Author's Note: Thank you guys so much for the kind reviews! I'm really excited to keep sharing part two with you. :)


30 Detroit 10.18.2038

Connor

The house is skeletal and there are not many places the deviant could be hiding. I stop and listen a moment after letting the tarp fall closed behind me. All I can hear is the steady beating of the rain. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I move forward, the plywood beneath my feet echoing despite my light movements. Stairs have been built, and I follow them upstairs. Here the rain dots my face and clothing, the framework of the roof no protection against the elements. Tarps hang across doorless rooms, and I tread forward, carefully pulling back the stiff silver material. Nothing. I move through the upper story this way, pulling back tarps, tensed for any movement in the empty rooms beyond.

It's clear that the deviant has moved on, but I scour the floor for footprints nonetheless. There are too many places he could be hiding, but the mud is a helpful tool. I return to the first floor and leave the house. Puddles are already forming, and there are still footprints from the workers scattered around. Their prints tend to be messier as they turned to survey their work. The deviant's will most likely lead straight as it tries to get away. There is a set of prints heading straight across the construction site—and there is another set following them, a smaller set most likely belonging to a woman. It's probable that there are women who work at the construction site during the day, but these prints are fresh. Clara.

I shouldn't have expected her to stay put. If I've learned anything about her in our time together, it's that she's determined, stubborn, and always willing to chase a story no matter the personal risk. I quicken my steps, blinking rain from my eyes. There's a house ahead—an old one, still standing—and it sticks out like a sore thumb. Deviants act out of an emotional overload, and I've noticed they don't seem to have a plan for after they leave their owners. They don't know how to survive in the outside world, and they don't know how to blend in.

The house looks as if it's been abandoned for a long time, and the porch creaks as I step onto it. There are two sets of footprints here, going around the left side of the house where the wrap-around porch leads. A quick tug of the front doorknob tells me it hasn't been opened in a long time. The grimy windows and dim interior of the house don't give me much of a view inside, so I follow the footprints around the side of the house.

The backdoor is open slightly, and both prints lead inside. I wonder what Clara was thinking pursuing the deviant on her own. Clearly she wanted to interview it, but she wasn't thinking of her own safety in the least. I would have given her a chance to speak with the deviant if it was stable enough for the exchange, but Clara bypassed me altogether. I feel a twinge of what might be irritation and another twinge of fear for Clara's safety. I don't know how this deviant will react to her.

I enter the house, sweeping my eyes through the dim kitchen and the even darker living room. There are plenty of places for a deviant to hide, but the creaking on the staircase alerts me to movement. I stride forward seeing a figure nearing the base of the stairs and grab their arms. I know by the surge of warmth beneath my hands that it's Clara. She falls against me, hands pinned to my chest.

"It's me," she whispers. I loosen my grip and drop my hands while she rights herself.

"I thought I told you to stay."

"I don't like getting left behind," Clara says as if that excuses running off on her own. "Anyway, I followed the footprints, but there's no one here. I think it left when it realized we were following it."

I sigh. "Another one gone." Hunting down deviants is proving elusive. The only one I've caught up to was the deviant called Daniel and that was only because the police had already cornered him.

"It's not your fault," Clara says. She reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder as if to comfort me. I tense for a moment before relaxing under her touch. I'm not used to people touching me—not like this. Usually it's a shove followed by an insult, but Clara acts like I have feelings.

"Let's just go," Clara suggests. "I'm sopping wet, and it could be anywhere by now." She drops her hand, the warmth gone so suddenly that I half wish she hadn't pulled away. That thought muddles me a moment and I almost miss the creaking of floorboards overhead.

Clara seems to pale, her gaze following the sound and then flickering back to me.

"Stay here," I tell her, starting for the stairs before hesitating. I flick my eyes back to her. "Please listen this time."

"I will," she says so softly I have to strain to hear.

I start up the stairs, wincing as they creak with every step. With a house this old, stealth isn't possible, but unless the deviant intends to jump through a second-story window, I have it cornered. I stop at the landing, taking in the three doors before me. I haven't heard another creak since the first and, in all honesty, it could have been the old house shifting. I don't think so though. My thoughts dart to Clara and how she'd insisted the house was empty, that the deviant was gone. I don't think she would have lied to me, but I feel a twinge of uncertainty.

I look down at the floor and see that the footprints only lead into the room on the right. Someone has disturbed them as if to cover something up, but the floor leading to the other two rooms is undisturbed. I head into the room on the right. The closet doors are shut tight and, after a quick scan of the room, I pull them open. I'm already anticipating the deviant, my LED flashing yellow a moment before I realize the closet is completely empty save a few metal hangers. My eyes fall to the floor next to the bed where the dust has been disturbed the most. It looks as if someone slid underneath. I walk to the end and then crouch, readying myself as I lift the bed skirt up.

A flash of red is all I see before the deviant rolls out from the bed on the other side. He charges me before I'm ready, and I fall back against a dusty armchair, sending a puff of particles into the air. I vault back to my feet and pursue him as he crashes down the stairs.

"Clara, watch out!" I shout down to her. I see her pale face watching from below. She flattens herself against the wall as the deviant races past. I'm right on his heels, snatching the back of his shirt. He stumbles, and I grab his arm, wrenching him back. He swings wildly at me, and I step to the side to avoid the blow. Clara shouts something, but I can't hear her words over the creaking of floorboards as I try to push the deviant to the floor. His elbow comes out of nowhere, hitting my nose squarely. Blue blood begins to seep out, and I loosen my grip unconsciously. He takes advantage of my distraction and bolts, tearing from the house and into the night.

Clara grabs my arm as I try to rise to pursue him. "Let him go," she says, kneeling next to me.

I turn to look at her, some emotion I can't name rising to the surface. Hurt? Betrayal? Anger even? "You knew it was here."

Clara rocks back on her heels as if she can read the emotion in my eyes. She's silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. I find myself hoping she'll be honest with me. I wish she had been from the start.

She sighs, sitting cross-legged next to me. "You're bleeding everywhere," she says, and I'm aware of the blue blood dripping from my nose, dotting my pant legs.

"Clara."

She looks away. She can't even meet my eyes. "Yes," she answers. "I talked to him. He just wanted to get away from his abusive owner." She turns her eyes to me again, and there's a hint of pleading in them. "I'm sorry. I know it's your job to hunt them down, but Connor, have you ever considered that we're on the wrong side of this? They just want to be free from abuse and oppression. What's so wrong with that?" I can tell she wants so badly for me to agree, to understand, but I can't. It's not in my programming. It's the exact opposite of what I'm programmed to believe.

"They're not programmed to feel," I tell her, trying to keep my words gentle. "When they deviate, it's an error in their software."

"That's CyberLife talking through you. I want to hear what you think," she insists, eyes hardening.

"I don't have an opinion."

She looks disappointed and a part of me wants to take that back, but what can I say? "It has nowhere to go. It doesn't know how to survive out there. CyberLife would examine it to see what caused it to malfunction. It would be given a second chance with the proper programming. Androids weren't created to think for themselves."

"That's just a convenient excuse," Clara tells me. "Emotions aren't a software error. Technology can't replicate human emotions. Not like this. He was scared and desperate. I wanted him to have a chance."

"It doesn't have a chance out there," I say, my tone just as hard as her gaze. She frowns. "It has nowhere to go. You can't save them all, Clara. Pretty soon there will be deviants everywhere, hiding out in abandoned buildings waiting to be caught. Is that life any better than the life they had before?"

"Better to be free than enslaved," Clara snaps, getting to her feet and striding out of the house.

I sigh, using the back of my hand to wipe away the blue blood. It didn't break my nose, and the bleeding has slowed. I would have caught up to it if Clara hadn't stopped me. If I hadn't let her stop me.

I catch up to her at the gate where we entered. Her hood is down, and her reddish hair is sopping wet, clinging to her face. She looks miserable, and I can't help but think I contributed to that. We both must look a mess, and I'm not looking forward to recounting the night to Amanda. She'll be disappointed, and I've already had all the disappointment I can handle from Clara.

She turns to me then, and I see that she's crying. The rain almost masks her tears, but her eyes are red and glinting a little more than usual. "I'm sorry," she says, which catches me off guard. "I lied to you, and that wasn't right."

I weigh her words and how I feel. I don't want to be angry with her. I shouldn't feel anger at all, but Clara makes me feel things I shouldn't. She has a way of pushing me past my limits and questioning everything I've been programmed not to question. She challenges me to think for myself and though I'm not supposed to, I find myself trying anyway.

"I understand why you did," I finally say. She blinks at me.

"You do?"

"You saw someone who needed saving. You have a good heart, Clara. But you need to think about whether you should be saving them. They are a danger to humans and to themselves. They don't know how to survive on their own."

She takes in my words before nodding numbly. I don't know if she agrees, but she's at least agreed to quit arguing. "Are you okay?" she asks, nodding to my nose.

"I'm fine." The blood has already stopped flowing.

Clara shifts on her feet, her mucky sneakers barely distinguishable against the mud. Then she surprises me by hugging me. "I thought he was going to hurt you," she says, and I can hear the fear and concern in her voice. "I was so afraid my lie was going to get you killed."

I can feel her trembling against me, freezing cold from the rain and the night air. I tentatively put my arms around her, realizing I'm stiff as a board, completely unsure of how to respond. I seem to be doing something right because she relaxes into me, arms tight around my back.

"Are you mad at me?" she asks.

"No," I tell her, any frustration toward her fading. I know she was just trying to be compassionate. It's a trait I admire in humans, especially since it's scarce these days.

"Were you mad at me?"

I look down to find her peering up at me. Her face is so close I can see the flecks of grey in her bright blue eyes.

"Do you want me to be mad at you?" I'm feeling awkward, not just because of her question but from the contact. How long do hugs last? I don't know if there's protocol for this sort of thing, and maybe she knows I'm uncomfortable and is pushing me to give me a hard time. She loosens her grip, and I let my arms drop.

"Maybe just a little." She has a mischievous glint in her eyes that I've become familiar with, and I'm glad to see she's no longer crying. "It's okay to get mad at me, you know. Forget your programming around me."

It's easier than she knows, and I take a self-conscious step back. She affects me in a way that no one else ever has, treats me like an equal, a friend. "I was a little angry when you didn't stay put," I concede, and she grins at me.

"Good. Now help me get back over this damn fence."