I've just learned the events of Detroit: Become Human take place over the span of five/six days. That's way shorter than I thought it would be, so I'm just gonna pretend it's longer than that. Not sure what David was on when he had Markus formulate an entire civil rights revolution in SIX DAYS.
So anyways, in this fic the game takes place over four months, which I think may even be a bit short. Realistically, it would take years for androids to get any sort of rights with our government, but we can be a bit more flexible here.
Six days, Jesus Christ. Hank may as well be an android too, with the amount of sleep he got between cases. We can't even pass the Equal Rights Amendment in 2019, there's NO WAY our government would give androids rights that quickly.
Anyways, enough ranting. Where were we?
Location: "The Short Circuit Cafe", 18563 South Waterfell St, Detroit, MI 48214
Relevant Information: "Est. 2021, The Short Circuit Cafe is Detroit's first cafe with an entirely android waiting staff! Enjoy our award winning coffee, brewed with local…" [See More]
Date: September 8th, 2038
Time: 0316
Objective: Await further instructions
Thirium 310 oxygen level: 98%
Pulse reading: 68 bpm
Level of Stress: 11%
All systems functional.
Connor is sitting in a booth across from Lieutenant Anderson in a modern, yet slightly lived-in diner on the East side of Detroit. The interior of the building is themed around an old 60's diner, complete with black and white checkered floor tiles and teal neon lights around the perimeter of the dining area. Old movie and celebrity posters haphazardly decorate the walls, some of which Hank can remember his parents gushing over back in the old days when he was a kid. Of course, the posters are too high-quality to be authentic, but nobody can afford antiques nowadays.
It's gimmicky, but it's open and quiet and tucked away in a side-street where the two won't be bothered at this time of night. Probably.
A female-presenting AV500 organizes menus at the table beside the two. It's wearing a pristine white apron and a sky blue blouse, with its brunette hair in a tight bun high on the back of its head. It's also wearing a pair of thick-rimmed red glasses, but even from a distance Connor can tell the lenses have no curvature; they only serve to complete the look. Frankly, the facade feels like something straight from an old 80's movie, but then again the programmers who created the damn thing were probably kids around that time, anyways.
Aside from the three, not a soul is in the diner. The place is eerily quiet, save for an old jukebox in the corner of the cafe, which is playing an old Tom Jones song that Hank can't quite remember the name of. He goes to take another sip of coffee- his third cup of the night- but finds to his chagrin that the mug is, once again, empty.
Connor, in the meantime, is a bit preoccupied filing a report to CyberLife. Its eyes are closed and its body is completely rigid, aside from a stray twitch every once in a while. It could almost be in a restless state of sleep, by the looks of it.
While many humans may find Connor's methods of self-reporting a nuisance, the RK800 finds them almost comforting. It's all in its programming, anyhow. With the familiar pull of unconsciousness, the process begins.
Flashes of brightness.
The smell of orange mock and wolfsbane.
A woman, cloaked in white. Professional, yet stunningly beautiful.
Amanda.
She greets it with an air of stern serenity, like an old friend. "Connor, I've been expecting you. Would you mind a little walk?"
The RK800 takes a step towards her, deeper into the garden, and [MEMORY REDACTED]
Connor's failure lingers like an itch it cannot scratch. It would be maddening, if Connor were a deviant. But it isn't, so it must simply continue forward, omniscient of its own shortcomings.
It's able to snap back to reality just as Hank pipes up to get the waitress' attention. "Another cup. Make it strong enough to chew." A pause. Then another comment, quieter, with a tone unsure if anything should be said at all. "...please."
The AV500 responds cheerfully and walks over to the two. "Coming right up, sir. We also offer wired communication services for your android, free of charge, if you need to check on any of its systems." She has an earthy voice with a slight southern drawl, common among the AV500 models. This was intended to make the androids feel more familial and calm, but in urban Detroit the accent is mostly just off putting.
Hank looks up from his empty drink and faces the RK800. "You good, Connor?"
The android responds without a hitch. "My diagnostic shows that my systems are fully operational."
The Lieutenant turns back towards the waitress. "We're fine, thanks."
Still, it continues rambling as it pours another cup of coffee for the human. Neither Hank nor Connor saw it pull out a pitcher, but it somehow has one with it anyways. "We also have scented Thirium boosters your android can ingest to give off the earthy aroma of freshly brewed-"
Hank cuts it off before it can finish. "We're not interested." The Lieutenant grumbles to himself about how he misses the good old days of 'hospitality' and 'genuine connection.'
The AV500 pauses for a moment, processing, compiling a list of reasons as to why it upset the human. After a minute, it hurries to the kitchen and returns with a warm cinnamon bun, slathered in a sweet white icing, along with a fork on a white ceramic plate. The smell is absolutely heavenly.
"Public records indicate that your birthday was only a few days ago, sir. Here's a little something on the house, from us to you."
The Lieutenant stares at the plate for a few seconds in surprise before reluctantly accepting it. "To be honest, I hadn't even realized it was-" he sighs, then grabs the fork and scoops up a bite of the pastry. Shit, he's getting old, he hasn't even really been keeping track of his age, to be honest. They say time flies when you're having fun, but the Lieutenant has learned the hard way that time flies no matter what you do, whether you enjoy it or not. It's best not to think about it too much. He does that enough at home with his good pal, Jack Daniels. If he wasn't on the clock right now...
Connor stores this interaction in a long-term memory file, to review later.
Hank takes another bite of the roll. "It's good. Not that you'd care about any compliment I give you." Years of interacting with emotionless cashiers, bartenders, and store clerks has worn on the man, frankly. He kind of misses the humanity that could be found even in the cramped corner stores during his childhood, when store employees would sport colorful little pins on their birthday, or would bring up in passing during a checkout transaction that their kid had just graduated from highschool.
He doesn't get much of that on the job, not anymore.
The waitress smiles warmly at the human. "Well, I'll tell my manager in the morning. She created the recipe, after all. Any feedback is appreciated!"
This puts a faint smile on Hank's face. Connor flags the memory as high priority. It is important to understand one's partner, even if one isn't currently on a case, after all.
Throughout all of this, the RK800 sits, nearly motionless, simply scanning its surroundings. Taking everything in. Almost motionless. An untrained eye would think it was meditating, but something like that obviously isn't possible for a compliant.
Hank finishes the cinnamon roll and turns back to his work, pouring over a stack of papers with a slightly glazed look in his eyes. A quick glance by Connor confirms them as forms A-45, D-13, and E-02 of the Detroit Police Department, outlining and detailing the nitty-gritty details of their last case. "The Nest", as Hank called it. Case number 000007384, in which a male-presenting android, a WB200 Model 874 004 961 who is known by the alias Rupert Travis, deviated from its programming and fled from its position as an agricultural worker at Urban Farms of Detroit.
Connor and Lieutenant Anderson were able to trace the android back to apartment 304B in the Twin Pines apartment complex, where they found what could only be described as the den of a mentally disturbed- or critically malfunctioning- individual. Labyrinths, ramblings, and numerous scrawled accounts of an "ra9", 2471 to be exact. Floors littered with pigeon feces and scraps of paper and assorted garbage that made it blatantly clear that the deviant had been living in the cesspool for quite some time.
And, of course, the case had ended… unfavorably, but that would all be detailed in the case files. A permanent record of its failures. Connor isn't programmed to be able to feel guilt, but apparently CyberLife hadn't deemed self-disgust too 'deviant' of an 'emotion' for its RK800 models. At the very least, this gives Lieutenant Anderson and Connor something to 'bond' over, if one could call it that.
Hank, in the meantime, is nursing the fresh cup of joe while checking boxes and writing comments at a turtle's pace. Naturally, Connor would be able to complete the work and have it filed in a matter of microseconds, but federal regulations require at least one human to complete forms for cases relating to deviant androids. It wouldn't be good PR if a government-issue android misapplied culpability to an innocent human, or marked down some incorrect information about an escaped deviant.
And Hank, mistrusting of androids anyways, is not-so-secretly pleased that androids won't be taking his job for now, despite his constant griping at the prospect of doing paperwork. Androids have taken over practically every other field, from janitorial work to mechanical engineering to pediatric surgery, It's only a matter of time until his job is on the chopping block as well. And after a certain point, there won't be any jobs left, and something is going to have to give, whether it be America's capitalistic ways or the structure of modern society itself.
That, or the deviants kill them all before they can do anything. While this doesn't seem very likely, the classic sci-fi novels, Aasimov and the like, spin a different tale. This is all fiction, of course, but he sort of misses the old days, back when he was a kid, when all the stories of robots and new-fangled technology were akin to fairytales.
The compliant interrupts its partner's thoughts. "So, Lieutenant, what drew you to pursue a career in criminal justice in the first place?" It may as well use this time to form a much-needed connection with the Lieutenant, especially after the events of the last case.
Hank simply leers at the android. He considers the question for a moment, honestly not quite sure if answering is even worth his time. After a few seconds, he lets out a hearty sigh and relents, "to protect and serve, yada-yada-yada. I wanted to make the world a better place and thought this was the way to do it. Some crock that turned out to be. It's nothing you haven't heard before."
Connor blinks, processing the response. "Well, Lieutenant, I actually haven't had any firsthand accounts from an officer's point of view since my activation."
Oh. Right. The thing is fresh from the factory. Of course it wouldn't have any life experience. The Lieutenant waves a hand dismissively. "It's nothing like the movies. It's just like any institution. There's good work being done, I'll give you that, but there's also corruption. We try our best to protect the innocent, but not everyone can be saved."
This is, of course, new information to the compliant. While it was coded to inherently trust first-hand experiences from others on the DPD, it also knows with certainty that Hank is likely to be biased against some sensitive topics. Okay, many topics, of any nature. "Oh? While there may be some problems in the force, I've been informed that those are only personal issues with individual officers."
The officer can't help but laugh to himself. "Is that what they told you to say? People only get to be this bad when others let them. That's the whole reason for our police force, right? But some of the guys around here… some of them join for the sense of power. They feel like real big men toting around their gun and shooting anything that moves."
The response hangs in the air for a while before Connor can follow up. With an inquisitive look in its eyes, it ventures, "And you?"
Hank sort of rubs the back of his neck, not entirely sure how much info he should offer up. "I could tell you I've lived without regret, but your Bullshit Detecting software would start beeping up a storm. Hesitation can get you killed in this field, and there have been times when my hands have been faster than my head. But I've never used my job to bully anyone who couldn't protect themselves."
"And would you say regret is a deciding factor in your… current… coping mechanisms?" The RK800 hopes that this is a more sensitive way to phrase the question, but knowing the Lieutenant, it likely won't be enough to appease him.
Just as Connor expects, Hank glosses over the question and trails off on a tangent of his own. "You didn't seem to feel any type of regret after, you know, letting me fall back there." Hank's voice sounds to be a low growl, thick with obvious, obvious distaste.
Connor remains silent, motionless, calculating. Processing.
"I suppose you wouldn't understand in the first place." Hank almost looks embarrassed at himself for even thinking Connor would have any sort of empathy. It's like expecting a doll or a stuffed bear to come to life; nothing more than the childish remnants of the human evolutionary inclination towards pack bonding. Like expecting companionship from a calculator.
The compliant takes note of Hank's sour tone. According to Connor's facial recognition software, there's a 90% probability that he's upset, 7% that he's enraged, 2% that he's confused, and the remaining 1% is an amalgamation of various other human emotions. "I wasn't programmed to experience what you would consider "regret," but I do self-reflect on my past actions regularly."
The Lieutenant takes a long sip of his coffee. If Connor were human, perhaps it would pick up on the clear 'leave-me-the-fuck-alone' social cues he's giving off, but it's clear that isn't going to happen. "Well, if I hadn't landed on my feet, you would be self-reflecting at my funeral. If it were up to me, I would've had a new partner the next day. If it were really up to me, I wouldn't have any partner, but… Jesus. Is any of this getting through to you?" It's more than apparent that the Three Laws of Robotics mean nothing to CyberLife.
Connor's LED turns yellow for a second, just a flash.
The android's Social Relations Protocol immediately generates a few dozen pages of possible apologies, with descriptors like "caring" or "tense" or "kind" attached to each one. For some reason, they all seem to be… missing something. None of them would be able to pacify the Lieutenant, since nothing in Connor's code was created with the intent of dealing with an exhausted, tortured, alcoholic cop with a deep-seated hatred for androids. Obviously. Especially since no amount of clever coding could've predicted Connor would nearly let its partner fall to his death on one of their first cases together. An oversight that could've cost CyberLife thousands of dollars in legal fees. Amanda would, with 100% certainty, bring this information to CyberLife to patch in future models.
And the fact that the deviant was destroyed means it failed twice in the span of one day. But that isn't relevant to Hank's vitriol.
The RK800 quickly scans through each of the generated apologies and selects the most positive aspects of each one. It needs to sound calm, but not uncaring. Remorseful, but not insincere. It assembles a passage within microseconds.
"I… I can truly say that if I knew how my actions would impact you, I would've chosen to help you. Apprehending a deviant should never be- is never more important than preserving the life of my partner, and my judgement shouldn't have been clouded like that. I'm sorry, Lieutenant."
Hank crosses his arms and looks the android up and down. He mulls it over for a second, then leans back in his seat and takes a deep breath. "Keep it that way. I can't just upload my memory to a floppy disk, or whatever the hell it is androids do." He seems, at the very least, satisfied with Connor's answer.
Seconds pass in silence. Hank writes a few more notes at the bottom of his final page of paperwork and shoves it aside with a visible expression of waitress behind them is humming to itself while scrubbing down an already pristine table. The jukebox has since fallen silent. The only sounds permeating the cafe are the occasional hum of a car engine outside, or the thwap of the waitress' worn cleaning rag on the surface of a table.
The Lieutenant is the first to pull them out of the tranquility. "And remember, Connor, some people you can never get back. You can't go around throwing yourself and other people into danger just to catch a criminal. Your actions have consequences, okay?" Hank sighs and pushes the now-empty cup of coffee away from himself. His tone is far gentler now, as if speaking to a child that had just lost their first minor league baseball game. "There's enough hurt in the world these days, and I don't want you adding to any of it."
Connor downloads this memory to its hard drive, to be reviewed even without access to the internet or a data tower.
[END MEMORY PLAYBACK]
Happy Fanfiction Writer Appreciation day, everyone! I go back to college in... one day. Yikes. Hopefully I can finish this fic before my workload becomes too high. Electrical engineering isn't easy. You know, I originally intended for this to be one chapter, a few thousand words at most? Funny how things turn out.