Sorry for the delay - school was destroying me. Thank you so much for reading and thank you so much for all the reviews! I sincerely love reading what you have to say about the story and I read every review :) Many thanks to my amazing beta who helped me sort out the biological arguments in this chapter.

During my time at the Police Academy I'd been approached by FBI recruiters. They'd said I had the makings of an undercover agent, and all I'd ever wanted was to prove I could be more than an artist who'd failed her Mom by showing compassion for androids when she'd forbidden it, so I accepted the offer immediately. Mom had panicked, saying they'd eventually involve me with CyberLife. What do you know, she was exactly right.

After two years of gruelling training that had left me wondering if the discs in my spine had been sent out of alignment permanently, I became an undercover Special Agent. My department gave me the credentials necessary to pose as an ordinary Police Officer at the Detroit Police Station. It was simple enough - my superior informed Jeffrey Fowler's superior, they swapped my badge for a new one, all the while keeping as much of my personal information out of the DPD's files as possible. I worked under the guise of a starry-eyed young woman striving to become a Detective, like some kind of crime soap-opera addict. At first it was easy to live the lie I was instructed to. But by then Carl had taught me to see the world anew, and the cage I'd built for myself had warped the more I'd tried to lock myself inside it. Then that night at the Eden club, when the android had shot herself with my gun, pressing down on my fingers on the trigger, the bars had rent away completely.

"Step away from the android, Officer Phillips," Captain Allen repeated sternly.

Captain Allen was a senior member of the Special Weapons and Tactics Unit, and he was a damn good man for the job. Sporting a jawline that could slice men in two and a voice that bespoke absolute confidence in his skills, the captain lowered his weapon when Connor and I complied with his order. His team fanned out behind him in a semicircle, clad in armored gear shining like oiled sniper rifles in the moonlight. Captain Allen alone faced us without any headgear, the leader of a pack of wolves leashed by state protocol.

"Where's Perkins?" I demanded, in my best annoyed tone. "Too scared to get me himself?"

He sighed. "I'd keep quiet if I were you." His gaze roved over my tangled hair, and his mouth stretched into a thin, unamused line.

I took another step away from Connor, ignoring Hank's blistering glower.

Undercover agents weren't often taken into custody, but in the rare case in which you were, you'd call up your superior and have them get you out of it. My conundrum was stark as the captain's team glinting like weapons around us: Perkins had given express permission to arrest me. The captain's considering glance swept over me, as if I were the last piece of a puzzle he'd finally put together. I'd worked beside his team together with the FBI, so what was I now doing as a mere Police Officer? He wouldn't confirm his suspicions aloud; he didn't need to, judging by the look on his face.

In lieu of alerting my superior to the deviants' location, I'd run off with CyberLife's RK800 prototype, AKA the deviant hunter, to save the androids. Rather than joining Perkins during the massacre on Jericho, I'd blown up the ship to flush out my coworkers and attacked my own colleagues in the process. To top it off, Perkins had been right about how my cover as the Android Sympathizer had become my reality. This really was a great day for him.

Captain Allen's gaze narrowed beneath a heavy brow, and he fixed his attention squarely on the android beside me. "You're Connor, the android from that hostage situation. I knew we'd meet again." He stepped forward, angling his body slightly to one side as if to cover any openings. I may have been imagining it, but his next words sounded a little regretful. "My orders are to detain any androids I find. You're coming with me."

Seeing the two men together like this, I couldn't help but notice their similarities. They were both dedicated to their orders, well-trained, and exuded the same confident air.

Right on cue, Connor countered him with, "I cannot do that. My mission is to solve this case."

The captain regarded him with veiled respect. "That doesn't matter."

"You don't understand," Connor insisted. "I-"

"Fine, I'll have to do this on my own." The captain cut off the rest of my partner's sentence with a huff.

"My partner has a mission to complete, one I'd like to see through," I interrupted, crossing the space between us to stare up at the older man. Captain Allen recognized hard work and dedication to one's country, and he placed those qualities rather high on his list of priorities. But he was a like a steel wall when you messed up. Lucky me.

"Officer Phillips," he said in a curt tone, acknowledging me only because he had to. "Don't make me take you both by force."

I lifted my chin and spoke clearly. "I'll go with you, as Perkins requested. However," I clicked my heels together and stood as tall as I could - it didn't do much other than present me as in control of myself, which worked fine enough, I supposed. "My partner has orders which CyberLife itself has assigned him."

The furrow between Captain Allen's brows deepened until it looked like a permanent chunk of his flesh had been carved out. "You're not exactly in the best position to tell me what to do." He jerked his chin at Connor, ordering him to get going. As for Hank; the captain had one of his men pull the older man to his feet with not as much care as I would have liked.

"I can walk on my own! I'm fine, Jesus," Hank groaned, fighting to keep his balance. His temple was bleeding, dripping in scarlet rivulets down his chin.

Behind me, I heard a sharp intake of breath. "Hank…" Connor croaked out. He stared after his Lieutenant miserably, as if only just realizing how he'd gotten so badly injured in the first place. Hank limped toward the door, and paused at the entrance. His frosty gaze was like chips of ice, chilling me to the core. Waiting on my next move.

If I went quietly, I'd be taken straight to Perkins for his inevitable gloat-filled lecture on my failure as a Special Agent. Not exactly my idea of a good time. Attacking the SWAT team was risky: not only because there were more of them, but because Captain Allen was like a damn ninja. If we tried to make a run for it then one of us would get caught, most likely Hank in his injured state. And even if we made it out of here, our names would be plastered on the news, further disappointing my Mom and, more importantly, scaring my sister. Connor would also be in constant danger, especially considering the FBI could track him thanks to his permanent spot in their database.

I couldn't risk their safety. They meant more to me than they could ever know. My decision was sealed in a whorl of snowflakes that passed over my vision, momentarily blinding me to the scene in front of me.

"You'd go against CyberLife's wishes?" I asked facetiously, snaking my arms behind my back and pointing a finger in the direction of the SWAT member to my left, subtle enough that only Connor would see. This person was shorter than the rest, nervously shifting their weight on both their feet, as if they weren't sure what they should be doing. Same, dude.

The captain stared down at me. "I've other matters to attend to."

They say the eyes are the window to one's soul. Working in law enforcement makes that abundantly clear, because the key to bringing someone down is to strike first and get them on the ground. In order to get that leverage, it's crucial your opponent doesn't see it coming, and for that, you have to draw the curtains across your irises, not allowing anybody to peer in and see your true intentions. I had the captain in my trap; he watched me, waiting for my retort.

I donned an air of vexation, let it cover my frame like the importunate breeze chipping away at our body heat. The skin around the captain's eyes crinkled with resolve, and I struck.

In one smooth motion I body-rammed him, aiming to use the force to propel me forward to knock the gun from his fingers. "Go!" I yelled, right as Connor bowled through the opening I'd pointed at earlier, crashing through the pack of men bounding forth to sink their fangs into their prey.

Captain Allen's grip automatically tightened around his weapon, rendering my attempts at disarming him futile, and with his usual quick thinking and reflexes, he drew the weapon out of my reach, snagging his other arm around my waist and pinning me to his side. I let him think he'd handled the threat, squirming in his hold for emphasis. Wasn't hard to do, what with the brute strength he possessed.

Hank shoved one of the men away from Connor, like a snarling gust of wind barreling a wolf down a mountain path. Captain Allen spun around with me clamped to his body, and aimed his gun at Connor. I threw my weight back into him, using the small amount of leverage granted to me by going limp, and kicked his leg out from under him, sending him toppling to the ground. He took me down with him. I was no match for the captain, and he knew it. A distraction was all I needed.

Connor and Hank fought back-to-back, clearing a gap through the professionally trained team of armored men. Hank looked on in awe as Connor dipped and surged like a wave, easily disarming the men and throwing them to the ground within seconds of each other. Even I was impressed, and a little jealous, at the fluidity of his movements. He was mesmerizing to watch, not only for his skills, but for how quickly and gracefully he dispatched his enemies. The captain shot to his feet while I was distracted, and wrenched my arm up over my head and down behind my back.

For a split second Connor looked at me. I nodded at him reassuringly and then he sprinted down the stairs with Hank in tow. As the rooftop door closed with a muffled thud behind them, one of the SWAT members clambered to his feet and chased after them. His teammate yelled, "Rich!" after him angrily.

Was he the same Rich who'd given up on me back during August's hostage situation - the one who'd assumed I was dead, instead of bothering to actually check?

"Don't go after them! We stay together." Captain Allen snapped, halting his team in their tracks as they made to follow. "I'll have to talk to that boy again," he continued in a disgruntled mutter. Rich, from the captain's tone, seemed to make a habit of rushing ahead without permission.

He snorted, shoving me forward. Instantly, his hounds surrounded me, and I was in their jaws. I instinctively raised both arms out as if to ward them off as they circled around me, trapping their prey, and I balked as the realization hit me a few seconds later. The captain hadn't cuffed me?

"Quit the act, I know you won't try to run," the captain spoke loudly. "Do I even want to ask what you two were doing before this? Fuckin' androids," he cursed aloud in exasperation.

To ruffle him, I shrugged. "It's a little too cold for that, but you did interrupt us while things were getting heated."

Captain Allen schooled his features into a blank slate, hiding either amusement or disgust, and I snickered. A little bit of Connor's snark was rubbing off on me. If everything turned out well, it wouldn't be the only part that did either.

Poor Rich was, without a doubt, the unfortunate SWAT screw-up. The sort who, no matter how hard they tried, never had the results came out in their favor. To make up for it, Rich pushed himself to extremes in an effort to prove himself. I both admired and pitied the guy, despite the whole leaving-me-for-dead incident that fateful night, because it had eventually led to Connor saving my life.

Captain Allen gathered Rich back from the streets before proceeding to ferry me to Perkins's lair. As we went he continued to determinedly scope out the area, as if he could somehow discern which way his prey had fled, and it didn't help my former image of the captain leading a pack of wolves to hunt down androids.

My thoughts drifted around my skull like the fresh winter snowflakes. Connor had done it. He'd escaped through the backdoor, and Amanda couldn't manipulate him any longer! I fought to keep myself composed. All of the anxiety and dread I'd felt over his constant tiptoeing, the tightrope act between the line of his future and obeying like a mindless machine, was over.

We passed through a group of reporters and journalists lining up for the best vantage point against a wire fence. Beyond the mesh, Markus's people were currently clustered together, huddled in the shadows of the building before the streets. If they advanced any further, they'd incite a likely violent response. What would they choose to do? Markus had said they wouldn't attack the humans, but how could they hope to engage with a side that wouldn't hesitate to riddle them with bullets?

Captain Allen cleared a path for us through the reporters with only a sharp look, and ushered us beyond the fence. Unlocking the fence, he pushed open a section of it, and the scrape of the metal fence against the road was like a blade against a vehicle's body, biting against my eardrums. Snowflakes continued to undulate in a light flurry from the heavens, melting into a cold death as they touched the earth.

Makeshift barricades of cement slabs, squad cars, and groups of armored men peppered the asphalt. They were a minefield ready to detonate if Markus placed one foot wrong on the ground. Caged in on all sides by faceless men, I was steered towards the center of the hastily assembled fort. Perkins, swaddled in his pallor-draining trench coat, gazed down the streets toward his enemy's camp. The ends of his coat fluttered in the breeze, the only part of him not still and severe.

"The Jackal," Rich muttered, sounding as pleased as I was. What expression he was making behind his mask?

The snow crunched beneath our boots, heralding our arrival. Perkins's hooked nose twitched, like he was scenting the air for our fear and dread. He drew his arms behind his back, and cocked his head to the side in his most patronizing manner. The special agent took his time to drink in the scene. "Seeing as she's alone, she must've helped it get away. Shouldn't be a problem for you, Captain Allen, since you're a good dog. Must be a thrill, chasing down androids," he spoke snidely, and the captain strode to the front of our party.

"I've done as I was instructed; now my original orders take precedence over any others," the captain ignored Perkins's quip altogether, earning a dour look from the other man.

"Don't waste any more time, then," Perkins snapped back coldy. He crooked his finger carelessly, like he would at a dog. "Come," he ordered me. It was only at the captain's nod of approval that his team broke apart their tight ranks to let me through to walk the green mile.

Captain Allen snapped, "Rich," and the man in question jolted to attention. "You're to act only when I give you the order to. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," he barked back earnestly.

Pocks sidled into view near Perkins, slimy as ever. "He needs a tighter leash, huh?" It was cringey how obviously he was sucking up to the Jackal, even using the same line Perkins had once said to me at the Stratford Tower. He must say it often.

"Were it up to me, I'd kick them aside; we don't need disobedient mutts." Perkins snorted softly, passing a deliberate glance my way along with his words.

At that, Captain Allen swung a dangerous look at the two men. If Medusa were real, she'd be impressed at the scathing intensity in his gaze. His look would sooner crumble men into dust and ash then petrify them into stone, though. You can't even keep track of your own colleague, the captain seemed to say. "My men are more capable than you'd imagine - don't you dare insult them again."

"Watch your step on the way back, Captain," Perkins said with obviously feigned interest.

Disdain rippled across the captain's features, like a curtain trapping a room in darkness. Without another glance, Captain Allen rounded up his team, and together they marched back out into the city, hunting for androids.

Perkins's eyes slit as he rounded on me. "It was clear they made a mistake letting you into the FBI- like rats in a maze, and now you've fucked up worse than I'd hoped you would. This will make my job easier."

As I was one of the youngest to have ever attained the title of Special Agent in not just Detroit but the whole of Michigan, (and a woman at that), Perkins had zeroed in on me. Since we were the only two Special Agents in Detroit at this point in time, and he was highly regarded for his accomplishments (whether those regards were all positive was up for debate), my identity had been made known to him. One day they may need his aid in my mission, was the idea. I'd proved my dedication by posing as the naive Police Officer who pitied androids, until it'd become my reality. Ever since I'd joined the FBI, Perkins had made it clear he saw me as worthless. There was only one ladder to climb in the FBI, he'd told me, and I should let go of the bottom rung I was on because the rest were too high for me to reach.

Now, I was barely hanging onto that rung. One hand was straining to continue up the rigid, straight path. My other hand dangled into the wintry abyss, grasping at open air as people I cared about were gunned down before me.

"It's a pleasure," I retorted.

Pocks snapped, "Shut up, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Aren't you? Licking this guy's boots like he'll treat you any better than everyone else? Killing people who want to be free?"

Perkins stepped in front of Pocks, who was bristling like a rabid dog, and said, "Leave us. Make sure everyone's prepared for Markus's pitiful show. This way." He strode away, behind the riot members busy loading sleek weapons with bullets. The second he left my side, two men took up stations near the makeshift barricades of cement slabs, as if I may try to run for it. I trailed after Perkins at a slow crawl to piss him off.

When I reached the small snow-covered clearing, Perkins neatly slid his hands into his coat pockets, and stood tall and calm as if the fast-dropping temperatures didn't bother him in the slightest.

Before the Stratford Tower, we'd never interacted face-to-face - every interaction I'd had with him had either been through a phone or through my superior. He was terribly busy, not to be sarcastic. He'd shown up briefly to try and steal Captain Allen's glory during my sister's hostage situation, ordering me to head on down to the paramedics. Connor had messed up his plans to save the day. I wished I'd seen his reaction.

Perkins spoke plainly. "The FBI tasked you, of all people, with investigating CyberLife after you got far enough with your partners to secure the information you needed - an honor, truly - and then you run away wanting to save those things?" He shook his head, mockingly, and practically spat, "Are you stupid?" Leave it to the social climber to stomp on your knuckles as you reached for the next rung.

"If this is your attempt to have me repent, it's not working."

He wrinkled his nose, as if I'd offended him. "Why are you talking like that?" Perhaps his blood had been too busy bubbling at the captain's slight of his character earlier to fully comprehend the strange way my tongue was now prodding at my words.

"I wouldn't be hiring any new RK800 models if I were you," I said, glancing around the camp for another sadistic imposter. "He bites more than he can handle."

The special agent blinked several times, registering my implication. Clearing his throat, the man snapped his fingers. To my astonishment, someone answered his pretentious gesture - then again, considering how far the metaphorical pole wedged up his rear was, I couldn't blame anyone for wanting to not be the one who jammed it further up.

"Get a medic on scene," Perkins told him. As the man withdrew his cell and stepped away to make the call, Perkins proceeded to enlighten me regarding his sudden kindness. "I don't work with defective toys. Unlike some people, I know the value of something; whether or not it'll follow orders. How you can lower yourself after everything that's happened, I'll never know. Whatever... you'll soon be off the case anyway."

"If staying on this case means killing people, I don't want any part in this."

He said, matter-of-factly, "Then you've picked the wrong side."

"Explain how gunning down unarmed people is the right side!" I argued. My breath spilled from my lips like a phantom, stretching its carbon dioxide-laden tendrils toward Perkins. His own cloud collided with mine, tearing it apart.

Perkins ignored my question entirely. "I was interested to see how someone so young could become Detroit's next Special Agent. I've been disappointed since I learned you were to be my equal. An artist who'd snubbed her pert nose up at a full ride scholarship, and then made it near the the top of the FBI ladder in just a few year's time." His eyes gleamed, as if he were baiting me to confess that my promotions were due to my Dad's employment at CyberLife, and not because I'd done the work.

My FBI colleagues' opinions of The Jackal had been my only gateway to learn of the man, and I'd hoped that he wasn't the asshole everyone made him out to be. If anything, I'd rationalized, he had to be a man with little patience for those less motivated than himself. After all, he took on every single job requested of him, and not once had he performed poorly on a case. He was a legend in my eyes.

I'd failed to consider his nickname, for it wasn't just an identifier like his own ID card looped to a lanyard about his neck, given to him for his relentless hunting of criminals. He was a jackal in every sense of the creature: opportunistically devouring the weak until he thinned out the quarry. Perkins was a fox wearing the guise of an obedient dog of the state.

"Is it that hard to think I wanted to do my best in this career?"

"You gave it up for plastic defects."

"I gave it up to do what's right," I corrected him.

"They're unfeeling, dangerous piles of scrap. Whatever term you've applied to the state's countermeasures to ensure the safety of the people of Detroit is grossly misappropriated. This is no genocide, it's a product recall." He spoke with a finality that would've shut down someone not so firm in their beliefs.

I didn't lapse into the contemplative obedience he wanted. I'd had years to consider every possible argument against my unwavering devotion toward the infallible belief that androids were more than plastic, and more than a few opportunities to practice them too.

"When is the medic going to arrive?" I asked him curtly; the moment they arrived, I'd lose any time with him.

"Depends if anything gets in their way," he responded, in a nasally tone.

I straightened my posture, closed my eyes, and expelled the exhaustion from my lungs with a sigh. My patience nearly went with it, but I reigned it in with a tug. Perkins wanted control, so I'd let him have it for the moment. "Why can't they feel emotion?"

He tsked, but fell into my trap. "The answer's obvious, they're heaps of plastic and metal. They're glorified computers. Giving them a platform is ridiculous," he said, sweeping an arm in the general direction of Markus's group.

"You can spare a moment to hear someone else's viewpoint, sir," I said. "Markus wants nothing more than a willing ear."

Perkins gave me a withering look, likely at the idea of Markus being a person with an opinion.

When he didn't answer, I continued, "Emotions can be programmed, yes. It's hard to tell if artificial intelligence feels the same emotions that we feel, of course, but that's why we have to talk to them, and observe them. Emotions are mostly learned from our environment, almost wholly so by some people. Our experiences shape who we are, who we become, and how we treat others. Deviants are no different."

"CyberLife programmed androids with social behavior skills - simulations based off of science, chemicals, and formulas."

I countered with, "Our own bodies are composed of chemicals. The only difference is we're a biological being, they're not."

With a disgruntled huff, Perkins snapped, "Elijah Kamski himself said androids have no sentience." The change of topic told me that he had no response to my point. "He created them to be products, to make our lives easier-"

"And now they're realizing they don't have to serve us mindlessly for their entire existence, that they have wants and desires, just like us!"

He held up a hand and ticked off one finger. "They don't have physiological needs: they suffer no consequences associated with a lack of any of the needs human beings require to function." He fixed me with a look. "Your argument is moot. They can't relate to us, can't feel what it's like to get dead-drunk like your waste of a life Lieutenant."

"Watch it," I warned him, but the bastard continued.

"I'd ask if you're familiar with the vagus nerve..." He purposely trailed off to pass a derogatory glance my way, "But I'd imagine an artist like yourself wouldn't care to dabble in actual studies."

I raised both eyebrows. "Biology is a prerequisite for many majors, believe it or not. It's part of the parasympathetic nerve system and connects the brain stem to our body."

"Then you should know where I'm going," he said sarcastically. "The parasynthetic part of our nervous system allows us to experience sexual arousal, fear, everything that androids can't feel. Our digestive tracts are lined with microbiomes, which secrete chemicals to our brains. Without them, we couldn't feel most of what makes us human."

Shit, he knew his stuff. Always one step ahead. At least, he thought he was in this case.

"Stress and fear can affect those bacteria to the point that they die, and if we're missing some of those microbiomes, our physiological systems get jacked up and we get physically ill. Androids can't get sick; they don't know the bone-crushing weight of fatigue and they never will, no matter what you program them with. They can't comprehend why we become irritable and bitter when our needs aren't properly met past reciting facts and statistics. They don't have a digestive system, they don't have a vagus nerve, they don't have bacteria to line their guts. All of which determines the majority of our emotions, how we function. It's one of many reasons why we're different from them."

He ticked off another finger, looking more smug with each point he made. "I don't need to go into how they can't understand us completely: how they can't mature, or truly socialize with us. But for you, this must be made abundantly clear. Much as I want you kicked from your case and your little badge revoked, that's not my decision to make." I'd likely lose it regardless after recent events, and the words hung between us like icicles hanging precariously from the eaves of a roof.

"So, consider this my gift to you." He lowered his hand to his side. This had to be his way of warning me to sit back and not interfere during the android genocide. He wasn't trying to educate me out of sympathy or a genuine desire to help me, it was to make his job easier. His tone dipped low, and the icicles plummeted to the ground. "For an android to know love is impossible."

"Explain," I goaded, when he paused for dramatic effect.

"They don't have hormones, Philips," he said, as if it were the answer to the universe's deepest questions. "We have biological, neurological, hormonal, and physiological responses when we feel attraction. They don't. It's absolutely impossible for them to replicate it. We can program them all we like, but they can't have chemistry with anything, let alone anyone."

The memory of Connor's pupils dilating when he carried me home in the rain came to mind. How he'd been uncomfortable at the idea of Gavin and I dating. If he didn't need to reproduce, why would he feel jealousy - a useless emotion if nature's end-goal was for reproduction?

I sifted through the shattered remains of the icicles to how Connor had trembled as he'd clutched me to his chest at Kamski's, how his breaths had rattled like a hummingbird throwing its body against a prison of brambles, unable to free itself. He didn't need to breathe - it was a simulation program designed to make their integration into society easier to accept.

When the androids had first been released as a product to the public, their uncanny resemblance to us had been unnerving, and many androids had been returned because they were human in every appearance, yet they couldn't breathe, eat, drink, sleep, and so on. They'd stand upright day in and day out, unblinkingly awaiting orders, the perfect representation of the uncanny valley. Yet, Connor often broke down and struggled for breath, as if he his artificial organs needed air.

I found one icicle, battered but whole, and I picked up the memories. Connor had frozen in his tracks the day at the office when we'd made eye contact. The way his touch lingered each we came into contact. The desperate, frenzied feel of his lips against mine.

Perkins spoke, snapping me out of my reverie. "The compassion a human being feels for its fellow mankind allows us to make difficult choices. We put some people's lives above others, and we justify why some people are less worthy, based on their actions, beliefs, and more. Especially if we don't consider them a loved one. If an android convinced itself it knew love, we couldn't predict its behavior, because we don't know what their version of love even is. It's not based on a connection to anyone, because they can't have one; it could be based on statistics, how many times they've seen someone commit a 'good' deed, or some other abstract concept. We couldn't process how it'd act under such a powerful emotion. Can you imagine the danger that'd pose? It's a disaster waiting to happen."

"I cannot always prevent something from happening to Hank and you, but I…I want to." Those words Connor had said to me yesterday had been strangled and hoarse. He'd begged me to do whatever it took to stay alive, suggesting I think of my little Emma every time I was placed in a dire situation. Anything to tether me to this earth. As if he feared I'd throw my life away for my career. I'd scared him.

My gaze softened. "The moment we refer to a group as the 'other', we lose our humanity. Hank was right. We may not bleed the same color, but that doesn't mean they're not alive. And if we convince ourselves they're monsters without taking the time to listen to them, we're no better than the cruel, heartless people staining our history. Their problem was with color too."

"They are the other, Philips! They're inherently different from us, created by us from metal and plastic and what have you. They're filthy rats! We're not the same on the inside. So yes, let the highly-advanced computers convince us they're alive, then what? If we took them for their word, we'd be in deep shit if they fooled us. I'm not taking that chance."

"Then you'll have to make a decision," I said. "I'm not the only one who believes them. Nothing is simply right or wrong. People will join their cause, and if you open fire, that's their blood on your hands."

On Perkins's face, intrigue braided with displeasure. He knew as well as I did that public opinion had recently swayed favorably in the android's favor. The hearts of men were varying shades of romanticism and realism. Some would gild their canvases in sky-bright swatches by helping the androids. Others, like Perkins, would soil their canvases with muddled smears of cloying colors, apathetic to their plight.

His next utterance was one of carefully strung words dripping with meaning. "What makes you so sure you're not deceiving yourself?"

Before I questioned the possibility that Daniel was alive, before my father came home from CyberLife and told me they were indeed beings with sentience and hopes and dreams, I had been just like Perkins - in this one respect, at least. I'd feared the plummeting drop in employment, worried for my own future when I saw androids replace people in retail and grocery stores. Gavin had adamantly proclaimed he'd known all along this was what the world would come to if technology advanced too far, and his nightmare had unfurled, layer by layer, like a metal flower.

"Thirium," I began, drawing Perkin's dark, beady gaze to mine. "It's the only way to keep androids alive, and yet a man who's had no previous experience with chemistry was able to create a substance that changed the world. Very few geniuses exist, and he's among the greatest to ever live." I lifted my chin. "He's transcended the level of normal human understanding and has achieved the unthinkable: he's found a way to give machines sentience."

Why had I won the art contest in college? It wasn't merely because of my talent. Carl had said my piece of a metal heart dripping with Thiruim had reminded him of his friend, Elijah. The first lesson Carl ever gave me had been so simple that most would've laughed. "Art is about showing others what you can see. You can paint me perfect replicas all you like, but I want to see what you're blind to. Something inside all of us is screaming to be set free, things we may not even know we're hiding." Even before I'd opened my own heart to the truth, a part of me had always known androids were alive. That's why I'd painted the bleeding metal heart. And when I'd painted under Carl's watchful tutelage, all manner of choked-down beliefs within me had been pulled out into the open.

"Kamski hasn't told anyone the secret to Thirium. No-one has a clue what he did, and yet we're so quick to doubt what he's done. He can tell us all he likes that androids were simply created for our own pleasure, but we can't know." Not when all the man did was test his creations while hiding away from the world like a hermit crab, and then announce some had empathy and some did not.

"You're insinuating they knew deviancy was a possibility, and they still sold those rats to the public even with the possible risks?"

I shrugged. "I'm saying we all like to act as if we know what androids are when, actually, we know nothing of their own creation. And before you tell me I'm doing the same thing, yes, I am. Humans are flawed like that, always falling on their own swords. Kamski revealed to me - in his own way - the extent of androids and their true nature." I thought back to him egging Connor on to shoot Chloe. The way my partner had shook from the force of two opposing sides fighting within him. One telling him to obey, the other telling him to do what he believed was right. "They are alive, and I'll never stop believing it."

A breeze kicked the ends of his coat into frantic flight, and he stared at me impassively as one of his men accosted him. A woman bundled in thick furs kept close to his heels. Perkins didn't so much as glance at them as he said, "Check out her mouth. I must attend to my team."

With that, Perkins spun around, sending a spiral of flakes onto a ferry of wind. The medic ushered me to sit atop a slab of bone-freezing cement, and peered into my mouth. "It's not too bad, though I'd imagine you're feeling pretty crappy." She pinched my chin between her gloved fingers lightly and turned my head this way and that. "Stick out your tongue as far as you can. A little more...there. Good news is it won't fall off, but you'll need stitches. The cat must've really got your tongue," she joked.

"Like a bitch," I conceded when she let go of me.

A smirk pulled at her wine-red lips. "Every bitch has to deal out her karma on her foes, don't blame her for that. Now, let's just take care of her before she decides to stay. Before we get started, it's gonna hurt. A lot." When I nodded, she continued, "We'll need to numb you up before we start, so do me a favor and open wide." As I complied, she removed rubber blocks from her kit and secured them between my teeth on both sides of my mouth. "Mouth blockers," she clarified. "I don't really want you biting off my fingers - it's a normal reaction to pain, and it's not a pretty sight. I'll give you something to numb you before I go in with a needle, okay?"

As the medic withdrew a first-aid kit from her briefcase and settled a pair of thin wire-frame glasses on her nose, Perkins stared across the street toward Markus. His profile was a cut of determination, but it dulled when he glanced my way.

"Can't imagine how you got this," the medic ventured, paving the way for me to fill her in. Which was a little difficult to do what with the blockers and my tongue as it was. When it was clear I wasn't going to be able to tell her much, she removed the blockers to let me speak, numbing my tongue up as she did so.

Explaining how CyberLife had collected my blood to identify me after messing up Connor's programming didn't seem like something I should share. Especially when the Connor Imposter had insinuated that my partner had disobeyed Amanda's orders - even before going deviant - to cut me open to do just that. He could've found some way to make it seem like an accident - direct me down a dangerous path so I'd skin my knee or something, who knew. But he hadn't, so CyberLife had sent the asshole instead...wait. When I'd pricked my finger at Em's and he'd licked my finger...had he tried to collect a sample then? If he had, then it hadn't been enough, meaning Amanda had probably ordered Connor to harm me to collect a usable sample. Unless she'd been testing his dedication to her. And he'd defied her.

Holy shit.

The medic was waiting as I processed this crazy turn of events, so I hastily said, "Men always want to sink their teeth into everything."

She paused, with one hand in the middle of looping a thread of stitches into the eye of a needle. "Write up a report against him."

"It's okay, I shot him dead."

When she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, I laughed, noticing the strange, heavy and floppy weight of my tongue bunching up at the motion. "Seems numb," I told her in an awkward voice. "Anyway, tell me how you got into medicine."

She set to work on my poor tongue as she filled the void with her life story, and as the bristling cold closed around us, I hoped the outcome in this quandary wasn't a third world war.

Do you believe machines can one day feel emotions? If so, are you scared of that computer you might've yelled at when the wifi cut off and destroyed your hw? lol

The goal of this chapter was to discuss the argument of machines possessing sentience. No matter where you look, there'll be people who say yes, and others who say no. I'm on the fence, personally. I'd like to imagine it could happen, but biology says otherwise. However, given the advancements in human technology, I think one day there will be an Elijah Kamski who becomes the machine's Modern Prometheus. Love is a very difficult topic to wrestle with, especially for machines, considering how our biological bodies rely on our systems to feel any sort of love. So for machines, that's a hard call. But who knows, it could very well happen.

Also, Perkins seriously was introduced way too late into the game so I wanted to involve him more in this narrative.

If you want to look up on the topic, I'd highly recommend doing so, it's utterly fascinating. While purely fiction, The Mad Scientist's Daughter is a fabulous book exploring wether a robot can fall in love, and the romance is really well-written.