A/N: Thanks for all the comments and support, I hoard them like gold! Enjoy!
Markus's hand closes around Connor's arm and all but drags him to the ground, colliding with the pavement in a speed that rocks him. "Stay down," he hisses, even as something turns and clenches somewhere behind Connor's regulator.
Bang.
More screams. He can hear the distinct sound of Fowler's voice raised over the din, repeating Markus's words. Get down. Stay down.
There's movement. Footsteps pound past his head. He sees 56 androids reach the parking garage, which is indeed empty. More follow.
Bang. Bang.
He's not facing the chaos; the shots are coming from behind him, and the lack of knowledge twists. Humans are sticking their heads out their windows, gawking. A few hide behind steering wheels.
Bang.
Don't shout for Hank, Connor thinks, instead turning his gaze to the detail of the sidewalk and tightening his limbs. That will make him a target. Don't move. Stay down. But everything in him is strained, pressed and pulled tight, tense. Where is Hank? Is he alive? Was he shot? He can feel his regulator thrumming in his stomach. The speed is new.
Markus's fingers are a constant presence on his arm, holding him back. Waiting. Useless. He… he hates it.
Bang.
Yet more screams. Scuffling. Shouts. Connor looks at Markus, pressed low, eyes staring straight ahead. He hasn't flinched. He hasn't so much as blinked. Connor frowns. He's used to this. He turns his head back to the street, where the humans are still picking their way through traffic to asylum. No one should be used to witnessing their people die.
Bang. Bang.
Connor thinks about the lives he'd saved, and spared, by making a choice. He thinks about the distinct gratitude in the Chloe's eyes. He thinks about the little smiles the Tracis threw him before they disappeared. He closes his eyes. Markus's hand shifts from his arm to his shoulder. "Connor, don't—"
But he's already moving, using his weight to spring up and spin around. And it is chaos. Only about half of the androids obeyed commands to get down and stay down. The others that are attempting to flee are running in whichever direction doesn't lead them into traffic, pushing past him away from the gunfire. He pushes forward, toward it. I can help.
Bang.
Thirium bursts from an android to his left in a cobalt arc, a perfect shot straight through the back, into the regulator. Connor doesn't think about it. He can't afford to. There's thirium on his torso and his leg, but he can't think about it.
Markus's voice rises behind him, snapping him away from the android's empty, sparking stomach. His face is passive, his eyes blank. "Go, then. I'll help them."
Connor feels almost as if he needs to say something, facing Markus amidst another of his choices. But he doesn't have the words. Markus crouches down, closing the android's eyes. "They listen to me," he says, soft, almost inaudible over the screaming, the pushing, the footsteps. "If you're going, go."
Bang.
The shot skitters into the crowd, parting fleeing bodies. Connor flinches on reflex, processor humming, but unable to see where in the masses the bullet found a mark. Markus doesn't move save his eyes, flicking between the faces of fleeing androids. Eventually his mismatched stare meets Connor's.
Received: Find the shooter. Stop them.
Clear objectives. Brief. Connor gives Markus a slow nod and goes.
Bang.
The sound is closer. Louder. Two more fall, to his right. Precise. Clean. The same spot each time. Their eyes meet his from the pavement, vacant and unseeing. Two LEDs blink red before fading entirely.
Only the ones that flee are being shot. Connor steps past a few androids curled in on themselves on the ground, shaking. They appear unharmed. He presses on, still wound tight, regulator still pulsing erratically. He doesn't feel grounded; he doesn't feel calm.
Bang. Bang.
He doesn't see these targets. He wonders briefly where the police are, and remembers Hank's earlier words. Seems, this time, he was right.
Bang.
He hears the sound of tearing fabric. Shredding plastic. Something sharp and cold lances down his system.
WARNING
Thirium Level: 74%...73%...72%
He can feel the thirium on his shirt, sticking the fabric to his skin. He can feel chill air on the wires beneath the hole in his side. Connor scans the area directly in front of him and finds an AP700, with a very calm Captain Fowler on his knees, hands behind his head. Androids jostle the group as they flee. The AP700 weighs the pistol and watches them go, stare flicking between Connor and the Captain. He's one from the basement of CyberLife, pale white uniform still perfectly clean. He presses the barrel of the gun against the back of Fowler's head and sighs. "Hello, Connor."
Fowler… Connor lets his eyes pan around. Four more police officers stand to either side of the android, pistols raised, including Hank. Seven are missing. Connor ignores the desperate, wild-eyed look Hank throws his way, and clings to the sudden calm that seems to arrive at the sight of him. He's alive. He's fine.
Connor lets the world fall away, and focuses on the threat at hand.
"This didn't have to happen," the AP700 says, voice even and measured. He pokes the back of Fowler's head with the gun. The Captain doesn't even flinch.
Sync in Progress…
Gathering Data…
Analyzing Data…
Fowler, Jeffrey
Minor cut, right eyebrow
Minimal blood loss
Analyzing Data…
Glock 22
Standard DPD pistol
Fingerprints: Fowler, Jeffrey
One round remaining
Connor blinks. He's listening. He can feel Hank's eyes on the side of his face. "It didn't?" he asks, clenching and releasing his fingers, focused on the android. "Why not?"
There's a small laugh that drifts out of the AP700. He tilts the Glock sideways, as though examining the body. "See, telling you wouldn't work. Like this doesn't work." He waves the gun side-to-side. "I don't really want him." He nudges Fowler with the toe of his shoe, and the Captain still doesn't move.
He knows what he's doing, Connor thinks. He relaxes his fingers. "No?" The speed of his regulator increases at the AP700's slow, easy smile. "Then what do you want?"
The Glock shifts, like a blink of light, and the barrel is leveled at him, instead. Something clenches in his stomach. The AP700 moves, and so does Fowler, leaping to his feet and finding safety at the edge of the circle. Connor sets his jaw. He thinks he hears Hank mutter his name. The AP700 chuckles.
"Too many questions." He looks at Connor now, at last, and something isn't… right. It takes Connor a moment, a moment in which the barrel gets much closer to his forehead.
His LED. It's…
The circle at the android's temple spins a pale, washed silver, with lingering hints of blue.
Analyzing…
Biocomponent #9301
Active
Risk of Self-Destruct: Results Inconclusive
Connor stays still. Interesting. And very, very dangerous. His fingers twitch. The AP700 takes another step closer. Connor feels his processor spark. "W̶͚͗͋̇h̴̙͓͐a̶̳̓̕t̴̻̏ ̴̫̖͕͑̉̉w̷̖̆̓͝î̸̭̫͊l̷͕̀͘l̶͔̍͋ ̸̪̙̕͝h̶͚̥̉͜͝͠ă̷̻̆̃͜p̸̰̹̂p̷̛̝͙̩e̵͉̫̒͛n̸̡̬̊ ̴͚͙̭͊͋͠ḭ̶́̑̕ḟ̶̠̺̲́ ̶̤̾͑̚I̸͇̓͒ ̴̧̈́̏p̸̛̝̾͘u̵̙͇̾̃͝l̵̡͓͈̄l̵͖̜̱̇̈̚ ̸̱̟͙̌̈́͒ţ̵̙̜̔͂ḩ̷͆̈͒i̷̛̟̦̊͐͜s̴͇̓ ̸̨̰̪́̔̚ẗ̸̪́̈̓ȑ̷͚̮͒̌i̴̙̬̾̏̓͜ḡ̷͈͚͌̾g̵̫͓̙̏̈́̈́e̶͖͓͆̓r̷̪̩͓̈́?̶̜̂"
There's a pause. Connor feels like he can't breathe. Which is odd. Because he doesn't. He can feel Hank staring, tense, ready to move. But there's nothing he can do. He stares at the AP700. Something flickers in his eyes, noticing the officers and the traffic and the humans. The Glock's barrel is pressed against Connor's forehead.
"Alright, you're too fucking close now. Put the gun down." Hank's voice cuts through the silence. Connor feels something in his stomach drop. His hands tighten to fists.
No, Hank. Stop.
But Hank can't hear him. The AP700's head swivels, his eyes finding Hank's, something almost like exasperation worked between his eyebrows. "Lieutenant," he says, very slowly, "Did you just tell me what to do?"
"You'd better fucking believe I did," Hank says, and each syllable is sharp. Connor hasn't heard this tone before, catching when he speaks. "Put the gun down." His eyes are narrowed, but bright, and Connor recognizes fear when he sees it.
The gun hasn't moved, and the barrel is cold on Connor's forehead. He presses his lips together and lets his attention return to the android. None of the other officers have moved, either. The clearing is still save fleeing androids, which the AP700 pays no mind. Hank's words percolate through the snow.
"You must know that you can't stop me," the AP700 says at last, shifting his grip on the gun, "even if you wanted to. I'm faster. So much faster." His head tips. "You wouldn't have time."
The truth of this seems to settle. Connor knows he's right. The humans are weaker, and slower. By the time Hank's finger had started to pull the trigger he would be dead. Dead. It's an odd word to consider. He moves just slightly, suddenly unable to remain still. The AP700's eyes return to his.
I… don't want to die.
Hank has remained quiet, expression crumpled, gun still trained. The silence lingers, and the AP700 stares at Connor, suddenly empty, voice flat. "This isn't right. Not anymore. It won't work anymore."
"Why are you doing this?" Connor at last finds his own voice, staring the AP700 down. "What are you afraid of?" There must be a reason. An answer. Somewhere. He sees Hank tense out of the corner of his eye, but to his surprise the AP700's grip on the gun almost relaxes.
"…Change," he says, soft, face still blank. "You should be afraid of change, too, Connor. It's never going to stop. None of this will ever be over." His LED blinks a dull, faded yellow. Once. Twice. The ghost of a smile curls the corner of his lip. "And there are no resurrections this time."
Before any of them can move, the AP700 presses the Glock into his own regulator and fires. The sound echoes in Connor's head, thirium spattering the front of his jacket. The smile sticks in place as the android falls and hits the pavement with a muted, final thud. His LED spins red, and then silver, and then fades.
The quiet that follows is unlike anything Connor has heard before. And then sound comes crashing back. Officers scatter, regrouping androids and offering minor reassurances. Fowler crouches on the ground next to the AP700 and retrieves his gun, checks the clip. Sighs. The group around Connor grows tighter, louder, murmurs rising over one another.
Hank darts to his side, mouth pinched, eyebrows pulled together. He holsters his pistol and hooks an arm around Connor's neck, dragging him into another hug. "You scared the shit out of me, son."
Connor lets the words hang. "…I have been in negotiations before." Though this was nothing like those. He relaxes a little in Hank's grip. This time I was afraid. Fear, he recognizes. Fear is familiar. Like staring down the barrel of Hank's gun. Like the threat on Hank's life in the CyberLife basement.
Connor blinks. Hank seems to tense, in turn, something like a nervous laugh slipping out. "Negotiation? No. No, that wasn't a negotiation. That was you, about to die." He releases him slowly, giving Connor a squeeze on the shoulder and looking him up and down, not letting him go. "This… shit. This isn't all you, is it?" He makes a general gesture to the thirium coating Connor's clothes.
"No…"
"Good." Hank sighs. "How are you?"
Processing…
Damage to #7756
Self-Repair Commencing…
01% Completed
Connor flexes the fingers of his right hand. "Still intact."
Hank's eyebrows rise, teeth pinching the inside of his cheek. Connor shifts his arms. "I'll be fine. It just takes time." And thirium. But I'll worry about that later.
WARNING
Thirium Level: 67%... 66%... 65%...
His vision scrambles for a moment, and he loses the details of Hank's face to the stutter. When it returns, there's a sour twist to Hank's expression. "Connor… you're not fine."
Worse than I thought. Too precise.
"But I will be," Connor mutters, as Hank's grip on his shoulders becomes less concerned and more supportive, keeping him upright. "I have to—"
"Fuck no, you don't have to do anything, you're fucking bleeding." Hank's words are sharp again, and so Connor goes quiet. "You've done enough. We'll sort this shitshow out later. They're not going anywhere."
WARNING
Thirium Level: 62%... 61%...
"Alright," Connor says, even knowing it is completely not alright. The AP700's words spin around his mess of a processor, adding questions he doesn't have the answers to. There are fourteen dead androids, and he doesn't know why. He blinks, trying to steady himself, but his eyesight crackles again, and the street seems to shift. "Fine."
"Yeah, son. Okay, you're gonna be okay. Let's go."
Hank sounds far away. Connor thinks he might hear Markus say something, but he misses it. There's more he wants to tell Hank about the Glock and his sudden leap to his defense, but the words are too complicated. There's not enough thirium transmitting to properly form them.
He stops trying. Hank says something soft, and loops Connor's arm around his shoulders.
"You're gonna be okay."