November 7th, 2038 - 8:44 P.M.
"You really going to leave for the night? After you were so eager to get in?"
Connor looks towards Anderson, waiting by the side of his desk. The monitor has the security footage up, headphones resting on the desk beside it, a memo pad open, notes scribbled on it.
"You were watching me."
He shrugs, "Have to make sure you're getting somewhere and you don't repeat what you did last time. You didn't answer my question."
"No," Connor says, brushing past him towards his desk. "I'm not leaving."
"And what is your plan?"
"To watch him."
.
.
November 7th, 2038 - 9:58 P.M.
It is an old cell they've given him as a room. The overflow for prisoners upstairs. A shitty bed with a gray cover, not that comfort is something that would be afforded to him. One glass wall, the rest solid gray brick. Gray cement. Although, everything is gray to him. When he holds his hand up against it, they seem like the same shade, even. If he squints, they blur into one thing. It sounds like a blessing, to disappear into nothingness.
Five feet by five feet. He crosses it back forth again and again, not sure if he's doing it because he's free to move now or because he's testing whether his legs work properly or not. His body aches and he knows that isn't right. He knows androids aren't supposed to have pain like a human might from being bound in one place for so long.
Maybe it's what Zlatko has done to him. Upgraded his systems with new feelings that simulate the pain a human feels.
It doesn't matter.
It's still there.
It still hurts.
It is still cold, too.
They haven't given him a blanket or clothes. He feels empty and naked and exposed and all he wants is to cover himself up, but he can't ask for anything. He doesn't want the weakness to be perceived by that man.
Connor.
He doesn't remember how he knows his name. He thought Connor had told it to him. It was just in his head suddenly. Sitting there, in the back with all the other data that has grown dust. Telling him things about Connor's life that have been documented. Dead mother, missing brother. Adopted. CyberLife employee at age twenty-three.
His eyes move to the camera, looking up at it as it watches him.
As Connor watches him.
.
.
November 7th, 2038 - 11:36 P.M.
Connor leans on one hand, eyes slipping closed. Background noise filling in the empty silence in his head. The feed he's been watching is boring. The android does the same thing again and again. Walking back and forth, walking in circles, looking up at the camera. There are few times when he stretches his arms out in front of him or above his head, swinging them by his side, like a runner getting ready for a marathon.
"Coffee?"
His eyes snap open, looking towards the officer.
"Miller," he says quietly. "Yes, please."
"Call me Chris," he says, setting the cup down on the desk beside him. "And you—"
"Connor is preferable," he replies, taking the cup gratefully. Not for the need of the caffeine, just for something to do with his hands, to feel the warmth. It's cold in here. His jacket isn't enough. He wishes he had a coat. "You come for the show?"
"Have to admit my curiosity is piqued."
Connor smiles a little, turning the screen towards him, "It's boring."
"Why aren't you talking to it anymore?"
"Break from questions often give time for people to think," Connor says. "Makes them realize what's at stake."
"Or have time to fabricate a story."
"That, too," he agrees. "But there's no story for him to come up with. Andronikov's creatures aren't explainable any other way than his experiments, unless someone else gifted them to him, which considering the notes and the tools he has… it's unlikely. And I'm hoping it will consider that the quicker this is over with, the better. For both of us."
"You could move onto another android."
Connor knows that. And he should. He might, even, if this were any other situation. But there are seven other androids in storage downstairs. This investigation won't be over quickly, no matter what. He is putting off the inevitable of looking at the others, the more gruesome creations. At least this one isn't so—
Awful to look at.
"Do you know what it is? It looks familiar."
"It's a PC100," Connor says quietly. The file sitting on his desk is padded with unnecessary pages, blank to give off the illusion he has more knowledge than he does. A scare tactic that's easy to employ. But there is some information in it. Short pages about the PC100 model. "It wasn't in circulation. Just a few prototypes sent to various precincts in the city."
"Do you know why they got pulled?"
"Violence," Connor replies. "They had corrupted behaviors. It wasn't just suspects that they'd attack to put under arrest, it was witnesses and victims. The use of force was too much."
"Could say that about plenty of human cops."
Connor remains silent, watching the screen. The difference between android violence and police brutality is what the government is willing to do about it.
The android has paused again, arms stretched up over his head, the glow of his body underneath a soft yellow shifting to red. Connor hasn't seen it turn blue yet, but in his reports the people who repaired its eyesight, made sure his body and biocomponents were in working order, wrote that the android's color came from a strange mechanism involving the LED. The lights inside are reflecting what he'd have if the LED on the side of his head were still there.
Red, he thinks, which Connor has seen the most, is supposed to signify some kind of harm being done to an android. Broken pieces, internal damage.
It was cleared of all that. The scans can be run a hundred times and it will only prove to Connor again and again that it's not a physical hurt he's feeling. But he already knew that. There's just very little he can do to help. If it was something else, like an error in his Thirium regulator, Connor could fix it. He could help.
He can't help with this. He can only try and get it to talk to him.
"Do you know where it was supposed to be before?"
"Are you asking me if it worked here, at this specific station?"
Chris nods, slowly.
"No," he says. "This PC100 was registered to a different precinct. It was left in a junkyard closer to Andronikov's house. We think that's where got them. Sometimes androids, when they're destroyed and thrown away… some of them are still alive."
"Functioning, you mean?"
"Yes," Connor replies. "Sorry. Bad word choice."
"Understandable. Easy to slip up."
Not with this one, though. It shouldn't be easy with these ones. They don't look human. They don't sound human. This one's voice is corrupted, sounds like static fills his every word, sometimes infecting his breathing. A sigh comes out like a garbled radio.
Of all the androids he's been in contact with, these are the least human-looking. But they are most certainly the most deviant acting. This android didn't even try to hide his anger when he started to speak. Word choices more human than any other deviant he's talked to.
He wants to talk to it again.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 2:03 A.M.
"You miss me?"
Connor stands on the other side of the glass, watching the android come to a stop. He likes this less than the table. Before it allowed the cut off from below the chest. Able to speak to just a face. Now there is too much space between them.
He bites his tongue on the offer for clothes, looking towards the cell behind him. They should've put him here to begin with. Given him a space that he would have felt like was his. But Connor can't pretend they are having a friendly conversation when he sits down now. It is clear who is the prisoner and who is the captor, and he doesn't like his role in this situation. He never has.
"How did you know my name?"
The android steps forward, the glow of light through the cracks in his shell a dim red, "I don't know."
"Are you sure? Because you weren't aware of what your name was before, either."
"Reed isn't my name. It's the one they gave me."
"Who's they?"
"CyberLife."
"And what is your name, then, if it's not the one they gave you?"
"I don't have one."
Connor takes a step forward, closer to the wall between them. The grip on his notepad tightens, the pen in his pocket willing to be twisted, turned. Something to do with his hands so he can stop feeling so restless. Maybe it's the coffee. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. He can't seem to stay still tonight.
"What did the other deviants call you?"
The android steps towards the glass, too, mirroring his movements. Too close for comfort, despite the wall, despite the feet of space still between them. "What do they call you?"
"You already know my name."
"I meant your title."
Connor sucks in a sharp breath, as though he's been hit by something, "Hunter."
"Hunter?"
"Deviant hunter," he clarifies. "That's my job."
"Tracking down androids like me that threaten your employers."
He nods, "And you? What purpose did Andronikov assign you?"
"Captive. Slave. K—"
"Hm?"
The android's jaw clenches, his body stiffens, straightening. He is shorter than a PC100 should be. A few inches dropped from what the model height lists. The people at CyberLife put in his file that the leg attachments aren't the ones he should have. They don't fit with this model, but they don't look out of place, either. Maybe it's the sheen of black paint and metal across it all though, blending it together in a seamless matter. Everything disappearing among the shadows.
"Creature," it says finally. "I was one of his creatures. A pet."
"Like the polar bear?"
He means it as a joke, but the android only glances away, taking half a step backward again. He bites his tongue, searching for a different question, something to change this conversation back onto the course that was planned in the start.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 2:10 A.M.
"Your model was created ten years ago," Connor says. "That makes you a decade old."
"How intriguing," he replies, letting the sarcasm coat his voice.
"It means Andronikov must have had you for quite some time. Do you remember him taking you?"
"No."
"Nothing? Not even the weather?"
He sighs, leaning against the wall, eyes closing.
And he can hear it—
The thunder. The train. The rumble so loud it felt like it was in his body. A vibration overtaking him. The soft patter of rain on the window above him.
The car had a sunroof. He remembers looking up at it, eyes flickering open, body sensing the movement. Watching the rain patter against the dim glass.
"I don't remember anything."
"Your memory was corrupted, but you still have a good portion of data—"
"I don't remember anything."
"You do. You're lying to me."
He steps forward to the glass, eyes opening, looking at Connor. "Have we met before?"
"No."
"Are you lying to me?"
"No," Connor says blankly. There isn't a single trace of emotion on his face. Not even shock at the question he's asking, at the seeking of reassurance that he heard the answer correctly. "You don't know what model you are?"
"No. You could just tell me. Maybe it'll spark something."
"Telling you any information I have might damage the authenticity of your history at the Andronikov residence."
"His name was Zlatko."
"I'm aware."
"So stop calling him Andronikov."
"Last names are easier—"
"Easier for what? For who? You?" he steps forward, hitting his hand against the glass, but it does little. Doesn't even rattle. Just a soft thud. "You want to distance yourself from him? From all this? Keep it less emotionally damaging for your fragile psyche? How fucking lucky for you that you have something left to hurt."
Connor doesn't respond. He doesn't even seem phased for a moment, but then there's a flicker. Something passing across his features, and he realizes how tight and frozen it all is. How hard it is for him to hold it together.
He's right.
He's right about it all.
"I wish I could've done that," he says finally, stepping back again, needing space between them once more. Needing yards and yards and yards of it. "But it's difficult, you know. To distance yourself from someone who finds it amusing and arousing to tear you apart limb from limb and put you back together again and you're not even fucking blessed with being asleep."
"I'm sorry," Connor says quietly. "You didn't deserve that."
But the thing is—
He did. In the end, he did.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 4:12 A.M.
"Leaving?"
Connor nods, brushing past one of the officers. He hasn't learned all of their names yet. He is trying not to pay attention to the human factor here. His focus needs to be on the androids, and he needs to leave. He doesn't have time to learn the names of the people who find it fun to watch an android pace back and forth in his cell.
It was right, though.
It's so much easier to distance himself from Andronikov if he refuses to call him by his first name. Makes him more of a faceless identity. It's his problem with the android. He always places so much importance on what they like to be called, what they prefer to be known as.
All of this is like working with victims that refuse to cooperate because they hate him so much, and he can't blame them. His presence here is only a sign that soon they'll be deconstructed and analyzed further. He is using them.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 4:35 A.M.
It's dark here, in the dream, darker than he thinks it was in reality of Zlatko's spare room. Like a closet, shut out from all the windows and light, never opened. Only the light from LEDs and body parts illuminates the small space. He hurts. Every part of him hurts. Something wrapped around his arms, keeping him held up off the floor, but he is lacking the feet to plant on it anyway. He wants to fall. He wants to drop to the ground. He tries to wiggle against the restraints, but every movement brings a fresh round of pain that proves what he felt before wasn't as bad as it gets.
There's nothing he can do except cause more pain.
He can't escape. He does his best to stay still. He tries not to think about the androids surrounding him on a dirty floor that have died. Bled out, leaving nothing behind but the hollow interiors.
And he wishes that was him.
He wishes he was nothing again.
He liked being nothing. He liked it being his choice when he was nothing, and now it's someone else's.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 5:26 A.M.
Connor stands under the water in the shower. Lets it fall over his skin hot and almost burning until the steam starts to make him feel lightheaded and before turning it colder and colder, until his skin feels like icecubes against his fingertips, until his toes feel numb.
He doesn't know what to do here. He's dealt with angry deviants before, but this one is different. Separate. Not angry at humans, although Connor believes that he does resent the human race, but furious at everything. Won't answer even the simplest of questions, and he can't tell if it's because he genuinely doesn't know or because the idea of giving Connor what he wants is too reprehensible to entertain.
He turns the water off, stepping out of the shower, wrapping the towel around his waist.
Kamski would know what to do, he thinks. Kamski would know what tactic to employ. Kamski would have the guts to be as ruthless as it took to get the answers they need. Kamski wouldn't be wasting time in a motel bathroom trying to put off sleeping or going to see the android to question him again. He might've even purposefully used the name the android was so against. Reed. Kamski would've said it again and again until there was an outburst of something that he could use.
Connor wishes he was like that. He wishes he was as cruel as it took, but he can't. He is doing his best to hide it, but when he looks at them and he sees victims, he sees scared children and survivors of abuse and violence. They aren't just empty vessels full of hatred and anger. There is more than that.
He just has to figure out what makes this android tick so he can undo it, worm his way in, collect the data, leave again. Provide them with a little bit of peace and closure before they're destroyed completely. He can do that. He can manage that.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 8:57 A.M.
It's not Connor that comes down the steps. He knows that by the sound of the shoes. Being blind for so long left him like a human. Letting his senses fill in the blanks. It's easier, being an android. He is already able to discern tiny details, even inconsequential ones. The sounds of these shoes are different from those that Connor wears. He can't say the type—that is too much to ask of him—but they aren't the same loafers. They're different. Boots, he thinks, guesses.
"Hi."
He looks up from the floor of his cell towards the glass wall. The woman on the other side is watching him, almost fearful. Not quite the same terror in the eyes of the androids that were torn apart, or threatened to be tortured for wronging Zlatko, breaking his rules. But still scared. The tentative fear, the kind that she is trying to pretend doesn't exist.
"Officer," he returns. "What do you want?"
She shakes her head, "Nothing."
"Then why are you here?" he spits out, hands in his lap turning into fists. "Come to watch the freakshow?"
"No," she retorts, fear shifting to anger. "I—"
"What?"
"Nothing. Nevermind."
She turns on her heel, walking away a few steps before coming back quick. She shifts the bag on her shoulder, reaching inside of it, pulling out a bundle of fabric and pressing her palm against the scanner. The door only opens so far before she tosses the contents inside, shutting it again. He hears the lock click closed, shutting him inside again.
If he was faster, if he cared, if he had more energy to do anything, if he thought it would work, he might've gotten up and made his way through before she could stop him. He is stronger than her. He could've taken the gun on her waist, used her as a shield against the other officers in the station, made his way out—
And then where?
Where would he go?
"It's fucking cold down here," she says, her voice low, annoyed. "I don't know if androids can feel it or not, but—"
She stops herself, turning away from him, biting her bottom lip. He's set her off with his cruelty towards her. Any fear she has now has been suffocated by a desire to lash back out at him. Return all his meanness with her own. It hurts, suddenly. Feels wrong, somehow. He almost feels apologetic.
Almost.
Almost enough to thank her, but he refuses. Instead, his gaze turns back to the floor again. Looking at the way the tiles intersect. Off-centered squares. He counts them again and again, waiting for her to continue.
She doesn't. Instead, she leaves.
When he looks back, he stares at the empty space she used to be as his thoughts begin to rewind. Finding her face in his memory, scanning it through all the useless databases he was programmed with when he was first created. He knows he has them, he knows he has access to more information than a normal android would.
He remembers, vaguely, what he is and what he was meant to do.
And now he knows her—
Tina Chen. Thirty. Unmarried, unhappy. Childless. Orphan. Alone.
Alone, alone, alone.
More information than he has on Connor, who he only knows by name, by what he was told. She isn't a friendly or a familiar face, but she is a different one, and he finds he prefers for her to come back so he doesn't have to await the next time Connor is standing on the other side of the glass asking him questions he doesn't want to answer.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 9:17 A.M.
You lied to me. You lied to me. You lied to me.
Connor sits up in the bed, eyes closed, face in his hands, doing little to scrub the image from his head. It never works. It only keeps it there, the harder he tries to get rid of it. Holding a little girl safely behind him as snipers fire into an android, destroying it. Decimating it into a hundred pieces.
You lied to me.
He wonders how many times those words have been said in his life. How many times he yelled them at the people who betrayed him or had them yelled in return. He remembers the last time they were said, quiet and soft and terrified.
You lied to me, Connor had whispered. From his lips to El, looking back at him with his face blank. So stoic and cold. Such a fucking callous individual.
And now he's here. Alarm beeping at nine in the morning, but in his exhausted state he'd hit the snooze button more times than he thought. Never drifting back off again but his eyes falling shut and letting the mere act of pretending to sleep refill his energy.
Connor doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to get out of the bed. It's cold in here, the blankets are warm and inviting. He wants to drift back off to sleep again, even though he knows he can't.
He finds his phone, pulling the covers back up over his shoulders, ducking into the warmth for a little while longer as he scrolls through the emails that have poured in. Duplicate reports, updates on other androids, the ones too damaged to recover anything from. More information about the arson investigation that he hasn't managed to get any details from the android about.
There's a few texts. A few from stores that have his number, telling him about sales he hasn't cared about in the last two years, but always procrastinated unsubscribing from the alerts. One from his mother telling him only to hurry up with the case. Another from El, a simple I'm sorry that he deletes immediately, regretting the decision because it makes him look at the history of their texts. The last few so happy. Such a polite and playful exchange between the two tainted now by everything. He isn't trying to preserve the thought of their relationship before, but he can't stand to see the long list of texts that only say I'm sorry again and again when Connor knows how very not sorry he is.
He turns his attention to the last text that makes his stomach drop.
New information. When do you want me to call?
Connor swallows, sitting up, unsure of how to respond. The text is from an old friend, if he can call the man that. From his childhood. The detective that was assigned his brother's case.
New information.
He lets out a shaky sigh, responding with two short words:
Later. Busy.
He doesn't want to deal with this now.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 9:48 A.M.
"Mr. Stern?"
Connor holds the cup of coffee tighter against his chest, not quite ready for the barrage of questions so early. He's awake, but he doesn't want to talk. Not right now. He just wants to take a second to review the footage of the night before, all those hours he missed. See if anything interesting happened to take note of. There is Lieutenant Anderson—also assigned the case—but his interest in Connor is minute and the majority of the feelings between them are based in angry and what Connor assumes is hatred. And there are actual criminal cases for him to deal with. Not looking at an android for the six hours he was gone, and even if it was, he doubts the old man would catch onto any of the tiny behaviors that Connor can dissect for hours.
That's how it always is. Big outbursts, lots of movement—it means so little to him. He is more interested in the small movements. Androids that can't keep still but do the same thing he does—little jittery behaviors, fidgeting—it's more interesting than pacing back and forth.
"Yes, officer?"
"I don't think we've met," she says, holding out her hand. Connor takes it, reminded again of how much he hates the action of shaking someone's hand. So much judgment can be passed in such a stupid obligation. "My name is Tina Chen."
"I've seen you around," he replies, but it's a lie. He hasn't really paid attention to anyone's face that he doesn't need to.
"I was wondering—" she pauses, following Connor over to his desk. "Is it possible I can help?"
"You're interested in deviants?"
"I think most people are."
"Most people are scared of them."
"I'm not."
Connor sits down in the chair, turning the computer on. Blue light glowing across his desk. "You don't need to lie. You can be curious and scared at the same time."
"I'm not scared."
He looks up to Officer Chen, searching his face for something. Anything. He seems serious. If he isn't being honest, he at least believes what he's saying enough for Connor to let it slide without any more argument.
"Fowler already has Lieutenant Anderson helping me."
"Hank isn't doing shit, we both know that," Chen replies, leaning against the side of his desk. "Sides, Fowler doesn't need to know. I can work on the DL."
"Are you sure?"
She nods, "Just let me know how I can help."
There is little that Connor can think of. There aren't things he likes to do with other people. He doesn't partner up well. He is too used to working solo. It's easier that way. To check all the facts, to make sure everything is perfect, done the way he wants it to be done.
He thinks of the camera footage, thinks about all the things someone might miss if they weren't in tune to how an android behaves. Him and Kamski worked like a team. A back and forth of learning about each other's specialties. Nearly everything he knows is because Kamski taught it to him. Completely and utterly separate from what he is capable of teaching.
"I'll let you know."
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 9:53 A.M.
Androids are cursed, he thinks. They have built-in clocks so precise he is aware of the milliseconds passing by. Each one ticking past him slower than the previous. He knows that's impossible, he knows he should be accustomed to the passage of time slipping away without any real physical, visual thing to show him that something is changing, shifting before him, but he suffers anyway. Aware that the fluorescent lighting above him will not rise or set with the sun. There will be no shift of the trees outside of his nonexistent window, moving with wind or getting coated with a fresh layer of snow.
It is supposed to snow today, he knows that. One function still in proper working order, telling him the weather always and forever. Reminding him that he'll never get to experience it.
He doesn't remember the last time he stepped outside and felt the chill breeze of an oncoming winter or the crunch of snow underneath his feet. He doesn't know if he ever felt it at all. He doesn't think he's been outside of Zlatko's house in the elements since he deviated. The last thing he remembers is the rain on his face, on his arms, making his entire body slick with it as he was dragged in his broken pieces to the house.
Maybe he should tell Connor that. Maybe he would be pleased with these new details.
Who the fuck gives a shit about pleasing an asshole like Connor, though?
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 10:06 A.M.
"Officer Chen?"
She looks up from the files spread out in front of her, a coffee cup sitting dangerously close to the edge of her desk, ready to slip and fall.
"Yes?"
"You visited the android last night."
Chen's face shifts fast before forming into what he thinks is her version of a blank face, but there are layers and layers beneath everything. He tries to keep his mind from figuring out every detail. It is useless, really. His expertise in body language is based on androids, and there are very subtle differences between the two. Human and androids are different to their very core. Even their expressions can be slightly different.
Still—
Similar enough that if he tried, he could figure out whether or not she's scared or angry at his discovery of her visitation the night before.
"I did."
"You gave h—it clothes."
"I did."
He is grateful she isn't bothering to lie, but what would be the use? She was one of the officers that came to his desk and spied over his shoulder when the android was in custody before. She has the same curiosity they all do. She knows there is a camera, watching and recording its every movement.
"Can I ask why?"
"It's cold down there. I thought it would prefer to be covered up," she replies. "We don't know a lot about deviants, but they're essentially human, right? I figured it would like to cover up."
"Because of the cold?" Connor asks.
She hesitates, and then nods.
She's lying, but there's little to gain from getting a proper answer from her. Why press on the matter when she isn't the person he's supposed to be interrogating?
Still.
He can assume.
Assume that the clothes were given because of the same need a human might have to cover up. A sense of privacy or dignity, not necessarily the temperature.
"Where did you get the clothes? They aren't…" he trails off, not quite sure how to imply that they don't seem like her style, even if he's only seen her in her uniform, and he doesn't know how to say that sweatpants and an old t-shirt, despite their gender-neutral nature, still don't seem feminine or at least that they don't belong to her.
"Chris has a spare set in his locker."
"Did you steal them from him?"
"No. I gave him twenty bucks."
He presses his lips into a thin line, trying to hold back a smile. The nonchalance of her answer amuses him, and he nods slowly, "Okay."
"Are you mad?"
"No," he says quietly. "I'm not."
He's thankful. Glad that it wasn't him who would have eventually caved and asked it about wanting something to wear.
Still. If he had, he could've used it as leverage. Got a name other than Reed . He doesn't like the impersonal nature of this relationship. Names create bonds. Having them is something more significant than he thought before he came here. Not having a name to refer to someone as forces a gap between them that he can't close. The two of them are at a disadvantage.
.
.
November 8th, 2038 - 10:11 A.M.
"Good morning, Reed."
He flinches, stepping towards the glass, "Don't call me that."
"Then give me another name."
He clenches his jaw, wishing he had a jacket to pull tighter around his body. Connor glances only briefly at his attire, not commenting on it. Maybe he was behind the little package he received in the night.
"I told you—"
"I don't believe you," Connor interrupts. "I think you are purposefully stripping yourself of your name and your identity."
"You're not my therapist."
Connor gives him a small smile, shrugging his shoulders, a gesture that he interprets as close enough.
His jaw clenches a little bit tighter, wondering for a moment if that tension, that knee-jerk reaction, will ever go away. If he'll ever be able to properly relax. He didn't rest much in their separation. Just laid on the bed looking up at the strange patterns on the ceiling. Not quite sleek. Imperfections in the surface.
"I think you're trying to buy time," Connor says quietly. "Not answering my questions means you won't get sent away to be disassembled."
"I thought you said they'd let me live."
"Are you aware if you don't give me any information then you'll be deemed useless in this investigation and be taken apart anyway?"
He steps towards the glass, the urge to kick it or punch it sitting at the forefront of his mind. "What investigation?"
"The house caught fire," Connor answers. "It was ruled arson."
"You want to find out who did it?"
"Among other things."
"Other things?"
"Andronikov had hundreds of biocomponents, dozens of androids, more Thirium than you can imagine."
"He's dead," he replies. "What do you care?"
"They fetch a high price on the black market."
"He wasn't involved in any of that."
Connor tilts his head suddenly, eyes narrowing, an impulsive response that he hadn't seen before. "There's evidence that proves otherwise. Maybe your memory is more corrupted than you thought. Or maybe you just weren't important enough to be a part of his deals."
"If there's so much fucking evidence why do you need me? I don't know who started the fire. I wasn't involved in it. Leave me the fuck alone."
"I'm surprised you're protecting him. He abused you and he's dead, what are you so scared of? Or were you fond of him?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"Zlatko can't hurt you anymore—"
"I said shut the fuck up."
"I'm a very patient person, Reed," Connor says, hands behind his back now, head straightened, chin up, shoulders squared. Like he's ready for a fight. He looks fucking stupid. He hates him. "CyberLife isn't. You'll buy more time on this planet if you cooperate."
He steps forward, his hand coming up, fist slamming against the glass, "Go to hell."
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November 8th, 2038 - 10:32 A.M.
"You're playing good cop/bad cop by yourself, Stern."
"Do you plan on playing the other half, Anderson?"
"No. Just commenting on your methods. Pick one or the other. You're not going to get it to say shit by flip-flopping constantly."
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November 8th, 2038 - 11:57 A.M.
Connor pulls a chair in front of the glass wall, sitting down with the file opened up on his lap. He should get a table. Something he can set his things on. Have a new collection of pens here, too. But the quarter has been replaced and he doesn't need the distraction of those things anymore. Not the soft tapping of his fingers against a cup and not the turn of a pen over and over.
"You don't want to die," he says carefully, choosing his words as specifically as he can. Not the actual contents of them, but the way he says them. It doesn't matter if he says you don't want to die instead of you don't want to be destroyed. It's the way he says them that will be of importance to the android. His voice softened, sympathetic.
Good cop.
"I couldn't care less—" the android stops himself, and Connor has to bite his tongue not to say anything, because he wants to talk. Wants to turn this conversation back on him. The android might not want to be alive, but he doesn't want to die, either. "What do you want now? I told you I'm not going to talk."
"That's fine," Connor replies quietly, looking down at the pages in his file. "I have a deal I can make you, though. I think you might be interested in it."
He doesn't get a response. The android hasn't even looked up since he sat down. Only one glance towards Connor and then stuck to the tiles again. Busying his mind, likely. He's encountered a few androids obsessed with counting things, a few that like to make up rhymes with words. Muttering to themselves during the night when Connor's gone to pass the time.
"Not all deviants are destroyed," he continues, aware of how quiet his voice is. He can't get himself to speak louder. Perpetually stuck in this tone. "CyberLife wants to observe them, understand them—"
"So they can stop the deviancy virus?"
"Yes," Connor whispers. "They have a community. It's… a small little town. Androids— Deviants all living together. Like humans would. Talking, making relationships. Friends, lovers. They have jobs. Lives."
He pauses, waiting for the android to say something about this, but it's silent, gaze only shifting from the floor to the wall. Inching closer to turning to face Connor again.
"I can send you there, instead of being disassembled. I can send you and the others recovered from Andronikov's place. None of you have to die."
"I just have to tell you what happened when I was there, right?"
He nods, even though it still isn't looking at him. But then he does—their gaze meeting, the android staring blankly back at him with those eyes. He has sight now, but they are the same eyes as before. Pure black, besides the yellow in the middle. Not quite like irises.
There is worse in the world. There are so many worse things that he's seen that has unnerved him. Dead bodies and mutilated corpses. He's had to watch videos of androids being tortured and torn apart as they screamed for mercy.
But he is struggling to look at him now. Those eyes feeling wrong and terrible and all-seeing.
"The others are included in your deal?" the android asks, voice low, almost hard to understand with how static-filled it is.
"Yes."
"And you have proof this place exists? It's not some lie you've made up?"
"I'm allowed to access some footage, yes. I'll come back, I can show it to you."
It nods, "Okay."
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November 8th, 2038 - 12:09 P.M.
Connor holds the tablet flat against the wall between them, a video playing on the screen. Just a normal town, tiny. So small that it looks like if he could drive through it and not even realize it was there. There are androids on the streets walking from one store to the next. No cars. Old signs and small shops. It looks like a quintessential small-town where everybody knows everybody.
He can see it for what it is, though—a prison .
Connor is showing him a prison. He wonders if that's how his life will always feel, that it's how he will always be destined to be. Locked up. From when he was created to Zlatko's house to this glass cell to there. The tiny town with all the androids, trying to exist despite the constant gaze that the cameras must have on them.
It's wrong, he thinks, to be making a decision like this for all the others locked up in the archive room a few yards away. This might not be something they want. But they'll be alive, and that's all he can manage right now. It's all he can provide for them. It's the best he can do.
"Shut it off," he says, turning away.
Connor turns the tablet around, screen going black as he tucks it underneath his arm, "Are you still agreeing to this deal?"
He nods again, finding himself lacking the words now. The anger in him has settled with this new information now. It isn't hope. Connor isn't giving him hope of a future, of a life—
But it is something to look forward to. A fraction of freedom that will never be allowed otherwise.
"I can leave," Connor says. "We can start talking tomorrow. Give you some time to rest."
He doesn't want any more time alone, but he nods in agreement anyway. Wanting a break from this. A moment to breathe. To think. He watches Connor turn away, back towards the stairs, back to leaving him alone.
"Connor—" he calls out, suddenly, hating how loud it sounds, how it almost pleading it sounds.
Connor stops instantly, turning back to look at him. "Yes?"
"They called me Gavin. The others."
"Gavin," Connor repeats back. "That's your name?"
He nods again, not wanting to say it out loud.
"Okay," he smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow, Gavin."
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November 8th, 2038 - 12:16 P.M.
He can't escape from the basement quick enough. His feet walking down the hallway of cells slowly until he makes his way around a corner that he can race up, collapsing against a wall and breathing heavily, trying to suffocate the screams in his chest.
He wants to throw the tablet. He wants to break it.
Gavin. Gavin. Gavin.
He is breaking. He keeps breaking further and further apart. He can't do this anymore. He wants to leave. He wants to stop. He wants to quit. He wants to be someone other than Connor Stern, investigator and hunter of deviants. He wants to be himself. He wants to be who he was just before he was eight years old and he watched his mother bleed out on the pavement while someone stole his brother away. It's the moment that changed everything. Broke everything .
And he can't fix it.
He can never fix it.
He can never go back, no matter how hard he tries.