All Systems Fully Operational Chapter 14: Redacted, a detroit: become human fanfic

Requested by IceAurora: Can I request a oneshot that deals with either androids having limited memories, or certain biocomponenets becoming obsolete (and thus not in production)? I realise that those topics would get a little bit more depressing, but I'd really love to see what you think about them!

WARNING! This is a SAD AS HECK chapter and I MEAN it when I say that. HEAVY, HEAVY ANGST. This one is designed to make you cry, so if you're not into that then I won't be sad if you give this one a miss ;)

Also, formal apology to IceAurora because this was originally suppose to be way earlier on my list of prompts to fill, but every time I tried I just couldn't think of how to write it. I finally had an idea hit me and I wrote it all in less than 24 hours, so I really hope this makes up for how long it took and that you can forgive me for how belated it is! :)

I can't believe I wrote this.

Redacted

February 19th 2048

Connor was never the same after Hank died.

The lieutenant had been like a father to him, always the one to offer advice and encouragement when the android found himself suffused with uncertainty; Hank always knew the best way to approach something, and over the years Connor had known him, he'd become an invaluable member of his small family.

Connor was not a stranger to losing a loved one. Sumo had passed away two years after the peaceful revolution, and while it had been difficult to swallow, it hadn't quite prepared him for the intense feeling of loss that imbued his whole body when Hank's passing finally sunk in.

The funeral was a grandiose affair. The entire DPD made sure that Lieutenant Hank Anderson received the sign-off he deserved after his many faithful years of service; every officer in attendance was adorned in uniform and saluted in respect as his coffin was lowered into the ground.

Connor did not possess tear ducts; he was fabricated to be an investigative detective, and therefore CyberLife had not bothered to implement any kind of crying function that other models of android had been manufactured with. Connor could not produce tears, but he wished he could. There was no relief for the steady build-up of pressure he felt - a feeling you had helpfully identified to him as 'grief' - and it did not seem as though the burdening sensation would ever disperse.

"The pain might not go away", you told him, "But it will become easy to cope."

Connor could not cry, but his LED remained red for months following Hank's death.

June 4th 2048

It was clear to everybody in the precinct that Connor's performance was impaired without Hank's presence. It was as if the residual sorrow of Hank's passing put up a physical barrier between Connor and his ability to carry out what should have been mundane tasks for him; he was no longer working at a sufficient pace, his attitude and morale had diminished greatly, and his closure rate on cases had taken a dramatic dive in recent months.

Even you struggled to motivate the android, bringing interesting cases to his attention only for the both of you to hit a dead end, and for Connor to ultimately concede defeat; he knew his work ethic was poor, and that it was only a matter of time before Captain Fowler decided it was time to let him go.

Connor just didn't feel inspired anymore. Hank had been the reason Connor continued to work at the DPD, but now that the lieutenant was gone, Connor just couldn't find solace in the occupation. It no longer felt like his purpose.

You were sat on the couch, Connor splayed across it with his head in your lap, when you decided to pose the suggestion that had been on your mind for weeks now.

"I think we should retire from the DPD and move somewhere more rural."

Connor was facing the television, quiet and still as you carded your fingers through his hair; his LED flickered red for a few moments before settling on an inquisitive yellow.

"Move away?"

His faint query tugged at your heartstrings; you'd been putting off suggesting it for a while because you weren't sure if he'd react positively to the proposal. After Hank's death, you'd moved into the lieutenant's house with Connor and lived there ever since; Connor was attached to it, it was the setting for all his good memories with the old man and it made you feel selfish to put forward the idea of moving out of it.

But Connor was struggling, and you knew it would be a step in the right direction.

"We don't have to sell the house", you assured him, "We can always come back if things don't work out, but… it might do you some good to live somewhere brighter, in the countryside maybe?" you made your voice as nonchalant as possible - you wanted this to be his decision, you didn't want to steer him away from his comfort zone if he wasn't ready for it.

You fell silent, nothing but the ambient noise of some terrible sitcom permeating the atmosphere as Connor's LED continued to flash yellow for some time; after a while, it seemed as though the subject had been dropped, that Connor did not want to even address the possibility of leaving Hank's home behind.

Just as you were nodding off to sleep, you drowsily noted the light on Connor's forehead turn blue, and the resigned sigh that escaped his mouth. "Okay."

August 12th 2048

The house in rural Michigan was quaint, but the surrounding area was wide-reaching; it was beautiful - a sweet little home on a two-acre plot of land with grass so green, it seemed almost too good to be true. It was perfect.

It was no secret that Connor had been skittish about fully moving out of the home he had spent his entire free life in; he'd stared out of the car window as you'd driven away from it for the last time, and there was something childlike in his face as you both bid farewell to it.

"This doesn't have to be the last time we're here, Connor", you'd assured him as you drove around the corner, "If you find that you miss it too much, we can always come back." You weren't so great at comforting as Hank had been, you didn't know how to sound completely sure of yourself and you certainly didn't speak with the level of conviction that the lieutenant used to, but you tried. There was nobody else there to ease Connor's nerves, so you had to try.

"I know." Connor had told you, and then given you a reserved smile, small but significant, and you'd felt an alleviation on your low spirits at the sight.

Your new home offered a repose from the despondency that your lives had fallen into, and for Connor, it could be a fresh start for him to build up his ambitions once again.

You unpacked together, finding the exercise to be therapeutic in a way, and spent an excessive amount of time arranging Hank's old books on the bookshelf in the living-room - he had a lot of books - he'd always been so insistent on keeping them even if he didn't pick them up for years at a time, always ready to defend the physical works of fiction as opposed to collecting them on digital devices. It was a novelty to own physical copies, and not only that, but there was something pleasing about the musty smell of them, and the way the pages would turn yellow as the years went by.

"What are you doing?" Connor asked as he moved around you, pausing on his way to the bedroom with a heavy-looking cardboard box in his arms.

You'd had your face buried in the stale pages of an old detective novel, halfway through breathing in the dank scent of the aging paper when Connor knocked you out of your reverie, and you proceeded to blush pink, lowering the book as you cleared your throat, "Uh, I was just… uh- the pages smell good, okay?" you murmured defensively, somewhat bashful over your own behaviour.

The android looked amused, "Oh, that was obvious. I was talking about this-" he shifted the box in his arms and motioned a hand to the bookshelf where you'd been midway through arranging the books by colour. "What is that?"

You blinked, "It's a bookshelf."

Connor let out a short chuckle, "No, I'm talking about this awful display of classification. You should arrange them alphabetically, not whatever that is."

"Pft. That's boring", you argued, "How is this awful? It's like… a rainbow of books!" You'd taken special care to organise the collection of novels from dark colours to light colours - it was far more pleasing to look at than any other presentation.

"Hmm", Connor had murmured, clearly in disapproval, but he'd let it go, resuming his trip to the bedroom to continue unpacking.

The next morning, you discovered that the android had sneakily recategorised every book in alphabetical order while you'd been sleeping, and despite it looking like a hideous mess of random colours, you let him have his way.

January 8th 2049

Prototypes were not built to last.

Prototypes were unfinished models, created to test a concept. They were built as an early stage of what could be - made to be replicated in a more superior form once the bugs and the glitches were weeded out.

Standard CyberLife androids were created to outlive humans. It was inevitable that an android's processor would slow down over time, just like an old computer or an obsolete smartphone, but the clever industrialists at CyberLife had thought of that - there were upgrades available: longer-lasting limbs, enhanced processors, ameliorated software for smoother conduct, and improved memory for more substantial storage.

CyberLife did not make these upgrades for prototypes, because prototypes were temporary.

Connor did not want to tell you that he'd received a warning alert one night, informing him that his memory storage was ninety-five percent full. He did not want to worry you, because he knew there was no way to extend the level of storage in his systems - he was not built in a way that made it possible to simply instill more petabytes of data to the complex network that formulated his existence.

So he didn't tell you. He just quietly spared up some space by deleting the memories of all the movies he'd ever watched with you - Connor did not deem them important to keep, and it left him with an agreeable ten percent of storage space left instead of five; it was still not satisfactory, but it was less urgent than it had been.

Connor blinked, turning his head to face your sleeping form, and curled up against your back, slinging an arm around your waist to hold you close. He buried his face in your hair and drifted gently into standby mode.

January 13th 2049

You were bound to find out one way or another, Connor had just hoped that there would've been some extra time for him to construct a more amicable explanation as to why he suddenly couldn't recall the movie nights he shared with you every Friday.

"What do you mean you don't remember watching it?" You exclaimed, holding up the Lord of the Rings box-set with a hint of accusation to your tone, "Are you kidding me? We watched The Fellowship last Friday, I was super excited about it cause this trilogy is almost fifty years old, how can you not remember me going on about it for the entire day?"

Connor looked apologetically at you from his place on the sofa, twiddling his thumbs in a rather guilty sort of way, "I… ah- I just… don't recall", he tried to appear casual and unconcerned about this development while you were far from tranquil.

"Connor, you're an android! Androids don't just forget things! You're supposed to have a perfect memory", your eyebrows furrowed as Connor's gaze lowered to the couch where he idly picked at the soft material. Fidgety. Nervous. "Connor", you spoke, your voice serious all of a sudden, "What's going on?"

Connor looked troubled, his LED flickering yellow, and he grappled with himself to divulge his problem to you in a more tentative and eventual way, but his processor didn't want to cooperate, "My memory storage was almost full. I had to delete something."

You frowned, shaking your head, "What? What do you- I don't understand."

The android seemed to want to look anywhere but your face; he shifted into a more reserved position, dragging his fingers through his hair in a somewhat distressed gesture, "My memory storage is limited, unlike other androids. I'm a prototype, I don't get to have fancy upgrades", he sounded almost bitter, "If I let my storage fill up completely, I will cease to function."

His words sunk in slowly and you lowered to the couch, staring at the movie box set in your hands with a frighteningly perturbed expression; Connor's storage space was finite, he could only hold so many memories. The realisation scared you.

"W-we can… watch it again. I won't delete it this time, I promise", Connor meekly attempted to remedy the situation, but you shook your head - you weren't thinking about your movie night now.

"No, I'm… I don't feel well. I'm gonna go to bed."

Connor watched you pad out of the room, your despondency exuding off of you in waves, and he sat still in the noiseless lounge until two o'clock in the morning, at which point he leaned over the arm of the sofa and pulled open the side drawer to retrieve his silver calibration coin.

He rolled the familiar quarter over his knuckles, fiddling with it for the rest of the night.

February 20th 2052

You weren't overly worried when you arrived home from work to find Connor missing from his usual place in the garden, but it did strike you as odd. Connor had established his own little itinerary of things to do while you were out working, and tending to the flourishing garden was one of those things.

Upon arriving home on a Thursday afternoon, you always found the android knelt amongst the homegrown flora, pulling weeds from the ground or planting fresh seeds that would soon sprout beautiful little blooms. Connor loved gardening; it made him happy and soothed all his worries.

You supposed it was a possibility that he'd finished the garden work early and headed inside to do a little meticulous pre-Spring cleaning, but as you walked down the path to the front door, you noticed there were unsightly shoots of uncultivated weeds popping up amongst the otherwise neat and tidy bed of sprouting flowers.

He hadn't yet gotten around to it, then.

You entered the house, glancing around the room, expecting to see the android dusting around the living room or sweeping in the kitchen, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Connor?" you called out, peering into the bedroom but finding no sign of him. Running a hand through your hair, you hummed in confusion, a little flutter of nervousness twinging in your stomach.

You turned around and your eyes flitted to the slightly ajar door of the storage room - you generally kept the door closed and didn't really have much cause to go in there too often, but the fact that the door was unsecured could only mean one thing - that Connor had wandered in there for some reason.

Pushing the door further open, you glanced over the stacks of boxes and filing cabinets you no longer had any need for, before your eyes fell to Connor, who was sitting cross-legged, his back against the wall and his head dipped, hanging listlessly. His blue LED pulsed slowly, indicating that he was in standby mode, but the most heartbreaking thing about the sight was the fact that the box marked 'Hank's things' was sitting open beside him, and in his hand he was clutching the lieutenant's old DPD badge.

It was just over four years since the anniversary of Hank's death.

You stepped carefully into the room, kneeling down beside the android who was effectively sleeping, and cupped his face gently, "Connor?" The sound of your voice jogged him out of low-power mode, his LED flashing in a more lively manner as he blinked his eyes open, a hint of disorientation in his warm, brown eyes.

When he noticed you were there, he smiled with contentment, your name brushing past his lips in a surprisingly cheerful tone, "You're home early", he remarked, shuffling to push himself to his feet, "Did you have a good day at work?"

"I'm not home early, I'm home normal time. It's four in the afternoon", you told him, eyes narrowed with concern, "Are you… are you okay, Connor?"

"I'm fine", the android responded, reaching up to brush a lock of your hair behind you ear before leaning in to give you a peck on the lips. He seemed far too radiant for what you had expected after finding him sitting in the storage room in such a state. "I should do the gardening", he stated, and then his gaze fell to the golden object in his hand, as if he'd just then noticed it for the first time.

You followed his line of sight, your chest tightening ever so slightly as memories of the lieutenant surfaced again after four long years, and looked up to find Connor's brow furrowed, a soft frown marring his features. You kept your lips sealed, wanting so badly to say something but choosing not to - mentioning Hank always broke through Connor's happy moods, and you didn't want to ruin jovial disposition he had displayed just moments ago.

He grieved in his own way and learned to cope in whatever way he chose; bringing up the lieutenant so close to the anniversary of his death probably wouldn't do the android much good.

Connor took your wrist, placing the golden badge in your palm before wandering out of the room. You watched his retreating figure curiously before dutifully placing Hank's belongings back into the marked box, and followed the android out into the garden - it would probably do you some good to get some nice, fresh air after spending the whole day working in an office building.

The android began with pulling the weeds from the soil, and you promptly joined him, offering Connor a smile when he spared you a glimpse; he seemed alright, so you didn't bother to question what he had been doing in low-power mode when you found him.

March 4th 2052

You'd come across it completely by chance.

It had seemed unfair to you that Connor was always the one doing the housework, so you'd taken some time to vacuum the floor of the lounge while he was preoccupied in the garden - he was always so insistent on cleaning by himself, he'd probably reprimand you if he found you attempting it yourself - and you'd noticed that there was a small gap between the bottom of the chest of drawers and the floor.

You hadn't noticed it before, and you could only imagine the gross buildup of dust below the piece of furniture since you didn't recall that Connor had ever bothered to move it before either. Ew. That was, like, four years worth of dust bunnies.

Rubbing your hands together in preparation of what you were possibly about to find, you took a steady grip of the chest of drawers and slid it across the floor with more than enough effort; it was a large and chunky piece of furnishing full of all sorts of old knick knacks, but you just about managed.

You braced yourself and peered over the edge of it, looking behind it, down at the dusty clumps that made you want to gag, but something caught your eye.

Something small, round and vaguely shiny.

It was a coin, but not just any coin. You knelt down and plucked it up, cringing a little as your hand brushed an old cobweb, and turned it over in your palm to identify it.

Liberty. In God we trust. 1994. It was, unmistakably, Connor's calibration coin, caked with grime, and it occurred to you in that moment that you hadn't seen him play with it in a long, long time.

When had he lost it? You didn't recall him ever mentioning that he'd misplaced it, and it certainly wasn't like him to be so careless with it. You needed to return it to him immediately, he loved that coin.

"Connor!" you exclaimed as you exited out the side door and into the colourful flower garden that the android put so much care into maintaining. "Look what I've found", you approached him where he was planting new seeds and almost giggled at the sight of dirt smudges on his face.

He looked inquisitively up at you, tilting his head to the side in a most adorable way, and eyed the object in your palm as you held it out. He picked it up, scanning it scrupulously before quirking an eyebrow.

"It's a very old quarter", he concluded, holding it back out to you, and your smile faltered.

"Connor, it's your coin", you told him, a flicker of apprehension fluttering into your voice near the end of your sentence, causing a distinct downward inflection.

The android smiled, rolling the coin over in his palm to look at the other side, "I don't have any use for physical currency, I make all my payments digitally", he told you, as if you were a fool for forgetting.

You frowned, the realisation burrowing under your skin - he'd deleted the memories of his calibration coin? Why? Surely his time spent fidgeting with the coin did not amount to a huge portion of memory space, it seemed bizarre that he would pick something like that to remove from his mind forever.

It made you sad. You weren't quite sure why - it was just a coin, and you'd long since discussed Connor's need to expunge insignificant recollections from his mind in order to free up storage space. You trusted that he wouldn't forget anything too important, so clearly he had seen no need to continue to practise twirling the coin on the tip of his finger, rolling it over his knuckles, or flicking from hand to hand with impressive ease.

You figured it out then - you were sad because you'd never get to see him show off his coin tricks again.

"Are you alright?" Connor spoke, cutting through your troubled thoughts. He breathed your name in such a gentle voice that tears welled up in your eyes. "What's wrong?" Connor enquired, his tone shrouded with worry when he caught sight of the miserable look on your face; he rose up to his feet, wrapping you firmly in a warm embrace without hesitation, and you slumped against him.

There was no point in asking why he'd deleted his memories of the coin. He wouldn't remember the reason.

July 3rd 2052

It was a hot Saturday evening and you didn't feel like doing anything.

Thus, you found yourself stretched out on the sofa, trying not to let the heat get to you more than it already had; you were uncomfortably sticky, sweating far too much in your thin, loose clothes. You needed a shower, but Connor was in the middle of cooking dinner, so you figured you wait until after you'd eaten.

You glanced over to the kitchenette where Connor was peering into a saucepan; he was very amusingly dressed in his favourite cooking apron - only because it said 'Kiss the Cook' on the front, and he always demanded a kiss whenever he served you food - and seemed very preoccupied with making sure the spaghetti was boiled to perfection.

Your gaze wandered to the bookshelf - the messy bookshelf where everything had to be alphabetically ordered - and your eyes went incisively to the large, reddish-brown album booklet that you hadn't looked through in far too long. Just the sight of it invoked relentless nostalgia, and so you dragged yourself up and over to extract it from the shelf and slumped back down on the couch to carefully observe the laminated pages within.

It was full of polaroids. All photos Hank took in the years you had known him. He was a big sap when it came to keeping photo albums, and he had been quite insistent on using a very old polaroid camera to take those photos with - because, like books, physical copies were always so much better than digital copies - and you couldn't help but smile at the sight.

The photos were only slightly faded, having been kept protected in their laminate coverings, and you were first greeted with a picture of Connor giving Sumo a whole load of attention; you missed that dog, and you were sure Connor did too. The android could never go too long without indulging that huge St. Bernard with treats and pats.

The next photo was you and Connor, and you almost melted at the sight; he had you wrapped up in his arms and you were pressing a kiss to his cheek - he was adorable, and for some reason his hair was messed up as though a draught of wind had tousled it all out of place - you couldn't remember if it was the wind's fault or if you had purposely ruffled it up for the sake of the picture. It didn't matter, Connor looked happy.

You flicked through the pages, biting your lip to avoid giggling aloud at certain photographs, until you finally came across the one you were looking for: it was a group picture, you and Connor sitting on Hank's old couch with Sumo lazing over your knees, while Hank took the picture from an angle, just about managing to squeeze his head into the frame, a big smile on his bearded face.

You clamped your hand over your mouth, feeling the tears dribble down your cheeks almost immediately. You missed that old man so much, and you hoped that wherever he was, he was with Cole, and that the two of them were looking down on you and Connor with pride.

Connor's head perked up from the kitchen at the sound of your stifled sob - that android's hearing was as sharp as a cat's - and naturally he abandoned his spaghetti to approach you and make sure you were alright, "What's wrong, my love?"

You shook your head, burying your face in your hands as you tried to pull yourself together, but when it came to crying, once you started, you had a lot of trouble stopping, especially when it involved your flagrant emotions; Connor was always an expert at soothing your shameless weeps and convulsive gasps, and that still rang true today.

He'd already scooped you up and placed you in his lap, holding you securely, making you feel safe and protected, and you nestled your face into his neck, appreciating the closeness despite the high temperatures outside.

"Sorry, I- I don't know why I'm crying. I'm just being sentimental", you let out a soft laugh, closing the photo album in your lap to try and shield it from Connor's curious eyes, because you weren't sure how he would react to seeing those pictures - whether it would shatter his contentment or if he would look upon them and smile, you just didn't know - but the movement caught his attention, and he picked up the album, inquisitive as ever.

"It's, um- it's Hank's old photo album…" you told him, figuring you couldn't just yank it out of his hands and pretend it was never there to begin with. Connor's eyes locked with yours as you let out another series of whimpers and sniffles, and he reached up, brushing your tears away with his thumb.

"Who's Hank?"

It was several long moments before you actually absorbed the words that had left Connor's mouth, and your heart pulsed uncomfortably strong in your chest, squeezing an almost painful gasp from your lungs as you processed the implication behind the android's innocent enquiry; you felt lightheaded all of a sudden, struggling to swallow the saliva in your throat as your thoughts rushed through your head at a million miles per hour.

Connor had forgotten Hank.

"How could you?" the accusation tore from your lips in the form of a choked cry, your wide gaze on the android who stared back at you in unequivocal confusion at the sudden one-eighty change in your mood.

"I- I don't…" he tilted his head, saying your name in that oh-so-gentle way that always made your knees weak, but not this time, this time you were mad, you felt almost betrayed in a way, unable to comprehend why, WHY, Connor could ever feel the need to delete Hank.

You escaped Connor's lap, crawling across the couch to put some distance between you and him, unable to stand the idea of being close to the android at that moment; he watched on with rising concern mixed with fretful agitation, his lips parted in a stressed fluster - he didn't know what he'd done wrong, and that made you even more angry.

"How could you do that!?" you shouted, grinding your teeth violently as fresh tears of anger dribbled down your cheeks, and Connor's eyes widened as he raised his hands as if in an attempt to calm you down, but it wasn't going to work.

"Please, I- I don't know why you're so angry", Connor spoke, his voice was calm but his LED was blinking yellow and there was an almost indiscernible tremor in his hands - but you could see it as clear as day, "I don't… I don't know what I've done wrong", he breathed your name again, imploring as you began to audibly seethe. Your displeasure was evident in your jagged breaths.

"You son of a bitch! You deleted Hank! Why the fuck would you do that!?" you snapped without remorse. You couldn't understand, you just couldn't fathom how Connor could have made the conscious decision to forget the man who had been his family.

You wouldn't get an answer to your question, that much was sure; Connor was clueless, his eyes were full of bewilderment and turmoil - the android was probably just as lost as you felt.

What else had he deleted?

"Do you remember where we first met?" You asked him, fully expecting the android to stare back at you vacantly, but Connor's eyebrow pulled together, wounded and anxious.

"Of course I do!" He exclaimed, "You were- we… were at the Detroit Police Department."

"Yeah? And why were we there? Do you remember that?" Perhaps it was cruel of you to interrogate him like this, your voice full of venom while he was disoriented and clearly struggling to infer why you were screaming at him for the first time in your life, but you were infuriated and emotional and too fucking hot.

"...There was… it was… someone had been killed…" he blinked, his eyes looking past you as he fought to remember parts of a scene that no longer existed within his memory; he remembered you, things you said, but beyond that he had no context, no way to piece together his fragmented recollection.

You stared at the android incredulously, "Do you remember what you were made for? Originally?" If he'd forgotten his work at the DPD, had he forgotten that he was built by CyberLife to be a detective? That he was originally made to hunt down androids who had gained free will? Did he remember the time when androids were slaves?

Connor's lips twitched, opening and closing a few times before his eyes darted down to the apron he was still wearing, "I… I was a- a housekeeping android", he answered with about as much confidence as a child on their first day of school.

You shook your head, too shocked to speak.

"I'm- I'm a companion android!" he tried again, and you stood up from the couch, taking a few steps towards the hallway, only turning when you heard a soft noise of desperation breach Connor's lips.

He was staring at his shaky hands, looking more astray than you'd ever seen him. "I- I don't know what I am…"

You locked yourself in the storage room, which was regrettably the hottest and stuffiest room in the entire house, and cried to yourself for three hours straight. Connor stood on the other side of the door the whole time, knocking occasionally and calling out to you, his voice interwoven with despair as he apologised over and over for being so careless with his memories.

When your eyes were dry and your throat was scratchy, you finally opened the door, coming face to face with Connor, whose expression was creased and scrunched up in emotional pain - if he had the ability to cry, you were sure his face would have been drenched with tears - and you stumbled into his arms, no longer filled with rage and resentment; you were just shattered, distraught and in need of comfort.

So was Connor. He crumpled to his knees with you, holding you tight to his chest with relief that you'd finally decided to speak to him again.

That night, you sat with Connor in bed, going through the photo album and explaining the story behind each picture with painstaking detail; you told him everything you knew about Hank and everything you had all been through together - taking special care to highlight just how much he had meant to Connor. You made the android promise to remember every word you told him, and that if he ever needed to delete anything again, he would first come to you and you would figure out what to delete together.

"I love you Connor", you told him softly as you were drifting off to sleep in the early hours of the morning.

"I love you too", he responded with a whisper, caressing his fingers through your hair with all the care he could muster.

"Promise me you'll never forget me."

"I promise", Connor pledged, "I'll never forget you. I promise. I promise."

October 12th 2056

On October 5th, you were killed in a hit and run. You were only forty-two years old at the time of your death.

Connor stared at your coffin as it was lowered into the ground, his eyes scanning the sleek, black, steel box in which your lifeless body rested; the LED on the side of his head shone a consistent, discordant red and it was apparent to everybody attending the funeral that he was not okay.

Somebody - Connor didn't recognise their face - asked whether he wanted to say a few words, whether he had a eulogy prepared, but he did not speak. He couldn't speak. He had not said a word since he'd received the call seven days prior, three hours after the accident had taken place, that you were in critical condition in hospital and unlikely to survive.

He had not said a word when the police informed him that the driver who took your life had not even stopped to help you, had not even thought to call you an ambulance, had not even considered for one moment that the life of another human being was more important than their forthcoming incarceration. They were too busy stealing an old car to pay your broken body any hint of attention. If they had stopped, alerted a paramedic - anything - Connor could have been placing well-wishing flowers on your bedside table in hospital, not placing goodbye flowers on your grave.

Connor wasn't sure how long he stood in the cemetery; there were still a few other people around that he didn't recognise, but the majority of the attending crowd had dispersed, faceless heads in black suits, black ties, black dresses, wandering away to head back to their homes, back to their families.

Connor did not have a family to go back to. He was alone.

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch, and he lifted his gaze to find a man standing beside him; Connor held no memory of this mysterious individual, but those steely blue eyes seemed to contain recognition for him, his brown hair was short and greying in places, and his stubbly beard was speckled with silver. His eyes were slightly sunken in and his eyebrows were thin and pulled together in a furrow.

"Uh, hey… Connor."

Connor did not speak, but he silently scanned the man's face - Gavin Reed, Lieutenant at the Detroit Police Department, age: 54, date of birth: October 7th, 2002 - and he remembered the few times you had brought him up in conversation, 'He was a jerk to you nonstop, I'm not surprised you deleted him from your memory.'

"I… uh, I know we didn't always see eye to eye… and I was a complete asshole to you from beginning to end, but…" he let out a sigh, "If you need anything… or anyone to talk to, or whatever, then you can come to me. I understand if you hate me, though." Gavin shrugged his shoulders, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and the android stared at him for several seconds before turning his attention back to your coffin.

Connor did not speak, and Gavin garnered his own conclusion from the android's silence, letting out another sigh before giving his stiff shoulder another pat, "I'm sorry", he said, and it wasn't entirely clear whether Gavin was simply expressing his condolences, or if he was apologising for how things had been between them before. Either way, it hardly mattered, Connor had no memory of Gavin's supposedly brash actions towards him in the past, and him saying sorry wouldn't bring you back.

The android was left alone.

Connor could not cry, but he wished he could.

xxxobxr xxtx 20xx

Connor sat on the uneven soil above your grave, staring at the white marble headstone that displayed your name in a sharp, black font. The bright flowers he had once placed were gone; withered, brown stems sat in the grimy vase that was supposed to house a collection of brilliant blooms Connor had picked himself.

/Error/_Memory_Storage_Capacity_Almost_Full_99%/

/Code_371/Urgent/Please_expunge_unnecessary_data/

His limbs were stiff and his suit was frayed, caked with dirt. Connor did not know how long he had been sat there.

There was pressure behind his eyes, something uncomfortably hot and desperate to escape, but he could not produce tears, and there was no mitigation for the buildup of grief that had slowly consumed him. Human lives were finite, much like his memory storage, and Connor knew you would never come back; it formed a sensation in his chest that he did not comprehend, did not know how to describe. Could it have been pain? Android do not feel pain. Then what was it?

/Error/_Memory_Storage_Capacity_Almost_Full_99%/

/Code_371/Urgent/Please_expunge_unnecessary_data/

He could not ignore the error message for much longer. Once his storage capacity hit one-hundred percent, he would cease to function. His processor would overload, his core would overheat and his systems would fail.

There were no inconsequential memories left that he could remove, the only data he retained was every memory that included you, and he would never let go of them.

"Promise me you'll never forget me."

"I'll never forget you. I promise. I promise."

He'd promised, and he did not intend to break that promise. Not for anything.

You were all that was left.

/Error/_Memory_Storage_Capacity_Almost_Full_99%/

/Code_371/Urgent/Please_expunge_unnecessary_data/

Connor shuffled forward, his processor sending electrical output along his synapses for the first time in a long while, and leaned his body against your headstone, resting his cheek against the cold marble. He would never see you alive again, but he could replay the memories he cherished most, and perhaps trick himself into thinking you were there, your eyes bright and full of life, your smile enough to make his thirium pump skip a beat like it used to.

He reached for his shirt, carefully unbuttoning the material so he could access his pump regulator - his heart - and laid his hand across the cylindrical apparatus that powered his entire body.

/Error/_Memory_Storage_Capacity_Almost_Full_99%/

/Code_371/Urgent/Please_expunge_unnecessary_data/

If he was going to die, it would be on his own terms. He would not let his processor overload and shut him down while he was powerless to stop it, he was in control, he had a choice, he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

He rotated the pump regulator and pulled it out of his chest.