The first summer storm is on the horizon, and Hank's never seen someone so excited over the fact.

Granted, when it comes to nevers in his life, said person is also the one most often to break them. Since the start of the season a month ago, Connor's had an obsession. Which, to be fair, is nothing new; the kid obsesses over everything, from keeping his suits ironed and wrinkle-free, to giving Sumo his daily brushing and walks. He knew just about every damn thing there was to know about fish of all things, and had developed a fascination with birds during his first spring. (And maybe watching him observe the bird's nest out back come alive with chicks in wonder had been slightly endearing—not that he'll ever admit it out loud.)

June's obsession? Thunderstorms, apparently. And so Hank learns all about stratus and cirrus and altrocumulus and something something clouds, hears the daily forecast every day down to the moisture in the air.

"Hank, my weather reports predict the day's relative humidity at one-hundred percent," Connor chirped that morning, as if he were announcing Santa's arrival and not a miserable, muggy day in hell.

With how dark and heavy the clouds look, it seems the android will finally get his storm, and boy does he know it. The hardest damn worker in the precinct fidgets in his chair, taps his feet, and glances out the window every two minutes like clockwork. After an hour of questionable productivity, Hank engages him. He speaks quietly in the lull of the office, amusement in his tone. "Connor. The clouds'll still be there if you don't keep an eye on them, I promise."

The android starts. He swivels to face his partner, grinning sheepishly like a child caught in the cookie jar. "My apologies, Lieutenant. I appear to have become distracted."

"Yeah, no shit." Hank eases back in his chair and stretches his arms above his head. He flashes a friendly smirk. "And here I thought mister super computer had perfect focus."

Months ago, Connor might've backed down, but now he rises to the challenge, snarky little shit he'd become. Cocking a brow, he returns the smile. Where the fuck did he pick up such a smarmy expression? "I believe you are among the last who should be advising others on 'focus', Hank."

"Oh, the robot's got jokes now, does he?" The pen he throws effortlessly caught.

"As well as reflexes, yes."

Hank scoffs, Connor chuckles. "You know, you never did tell me why you're so damn excited to see a thunderstorm."

Connor looks out the window, his smile lingering. The vibrant blue hue of his LED feels warm and inspires a similar warmth in the lieutenant to see. But the tenderness in his voice, the hushed awe, catches him off-guard. "... so many of the things I know through the database coded into me, I've never actually witnessed. Before I deviated, the source of information did not matter, whether by text or word of mouth. But now with all of these new feelings, to know of something and finally experience it, it's..."

He looks at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, and something in Hank's chest aches. "It's like I truly understand now," Connor intones, a secret between them. "An unknown piece fitted in to place. And it feels..." He shakes his head, closes his eyes. "It feels..."

God, how far he's come from machine to man.

"I get it, kid," Hank says, not unkindly. "Maybe not since I was young, but I get it." When's the last time he's felt such awe and wonder about the world around him? Too damn long. Easy to take it all for granted when it's all you've ever known. "So, it's just about experiencing one? Or is it the storm in particular?"

"I admit, I am rather interested in the phenomena of thunder and lightning, sheerly for the spectacle." His lip quirks up. "I have heard thunder in videos, but I suspect they don't do it justice."

"Heh, got that right. You won't know thunder until you feel the whole damn building shake." Hank slumps forward onto his desk, reaching for a sip of coffee. God, how is it only ten? Maybe he'll catch an early lunch. "Which'll probably be any second now. Storm's coming, I can feel it."

Connor regards him with curiosity, tilting his head. "Feel it?"

Hank waves him off and makes some effort to look like he's working, punching away at the keyboard. "Yeah. You know, in the air."

"Oh!" The exclamation startles Hank and when he looks up, Connor is goddamn beaming. "You're referring to the falling atmospheric pressure in tandem with the increased concentration of ozone in the air."

"... yeah." It's way too early for this many syllables, a fact Hank conveys with his most dry, withering stare. "Or, like I said: feel it."

"Feel what?"

The two look up at the new speaker. Connor turns fully towards him with a polite smile. "Good morning, Officer Miller. Lieutenant Anderson and I were just discussing the effects of fluctuating atmospheric pressures on the human body."

Raising a brow, Chris shoots Hank a knowing smile over the rim of his mug. "Oh yeah?"

Hank snorts. "That's a pretty generous we, but sure. Connor here's pretty excited about his first thunderstorm." Pausing, he sends his partner a small frown. "Wait, the human body? You saying you don't notice a difference?"

"I do, Lieutenant, but likely not to the extant a human might." He sits up straighter; Hank recognizes an incoming speech when he sees one. "My olfactory senses are noticeably diminished compared to the human capacity. In addition, I do not possess the muscular or skeletal system required to feel the 'aches and pains' some humans experience before a storm, nor does the change in atmospheric pressure create any tension in my cranial cavity." Monologue complete, Connor offers them a smile that can only be described as proud. "Human sensitivity to subtle changes in the weather is truly remarkable."

"Uh... thanks?" Chris offers.

"Just smile and nod, Chris."

"Although I suppose," Connor continues thoughtfully, as though neither had spoken, "I am likely more susceptible to perceiving changes in the electric charge of the air than either of you."

"What, like—" Chris squints. "Feeling static electricity?"

"Potentially. As a major portion of my constitution is composed of metal circuitry and parts, and my system functions are primarily powered by electricity, it would make logical sense for my being more attuned to the surrounding charges." He raises a hand closer to his face, expression pensive. "Perhaps that is why I am feeling... tingly."

Hank frowns. "'Tingly'?"

"It's the most suitable word I can find. It as though a current is running across the outline of my body; I can feel a low thrum of power in my thirium pump and other essential biocomponents."

"You sure that's normal?" Chris appears concerned. "Isn't the thirium pump like your heart?"

"Yeah, Con. Sounds like you're gonna have a heart attack or something." Hank won't put it past the android to hide one from him, self-sacrificing bastard. But Connor just smiles, hands settled together in his lap.

"I assure you I am well. Though I am a prototype, allowing their pinnacle creation to fall to benign, inescapable electric charges would have been a grave oversight on CyberLife's part." Something about his smile suddenly seems smug. "I am in fully-functioning order."

Chris flashes Hank a grin. "Not very humble, is he?"

"When it comes to being a 'state-of-the-art model'?" Hank shakes his head. "Nope. Gotta hear about it damn near every day."

"Lieutenant, I believe that is hyperbolas—" Cutting himself off, Connor jerks his head to the window. Sure enough, seconds later, rain begins pelting the glass, torrential in its intensity. He watches with rapt fascination, conversation forgotten.

Chris lets out a low whistle. "Damn. Guess we got back just in time."

"Right. Heard you and Reed were out early this morning." Fuck it, Hank gives up any pretense of still working and turns towards his coworker, a smirk playing at his lips. He keeps the android in the corner of his vision. "And how's four am Gavin? A bucket of sunshine?"

"You know it," Chris chuckles. "Dragged the perp in about ten minutes ago, he should be back any minute now."

"I'll try to contain my joy."

"Is there a reason three of my officers are currently doing jack shit? Or should I give you a moment to think of one?"

Ah, hell. Fowler. Chris stands up straighter, offering the Captain a tight-lipped smile. "Sorry, sir. I'm off." He gives Hank a nod. "Talk to ya later." As he passes by Connor's desk, he raises his mug in acknowledgement. "Hope you enjoy your storm, Connor." He doesn't get a response; Hank wonders if Connor's gone into some kind of low-power mode to focus all his senses on the rain.

Jeffrey jerks his head in the android's direction, speaking quietly. "He good?"

"Yeah, he's fine. Or nothing worse than the usual. Kid's all hyped up about the storm."

A raised brow. "Really? Why?"

Hank shrugs. "Says it's his first. Hell if I know what goes on in that robo-brain of his." He crumples a loose sticky note on his desk into a ball and lobs it at Connor's head; the kid catches it before he bets he even knows what he's doing. "Hey, Rain Man. Gotta get back on track."

Connor finally looks over, eyes darting between the two men, and Hank can practically hear the gears turning in his head. A comical flash of panic on his face as he straightens his posture. "Captain Fowler. I apologize, sir, for becoming distracted. It will not happen again."

Hank very much doubts that. His boss seems to share his sentiment, tone light. "See to it that it doesn't. You're not setting a very good example for your partner."

Said partner snorts. Jeffrey knocks on his desk and fixes them both a stern look with a ghost of a smile. "Back to work, you two. Try to get something done before the WiFi goes down."

Connor cocks his head. "Are you expecting a power outage, Captain? Does the station not have a back-up generator?"

Fowler lets out a heavy exhale. "It does, but with a storm like this, I'm more fearing a transformer will get struck by lightning or hit by some jack ass who forgets how to drive in the rain."

"Ah, come on, Jeff." Hank waves his hand. "Haven't had any issues like that in like two decades, and we've had plenty 'a storms in that time."

His boss shoots him a look. "Oh, well now that you've jinxed it, I'm sure everything will be fine."

A flash of yellow catches Hank's eye."Jinxing," Connor says. "To cause bad luck, often by predicting an outcome with absolute certainty. See also: tempting fate." Yep, right off to the internet in his head as expected.

"Thank you, Connor," Hank sighs.

"Hank, you shouldn't jinx things."

"I know, Connor."

Another knock on his desk, the smile a little fuller. "Back to work, you two."

"Gotta get you to be all wide-eyed in front of Fowler again sometime," Hank whispers to Connor as their captain walks away. "Wasn't on my ass so hard for slackin' off."

Connor frowns. "Hank, you shouldn't plan to 'slack off'. With your disciplinary folder—"

"I wasn't planning nothing. 's just good to have a back-up plan. Now quit yappin', some of us are trying to work." It's always worth it to push the android's buttons to get that look of indignation, the slightest narrowing of his eyes and a goddamn pout. If CyberLife had been going for social integration, they'd failed miserably, but going for disarmingly childish? Well, that might have some merit. He guesses it wouldn't do for a negotiator to be intimidating. Still, resembling a thirty-year-old, his ass.

Connor simply turns back to his computer with a huff. Suppressing a grin, Hank has one last thing to say before he returns to his own work. "Hey, let's say we grab lunch in an hour. You can spend your whole break just watching the storm."

The android doesn't face him again, but Hank can practically hear the disapproval in his tone. "Hank, it is only a quarter-past-ten—"

"Hey, if you'd rather risk having it pass over in two hours, that's on you." Three, two, one...

"... very well. An early lunch." Hah, got 'em. "A healthy lunch." Damn it.

"Fine," Hank grumbles. "Goddamn androids..."

Connor doesn't dignify him with a response (but he bets there's a self-satisfied smirk anyway). Hank watches him raise his right hand to the monitor, skin bleeding to pure white chassis, a sight he still isn't entirely used to. Then he lays the palm flat to the screen and the tips of his fingers pulse a faint blue. Wild ass scifi shit. What does Connor see exactly when he interfaces like that? He always closes his eyes, so maybe the display itself?

Maybe he'll ask later... if he remembers.

As the storm continues, the precinct works in unusual quiet, save the occasional hushed conversation or cough. Hank does his best to stay on-task, but rain always has a way of making him feel lethargic and the paperwork doesn't help. He isn't sure whether he's happy to be inside. On the one hand, he remains dry and doesn't risk falling in the mud on his ass. On the other, paperwork. Tedious, bureaucratic paperwork. Even at the height of his love for his career, he never enjoyed sorting through files. Fuck, how has it only been a half-hour?

Interruption comes in the form of one Gavin Reed, as it often does. Spotting Connor deep in his work, the man smirks and quietly ambles over. Hank doesn't even have to look up. "Don't."

Finger pre-flick before Connor's forehead, Gavin freezes, looks at him, and huffs. With a scowl, he drops his hand. "You're no damn fun, old man."

"Uh-huh. Keep walking."

So he does, grumbling all the while, and Hank gives the file he's currently pouring over a smirk. Keeping a closer eye on Connor while he's interfacing has become second-nature at this point. Someone or something jolting him back to awareness doesn't seem to hurt him per se, but by the following disorientation and rapid blinking, it doesn't look exactly pleasant either. Hank doesn't mind the extra vigilance on his side; hell, with Connor's evident obsession with running into traffic to catch a suspect, it was a necessity. They're partners, after all, and partners look out for each other.

Overhead, thunder rumbles, rolls in closer to pull him from his thoughts. The lights dim for half a second. Hank's eyes drift to the displayed time on his monitor as his colleagues murmur about the sudden flickering. Only ten minutes until the agreed-upon hour. Maybe Connor's excitement for the storm will convince him to leave even sooner, though the android appears as engrossed in his work as ever, not even looking up for the flashes of lightning out the window. But fuck, isn't he the lieutenant here? If he says it's lunchtime, it's goddamn lunch time, no ifs, ands, or buts, and if stick-in-the-ass Connor has a problem with that, then—

A deafening crack of thunder makes him jump in his seat, in time with a brilliant flash that blinds the room. He hears the sounds of shattering glass, electronic sparks, and startled exclamations and shouts, and finally, a loud thud nearby. All this in the span of two seconds, obscured by stars in his eyes.

"What the fuck—" Blinking rapidly, vision returning, Hank notices the whole floor has been plunged into the lukewarm darkness of an overcast morning, not a single screen still on, the lights dead. Holy shit, he's never heard such a roar of thunder in his life. "Now Connor, that was thun..." The word dies in his throat as he looks to Connor's station.

Connor isn't there. His monitor, like the rest, is blank, but his is also smoking. A black outline of a hand warps the centre of the screen, the glass around it partially melted. Connor's chair is noticeably away from his desk, as though the person sitting on it had suddenly kicked out. Following its direction behind him, Hank's heart seizes.

Splayed on the floor, LED an alarming, flashing red, Connor lies dead to the world, eyes rolled back in his head. His right arm is extended limply in the air, but the hand itself is rigid, white plastimetal with the palm and fingers charred black, still smoking. His body jerks now and then with slight electric jolts, an eye twitches. For a long, stupefied moment, Hank just stares.

Then years of emergency training and experience kicks in and he rushes to his side.

"Connor!"

His knees hit the floor hard but he doesn't feel it, can't feel anything but mounting dread in his gut. Gently, afraid to move him too much, Hank cradles the android half in his arms and half on his lap. Just as gentle, he taps his cheek. "Connor?" Getting no response, firmer. "Connor, can you hear me?" Nothing, no reply, no hint of awareness, only blank, unseeing eyes that make the hairs on the back of his neck stick up. Fuck, is he even breathing? Without ventilation, he'll start overheating soon.

In his panic, Hank didn't realize Chris has sprung up behind him until the man speaks. "Hank? What the hell happened?" He bends to one knee beside Connor, brow pinched with concern.

"Pretty sure he got shocked when the power surged," he explains grimly. "Here, help me carry him to—"

Before he can finish his sentence, Connor begins to seize.

"Fuck!" Hank curses, trying to ease him back on the floor, an effort made difficult by the flailing limbs catching him in the face. Jumping to his feet, he shoves the surrounding desks far back out of the way, Chris quickly catching on and doing the same. He doesn't know if seizures work the same way for androids as humans, but it won't hurt to give him some room in case he tries to slam his head off a table leg. Hank falls back beside him, hands hovering over his ailing friend. "Chris, go get tech, fucking go get tech—"

"On it," comes the curt reply, and Hank's glad Chris understands, or at least appreciates, the urgency of the situation, unlike the few onlookers he can spot still standing dumbly by their dead monitors gawking at the android writhing on the ground. Even half a year on from the Revolution, not everyone accepts Connor, and he wonders if they'd be so useless if he were human instead. Molten rage bubbles in his chest. He wants to scream, chew them out, sink his teeth into familiar anger rather than this gnawing panic, demand how dare they, how dare they treat his suffering as spectacle—but anger is always easier and he knows it won't do Connor any good. He settles for shuffling his body to block their view. Connor wouldn't want his coworkers seeing him reduced to this.

Minute after torturous minute passes, and just as Hank is debating running to fetch help his own damn self, Connor finally stops seizing and falls still. Too still. Hank doesn't know which view is worse: the kid writhing and flailing or lying completely still, motionless. If not for the glaring red light at his temple, Hank would've assumed him dead, shut-down; eyes still rolled back in his skull, body unnaturally rigid like a corpse in rigor motis. His burnt hand remains slightly extended in the air, palm flat and blackened fingers out, as though he is still interfacing with a display.

"Connor?" Hank tries again, a hand so light upon his cheek, like he's made of glass. No reply, although he hadn't really expected one. His heart is racing. Where the fuck is—

"Lieutenant Anderson?"

Thank God.

"Yeah," Hank replies, glancing over his shoulder at the arriving technician, Chris in tow. Molly's her name, Molly Stewart, someone he trusts after who fucking knows how many trips to her office when his android partner inevitably did something stupid and risky, and he's never been so happy to see the bespectacled technician in his life. "I think the computer shocked him when he was interfacing with it, he just had a seizure."

She slides to her knees beside Connor, diving into her little white bag of tech toys. "Has he been awake? Conscious at all?" Leaning over the injured android, her brunette ponytail hanging over her shoulder, Molly places what looked suspiciously like a stethoscope against his chest.

"No, I've tried, but he's not responding to anything."

Molly purses her lips, a subtle change of expression but alarming on anyone working in healthcare; if Connor gives him shit later about his blood pressure he'll only have himself to blame. "His thirium pump is sluggish and without ventilation he's starting to overheat." She looks at Hank, as serious as he's ever seen her. "We need to get him to medical."

Hank doesn't have to be told twice. He reaches for Connor, intent to carry him himself no matter how damn heavy the kid might be, when Chris joins his side. "I'll take his legs," he says, so Hank lifts him under the arms, vowing to buy the man a nice steak dinner after all this. Molly leads the way in a light jog through the bullpen just as the power comes back on.

Just before reaching the medical room, the group runs into Fowler—near literally. The captain, who'd been barking orders to get the situation handled, falls silent as he spots Connor, eyes widening. "Hank, what—"

"Computer shocked him," he grunts, snappish from the delay. "Taking him to medical."

Thankfully, the man steps out of the way; Jeffrey is a good enough leader to know when to stand aside and let others handle things. Still, Hank can see the concern on his face. "Keep me updated."

A sharp nod and they part ways, though by how Fowler immediately slips his mind, the man will be lucky to get any further word out of him at all. All that matters now is Connor, getting Connor help, not letting Connor die because this time he really won't come back. No more second chances, no more tricks up his sleeve. Just dead. Dead like—

No. He can't think like that, not now when Connor needs him. He can't dwell on the panic brewing beneath the surface because acknowledging it means giving it power. Hank tries to shake it off as they finally get Connor into the medical bay.

With care, Hank and Chris lift Connor onto the small white bed centre back of the infirmary. Molly heads straight for her laptop sitting on the counter, taps away at the keys, then dives into the cupboard beneath, wrangling with several black cords tangled together. Chris backs up closer to the door, looking unsure of what to do with himself. Hank stands stock still, eyes never leaving his partner's prone body.

He's startled out of his stupor when Molly kicks her rolling chair over to Connor's bedside, balancing on one foot as she juggles between laptop and cords. Hank almost goes to her side to assist, but evidently the woman has experience because she slides into the seat without stumbling once. She jams one end of a thick black cable into the computer, gently turns Connor's head away to expose his neck, and comes at him with the other side.

Hank jerks forward, alarm spotting his voice. "Woah, the hell you doing?"

But the technician doesn't hesitate, running her thumb over the back of Connor's neck before plugging into the revealed port. "I need to check his diagnostics," she explains, typing away. "Since he can't just tell us currently, I need to establish a manual connection." She glances over to flash Hank a quick smile. "Don't worry. This is all pretty standard for androids."

Androids, right. Sometimes it's hard for Hank to remember his partner isn't actual flesh-and-blood human but wire-and-plate machine; he'd just reacted on instinct. No matter how squeamish seeing a cable jacked in to Connor's neck makes him feel, he needs to remind himself that it isn't hurting him whatsoever. It's just like... taking someone's blood pressure. Or something.

His hands keep clenching at his sides to steady his nerves. He hates this, hates this room, hates anything that reminds him of that horrible day three years ago.

"Is there anything I can grab?" Chris speaks up from the doorway, voice softened by concern. "He gonna need blue blood, or...?"

"I don't believe so," Molly says. Hank can see the glow of the screen reflected in her glasses. "But actually, would you mind going around and seeing if any other androids require help too? I'd check, but—"

"No problem. I'll be back." Dwindling the room down to three with only two truly present.

Stepping closer to the bed, Hank bites his lip and hovers. "So, is he...?"

Without warning, Connor gasps. His eyes slide shut and his body, once stiff and taut with electricity, finally relaxes, the red of his LED no longer flashing but holding steady. Hank feels his heart drop. "What's happening? Connor?" He tries to get closer, but Molly holds up her hand.

"It's all right, Hank," she soothes. "His programming was essentially stuck in a loop; I just force quit it so it can reset. His stress levels couldn't lower and were putting unnecessary pressure on his struggling systems, but hopefully they'll plateau soon. His breathing cycle can now resume and regulate his internal temperature."

Hank doesn't even try to pretend he understands. "So... he's resting?"

"Mm... not quite. More like he's just unconscious now, where before he was pretty much frozen."

"Well, at least he looks better than before," Hank sighs, standing at the foot of the bed. Seeing Connor unmoving is as unnerving as ever, but it helps to not have to see his eyes rolled back in his skull anymore. Giving his partner a proper once-over, he frowns. "His hand—" He points accordingly. "It's still... clawed." Palm flat and fingers out, interfacing without a screen.

"Yes," Molly replies with her own frown, typing away. "It looks like the shock completely fried the circuits in that hand, so it's not reacting to my override. He'll definitely need a replacement."

Hank swallows, clenches and unclenches his fists. He remembers, he has to remember that Connor isn't human—that this isn't amputation but more like replacing a blown wheel on a car. The comparison makes his stomach turn. "Will that be complicated?" Expensive? Expenses be damned, he'll pay out of his own pocket to make sure Connor has both hands. Kid can't manage going a day without flicking that damn coin around.

Molly hums. He admits her ease with multitasking impresses, focus split between his questions and the laptop. "Hands are generally a universal part on androids and widely interchangeable. I don't imagine it'll cause much trouble." Peering closer at her laptop, she furrows her brow. Hank instantly feels on-edge.

"What? What is it?" he demands.

"The amount of damage is just..." She shakes her head. "I don't understand. The station's surge protectors must be old to allow such a shock through."

Something crawls up his spine, a trickling dread spouts at the base of his nape. "What do you mean 'this badly'? Is he gonna be all right?" Fuck fuck fuck, this is all too familiar...

Molly lays out the facts for him. "The damage is definitely serious. His power supply is badly damaged and needs replacing. His battery is also damaged, but thankfully didn't get hit as hard; his self-repair should be able to fix it with time. Likewise he should be able to heal the arm as well. What relieves me the most is his CPU, however. It suffered only minor damage that he can self-repair. If the shock had fully reached it, he'd likely experience severe impairment of his physical and mental faculties and memory loss."

Again, Hank doesn't comprehend much of what she said, but he hopes he gleaned the right conclusion. "So... he'll be able to heal everything but the hand and power supply?"

Molly purses her lips. "In theory, yes."

"Only in theory...?"

"Normally, Connor's systems would begin self-repair immediately once he sustained an injury," she explains. "It's largely an automatic process, though he does have some control over it. But he requires a power supply to redistribute energy to the affected areas. Without a working one, he can't start to heal himself. And the longer he goes without doing so, the more likely he is to sustain permanent damage."

Surely his nails will soon draw blood from his palms. Permanent damage echoes in his head relentlessly. "This power supply..." He can feel a headache coming on. "Is it...?"

"Also largely universal."

Thank fucking God.

"So we just get one of these power supply replacements and he'll be fine, right?" He tries to temper his rising hope, no matter how much he wants to embrace it; things are never that easy and there's always a catch.

"If everything goes smoothly and Connor begins his healing program soon, then he should be." Molly sits back in her chair and studies the ceiling in thought. "Now we just need to get him the replacement. Hmm..."

"You don't know where to get one?" Hank questions. He hadn't expected this to be the catch. Molly shoots him a dry smile.

"I may know a lot about androids, but I can't possibly know everything." She folds her arms. "The issue is less about where to get one than how to get one. CyberLife is still caught up in that lawsuit with Jericho about getting the schematics and rights to android parts and biocomponents, and I'm sure you know they've been dragging it out as long as they can."

Hank snorts. He sure damn does. Watching the news now and then, getting updates from Markus through Connor, puts his temper to the test. Androids only want the rights to their bodies and health and CyberLife is dragging its ass, arguing every minute point. From the proceedings it's clear the androids will win, eventually, but the company seems determined to only give them the bare minimum kicking and screaming. At the very least, thirium 310 is no longer patented and widely available for purchase. (And thank God, because Connor has a bad habit of being Connor.)

"We could try arguing the point with them, but I have no clue how long that might take and time isn't on our side," Molly continues. She sighs. "Still, I'm not sure where else to obtain new biocomponents since CyberLife issued that recall on all their products and closed shop."

Hank closes his eyes in thought, opening them only moments later. "What about Jericho? Connor told me they have a whole area just for fixin' androids up. That means they must have supplies, right?"

Molly tilts her head, humming. "It's... worth a shot at least. Do we have a way to contact them?"

Hank is already fishing around his pockets. "Yeah, Markus gave me his direct line in case he can't reach Connor or something happens to him. Kid has some perks, I guess." His attempt at joviality falls flat even to himself and he swallows, giving Connor's shin a light, comforting squeeze. Just to let him know he's there. Just to let him know Connor is still there.

Walking to the other side of the room, Hank leans against the wall by the door, pressing his phone to his ear as it rings. He doesn't want to crowd Molly in case she needs to do something, but he refuses to let Connor out of his sight. After a few seconds, a voice answers unencumbered by surrounding noise (because androids take their calls in their goddamn heads and he still isn't used to that).

"Lieutenant Anderson, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Nothing good, I'm afraid," Hank grumbles. But then, it's never something good when Hank has to call Markus; it means the kid has gone and gotten himself injured, again, and he needs the advice or help of one of the few other androids he knows. "There was a surge during the storm here at the office while Connor was connected to his computer and it gave him a bad shock."

"Is he all right?"

Hank appreciates the urgency and concern in his voice. Despite the estrangement Connor confesses to feel regarding Jericho, he clearly has Markus's friendship and trust. "It fucked him up pretty bad," Hank grunts, eyes not once leaving Connor. "Fried some parts and completely destroyed one of his hands. Tech says he can self-repair, but he needs a new power supply. Wouldn't happen to have one lying around, would ya?"

"Hmmm..." The lack of background noise makes it hard to tell if the call had dropped or Markus is just thinking. "Our supplies are still rather limited even this long after the Revolution, as I'm sure you can imagine. But it's a common part and we should have one in the repair bay. I'm just on my way back to New Jericho, but I'll have Simon take a look around in the meantime."

Hank exhales heavily, shoulders dropping. "That'd be great, thanks." The name 'Simon' sounds vaguely familiar.

"Of course. You mentioned his hand as well? Which one is damaged?"

"Uh—" He steps closer to have a look. It's the right one, no skin but white chassis charred black. It's a nauseating sight. "Right. The right one."

"Okay, I'll ask Simon to take a look for one of those too. I'll call you back when we can locate them."

Hank hopes he'll be receiving a call very, very soon, then. "Thanks again, Markus. You're a real life-saver."

A gentle laugh over the line. "I try my best, Lieutenant. Tell Connor to hang in there." Followed by a dial-tone.

He can tell him, Hank thinks despairingly, but he doubts it will even get through to the kid. Sliding his phone back in his pocket, he approaches the bed with caution, afraid to interrupt Molly's whirlwind of typing. Thankfully, she speaks up first. "So, what's the verdict?"

"Said they'll take a look for it and get back to me." He suppresses the heavy sigh building in his chest. "Everything still all right? Or stable, I guess?"

"Yes. I'm just keeping an eye on his systems and vitals." Molly smiles at him warmly. "Would you like to sit with him?"

Hank shuffles his feet. "I don't want to get in the way—"

"You won't be. I can set my laptop on the bedside table here, and it's set to go off if something happens. There's not much I can do until we get the replacement power supply anyway, so." She leaves the 'so you might as well sit with him because I know you're dying to' unspoken, a fact he appreciates. Hank nods sharply.

Once she has the computer secure on the table, Molly relinquishes her seat to him and Hank doesn't waste a second taking it. He glances at the screen to his side, squinting at the numbers and codes and data he can't even hope to understand. But no warnings are flashing or sounding, so he takes what little comfort he can from the fact. Molly makes some excuse he barely hears to leave the room—to give them time to be alone, he isn't stupid. Then he gives his complete focus to the android on the bed.

"Oh, kid," Hank whispers. He reaches out to stroke Connor's hair, mindful of the cord in his neck. "You're just a magnet for trouble, aren't ya?" He brushes back that stubborn lock that always falls over his forehead. Unbidden, tears spring to his eyes that he wipes away furiously. "Look at me, gettin' all teary-eyed over an android." He chuckles, watery. "What a sap I've become..."

Connor, of course, doesn't reply—can't reply. But God Hank wishes he would. He can picture it clearly, those big, brown eyes opening and going warm with concern, no hesitation in showing his affections and worries. He'd probably tell him something about his stress levels and heart rate, and how he's 'perfectly functional' even though he'd just been fucking electrocuted.

Electrocuted. From the storm he's waited all month for. He'll probably be traumatized by lightning now. It would be rational, understandable. But the thought still makes his chest hurt. The kid just wants to see a storm. Why the fuck did this have to happen? To Connor? Hasn't he suffered enough?

Hank doesn't know how long he sits there stroking his hair, watching his LED for any changes while Molly shifts in and out of the room, speaking words he doesn't truly take in; if it isn't necessary, he isn't processing it. He barely processes anything but the android before him, fighting against memories of his little boy laid out in a hospital bed, tubes and wires, dwindling life before him...

Thankfully his phone going off jars him from his spiralling thoughts. He fishes it from his pocket and answers somewhat hoarsely, "Anderson."

"Hello, Lieutenant Anderson, this is Simon. Markus gave me your number to reach you; I hope that's all right."

"That's..." Hank licks dry lips. "Yeah, it's fine. Assume you're calling about the parts?" They can make introductions and small talk some other, less urgent time.

"Yes, you're right. I managed to find an extra power supply. It's been used, but it should do the trick."

"Used?" Hank frowns. "It's not damaged, is it?"

"Unfortunately, nothing we have here is new. It shows minor signs of wear and it won't be as efficient as a brand new part, but I assure you it's enough to get Connor's self-healing program back on."

Hank lets out a long sigh of relief. "Fuckin' thank God... I can send someone out to come grab it."

"Oh, no, don't trouble yourself; I fully intended to bring it over. I'd like to check on Connor myself, and so does Markus."

"Oh." He hasn't considered those at Jericho being overly concerned, but it would make sense for Connor's friends to care about his well-being. Despite himself, he smiles. "All right, that'd be great, thanks. Hey, did you manage to find—?"

"A hand?" Does he suddenly sound amused, or is that just him? "Yes, and in excellent condition, too. We'll bring it as well."

"Thanks. Just..." Hank exhales, suddenly overwhelmed by it all. "Thank you. If you guys didn't have the part, we didn't... We weren't sure..."

He can hear Simon's smile over the line. "Lieutenant Anderson, think nothing of it. Connor is one of us and a friend, and we'll always do anything in our power to help him. Markus and I should be there in about twenty minutes."

"Right. Be careful." Hank looks at the ceiling, where rain drums on the roof. "It's a hell of a storm."

"Of course. We'll see you soon."

The line goes dead and Hank lets out another long sigh, as though loosening the pressure valves on his own stress levels. They have the hand, they have the power supply—Connor will be okay. He needs to remind himself that over and over. Connor will be okay. This isn't three years ago. This isn't...

"Help's coming, Connor," Hank murmurs, gently, gently taking the android's good hand. The body heat reassures, but only just; the paleness of his artificial skin, the ominous crimson of his LED, still leaves him antsy. He rubs his thumb over the back of Connor's hand. "Just hang on a little while more, okay? Help's coming, I promise. You'll be okay."

You have to be.

He's just shifting his position in the seat, ready to settle in by Connor's side until the parts arrive, when a knock comes at the door and Fowler steps inside. "I spoke with Stewart, but thought I'd check in on him myself," he says quietly, coming beside Hank. His eyes scan the laptop screen, and Hank wonders if his old friend understands any more of it than he does. "How is he?"

Crossing his arms, Hank sighs. "It's... not great." A fucking understatement, but if Jeffrey already spoke with Molly, there's no point in recounting everything. "She says he should be fine, but he needs some new parts. Just got off the phone with Markus and them, they've got what he needs and are on their way."

Jeff lets out his own sigh, one of relief. "Well, thank God for that." He shoots Hank a side-glance with a hint of a smirk. "Never thought I'd see Hank Anderson with an android leader on speed-dial."

Hank snorts. "Yeah, yeah, fuck off."

From the hallway, someone calls for the captain, and the man rolls his eyes. "Can't step away for one goddamn minute," he grumbles. "Better get back to it." Jeffrey pats him affably on the shoulder. "He'll be okay, Hank. You know the kid refuses to stay down. He's nearly as stubborn as you."

Hank offers a weak smile, but it falls when he turns back to Connor. "Yeah..."

"Really, Hank." A comforting squeeze, rare in its open tenderness. "He's gonna be fine." Another pat and the man turns to leave. "If he needs anything—or you need anything—don't be afraid to ask. Okay?"

"Got it," Hank grunts.

He hears Fowler exchange words with Molly as they move past each other through the door, the latter closing it lightly behind her with her foot. "Sorry to take so long," she says. "Chris got back to me and I had a couple stops to make around the precinct."

"Everything all right?" Hank asks, hand still entwined with Connor's. "Anyone else hurt?"

"A few minor electrical burns on humans and androids alike. Nothing to serious, but it'll sting for sure." Coming up behind him, Molly peers down at the laptop screen and hums. "Fortunately no other androids were interfacing when the power surged. Did you manage to reach Jericho?"

"Yeah, they're on their way with the parts. Should be here any minute."

"That's a relief." Is it fucking ever. "All right, I should probably get him ready then, if you'd step aside for a sec."

Reluctantly, Hank releases his grip on Connor's limp hand and gets to his feet, shuffling out of the way but not out of reach of the android. "Get him ready?"

"For the part swapping," she clarifies, taking her seat back. She double-checks the screen, nods to herself, and carefully pulls Connor's white dress-shirt up to his shoulders, revealing smooth, unblemished skin. With practised expertise, Molly presses a finger over Connor's red LED ring at the same time she lays a hand flat in the middle of his torso. To Hank's astonishment, the projected artificial skin disappears, revealing white chassis in a wide circle around her hand.

"Jesus, it's that easy?" he scoffs. "Just touch the light and no more skin?"

"Essentially," the technician smiles. "Androids were made with easy-access in mind in case of repairs. And by sliding this part up here..." As she did accordingly, the chassis disappears entirely, revealing the inner workings of Connor's fucking abdomen. Holy shit. "There you have it."

"Oh my God," Hank breathes, eyes wide. He knows it's different for androids, he knows it is, but that's still his close friend's organs—er, biocomponents—exposed to the world. And Connor hadn't even twitched. Fuck, what even is his life anymore?

He really doesn't want to look, but finds his eyes taking it in anyway, curving around every man-made cylinder, ever gear, every shape of plastic or metal or whatever the fuck androids are made of. Hell, he can even see the blue 'veins' full of thirium running to and around each part. And as his eyes travel upwards, the damage from the shock becomes obvious.

Beneath a cylindrical plug and just above what looks like goddamn mechanical lungs rests a small, flat cube, half of it scorched black, the other half a blood red in contrast to the healthy blue of the other biocomponents. Hank sees other charred parts here and there, but nothing compares to what has to be the destroyed power supply. Sure enough, Molly confirms his assumption seconds later.

"Here is the damaged power supply." She points to the part. "And right above here is the thirium pump regulator." A gesture to the cylindrical plug.

Hank blinks. "And that does...?"

"It regulates an android's thirium pump, which is right here." Her finger moves to the upper left of Connor's torso, to a more circular part which appears to be moving every few seconds.

"Which is...?"

"His heart, essentially."

Holy fuck.

Disturbed, Hank just stands there, watching his partner's heart beat before him. The damage seems much worse now, knowing how close it had gotten to such vital parts; a bit farther up and Connor might've just died. He swallows, clenches at his hands again. No, they have parts on the way, parts to fix him. Connor won't die. He isn't dying.

"Now," Molly continues, oblivious to his inner struggle, "I'm just going to remove the power supply, so I can swap it as soon as the new one arrives." And, casual as can be, she does just that, reaching inside his partner's chest and taking out the scorched biocomponent with some careful finagling. The small part smells faintly like melted plastic. After one more quick look through Connor's biocomponents, Molly closes his abdomen and lets his skin projection slide back over.

Hell of a lot more efficient than human surgery, that's for sure.

"I'll remove the hand afterwards," Molly says, getting up to place the damaged biocomponent in a small bag she withdraws from the cupboard. "I could've waited for the power supply as well, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to double-check the rest of his abdominal biocomponents while we're waiting." She stores the sealed part away. "And I could—"

A brisk knock interrupts their one-sided conversation. Molly answers the door and to Hank's utmost relief, it is indeed Markus and Simon (well, he assumes the blond android's this Simon). Markus, even soaked and face knit with concern, still stands an imposing figure, framed by that familiar drenched trench coat, but Simon seems quieter by his side, walking calmly behind his leader as the former sweeps in.

The technician makes brief introductions with the two newcomers, though their focus is clearly more on the injured android lying in bed; still, they're much more polite and cordial than Hank would be if some stranger was standing between him and Connor. Simon hands over a small metal box he assumes contains the parts to Molly, while Markus comes over to greet him.

"Lieutenant Anderson." He offers a tight-lipped nod, only glancing away from Connor for a second. "How is he?"

"Just call me Hank, kid," Hank sighs. He's done a lot of sighing today. "And he's hanging in there. Been out since he got shocked."

"Understandable, after such an injury. But hopefully, he'll be on the path to recovery soon enough." He offers Hank a warm, comforting smile Hank can barely bother to try returning. "Oh, and this is Simon—" At his name, the android wraps up his chat with Molly and comes to stand beside Markus.

"Which I assume you've already inferred," Simon smiles. He holds out a hand that Hank shakes on auto-pilot. Do androids usually shake hands, or is it just for this old human's sake? "But I am happy to meet you in person, Lieutenant An—er, Hank." As his eyes trail over to Connor, his smile slips. "I only wish it were under better circumstances..."

You and me both. Hank gives a sharp nod, more a jerk of the head. "Agreed." He knows he doesn't have his best manners on right now, but he's worried and impatient and the parts are finally here and introductions are the farthest thing from his mind. Despite himself, he makes an effort. "Thanks again. For the, uh, parts. I'm sure you two are busy."

"At all times," Simon replies cheerfully. "But never too busy for a friend in need."

"Speaking of help—" Molly breaks into their little circle, comically tiny between them. She holds a small, grey flat cube in her hands, what Hank assumes to be the new power supply. "What's say we get this part in the patient?"

The three part for her, scrambling out of the way with little grace. But Hank rubbernecks regardless, no desire to see Connor opened up again but feeling it's his responsibility to be there. The kid in general is his unofficial responsibility, declared by no one else but himself. He's fully capable, of course, an actual killing machine, but he's also young, so painfully young, and naive and unassuming and new to it all. He needs someone to guide him through the more nuanced aspects of life, to help him sort through all these new feelings humans have years to cope with.

He's probably the last teacher for the job, but, well, here he is.

Once more with disquieting ease, Molly reveals Connor's inner workings; Hank catches Markus wince and Simon shift uncomfortably at the damage present. The technician carefully, carefully fits the new power supply into the emptied slot. She double-checks, prods and pokes it, making sure it's in securely, before nodding to herself and sealing Connor back up. His LED, before stuck in that unnerving, flashing red, now turns to a spinning yellow and settles to a solid colour.

Molly's eyes flick to her laptop screen and a soft smile graces her lips. "Connor's systems accepted the part and have already begun distributing power to his injuries," she announces, turning to face them.

All this worry, this nauseating, heart-clenching concern, for a problem solved in less than ten seconds. Maybe Hank should be more embarrassed by his panic, but his relief is too immense to allow it room. Connor had been seriously injured, he tells himself, even if the solution seemed so simple. Hank finally exhales the breath he's been holding. "Thank God..."

Simon shoots him a sympathetic look and Markus smiles—at Hank's relief, Connor's improving condition, or both, he can't say. But before he can truly relish in the weight off his shoulders, Molly is already moving Connor's stiff arm to remove his burnt hand. It comes off so damn easily, and he's not sure if that's because she has the technical knowledge or it's so damaged it was about to fall off regardless. Hank tries not to look at it sitting on the counter as Molly grabs the new one. The room still reeks of melted plastic.

If someone was just casually carrying around a severed human hand, he'd probably feel more uneasy, but without the artificial skin, android hands look just like mannequin ones, smooth and white. Replacing the hand takes a bit longer than the power supply, but compared to human surgery, it's stupidly quick. As the technician secures the hand into place, Hank watches it come to life: artificial skin flowing over the chassis, nails, intentionally-placed wrinkles in just the right places to look human while still visually appealing. With how human deviants seemed, it's easy to forget they're an entirely different species. Do androids count as a species?

This new hand does not claw out like the old one, falling lax by Connor's side as it should, and Molly looks to take this as success. "And there you have it! A brand new hand, all good to go."

Hank resists slumping to the ground from the emotional exhaustion of the day, while Markus thankfully continues the conversation because he's got no idea where this goes from here. "Do you think it's wise to reboot him, just to make sure everything's going all right? After he's had some time to rest, of course."

Molly rubs her chin, looking Connor over thoughtfully. "Yeah, I'm thinking the same thing. I'll give him half an hour before waking him. It's possible he might wake up on his own before then anyway."

Wake up on his own within thirty minutes after having an organ ripped out and replaced. Grateful as he is (so fucking grateful), Hank still scoffs. Androids. He clears his throat. "Will he be, uh, all right to wake up so soon? Like, won't he be in pain...?"

From what he's gathered, pain is... complicated for deviants. Some get it and some don't, and the intensity of the pain is all over the place: what might leave one android bawling could be nothing more than a paper cut to another. How any of this is possible, he's got no clue, but there's a lot of shit that should be impossible when it comes to deviants he's given up trying to understand. All he knows for sure is that Connor feels pain (something the little bugger tried to hide from him until the day a suspect got in a good punch to the face; something about "not wishing to cause him any undue concern", when all the kid does is cause him concern). He also knows they don't make android pain killers, not yet at least, and if they can avoid having Connor go through unnecessary pain, he'll take it.

"It's possible," Simon says, face pinched in a way that means he's not happy with the decision either. "But it might be for the best to take precaution and have him up, if only for a few minutes. If it's too much, we can always put him back into stasis."

"Yes," Markus nods, looking solemn. "It's also best if we're here when he wakes, in case anything comes up that requires an android's assistance."

'An android's assistance'. Like there aren't four others working around the building. Hank knows the two just want to see Connor open his eyes as much as he does. But he admits he does feel marginally better knowing they're here, ready to help. That anyone is here to help Connor, because he sure as shit doesn't know how.

After this, he vows, he's gonna learn more about android anatomy. Even if he has to sit through Connor's verbose lectures to do so.

Hank grimaces at their verdict, but doesn't object; if Molly isn't, he feels less cause for concern. Still, he'll make sure to be right by Connor's side when he comes around.

So he spends the next ten minutes shooting the shit with the two androids as Molly monitors Connor's condition, adding only the odd comment here or there. With Connor finally having the part he needs, Hank can focus easier on small talk. He learns a bit about current affairs in Jericho, but somehow the conversation drifts to more personal matters. He learns that Simon likes to sew as a hobby, and runs a group every Sunday for beginners and experts alike. Markus stops by on occasion, and while he can sew, his true interest lies in art and painting. Knowing Markus's former owner was one Carl Manfred through Connor, Hank isn't surprised.

They're just discussing getting them to meet this 'Sumo' Connor is apparently always going on about when said android stirs. Hank may not have super enhanced robo-senses, but he's the first to notice Connor's fingers twitch in the corner of his eye. He immediately drops the conversation in lieu of spinning to face him and gently taking his hand. He registers Markus and Simon move closer in behind him, Molly hovering off to the side, silently observing.

"Connor?" Hank calls. "Connor, can you hear me?"

Connor's lip twitches. His eyes clench, then relax. His brow curves inward. Hank lightly squeezes his hand, anticipation rising within him. "Connor? Open your eyes, son. It's okay now."

He's close, so close to waking up, and the wait is killing him. Hank wants to shake the boy until he comes to, but he knows that can do more harm than good. So he's forced to be patient (and Connor knows he hates to be patient). Those closed eyes twitch some more and, at long last, slowly open.

Hank could bawl with relief.

"Hey," he intones, giving his best comforting smile. He watches as Connor's eyes move around the ceiling, as he comes back to himself, and keeps things simple to not overwhelm him. "There he is. You really worried us there, kid."

Connor doesn't respond, but that's not unexpected; he's not gonna rush someone who just got fucking electrocuted. But something's wrong. Because in those widening eyes, where there should be clarity or even confusion, there's instead growing fear. Panic. His pupils dart rapidly around the room, his breathing picks up dramatically. Icy dread grips Hank's heart, and he tightens his hold on his hand, leaning in closer. "Connor? Connor, what's wrong? Are you in pain?"

This doesn't seem like pain, but he might as well ask; though it makes little difference as Connor still never replies, never once looks his way.

"Connor?" Markus calls. He steps beside Hank and reaches out, hand bleeding away to white. "Hey, it's me, Connor, it's Markus. You're safe, you're all right. Can we interface and you can show me what's—"

But he can't finish his sentence because suddenly, Connor screams.

Screams like he's dying, screams like he's being fucking ripped apart, screams until static edges into his voice like audio spiking on a recording. It's so raw, so terrified and human, and the sound is like a punch in Hank's gut. He's barely heard Connor shout, let alone scream. It's a sound he never thought he'd hear from the boy, and one he never wants to hear again.

Connor pulls his hand away from Hank's to claw at his hair until he draws blue blood, screaming all the while. Hank shoots to his feet, knocking the chair behind him in a jarring clang, and tries to wrangle those hands away by his wrists. "Connor! Connor, stop!" But stopping an android hell-bent on self-harm is no easy task and he can barely hold him in place.

"Fuck, his stress levels are at ninety-five percent!" Molly swears, rushing around the bed to the laptop. In the chaos, Hank hadn't even registered the shrill beeping from the computer, alarms going crazy. She types at the keyboard, then swears again, louder. "I can't put him in stasis, his systems are overriding the command—"

"We'll try," Markus says breathlessly. He and Simon grab at Connor's arms until they've got his sleeves down, exposing enough skin to interface, and Hank prays it works because he can barely keep Connor from tearing his scalp out and he can't take the screaming, he just won't stop screaming—

But the two androids rip their white hands away, fruitless. "His firewalls are too secure, he's taking our attempts as attacks," Simon explains tersely. "We can't put him in stasis until he calms down."

But that's how they were gonna make him fucking calm down, because clearly words aren't getting through. Connor's LED is a bright blood red and Hank swears he'll go deaf soon. Desperate, terrified, and bottomless in his affection, Hank releases his hold to take Connor's face between his hands and make him look him in the eye.

"Connor." He tries to keep the quiver from his voice. "Look at me."

For a fraction of a second, those frantic brown eyes pause on his own before darting about again. Hank can work with a second, he's worked with less. "Connor." Still firm, but something tenderer: affectionate instruction, fatherly care. "Hey. Look at me, kid. Look me in the eye. I know you can do it."

As they make contact again, it lingers, and the screaming, blessedly, cuts out. There's a glazed look in Connor's eye, like he's seeing something entirely different than his work partner. He's still gasping, shaking all over, a whine building in his throat Hank tries to quiet before he reaches another fever-pitch. "Hey. Hey hey hey. Shhh, Connor. It's okay. It's okay now. Everything's all right."

The eyes wander again, aborted shouts rise and fall on his lips. Each time Connor drifts, Hank pulls him back with gentle words and redirection. "Over here, kiddo. Just keep looking at me. Yeah, just like that. You're doing great. You just keep looking at me, and I'll do the rest."

He hasn't used this tone in years. This low, soothing voice, sanding off the edges of his gruff baritone into something buzzing and warm. This voice just for Cole, after a nightmare or during a crying fit that just won't settle. Something he buried with his son and unearthed without missing a beat. Like an instinct he couldn't drown in alcohol despite his efforts.

Connor's screams die into quivering whimpers. Twin transparent-blue streaks of liquid escape his eyes that Hank brushes away with his thumbs. It doesn't seem like he still completely recognizes anyone in front of him, but there's a hint of awareness there. Beneath the panic, there's something like hope. When he finally speaks, it's through static, it warbles like a scratched record, it's choking on fear and the risk to believe—

"H-Hank?"

And Hank nearly loses his composure right there.

"Yeah, kid," he swallows, still keeping that tender hold on Connor's face. "I'm right here, I've got you. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, okay?" Echoes of a similar reminder, a failed promise to a different boy, ring in his ears—but he will not break his word this time.

Beside him, Molly whispers by his ear. "His stress levels are lowering. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

No one needs to tell him twice. Hank continues to wipe away at those tears, to murmur soft, warm reassurances, and while it does seem to be helping, Connor is still wide-eyed and shivering, breaths off-kilter, lips quivering with the threat to sob at any moment. Those frightened eyes seem to look right through him. What the hell is the kid seeing that's terrifying him this much?

"Connor," Hank intones, waiting until Connor looks in his general direction before speaking again. "Can you tell me what's going on? What do you see right now?"

Connor swallows, visibly gulps, and takes a few staggered breaths. "B-B-Blood," he gasps.

Hank frowns. "Blood?"

"S-She's dead."

"She? Who's dead?"

A weak, keening sound that hurts his chest. Hank leans in closer. "Connor, who is dead?"

"T-The pictures!" Connor wails. "I can't—I-I can't see, static, b-blood, it's red, I h-hate red, I hate it!"

Pictures—?

"Con, Con, shh, shh," Hank hushes. The kid is working himself up into hysterics again and he can't let him go back to that state. "It's okay, everything's okay. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. Okay? It can't hurt you."

Closing his eyes, Connor whimpers. "N-Not real...?"

"Not real. I promise." He's not sure how much Connor can understand like this, but maybe he can get through to him with some facts. "There was a surge of lightning earlier, while you were interfacing with your computer. Gave you quite a shock and fucked you up, must've messed with your eyes too. But we're fixing it, okay? You're gonna be okay, Connor."

"Hank," Connor chokes, "I'm s-scared."

"Dad, I'm scared!"

The tears he's barely been holding back finally escape. It's too similar, it's too similar. The only thing keeping him from breaking down completely is knowing Connor needs him. "I know," Hank manages. "I-I know, kid. But I'm right here."

A shaky hand reaches up and for a moment Hank fears Connor's going back to tearing at his hair, but it takes a different direction. This time his fingers settle over Hank's still gently holding the android's face and curl. Getting the hint, Hank moves his own hand to grasp Connor's, fingers intertwining. He gives a light, comforting squeeze. Connor's LED returns to yellow.

"Stay," he pleads, voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah. Of course. Always, Con."

That appears to be enough to let Connor rest. His eyes, still squeezed shut, relax, and the tight, almost painful grip around Hank's hand loosens. All the tension bleeds from his body as his breathing calms. In seconds, he's back asleep.

Hank leans over the garbage can and vomits.