A/N: This story's not dead! I'm so sorry to everyone waiting on this; don't ever be an adult, the responsibilities suck. I have no idea what kind of schedule this story has for the future, but I'm not going to give up on it. Thank you for your continued support and your comments-they mean the world to me.

Reinitializing…

Connor feels his vision focus. He can move his fingers, his hands, his legs. His chest rises and falls, soothing but unnecessary.

Reinitialized

Self-Repair Successful

Thirium Level: 98%

He can perfectly remember the gunshots, the screaming, the panic, squinting at the ceiling. He doesn't remember arriving here, where it's warm, where he in turn sobered Hank not so many days ago. Connor stretches his fingers against the cushions beneath him and frowns.

What happened? He tries to remember. But there's only the AP700's empty stare, and the fear in every word leaving Hank's mouth, and the rapidly dropping number on his thirium count. His eyebrows wrinkle seemingly of his own accord. When did I end up here? I can't stay; they need my help. They need answers.

He sits up. Sumo is curled up at the foot of the couch near his feet, a warm weight holding his legs to the cushions. The light of the TV casts blue-white shadows on his ears and his nose. Oh. Connor shifts his right foot; Sumo snorts in his sleep and buries his head further between his paws.

His shoes are gone. So is his jacket, and his tie. Connor lifts the blanket draped over him to peer at his side, where the bullet had found home. Clean. Healed. Like it had never been there at all. It was much worse than I initially thought. I've… never been wrong before. He lowers the blanket, suddenly needing to do something, looking again at Sumo and moving his left foot this time.

Nothing. The dog is too big; there's no immediately obvious way to move him without hurting him or waking him up. Neither of which, Connor finds, he really desires to do. It's an odd swell in his chest as he regards Sumo's peaceful, sleeping face. Conflicting priorities. He leans back against the cushions again, thinking.

"You should fear change too, Connor. None of this will ever be over."

The AP700's words don't make sense. And yet he had been thinking nearly the same thing earlier in the day, that it was too convenient, too easy, too small and personal and far too quiet to really be over. The notion sends a shudder through his system, and he laces his fingers on his stomach, restless, pattering out meaningless sounds against the blanket.

Markus has his quarter. His hands are directionless without it.

Events cycle through his head, but there's no way to organize his thoughts. There are more questions than there are answers, and the longer he spends thinking the more questions he arrives at. He's never before faced a case with so few leads.

And sitting here answers nothing. Even though his processor informs him it has been a mere 79 seconds since he woke up, he is already restless. He has to do something. Inaction may permit whatever it was that happened to occur again. And that… that is one thing he cannot allow.

Priority Selected

"Sumo," he whispers, moving his feet with purpose, testing. The dog rumbles something Connor feels through the contact to his chest, but doesn't move. He smiles at the lump of an animal and represses a sigh. My feet cannot be that comfortable.

Preconstructing…

Failure

Failure

Success

Executing…

Connor slowly slides his hands beneath Sumo's stomach, deliberately adjusting until he has most of the dog's weight. "Alright, Sumo," he mutters, and lifts, putting just enough strength into the motion to slip his feet free and lower him back to the cushion. Silence hangs. The muted TV reports a changing host of color Connor ignores. "Good boy."

He sets his feet on the floor, spine straight, hands folded. His eyes drift over the scattered chaos of Hank's house before landing on the coffee table in front of him, where four bags of thirium lay drained and crumpled in an indeterminate heap. Connor squints at them, tipping his head. Where did this come from? He takes a long breath, feeling his regulator skip and stutter. If this is all for me, I was going to shut down. I was going to… die.

Fear wells hot and sparking in his processor; his fingertips twist from where they're knotted in his lap. Where's Hank? He swivels in his seat, eyes adjusting until he locates the slumped, sleeping form of Hank in the chair next to the couch, half-empty glass swinging from his hand. Next to the thirium pouches sits a tinted glass bottle, near-drained of liquid and warping the wall behind it to a dull brown.

Something relaxes within the thrum of his regulator. Safe. Good. He stares at the bottle instead.

Sync in Progress…

Collecting Data…

Analyzing Data…

Sync Complete

Black Lamb Whisky

40% alcohol content

22.86 mL remaining

Connor frowns, sliding his gaze back to Hank. Sumo whuffs in his sleep. He drinks too much. He swipes the bottle off the coffee table along with the thirium pouches and pads into the kitchen, impressed with the silence of his footsteps. He's only ever walked anywhere in his shoes. He tosses the thirium pouches into the trash and without hesitating pours the remaining alcohol into the sink. Better. He stands in the kitchen, flexes his fingers, thinking. The AP700's hollow eyes flicker in his memory reserves.

The house is quiet. He has no plan. The AP700 had talked of fear, and change, but that was nothing new. That hadn't driven others to gunfire and screams. They had barely been constituted as free for 48 hours, and Connor doesn't comprehend fear that deep-set, that innate. He leans against the counter and scrubs a hand over his face.

I'm missing something.

And that's new. There's nothing to analyze, no blood trail to follow, no littering path of clues. He witnessed the killing. He knows the murderer, counted the victims. It's the motive that's nonexistent, and that can't be retrieved.

But Connor has never let a trail go cold, and he's not about to start now. Hank is his case partner, but he'd witnessed the exact same event. He's not a new perspective. Connor purses his lips and closes his eyes.

…Markus. Markus might know something. He might have seen something in the aftermath, whatever it was that I missed.

He makes a decision. Despite whatever trouble he'd unwittingly brought to Markus's people and everything he'd done.

Sending…

Can we talk?

Silence. Not even the whisper of a reply. It's like the connection to Markus he once knew was there has gone dead, a snipped string. The same brief pulse of fear bleeds across his processor, but there are a number of things that could've happened. He could've closed the channel, blocked him out, powered down. But if something worse occurred in the time since the gunshot…

Connor registers light beyond his closed lids and blinks. Hank is standing hunched near the divide between the living room and the kitchen, one finger on the light switch, eyes bloodshot and mouth pinched in a sharp, sour line. Connor stares back, waiting, utterly still. He remembers.

"Jesus, Connor, you…" Hank begins, but the words trail to a halt. "Ah, fuck." He swirls the remaining alcohol in his glass and sniffs, expression twisting, staring at Connor over the rim. "This stunt you keep pulling has gotta stop."

"Stunt?" Connor shifts where he stands, unsure of the meaning behind the request. Hank drains his glass and presses his shoulder into the wall, something old in his eyes.

"Almost dying on me." There's the barest edge of a slur to the words, and Hank raises three of his fingers toward Connor, shadow warped in the kitchen light. "This is the third fucking time in one fucking week, and I'm too old for it." The hand falls back to his side, and he crosses the room, eyes passing over the now-empty bottle of whisky before landing back on Connor. He sets his glass on the table with a wooden click and tugs out one of the chairs, falling heavily into it. "Thought you were gonna bleed out on my couch, even—" and his hand clenches and releases on the table, once, twice "—even after Markus brought me the blood and told me what I had to do to make sure you fucking woke up."

Hank's stopped looking at him, but Connor stares, thinking. Markus is alright. Good. He taps one of his feet against the linoleum, tips his head. Processes the trace amounts of thirium on Hank's hands, his fingers, under his nails.

Hank saved my life.

Something twinges behind his regulator, and he breathes, long, deliberate. "Thank you, Hank," he says, quiet, folding his arms across his chest as the feeling fades. Hank waves a hand at where he's standing, rocking the legs of the chair backwards until he's angled toward the ceiling.

"…Yeah." The legs tip forward and crash with a sudden force in the silence. Hank's eyes are clear again, sharp. "Just don't do it again, mnh? I'm not a doctor."

Connor nods, though he makes no vocal promises. There are no resurrections this time. He frowns, rolling the idea around in his processor, judging, analyzing. One more piece to the puzzle, as of yet unresolved.

Hank speaks from the table. "Got a plan?"

Connor shakes his head, the fragments of this case still a disaster. "Not really, no." He pauses. "One, maybe. But I must see Markus."

"Kid seemed worried about you," Hank says, kicking the table leg. The glasses rattle together.

So why is he silent? Connor traces a circle through the material of his shirt. "Did he say anything?"

"Nope," Hank mutters, tipping his glass toward him and frowning into the emptiness of it. "Besides a shitton of instructions." He lets the glass rest. "And a 'good luck.'"

One option left, then. Connor straightens. "I have to go there." He makes to move for the living room, but Hank is suddenly in his path, chair slid across the kitchen with a grating scrape.

"Alright, whoa, wait." Hank lifts a hand and rolls his head back, neck craned to meet Connor's stare while still sitting.

Connor waits.

"You're sure you wanna go back out there, after what happened, so fucking soon?" Hank asks, hand outstretched between them like a much stronger barrier than it actually is, one eyebrow disappearing into his hair. Connor stares at his hand, at the thirium, at the age lines. Want. Does he want to?

He considers it. His other options are staying here, waiting, hiding. Leaving Markus and his people to deal with the problems he had created, alone. And that doesn't sit well. It doesn't make anything still whirring rest and relax. I needed a goal… and now I have one.

He sighs, a grounding rush of air. "Yes."

Hank chuckles, hand dropping to his knee, eyes running over Connor's face. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him. "Okay," he says, something worked into the word. He reaches behind him and retrieves his pistol, holding it out.

Analyzing Data…

Glock 22

Fingerprints: Anderson, Hank

Fifteen rounds remaining

Connor doesn't take it, and the weapon simply sits in Hank's outstretched hand. The eyebrow rises back into his hairline. Connor doesn't want it, and that's odd, too, not wanting it. It's a useful tool, but he doesn't like the idea of firing it, the sound it would make, the spray of blood. Not after everything.

"Take it." Hank's voice isn't commanding, but his offer doesn't sway. "If you're going out to face this fucking city again, take it. This way you can shoot the bastard first."

He has a point. The AP700 had seemed almost… pleased to see him, as if the message had been for him specifically. But he hesitates, still. "What if you need it?" he asks, thinking of the barrel pressed to the back of Fowler's head, of the tension, the fear.

Hank shakes his head, something like a smile on his face. "Nah," he says, all but pressing the pistol into Connor's hands. "You're the one that was just shot, take the damn gun. It'll help me sleep."

Connor relents at that, remembering Hank's earlier request, tucking the pistol into the waistband of his pants. This doesn't mean I have to use it. Something seems to almost settle in the whirring of his processor. Hank relaxes back into his chair.

"Great. Now get goin' if you're goin'. Your shit's near the door." He rises out of the chair and pushes it back into the table, leaning on it a little closer than before. "Garage code's 0923, if ya come back. 'm going to bed." He pats Connor's shoulder once before his hand slides off and he lumbers down the hallway. "Good luck, son."

Sumo trots after him, tail swinging, and Connor hears the end of a "good boy" before the door clicks shut. Another feeling sparks near his regulator, brief and full and fleeting. He stands in the kitchen and closes his eyes.

Sending…

Markus? Can we talk?

Silence, still. Connor opens his eyes and heads for the light switch, plunging the kitchen into shadow. A glance at the TV and it goes dark, too, leaving him and the front door and the faint light from a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. He could contact Simon, or Josh, North, even. They would know where he is. But something stops him. He doesn't know them; he barely knows Markus, as it stands. The idea of opening a channel almost feels… odd, somehow, as if he's wandering places he doesn't belong.

So he settles for walking.

He finds his jacket and his shoes in a pile on the floor, his tie tossed a few feet away. He buttons his jacket to cover the hole in his shirt and adjusts his tie in a matter of seconds, the motions familiar. Familiar is soothing.

Even so, if he's being targeted, familiar is not exactly incognito. He spends a few moments rifling through Hank's front closet before locating a beanie tucked along the back wall alongside an old black coat that has clearly not been used in a few winters, looser and threadbare and a few sizes smaller.

Convenient, he thinks, but doesn't question why Hank still has this coat. He tugs it on, adjusts the beanie over his LED, and ventures into the snow, closing the door behind him.

The disguise is reminiscent of another snowy night. The pistol is a weight at his back.

Priority Selected