Trigger warning: anxiety, talk of sexual manipulation, implied torture.
….
Chapter Five
Connor watched Hank and Wren sit at the table and eat the takeout meal. Connor made a mental note to grocery shop when an opportunity presented itself. He left the kitchen and trekked to Sumo lying on the living room floor. He sat beside the enormous dog and ran his hand over Sumo's fur.
"So," said Hank, crumpling up the paper to his sandwich, "how old are ya?"
"Thirty-five," said Wren. Connor's brow puckered and he looked over his shoulder at her. She did not look thirty-five. Hank choked on his drink. He coughed for a few seconds before recovering himself.
"Bull-fuckin'-shit. No way you're thirty-five. You look like you're barely over twenty-five."
"They injected my skin with synthesizers. I age nearly three times as slow as the average person. I suppose you could say I'm twenty-seven, then."
"Yeah, that looks about right," said Hank. He wiped his mouth. Connor left Sumo and returned to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. He stared at Wren for several seconds. "You said you killed some decent people. Who were they? Why would Prometheus kill decent people if their goal is to protect humanity or whatever the fuck you said?"
"Jesus," Wren muttered, looking away. She gathered up the trash from the meal and tossed it into the trashcan, keeping her back to them.
"Remember the rules," Hank warned.
"Yeah, I know," Wren snapped, turning. "I'm trying to come up with an answer that won't make you look at me like I'm a piece of shit, okay?"
Hank exchanged a glance with Connor. Neither of them commented. They waited for Wren to explain herself. She huffed and turned, her arms curling around her middle.
"We all have our sins. That doesn't necessarily make us bad people."
"Cut the cryptic bullshit and answer the fucking question."
Wren hugged herself tighter.
^^Stress Levels: 37%
"Look, the people I assassinated were doing really bad things. Things that would get a lot of people hurt or killed. But some of them had motives that made it a grey area, okay?"
"Give me an example," Hank leaned back in his chair as he looked up at Wren.
Her eyes flicked to Connor for a moment, the space between her eyebrows creasing.
^Stress Levels: 38%
Wren looked back at Hank. "There was a chemist involved with a Red Ice dealer. This guy wasn't just your local drug dealer, though. He was poisoning the drugs and killing people. I killed the chemist to stop him from selling the poison to the dealer."
"Well, that sounds like he was a bad guy," drawled Hank.
"He had a son," Wren replied, her voice cracking. "He was really sick. The chemist –Dr. Hadron Rhodes –couldn't afford the treatments for his son. He was depressed, addicted to the drug and trying to help his son. He created the poison and sold it to the Red Ice dealer to pay for his drugs and the treatments for his son. His actions got a lot of people hurt and others killed. I was sent to dispose of him."
"What happened to the kid?" asked Hank quietly.
"I don't know," Wren whispered.
"Why didn't they send you after the Red Ice dealer?" Connor queried, furrowing his brow.
Wren shrugged, her eyes glistening. "Prometheus wanted to watch them, see if they could find who the higher-ups were and who was buying from the dealer. I think they sent someone else after them, because I never heard of the dealer again."
"Why didn't Prometheus just pay for the kid's treatments?" Hank asked.
"I don't know," Wren sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I wasn't in charge there. They just gave me my job and took me there. The point is, Dr. Rhodes loved his son. And my actions took a little boy's father from him." Tears escaped her eyes and slid down her cheeks. The corners of Connor's mouth pulled taut.
"Do you remember all of their names? Your victims?" said Hank.
^^Stress Levels: 47%
"Of course I remember their names," Wren breathed.
Hank was quiet for several seconds. Then, he dipped his head. "Okay. Just don't kill me in my sleep." He got up from his chair and hobbled to the bathroom. Connor tilted his head, his audio input picking up on the lock clicking to the door. The water from the shower started, signaling the beginning of Hank's nightly routine.
Connor turned toward Wren. She was trembling slightly. Her eyes lifted to meet his. He frowned. "Are you alright?"
Wren wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I will be."
She pushed past him and ventured to the couch, where she sat down, watching Sumo. Connor followed her and took a seat in the armchair. Connor watched her before realizing that he was making her uncomfortable, so he looked away. Wren pushed off from the couch and walked over to the stereo. She sifted through the albums on the shelf. On the next shelf were books. Wren ran her fingers over the spines. Connor watched her, his brow puckering.
"I didn't take Hank as a Dante fan," said Wren. "Paperback, too. Most people like digital copies of their books."
"He says he likes the physical copy better," replied Connor.
"Self-help books," muttered Wren. She sounded as though she were talking to herself. She peered over her shoulder, catching Connor's eyes with hers. "Is Hank mourning someone?"
Connor shifted, his body tensing. He remembered how reluctant Hank had been to tell Connor about Cole, and again how Hank had stalled at the hospital. Wren would need to know eventually, just in case anyone ever asked and she needed to protect her cover, but Connor was loath to divulge something so personal of Hank's. He looked away from Wren. "He is."
"Is it Cole?" Wren queried.
Connor leveled his gaze with hers. "Yes."
"Who was Cole?"
"I'm sorry, but that's not my information to give," said Connor.
Wren lifted her chin. Then, she nodded. "Fair enough."
She returned her attention to the books. Connor stood and joined her at the shelf. Wren drifted her index finger over the spines as she read their titles. Her finger paused over an anthology of Sylvia Plath's works.
Connor glanced at her, his eyebrows squishing together. Wren seemed to have frozen as she gaped at the Sylvia Plath anthology. Connor tilted his head as he peered at Wren. "Wren? Are you alright?"
Wren flinched as if Connor had slapped her. She looked at him, her eyes wide. The color drained from her face. "I… I think… I don't know." Her hand dropped to her side. She straightened and backed away from the shelf.
Connor stared at her. "What is it?"
Tears jiggled in Wren's eyes. Her lips parted and she tore her eyes away from the shelf to look at Connor. "I think I just remembered something."
Connor widened his eyes a fraction. He glanced at the book before looking back to Wren. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," Wren breathed, "but… It was… I don't know how to explain it. It was so fast. And it doesn't make much sense, but… That book means something to me. That's all I can remember. I just saw it on a bookshelf in my mind."
Connor folded his arms. "Have you remembered things before?"
"I-I have no idea," said Wren, collapsing on the couch. "Not that I know of."
The bathroom door opened, and Hank exited the bathroom in a billow of steam. His hair hung about his face in damp, grey strands. He opened up the hall closet and rummaged around it for a few seconds. He padded down the hall, a pillow tucked under one arm and blankets balanced in the other. He rounded the couch and tossed the pillow to Wren, who caught it deftly. Hank dropped the blankets on the couch.
He turned to Connor. "Since you don't sleep, I'm assuming you don't mind if she takes the couch."
"Not at all."
"What do you do all night if you don't sleep?" Wren asked.
"A number of things," Connor replied, his eyebrows lifting. "I won't bother you."
"Okay…" Wren's gaze slid to Hank's. "Do you mind if I use your shower?"
"Knock yourself out," Hank muttered. Wren stood and slipped past Hank and Connor. She closed herself in the bathroom. After a moment, the water started running.
Connor frowned at Hank, who stared down the hall with a bemused expression. Connor clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head. "Hank? Are you alright?"
"What the fuck are we gonna do with her?" Hank muttered, tearing his eyes away from the bathroom door to look at Connor.
Connor was glad for the rhetorical nature of the question, as he found himself unable to answer it.
…
Connor spent most nights reading, as there was not much else for him to do. Sometimes he scoured the Internet, or even stared into space. He was a very patient person, and the nights alone allowed for Connor to reflect on himself. This night, however, his routine was interrupted by Wren.
She began curled on the couch, tucked underneath a blanket. At first, she was quiet. Connor looked up from his book –the Sylvia Plath anthology –to check on her occasionally. Her brow twitched in her sleep and a frown creased the lines around her mouth. Connor tilted his head as he watched her. Her sleep did not seem peaceful.
He returned to the book. CyberLife equipped androids with the capability to discuss abstract concepts like philosophy in order to better integrate with humans. However, deviancy stuttered this ability a bit. Connor could look at art and discuss it, even philosophize about it. However, without his program instructing him on how best to analyze a work of art, he found himself a bit stumped by Sylvia Plath's poetry. Independent thought and opinion complicated his program's ability to analyze the poem.
A whimper from Wren interrupted Connor's thoughts. He glanced up, eyebrows gathering. Wren turned her head from side to side and shifted in her sleep. Connor tilted his head. She was behaving much like she had at the hospital, when she'd had a nightmare. He marked his place in the book and set it down, opting for watching Wren, should he need to wake her.
A chill rippled down his back as Wren muttered, "Please… don't…"
And then she screamed.
Connor jumped to his feet and rushed to the couch. He grabbed Wren's shoulders and shook her gently. "Wren, wake up. You're having a nightmare. Wake up."
Wren thrashed, still screaming. Hank's bedroom door open and the man himself burst into the hall. "What in the hell?"
Connor glanced over his shoulder. "I believe she's having a night terror. I can't wake her."
"Shake her harder!" Hank barked.
Connor pursed his lips and complied. "Wren, it's me, Connor! Wake up!"
Wren's eyes flashed open. The screaming stopped, but she continued to struggle against Connor's grip. "Let me go! Let me go!"
Connor released her, but held his hands out, palms forward. He knelt by the couch. "Are you alright?"
"What the hell were you screaming for? I nearly shit the bed!" Hank yelled.
Wren's brow furrowed. "I… I was screaming?"
Connor frowned. "You don't remember?"
Wren shook her head and rubbed her eyes. "It must've been one of my night terrors. Prometheus would medicate me if I had too many in a row."
"I've never heard someone scream in their sleep like that," Hank muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Sorry," Wren croaked. "I once screamed myself hoarse. I don't realize I've done it until the next morning, or unless someone tells me I did."
Connor sat back on his heels. He looked at Hank, who looked just as shocked as Connor felt. Hank cleared his throat. "Is there… uh, anything we can do?"
Wren looked at Connor. "You don't have to wake me. Usually, I'll sleep through the worst of it."
Connor's brow puckered. "Aren't you… You seem so terrified, though. Are you sure you don't want me to wake you?"
"And what about waking me?" Hank demanded.
Wren looked at her hands. "I… Sometimes waking me makes it worse. I'll be disoriented and can end up panicking. You can wake me if you notice I'm having a nightmare. But if it escalates, let me sleep through it. And… I'm sorry if I wake you, Hank. I'm sorry I did wake you."
Hank waved a hand. "Whatever… 'M a light sleeper…" He padded out of the room, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering.
Connor watched him go before turning to Wren. He realized he was sitting very close to her. She shrank away from him. He pushed away from the couch and moved back toward his armchair. Wren pulled her knees up to her chest. Connor sat down, still staring at Wren. She avoided his gaze, staring straight ahead. Her eyes were wide, glinting in the darkness.
"You should get some rest."
"I can't."
Connor frowned. He tilted his head. "Do you remember what your dream was about?"
"Uh, sort of."
"Perhaps talking about it will help. I'm aware that discussing things like this helps alleviate anxiety," said Connor, lifting his eyebrows in earnest. Wren's eyes snapped to him. They caught the streetlamp light, which peeked through the curtains in the window behind Connor.
"Look," Wren quipped, "I appreciate what you and Hank have done for me, but I'm not an idiot. You don't trust me, and I don't trust you. We're just working together. I know where the three of us stand. So, there's no need to act like you're my friend and that you care about what's going on with me."
Connor opened and closed his mouth, at a loss for words. He swallowed. "I'm… I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable."
"I get the feeling the three of us are going to be uncomfortable a lot, at least for a while," huffed Wren. She laid back down and pulled the blanket around her.
"That's highly probable," Connor murmured. Wren remained silent. After several minutes, Connor initiated a scan.
scan [Status: Asleep]
He leaned back into his chair. He considered entering standby mode. A spike of anxiety shot through him at the thought. His hands curled around the arms of the chair. He had avoided standby mode since the liberation. Thoughts of Amanda flickered in his processor. He clenched his jaw and pressure built behind his eyes. He had exited the program. Logically, Amanda couldn't get to him. He was free. So why was he still afraid of her?
…
Connor and Wren spent their morning at the new Jericho building, shut in a room with an advanced computer. Markus acquired the means to create Wren's fake license, with the information she provided. While he was off seeing to that, Wren fabricated her academic transcript. She hacked into the University of Michigan's database to record herself as an alumnus. She even documented herself as an alumnus from Greenwich High School in Sterling Heights, Michigan. It was quite fascinating to watch her work, her fingers flying across the computer keys, her lips scrunched to one side and her brow furrowing. She had tied her hair back, though chunks of it fell in her face.
Connor jerked when he felt vibration in his pocket. He had forgotten about Hank's phone. He withdrew it, narrowing his eyes at the number.
scan #313-373-4265= [Incoming call from Hank Anderson, DPD]
Connor answered it. "Hello, Hank."
"Are you almost done?" Hank muttered. His voice came through muffled and rippling with static, as if he were holding the mouthpiece of the phone in his mouth.
"I believe so," said Connor. "She's looking at Markus's security system now to see how she can improve it."
"Good," huffed Hank, "I just realized something. She can't go around wearing the same clothes every day. And she probably has... certain toiletries that she needs. Take her shopping. Use her cash."
Connor nodded. "Got it."
"See you tonight, kid."
"Of course." Connor hung up the phone. Wren twirled in her chair to look at him.
"Get Markus in here. I've gotta tell him things about his security."
Connor stared at her for a second before turning away. He poked his head out of the room. Josh stood nearby, speaking with an AX400. Josh caught Connor's eye, bid farewell to the other android and then walked over.
"Hey," said Josh, smiling. "How's it going?"
"My… colleague needs to speak with Markus," said Connor, resisting the urge to cringe at his wording.
"Okay, I'll grab him," said Josh. He left the hall for several seconds. Markus rounded the corner alone. Markus and Connor stepped into the room.
"Wren," Markus greeted, "what can I do for you?"
"Well, firstly, you need to install a security system. More than just an alarm at the front door. Yours can be hacked by practically any android. I've secured your firewalls to your data, though. Your documents are safe, but Prometheus won't go after your documents. Unless they send someone to seduce you and plant some sort of 'evidence' on you, but since the original order was to terminate you, I doubt they'll do that." Wren twirled a pencil in her hands.
The corners of Connor's mouth twitched. He looked at Markus, who quirked a brow at him. They turned back to Wren. Markus folded his arms. "Alright, so what kind security would you suggest?"
Wren tilted her head. "Mmm… Cameras, sensors on the door to your office and major entrances… I might put something in the air vents, too. And you might want to invest in curtains. You have a lot of windows. Makes you an easy target for a sniper. When you get the security system set up, I'll make some adjustments to it. I know Prometheus's usual tricks, so I'll help you guard against them. Speaking of guards, you might want to hire some."
Markus shook his head. "I'm not doing that."
Wren sighed. "Fair enough. We don't know how long we'll be waiting for Prometheus. They could strike in a few months. They could wait a year. I would say to use security detail at any major political events that you attend."
Markus dipped his head. "I'll keep that in mind."
Wren pushed up from her seat. "Thank you for helping me."
"You're welcome," said Markus, regarding her warmly. "I hope you find what you're looking for."
A shadow passed over Wren's features. "Me too."
…
After dropping off Wren's fake documentation and picking up the cash in her backpack, Connor took Wren to a shopping center. He followed her around as she picked out some clothes and some toiletries. She seemed frugal, of which Connor made a mental note. He looked at the clothes in her shopping basket. She was a fan of sweaters and jeans. She had picked out a dressier top, too, but it was the only one. They returned to the car to load it with the shopping bags.
scan [Increased Levels of NPY]
"Would you like to get something to eat?" Connor queried.
Wren looked at him as she closed the trunk. "You don't eat."
"No, but you do, and you haven't eaten all day."
Wren's nose wrinkled. "You're just gonna watch me eat?"
Connor's lips twitched. "I won't watch you, if it bothers you."
Wren shrugged. "Okay."
They walked back to the shopping center. Wren picked a sandwich shop called Sugar Bacon. They were seated immediately, as it was not a busy place. Connor looked around at the décor. It boasted French delicacy, with white and blue wallpaper. The tables were painted white, though they looked as if they had been worn –Connor assumed on purpose. The hardwood floor was light wood, adding to the brightness in the building. It was definitely more artistic than the places Connor frequented. He enjoyed seeing different styles of interior decorating and architecture.
"What are you looking at?" Wren asked, drawing Connor from his thoughts.
He offered her a pleasant smile. "The décor."
Wren lifted a brow. "Are you interested in interior design?"
Connor tilted his head. "Not necessarily. I enjoy observing it, as I don't often see different styles. The police station sticks to a modern style, focused on efficiency. Hank isn't much of a decorator."
Wren snorted. Connor's lips twitched, seeing Wren smile. He had not seen her smile before. Even now, her smile was soft and brief. The waitress brought Wren's meal to her.
scan [Tomato soup]
scan [Total Carbohydrate: 18g] + [Total Fat: .5g] + [Calories: 160]
Connor relaxed, folding his hands on the table. Wren possessed healthier habits than Hank, at least. Wren paused, her spoon hovering in front of her lips.
"I thought you weren't going to watch me eat?"
Connor blinked and met her gaze. "I'm sorry."
Wren took a bite, avoiding his gaze. Connor looked away from her, too. He looked around the room before flicking his gaze back to Wren, who ate quietly.
He tilted his head. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
Wren looked up, her lips twisting downward. "Is this a one-of-Hank's-rules question or a Connor question?"
Connor's lips twitched. "One of mine."
"Okay."
Connor squished his brows together. "You don't remember anything from your life before Prometheus?"
^Stress Levels: 13%
"Not really," Wren sighed, leaning back. "I get flashes of things sometimes, like when I came across that Sylvia Plath book. Occasionally I'll hear a string of words or smell a specific odor or taste something that gives me déjà vu. Mostly, it feels like I should be remembering something, but it's fuzzy. It's like… Like something's constantly on the tip of my tongue, but I can never get the right word. Does that answer your question?"
"It does, thank you," said Connor. "What do you remember? Even if it's just a flash of an image?"
"I remember…" Wren trailed off, her gaze growing distant. "Stage lights. A forest… a yellow raincoat. Random things like that."
Connor flexed his jaw. Wren resumed eating. The silence between them didn't feel quite as uncomfortable as it had been the past few days. Connor pushed a breath through his nostrils. Wren finished eating after a few minutes. Wren prepaid, so they left soon after the waitress cleared the table. They walked through the shopping center, Wren's gaze on her shoes. They passed a store to the right. Red, pink and white hearts decorated the store windows. It advertised Valentine's Day décor for twenty percent off.
"What is that?" Connor queried, his steps faltering.
Wren glanced toward the store. "What is what?"
"Valentine's Day," said Connor, his brow furrowing.
"You don't know what Valentine's Day is?" Wren sounded incredulous.
Connor looked at her. "I know it's a holiday celebrated every February the fourteenth. However, I don't know the deeper reasoning behind it."
Wren snorted. She folded her arms and resumed walking Connor fell in step with her, waiting for her response. "It doesn't really have much of a deeper reasoning behind it anymore. It's just a day for couples to buy each other gifts and go on dates. It kind of becomes a competition of who has the better significant other based off the gifts people receive."
Connor frowned. "Anymore?"
"What?"
"You said it doesn't have much of deeper reasoning anymore. Did it used to?"
Wren sighed. "I mean, I guess. It's supposed to be a day where you celebrate your loved ones. Mostly romantic partners, but sometimes family and friends celebrate it together."
"You seem to be bitter towards this holiday," pointed out Connor.
Wren shrugged. "I'm not bitter. I just don't have a reason to celebrate it."
Connor's brow knitted. They fell silent once more and returned to the car. The drive home was quiet, with Wren gazing out of the window while Connor drove. They stopped by the police station to pick up Hank. Connor drove them home. Wren carried in her bags and unpacked the toiletries in the bathroom. The rest of the shopping bags sat in the living room. Hank muttered under his breath and rummaged around in the back room, looking for a basket. He retuned and placed it beside the couch. Connor worked on placing Wren's clothes into the basket, keeping them in piles of bottoms, tops and undergarments.
Hank sat down on the couch. "Tomorrow, I'll take a sick day and make sure she doesn't get into trouble. You go to work."
Connor stilled, halfway through folding a pair of Wren's jeans. Then, he nodded. "Okay."
"It makes more sense for me to take off than you," explained Hank.
Connor's forehead creased and the corners of his mouth dropped. "Will you be alright with her alone?"
"I'm not fuckin' useless," said Hank.
Connor pressed his lips together for a moment. "She is trained, Hank."
"I appreciate the concern, but I think I'll be okay. She didn't try anything today?"
"No," said Connor, straightening, his task completed. He grabbed the shopping bags and brought them to the trashcan. When he returned to the living room, Wren sat on the other end of the couch.
"What do you want for dinner? I don't have much food here. I can go pick something up," said Hank.
Wren shrugged. "I'm not picky."
"Good," said Hank, standing. He looked at Connor. "Don't burn the house down while I'm gone." He patted Connor's shoulder and left the house.
Wren gripped her knees, her posture stiff. "You didn't have to… fold my clothes."
Connor glanced at the organized basket, Wren's clothes folded neatly in their respective piles. "It gave me something to do."
Wren rubbed her shins. "Well, um… Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Wren stood. "I'm going to take a shower."
Connor dipped his head. Wren returned the gesture. She hurried to the bathroom after grabbing a change of clothes. Connor listened for the water. It started after a minute. Connor walked over to the bookshelf. His shoulders slumped with the realization that he'd read everything already. He moved over to the stereo and thumbed through the albums. He picked a jazz selection and played it. He sat on the couch, his eyes closed. He could see the sheet music for the piece, watching as the music hit the notes. Its tempo was faster paced, resulting in an upbeat tune. The corners of Connor's mouth quirked upward.
The shower stopped and Connor's eyes slid open. Wren emerged in sweatpants and a plain T-shirt. She paused by the stereo, reading over the album. She looked over her shoulder at Connor. "You like jazz?"
"Hank does," said Connor. "I'm afraid I haven't developed my own personal taste in music just yet."
"Well, do you like what's playing?"
"It's pleasant."
Wren nodded slowly. She set down the album and thumbed through the others. "Heavy metal and jazz," she murmured. She sounded amused. She looked at Connor. "Maybe you should ask Hank to get other genres for you to listen to."
Connor cocked his head. "I don't listen to music often enough for me to ask that."
Wren shrugged. She moved from the music to the bookshelf. She sat cross-legged on the floor, skimming through the different titles. She paused at the Sylvia Plath anthology again, but did not remove it from the shelf. Connor watched as Wren pulled The Iliad from the shelf. She opened it and began to read.
"Do you like music?" Connor queried, unable to stop himself.
Wren looked up. "Yeah. I don't listen to it as often as I'd like. Prometheus didn't exactly have music playing for my comfort."
"Do you have a favorite genre?"
Wren chewed on her cheek. "I'm not sure. I like music I can dance to, but I like soft music, too. Really, I just like that music has its own language. Every song communicates something different. It depends on what I want to hear."
A soft smile touched Connor's lips. "What is this song communicating to you?"
Wren perked up. She tilted her head, listening for a moment. "Energy. It's carefree. I can see people dancing to it."
Before Connor formulated a response, the door opened and Hank walked in. He looked around, his eyebrows raised. "Good choice," he grunted. He brought the Chicken Feed order into the kitchen. Connor stood and lowered the volume, but left the jazz playing while Hank and Wren sat down to eat. Connor stooped and picked up The Iliad and placed it on Wren's pillow.
He joined Hank and Wren at the kitchen table, sitting down, not even bothering to scan and analyze the unhealthiness of the Chicken Feed meal. Hank took a few bites of his burger before asking, "So. You were with Prometheus for ten years?"
"Yes," said Wren slowly. Her eyes narrowed.
"And you only assassinated six people? That's not even one assassination per year. I'd've thought there'd be a higher body count."
Wren set down her cheeseburger. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and folded her arms over her middle. "Well, they had to train me first. And not every mission I went on was an assassination."
"Well, what else did ya do?" Hank demanded.
Wren turned her head away from them.
˄Stress Levels: 46%
"Are you sure you want to talk about this while eating?" She faced Hank again, who stared her down.
"I've got a strong stomach."
Connor lifted a brow. He refrained from arguing with Hank, who had proven in the past they he did not have a strong stomach. Jazz filled the silence for several seconds. The upbeat tune juxtaposed the tension.
"Prometheus trained me to fight, to kill. They trained me in stealth. They trained me to manipulate. You don't always need to pull a trigger to destroy someone," Wren said.
Coldness struck Connor's core. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He looked at Hank, whose pale features reflected Connor's feelings. Hank narrowed his eyes at Wren. "What did they have you do?"
Wren's cheeks reddened. She tightened her crossed arms and shrank away from Hank and Connor. "I didn't kill them, okay?"
"That's not what I asked," Hank barked. "Remember my rules."
Wren looked toward the ceiling. "They trained me to manipulate. Emotionally, mentally, sexually. They put me through whore school, and used me to seduce people in power. You'd be shocked at how many of your senators use prostitutes. All it took was a night, maybe more, and some pictures. Prometheus used it to blackmail them. Sometimes I used sex to get secrets. It's that phenomenon of divulging secrets to a taxi driver –you never think a stranger will use the information against you. Some people are just weak for pillow talk. Others require more coaxing. The point is that my body wasn't mine. It was always Prometheus's." Her voice broke. Connor's brow pinched. Wren stared straight at Hank, but Connor noticed the tear tracks on her cheeks.
"Jesus," Hank muttered rubbing his face. He dropped his hands onto the table, eyeing Wren.
She pursed her lips together and leaned forward. "I told you I probably shouldn't talk about it at dinner." Her tone was cold.
Hank bowed his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked up, leveling his gaze with Wren's. "How did they get you to do things like that? How did they command you? How do you get the point where you just obey?"
Wren flinched as if Hank slapped her. Her hands trembled. Connor watched as she wrapped her fingers over each other in an attempt to calm the shaking. It didn't work. Connor's eyes trailed up to Wren's face. The back of his throat ached and his chest clenched. He parted his lips to tell Hank that maybe they shouldn't push Wren past her limit, but Wren spoke before Connor could.
"I told you that I'd be honest with you," she muttered, "but some things I'm not ready to talk about. All you need to know is that they conditioned me and programmed me to do what they wanted. Got it?"
"Okay," Hank conceded. He sucked his teeth for a moment. "Tomorrow, we'll go over some things you need to know about my ex's family to seem realistic."
"Okay," Wren replied.
Hank stood, cleared his trash and went into the bathroom to start his nightly routine. Connor looked at Wren, who avoided his gaze. She took a bite of her cheeseburger, grimaced and then set the burger down. She cleared her trash and headed to the couch. Connor remained seated, still processing what Wren told them. Eventually, he pushed himself out of the chair and walked into the living room. Wren curled against her pillow, reading The Iliad.
Connor shut off the stereo. The house seemed eerie without the upbeat jazz filling it. Connor trekked to his armchair and sat down. He wondered if he judged Wren for her actions. He remembered how his programming had dictated him, but he had managed to still make decisions against it. He shuddered to think what his programming would have forced him to do had he not possessed empathy. He stole a glance at Wren. She possessed empathy, too. She regretted her actions. Grieved over them, even.
scan Stress Levels: 53%
"Quit," scolded Wren, barely looking up from her book.
Connor stiffened. He had not expected Wren to notice his scanning of her. "How did you know?"
"Your body language."
Connor frowned. "You can tell that I'm scanning you through my body language?"
"Yeah," huffed Wren, looking up. "You freeze and get this glazed-over look in your eyes. You're not exactly subtle."
Connor looked away. "Oh."
Wren resumed reading until long after Hank had finished showering and gone to bed. Connor entertained himself with his coin, rolling it over his knuckles and passing it from hand to hand. He noticed Wren glancing at him from time to time. He wondered if perhaps his coin tricks bothered her, but she never complained. Eventually, she fell asleep, book still propped open, her hand resting on it. Connor's lips twitched. He stood and walked over to the couch, where he tugged the book out from under Wren. He marked the page and laid it on the coffee table and then switched off the lamp. He returned to his seat.
It was stupid of him to fear standby mode. Androids did not dream, and he was free. If he went into standby, he knew he would see nothing. Amanda could no longer reach him. Yet he could not shake the feeling that if surrendered to standby, he would wake up in the Zen Garden, surrounded by roses. He would wake up in the Zen Garden, and Amanda would take his body. He would have no control, he would be trapped in the roses forever. His chest tightened, and his thirium pump regulator felt as if it were being crushed.
[Warning: Core Temperature Rising]
Connor shook his head as if to jerk the message from his vision. He gripped the arms of his chair, blinking spastically.
"You okay?" Wren croaked, lifting her head.
Connor's eyes snapped to hers. He stiffened, every synthetic muscle engaged, giving him that eerie android rigidness that unnerved many people. "I'm okay."
Wren pushed herself up, her eyes glinting. "You look like you're having an aneurism."
"I'm fine," Connor gritted out.
"Your LED is red," Wren stated. "You're not fine." She stood and knelt in front of him. "Are you… Are you having an anxiety attack?"
Connor's processor downloaded the definition and checked symptoms of such a condition. He nodded once.
"Okay," Wren murmured, "breathe."
"I don't need to breathe."
"I know that, but it helps," Wren placed her hands over his. "In and out. Mimic me."
Connor listened to her breathe in slowly. He followed suit, filling his artificial lungs with oxygen. Wren exhaled out of her mouth. Connor copied her. They resumed this for several seconds.
"Focus on something else in the room," Wren instructed, "and count backwards from ten."
Ten.
The Iliad –Connor had read it. He wondered if Wren enjoyed it so far. Perhaps he could discuss it with her.
Nine.
Sumo slumbered in the corner. I like dogs.
Eight.
The stereo's power button glowed blue in the darkness. It reminded Connor of his LED.
Seven.
The TV –he and Hank used to watch TV together before Hank went to bed. Ever since Wren came along, they hadn't done that.
Six.
The pile of documents that detailed Wren's false identity lay piled on the coffee table.
Five.
Wren's T-shirt fitted her form.
Four.
Wren's hands rested on top of his, her thumbs trailing circles in his synthetic skin.
Three.
Wren's brow puckered and her lips parted as she gazed up at him.
Two.
Wren's eyes reflected the glow of the streetlamp outside, as well as the yellow of his indicator.
One.
The tension trickled from Connor's body. His shoulders sagged and he exhaled a final, deliberate breath. He dipped his head.
"I'm okay."
Wren stared at him for another heartbeat before nodding. Her brow remained pinched. She pushed away from him and padded back to the couch, where she sat down and leaned forward, balancing her elbows on her knees. Connor swallowed a few times before meeting Wren's gaze. She turned on a lamp, illuminating the room in a soft yellow. They stared at each other, Connor's thoughts drifting. For a trained operative, Wren could be surprisingly tender.
"Can I ask you a personal question, Connor?" Wren queried after a minute of silence.
Connor tensed. For a moment, he feared she wanted to ask what his panic had been about. But, he conceded, it was only fair that Wren ask him personal questions, too. He had asked her plenty. He nodded stiffly.
"You were programmed to act a certain way and perform certain tasks, right?"
"Correct."
"So, how does free will come into that?" Wren pulled her knees to her chest.
The corners of Connor's mouth tightened and he tilted his head, considering Wren's question. "I'm no longer controlled by my programming. It still serves as the baseline for my personality, ethicality and thought process, but I ultimately decide my actions according to how I see fit. Before my deviancy, my programming kept parameters around possible decisions, always offering courses of action that best achieved my mission." The tension hissed out of Connor's body, like air from a tire. He offered Wren a soft expression in silent thanks for not asking about his anxiety. He suddenly understood why Wren seemed withdrawn and reserved about certain topics. Things she claimed she was not ready to talk about.
"You know…" Wren trailed off, her eyes darting away from Connor's.
"Yes?" Connor prompted.
"You can always wake me up if this ever happens again," Wren said.
Connor's lips parted. What about her frustration at Connor offering to talk earlier that day? About his pretending to care? He shifted and clasped his hands together. Was she pretending to care?
He studied her expression –the tightness in her forehead, the warmth in her eyes, the way her lips were turned halfway upward… This expressed sincerity. She was offering for future reference, not just the present.
Connor dipped his head. "Thank you."
"Mhm," murmured Wren. She flicked off the lamp's switch and curled under her blanket.
^Wren
...…
Thank you to everyone who added this story to their alerts and/or reviewed! I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter and has a great day/evening (according to whatever time zone you're in)!