Disclaimer: I do not own Detroit: Become Human
Rating: M (higher rater for this chapter due to content)
Words: 9400
Warnings: violence, kidnapping, language, android slurs
I'm going to be very honest with all of you: this chapter did not want to be written. It was an incredibly difficult chapter for me to write, and it fought me the entire time. That coupled with trying to get paperwork done for some very important stuff and also client commissions, that also delayed this chapter, but thank you all for your patience!
Note: I listened to the D:BH soundtrack while writing this and it really helped. For Connor's later parts, I highly recommend listening to his songs from the soundtrack (particularly Hostage, Analyszing, or As I See Them) as you read this. For Nines's part towards the end, I actually highly recommend listening to Kara's soundtrack (particularly Not Just a Machine, Kara (Main Theme), and Carousel).
Chapter: 2) Nines Learns About His Type the Hard Way
I am an advanced military-grade android meant to be able to handle anything that steps in my path, Nines thought, chiding himself even in his weak state. This should not have happened…
Low thirium levels were making him sluggish and weak, weighing down his body into a very human slump. His optics were closed to conserve what little energy he had. Before deviancy, he had thought that tiredness was a specifically human experience as androids were perfect and possessed superior bodies. After deviancy, however, even more so now, he understood with an uncomfortable intimacy that exhaustion bit its teeth into every being, even someone made of plastimetal and code like him.
He struggled to draw forth his shadows, but a mere facsimile of their usual size rose by his feet. They shuddered when he did, shivering in a weak attempt to manifest. With the little concentration he had to spare, he focused on creating at least one shadow arm. It looked wrong. Without much power behind it, it wisped and frayed, tongues of darkness evaporating off it into nothingness.
The ring of pure salt around him was negating his shadows from progressing further than a foot or so away from his person.
Even with only one of his audio processors functioning at 65% capacity—the other had been completely blown out from a hit to his cranium—he could hear the steady drone of the rain beating against the roof and windows of the building. He attempted to focus on that pattering, the constant pour of the rain, instead of all the damage his body had collected. His concentration was broken, however, when a strong gust of wind blasted through the cracks of the windows he knew were damaged into the derelict building. The cold had teeth as strong as exhaustion did, perhaps akin to the strength of his own fangs, and he shivered as it bit into his synthskin. The dampness in the air coupled with the wetness of his own thirium on his synthskin made for a rather uncomfortable combination. (1)
Nines was incredibly disappointed at the loss of his favorite overcoat. (2) It had been the first thing to get ruined when they took him. Pity.
Another gust licked at the thirium dribbling from his arm ports and further wetting the surrounding areas of his currently torn and sleeveless black turtleneck. Some of his thirium lines had been damaged in such excess that even stopping the flow to his arm ports did not cease the leaking thirium. He shivered again, not all from the temperature. He wanted his coat.
[Warning: Thirium Levels—63%]
[System Alert: Replenish thirium levels soon]
"Well, would you lookie here," a masculine voice chuckled into the damp, cold air, "our favorite little toy soldier here finally woke up."
Despite the painful shocks it caused to move, through the hair hanging in his face, Nines slowly raised his head in order to glare at the man who appeared in front of him. He used his best intimidation glare—Intimidation Eyes Protocol #12, to be exact—but he knew it was not as effective being shot through the mess of dark hair hanging in his face and coupled with his weakened state. Even with his modded optics, it was difficult to look threatening when beaten, had blood continuously dripping from multiple places, and shaking from both blood-loss and pain. (3)
Being bereft of both arms also subtracted from the intimidating image as well.
The man in front of him was the picture of what Hank would call 'a high school jock with a power-high and a gun.' The Caucasian man, perhaps ten years younger than Hank, had close-cropped blonde hair that matched the patchy blonde beard that would not grow in proper on his face. His arms, crossed over the old tactical vest on his chest, were clad in the same deep black material as his pants. The posture and the boots—and those were some nice boots; Nines thought perhaps he should acquire a pair—all screamed military.
Or an 'absolute jack-off', if he were to quote Gavin. (Gavin would be right in this case.)
RA9, I hope that Gavin is alright.
The man grinned as he twirled the long metal wand in his hands. Under closer inspection, Nines knew it was a high-voltage electric shock wand, black market quality. Specifically made to harm androids. It was the same kind that had gotten him captured hours ago—a check to his internal chronometer specified that he had lost six hours, if he were to be specific. "And here we thought that we accidently destroyed you with all the electricity and that nifty chip. Our client would be pretty upset with us if we delivered the product nonfunctioning and whatnot. But," he gestured the shock wand to either side of Nines's torso, "they never said nothing about being a bit busted up. How's that treating you anyway?"
Quite poorly, if he were to be honest, but he would never give these garbage stains the satisfaction of a verbal answer. His self-healing had closed most of his damaged thirium lines that led to his arms, but the larger, excessively damaged ones stubbornly kept at a lazy dribble. He was acutely aware of the chip that had been shoved into his neck port. It was foreign and uncomfortable, edging towards the point of being painful as it hacked into his mainframe and overwrote some of his functions. There was no human equivalent to the feeling of his own codes being tapped into, but the sooner the small, though wretched, piece of hardware was out of him, the better he would feel. His optics flicked from each of the three people in front of him. As much as he would have enjoyed being able to access information about the people who captured him, at the very least, the chip prevented many of his functions from working. He was shut out from network access. Sending a call, or a signal, or a ping for some sort for aid was out of the question with his communications systems knocked offline as well.
To the question he was asked, Nines gave him one of his best snarls.
It was quite good, if the man's grimace was anything to go by.
"What a mean-looking freak," the man muttered. Louder, he said, "Not a nice way to answer the people that are holding back from scrapping you, you know!"
Nines did not lessen his glare. "If you wished to dispose of me, you have done so already. Therefore, you must be keeping me here for a reason. What do you want?"
"Other than the beautiful satisfaction of bustin' up another plastic," the man twirled the shock wand as he smirked, "just a job, plain and simple. Not that it's gonna matter to you after it's all done—you and that duplicate of yours are probably going to end up scrapped for black market parts or some shit, I dunno. We didn't get the juicy specifics. You were just the extra, after all."
Wait.
He sucked in a sharp breath. Duplicate? Did he mean—?
"Boss, should we really be talking so much to this thing?" The woman with the dyed green hair eyed Nines. Like her aforementioned leader, she had her arms crossed over an older generation tactical vest which was strapped over simple black clothing. "What if it, I don't know, figures out something it shouldn't?"
Before the man, which would be known as 'Boss' for now, could answer, Nines hissed, "To which duplicate are you referring?"
Boss and the women blinked at his tone, but their surprise quickly bled into amusement. The women started snickering as Boss turned to her. "Get a load of this thing, Leaf." Nines wanted to claw that look right off his face, or rather, claw off his whole face. "It's concerned over its little clone."
Leaf snorted, then addressed Nines. "The skinnier version of you. The negotiator-detective of your precinct, plastic. Thought that would be pretty obvious."
"You will not touch him." Nines jerked against his restraints as best he could, with what strength he had left. Whatever pole he was tied to groaned loudly in protest to his movement, and he froze.
Boss gestured to the pole. "Now, I wouldn't do that if I were you. That support beam is one of the main things holding up this old dump. Even as you are now, we were informed about the strength output of an RK900, so we what you could do. But," the amusement was clear on his face, "we know you won't. Although your model is pretty tough, I doubt that even a RK900 can stay intact after a whole building falling on top of it."
Leaf added as she pointed to the ring around Nines's feet, "Plus, we know how freaky you and that other RK are. Rumor mill and all that, so we had to take precautions. You're not going to be doing much of anything."
A much larger, and frankly dumber-looking, brute waltzed over to squat in front of Nines, grinning at the state that he was in. "Well ye ain't so tough then, now are ye, huh?" The ruddy-faced Irishman goaded, as if he were looking at a kill he could boast about. Nines wanted to lean away from the foul tobacco-laced breath that was being breathed directly into his face, but that would only serve to appear intimidated. He could not have that. "One lil chip on yer neck, and ye went down harder than a drunk af'er his last drink o' the night. Bet ye can't do anythin' about it, neither." He reached out a stubby finger to poke at Nines's cheek, and the pure indignation that welled inside of the RK900 caused him to abandon any niceties he had learned through Connor and his own deviancy. Connor would forgive him for what he was about to do.
"Ah, Truck," Leaf warned, "you should probably get your hand away from it, man. I heard this thing is pretty dangerous, even all banged up like that."
The man now known as Truck—the nickname was apt as he was built like one—snorted before going back to poke Nines for a second time. "Don' worry yer wee head. This right here ain't gonna do—"
Nines surged forward as far as the chains would allow him in order to snap at the offending extremity. His modded teeth and jaw shifted mid-lunge and the fangs made viciously quick work of separating the man's hand from the rest of his arm.
Crunch. The loud, wet snap of his teeth was drowned out by Truck's wailing cry.
Nines grinned wide, fangs glinting dangerously as they were stained a dripping red. He made sure to secure eye contact with all of them as he snarled in his grin and spat out the hand he had torn clean off Truck's arm. If his network connections had been functioning, he would have been able to identify the actual identity of Truck from the blood. The RK900 made sure that he bared his teeth as he smiled, showing off the blood shining against his fangs. I am not the android you ought to be ridiculing. Attempt that again and I might tear off something more important.
"Oh, you sick fucker!" The woman whirled to Truck's side in order to press the scarf that had been around her neck to the man's wound. He was making so much noise, and it was getting to be annoying.
"Damn beast! Me hand, me hand!"
Equally angry as his crew, Boss let go of whatever little self-control he had been harboring. "I fucking had it with you, plastic," he clomped his way over into Nines's space. Before a protest could be uttered, he jammed the now crackling electric shock wand into the android's side with an unhealthy fervor. "Go the fuck back to sleep!"
An inhuman noise screeched from Nine's voicebox.
He may have screamed; he may not have. He was not positive.
[System Al3rt]
[_Sy5t3m AL3rT: W rN1nG]
[WArN1—]
Everything went black and silent.
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.
(His last thoughts had been on Gavin and Connor)
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.
Connor was not having a good day.
In fact, it would be a gross understatement to even describe it as awful.
It had been late Tuesday night when he had gotten the call from Hank. Thanksgiving was that Thursday, and this would be the first year that Connor and Nines would be able to celebrate it. Tuesday was Connor's day off, so he had decided to spend it getting ready for the holiday while Hank was at the precinct. With plenty of online research, he had discovered the appropriate decoration for the holiday and thus made it his mission to decorate the house. Although it had been a bit of an endeavor to keep Sumo from eating many of the decorations, it had been done: orange paper leaves decorating the walls here and there, leftover plastic pumpkins that had been used on Halloween now dotting the coffee table and the kitchen table, a cornucopia and other gourds and squashes peppering the dining room table, and one rather cute plush turkey sitting one the bookshelf. It even had a little black pilgrim's hat, which Connor had thought was charming.
(Although the origins and history of the holiday had been distressing to find out, the themes of thankfulness and family were ones on which he wanted to focus.)
It had been nine o'clock in the evening, about an hour past the time Hank should have been home. Connor had assumed Hank had stopped on the way home to pick up something from the store—they had been low on coffee and thirium.
[Incoming Call: Hank Anderson]
[Accept | Deny]
[Accept | Deny]
"Hello, Hank," he had said aloud, smiling even though the man could not hear him—a human trait he had picked up in time during his deviancy. "I was just thinking about you. Is everything—"
[Connor, oh thank fuck, listen to me carefully,] Hank's tone and interruption had made Connor pause from refilling Sumo's water bowl. [Chris and Ben found Reed unconscious with Nines nowhere to be found. I'm on my way to come get you.]
And that had been how Connor's terrible day (and night) had started.
Once Hank had pulled up to the house, at a speed that was certainly not suitable for a residential area especially in the downpour that was happening, he had begun to inform Connor of the situation. Gavin and Nines had been investigating a lead about the android crucifixion murders when they had gone off the grid. They had been expected for a check-in several hours ago, but when they had failed to turn back into the precinct, a notification had been sent out to any officers on patrol. Officer Miller and Detective Collins had come across their empty squad car with Gavin unconscious in the dirt not too far from it. That had bene all Hank knew of the situation as he had promptly sped home to get Connor once he had been informed.
Nines had been missing.
Gavin had been hurt.
Nines would not have just left his partner in the dirt.
Gavin would not have just plopped down and take his injuries without calling for assistance.
The ride to the precinct had seemed like one of the longest car rides Connor had ever taken in his relatively short existence. He had done his best to keep himself calm. It had not been known for certain what had happened, and it would not have boded well to jump to conclusions.
He had paid little attention to the rain wetting his clothes when he power-walked—sped, rather—into the DPD. The floor had been slick. He had almost slipped with the speed he had been going. He had made a reminder to himself to apologize for upsetting the receptionists in tracking mud and water into the receiving area.
Fortunately, when they had arrived at the precinct, Gavin had been on his feet, albeit angry and holding an icepack to the swollen knot on the back of his head. Officer Miller and Detective Collins had been flanking him on either side. Connor had been worried that the man had sustained underlying injuries, but Gavin had protested any suggestions about going to the hospital. As much as Gavin had always protested being scanned without permission, Connor had to admit that he had done so anyway. He had been justifiably worried, in his opinion. Nevertheless, the way Gavin had been carrying himself, fuming and irritated, had let Connor know that the human was not concussed or worse.
Hopefully.
[Stress Level: 55% ^^]
"Reed, what the fuck happened?" Fowler had scowled, more concerned than angry.
Gavin had batted at all the people that had been crowding at his desk while Tina had batted his hand back. "We got jumped, that's what the fuck happened." He had clenched his hand around the icepack he was holding. "We were working that ongoing crucifixion case, following a lead that tipped us off to the old warehouses—you know, those ancient ones that've been condemned for decades. Turns out," here he had snorted, and his tone had turned nasty with self-deprecation, "the lead was a false one. My fault that things turned shitty."
A sinking feeling had begun to creep on Connor. "…Gavin?" He had swallowed to rid of the sudden lump—it had to have been excess sterilization fluid, that had been it—in his throat. "Gavin, what happened to Nines?"
Gavin had just grit hit teeth as he looked down at his lap, not answering.
A black, shivering feeling of impending dread had felt slick as it wormed through his codes. The ink pool of shadows at his feet had matched it, bubbling with the sick anticipation. "Gavin, please."
[Stress Level: 69% ^^]
"He—"
"Sir!" all heads had turned the high-pitched voice that was coming from the entryway to the bullpen. One of the receptionists, the female-identifying PM700 known as Pamela, came rushing in, her heels clacking with every step. She made her way towards Fowler. Her LED was spinning yellow at her temple quite noticeably and her brown optics were wide with worry. "Captain Fowler, sir! I received an email on one of the tablets we use at the front desk, that, well," she had changed her gaze to Gavin who raised an eyebrow at the attention, "it mentioned Detective Reed and Detective Nines. It has instructions that require the attached video to be played. We," her optics had slid from each of the tense people in the bullpen, "we don't get things like this at the front desk, so I thought it best for you to see it. It doesn't seem like any good."
The dread he had been feeling had risen in him further.
If he had been human, he would have felt ill.
But using the phrase had felt apt in this situation, so—he had felt ill.
Fowler had taken the tablet she then had offered to him. "Thank you, Pamela. You can go back to the desk." He had paused as he took in her expression, "I'll let you know what happens. Don't worry."
Reluctantly, she had nodded, turning on her heel to go back to the front desk. Before leaving, however, she had shot a look over her shoulder to Connor. He had received a ping from her with the attached feelings of concern-worry-anxiousness-sympathy in the millisecond it had taken for her to make optic-contact with him. Nines had always been kind to her, so Connor had understood why she was so concerned over the email. Although his own anxieties had been on the rise since he had stepped into the precinct, he had sent her a ping of his own, one that tried to convey reassurance-kindness-sympathy as best he could. (4)
Two seconds into her way out, she had given him the slightest of nods before breaking optic-contact.
"Alright," Fowler had said, "I have no doubt this isn't any good, so let's get this over with. I don't like this, but any information about Nines is better than nothing." With that, he had tapped on the tablet to transfer the video to one of the viewing screens in the bullpen. It had been black at first before shifting into static and then subsequent visuals.
What had played next would be something Connor would never forget.
The video had cut to the innards of a dingy-looking warehouse. There in the middle, tied to a large support beam with chains, had been Nines, slumping, bleeding, and—oh rA9, what had they done to his arms? The camera had seemed to be situated off to the side, hiding from view from Nines but giving them a clear view of him. His LED had been a bright red beacon in the mixed lighting of the building. Before he had could have stopped himself, Connor had shouted. "Nines!"
"Oh, fuckin' A," Hank had sucked in a breath at Nines's appearance, while Gavin and Fowler had sworn colorfully. Officer Miller had grimaced and hid his mouth behind his face as Detective Collins had paled several shades.
They had watched and listened, helpless, as Nines regained consciousness and three people had descended upon him. As soon as the two men and the woman had appeared, Connor had trained his optics on them with an almost mad fervor. Scouring the multiple databases which he was connected in seconds, he had identified the people. "Captain," he had grabbed Fowler's attention, "the first man—the blonde one—is Kyle Kincaid, ex-military and dishonorably discharged. Known alias of 'Boss'. He has been arrested before for black market dealings and assault." When the green-haired woman came into focus, he had listed, "The woman is Imaurie Carpenter, also ex-military, known alias of 'Leaf'. She has been arrested for multiple counts of theft. The other man—the larger one—is James O'Sullivan, known alias of 'Tank'. He has been arrested on one count of murder and several charges of battery."
"And now they have so many more charges that are racking up against them with this," Gavin had sneered at the video. "Assaulting me, kidnapping Nines, assaulting and," he had grimaced on the next word, "torturing him from the looks of it. God, it's my damn fault this happened. They used me to get to him."
Officer Collins cut it, "Reed, that's not your fault. You can't blame yourself for all this."
Before Gavin could argue, they had heard Boss through the video say, "Not that it's gonna matter to you after it's all done—you and that duplicate of yours are probably going to end up scrapped for black market parts or some shit, I dunno. We didn't get the juicy specifics. You were just the extra, after all."
Duplicate.
"Wait, does he mean…?" Officer Miller had turned to look at Connor, but it was what had been said next that confirmed Connor's suspicions.
"The skinnier version of you," Leaf had said. "The negotiator-detective of your precinct, plastic. Thought that would be pretty obvious."
Connor's optics had gone wide and something had jerked in his chassis. Everyone had suddenly had eyes on him. They took him to get to me. Oh rA9. He ignored everyone's staring, hoping that they would all just hurry and look away. We need to worry about Nines, not me.
He had clenched his jaw as he continued watching the video, both in anxious anticipation and a blooming feeling of anger. The others had switched their attention back to it in turn. Those criminals had hurt Nines, injured him, and rendered him unable to move. He had never seen Nines in such a state before—he had wanted to take Nines out of there, get him to safety.
[Stress Level: 74% ^^]
Fowler had barked out an order. "Is someone getting the location on this?!"
"Working on it, sir!"
Connor had heard the big man, Truck, mention a hacking chip. A shiver of disgust had reverberated through his chassis. A revolting image, to think about that being inside Nines.
If he thought that had been bad, the following had been so much worse.
They all had watched as Truck squatted in front of Nines, getting close in his space. Despite the tense atmosphere, it had been like 'watching a train wreck' as the human saying went—knowing that one was about to watch a disaster yet not being able to do anything about it or look away. The thick, raised finger had been an instrument of impending doom—a dramatic word, but it had been quite apt for this situation—and watching it get closer to Nines's face was akin to watching a man sign his death certificate. Despite the tension charging the air, a thrill of anticipation had raced through Connor's code when he preconstructed what was about to happen to Truck. (Perhaps Connor had been spending a little too much time around Nines, for his thoughts to be like that.)
"Oh no," Officer Mitchell Wilson, the man who he had saved during his first mission, had moaned, "he's not going to want to do that."
Officer Wilson had been quite correct.
The finger that had then been poking Nines's cheek sealed the burly man's fate. Connor had no sympathy.
A few of the weaker-stomached officers may have screamed when Nines had lunged forward and bit off Truck's finger. Gavin and Hank, in rare unison, had cried out a satisfied, "Ha!", and, while there had been a pleased feeling of seeing Nines getting some revenge over his predicament, three out of the four of Connor's preconstructions had led him to feelings of dread. What he had preconstructed after this event had not been anything in Nines's favor.
This time, he had hated being correct.
(He had also hated having perfect memory, at times like this.)
The retaliation that had been brought down upon Nines had not been worth the satisfaction. To his horror, Boss had angrily stomped forward and jabbed the shock wand he had been playing with right into Nines, and the electricity that crackled around him had lit up the screen. The screech that had ripped itself from Nines sounded utterly inhuman, breaking as it overloaded his voicebox. Connor had nearly yelled along with him, terrified for Nines, but had instead clapped a hand over his mouth.
[Stress Level: 81% ^^]
"Christ, Nines!"
"Oh my God," Tina had muttered behind him, her voice wobbling.
Once Boss and Leaf—Truck had been otherwise occupied with slowing the bleeding of his wrist—had seemingly been satisfied that Nines would no longer move, Boss swore and threw the shock wand somewhere out of the camera's range. "Now," he had let out a frustrated breath before turning to face the camera directly, "now that I have your attention, on to more serious business. As me and my colleagues have been informed, your RK900 is pretty special to your precinct, along with the RK800 that we weren't able to snatch up. Because I know that you all wouldn't want to go without this freaky robot here," he grinned as he pointed a thumb over his shoulder, specifically at Nines's slumped form, "I know that you would go far to get it back. That being said, I'm going to tell you what I want you to do, should be simple.
It's only one thing, really. As I'm sure you already know, we wanted to get the RK800, not the murder bot we got instead—even though, it would fetch nice parts and an equally splendid bonus, too. 'Cuz of that, you're gonna have to bring that RK800 to us if you wanna see murder bot here. Give us the Negotiator, and we might consider trading for the RK900." The grin on Boss's face turned malicious, "Well, what might be left of him, anyway. Meet us at the abandoned docks by the harbor at 2 AM. We'll be waiting."
Silence reigned in the bullpen after the video ended.
"…Connor."
He had felt cold.
"Connor," Hank had called out to him again. He had sounded distant. There had been a buzzing ringing in his head…or maybe that had been the people exploding into action around him. The buzzing had been growing louder. He had clenched his teeth once more.
Something had touched his shoulder and it had been only by the smallest fraction of awareness that Connor had not flipped whatever had touched him over his shoulder. A cancelation of his self-defense protocol and a blink later, Connor had registered the touch as Hank's hand on his shoulder. There was a pressure-pain in his jaw—the actuator for his jaw had locked again. He had wrenched his jaw open, ignoring the warnings in the corner of his HUD, moving it side to side. Another blink and he had mechanically removed his own hand from its previous position clamped over Hanks' finger by finger. He had muttered an apology.
It had sounded weak.
Hank had turned him around before withdrawing his hand. "Con, we're gonna get him back but," he had glanced away to look at Fowler before returning to Connor "I don't think you should go."
A beat. "My apologies, Hank, but I believe my audio processors must be malfunctioning. I thought you said that I should stay behind."
The older man had looked uncomfortable. "Uh, yeah, that's kinda exactly what I said."
"I am going—I must." Connor began to (speed) walk towards his Captain with Hank right behind him. He had possessed a clear mission objective in mind. "They stated they wanted the department negotiator, which is myself specifically. If I do not go, then there is no guarantee that Nines will be kept alive." Did Hank not understand this? He had come to a stop in front of Fowler and began, "Captain—"
"No, Connor," Fowler had interrupted him as he held a hand up. "We can't have both you and Nines snatched up by some wackjob group that wants you."
[Stress Level: 87% ^^]
"I can predict and preconstruct the best and most efficient ways to negotiate with this group," Connor had laid in the facts. Fowler had always been a logical man (most of the time) from Connor's experience, so the best dialogue option would be one based on reason and fact. "If I do not show up, we risk them," his voice had skipped over the next word, "destroying Nines. My presence will assure Nines's safety as there is a 98% chance that they will not run the risk of ruining their bargaining chip. In addition, what was stated in the video suggests they are not working alone. If we bring them all in, there is a chance we can figure out for whom they are working."
"Fowler, you can't seriously think this is a good idea," Hank had crossed his arms.
"The most efficient choice is allowing me to do my job as this precinct's Negotiator and deescalating the situation." Let me use the skills with which I was programmed.
Fowler had stared at Connor, and to Connor, it had felt like he was a specimen under a microscope—the smallest of reactions being looked for. It had been a tense, long moment before Fowler finally relented. "Get your gear and get ready. If anything goes south, we're pulling you."
A wave of relief crashed into Connor's programming.
[Stress Level: 80% v v]
"Of course, Captain. But," he had said pointedly, "I will make sure that does not have to happen."
In an under an hour, a team had been formed for the task of retrieving Nines and bringing in the assailants. Connor had been among them with Hank by his side.
Before, looking at Nines through the video in the DPD, he had felt cold. The oil slick of fear had drenched him, the thin sheen of it coating his coding, his servos, and his actuators.
Now, though…
The glacial fear had no longer weighed him down, but instead had changed. Walking out of the precinct with a purpose, shadows flooding the ground behind him like a buzzing ink spill, the cold had become something he could use. Something powerful, something all-encompassing.
Just under a year into deviancy, he was beginning to experience what one very particular, powerful emotion felt like:
Rage.
.
.
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.
.
[Stress Level: 77% - -]
The frigid rain drenched him from head to toe.
Brown hair plastered against his forehead, Connor paid the weather no mind as he trained his optics on the warehouse just across the concrete lot. It was cold outside, yes, but what he felt could outmatch that ten-fold.
[Remember Connor,] came Hank's voice over the com line as he walked closer to the building, slow and careful, [if anything goes south, we're pulling you, negotiator or not.]
With many officers surrounding the warehouse and Hank keeping position just outside, there was a high probability of all ends being covered. Face neutral and mouth set in a line, Connor answered through his internal channels rather than aloud like he had grown used to with his human companions, [Understood. Entering the building now.]
As Connor entered the building, he raised his voice in order to announce his arrival to the criminals. "You requested the negotiator of the DPD," he said as he looked around the warehouse, one side to another. Looking at its interior through a video was one thing, but feeling its decrepit state in person was another. Against his synthskin, he could feel the cold, damp draft sweeping through the cracked boards and broken windows and could practically touch the electric hum of the flickering lightbulbs above his head. He spoke again as he turned a corner around a tall stack of molded wooden boards, "You wanted me, so here I am."
[Closing in the perimeter, three men neutralized so far,] an officer said through the com line.
Gavin's voice filtered through the line next. [Anderson has entered the building, Connor. He's got your six covered.] There was a pause before he spoke again, however it was as if his voice was weighed down with the anvil of every possibility of something going wrong. [Just…get him out of there—get both of you out of there…]
[Acknowledged, and I will.]
Despite the veritable downpour that was happening outside, his audio processors could pick up his own footsteps against thrum. His thoughts went to Nines. With every step, he could imagine his successor being dragged against the filthy, wet ground—Connor force killed his own program when it threatened to boot up preconstructions.
"I'm so glad you decided to join us," the voice that belonged to Boss chimed through the warehouse. The fact that he sounded so cheerful grated against Connor's nerves.
"I am here just as you wanted," he raised his head to look at Boss who was on a metal catwalk towards the top area of the warehouse. "You have injured two officers of the law which will only add to your list of offenses. If you surrender yourself and your associates, it will be better for you."
Boss snorted, before bounding down the stairs with a fervor that made Connor on-edge, more so than he already was. "An officer of the law? Please, that murder bot is a freaky machine, no matter what the dumb law says. And I think you're getting the wrong idea here, Negotiator." He reached behind him to unhook the shockwand that was attached to his belt. As the man twirled the shockwand in his hand, Connor's optics followed its every move. "What we're gonna do is do our job and take you in so we can get paid." He pointed the wand at Connor. "You feel me?"
Connor knew this was not a man that could be reasoned with. This situation was incredibly precarious. If he made the wrong move, it would cost both him and Nines their lives. If Boss became agitated or angered, he could have whatever lackeys he had left fire on him and any of the officers they encountered.
This would not be easy.
But, then again, he was made for difficult situations.
"I believe there is a way that all of us can walk out of here with the best outcomes in mind," he answered in order to buy time. With slow and measured steps, he walked closer to the man, further into the warehouse. Cybernetically, he connected to the com line between all the other officers. [How many of the fugitives have been neutralized?]
[Almost all of them,] came Officer Miller's reply. [Pretty sure there are less than four guys left.]
Hank added, [The big bastard Truck has been taken in, but that woman Leaf still ain't in the back of a squad car just yet.]
[Please hurry and neutralize the rest silently. If he hears anything, probability of this succeeding will drop sharply. I may not be able to detain him and ensure Nines's safety if he reacts erratically in response.]
[Understood.]
Boss tossed his head back and laughed with his free hand on his stomach, although whatever amused him was lost on Connor. "You know, I like you, Negotiator. For a bunch of plastic and wires, you're a pretty funny bot to talk to. Your lookalike was pretty quiet all the time and really snippy—and I mean that both figuratively and literally. The teeth on that one," he muttered, but then picked up louder, "But you! You're not like the other bots out there, and you seem like you can hold a conversation better than some of the ditzes I have for a crew. So, why don't we talk? Maybe you can entertain me."
[1: Keep Boss talking]
[2: Advance forward close enough to apprehend]
[3: Lay out consequences logically]
[4: Have officers clos—]
"Oh, and now that you've gotten close enough," Boss's voice broke through his mission choices, "I believe it's time you said hi to your lookalike." Connor felt something in his chassis lurch at the grin on the man's face, the cold feeling returning as he watched him point to Connor's left side to the support beam that held up the entire warehouse. "It's right over there if you turn a bit. You probably missed it on account of the angle and whatnot."
The slow, calmness of his movements, almost methodical in nature, as he neared where Boss pointed belied the almost painful and furious beating of his regulator. Connor quickly analyzed the support beam. It was as thick as two of him and was flaking with navy blue paint chips. Under it were two ratty plastic tarps, the blue one covering what he could guess to be boxes or crates, but the green one has something much lumpier underneath it. He glanced at Boss, who had not moved but gestured to the tarps with waning patience, in order to assure he would not be attacked (right now) before reaching out a hand to the green one. If he were human and not created to be such a highly-developed android, his hand would have been shaking. (But that was not to say that the wires in his arm were not malfunctioning by a margin of 1.44% due to his stress levels.)
He ripped the tarp away.
Connor stilled.
There was Nines, right in front of him, chained against the support beam and salt circle around him. There was Nines, skin so pale and translucent that Connor could see the white of his chassis and his buildlines right through. There was Nines, body held up by chains as he was too weak to hold himself upright, shaking from pain. There was Nines, dark hair out of its usual style, hanging damp against his dirtied forehead and face. There was Nines, smoke curling slowly from his neck as blue thirium dribbled out of his blackened, exposed neck port. Whatever chip that had been present was now gone. There was Nines, breath wheezing from every shallow breath as something clicked with each inhale and exhale. And there was Nines, arms ripped from his very person, fresh thirium still wetting his ruined clothes.
There was Nines, hurt right in front of him.
Something glitched inside him.
[Error]
[_Err0r]
[err0R_1: Ke3p B0ss—]
[_1: Ke3p B0s5 TAlk1N6]
Hank, from his position behind a large pile of abandoned barrels, could not only see the utter shitty state that Nines was in but was also witness to Connor stilling in the most unnatural way. With Reed in an open landing above him and Chris and Tina keeping cover on the other side, he knew that they saw it as well.
"Ah shit," he hissed under his breath, a sentiment that was echoed on the com line by the Reed, Chris, and Tina. This wasn't going to end well.
He spoke lowly into his com, as if his voice would break the fragility of the situation. "Everyone, stay alert. Whatever's next isn't going to be pretty."
[_/Op3r T1nG sYSt3M: b00t1nG uP…]
[_/Op3r T1nG sYSt3m: ON—]
[_/Op3rat1nG SYst3m: Onlin3….Syst3m Functions: 39%]
[…]
[….]
[…cal1braTIng…]
[_Sy5t3m AL3rT]
[_Sy5t3m AL3rT: WArN1nG]
[Sy5tem AlerT: Warn1ng]
[Warning: Thirium L3vels—54%]
[Sy5t3m Alert: RePlenish thir1uM levels soon]
[Syst3m Alert: Tim3 Until Deactivation— -00:02:58:17]
00101110 00101110 00101110 01010111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00101110 00101110 00101110 00111111 (5)
01010111 00101101 01010111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00111111 00100000 01010111 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00101110 00101110 00101110 01110111 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00111111 (6)
01010111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01101000 01100001—ppened? (7)
What happened…?
Nines's cranial processor felt scrambled and fragmented as he struggled through his reboot. There were multitudes of errors piled on top one each other on his HUD. Everything felt distant as if he were existing and living through a gray miasma that was choking him, muting him, smothering him. (Later, he would consider this to have been what a human being drunk and experiencing blood loss would feel like.) He coughed but winced when he felt something grind with the exhale and another wet thing splatter from between his teeth.
It felt warm against his lips.
He felt cold.
[Warning: Missing Biocomponent—Biocomponent #9077a, left leg component]
[System Alert: Replace Biocomponent #9077a]
[Warning: Missing Biocomponent—Biocomponent #9573b, right leg component]
[System Alert: Replace Biocomponent #9573b]
The static that had been roaring in his working audio processor eventually died down, letting other sounds slowly trickle in like drops of water through a cracked wall. He could make out something steady…the rain, the beat of heavy rain. The sounds of voices…Who was talking? He could not understand them…
He tried to move, tried to gain some semblance. Despite every movement sending shocks to the pain receptors in his cranial processor, he was able to take stock of his person: body bound against something, 0.78 second delay in though-to-action commands, and damage coming from biocomponent ports #9077a and #9573b. How could he have received such drastic damage? He was a military-grade model—he should not have been damaged like this so easily? So what could have…?
As if questioning the situation had unlocked the key to his memories, everything came flooding back to him with enough speed to disorient him. The tip to the case, the trip to the warehouses, the assailants assaulting Gavin in order to take him, being knocked unconscious by something, waking up to his kidnappers only to be knocked offline again—it all came back. As much as the cold dampness had been biting into him, an equally forcefully urgency sunk its teeth into him, ignoring his chassis to hit right into his internal systems; it made something in him shake. Oh no, Gavin…RA9 please let him be okay.
His audio processor was still in the process of piecing together whatever was happening around him. Sounds became clearer and the voices became more recognizable. Even though he missed several parts of what was being said, he could hear the haughtiness of Boss who had done this to him. "Just wanna—not that it'll do—DPD better do it."
More sounds of the wind howling (and he could feel it on his synthskin and against his injuries).
Sounds of footsteps coming from his right, a familiar gait.
Slowly on the repair, his audio processors were able to pick up a male voice with a mild rasp with that spoke with a steady cadence. Articulate and concise, it was one that he was intimately familiar with, one that he knew dearly. The one he was modelled after. Connor was here.
Connor was here, oh no.
As soon as he registered that Connor was here in the warehouse, the information that his kidnappers had told him swelled to his mind's forefront. No! If Connor is here, they are going to take him!
Nines struggled against his bonds and his optics shot open. Things were hazy and fragmented, unclear until he blinked and recalibrated his optical units twice. In 8.3 seconds, he could see clearly although there was a stark lack of pigmentation around the edges of his vision. It was highly probably that error was caused by his low thirium levels, and by rA9, they were low. If they dipped below 45%, he would not be able to rouse himself from unconsciousness.
"Lookie there, the bot—raising itself—dead."
He felt dizzy and almost disconnected from his body.
The red timer in the corner of his HUD was an ominous weight he did not want.
[System Alert: Time Until Deactivation— -00:02:50:06]
[Warning: Thirium Levels—51%]
"Nines," Connor's voice drew him in, quiet and dark.
He did not realize how much of a struggle it was to lift his head and keep it steady, but Nines powered through that challenge in order to focus on Connor. Although he did not want his successor here as the threat loomed over the both of them, relief outweighed that concern in this moment. He could have embraced him if he had his arms and had the energy to do so. Oh, thank rA9, I thought I would never see him again. Through the hair hanging in his face, he looked at him. He was wet, he was wearing a bulletproof vest, he was tall, he had the darkness lurking in his doe-brown optics, he was here…
(He was beautiful.)
"Nines, you need to stay awake, stay online."
"Co…nnor," was all he could manage. His own voice was a croak, static shredding through it.
While he did not move from his spot, Connor's presence was almost right next to him. "Are you alright?"
Although the part in him that enjoyed being finnicky wanted to say, "Alright is quite relative, but my existence will not cease within the next ten minutes, if that brings you any comfort," all he had the energy to do instead was answer with a weak nod and a static-laden, "Currently."
Boss seemed to grow impatient with their exchange, rather childish, if Nines might have added. "If you two are done gossiping, I believe it's time I got what I want." He tapped length of the gun he had unholstered against his leg.
Connor's eyes rested on Nines for another second before snapping back to the criminal in front of them. Nines wanted those optics to come back and stay on him. "…Of course," Connor acquiesced after a careful pause. "But you must understand that, with all the crimes that you have committed, I cannot allow you to walk freely. Oh, and might I add," he continued, as if it were an afterthought, "what a list indeed. There are not many of those who go against the law whose actions grab my attention."
Oh, Nines realized, so that's what he's doing.
Boss blinked and stared, the answer taking him off guard. "What?"
"Oh yes," Connor kept going. Every word he said after was paired with a slow inching of ground, getting him closer to the criminal leader. "I have worked many cases since my activation and following deviancy, and when I happened upon yours tonight, I was actually pleased I was allowed to work this…exchange, shall we call it."
Even though he had gained consciousness, Nines's awareness of the situation around him had been steadily fading. One blink, and he had lost a few seconds. Another blink, and now his chronometer informed him he had lost two minutes. His one working audio processor was struggling to compensate against his damage, so voices were coming in and out again like an ocean wave, polluted and grease-heavy.
Connor kept talking, although the specific words escaped Nines. The longer he spoke, the closer Boss began to step, as if drawn in…a moth to a flame. (Nines could not blame him—he could listen to Connor's voice all day.) Thankfully, Nines was still able to process tone, and Connor's was losing whatever minute amount of harshness his held previously. Whatever he was saying, it was becoming a lower in volume…
A little softer…
A little more enticing…
Soon, Boss was a mere three feet in front of Connor.
Through the grayed corners of his vision, Nines—and whoever else would be in the building—took notice of the warehouse becoming darker, as if all the streetlights outside were slowly dying. Despite his injuries, he knew that the cold that was growing was not because of the bad weather outside. He shivered against it, because although it was one that he had felt before, it was tinged with a taint that made his own dark within him cloy. The best way he could have described it was like a dark, cold oil. A normal human may have attributed all this to the storm outside, but by the way the shadows were moving on their own, splitting and writhing like a living creature…Well, that was not the strictest definition of earthly, now was it?
His head nodded with the fatigue of blood loss, but he shook it, forcing himself back to whatever alertness his body could manage. From the areas in the warehouse he could see, near the walls and the ceiling, there were glowing orbs of red floating. He blinked heavily, but he knew those red orbs of light were not the backup lights.
Back up lights were not shaped like eyes.
[System Alert: Time Until Deactivation— -00:02:37:46]
[Warning: Thirium Levels—48%]
Boss was being drawn even closer to the Negotiator like an inching snail. He did not notice the shadows curling around his ankles before it was too late.
Connor, as always, was efficient and effective, and for that Nines was thankfully—he did not have much time left. The shadows tripped Boss, allowing Connor to lunge forward and take him down physically, cuff him, and read him his rights.
(Later, during Boss's interrogation and subsequent confession, the criminal would admit to his fascination with Connor. He would spill the sudden desire to keep him there as the 'doe-eyed bot in front of him was matching him word for word' and that it had been a long while since he had a compelling 'person' to argue with. He would admit to the urge of wanting to keep talking, keep the Negotiator in front of him going.)
Without realizing it, Nines had drifted into a slow torpor, just on the brink of a shutdown. His systems were slowing, and the dark of his Otherworldly power was small, weak. Despite that, he swallowed some thirium that had been in his mouth as his thoughts took all the energy from him. Pain and thirium loss be damned, all he could do was stare at Connor. Connor, his fellow RK who had come here to save him. His words had been bewitching, almost like he was silver-tongued (which was absent from his everyday speech—by that, he meant that Connor cried when talking about newborn puppies; no silver tongue talking about puppies.)
All the time Connor had been speaking, Nines had just wanted to close his eyes (for good) and drift off in order to listen to Connor's voice, one that was a scant higher than his. But no, he had not done that. Instead, he had been enthralled, watching Connor—even through his low energy state—as he drew Boss, lured him in what Nines guessed appealed to the criminal leader.
Connor, with his sleek, black shadows…Connor, with those damningly beautiful glowing eyes in the dark…Connor, with his gentle low voice and silver words…
Nines swallowed again, hard, this time having nothing to do with the thirium leaking into his mouth. To use some of Gavin's favorite language, the main thought that was prominent in his cranial processor was, Oh, fuck me. A harsh breath left him.
[System Alert: Time Until Deactivation— -00:02:30:46]
[Warning: Thirium Levels—46%]
Suddenly there were hands on him and voices much closer to him than they were before. His head snapped up and optics flew open—when had he closed them?—as he struggled against them. Had Connor not detained Boss? Were these the henchman that had snuck around the DPD? Thankfully, his graying optics and malfunctioning audio processors were able to register, finally, who was in front of him.
"—okay. It's okay—here for you—okay now." A gruff voice, deeper than Connor's, spoke from in front of him. His optics finally registered it to belong to Hank, and Nines was all too relieved. Concerned blue eyes were partially hidden behind his grey hair, and Nines would assent that frazzled was not a good look for the Lieutenant. One large hand was steadying his shoulder while the other was working with a tool behind his back at the chains. A loud snap from the tool and the chains quickly rattled off of him. He slumped forward, exhausted by the very definition of the word, but was caught by the man in front of him.
Hank was saying something, but he only caught garbled parts of it.
Nines dipped in and out again but was aware that he had been shifted over to someone else. "Nines," he heard them whisper next to his ear, and Nines will blame his stress levels and everything that had happened over the last several hours, but his optics began to sting and leak. A white collar, a neck dotted with moles. Whatever was said next was lost to his shot audio processor, but he knew the owner and was so thankful. He knew that voice, knew that strength under that soft and gentle lowness.
[Interface Request: RK800 313-248-317-51_Connor]
[Accept | Deny]
[Accept | Deny]
The feelings of comfort and worry and closeness quickly swept over him through the interface and his shivering nearly doubled from the intensity. He tried to hold back his pain from affecting Connor through the connection, but he doubted it worked with who was now holding him. [We have you, Nines. I am here, and we are going to get you help. Everything will be okay, I am here.]
His optics slid shut. Everything was taking its toll on him. His nose was buried in the warmth of Connor's neck as the other began carding his hand through Nines's hair. Words had completely ceased to register to him, but the plain sound of Connor's voice and the vibration of it against him was pleasant…soothing. A harsh gust of wind swept through the warehouse, forcing Nines's body to give an almost violent shudder. Quicker than anything, Connor shifted him—carefully as not to further irritate his injuries—more against him until Nines's chest tilted against Connor's. Although slightly larger and taller than Connor, his predecessor had him fully in his lap. The arm that was not in his hair was across his waist as it cradled him against him.
He felt warm for the first time in hours.
Something not human and dark curled around him, slow and tender, but he did not fear it. His own dark within him welcomed it, reached out to it, a frayed hand of shadow struggling with little power.
He was drifting off, systems steadily slowing for a low power shut down. Slipping into unconsciousness with the reverberation of Connor's voice against his ear, his hands around him, and the interface continuing…he had a final thought before going offline.
This…This feels nice…
Published: 8/12/19
(1) Even though in the game, androids cannot feel pain, pleasure, or temperature, I'm working with the theory that deviants can feel all this. If the YKs can feel temperature, then I feel like deviants should be able to as well. Nines is feeling the cold because it is blowing directly into his open injuries, so it is because of that that the cold is hurting him.
(2) Nines's Hockerty beige long overcoat: (since FF is dumb and doesn't allow links, if you Google Image search 'beige long Hockerty jacket', you can see which one he is wearing.)
(3) His eye mods are from the last fic. The irises of his optics are a glowing blue while the scleras are black.
(4) Pings between androids can be used as a simple attention notification or can be used to transfer very minor, watered down version of emotions. (An interface, on the other hand, is what really can transfer fully in-depth emotions. Think of a ping as carrying a few "drops" of an emotion while an interface can dump the whole "pitcher" of emotion.)
(5) Binary for: ...What...?
(6) Binary for: W-What? Where...where am I?
(7) Binary for: What ha—
A/N: If Nines seems a little OOC towards the end, blood loss and severe injuries (along with having one of the few people that you are about in immediate danger) might make a person like that. Thanks to everyone who faved and alerted this fic! :D
A/N 2: I drew fanart for the last chapter! If you go on my tumblr: elreyciero and search in the otherworldly AU tag, it will be in there. (I wish I could link it, but again, FF hates links) In addition, I am open for writing commissions! If you are interested, message me here as I can then can give you a link to my commission info.