November 5th, 2038
PM 11:04:05
It'd been a long three months.
The tedious physical therapy sessions; having to be re-certified for your pistol master ribbon, having to adjust to your new, literal, partner in crime - Chris Miller. Having to act ecstatic for him when his newborn arrived.
It wasn't that you weren't happy for him and his family. They'd even had you over for dinner, once. Chris wasn't a bad guy. One of the best you'd ever met, actually.
The problem was…you couldn't stop thinking about your old partner.
Your best friend since childhood who signed up with you. Moved to Detroit with you. Left everything behind in your hometown because he didn't have anything tying him down to the place except you.
Dead in an instant. Gone forever. That night in August haunted your dreams.
Daniel's angry shouts. The child's frantic screaming. Your partner pushing you out of the way, and his body going cold. The second shot that almost took you out when you charged ahead…
Connor was the good ending to that tragic tale. A hero who'd shown bravery where fragile men failed. He who, against all odds, saved the hostage. Maybe one day, you'd get to thank him for breaking his protocols and saving you, too.
"Hey, you good?"
You turned your chin, looking at Chris in the driver's seat.
"Yeah, just thinking…"
"About?"
You sighed, "These deviant cases are popping up by the dozens. Missing androids, deviants killing their owners…You know, when I was promoted to homicide, I didn't think I'd be chasing down murder machines."
"You're telling me…" Chris flicked the windshield wipers to the highest speed, "Hey, you called it, though. You've been saying for a long time they'd 'rise against.'"
"Just remember you're not supposed to know about that." You smirked, "Could cost me my job."
"After what happened to you? I'm just surprised you're still writing an android-activist blog…I mean, sure, an android saved you, but…"
You looked back out the window, heavy rain streaking down the glass. The lights on top of the car blinked red and blue, just like the two types of blood that'd stained your uniform on the rooftop terrace. Yeah, Connor saved you, and the little girl. But others had died. You definitely hadn't forgot about that. It kept you up at night, and you wore the dark circles to prove it.
"Sorry." Chris mumbled, "I shouldn't have-"
"It's okay." You put your strong face on, the one you'd perfected, "Let's just get to this crime scene so we can pack up and go home."
"What, hot date?"
"Yeah, with a bottle of wine and my laptop."
He laughed, "Sounds like a perfect night to me."
Yeah…
It'd been a long three months, alright.
And it was about to be an even longer night.
…
Carlos Ortiz, an obese man with stab wounds all over him. A message written in blood, one that shouted, "I AM ALIVE," in perfect font. A murder weapon. Packets of Red Ice on a cluttered table. Beer bottles and cigarette butts that served as a carpet on the planks-and-nails for a floor.
You dropped evidence markers near the remnants of the conflict you were charged with piecing together. The CSI team scoured the what-should-have-been-condemned house, looking for traces of…Well, anything.
You pulled down your mask, brushing the sweat off your cheek with the back of your latex-covered hand. You couldn't tell what was worse – the lung-clogging smell or the maggots pooling around the corpse.
You and Chris had finished interrogating the neighbors. They hadn't had much to say, other than various forms of, "I didn't even know somebody was living there…" or "I always knew that guy was a fucking creep." Seemed like this guy was a real winner.
You peaked out the opened front door, spotting a couple standing under an umbrella. Another pair stood on their porch across the street, smoking a cigarette and watching from a distance. The murder scene had attracted a crowd, and the local news.
A police drone zoomed by, painting the audience with a spotlight. You shook your head, focusing on the task at hand. Time to get back to work.
Chris was running the show under Detective Collins' supervision. That meant more work for you, and more orders for him to bark.
"Come on, guys, get a move on. We don't wanna be here all night."
You smirked, turning your head and hooking your chin over your shoulder, "Don't worry, no one wants to stay here a minute longer than they have to…"
"Uh-huh…" His mask wiggled, and he typed along on his data pad.
You squinted your eyes as a crime scene investigator snapped a picture, sending a blinding flash into the dark room. The clicks of its shutter hung in the stale, purified air.
Each time they captured a moment, light filled the cracks in the walls and ceiling. It highlighted the layers of dust that coated everything. The place was a breeze away from coming down, and sheltered enough random shit to label the victim a hoarder. You wondered what in the hell he made his android do, because it sure as fuck wasn't cleaning.
"Jesus, that smell!" Collins came back inside from the rain, his footsteps squeaking on the exposed floorboards, "Was even worse before we opened the windows."
You kept taking samples of blood, stowing it away how you were trained. You'd seen a few homicides in the last couple months, but nothing this gruesome. You'd only puked twice since you got there – and according to the Detective, that was a record low for someone new to homicide.
He also wasn't wrong: The smell was a lot worse before you and the others opened the windows.
"The victim's name's Carlos Ortiz. He has a record for theft and aggravated assault." Collins was briefing someone, "According to the neighbors, he was kind of a loner…Stayed inside most of the time, they hardly ever saw him."
Your legs got tired from squatting, so you dropped to a knee and pinched a Ziploc baggy shut. You clicked your pen, and began labeling the collected sample appropriately.
"Uh, state he's in…Wasn't worth calling everybody out in the middle of the night…Could've waited 'till morning."
The complaint came as a groaning, scratchy growl. You'd know that voice anywhere. You smiled wide, turning to greet Lieutenant Anderson.
And then you stopped.
"ANDROID" was stitched between two, broad shoulders. A glowing line glistened under the same light-blue triangle from your dreams, matching the color and brightness of a signature armband to the right.
You blinked, almost rubbing your eyes before you remembered your hands were now covered in decayed blood.
So you blinked harder…
But the white, illuminated "RK800" on the back of a soaking wet suit-jacket was still there.
"I'd say he's been there for a good three weeks." Collins continued his briefing, "We'll know more when the Coroner gets here."
Connor turned his head, and you quickly returned your gaze to the blood stain in front of you, covering your nose with your surgical mask.
"There's a kitchen knife over here…Probably the murder weapon…"
"Any sign of a break-in?" Hank asked the Detective.
"Nope..." Collins went on about the case with Hank and Connor behind you.
Your breathing became unsteady, and you were thankful your mask hid most of your features.
Maybe Connor wouldn't recognize you. Better yet, maybe he didn't remember you – bleeding out, begging for help like the pathetic heap of reckless you'd proven yourself to be the night that rewrote everything you'd known about being a cop.
"What do we know about his android?" Hank asked.
"Not much. The neighbors confirmed he had one, but it wasn't here when we arrived…" Collins coughed, "I gotta get some air. Make yourself at home. I'll be outside if you need me."
The Detective's voice trailed away, and you exhaled a stale breath. Chris passed your peripherals to the right, your stare following him until he was out of view.
"Each letter is perfect…It's way too neat, no human writes like this." Hank mumbled, "Chris, was this written in the victim's blood?"
"I would say so…We're taking samples for analysis."
You looked at the bag in your hand, tagged with all sorts of writing that indicated this conversation was about to be directed at you.
"Hey," Chris called your name, "You finished taking samples there?"
Shit.
"Uh…Yeah." You stood, stretching your knees, "Here-"
You froze.
An arm brushed against yours as a figure much taller than you knelt to examine the sprinkled drugs on the table next to you. Connor cocked his head, the LED on his temple circling around and blinking blue.
You might've puked a third time – but because of nerves instead of the foulness of the crime scene.
A strong hand pulled the sample from your grip.
"How you holdin' up, champ?" Hank's sunken eyes were trained on you, a huff of a smile perking up from his gruff beard.
"Still the best shot on the force." Chris answered for you, giving you an encouraging wink.
"Tch. We'll see about that…" Hank rolled his eyes.
"Alive." You shrugged, clamming up at your poor choice of wording, "Uh…thanks for asking."
You literally could've picked any other word and you wouldn't have felt like such an ass.
"Can't say that for this guy, eh?" He pointed his chin at the greasy corpse, "Ah, c'mon…Don't look at me like that, it was funny!"
"You can't kill me. I'm not alive!"
"I AM ALIVE."
Connor stepped aside, turning towards the victim. He stood across from Hank, framing the message on the wall. It seemed almost ironic.
"You can't kill me. I'm not alive!"
You repeated the conflicting messages in your head, over and over.
"I AM ALIVE."
The results from one incriminated android who may have believed it was sentient, and the other who stayed within the boundaries of their software. Did he really, though? What part of saving you had anything to do with saving Emma, the little girl taken hostage?
Hank leaned to the side, looking around you. His lips fell into a pucker, and he squinted over narrowing eyes.
"Red Ice…" He gently pushed you aside, a beer-tainted breath passing your nose, "Seems our friend Carlos liked to party…"
He studied the mess, his veteran knack for details seemingly fighting through his semi-drunken state. How had he not gotten a DUI yet?
"Chris, I want a full analysis on the narcotics."
"Consider it done, Lieutenant."
You looked over your shoulder, and Chris gave you a nod. He definitely had "delegation" figured out.
You heaved a sigh, wishing you could investigate a different room than with the android that had your brain short-circuiting. You prepped your sample kit, ready to pick at the evidence without tampering it.
"Err, Jesus!" Hank shouted, standing and looking behind you, "What the hell are you doing?!"
Your neck snapped to the source of his anger.
Connor stepped away from the writing on the wall, his pointer and middle fingertips drenched in red.
"I'm analyzing the blood." He extended his hand, a slight smile following his words, "I can check samples in real time."
He seemed so proud of himself, like a son showing his father a straight-A report card. But his grin curved into a frown, clearly not happy with Hank's reaction.
"I'm sorry…" His eyebrows peaked, and his head bobbed, "I should've warned you."
You felt bad for him. He was doing his job just like the rest of you, after all.
"Okay just…don't…" Hank spun his wrist, "…Put any more evidence in your mouth, got it?"
Connor dipped his chin, his forehead creasing as he looked up like a disciplined child, "Got it!"
He gave Hank a gesture that looked like a one-handed finger gun.
You tried not to laugh, but couldn't help it. It was quiet enough for no one else to hear, at least.
Connor turned his attention back to the sample on his fingers, eyeing it critically. How amazing it must be to see the world as he does – able to pick it apart in mere seconds and retell the events of the past.
"Fucking hell, can you believe this shit?" Hank nodded to you, shaking his head and putting his hands on his hips.
You ducked away, scurrying to take the samples Chris had asked for.
"What's keeping the Coroner?" Hank mumbled, "Should've been here half an hour ago."
"He's on his way, Lieutenant." Chris answered, his voice muffled by his mask, "Won't be long now."
Hank scowled, planting his shoulder against a wall and observing the crime scene.
You stood, handing in your assignment. Chris gave you a polite nod, and passed the bag off to an analyst wearing a plastic jumpsuit.
And then fucking Connor came strolling by as if he was following you, kneeling to do what you guessed was the Coroner's job for him. He studied the victim for a moment, rising to his feet with a perplexed expression.
"He was…stabbed, 28 times."
Even he didn't sound like he believed what he reported to Hank…or that he didn't want to.
"Yeah," Hank wore a dark grin, "Seems like the killer really had it in for him."
They say androids can't feel fear, but Connor returned a look of pure terror. Maybe it was from the idea that another being could build up that much hate…or maybe it was Hank's lack of empathy that scared him. You weren't sure. But as his eyes darted from Hank to the corpse, you were sure he felt some sort of fear.
"Hey," Chris grabbed your attention, "There's something weird in the bathroom. Did you take a look?"
"No," You shook your head, "I'll go check it out right now."
You snatched a camera from a hastily-made work station, and all but ran around the corner. Any opportunity to put some distance between you and Connor was welcomed…Because with a life like yours, you couldn't afford any distractions.
That's how you got shot in the first place.
A/N: This has been incredible, and we're only two days in! Thank you all so much for your support and feedback. It makes me incredibly happy that Detroit: Become Human is getting the recognition it deserves.
Stay wonderful, and I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!
Cross-posted from AO3.
