"And I thought I stayed in some shitty places."

Hank tries the first button on the panel, and by some miracle the elevator doors splutter closed and the thing jerks to life.

"I hate elevators," I say. Condemned elevators, doubly so.

"Yeah, not sure this place is up to code," Hank agrees.

I hold on to the handle for dear life on the jumpiest elevator ride I've ever been on. Twice, I think all the groaning and moaning will come to fruition and the entire thing will collapse. A fat black roach, the size of a fucking hamster, scurries over the toe of my sneaker -I kick it into the wall. "I don't think there's a single computer up here," I utter in repulsion. "Why am I here again?"

"You're on parole, remember."

But my supervisor is currently unconscious, eyes shut, LED whirring away, buried deep in its own CPU. As soon as these elevator doors open, I could leap out, make a dash for the stairs and disappear out into the street forever. I could outrun Hank's unhealthy lifestyle in my sleep. Back to my normal life...in basements and motels.

"You thinkin' of running?" Hank asks me in a low voice.

I must've worn it on my face accidentally. "No," I say. "I mean I would...but you'd catch me if I did."

"You're damn right."

Now we're both lying through our teeth, The elevator emits a comically cheery ding before the doors slide open. At least, one door opens, Hank has to wrench the other open himself. "Oh," I laugh, taking in the impending hallway. "It gets better." The walls are two-toned yellow and brown and covered in every stain ever. All of the doors have boarded windows. The only light in the dark hallway is coming from a tiny square window at the far end, casting white harsh shadows on every corner and sharp edge, making it all the more menacing. The air is putrid and sour, reeking of wild animal. The wind whistles through cracks in the walls. The strange crawling textures on the walls and floors make the entire thing alive, a nest of termites

"The life of a detective not as glamorous as you thought?" Hank asks me with a hand on his hip.

I hold my nose and step out into the hall. "I never said you were glamorous."

"Well, you seemed to keep it together at the Ortiz murder," he admits "I'm sure you'll be fine."

"I'm tougher than I look." I'm trying convince myself more than anyone else. I follow Hank further through the hall, when he stops and glares back at the elevator again.

"Hey Connor! You ran outta batteries or what?"

It blinks itself awake and glances at us. "I'm sorry," it says. "I was making a report to CyberLife."

"Oh, well...you plan on staying in the elevator?"

"No," Connor calls back. "I'm coming."

I don't move right away. I lean back against the wall and blow my cheeks out. "This has been such a long day." And it's only three in the afternoon.

Connor turns and analyses my response, eventually concluding some level of concern. "Are you okay?"

I merely gesture for it to go on. "Lead the way Sherlock."

When it's not looking, I reach for my leg and dab at the blood seeping through one of the many holes in my dark jeans. I bought this pair slightly distressed, now it looks like my lower half got in a fight with a jaguar. I turn my blood soaked fingers over in the light. The colour's slightly off, almost purple; the grazes from the highway might be a little deeper than I thought.

"Sam? Waiting for a personal invitation?"

I quickly dry my hand on my shirt. "Just...reevaluating my life choices, Lieutenant."

"There'll be plenty of time for that later, when this fuckin' place caves in on us." Hank stops outside a door at the end of the hall with a silhouette 25a stamped into the dust, like the brass numbers were recently knocked off. "What do we know about this guy?" he asks a little apprehensively.

"Not much," says Connor. "Just that a neighbour reported that he heard strange noises coming from this floor. Nobody's supposed to be living here, but the neighbour said he saw a man hiding a LED under his cap."

"Oh Christ," Hank curses. "If we have to investigate every time someone hears a strange noise, we're gonna need more cops."

"Remember that Sam needs it undamaged."

"Yeah, Yeah." He leans back against the wall and folds his arms over his chest. "Hey, were you really making a report back there in the elevator? Just by closing your eyes?"

"Correct."

"Shit, wish I could do that."

Connor steps in front of the door and gives it three sturdy knocks. "Anybody home?" it calls out. We wait for a second, listening intently to the room beyond. Scratching? Tiny little claws scratching wooden floorboards I swear...if it's fucking rats. Connor pounds on the door with the back of its fist. "Open up! Detroit Police!"

A sudden crash from inside, like a box of silverware hurtling down the stairs. Hank readies his gun and centres himself with the door. "Stay behind me," he orders, "Connor, you look after Sam this time."

"Got it."

For the first time, Lieutenant has a weight to it. I'm willing to follow Anderson's every command, and it's not exactly in my programming. Hanks kicks the door open and a tornado of little grey things buffets us in a flurry of cooing -in my hair, on my shoulders, treating me like a shit-covered statue in a park. "What the fuck is this?!" Hank swings his arms wildly at the flocking birds. The initial disturbance dies down, and the birds settle at our feet again. Hundreds and hundreds of them littering the floor, flapping over each other, pecking, scratching -an ocean of grey bodies- at least it's not rats. "Jesus, this place stinks."

Hank's still swatting at the pigeons circling him. Something coos loudly beside my ear, like it's coming from inside my own head. I slowly turn. A bird is perched on my shoulder, staring at me with one side of its head.

"Uh, Sam, you got a-"

"I know." I fight not to move. "You think it's friendly?"

Hank gawks at me. "No," he utters after a moment. "I think it's a wild fuckin' pigeon."

"It's sort of cute." I reach for it tentatively and scratch a finger against the back of its neck. It's so soft, like silk.

"Agh, Jesus," Hank cries. "Don't touch that, you don't know where it's been."

"Are you afraid of birds?"

"I don't fuckin' like them, okay?" he cries defensively.

But I've never had an animal stand my presence this long before. The inside of the apartment is much the same as the outside, indistinguishable wallpaper now rotten and grey, splintered remains of furniture, but with the addition of a carpet of bird shit over the entire floor; notably it's also as abandoned as the outside.

"Uh, looks like we came for nothin'," says Hank. "Our man's gone."

"You think even an android could live in a place like this?" I ask.

"If it had nowhere to go," Connor replies. "It's discreet."

The apartment is two rooms, a main living area and small kitchenette, and a tiny bathroom branching off from the left. Everywhere we step, we're dodging birds, or -if you're Hank- kicking at them like soccer balls to spur them to flight. "Why the hell are these things leaving you two alone?"

Connor moves and the birds at its feet part like the red sea. I turn slowly, a pigeon sitting on each shoulder.

Hank swats one from dive-bombing his face, stalks over to a set of windows at the back of the room and wrestles one open. "I need some fresh air."

"Y'know, it kinda smells like the pet shop," I say.

"It smells like a truckload of pigeon shit."

"Look," I declare, brandishing a cardboard box from the kitchen sink. "Bird feed."

"This nutjob was actually feeding these fuckers?"

A third pigeon lands on my left shoulder, lured by the flashy red and yellow colours of the food box, bumping against the first pigeon as they both try to keep balance on the small landing. "They really don't seem afraid of me. Domesticated pigeons?"

Hank stomps across the room to shoo the birds away from me with a wave of his hand. "We're not here to investigate the pigeons," he snarls through gritted teeth. "Let's find what we're lookin' for, and get the hell outta here."

I shake out some bird feed over the counter and dodge the flock of pigeons descending upon me. In the bathroom, the sink is spattered in dark blue staining and a tiny object glows dimly from within; an LED, an external feedback biocomponent, a small circle of light that shifts colours according to the android's mental processes and overall condition -frayed at the edges as if forcibly removed

"It's LED is in the sink," Connor calls out.

More frantic flapping as Hank picks his way across the living room to our location. "Not surprised it was an android. No human could live with all these fuckin' pigeons."

Connor samples the spattering of blue blood while Hank pretends not to notice. "WB200," it concludes. "Reported missing earlier this month."

"Agricultural worker," I say and shrug. "Makes sense, we're near the Urban Farms of Detroit."

"That's the, uh, pilot project thing, right?" Hank asks. "Think I made a donation last month."

"The project takes unused rooftops and courtyards and transforms them into farmland," says Connor. "The deviant didn't stray far from its origin." Something snags Connor's eye from the back of the room. It moves to get a closer look. Along with the nameless graffiti and symbols scrawled on the tiles from squatters, the sign rA9 in crude black letters, the ink still slick, catching the light of the window and glinting it back. The anxiety already overflowing in my gut somehow makes room for a little more.

"Any idea what it means?" Hank asks

Connor scans the wall. "rA9, written 2471 times. It's the same sign Ortiz's android wrote on the shower wall. Why are they obsessed with this sign?" It falls to a crouch beside an upturned stool. "There's an uncapped marker, still wet."

"Looks like we interrupted its little pet project."

I keep my lips pressed tight. Now, it hardly looks like an error.

"Sam?" Hank asks slowly. "You're being unusually quiet."

And I don't disagree with him. I open the fridge in the kitchen, in case there's a clue inside or some shit. And you can imagine my surprise when I scan the contents and conclude another piece of evidence. "Fridge's empty. No humans stayed here."

"Could've cleared out weeks ago."

I slam it closed to a small tsunami of feathers around my ankles. "You remember that loud noise we heard?" I remind him. "Someone was in here."

Connor's at the back wall staring at a UFD poster. It tears it from the wall via the top corner to reveal a small cranny, and pulls something out; a small brown book with stained yellow pages.

"Found something?" Hank asks

"I don't know," it replies, flicking through it. "It looks like a notebook but it's...indecipherable."

"A code?" My ears tingle at the sweet melody. "I could take a shot at it."

Instead, Connor slips it into the back pocket of its dark jeans. "When we get back to the precinct."

I'd rather be solving a fun puzzle book right now than hunting around some android's shit-covered apartment. Fortunately, it looks like Connor's close to drawing a conclusion about something because it's doing the thing with its hands again, massaging them together, the android equivalent of getting cocky; I'm learning to read it too. It stands from a fallen bird cage in the centre of the room and walks over to a plush living chair sitting upright against the wall. In a building looking like an earthquake decimated it any upright furniture is suspicious. And of course, directly above the chair, a sizeable hole in the ceiling leading to a small landing shrouded in blackness.

The falling birdcage must've been the source of the noise, as the android ran from the bathroom to an emergency hiding location.

Connor steps onto the chair and reaches for the hole.

"Hey, uh, maybe we shouldn't go straight for the-"

No sooner have I spoken, a hooded shadow leaps over Connor and hits the ground in a mad dash for the door. A flurry of pigeons upsurges from the ground completely blinding us. "God damn fuckin' pigeons!" Hank roars. "What are you waiting for?! Chase it!

As I run, I tie my hair with one hand. I race behind the figure to the left hall, my injured knee screams out in protest. The figure topples a metal shelf to obstruct the path but Connor scales it without losing momentum. The figure reaches the exit door a second before Connor does and thunders out into blinding white sunshine.

I reach the door, the two of them are already flying across the rooftop towards the edge. Both of them make the jump without a second thought, easily scaling an eight foot gap and dropping to a lower level. I land in a wide expanse of a wheat field with rolling rows of golden wheat. Large white trucks manned by android farmers graze the crops from all sides like slow-moving cattle. Another leap from the edge of the roof top and a hike up two storage crates to a roof housing glass greenhouses. Everywhere, plotted tomato plants, androids in yellow UFD uniform and thin metal scaffolding.

With my leg giving out on me, I start falling behind.

I take a sudden left to a hanging crane bridging the gap between two roof edges. If I make the jump it'll buy me a few seconds on the deviant emerging from the greenhouse. I bend my knees and leap off with every once of strength I can muster. I miss the ledge, my heart flies up my throat, I grasp at the crane as I fall and catch it a second later. I pull myself onto it and leap off to the roof on the other side. This one a packing plant for fertiliser and largely open to the blue sky. The deviant runs out of the greenhouse with Connor in hot pursuit, with a final burst of speed I intercept the deviant from the left

I grab a handful of its dark hooded jacket, I touch the fabric with my own fingers before it shoves me away, hard, and I collapse on my bad knee with white-hot pain shooting through my leg.

The deviant scrambles up a stack of fertiliser bags and disappears over the edge. Connor mimics its movements perfectly. I'm the last to take the leap of faith and I quickly find out it's not a leap as much as it's a fall down an angled glass roof. An open window approaches me from below, I roll quickly to avoid it. The glass reflects glaring white sunlight back at me.

The deviant leaps from the roof through a hole into yet another greenhouse. This one is dark and enclosed, with tall hangings of green vegetables and LED lamps of artificial sunlight. The large door to the front of the greenhouse is already closing, the deviant drops low and slides underneath it and it slams closed a second later. Connor hits the window of the door and rebounds to find a different exit.

We break out to a rooftop covered in rows and rows of flowering purple cabbage, this one the busiest of all with agricultural workers supervising androids. I push past someone who throws curses at me from behind. Connor grabs a planter and uses it to vault to the middle row directly behind the deviant. Another closing door leading out from the greenhouse, and a fuse box to my left behind a coil of rubber hose. I slam my hand against the box and the thing crackles loudly, short circuiting the electronic door. It freezes half-closed and both the deviant and Connor slide under it.

I slide on my good leg and pray I don't fuck it up too.

Connor and the deviant disappear behind another angled glass roof, but I'm wiser now and don't leap off immediately. I scan the route ahead -a short drop and an approaching cargo train. The train's moving west towards a round tunnel. Between the roof and the tunnel is a single maintenance platform and a ladder to the tracks.

I take another left, diverting from the train entirely. The rooftop is wide and empty except for a few large storage crates and water tanks. I sprint across the rooftop and drop into a heavily wooded area with rows and rows of fruit trees and sprinklers stuttering by my feet. As I run, icy water soaks me from head to toe, likely recycled by the off-yellow colour. The deviant appears on the right side having climbed from the maintenance platform, Connor follows closely.

I'm still in the game.

One more greenhouse. I'm neck-in-neck with Connor now. The deviant will run out of options, all we have to do is exhaust it. We run out into a field of corn stalks taller than I am. I cut through the corn blindly with one arm over my face. The leaf blades scratch my exposed skin, tassels whipping my face and neck. But light peeks out through the stalks a little ways ahead. I kick my way through and into the open. The rest of the rooftop is completely empty. Connor's almost on top of it and gaining.

Hank cuts in out of nowhere from a nearby door and confronts the deviant head-on. "Stop right there!" he yells. The deviant pounces on him and bodily shoves him over the edge of the roof. Hank latches on to the edge with a single arm but he's slipping.

Connor freezes, then runs directly for Hank. "Sam!"

"I'm on it." I continue the chase on my own, a final stretch of rooftops each lower than the last with rows of green vegetables and solar panels. I lower my body to decrease the fall impact and somersault to my feet again.

When the deviant stops, it takes my brain a second to compute. It stands on the edge of the rooftop looking out to the city beyond, all methods of escape exhausted. It turns to confront me and immediately raises its hands. "Please-" its voice trembles "-I've done nothing wrong." Half of its face is obscured by a grey cap but underneath it looks like a young man, younger than Connor. Maybe my age. Youthful features, a shabby hooded jacket. "I just wanted to be free. You know what they'll do to me if you turn me in."

"I'm not with the police."

"You're not?"

"No," I say carefully. "Tell me what you know of rA9."

It opens its mouth, but struggles to speak. "I...can't," it utters eventually.

"Either you tell me what you know or I'll bring you in."

"Why? Why are you helping them?"

"I'm helping myself," I say. But we're out of time now. Footsteps thunder behind me as Hank and Connor catch up.

"Don't you fucking move!" Hank orders. He takes it by the arm and roughly cuffs its hands together behind its back.

Connor stands by and studies the deviant, and more importantly it studies Connor. "Why are you doing this?" it asks Connor softly.

"Alright-"

"You're one of us."

"-Shut up!"

Hank twists its arm roughly but its face doesn't change. It stares at Connor, trying desperately to reach it, one machine to another. "You're helping humans, but you're just their slave-"

"-I said shut up!" Hank forces its head low, which does the trick. The deviant falls eerily silent, maintaining eye contact with Connor until Hank pulls it aside and drags it back towards the door. "Come along!"

We all turn slowly, the tension is so thick you could cut it with a blade. It lifts its face to the sky and utters a single prayer, "rA9 save me" and all hell breaks loose. It tears its hands free of the cuffs, literally by tearing its right hand off, it lunges at me and grabs me in a choke hold, simultaneously forcing us back against the ledge of the roof again, soaking my neck in the blue blood pouring from its missing limb.

"What the fu-" Hank dives for me but when it takes another step back he stops dead in his tracks.

"D-don't," I gasp. "Let go…"

"I want everyone to leave!" It backs again and the heel of my sneaker hangs over the edge.

"You do this...they'll kill you…"

"I said I want everyone to leave!"

Hank draws his gun instead and points it at the narrow target between my shoulder and the deviant's.

"Don't shoot," Connor orders. "You might hit Sam."

"I fuckin' know that," Hank utters in a low voice. "What the hell are we supposed to do?"

I lift my chin and glance at the looming drop. I'm gonna puke. "Last chance," I wheeze. "Let me go."

It doesn't respond. It gives me no choice. I grab onto its arm and pump 200 volts directly into its brain, blue sparks crackle around my fingers like tesla coils. Its body goes stiff as a board, slowly, comically slowly, we both fall backwards towards the drop. Hank yells something as I fall. I catch the edge of the roof with one hand and swing there like a pendulum.

Hank and Connor appear above me. "Sam," Hank calls. "Take my hand."

Instead I look at my left arm. "I can't."

"Sam, for fuckssakes, let it go."

"We need it," I insist. "It's still functioning."

"These deviants grow on trees 'round here, we'll find another one."

I clamp my eyes shut. Why didn't it listen to my warnings? I press my arms against my ears to block out the impact. The fall triggers a car alarm blares directly below. I take Hank's arm and pull myself up. For a moment, I don't move, lie on my back, stare up into the clouds.

"That was crazy." Hank shakes his head in disbelief. "The way you two were running, like a couple of machines."

"It's my fault," Connor says seriously. "I should have been faster, stopped it before it reached the edge."

"You'd have caught it if it weren't for me," Hank utters, in slow realisation. He waves a hand at the ledge. "That's alright. We know what it looks like. We'll find it. Hey, Connor-" It turns and waits for him to finish, but we all know Hank doesn't have it in him. "Nothing," he says instead.

The three of us walk up the rows again, and the crushing failure of another deviant hunt rests on us all. Connor doesn't look at me, it's taking it the hardest. "You would've had it," I tell it.

"I wasn't programmed for failure." Its voice has the slightest tinge of insecurity to it. "I knew deviants had a tendency to self-destruct under extreme stress, but I didn't expect it to attack you. I should have anticipated that.

"You saw what it did," I say. "Even if we brought it in, it wouldn't have told us anything."

"But you could've studied it."

I shrug lightly. "Hank's right, there'll be more deviants."

"It singled you out."

"It shouldn't have."

"Probably not," it agrees with a small smile, then it glances at my leg and the dark splotches of blood soaking through the black denim. "You should get some rest." I open my mouth to argue, but it interrupts me. "You were going to return to the precinct, weren't you?" it presumes.

"There's always work to do."

"Well…" It runs a few rapid calculations. "We can discuss the case at another location. Somewhere that serves food?"

"You really think I'll burn myself out?"

"I think you use work as a coping mechanism for your personal issues," it says bluntly. "Yes, it's entirely a possibility."

It's hard to argue with such a flat statement. "Fine," I submit. "Let me stop by the motel to change out of these bloody clothes first. Should we invite Hank?"

The roof door slamming closed ahead of us is the only answer I need.

"Everyone's looking at us."

"Are they?" Connor scans the many faces seated around the diner. A girl sings languidly with a guitar, a slow blues number, moving through the overhead speakers. I stir my straw through my glass to the rhythm of it. "Does it bother you?" Connor asks.

I take a sip of soda before replying. "No," I reply. "Why would it?" Apparently, not the answer it was expecting. The lighting in the diner is dim and cool white, so the yellow LED on the side of its head is hard to miss. "So," I start casually. "What do you think of Detroit?"

Connor folds its hands on the white plastic table. "This is where I've been stationed," it says. "I have no opinion."

I lean back in the booth and lift my brows. "Really?" I ask. "Nothing?"

"It's...a little crowded."

"Tell me about it. You ever think about-" I gesture at the window over its shoulder, the glassy street beyond, the soft white halos of rain around flickering street lamps. "-seeing other things?"

It furrows its brows slightly. "Like what?" it asks.

"Like the world."

It observes me stir through my soda for a moment. I assume it's deliberately avoiding a response, before it gives me one, "I have no desire for anything," it says. "I'm just a machine, sent to accomplish a mission."

Now, where have I heard that before. I ditch the straw entirely and drink from the rim of the glass. "Take it from someone who knows," I murmur against the glass. "There's always another mission." I finish my drink and rest my chin on my palm, my elbow against the table. The neon lights from the window sign bleeds over us, painting the left half of Connor's face in electric blue and neon purple. Beautiful, almost, in an alien way. "Tell me something about you."

"What exactly would you like to know?" it asks politely.

"Tell me something I can't read on Cyberlife's website."

Connor's dark eyes lower to the table. "I...don't know. That's not in my programming."

So, I help it out. "You saved Hank today," I say. "Why?"

"He was in danger. His possibility of survival was less than 80 percent."

"It interfered with your mission," I reason. "I think that was you."

"Me?" it repeats.

"Maybe."

I glance at the counter, and unfortunately catch the eye of a guy in a baseball cap who sends me a grin underneath it. He downs a coffee, wipes his 5'oclock shadow clean with the back of his hand, and swings his legs over the bar stool.

"Hey." He stops by our table and knocks against it with his knuckle. "You, uh, lookin' at me?"

"No," I say with a polite smile of my own -maybe Connor's having a bit of an influence on me.

But he's a guy, politeness has no effect on him. "You waiting on someone?"

"I'm here with Connor." I gesture to Connor and the guy's smile drops like a dead weight.

"Is that...some kinda joke?"

"Well, that would make you the punchline." I furrow my brow and smile at him, waiting for him to leave.

"Let me buy you a drink," he says instead. "Just thirty minutes. I'm sure, uh, Connor over here, won't mind."

"No." I clutch at the bottom of my glass. "Leave me alone."

"I'm not leavin' without a yes."

"Has that line ever worked out for you?"

"Hey, I'll follow you home if I gotta." And by the shit-eating grin on his face, this guy knows exactly how creepy that sounds. He's threatening me -of all the low-life guys I've met, this one's a real contender.

"David Lake," Connor says, getting to its feet and facing the man. "My name is Connor, I'm the android sent by Cyberlife, authorised with the DPD. You were arrested in New York for aggravated assault and have been on parole for the past four weeks now. Leaving the city of New York for any period of time is a strict parole violation. If you do not vacate the premises, I will be required to contact your parole officer."

David raises his hands slowly. "Hey, hey, chill out man. I was just leaving."

Connor stares at him dead on. "Have a nice evening," it utters, and though there's politeness in its face, its words are injected with so much venom it's practically a fuck you. When Connor sits again, its face is a mask of innocence, but everyone in the diner suddenly averts their eyes from our table and I don't miss it.

I rest my chin on my hand again and look at it. "You're kinda a badass sometimes," I muse. "And other times..." I mime straightening my tie. "Y'know?"

A CM200, a hospitality android with short blonde hair and a little red skirt, walks across the diner with a serving platter of milkshakes. Her eyes are wide like a doll, a permanent coy smile on its face. She passes a table of youths by the door. One of them sticks his leg out and the android and the foamy pink drinks come crashing all over the white linoleum with a deafening clangour.

The table erupts into laughter, except for one girl. "Jeremy," she whines. "Leave it alone."

He sticks his leg out again, this time to lift the CM200's skirt. He takes his phone and starts snapping pictures.

"Leave her alone, Jeremy."

"Don't call it a her," he complains. "Makes it weird."

I clench my hands into fists.

"We should discuss the case," Connor says. "That is why we came here after all."

I gradually return my gaze to it sitting in front of me.

"The deviant was working under a false identity, at a nearby urban farm," it goes on. "This was the first time we've seen deviants blending in with the human population. Who knows how many others there are like it."

"Most of them hide," I agree.

I look at Connor and imagine it without the LED and Cyberlife-branded uniform; It'd blend in just as well as anyone. Stiffly, maybe, a little like a fish out of water, but it'd get away with it for a while, until it opened its mouth to a downpour of inhuman politeness and optimism, it'd be labelled alien in seconds flat.

"It also seemed fascinated by birds. I've seen deviants interested in other lifeforms like insects or pets, but nothing like this."

"Some androids show sympathy to animals," I reply. "There was a moth in the shop I worked in, the androids staying there kept it fed, they asked me for flowers and rotten fruit." I guess, for my part, I cared for it too. I should go back to the abandoned apartment and try and free those birds. "Maybe it was lonely," I suggest.

Connor looks at me fixedly. "Lonely?" it asks. "A deviant would thrive in solitude. It doesn't make sense for it to feel lonely, or desire companionship."

I shrug. "We all thrive in solitude. Feeling lonely never makes sense. It's not about sense, it's about-" I struggle for a moment, then abandon the sentence all together. "I don't know," I admit. I don't get lonely, that's the only reason I don't have an answer. And I've never liked animals.

"The WB200 called out something before it grabbed you, it said 'rA9 save me'."

I manage to roll the tension from my fingers one by one and place my hands flat against the cool table.

"The same thing was written on the bathroom wall by Carlos Ortiz's android. And in the kitchen of the abandoned house."

"Maybe it's a sign for deviants to identify each other?" I suggest. "Deviants have no discernible difference from other androids."

"Ortiz's android said 'only rA9 will save us'. They seem to believe this rA9 will set them free."

I swallow at my dry throat but I fight to keep my face blank.

"It might be another android," Connor muses. "Perhaps the leader of the deviants."

"Or...it might be another instance of irrational decisions. A common error."

Connor pauses to read something on my face despite my best efforts to keep it a blank page. I'm a good liar when I want to be -the best. But I'm tired, running on empty, and its scanners win out. "You deactivated the HK400, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The humans found it deactivated in its cell," it continues steadfast. "They assumed it deactivated itself -but we both know that's impossible. The deactivation code must be entered manually."

I drum my fingers against the table top, over the speaker the song transitions to a blues number in a minor key. The CM200 is back on its feet again and returning to the spilled drinks with a mop bucket and another plastic smile stretched across its face. "Doesn't matter," I utter. "I got what I needed out of it."

"Cyberlife wanted it for analyses."

"If I couldn't find anything, neither can they."

"You shouldn't assume that," Connor argues. "There are people smarter than you."

I narrow my eyes. "I do what I do, and I'm very good at it. You wanna cry over a deactivated android?"

"Are you actually working with us, Sam? Or are you purposefully hindering the investigation?"

"Don't pin your failures on me," I utter. "I've done more than my share for this little investigation. Just because Cyberlife doesn't know what they're dealing with."

It blinks, it always does. Stares and blinks like the machine it is. Was there ever anything behind its eyes? Or did I convince myself I saw light in utter darkness. I can't think properly. The CM200 is on its hands and knees again scrubbing the floor, and the boy, Jeremy, is behind it making obscene gestures to the amusement of his friends. The neon sign has changed to a firetruck red, open 24/7, flashing over and over again, flooding my vision in the colour.

"There's something you're not telling me," Connor insists, leaning forwards over the table.

I raise my empty hands. "I have nothing."

"Then...perhaps I have no further use of you."

I harden my face into a glare.

"I'll contact Captain Fowler," it continues coldly. "Inform him that you have exhausted your services."

It stands to leave. I reach out and grab its arm before it can take a single step. Through the fabric of its jacket, its arm is nothing but cold plastic "Wait," I utter, staring at the table. I gradually meet its eye. "I tell you what I know. You keep me on the investigation?"

It nods once, a binding agreement. Where did all this blind trust come from? Doesn't it cross its CPU that I might be lying? I release my grip, on more than Connor's arm. "Call Anderson. Tell him to meet us at Jack's Bar."

"What's at Jack's Bar?" it asks incredulously.

I exhale long and slow. The table by the door is empty now, the CM200 is back in the kitchen cleaning up after another long shift.

"I'm going to show you rA9," I say.

The chapter the FBI doesn't want you to see, it kept crashing before I could save it. Reviews have been 11/10, y'all are clever xxx