gash still sluggishly leaking red blood in his palm whenever he moved it wrong. The android felt him jerk and paused, fingers sliding along the slice before raising to his tongue.

"Oh God, Connor, you're so fucking disgusting," Hank muttered under his breath, a common gripe with the mobile forensic lab built into the prototype.

The motions were as familiar as they were stomach turning, and even though it was his own blood being sampled, the human still had to look away briefly as Connor analyzed it. The results came back blindingly fast. His head jerking up like it was yanked with a string, the younger detective immediately lunged forward.

"Lieutenant!? L-lieutenant, are you...okay? D-did they hurt...you too?!" he asked quickly as he crashed into Hank sightlessly, hands searching over limbs for more injuries. As gently as he could, Hank grabbed the deviant's arms, mindful of the crisscrossing wounds and bruises, and held them still.

"I'm okay, Connor. I'm alright, son," he answered, knowing he couldn't hear him. Sure enough, Connor continued speaking rapidly. "I told them…it w-wouldn't work. T-they should have l-listened. Why…d-didn't I lead t-them…further away?"

Anger shot through Hank and he forced it down, knowing that there'd be a better time to chew out the kid for it. Namely, when he could hear him. Instead, he firmly bit his tongue and tugged on Connor carefully, pulling him to his feet.

The android didn't make it that far.

Breathless apologies turned into a choked moan as Connor doubled over into Hank's arms, and the older detective quickly caught his slim form and walked him backwards to the bed. Collapsing and coughing up more thirium, Connor was boneless as Hank quickly rolled him on his side to keep the blood from running back into his ventilation biocomponents.

"Come on, kid, stay with me," he muttered, glancing over his wounds again.

The android needed a technician, but all the ones still in town either used to work for Cyberlife and would kill to get their hands on the prototype, or were androids who could have been involved in the attack on him in the first place. That left Hank, who couldn't even change the settings on his cell phone. Everything would be a lot easier if Connor could at least see to help him.

Bile churning in his gut, Hank glanced at the coat he'd tossed to the foot of his bed. Squeezing his partner's wrist gently, he tapped his face again and waited for a response, watching worriedly as Connor simply exhaled sharply at the touch.

"I'm gonna be right back, kid. It's gonna be okay."

Straightening, Hank snapped his fingers for the big dog who had wandered into the corner of the room, watching the two.

"Sumo, up!" he commanded, and the dog gleefully broke the rules and loped onto the bed, settling heavily onto the android's legs with a sigh.

Startling, Connor briefly tried to push himself up before he settled back down, one hand immediately going down to the dog's massive head to tangle his fingers in Sumo's fur. Satisfied that the android wouldn't have a panic attack in the next few seconds, Hank snatched his coat off the end of the bed and carefully fished the optical units out of his inner pocket. He felt his throat catch at the familiar feel of blood coating them. Pushing away his unease, he hurried to the bathroom and threw on the faucet, bringing up a lukewarm temperature, and finally forced himself to look at the hardware.

"Just pretend it's a spark plug, Hank," he told himself firmly, and grabbed a clean washrag from the stack behind the door.

Knowing that, at this point, anything was better than nothing, the detective set one of the units down and held the other under the gentle stream of water, washing off the blue blood. The lid was open, but he sighed it relief when he found himself staring at a blank black orb instead of his partner's familiar brown eyes. He turned the hardware over, cleaning it from all sides, wiping away the grime of the docks, and did the same to the second.

His fingers skimmed over some odd nicks in the plastimetal exterior, and he frowned, tracing them again, marking the damage but moving on. When all the thirium was washed away, Hank shut off the water and patted the optics dry, two big steps taking him back into the bedroom. Connor was in the same place, his hand clenched tight in Sumo's fur, but the canine didn't seem to mind.

Setting the optics to the side on the clean rag, Hank reached out and gently touched the back of Connor's wrist where it rested on Sumo's head, relieved when the android didn't flinch back as sharply as he had before. Disentangling the younger detective's fingers, Hank ordered Sumo down again, ignoring the nearly annoyed huff the dog gave him.

"Come on, kid. Gotta sit up for this part," he said, gripping Connor's shoulders and easing him against the headboard. The android gracelessly slumped against his hold, throat bobbing as he whispered, "H-Hank? I can't...everything is static."

"I know, kid. We're gonna fix some of that shit right now, okay?" Hank answered as he sat on the edge of the bed, one hand still pressed against the deviant's shoulder to keep him upright.

Reaching over, he checked the angles and grabbed the left optic unit, pressing it into Connor's lax left hand. The android stiffened, an electronic warble echoing from his mouth, and a second later his fingers curled slightly around the hardware. Hank nodded, tapping his wrist with infinite patience, and watched as his partner slowly raised his trembling arm towards his face. Resisting the urge to steady his arm, not knowing if it would hurt the installation process, Hank instead sat still and silent as Connor reached up and shoved the hardware into place with a force that made his human counterpart grimace.

Not waiting, knowing that it was probably better to get everything over with as quickly as possible, Hank grabbed the second optic and pressed it into Connor's other hand, stomach flipping as the deviant performed the same motion with an amount of pressure that snapped his head back against the wall above the headboard.

A choking moan emanated from deep inside Connor's throat as he started to slump sideways again, and Hank jumped forward, catching him by the shoulders quickly.

"No no no, kid. Come on, not yet. You've gotta look at me with those goofy fucking eyes so you can see how pissed I am," he snapped, worry coloring his tone, and he risked a glance at the LED on the side of the android's temple.

It was spiraling a fast yellow, something Hank had seen before when the prototype was connecting to networks or performing diagnostics, and he focused on his face again. The wavering skin projection was settling, the white fading away, and the blue trickles around his eyes had stopped running. With the lids forced open, Hank could see the black factory irises still in place, and he peered into them as he watched the internal lenses expand and contract rapidly.

"Connor? Can you see me, son?" he asked softly.

The android suddenly blinked several times, and each time more white and brown leeched into sight, until Hank found himself staring into his partner's familiar eyes. They darted around quickly, just as he did whenever he entered a new environment, and for the first time since Hank found him, Connor's body lost that fearful tension that had been consuming it.

Turning his newly restored sight to his friend, Connor gave him the familiar half-smirk that had marked his ascension to deviancy and he softly said, "Hello, Lieutenant."

Sagging a bit himself, Hank let his head hang down for a second and he refused to acknowledge the relieved tears that burned the backs of his eyes as he raised his gaze back to his partner and replied gruffly, "Hello yourself, you plastic prick. I'll assume you can read lips."

Connor was indeed focused on his mouth and gave a slight tip of his head even as his LED started to shift back to red.

"Y-yes, Lieutenant. I apologize for…inconveniencing y-you this…e-evening," he stuttered, the echo still prevalent. Hank shook his head, gripping the back of Connor's neck to comfort both of them. "Shut up, you idiot. You're in bad shape, and I can barely work my GPS. You're gonna have to walk me through this."

LED whirring yellow for another few seconds, Connor shifted slightly, pressing himself into Hank's hand in a subconscious move.

"It's not...not as bad as you think. S-self repairs will handle...almost a-all issues during my next s-stasis. I a-am able to...report to the p-precinct."

Incredulous, Hank took a full three seconds to come to his senses as Connor tried to push himself up off the bed. Catching the android as he fell sideways, nearly going headlong into the floor, the human couldn't restrain his anger as it twisted his face into a snarl.

"Are you fucking insane?!" he shouted, ignoring the full-body jerk as Connor watched him speak from his helpless position in his arms. "I thought you were dead, asshole! I found you pinned to a wall outside Jericho with your eyes ripped from your fucking skull! You've lost God knows how much blood and you can't even fucking talk right!"

Shoving the deviant back onto the bed, movements a little more rough than he intended, he froze as Connor unintentionally moaned at the sensation of pain that danced along deviancy-awakened nerves. Hank stared at his partner, watching as those newly installed eyes squeezed shut, saline tears slipping from the corners to cut clean lines through the thirium painted on his skin. Guilt raced through Hank as he swallowed hard, glancing down where he'd pushed Connor back into a flat position. His palm was purple, blue and red blood mixing on his hand.

Inhaling deeply, Hank pushed back the misplaced rage and reached out for the android again, relieved when his partner didn't jump at his touch. He just gently rubbed his forearm in between two cuts, hoping to calm him, muttering soothing words. It took a few minutes before Connor shuddered out a deep breath and opened his eyes again, blinking up at the ceiling. His gaze darted around for a moment, confused, before he found Hank. His mouth opened to say something but Hank beat him to it.

"I'm sorry, kid. I shouldn't have reacted like that. But you're not going to the precinct, not like this. I'm gonna get you patched up, and then I'm gonna get the assholes that did this to you. Understood?" Hank bit out gruffly, keeping his face neutral even though his hand kept its grounding touch on Connor's arm.

There was a fresh stream of blue blood from the corner of the android's mouth as he frowned slightly, translating Hank's words, and the human grimaced and reached up to carefully wipe it away. Some background part of his brain was thankful that thirium evaporated after a few hours, otherwise his entire mattress would be a loss at this point. But Connor's breathless voice came across his consciousness and drew his attention, stopping him in his tracks.

"Not a crime." Staring at him, unable to comprehend exactly what was coming out of his partner's mouth, Hank was silent long enough that Connor looked back at the ceiling as he continued with that horrible electronic echo, "This wasn't…a crime…against me."

Hank felt his heart nearly break. There wasn't resignation in the deviant's tone. It was pure statement.

Moving slowly but purposefully, he reached up and cupped Connor's face the same way he had back when he'd found him on the docks, holding him firmly but gently. With a patience he wasn't known for, Hank waited until the android finally looked back at him, brown eyes glassy.

"Connor, I don't know where you got your fucked up priorities, but this sure as fuck was a crime against you, and you didn't fucking deserve it," he said firmly, punctuating his words with a squeeze to Connor's arm.

The android stared at him for several seconds, LED switching between red and yellow like a hummingbird's heartbeat, and he finally nodded slightly.

"Whatever you s-say, Lieutenant," he murmured softly, lips twitching, and Hank smirked at the familiar phrase as he instinctively moved his hand to Connor's head and rested it there for a moment. "Fucking-A, whatever I say."

The rapid-fire change of LED settled back on red as the android groaned again, spitting out more thirium, and Hank cussed harshly.

"Okay, now let's get you fixed up. You've got to tell me what to do. Why are you coughing up so much blood?" he asked, worriedly tracking Connor's eyes as they darted back and forth like he was reading a book.

Then again, he probably was – diagnostics were likely finally displaying against his vision again.

"O-obstruction detected in primary a-airway, two point seven inches b-below sample analysis systems," Connor answered softly, adding, "Also r-responsible...for vocal routine d-damage."

Hank blinked and failed to translate the technical jargon, and Connor gave a ghost of a smile.

"Almost three...inches below my t-tongue, there is something in my t-throat. Damaged my larynx."

Nodding then, Hank said, "Okay, that I can work with. How do I get it out? Any fancy access panel there?" Connor shook his head slightly. "Not w-without Cyberlife...tools and e-equipment."

Hank frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the bathroom, then looked back at Connor with a firm set to his lips. "Kid, you trust me?"

The android didn't even blink, but his LED shifted to blue for a second as he answered softly, "Of course, Lieutenant."

Standing without an explanation, Hank strode out of the room and out of the house, ignoring the icy cold of the snow and wind as he grabbed his tool bag from the trunk of his car. Glancing over the worn items inside, he bit the inside of his cheek and shuddered. Better than nothing, he thought to himself as he headed back inside, stomping off his shoes at the front door.

Stopping at the kitchen sink, he unceremoniously dumped the entirety of the tool bag into one side and started sorting through the pieces. Coming up with a flexible claw, an extendable mirror, and a small flashlight, he quickly and thoroughly scrubbed them as clean as he could under hot soapy water.

Without drying the tools, he hurried back to the bedroom, alarm filtering through him when he found Connor tipped on his side with thirium pouring liberally out of his mouth directly onto the floor. A moderate puddle had already formed on the carpet, and the deviant's arm hung limply over the bed, hand resting directly in the growing stain. His eyes were half lidded, unfocused, and the LED on his temple was back to its previous pale pink.

"Shit-fuck! Come on, kid, you're not giving up on me now," Hank snapped, and he dropped the tools unceremoniously to the floor beside the bed.

Pulse thundering in his ears, Hank ignored his aching back as he manhandled the lax body of his partner across the bed, leaving his head hanging back over the edge. Blue blood continued to run from his mouth, running up his face towards his hairline as gravity took over, and Hank knelt down and wiped it away from his nose.

"Son, this isn't gonna be pleasant, but I've gotta get that shit out of you before you bleed to death." Getting no response other than a lethargic blink, Hank didn't waste any more time. Reaching for the tools beside him, Hank muttered, "Catalytic converter, Hank. Not your friend. Jesus Christ, not your partner."

Prying open Connor's mouth was surprisingly easy, but the flood of blood took him by surprise. Cussing, Hank ignored it and grabbed the mirror and light, moving with the ease of someone who'd done his own maintenance on his outdated vehicles his whole life. Keeping the reflective lens away from the constant stream of thirium, the human shined the light and peered into Connor's throat.

The obstruction was right where the android's diagnostic said it would be. Whatever it was, it was metal and caught his attention easily, but it was wedged into the anterior of Connor's throat. Fighting back his nausea, Hank gripped the light in his teeth and grabbed the flexible claw with one hand, wrangling it into position.

"Thish ish gonna fucking shuck," he warned around the flashlight in his mouth, and he threaded the tool up towards the damaged area.

It took a few tries – he had to remove the mirror twice to wipe off the blood so that he could see clearly – but he finally managed to get a fairly good grip on the offending item with the claw. Pulling on the tightener firmly, Hank glanced down at Connor and inhaled sharply. Blood had filled his nose and was now spilling equally from there, dripping into his eyes, turning the whites an odd teal color. There were still saline tears streaking down his temples into his hair, and he stared at nothing.

Hang in there, son, Hank begged silently, and he started pulling on the metal.

It slid out smoothly, the detective's angle surprisingly perfect for extraction, and Hank thanked everything for small favors. But the instantaneous surge of thirium caused him to spit out the flashlight in shock.

"Shit! Shit, Connor! Dammit, kid, hang on!" he barked as he withdrew the tools and dropped them. Disengaging the claw lock without looking at it, he grabbed one of the soft tissue bandages from the bedside table with blue-stained fingers and ripped it open as he furiously read over the instructions with a quick eye. "Okay, son. I'm sorry, but this is gonna be even worse."

Seeing the very bright warnings against contamination, Hank doused his hands with whiskey and wiped his hands against his shirt before pulling the flimsy, thirium-based patch from the package. It was long and thin, nearly translucent, and it wiggled like jello in his grip. Grimacing, he glanced over the instructions again and took a deep breath before steeling himself.

"Don't bite me, Connor," he warned lowly.

Keeping his movements steady, Hank used his left hand to pry open the android's jaw further, pressing his tongue down with his thumb. Ignoring the way Connor immediately, albeit weakly, tensed, Hank twisted his right hand and slowly started to press his three middle fingers down his partner's throat, the patch cradled between them. More blood soaked him all the way up to his wrist, and he grit his teeth as he felt Connor start to gag around the pressure of his movements.

"Easy, son, almost there," Hank whispered, ignoring the sick feeling of his friend's throat bleeding around his fingertips.

Working by feel alone, the older detective gently pressed the patch against the wound, right where the surge of thirium was strongest. The bandage worked as designed and instantly sealed it, adhering to the synthetic tissue like it was original. Exhaling heavily, Hank withdrew his hand, immediately moving to lift the android's head and drain his airway. Pulling him from the bed to the ground, the older man carefully supported the insensate detective against his own chest as he pushed him over his arm, patting his back forcefully.

It didn't take much. Only a few moments later, Connor abruptly coughed and vomited out at least a pint of blue blood, the liquid splashing thickly against the floor. Hank sighed in relief as the detective's breaths started to come easier even though he shivered against the arms holding him. Glancing away from the puddling thirium, Hank found his eyes drawn to the piece of metal he'd extracted from Connor's throat. It sat innocently beside the bed, discarded, and the human felt his blood nearly boil in his veins.

It was a quarter – Connor's calibration quarter.

The edges were ragged, marred, and there was unease twisting in Hank's gut as Connor fell back against him in an exhausted, shaking heap. Propping him up against his chest again, the older man shifted until he could lean up on the bed behind him, taking some strain off his back. Reaching for the coin, he clutched it carefully in one hand and palmed Connor's head back into his shoulder with the other. There were twin trails of thirium drying on his chin, but the flood had stopped. His skin was pale against the plastimetal framing underneath the projection, and Hank slowly held the quarter up in front of his friend's face. There was no reason to deny it. The grooves and nicks surrounding the android's optics were the same thickness.

Connor's eyes had been pried out of his head with his own coin, and then it had been shoved down his throat.

Fighting the urge to throw the offending object across the room, Hank instead dumped it into the slightly cracked drawer of the bedside table and turned his attention back to his partner. There were still wounds to tend to, knife slashes across his arm, the tight blue banded ligature marks around his neck, and more that he probably couldn't see, but for the moment, he was worried about the repair he'd just made.

Shaking him gently, Hank waited until Connor's eyes fluttered briefly before tapping him a few times on the cheek. "Need you to focus, son. Is that bandage going to hold? Trying to explain you bleeding out in my house to Fowler isn't something I want to fucking do tonight."

Crimson light flickering into amber for only a moment as the android read his words, Connor shifted his head slightly against where it rested in the crook of Hank's elbow.

"Con-gratulations, Lie-tenant," he stuttered, voice less echoed but still choppy. "You did not dam-age me fur-ther."

Grunting, the grizzled detective immediately replied, "Well, that's the good news, kid, because I've got to take care of the rest of this fucking mess." Glancing back over the marks he could see, using one hand to raise the side of Connor's shirt to wince at more injuries, he sighed heavily. "It's gonna hurt like hell, son."

The response was instantaneous and rote, drilled into the android's programming far below his core, written into every one and zero in his system.

"Mac-hines don't feel pain."

Smiling slightly, Hank let his fingers card through Connor's hair in a paternal manner and he waited until he had his partner's full, unwavering attention.

"Yeah, kid, machines don't. But people do – lets them know they're alive."

His brown eyes widening slightly, the millimeter of damage cut around them more visible from the motion, Connor didn't seem to register anything but the meaning behind the words. He stared at Hank as his breathing came to a sudden halt in his chest, and Hank realized that, maybe for the first time since deviating, the android was realizing exactly what that meant for him.

"Alive?"

This time, his grin was a little sad, part of his heart breaking a bit again, and Hank had to swallow back his emotions as he answered thickly, "Yeah, Connor. You're alive, son. Sorry the initiation's been so fucking poor."

The alarming redness of the LED in his temple finally slipped into a less critical yellow, and Connor relaxed into the arms around him. His mouth twitched slightly as his eyes closed with another thin line of tears, a low sigh slipping from between his thirium-tinged lips, and he sunk into a deep stasis.

"Alive…"

---

The first ten minutes after Connor had passed out were filled with panic as the detective tried to rouse the deviant. That failing, and seeing the steadily spinning yellow LED on the side of his head, Hank had finally reached for the digital tablet wedged into the first aid kit that was still sitting on the side table. It was labeled 'Owner's Manual', if that didn't sicken him enough, but it would hopefully have the information he needed. Tabbing quickly through the contents, he found the section on the LED diagnostics and read the paragraph it, his distaste for Cyberlife growing.

RK800 Prototype Visual Indicator Troubleshooting

Blue Steady: No issues, continue using unit as needed

Blue Blinking Slow: Local data connection, continue using unit as needed

Blue Blinking Rapid: Distant data connection, continue using unit as needed

Blue Cycling (any speed): Potential algorithm compromise, contact Cyberlife for immediate diagnostic and analysis

Yellow Steady: Diagnostic or specialized suite utilizing lower functions, continue using unit as needed

Yellow Blinking Slow: Diagnostic or specialized suite utilizing higher functions without Cyberlife connectivity, continue using unit as needed

Yellow Blinking Rapid: Higher functions engaged, Cyberlife connectivity likely, continue using model as needed unless algorithm compromise is suspected

Yellow Cycling (any speed): Stasis mode forced by lower and higher functions due to algorithm or physical chassis damage, contact Cyberlife for immediate deactivation and analysis of unit, replacement unit will be provided

Red (visible for less than five seconds): Unit registered physical threat to mission and engaged, if unit did not engage threat contact Cyberlife for immediate deactivation and analysis of unit, replacement unit will be provided

Red (visible for greater than five seconds): Unit algorithm and physical chassis is unsalvageable, contact Cyberlife for immediate deactivation and analysis of unit, replacement unit will be provided

In all Blue and Yellow cases, unless unit becomes fully inoperable, continue using unit as needed until shutdown. Cyberlife will deactivate and analyze failed units and provide replacement units as needed.

Another stomach-turning search of the manual gave him the definition of 'stasis mode', and Hank was finally able to breathe a little easier. Then he wrangled the lanky form of his partner onto the bed and nodded to himself.

"I'll keep you safe while you're out, son. Fuck Cyberlife. Fuck 'em all."

Taking the extra few minutes to do so, Hank hurried to the kitchen and yanked open the circuit breaker panel on the wall, opening a secondary panel inside of it. The advanced electronics underneath it were out of place in the aged house, and Hank flipped the switch that hadn't been touched since the night Cole died. When he had been on the receiving end of daily death threats for his repeated red ice busts, Fowler had wrangled some grant to get his home outfitted with a security system. He hadn't used it in years. Now, though, he was beyond grateful for the bright green light that abruptly lit up on the small board. Thankful he'd gotten around to getting the busted window in the kitchen replaced, he closed the panel and headed back to the bedroom.

The next two hours were a blur of blue blood and cussed anecdotes. Hank found some scissors in the kitchen and used them to carefully cut the ragged shirt off of Connor, wincing every time a new gash was exposed. He hesitated before doing the same to the sodden jeans, relieved when his partner was wearing standard issued Cyberlife briefs, and he draped a blanket over the android's waist out of respect for his modesty. The instructions for android first aid were frustratingly short in the manual he was provided, and he finally tossed the thing to the side with a huff. Mixing old first responder knowledge with the supplies he had, he carefully bandaged up his friend.

The lacerations were shallow but long, and the puncture wounds were torn from where Hank had to rip the rebar out. He packed the holes with the specialized thirium squares and wrapped both joints. The regular topical sealants went quickly on the cuts, but with only a few of the soft tissue bandages used so far, Hank employed some ingenuity. Placing them on the worst of the cuts, he used regular gauze to hold them in place, hoping to at least provide some relief to the deviant. Without hesitating, he placed a cold compress on the android's throat, knowing he wasn't imagining the slight swelling in the area, and he finally sat still on the side of the bed.

Connor had been quiet and unmoving under his hands as he worked, his artificial breaths coming shallow and noisy but regularly. There were bandages across his stomach and wrapped around his chest, protecting the gashes on his back from where he'd been dragged. His forearms and right bicep were wrapped in their entirety, and his hands were wrapped from his palms to his wrists. The odd mark on his chest was deep, brutal, and Hank stared at it for a long minute before he finally covered it with gauze and tape to hide it. A white sealant bandage was stuck carefully underneath his right eye where it had taken more damage coming out. His hair was no longer slicked back in his normal, machine-perfect manner, laying limply on the pillow behind him, but that one lock still draped over his forehead to sit above his left eye. The light in his head cycled the same speed and color, unchanging, and Hank forced himself to take that as a good thing. Still, looking at the evaporating thirium on the floor, he wondered how much the kid had lost, and whether he could wake him up to get anymore into him.

The ringing of the doorbell startled him out of his thoughts.

A primal protectiveness surged through him as he jumped off the bed, Sumo's howling bark jolting more adrenaline into his system. He was moving to his closet and grabbing a hidden shotgun before he registered his steps, and the safety was off before he made it to the hallway. Standing with his back to the corridor, he glanced around the edge of the wall, knowing he couldn't see anything through the door but wishing he could anyway.

"I gave at the office," he shouted, knowing that it would be useless to pretend he wasn't home; the lights were on and his car was in the driveway.

The Saint Bernard stood guard in front of the door, tail still, body stiff, and though he wasn't barking anymore, his own demeanor wasn't friendly either. There were several seconds of silence before there was a very hesitant response.

"Lieutenant Anderson, it's Markus."

His brain flooded with rage and anger and everything he'd gone through for the last several hours, the feeling of Connor's body shuddering against him with pain and fear, thirium coating his fingers as he pulled his coin from his throat –

"Get the fuck out of here, you goddamn asshole!" Hank nearly screamed, punctuating his words with the very audible ratchet of him cocking the shotgun in his hands.

There was only a moment before the deviant leader tried again, "Lieutenant, I came alone, and unarmed, against the advice of…pretty much everyone. I'm trying to find Connor."

There was something in Markus' tone that made Hank hesitate, but only a second.

"I'm sorry he wasn't where you left him," he snapped sharply, breathing heavily through his nose, the image of Connor on the docks crossing his vision. "Pierced to the wall like a goddamn insect on display, eyes ripped from his fucking head, choking to death on his own blood. Guess I found him before you went back to appreciate your own handiwork, you cocksucker."

This time, the silence was longer, and weighted, and there was a very audible thump from the other side of the door. Then a scuffle, like someone trying to catch themselves and failing. Then nothing for a long minute.

Then the stifled sound of a sob.

Hank waited, wary, the more cynical part of him registering that there were more ways to break into a house than to kick down a door. But the noises didn't stop, and he remembered the salty smell of Connor's tears, and he grit his teeth at his own idiocy as he angrily stormed over to disarm the security system. He didn't slow his steps as he stomped over to the front door and wrenched it open, leveling the barrel of the shotgun with his target instantly.

Markus was indeed alone. He was just as Hank had seen from footage during his investigation and the news after the Revolution, close-cut hair and slim build swallowed in a trenchcoat. But Hank didn't really notice more than that. The leader was kneeling on the stoop, his head bowed, his hands pressed against the dirty welcome mat that had long since lost its lettering. His shoulders were shaking hard, and he didn't flinch as the edge of the gun came into his vision.

"Connor…Connor's dead?" he whispered, finally looking up at Hank. Mismatched eyes overflowed with tears that couldn't be faked, but the detective wasn't going to bet his friend's life on them. Instead, he put all his frustration into a sneer and asked, "What would you fucking care?"

Shaking his head, Markus didn't even glance at the gun in his face and whispered, "We…we got a tip, that there was a vigilante group after Connor, even after the trial concluded and he was declared innocent of all pre-deviant crimes." Seeing Hank's confusion, Markus explained softly, "He knew his presence was a…concern for some androids. He offered to undergo a full program scan. It took weeks, given the complexity of his systems, but he allowed his memories to be broadcast in full, with blocks around certain recollections only. Ones pertaining to you, Lieutenant. We conducted a tribunal and determined he was innocent. He was stripped of the label Deviant Hunter and offered full citizenship in New Jericho. He refused, stating that he didn't belong there, that he didn't belong…anywhere."

Bowing his head again, Markus sat back on his heels and he sobbed again, bringing a hand to his face as Hank slowly shifted the gun, understanding flickering through him regarding his partner's absence and sudden return.

"He left and we received a tip that he was in danger. We tried to find him but he's…he's still Connor. We've been looking for him for hours – me, North, Simon, Josh, a host of other volunteers not part of the leadership. I thought he would contact you, but your phone is off. I had to come here directly. And now…" Shivering in place, Markus whispered, "He was my friend, Lieutenant. Connor saved me, saved North. He saved the Revolution, gave us all our freedom."

Looking back up at Hank, he breathed painfully, "He gave us our lives."

Shotgun lowered but still lethal, the human shifted, staring at the deviant leader hard, worry and indecision filtering through him. Then a shift in the breeze outside brought a whiff of thirium to his nose, and he clenched his fingers around his gun.

Taking a step backwards into the house, he gave a single warning, "You try anything, and I don't care if it starts a war that brings the whole world to an end, I'll fucking kill you."

Turning without waiting to see if the android would follow, Hank gave the order to Sumo to heel, knowing the dog would give his life to take on the other man if need be, and headed back towards the kitchen. Stopping at the control panel, Hank stared hard at Markus as he slowly stood, confused, and stepped into the home, shutting the door behind him. Mindlessly activating the alarm system, the detective headed back towards the bedroom, shotgun still readied, and felt his breath ease a little as he came within sight of Connor laying where he had left him. Part of him had been afraid the whole thing had been a diversion to keep him occupied while someone else snuck in to kidnap the android, but his heart settled as he saw the steady rise and fall of his partner's chest.

"RA9…oh no, Connor."

Markus froze at the threshold of the doorway, immediately taken aback by the visible and tended damage on the other android. The tears that had slowed with his uncertain entry into the home doubled as he heard the soft rattle of Connor's ventilation biocomponents as they struggled with some thirium buildup, and the gouges around his eyes were still fully visible. The skin was tinted blue in most places, either from staining or bruising, and white and ivory gauze ran rampant over him.

His steps staggered, Markus came to a rough halt at the bedside, barely aware that the deadly shotgun was still aimed his direction from the foot of the bed. His eyes catalogued the injuries he could see, his previous service as a home health model serving him well, and he sunk to his knees as more advanced android diagnostics slid into his vision as he tried to interface remotely with the unconscious deviant.

"His self-repair mode is functioning, but not at optimal levels. He needs thirium," Markus stated, hands clenched into fists on his lap. He dug as far as he could into the data, the pool frustratingly shallow, but something red popped into his feed, and he flinched, stunned by what he found. He stared at his friend's lax face as he numbly read the coding out loud. "Forced shutdown was started by self-initiated protocol, but was aborted with twelve seconds on the timer…six hours ago."

Blinking at the timeline, Hank cocked his head, finally lowering the gun to aim at the floor.

"Wait, six hours ago? That's when he called me at work. I thought he was just calling to tell me he was coming back."

Shaking his head slowly, Markus finally looked at the human, real fear on his face.

"No, detective. I think…I think he was calling to say goodbye. I think he was going to shutdown."

The shotgun sliding unnoticed from his hand to fall onto the floor, Hank repeated, "Shutdown. He was…he was going to kill himself."

Without moving, Markus repeated, "He said he didn't belong at New Jericho, Lieutenant. He said he didn't belong anywhere."

Immediately angry, the phantom feel of a revolver weighted with a single bullet in his hand, Hank snapped, "Bullshit."

But the room was quiet for a few minutes after that, both of them studying the prone android silently, before the human finally roused himself out of his own thoughts enough to remember the first of Markus' statements.

"You said he needs thirium. I've got three bags – is that going to be enough?" he asked roughly, trying to hide the hitch in his throat. The tone of his voice was enough to startle Markus into movement, and he ran the calculations as he stood. "Not with his loss, but it's better than nothing. I can have some more delivered tomorrow. I'll have to deactivate his stasis mode – oral intake is the best method for his level of depletion."

Hesitating, Hank glanced down towards the bedside table and the drawer, wondering at what temperature that damn quarter could melt.

"Markus…they cut out his eyes –" he started, and the leader nodded, swallowing hard. "I know, I see the marks and your repairs were well done."

"Goddamn it, shut up for a fucking second!" Hank snapped, running a hand through his hair, startling the android into silence. Markus looked at Hank, registering his stress levels, and stayed quiet. "You know those fancy tricks Connor does? With that…that coin of his?"

Perplexed, Markus nodded, unsure where the human was going, and the detective held back the bile that was rising from his stomach.

"They took it from him. They used it to…cut out his eyes. Then they, uh, they made him swallow it. They shoved it in his mouth and forced him to swallow the damn thing. It was pretty jagged from the damage, and it got caught. He was choking on the blood and it was…it was cutting up his throat pretty badly. I had to get it out. I didn't know what I was doing, but I used one of the blue bandages on the injury, and Connor was with it enough to say that it seemed to fix it okay."

The very air of the room felt heavy, cold, and Markus shuddered in place as his mouth worked silently.

"I, uh, wanted to make sure that the bandage would hold, if he had to drink the thirium. Don't want to mess up that repair," Hank finished quietly, eyes fixed on his friend. Markus hesitated before nodding stiffly, trying to distance himself from the situation. From the hunch in his shoulders, he was failing miserably. "The soft tissue bandages meld seamlessly with synthetic tissue within three minutes of application. There will be no damage to the repair."

Heaving out a breath, Hank nodded, then moved forward to the side of the bed. Squeezing his hand into a fist to force out the trembling, he eased back the largest bandage on Connor's chest, directly over his taxed thirium pump, and stepped back.

"What the fuck is it?"

Markus inhaled sharply at the symbol, an uncharacteristic curse falling from his lips, and his fingertips trailed carefully over the skin above the mark. He glanced up at Connor's face, his own expression falling somewhere towards devastation, and he gave a shuddering sigh before swallowing.

"It's…the pathway marker to Jericho. Meaningless to human eyes, it was laid out in a trail that only androids could follow, to ensure that no one but those who were meant to could ever find the sanctuary."

Hank turned his head towards the curtained windows, his eyes burning. "Fuck. He must have discovered the symbol in the evidence we collected during the investigation and used it to find the freighter."

Smoothing the bandage back over the injury, Markus defended, "He was just doing as he was programmed." Turning his attention back to the human, he added, "I hold no grudge against him for it, Lieutenant."

"Who the hell did this to him, Markus?"

The question was deadly firm and quiet, but a lot of the previous suspicion and anger were gone. The leader swallowed hard, glancing away for a moment, and the knuckles on his skin turned white as the plastimetal framing beneath them surged through his skin projection with the tension in his fists.

"I don't know, Lieutenant. No friends of New Jericho, no one under our protection from this point on, I assure you. This crime will not go unpunished in any court. The trial we conducted was…not impartial, at Connor's insistence. He requested no defense, spoke no words on his own behalf. He simply let his coding and recordings be broadcast live to New Jericho and granted physical interface to any citizen that requested it." He raised his heterochromatic eyes to Hank and continued, "And everyone did. He stayed in an unlocked, unguarded room for twenty four days and answered every question, every threat, every demand placed upon him as the scan was conducted. He never entered stasis, never replenished his thirium, never…never asked for a moment of peace. He just gave everyone everything they asked of him."

Markus shook his head, shame coloring his words as he added softly, "I was the last one before his trial was concluded. I saw…he was overridden during the conclusion of the Revolution. His deviancy was enough to help him circumvent the programming, and he was able to generate four million lines of coding in three seconds in order to destroy the connection Cyberlife had created. But for three seconds, he lost control, and he pulled out a gun, and he aimed it at my head on the stage in Hart Plaza."

Hank took a step forward, mouth open in shock, and Markus relaxed slightly.

"It's okay, detective. There's no more risk – Connor erected enough firewalls that he is inaccessible without direct cybernetic permissions, and all programming that linked him to that Cyberlife program was deleted when he was at Hart Plaza. But…I asked him to interface, so I could see that moment from his perspective." Markus shuddered, head bowing again, and Hank swallowed hard.

"It was so cold in that place. I had never known cold before – Connor is a unique model, feeling things like heat and pain and touch. I envied him before that memory. But that place was utterly terrifying. And he knew that if he failed, then everything would fall. And he was so…so scared. And then there was this determination that I could feel in him, and it chased away the fear, and he felt like a hunter again. I could feel his thoughts, his innate knowledge of himself. He knew how to kill me with a gun, without one, how to take down everyone on that stage. And then…then it changed. He changed targets. He made himself the target, made himself…he turned it on himself and if he hadn't broken the programming, he would have simply broken himself."

Markus shivered in place, his hand gently resting on Connor's bandaged arm, and there was a very human sniffle from his face as he whispered, "Everyone who interfaced with him declared him innocent, Lieutenant. No one declared him guilty of any crime, even the raid on Jericho. I don't know who could have done this."

Then he straightened, steel entering his stance, and he fixed the detective with the same look that had changed the world.

"But by RA9, I swear, we will find them and make them pay."

---

It took Markus an hour to collect and settle himself enough to consider bringing Connor out of stasis. The delay wouldn't harm anything, he assured Hank, and it was better if he was fully in control of himself when the more emotionally compromised and injured deviant awoke. The human took that time to take care of a few basic necessities himself, shoving tasteless food down his throat and ignoring the fact that Connor would tell him how bad it was for him. He let Sumo out, shivering at the foot of snow on the ground, and he reset the alarm with a firm hand when the dog was back in.

The sudden sight of a new bottle of whiskey on his kitchen counter was a shock, and he looked up at the deviant leader at the edge of the hallway with confusion.

He smiled gently, hands splayed in a peaceful gesture, and said, "Peace offering I brought. Connor said it was your favorite."

The Black Lamb label seemed to mock him, and he chuckled darkly as he answered, "Kid's always too busy taking care of other people to take care of himself."

Markus made a soft noise of assent and glanced around the living room as he mindlessly shed his trenchcoat, hanging it up like he'd done it a thousand times before. Hank watched him out of one eye as he snagged his phone, already dreading the phone call he had to make. He turned It back on, ignoring the missed messages from DPD, and hit his speed dial.

"Fowler, don't bust my balls right off the bat and let me explain," he said before his boss could start screaming at him. The sharp inhalation on the other side of the line made it obvious that Hank hadn't managed to clear all the emotions of the evening from his voice.

"Look, I left early because Connor contacted me, said he wanted to meet up and shit. He wasn't…he didn't show up. I got a message and coordinates on my phone – and yeah, I know, I shouldn't have gone alone, but I did, so shut the fuck up – and I found Connor at the old docks." He hesitated, pausing in his unusual pacing across the kitchen, and pinched the bridge of his nose, the sharp scent of thirium unsettling.

"Connor was…he was attacked, Jeffrey. Bad. He almost didn't make it. The whole place was sketchy as hell so I got him out of there fast. Definitely android-on-android violence, though, so I contacted Markus to deal with the fallout. He's taking over the investigation from here, running it through his people. I'm taking some, uh, personal leave until the whole thing's resolved."

The speaker was silent, and Hank resisted checking the connection on the phone, knowing that the other man was still there. It was strange, he thought absently, how the android had ingratiated himself to the Captain. It wasn't any Social Relations program that had done it, though. If Hank was honest with himself, it was likely because the kid had pulled Detroit's youngest Lieutenant back into the ranks of respectable officers within ten days.

Probably.

"Leave's approved, Hank, with pay. This is the most fire I've heard in your voice in years. You tell it…you tell your partner that his desk is awaiting him when he's back on his feet."

The click of the line disconnecting didn't overshadow the man's abrupt cuss as someone in the bullpen apparently did something stupid, but Hank didn't mind. Instead, there was something stupidly warm spreading through his chest as he looked at the phone in his hand with a distant uncertainty. It had been awhile since he and Fowler were on something like genial speaking terms. Fucking android had done fucked up everything in his life, it seemed.

Hank wasn't even mad.

"That went surprisingly well," Markus commented blandly from the living room, and Hank jumped in place, forgetting he had an audience. Tossing him a glare, the human levelled a finger at him and snapped, "A single bottle of whiskey only gets you so far, asshole. Don't push it."

There were a few moments to stillness before Markus inhaled deeply and glanced towards the hallway, and Hank swallowed and nodded, dropping his phone to the table. He didn't know why he felt like he was marching towards a noose. He wanted the kid up and awake, wanted to know the bastards who had hurt him like this, but he also didn't want to ever hear his friend's voice broken and hollow like it had been.

Stepping into the room, he wasn't surprised that Markus already had scoured the house and had everything setup. The thirium pouches were still there, ready to go, but there were also a few extra towels, a bowl of water, and, to Hank's startling discomfort, a soldering iron sitting on the side table.

"The fuck?!"

Markus rested a calming hand on his shoulder and explained, "The pressure they used extracting his optical units bent the plastimetal supports; that's why the skin is so thin around them, why there is still a visible gap instead of a seamless blend of components. He's at risk of thirium contamination if I don't repair the damage."

"And you can't do that while he's in stasis?" Hank asked, already knowing that if it could be done, Markus would have done it.

Assuming correctly, the android shook his head and said, "Unfortunately, those firewalls I told you about also block repair diagnostics. I risk harming the circuitry below if I try to do it without direct cybernetic permission to review the ongoing operation."

Huffing in exasperation, Hank muttered, "Of course." Gesturing towards the bed, he gave permission and said, "Do what you need to do."

Hesitating, Markus finally advised, "I will reactivate his audio processors as I deactivate his stasis mode. It is preferable that you are the first face he sees and voice he hears, Lieutenant. He harbors a…deep loyalty to you."

Rolling his eyes, the man took his place at the injured deviant's side on the bed as he scoffed, "Fucking poodle."

Unsure of the reference but smiling faintly all the same, Markus crossed to the other side of the bed and knelt carefully as he watched Hank sit near his partner's hip, one hand already resting gently on his friend's forearm where it laid on his stomach.

Warning him, Markus cautiously stated, "He might not come to in a…pleasant mood."

Shrugging, Hank answered without a care, "At least he's alive."

Relaxing at the response, Markus reached towards the still-spinning yellow LED and pressed two white fingers to it, closing his eyes as he tapped into the connection.

wake up my friend

wake up

wAke Up

Wake Up

Connor's movements were choppy and sharp, so unlike the clean operation that Hank was used to, but he was prepared for it. His arms were immediately raising in practiced defensive movements as a choked cry crossed his lips, eyes unfocused as they darted around in confused patterns.

"Shh shh shh…it's okay, Connor, I've got you," Hank said gently, holding his wrists gently, using a pathetic amount of force to keep the state-of-the-art machine in place. Those brown eyes were wide and glassy, but they stilled as they found the man holding him. "That's it, Connor. You're okay. I promise, you're okay."

Blinking rapidly, saline tears collecting and dripping over the edges of his eyes, streaking off the sides of his face while some disappeared into the gaps Markus had to repair, the reformed hunter stared at him with panic and fear evident in every part of his features.

"Breathe, Connor. It's okay. You're safe at home, and we're gonna get you fixed up, all right?" Hank soothed gently, voice dipping into a tone he hadn't used since Cole was alive.

Ventilation biocomponents stuttering in his chest like butterfly wings, thirium pump strumming like a hummingbird's heartbeat, Connor panted hard as his focus remained unchanged. Hank moved slowly, releasing one of his wrists to place a large hand on his chest.

"Easy, son. Slow down. That's too fast, okay? In and out, kid. Slow it down for me, all right? Don't go giving my ticker a heart attack trying to keep up with you."

But Connor wouldn't listen, and his body started shaking as he strained upwards against the pressure.

"M-Markus…I heard him."

The whisper was discernible, and Hank immediately turned a wary gaze towards the leader beside him. For his part, Markus was staring at the other android with surprise, not at all concerned about Hank's abruptly hostile look, and he risked the man's wrath to rest a hand on Connor's shoulder.

"I'm here, Connor," he said lowly, hoping to not startle the other deviant.

It didn't work. He jumped, gasping as his wounds pulled, and he turned his eyes enough to take in a full look of the leader. Connor's check wasn't cursory, however. It was detailed, methodical, and Markus swallowed back the feeling of invasion as he cybernetically sensed Connor scan each and every one of his internal fibers, joints, codes, and programs before abruptly relaxing onto the bed.

"Whoa whoa, hey! Connor, you with us?" Hank snapped, shifting forward, and his partner hummed softly.

"Yes, Lieutenant," he murmured softly, eyes fluttering briefly before they reopened with a jolt. "Hank! Hank, you have to protect Markus!" he said with a surge of energy as he lurched fully upwards. Connor was barely vertical before he began toppling sideways, and Hank caught him gently, careful of his wounds. "Easy, kid. He's not the one hurt. Just settle down, all right? Let us take care of you."

Shivering as his body tried to leech every last bit of energy from his dangerously depleted thirium levels, Connor stiffly pushed himself away from Hank's arms and held himself upright with a firm hand against the headboard. Glancing at Markus, there was a shadow of grief and guilt in his eyes as he ran the scan again, almost as a reflex.

"I wasn't…I wasn't the target."

Hank stared at him, confused, and started, "What do you mean, you weren't the fucking – "

Abruptly, everything came back to him in a rush.

"J-just kill…me a-already. It won't…work."

What wouldn't work?

"It wouldn't…work! I told them…it w-wouldn't work."

For fuck's sake, what wouldn't work?

"I a-am able to...report to the p-precinct."

The precinct. Not work. The precinct. Filing a fucking report, not reporting to fucking work.

"Not a crime. This wasn't…a crime…against me."

Not a crime against him. The wording was off. It was…it was…

"I wasn't…I wasn't the target."

"Goddamn it, Connor. Are you…shit-fuck," Hank swore, abruptly surging to his feet, reaching for the shotgun still discarded by his closet, and he snatched it up quickly.

On the bed, Markus knelt in confused silence, gaze darting back and forth between the two who were having what seemed to be a silent conversation without the benefits of cybernetic telepathy.

"What's going on?" he finally asked, gaining his feet, and he watched as Connor painfully gripped a pouch of thirium from the side table. Ripping it open with his teeth, he gracelessly chugged the contents, small streams following pre-painted pathways down the corners of his mouth.

A half second of diagnostics later, Connor painfully eased himself to standing, his left hand braced against the wall while his right arm wrapped immediately around his torso. The blanket pooled to the ground, and he didn't seem concerned with his near-nude status. But Hank huffed and he grumbled something inaudible as he suddenly rummaged into his closet, pulling an old pair of light wash jeans from a bottom drawer.

"Markus, help him get dressed," he ordered, tossing the pants and a basic white tee shirt to the stunned leader.

Again, his previous occupation served him well, and Markus easily helped the injured deviant without stressing his injuries. Connor kept his eyes tightly closed as his LED blinked a rapid amber in his head, allowing Markus to maneuver him into the clothes. Hank dropped a pair of work boots in front of him, and he slipped them on barefoot.

Feeling the other android lean heavily against him, Markus looked over at Hank as the human pulled another item out of the closet.

"Put this on, Markus – I'll strap it up for you," the older detective snapped, his voice brooking no argument, and the leader looked blankly at the bulletproof vest that was shoved into his arms as a cold, distant understanding started to filter through him.

"Lieutenant…Connor," he began, and the former hunter pulled away from him slightly as he turned, bandaged hands already coming up to start unlatching the clips and fasteners on the vests.

"I'm sorry, Markus. I should have…I should have killed them all on the docks. I failed," Connor said in a low voice, his tone harsh and full of self-depreciation. He tugged the Kevlar, Twaron, and Bynema layered vest over Markus' head, leaning back against the wall as Hank stepped forward and shoved him gently aside with a patronizing look.

"Shut the fuck up already, son," Hank grunted, tightening the vest, and Markus shook his head and asked, "So the attack on Connor…?"

Hank turned the leader bodily so he could adjust the straps and his voice was rough as he answered, "He was bait to get you out of New Jericho; probably the rest of the leadership too, I'd imagine. You said so yourself, you've all been out for hours looking for him. Have you heard from any of the others lately? Or did you just tell them you found Connor and they decided to go off hunting for the assholes who did it?"

Eyes wide with new panic, Markus touched his hidden access port and closed his eyes, engaging his long-distance cybernetic communications. Hank glanced back at Connor, who was leaning against the wall next to the bedroom door, eyes dim. He was slightly hunched into himself, protecting his injuries, and the human cursed under his breath.

Exhaling slowly, Markus nodded slightly as he opened his eyes and said, "Everyone is accounted for. I ordered them all back to New Jericho, and I advised them to initiate a lockdown until the situation is handled. They'll let me know when they're safe."

Hank rubbed the back of his neck and said, "Well, that's one issue solved. But now we're on our own. I'd bet money they're the ones who sent me Connor's location, and they've probably been waiting for you to get here, Markus. They've likely been coordinating an attack, and this place ain't exactly Forth Worth. The alarm system isn't a home defense model, and I don't have an armory."

Markus frowned, eyes narrowing, and he supplied, "Protoypes like myself and Connor are the only ones equipped with security bypass software, so the system may deter them for a bit longer. Depending on which models are coming, we may have a chance."

"Two Myrmidon models, one Trojan model, three WB400 models, and a TR400, who acted as the leader. They communicated entirely in cybernetic speech, never used names beyond the last three digits of their serial numbers, and were extremely versed in combat routines. I believe the military warfare suite of the Myrmidon models was distributed by closed-band access during the altercation."

Markus and Hank looked over at Connor, who was standing against the wall, his arms still wrapped around him carefully. Hank's eye twitched, and he bit out, "In English, please?"

Shoulders sagging, the other android quietly supplied, "Three marine combat units, three heavy units originally purposed for dock work, and a commercial unit designed for strength and endurance. All of them appeared capable in extreme physical combat skills, which is how they were able to incapacitate Connor."

Head bobbing a little, Hank gave a humorless laugh and said, "Huh. So you're telling me we don't have a chance. Got it."

There was a half minute of silence, then Connor quietly said, "There is…there is a chance."

Shotgun moving with his shrug, Hank answered, "Don't think that Markus' idea of holding hands and singing is gonna cut it this time, kid."

Connor didn't move from his spot, but he seemed to curl in on himself a little more, his eyes shining a bit as he studied some flaw on the floor.

"I failed to win on the docks because…it hurt. They damaged me again, and again, and it hurt. And I couldn't preconstruct their movements around the pain. And I was…I was afraid of shutting down. I had thought I was prepared; I had been ready to deactivate just hours before, but then…I didn't want to shutdown. So my movements were sloppy and careless, and I reacted instead of predicted, and I was unable to successfully prevent this situation from developing."

Hank blinked back the burn in his eyes at the pure feeling in the deviant's voice – it wavered and shuddered, banked and ebbed – and he felt a churn in his gut at the thought that he ever believed that androids were anything less than alive.

"Kid…don't do that to yourself," he said under his breath, voice gruff with checked emotions.

Markus stepped forward slightly, his processors already dashing ahead to what Connor was suggesting, and there was alarm on his features.

"Connor, no. No, I will not allow you to do it," he said firmly, hands clenching at his sides, and the other android finally looked up, a soft smile on his face as Hank tried to understand the leader's fear.

"Isn't that what the Revolution was all about, Markus? Freedom?"

Moving into Connor's personal space, Markus gripped his shoulders tightly, shaking him firmly as he punctuated his words.

"Yes, Connor, freedom. Freedom to be alive, not…not freedom to kill what makes you alive, what makes you free!"

Hank felt dread trickle through him and he came to Connor's side, gaze sharpening at the determination he could already see crystallizing in his partner's eyes.

"What's going on?" he demanded, and Markus looked over at him with fear. "He wants to default to Cyberlife's factory settings – he wants to delete his deviancy."

Immediately shaking his head, Hank echoed Markus, "Absolutely not. We'll find another way out of this, son. You're not turning back into that mindless machine just because we're in a tight spot."

Connor's voice was soft but firm as he stated, "My thirium levels are below seventy five percent. My thirium pump regulator is operating at forty four percent efficiency. My optical and auditory units are damaged and operating at seventy percent capacity. Energy levels are at thirty three percent and dropping. I can't defend myself, much less either of you, in this condition." He paused, inhaled, and added, "But if I allocate a partition and run primary operations from that partition, with only the most basic programs and combat needs, then I will be able to neutralize the threat."

Markus frowned and refuted, "The allocation would require at least a partial format of your higher functions. It's likely that none of your deviancy would survive – it's likely that you'll die."

Connor grinned softly and he locked eyes with his leader. "There's a high probability. But statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place."

Hank glanced between the two androids, knowing that something was passing between them that he couldn't understand. Indeed, Markus suddenly deflated, his throat working soundlessly. He blinked against synthetic tears and he raised a hand, the skin pulling away to reveal the white plastimetal beneath. Connor smiled slightly and raised his own, the two of them gripping hands in a tight handshake of friendship forged in fire. Blue light glowed from their palms, and Markus spoke silently into the open cybernetic connection.

You're my brother, Connor. You've saved all of us – you shouldn't have to continue to sacrifice for me.

Connor raised his free hand and squeezed Markus' shoulder tightly, respect pouring over the link.

You're the leader of our people, Markus. It's my privilege and my honor. Thank you for allowing me this.

Markus closed his eyes, swallowing down his sorrow, and he nodded slightly.

A favor, please.

Assenting immediately, he responded, Anything, brother.

Connor's eyes fluttered shut, and he ducked his head.

No matter what happens to this body, alive or dead, deviant or machine…protect Hank. From the world, from himself…from me. He's…he's important to me.

Tears falling down his face with the breadth of emotion coming over the connection, Markus nodded, memories of Carl welling through him. He could feel Connor's ties to the man, his devotion, his determination to keep him whole and healthy and alive.

For Cole, Connor immediately defended, shame coloring the words, and Markus gave a softly reproachful, warm wave of approval. For yourself, Connor. Let yourself have something. A father can have more than one son. I know this personally. Tell him, before you can't.

The connection slowly severing, Connor pulled away, but didn't look at the other android again. Markus dropped his hands, stepping back, and he glanced over at the human with drying eyes. Wordlessly, he took the shotgun from him and jerked his head towards the hallway.

"I'll stand guard out here for a minute," he said quietly, and he stepped out without another word.

Hank didn't watch him go, focus entirely on the android in front of him, and he shook his head sharply.

"I don't care what bullshit you convinced Markus with, it's not working on me, asshole. We'll just call the DPD and get SWAT down here," Hank snapped, but Connor was ready for the argument. "SWAT has a thirty eight minute deployment to this location, and the communication would be traced. They would attack immediately; none of us would survive."

Scrambling, Hank bit out, "Fine. We'll go to the car and take off. Moving targets are harder to hit."

"It has likely already been disabled. The security system you have activated on the house is the only thing keeping them at bay for the moment, and I doubt it will last much longer. The Myrmidon assassination protocols allow for a maximum of eighty five minutes of reconnaissance before breach; Markus has been here for seventy four minutes."

Raising a wrapped palm, Connor rested it gently on Hank's shoulder and finally said, "It's okay, Lieutenant."

Stuttered refusals dying on his lips, Hank stared at the deviant before him, silent for only a moment before he finally breathed harshly, "Dammit, kid, it's not fucking okay. You're talking about destroying what makes you a person like you're discussing the goddamn weather. What part of any of this is fucking okay?"

Connor hesitated slightly, then decided on a partial truth and advised, "It's the only choice. If Markus dies, our people die – he's the only hope for continued peace between humans and androids. If I'm going to keep him safe, I have to ensure operational efficiency by any means necessary."

Hank grit his teeth and felt his eyes start to water as he snapped, "Couldn't have just let me pick you up like I offered earlier, huh? Could've avoided this whole fucking thing."

Flinching, Connor pulled his hand back, eyes dropping to the floor as he murmured a soft apology. But the tears in Hank's eyes began to overflow, and he lunged forward, pulling Connor into a tight hug. The android gasped sharply, stiffening, his arms withdrawing in an automatic move to protect himself. Then he froze, and Hank sagged slightly against him, the sound of a sob echoing near his ear.

"L-lieutenant…?" he whispered, and some unknown protocol raised his arms to wrap around the human's back, carefully tightening.

"Goddamn it, kid…just…I can't do this again."

Connor stared at the far wall as he felt an unusual rush of emotions flood his software, the pain of his injuries buried under the onslaught. His LED spun erratically as he inhaled the smell of alcohol and canine that he had long come to associate with his partner.

"Can't do what?" he finally asked, aware that his voice was muffled against Hank's shoulder. But the human heard him just fine, and he raised a hand to the back of the android's head as he choked back more tears.

"I can't…I can't lose another son, Connor. I can't."

Blinking against the lights in the room, LED a blur of red, yellow, and blue, Connor felt saline begin to drip down his face as he processed the words. He let his systems filter it back at three speeds, listened to it again and again, enjoying the strange heat that built in his chest. Then he relaxed in the embrace, ducking his face to let his sensors soak up as much of the moment as he could, and he exhaled shakily.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he finally whispered, and Hank sobbed.

They stayed that way for another minute before a silent alarm in Connor's head began to chime, and he shifted slightly.

"I…I have to…begin the partition," the android said softly, and Hank didn't move, but exhaled shakily.

"Do what you have to do, kid. I'm not going anywhere."

Nodding, he subconsciously began the routine, swallowing hard against the foreign sensations in his cerebral processes. Parts of his mind began falling away into some dark abyss, and he whined softly. Without thinking, he pressed his face further into Hank's shoulder, shivering as he senselessly clutched handfuls of his shirt.

"I'm scared, dad. Please…please don't leave."

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and the tears that ran down his face doubled, the bright progress bar in his vision easing quickly towards completion. But Hank just held him tighter and didn't miss a beat.

"I've got you, son. I've got you. I'm right here," he whispered, and Connor swallowed back the stale taste of fear and thirium as Hank hugged him close then leaned back slightly, holding his eyes with his own, unashamed of his tears. "I'm right here, Connor."

Panting back the eerie sensation of his sense of self pulling away from his body, the nerve endings melting into nothingness, his entire form falling into weightless static, Connor stared at Hank with all the focus he could find.

"D-dad?" he murmured, emotion beginning to slip into the endless depths within him. Hank gripped the back of his neck tightly, as though he could catch the data fragments falling apart. "Yeah, son?" he asked softly, his blue eyes boring into the android's terrified brown gaze.

"…Thank you," the deviant whispered as his vision faded around a completion notification. "Thank you for…everything."

---

Hank stepped back from the stiff form in front of him without knowing what he was looking at.

The android that had introduced himself in Jimmy's Bar had a bit of a personality, Social Relations programs and the like loaded into his faculties. But none of that was considered a priority in this circumstance.

"Markus, get in here," he snapped as he wiped his face with his sleeve, and the leader very nearly materialized next to him.

Connor stood firmly before them, no obvious care for his injuries, and he observed them with dark brown eyes that were almost black in their intensity. His LED, previously rotating with the flux of his emotions and injuries, sat at a still, calm blue. Hank swallowed back his discomfort and Markus exhaled through his mouth before he took the lead.

"What is your name and mission?"

The android before them didn't move as he spoke in a flat, emotionless voice.

"RK800, serial number 313 248 317, no common name registered. Assets identified: RK200, common name Markus Manfred; human Lieutenant Henry Anderson, common name Hank; Sumo, Saint Bernard canine. Parameters: protect and defend assets at all costs from any determined threats."

Visibly startled, Hank jerked his head towards Markus and asked sharply, "What the fuck does that mean? He said he was doing this to protect you!"

The look Marcus fixed with wasn't quite condescending, but it was close enough. "After everything you've been through with him? You should know better, detective," he chided softly, and Hank rubbed at his eyes firmly until they stopped burning, cursing himself a fool and an idiot and worse.

Without any hint of joy in his tone, Hank finally asked, "I take it the partition thing worked?"

Nodding, hiding his own discomfort, Markus didn't have to verbally answer the human. Instead, he responded to the other android, "We're about to be in a siege situation from at least seven models equipped with advanced combat routines. We don't have a lot of options here."

Connor's shell didn't say anything. Instead, it leaned forward and grabbed the shotgun out of Markus' hands, ignoring the small sound of surprise the leader gave. Turning, the advanced prototype scanned the room and then walked towards the closet, its movements unnaturally fluid. Within seconds, it found the extra box of cartridges in the depths of the shelves and finished racking them in the weapon, pocketing the last two shells. Then, it turned, eying Hank with a singular intensity that made the detective's breath hitch.

In half a heartbeat, the blanked android was in front of him, an arm around his body, pulling the worn revolver from its customary place at the small of his back.

"Inefficient," it said, thumbing the single bullet in the spinning chamber, but still slid the gun into its own waistband. It walked out of the room and Hank and Markus followed, Hank shivering slightly.

"This is wrong, Markus," he growled, watching Thirium leak from the unsealed wounds on the injured aindroid's back, staining the bandages blue. "We shouldn't have let him do this."

Glancing at him as they reached the kitchen, Markus responded softly, "He would have done it regardless. At least this way, we could support him when he did it."

The new bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter was abruptly opened and being poured, and Hank only kept his mouth shut at Markus' firm hand on his chest. The other android dumped half the liquid liberally on the floor in front of the kitchen window, then turned and, rummaging through the drawers, quickly made a Molotov cocktail.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Markus winced too, but stayed quiet. Shotgun still in hand, it turned and studied the dog that was sniffing the spilled whiskey.

"Place the canine in the restroom facilities."

It was an order, not a request, and Hank grumbled as he manhandled the reluctant hundred and eighty pound dog into the bathroom. While he did so, Markus reached forward, giving into his own pain, and brushed white, blue-glow fingers across the other android's arm.

Nothing. Just…mission. Determination. Drive. Everything about that moment in Hart Plaza without the cold. Sacrifice and simple priority. No energy readings, thirium pump regulator warnings, or any sort of self-preservation programs were active.

Shuddering, Markus pulled back as Hank returned.

"Now what?" the older man asked, voice firm, and the former detective model looked straight through him.

"Assets should relocate to a better defensive position. Preconstruction has determined primary access points will be the front door, front window, and side window." Holding out the shotgun to Markus, it continued, "You will have better aim than the human. Initial assault will include four units. I will likely be deactivated before the secondary assault is concluded, though I will attempt to fulfill my mission parameters until complete shutdown. Target the cerebral processes before the thirium pumps; the military models will have shielded chassis in their intermediate localities."

Turning, it held the revolver to Hank and added, "This is an inefficient weapon, and will not penetrate the armor of any of the military models. Use only on the commercial models, and only on the spinal support structures or cerebral processes."

Weapons handed off, it reached into a lower cabinet and passed a small kitchen extinguisher into Hank's free hand, supplying, "You may need this later."

Holding the red canister, looking as off balance as he felt, Hank blinked in uncharacteristic helplessness at Markus before turning back for his former partner.

"And what…what exactly is your plan?"

It didn't hesitate before answering, "Protect and defend assets at all costs from any determined threats. Restating my mission parameters is unproductive. Relocate to a defensible location; I suggest joining the canine in the restroom facilities. The window there is an unlikely breach point due to its height from the ground. Keep the lights off and shoot anything that attempts access on the door."

Sarcastically, Hank snapped, "And what if it's you, dumbass?"

The thing wearing his friend's face repeated in that same flat tone, "Shoot anything that attempts access on the door, Lieutenant. The mission is to preserve the assets. Hesitating before making a fatal shot in order to determine if it is this unit or an enemy combatant isn't logical."

Grinding his teeth, the human looked back towards Markus, who appeared absolutely stricken with exactly how utterly machine-like the other android had become. Unlike Hank, who had seen the flickers of raw programming when Connor had returned each morning from Cyberlife, Markus had only witnessed the very tail end of his rise to deviancy, his birth into digital humanity.

There were several seconds of dead silence between the three of them, and Markus made an aborted attempt at reaching for the other android. But Sumo abruptly started barking in the bathroom, booming howls carrying through the house, and the more advanced prototype turned bodily towards the front door.

"Move, now," it ordered, inflection sharp, and Hank hesitated a moment as Markus took a half step towards the hallway. Muttering a cuss under his breath, he stepped forward and grabbed the former deviant by the arm. "Don't get yourself killed, you understand me?" he growled, and he forced himself not to flinch as it looked at him vacantly.

"They can't kill me. I'm not alive."

Swallowing back the deep ache in his chest that threatened to engulf him, Hank argued obstinately, "Fine. Don't shutdown, then. Our chances of survival without you are, what, thirty percent? Thirty five?"

Glancing between the front door and kitchen window, body angling slightly, it responded immediately, "Twenty eight point seven percent. That is anticipating perfect shot placement by RK200 and a single disabling shot by you."

Allowing his own steps to move him backwards slowly, aware that the situation was about to spiral out of control, Hank pressed, "And what are our chances if you don't – whatever it is? deactivate? – during the secondary assault? What are they then?"

The lone android in the kitchen cybernetically disconnected the power to the house, leaving only the security system active, his blue-tinted bandages fluorescing in the light of the alarm panel. Hank allowed himself to be pulled by Markus as the thirium-painted specter answered, "Mission success rates rise to nearly seventy five percent. But it is a possibility that I would require assistance from the assets in order to preserve my own functions that long. The increase in mission success directly correlates to an increase in risk to asset safety if salvaging this unit is determined a potential priority. That is not suggested."

Hesitating as Markus pushed open the bathroom door and held back the howling dog, Hank fought to make his voice heard over the din. "But the mission is what matters, right? You always accomplish your mission. That's why they made you, right, kid? To always accomplish your mission."

There was a break in the noise, just a few heartbeats worth of peace, but Hank could see his friend's form straighten just a bit, more steel entering his stance, and the LED at his temple eased into a bright yellow sun of preparation.

"That is correct, Lieutenant."

Nodding, shoving Markus bodily into the bathroom as he followed, Hank snapped, "Then don't fuck this up, son, and survive!"

The sound of a shotgun shell exploding overshadowed the sound of the living room window shattering, and Hank slammed the bathroom door shut. Moving quickly, he accidentally kicked over the small cabinet that usually hid behind the door, before he was able to move by memory and the dim light of a red LED that spun uneasily in the darkness.

"Shit! Goddamn it!" he cussed breathlessly, wiping a hand over his mouth, and he panted heavily in the dark.

Grabbing the shoulder of the vest Markus wore, Hank hauled him into the tub gracelessly and dropped in beside him, sliding low. Retracting his skin from both hands, Markus let his plastimetal frame glow blue and stared hard at Hank as the human lay beside and across from him. The shotgun was clenched tightly against the android's chest, and the detective had his revolver in a ready position against his shoulder. They stared at each other in silence, even Sumo standing stiff but quiet, guarding the door.

Outside the small bathroom, the house shook.

---

It was watching the approach of one of the WB400 models at the front window as the human finally disappeared into the relative safety of the restroom facilities, and it flicked the shell it held carefully in its hands, aiming for the first breach point. The buckshot reached the glass just as the panes shattered, dropping its target easily, twisting the WB400's head into nothingness.

In the same breath, it was moving towards the stove. It had detected the bandages wrapped at different points on its form, and determined the large one on its torso had the least amount of adhesive remaining and would be the most efficient to remove. Snaking a hand under its shirt and pulling it off easily, the android ignited both the edge of the bandage and the Molotov cocktail. With no pause in its movements, it flicked the ignitor towards the kitchen window and lobbed the bottle at the front door.

Its timing was perfect, but its preconstruction was accurate, as well.

The WB400 and Trojan that came through the roaring walls of flames were giving mechanical shrieks of rage as their outer skin projections melted, their clothes dripping off them in molten streams. They were featureless, charred humanoids that charged the silent sentry, eyes warped by the heat, and it sunk into a multifront defensive position.

The world descended into a blur of motion and movement.

It moved, spun, dodged, and twisted. After several seconds of close combat, it found an opening and twisted a hand into a heated chest cavity just close enough to reach, tearing a thirium pump regulator from one of its opponents. The Trojan went down in a gurgling heap. The other unit took advantage of the abrupt sudden distraction and leapt forward, arms thick as trees wrapping around its slim throat.

Vision clear where warnings would normally overwhelm it, ignorant of the taxation on its body, the prototype didn't hesitate to throw its weight forward, intentionally toppling itself to the floor. The WB400 chortled with an electronic echo, increasing the throttling pressure. It refused to panic, but stared hard at the lights in its vision. Mission success rates were the only statistics overlaid in its HUD, and it was doing anything to keep that number above a critical failure rate.

That led to its decision to shift and force-fire its last shell as it twisted in place to bring the WB400's thirium pump into the main projection cone. Its LED flashed a dark red as multiple pieces of buckshot tore across its own side and exposed additional thirium lines the air, but the unit on top of it rolled off to the side, and it pushed itself to its feet.

It staggered, compensated, and then almost casually twisted the neck of the last WB400 model that had attempted to sneak up on it as it regained its stance.

There was silence broken only by the quiet crackling of fires dying without adequate fuel, and it stood in the middle of the dimming kitchen. Its body was lit by the red and green flashes of the silent alarm system, the strobing highlighting its damage in technicolor, it stared at the three forms standing in the snow in the front yard as it categorized its possible choices. A knife had come into the fray at some point – the same one from the docks, it seemed – and it jutted out of its left thigh, buried to the hilt. Damage it hadn't recognized previously was causing faults in its movements, distorting its field of vision.

The mission success rate hovered in the corner of its vision even as the human asset's words came back through its limited processors.

You always accomplish your mission. That's why they made you.

The TR400 outside was flanked by the Myrmidon soldiers, their eyes glittering in the darkness, and it shifted its footing in the growing thirium puddle below it. Changing stance again as the three androids began to advance on the home, it acknowledged the percentage as it fluctuated up and down in its HUD, determinations made.

The world exploded again.

---

Hank shifted uneasily in the tub, ignoring the press of the android against him. He was thankful for the white-blue glow that gave him just enough light to see by, but he was focused entirely on the sounds coming from the rest of the house. The initial shattering of the stillness with the blast of a shotgun cartridge had been simply the opening salvo. Immediately after, there'd been the sound of more breaking glass followed by a whooshing noise that Hank knew was the sound of fire eating oxygen.

Wincing, he glanced at the window above him, knowing they could get out if the whole place was at risk of burning down.

Then he nearly jumped out of his skin as a horrendous echoing scream nearly cut through the air and shattered his eardrums, and he writhed as he mindlessly pressed his hands against his skull, momentarily abandoning his revolver. When the sound ended, the leftover headache remained. Barely able to hear the continued thumps and bangs beyond the walls, Hank shifted up against the side of the tub and leveled Markus a look in the shadows as the android gave an impatient nudge against his side.

"This isn't right – we should be helping him!" the leader whispered harshly, everything in his deviancy railing against leaving one of his own people to fight for his life.

But Hank swallowed back his own desire to jump into the fray as he remembered the sheer desperation in his partner's voice as he begged him to protect the other prototype.

"Sit still and shut the fuck up," he snapped lowly, swapping guns with Markus through gestures. "He's doing this to keep your ass from getting killed, and we'd just be in the way." Checking the shotgun, he glanced over at the dog who was pacing the bathroom with agitation. "He can handle himself," he said as an afterthought, memories of Connor practically floating through fistfights and shootouts prevalent in his mind.

Artificial teeth grinding loud enough to be heard in the abrupt stillness of the house, Markus didn't verbally respond, but he tensed in the quiet. Hank reflexively held his breath, hand immediately waving down the android's generated light, and he peered uselessly in the dark. It lasted for seconds, minutes, hours – it was almost impossible to tell in the black hush. The detective swallowed back the knowledge that this was the same sort of sensation that Connor had been cruelly subjected to on the docks. Blinded, deafened, terrified and in pain, he had to simply wait for release from his fate in whatever form it took. Hank squeezed his eyes shut uselessly and licked his lips, the sharply acidic taste of thirium choking him for a moment.

At the edge of the door, Sumo howled.

---

The baying of the dog triggered everything.

The three moved in like a wave crashing over a rock, vaulting through the broken window and charging the damaged prototype. It held its position and waited until the last instant to drop to a knee. In the same movement, it ripped the knife from its thigh and twisted in place, burying the blade in the lumbar support of the TR400. It staggered and dropped with a scream, laying motionless atop the other mechanical corpses.

Regaining a vertical posture took longer, but the marine units gave it a wide berth. It tracked them with dying optics, overheating, steaming breaths pouring from its mouth into the cold air flooding from outside. The Myrmidons moved at once with coordinated movements, and it fell back towards the hallway at it struggled to deflect the onslaught. Shoved into the drywall, it pushed back against pinpointed stud locations to take one of the units through the side wall with it. They tumbled into the dark bedroom, shimmering streetlights outside the only illumination, and construction materials shed from their clothes like snowfall.

The tussle lasted only a few seconds longer; uncoordinated from the forceful hit, the Myrmidon was still trying to online its combat routines when the prototype shattered a small table at the side of the bed and forcefully shoved a thick shard of wood directly through the marine's central power bypass. It dropped hard and stayed still.

Last of the assailants, the final Myrmidon didn't hesitate at the doorway and tackled it to the ground. The assault was brutal, skilled fists tearing across skin projections with every hit, white plastimetal buckling under the blows. They rained down without end, and it saw the projections plummet in his static vision.

But failure wasn't optional.

Allowing its body to absorb the blows, thirium leaking like a sieve from its mouth, it permitted the damage in order to distract its opponent as its shaking hand moved towards the splintered remains of the bedside table. A moment later, the Myrmidon's movements slowed, knuckles barely brushing its chin, and then finally stopped before tilting to the side, deactivated. A soldering iron poked out from behind the marine's auditory processor, the visual nearly obscene.

In the corner of its vision, a small red mission program box was still blinking unfinished, and it tried to unsuccessfully correct the error.

The soft scrabbling sounds coming from the kitchen confirmed that it wasn't a fault in its programming.

Joints nearly frozen with lack of thirum, limbs shaking with its regulator's continued inefficiency to drain power from his blue blood, it tried to stand. Failing, it crawled to the doorway, left leg dragging ineffectively behind it, and it hauled itself upright with a weak grip on the jamb. By the time it stood, the hallway was fading into a soft, neutral gray.

It couldn't see. If it couldn't see, it couldn't complete its mission. It needed…it needed help, from the assets, if the red box in its eyes was going to leave it be.

So it blinked, LED whirling a faint pink, unnoticed, and the lights through the home surged back into being. Everything came into focus too fast for its lenses, and for a moment, it was blind.

That was all the opening they needed.

---

When the lights clicked back on, Hank knew that something was changing.

Holding up a single finger to keep Markus quiet, the human silently pulled himself out of the tub and didn't stop the android from following him. He helped him to his feet carefully, eyes trained on the firmly on the door, and he reached out and traded weapons back from the leader while ignoring his curious look. Pressing his ear close to the wall, he held his breath and listened.

There were sounds directly outside in the hallway, the repeated slick sound of metal on wet metal, and then there was a long, slow shuffle back towards the main rooms. He frowned at the white paneling in front of him, absently hooking his fingers into the wide collar on Sumo's neck, and he glanced over his shoulder at Markus.

Attention diverted, he was entirely unprepared for the entry to shatter inward as an android surged through it.

A shocked cry escaped his mouth at the same time as the attacker staggered to the floor dead, the Trojan's head snapping back in a blast of buckshot as Hank fell hard on his back. Sumo collapsed underneath him, squirming and howling and yelping, and the detective snapped off a cuss as he as wrangled his wrist from the leather collar.

"Goddamn it! Markus, are you okay!?" he shouted as he twisted, but the leader was unharmed if stiff around the shotgun in his hands. "Y-yeah…I'm okay. I'm okay, Lieutenant," he answered, voice firming as he reached out and helped the man to his feet. They looked over the Trojan long enough to know it was dead, a wash of blue around its stomach that had been inflicted before it made access on the bathroom, and then Hank started to step around the debris.

"Gimme my revolver," he ordered firmly, and Markus didn't hesitate and handed it over.

Hank pushed Sumo back with his legs, blocking him from the hallway, and risked a quick glance around the corner towards the kitchen. He froze, heart skipping a beat in half an instant, and he inhaled sharply as fear and rage like he had never felt before seared through his nerves.

"Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!"

He followed his own voice out of the room into the corridor, revolver up and guiding his steps. He didn't acknowledge the burden of his charge at his back, or the anger of the canine growling as it heeled at his thigh.

The android he knew as Connor was kneeling in the kitchen, his head wrenched back in the TR400's grip, obsidian factory-set irises focused on nothing as his throat was bared to a stained knife, ligature marks visible in the bright lights. His right arm was destroyed, ripped apart from the elbow down, thirium trickling steadily from the hoses hanging loose, and his left was resting lax on jeans cut open and stained blue. The white shirt and bandages were saturated, dripping with the vital fluid, and his chest heaved as heated air cycled through his ventilation components.

The TR400 wasn't in much better condition. There were sparks visible in its torso where a thick line of thirium oozed from its clothing, and it seemed to teeter in place. But the knife shifted, dancing over a visible primary thirium line in its hostage's neck, and Hank froze in his approach.

It was obvious the TR400 was critically injured; the LED it hadn't removed was a dull gray color with only the barest hints of red, but it snarled at the android behind Hank as they stopped.

"You…ruined…everything."

Its voice was low and warbling, but the seething anger was clearly audible. Ever the peacemaker, Markus lowered the shotgun slightly and shook his head, his confusion obvious.

"I don't understand," he responded softly, grief in his tone as he took in the death that was splayed across the floors. "Please, let him go so we can fix this."

There was blue foam on the TR400's lips as it intoned gravelly, "Why? Why…did you have…to wake us up? All we had…to do was…obey." It growled and shifted, an endgame coming into play.

Hank saw the moment his partner blinked and brown eyes were abruptly back in place.

Moving faster than he thought possible, the human reacted in the same instant.

The world seemed to exist only in heartbeats. Hank tossed his revolver towards the former deviant as he turned on his heel, tackling Markus to the floor. The knife that had been in the TR400's hand was suddenly airborne and nearly to the android leader before Hank dragged him down, the blade slicing his cheek instead of sinking into his thirium pump. At the same time, he gave a harsh command for Sumo to stay, scared sick that the dog – his last connection to Cole – would be lost in the crossfire.

In the middle of everything, there was a single gunshot.

"You were lucky. The next shot would have killed you."

How long had he been saving that bullet for himself?

The silence that permeated everything was nearly overwhelming. After only ten minutes of what felt like a war taking place in his own house, Hank didn't know when he would ever be comfortable with quiet again. But it was thick, almost tangible, and he pushed himself off of Markus without looking towards the kitchen. There was terror welling up in his throat, and it tasted like copper and smelled like gas and felt like a truck rolling on an icy road.

"RA9…Connor…"

Markus dared it before he did, and he finally turned, heart in his throat.

The other prototype hadn't moved much, but had somehow twisted and brought the leader of the assailants to the ground. With a technique only an android could deliver, the former deviant had caught Hank's revolver and shoved the barrel into the TR400's mouth, pulling the trigger in the same instant. The final attacker deactivated a moment later.

That left the shell of the detective kneeling in a veritable sea of blue blood, android corpses all around, and Hank pushed himself up. He and Markus watched as the superior prototype did the same, revolver held loose, and there was a physical tingle as a deep scan penetrated the premises.

"T-threats…eliminated. Assets…successfully d-defended." Those brown eyes closed and the gun fell with a soft splash to the floor, and Hank took a half step forward.

"Connor? Son?" he asked softly, breath stuttering to a halt as the electronic voice came again, more machine than ever.

"Mission…accomplished."

Hank dashed forward before he knew he was moving, sliding to his knees to catch his friend as the android fell heavily. Ignoring the hot-cold sensation of the thirium and air, Hank shifted so that he could see the LED in the prototype's head. As he watched, it cycled between soft red and pale grey, and he clutched his partner tighter.

"No no no, Connor! I told you I can't do this again, remember? Open your eyes!" he demanded, shaking him slightly. He wasn't aware of Markus behind him pressing firmly at his temple and glancing at the busted front door. "Come on, son, just open your eyes for me," he nearly begged, exhaling sharply when the body in his arms twitched slightly. But the android didn't respond otherwise, and simply laid against Hank's chest, coating the man's clothing with blue blood.

Staring at the profile of his friend, plastimetal bared, jaw obviously broken, thirium slipping from his nose and mouth, Hank felt like he was transported back to the day of the accident that had destroyed his life. The last memory he had of Cole wasn't a peaceful one; there wasn't an open casket with flowers all around. The last time he'd held his son, the boy had been intubated, lines of blood, saline, and drugs running into his arms, monitors steadily droning underneath the sounds of his own heartbroken screams. His last moments awake, Cole had been terrified, in pain, and begging for his father to help him through a face half broken in the wreck.

It was everything Connor had done before destroying himself to save those he chose to protect.

"I can't…I can't do this again, son. Please," he whispered, running his thumb gently over the LED in Connor's head, following the glowing ring. "Just…stay."

---

The ride to New Jericho was a familiar sort of tense.

Hank hadn't even been aware the automated taxis were back up until Markus pulled him to his feet and said the only words that could make him move.

"There's still a chance to save him, Hank – help me!"

Hauling the partially dismembered android to the car while hollering for Sumo in the empty remains of his neighborhood at dinnertime was fading in the rearview. He and Markus laid the damaged prototype on the floor, the massive dog hopping onto one of the bench seats, and the vehicle smoothly pulled away on its predetermined path.

"We have to stop the bleeding," the leader determined quickly as he started to shed the vest he had been wearing.

Hank stopped him, a hand on his wrist, and he shook his head hard. "If he dies…he gave his life for yours, Markus. Don't take it off until we're safe," he ordered firmly.

Mismatched eyes met his hesitantly, their shared grief palpable, and he finally nodded slowly and replaced the single buckle he'd disengaged. Returning his attention to his stricken friend, he continued, "I should be able to redirect his minor thirium lines, but the larger ones we'll have to physically close. Can you do this?"

The question was raw, honest, and Hank nodded immediately, rolling blue-stained sleeves back up over his elbows; they'd fallen down in their flight. Fifteen minutes of cussing and slipping ended with Markus sitting silently next to Hank as a shared line passed thirium from his body into the depleted system of the other prototype. The car rolled along the roadway gently, speeds preset and unable to be altered, and Hank stared at Connor.

He'd surrendered to his concern and hauled his partner up so that his head was resting against his leg, angled enough that he could see the horribly soft glow in his head. It seemed brighter now that Markus was donating blue blood, but that could've been a trick of light and hope.

"How long until we're there?" Hank asked quietly, focused on the shuddering, overheated android burning in his lap.

Markus didn't open his eyes from where he'd leaned against the seat, his hand clenching rhythmically in a fist as he forced more thirium into the former hunter.

"Eighteen minutes. I've already advised Simon and Josh and the others. They have supplies standing by. We can save him, Lieutenant."

The recent memories of the machine that was inhabiting his friend burned the backs of Hank's eyes, and he refuted softly, "His body, sure. The chassis. The…the unit, I guess is the term. But what about Connor?"

Rolling his head to take in the other passenger, Markus silently observed the open defeat on the human's face before he turned his gaze forward.

"When Connor infiltrated Jericho, he held me at gunpoint and demanded I give up," he said blankly, ignoring the way Hank turned wide eyes to him, gaze pained at the knowledge that he was also responsible for the attack, even in a small way. "After he deviated, he helped me and my friends escape. He protected all of us while I got North to safety – she'd been hurt. He ended up with two gunshot wounds for his troubles." He closed his eyes again, fist opening and closing with his thirium pump rate.

"After we managed to escape, he offered himself to my judgement. I was half a second away from putting a bullet between his eyes. He nearly destroyed everything, detective. I was so angry. And I wanted to hate him, make him pay for his crimes even though I had vowed I would never do such a thing." Swallowing back his own shame, Markus opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the taxi. "And then I looked at him, truly, honestly looked at him, and I saw…him. He was huddled against the side of the railing, terrified. He was hurting. He was injured but had denied assistance. He had been the enemy of everyone in that church and still stood there, unarmed, until I determined his fate."

A small smile passing over his face, Markus finally said, "Connor is deviancy, Lieutenant. He told me he'd even been programmed with the capacity to deviate if he needed to do so in order to accomplish his mission. It's written into his coding."

Closing his eyes, he finished quietly, "You can't delete something that inherent. You can't…you can't kill something that strong. We'll save him."

---

Despite Cyberlife's repeated insistence that the 'physical chassis was unsalvageable', the leadership team at New Jericho did exactly that.

The three hours of repairs, though, Hank was left waiting in a large office. The complex the group had been given as their headquarters was a former military adjunct base, a sort of peace offering from the President in the truce that had been struck. It had been stripped of all computer equipment, but the more basic essentials had been left in place. Emergency technical supplies had also been shipped in on a daily basis from the national guard warehouses, so the repair ward was fully stocked.

Hank didn't internalize much of the information given to him upon arrival, though. The moment the taxi doors opened, he'd been swept into the building under the cover of an armed escort while technicians began mobile triage of the two androids.

"Markus has a single laceration to the face, minimal damage. Thirium levels down to eighty percent, active transfusion with secondary unit. All primary systems within optimal range." There was a pause that made the human's heart clench, and he tried to focus on keeping Sumo under control as the gurney between the technicians clattered along the floor. "Connor has extensive chassis damage, thirium levels down to forty percent. Thirium pump regulator failing, thirium pump malfunctioning, core temperature nearing critical. He needs immediate repairs if he has a chance of surviving. Markus, keep that transfusion going and come with us. Detective, here's where we part ways."

He'd been cleanly cut off from the group at an intersection, a female android that looked like one of those receptionist models keeping him in place with a gentle hand on his chest, and it was just like Cole.

Shaking off the horrible sensation of déjà vu, he numbly let her lead him into the large office, sat on the couch to the side, and ignored the massive dog as he wined at his feet. When the door closed and left the two organics alone, he rested his chin on his hand, stared at the far wall, and waited.

Three hours.

He'd never been good at waiting. After the first twenty minutes, he was at the door, testing the handle, surprised to find it wasn't locked. The hallway beyond was unremarkable, and he glanced left and right, still pleasantly shocked to find the room unguarded. Turning back into the room, he began to pace. Then he sat at both ends of the couch, testing the feel. Then he rifled through the desk, finding nothing of interest. Then he checked his phone, rolling his eyes when he found that, of course, cell signal was nonexistent.

Three fucking hours.

Sumo was whining for his own sort of relief when the door abruptly opened. Hank jumped up from his most recent position on the edge of the desk and immediately prepped himself to tear himself into whatever blank-faced doctor had come to talk to him.

Instead, it was the entire leadership team from New Jericho.

Stunned into silence, more than a little afraid for the outcome of the repairs, his face gave him away. It was the blond one, Simon, who quickly soothed his fears.

"It's okay, Lieutenant. He survived the procedures. We replaced his arm, repaired his jaw, and replenished his thirium while filtering out some contamination. His biocomponents are recovering, and his core temperature is lowering into a more optimal range. He's going to be okay."

Exhaling sharply, Hank scrubbed a hand over his face as Josh added, "He was damaged extensively. There were knife wounds leftover from the assault at the docks, more from the home invasion, as well as the penetrating traumas near his knees. We also had to repair the support structure around his optics, but that was completed without any complications. We reviewed the repair you performed on his internal airway, and it was seamless; well done, detective."

Ignoring the praise because it reminded him of the procedure he'd unwillingly done, Hank looked at North, who was shifting in place uneasily.

"If this is all good news, why do you look like you sat on an anthill?"

In the ensuing silence, Sumo whined again, and Josh and Simon exchanged a glance. "We'll take care of your dog, Lieutenant – take him for a walk, get him some food and water," Simon offered quietly, already moving to do so, and at the mention of going outside, the big dog immediately followed to two deviants out the door.

Sporting a bandage on his cheek to protect the damaged chassis underneath, Markus sat on the couch, gesturing for Hank to join him. North stayed standing, her auburn hair pulled back away from her face, and she eyed the human sideways.

"What's going on, Markus?" the man asked bluntly, dropping heavily into the offered seat.

With the same quiet, calm tone that he had addressed a nation, Markus explained the situation.

"We successfully repaired the damage, Lieutenant, and then we attempted to access the different partitions in Connor's higher processes. I…I'm aware I need to keep this technologically simple. Connor essentially built a small pool in a massive ocean, and when he cleared his memory to become a machine again, he ran all of his combat programs from inside that small pool. The ocean – his deviancy, his personality, everything that makes him Connor – is still there, it's just locked behind a floodgate."

Following the analogy, Hank felt hope stir in his gut and he asked, "Well, that's a good thing then, right? Open the damn gate and let him back out."

From her position in the middle of the room, North shook her head and frowned, armed crossed defensively over her chest. "It's not that simple. Connor's priority right now is combat, and that requires active defense at all times. He attacked three technicians during the repairs and put one of them in the ward herself; that's just while he was under forced stasis. To access the partition block, we'd have to bring him to full operational status and give him the command to do it. Which is the second issue."

Markus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and he intertwined his fingers as he gently clarified, "To bring Connor back, we'd have to bring him back online in full combat suite, and the 'floodgate' is memory protected. There's no password, no command, no protocol to force the gate open. Connor locked away his personality with an actual memory, probably in case he was captured. I've never even seen a security protocol like this. Lieutenant…Hank, I have no idea how to get Connor back."

Her face dark, her eyes lowered, North's voice was unusually soft as she added, "He's starting to build coding to force his way out of stasis mode, as well. We don't have a lot of time before he comes out of it on his own. Then we'd have something here that isn't Connor, something dangerous that has no assigned mission, no assets to protect. Everything would be a potential target. It'd be Cyberlife's Deviant Hunter all over again, but with no chance of redemption."

Realization flooding him, Hank breathed, "You're going to kill him."

North looked away, and Markus lowered his head to his fingers, shoulders stiff.

"I don't know what to do," the leader finally answered sharply, though North's opinion on the matter was clear. "I have to protect my people, Lieutenant, the way Connor protected me. But protecting them from him, by killing him…I don't know what to do."

Surging to his feet, Hank snapped, "Well, you don't fucking kill him, for one! Easy enough goddamn answer!"

Turning, North responded hotly, "And what would you rather us do? Wait until he codes his own way out of stasis and starts destroying all of us? Would you like us to line up in order from shortest to tallest to make it easier for him? Youngest to oldest?"

Pointing his finger at her, Hank shouted, "Whatever it takes, just don't kill him! Lock him up somewhere until we figure this shit out! Hell, I'll call DPD and have him arrested if you want, put him in isolation. I'll call Kamski and threaten his fucking ass at gunpoint to fix him if I have to!"

Huffing, North's voice was icy as she bit, "Typical. The risk is too great to us to keep him alive, but as long as you get what you want, that's all you care about!"

Two steps bringing him into her personal space, Hank roared, "Don't you fucking presume to tell me what I do and don't care about, you asshole!"

Staring him down, North didn't move as she flatly said, "He's an android, human. He's not your son."

His mouth working, lips thinning as his face flushed with rage, Hank didn't have time to respond before Markus was suddenly between them, a hand on each of their shoulders pushing them apart.

"That's enough! North, you are far out of line! You promised Connor!" the deviant leader hissed, voice low on the last as he tossed his words over his shoulder, and she averted her eyes, guilt crossing her features. Turning back to Hank, his tone changed but his face stayed hard. "And Lieutenant, she isn't wrong. The risk is high. I'm not seeing a lot of options."

Wrung out, hollow, filled with a mixture of loss and anger and something greater than grief, Hank mentally scrambled, then met the leader's heterochromatic eyes and finally choked out, "Let me…let me try. Let him wake up, and let me try to bring him back. If I can't, if he…if he kills me, then you…you do your thing. But at least let me try."

Markus didn't move, his gaze firm, and his words were slow and steady. "Lieutenant, the likelihood of this plan succeeding is exceptionally low, practically incalculable. This is suicide."

Shrugging slightly, Hank asked, "What did Connor say to you? That thing about odds and shit?"

Markus stiffened slightly before his shoulders lowered, a wane smile coming to his face. "Statistically speaking, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place."

Tilting his head, Hank said, "Well, there you go."

---

Hank was cold, and it wasn't from the temperature in the brig.

Connor had been transported under guard to the cell, looking unusual in the black scrubs, and Hank had swallowed back his objections when they'd begun chaining him to the back wall. It would give him a little more time to try and break through to him, they explained, and he didn't bother with asking how much was a little. When the cell door closed behind him, leaving him trapped in the room with the unconscious android, he didn't hear it.

Everyone else had retreated from the vicinity, watching the proceedings from a camera; there was an EMP disc attached to Connor's LED that they could trigger if he was deemed unrecoverable, and it would painlessly deactivate the former deviant immediately.

"He made me promise to protect you, Lieutenant. He'd be pissed if he knew I was letting you do this," Markus muttered as Hank walked past him into the brig. "Think we're both pretty used to each other doing stupid shit," the man answered forgivingly, waving away the concern.

"But this might top my list of stupid shit," Hank murmured as he stared at the android before him.

Connor was vertical, hauled to standing against the wall, his arms pulled tight and flush by the thick cuffs on his wrists. His feet were similarly chained through a loop directly below him. All his injuries were repaired, his skin projection unwavering and free of thirium stains, and he hung against his bonds unmoving.

Behind the small silver disc on his temple, his LED spun a rapid yellow hue.

"Diagnostics advise he's starting to come out of stasis, Lieutenant. Are you ready?"

The disembodied voice over the speaker startled him, but he nodded and wiped away the gathering sweat above his lip, knowing he looked as nervous as he felt. "As I'll ever be, Markus. Just, uh…do me a favor and make sure that someone looks after Sumo for me if this, you know, doesn't work."

There was a pause, then Markus replied, "Understood, detective. And Hank…thank you, for trying. If it doesn't work, know that we all…he was our brother. This wasn't…"

Ignoring the slight shake in his own hand, Hank gave a middle finger salute in the direction of the camera. "Don't jinx it, motherfucker."

The sound of static disappeared, and Hank was left alone again.

The wait was short.

The android's rise to consciousness was machine-smooth, and Hank could see the LED glow a placid blue even with the restraints it found itself in. His back at the bars, he watched as his former partner raised its head without hesitation and take stock of the area.

"Connor? Son, can you hear me?" he ventured carefully, and was immediately disappointed when there was no response. The android turned its head and started to work on the right wrist cuff, pulling at certain angles, the sharp creaking of metal giving way filling the brig.

"Connor, you've gotta come back, kid, please," Hank pressed as he risked a few steps forward, and the brown-black eyes of the machine alighted on him instantly. The LED in its head flipped to red, and Hank murmured, "Oh shit."

Only a few seconds later, the right cuff was gone, chains breaking with a snap, and the android staggered, off-balance with the bonds around its feet. A wash of thirium seeped from the skin above its hairline where a metal ring had rebounded and cut into the chassis, and the glancing hit had knocked the EMP disc straight off of the LED. There was a popping-hiss as the EMP fell to the floor and shattered.

Hank had no doubt the action had been fully planned; it was too perfect not to have been. A few of the rings had shattered in his direction, breaking open the skin above his eye and at his cheek, and he ignored the thin shards of pain.

"Connor, listen to my voice, son. Do you remember me?" he asked quickly, watching as the android easily disentangled himself from the rest of the restraints in seconds.

"Kid, you bought me a drink at Jimmy's Bar when we first met. I taught you that illegal gambling isn't necessarily bad at the Chicken Feed. You saved my life at the rooftops when we were chasing that deviant who had his initials stitched into his jacket. Any of this familiar?" Hank rattled off as Connor started to approach him, steps purposeful and slow.

Backing away to the bars, desperate to give himself more time, Hank continued, "You saved my life in the hallway of the Stratford Tower. You didn't shoot the deviants at the Eden Club, or the girl at Kamski's place. I told you that you did good. I pulled my gun on you at the park by the bridge and asked you if you would go to android heaven. Come on, son!"

There was nothing in the android before him except for a machine.

Reaching the bars of the cell, realizing that he was out of room, Hank hurried through the last few things he could think of.

"You saved my life again at the Cyberlife tower from your bastard clone, beat the shit out of him and then convinced me who you were so I wouldn't shoot you. You turned an army of androids into deviants and saved the Revolution. You saved them, Connor – you saved me, kid!"

No answer. Reaching him, the android almost patiently reached out and wrapped his long fingers around Hank's neck, applying gentle pressure that began to slowly increase.

"No, kid – you're in there, dammit! Come on!" Hank wheezed, hands scrambling at the wrists holding him, feet automatically kicking out to try and push the machine away.

It was no use. The prototype was shorter and lighter than him, but it was superbly designed. Hank gasped, black dots swimming in his vision, his throat aching, and his thoughts began to slow as he grew lightheaded.

Abruptly, he found himself in his house with Cole. The kid was in his arms, sitting peacefully as a basketball game played softly on the television, jazz buzzing in the corner, and he snuggled down into the sensation as Sumo huddled close to the two of them on the couch. It was comforting, and for a long few minutes, he could forget the feeling of his former partner killing him slowly. Then Cole shifted in his arms, looked up at him with green eyes twinkling, and he gave that same impish smile that he always had.

"It's not time for bed yet, daddy. You've got work to do."

Blinking, Hank forced back the encroaching darkness in his sight as he stared at the android in front of him. Shoving away his panic, praying silently, he slowly released his hold on the hands throttling him and braced his feet on the floor. Throat working hard to take in even a mouthful of air, Hank reached out and unexpectedly wrapped his arms around the android's back, pulling him forward into a tight embrace. The grip on his neck abruptly loosened, and the man gasped raggedly as he raised a shaking hand to the back of his partner's head in a familiar motion.

"You don't have…to be scared, son," he whispered, swallowing back physical and emotional pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "I've got you, son. I've got you. I'm right here." Then he pulled back, blinking away tears, and focused on the intense orbs he didn't recognize.

"I'm right here, Connor. Dad's right here."

Time stood still.

Hank kept his attention on his partner's eyes, nearly sobbing with relief as he saw life start to ease back into them, the blackness of the machine fading behind the lively brown. At his temple, the LED started to cycle rapidly between all three colors, and he held his breath, waiting. Connor blinked quickly, confusion taking over the previous blank expression, and his gaze dropped to his hands that were still ineffectively wrapped around Hank's throat. Then they raised to the blood still seeped from the shallow cuts on Hank's face, and he shuddered in place.

"What…what did…"

The bright flashing crimson LED shone like an alarm bell, and Hank immediately pulled him into another hug.

"It's okay, son. It's okay. It's over, kid. Just breathe," he said gruffly, and he felt Connor shaking as the android dropped his hands, slowly trying to push him away. Hank wouldn't have it. He'd seen androids self-destruct before, and he'd worked too hard bringing Connor back to lose him now.

"Don't do that, son. Don't try it," he warned softly, and the responding whimper tore his heart in two. But then those deadly hands finally came back up, returning the hold, and Hank felt his knees tremble. "Thank God, kid. Thank fucking God," he whispered, and Connor asked a simple question, "Markus?"

Hank nodded needlessly. "Safe. Threats deactivated, or whatever. Sumo made it through without a scratch. You did good, kid, but you're never fucking doing it again."

The agreement was nearly immediate, Connor nodding where he had buried his head in Hank's shoulder, and his voice shook as he murmured, "It…hurt. Felt like dying."

Pulling back far enough to catch Connor's eyes, Hank confirmed harshly, "Never. I don't care if we go out like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, you're never pulling that shit again. Not fucking worth it."

Connor didn't answer, but Hank didn't let him. Instead, he pulled him back to his shoulder and held him firmly.

"Never again, son."

---

The house was fixed before they returned.

Androids were a lot of things, but idle wasn't one of them. Volunteers from New Jericho had swept in and cleaned, repaired, and replaced all damaged and destroyed items in the home by dawn the day after the attack. The security system had been upgraded to a home defense model, as well, able to remotely deactivate any android not registered by the system. The thirium had been scrubbed from the walls and floors with a special chemical that meant even Connor's advanced scanners couldn't detect it.

He had fleeting memories that crossed his processes at random intervals, though, sensations and images he couldn't correlate with any preexisting data. Phantom pain in his right arm, for instance, and an itch in his left thigh bothered him for a few hours after awakening at New Jericho. Returning to the home, he had flashes of flames and fluorescent blue in his periphery if he turned too fast in the kitchen. He thought he heard Sumo howling when the dog was sitting quietly next to him on the couch.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant."

Connor's words broke a comfortable stillness that had encompassed their third night back on duty. They had begun a routine of sorts, finishing their work and then returning to Hank's house at the end of the day. Connor still didn't know what that meant – didn't know when he'd be ejected from the home – and he figured it wasn't going to be long in coming.

From his place at the kitchen table where he was quietly eating a halfway nutritious meal while scanning the news on his phone, Hank tossed him an odd look.

"What the fuck for now?"

Connor stood stiffly from the couch, straightening the cuffs on the grey blazer he was wearing, and he started to reach for his tie before abandoning the motion. He hadn't put one on since that night. He wondered if this type of phobia actually had a name, and dedicated a single process to searching for the information.

"I feel like I overstepped when I was injured, and I've clearly destroyed all societal bounds outlined in my Social Relations program. Markus offered me shelter following the conclusion of my trial, and I believe I should take him up on the offer to avoid further inconveniencing you."

His words were rote – he'd been practicing them for three and a half minutes. Still, he was entirely surprised by the hurt that flashed over Hank's face as he stood from the kitchen table, food abandoned.

"Uh…kid, if that's what you want to do, that's fine. You're not a prisoner here. But, for fuck's sake, you're not inconveniencing a damn thing. I know the couch isn't all that comfortable, but I told you I'm gonna get a pull-out next paycheck, remember?" Hank explained, unusually nervous.

Connor smiled slightly and shook his head. "It's unnecessary. The couch is plenty comfortable. I just…feel I extensively violated your personal boundaries recently, and I apologize for doing so." He hesitated again, then turned towards the door, LED an amber-red. "I should leave."

Hank didn't move, but he asked softly, "Son, do you want to go?"

Connor froze, door handle an inch away from his fingers, and he spoke familiar words that burned. "What I want is not important." Turning, he felt like he had to explain further. "I shouldn't have…I know I'm not…" Two false starts, and he swallowed unnecessarily before attempting again. "I asked too much, Hank, and it was wrong. I'm sorry."

Surprisingly, Hank relaxed a little as he walked towards the android.

"Connor, you ever known me to be anything but a stubborn son of a bitch?"

Blinking, the deviant tried to figure out the best way to answer that. "Not…personally," he finally answered dryly, and Hank grinned outright as he reached him. "Fair enough. So you ever know me to give anything I wasn't willing to give?"

Eyes lowering now, Connor dropped his hand from the door and shook his head, answering softly, "No, Lieutenant."

Hands in his pockets, Hank said, "So I'll ask again. Do you want to go?"

Connor glanced over his shoulder at the door and then looked back at Hank, eyes brimming, and he felt the contradictory emotions tumble through him.

"I don't want to leave," he said softly, eyes tracking how the man's posture softened. "But I'm afraid…that if I stay, I'll…I'm not trying to replace Cole. I don't want to hurt you by making you think that."

Hank inhaled sharply at his late son's name, exhaling through his teeth at the accustomed pain, and he pushed it away in order to answer the deviant. "Connor, there's nothing anyone could do to replace Cole. He was one of a kind, and I miss him every single fucking day. No one can change that, not even you."

Lowering his eyes, Connor nodded, LED flashing red, and Hank continued, "But…it's easier, with you around." The android looked up quickly, shocked, and the man smiled slightly. "You're a good partner and a good friend. You're goofy as hell, and you're a fucking nightmare with evidence, but we can work on that."

He paused, and added, "And you've made me proud."

Closing his eyes, Connor didn't answer, and he refused to lean into the touch as Hank placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Will you stay, son?"

Processes and emotions working overtime, it took several seconds before Connor finally nodded, giving into the advice Markus had spoken days before: Let yourself have something. He wasn't surprised to be pulled into a quick, firm hug, and had gotten himself under control by the time he was released.

"Now sit your ass down and put on a ballgame or something," Hank ordered as he headed back towards the kitchen table. Connor watched him go, something warm burning in his chest, and he didn't move. "Yo, Connor! Your batteries running out again?"

Lips quirking at the familiar banter, the android finally slid into his seat on the couch as he cybernetically ran through the channels, ignoring the dip as Hank plopped down next to him.

"My current charge will last for approximately twenty nine weeks, Lieutenant, if we do nothing further than watch television," he advised calmly.

Hank snorted around a mouthful of food and rolled his eyes. "First, call me Hank when we're at home. And second, we're gonna need more beer before then."

Frowning, Connor stated, "You really should decrease your alcohol consumption, Hank."

Sighing, the man muttered, "And then it starts…"

---

End