Dissimulation
Chapter 7: One and the Same
"In the face of pain there are no heroes."
The RK800 awoke to a knife in his face.
He sprang into action before he registered where he was or who he was. He reacted faster than any human could ever hope to, his entire frame buzzing frantically, audio processors whining with static, the only command in his flickering HUD being:
Neutralize the attacker.
A flash later, the target was on his stomach, both arms twisted to his back. Connor had wrenched the knife from his hand and had it leveraged at the nape of his neck before his bewildered victim managed to sputter, "what-what the fuck!? Let me go you prick!"
It was Gavin.
Confused, his processors lagging behind, trying to compensate for recent damage, Connor slowly relinquished his grip and backed away.
"Detective Reed…?" he ventured, voice crackling. "Why did you pull a knife on me?"
Gavin jumped to his feet and began rubbing his wrists, glaring pointedly at Connor. He held out his hand, a rude jut of his palm, and Connor returned the knife, though not without a beat of hesitation.
What had happened?
"I had to get that thing off your forehead." Here the detective paused to take a long look at the android, his expression pinched. "It really fucked you up, huh?"
Connor raised a trembling hand to his temple, thumbing over the small indentations where the inhibitor had latched on.
Then it struck him, all at once: an overwhelming surge of understanding. An android on the roof. A knife in Hank's shoulder. A growing pool of blood.
Red, red, red.
"Where is Hank!?" Connor demanded, frantic.
A twisted emotion caught between dread and rage shuttered across Gavin's face.
"Yeah, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What the fuck happened?"
Information. Connor needed information. The sky had lightened, stars having bled from sight – the first tendrils of sunrise. He was still on the apartment roof. Everything had been blanketed in a light film of snow, the only remaining trace of a recent struggle being the man-shaped indentation where he had lain for… how long?
Connor's internal clock flashed in and out of focus. It read: 5:48AM.
That can't be right, that would mean…
That would mean that Hank had been gone for hours.
Panic threaded through him then. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, blunt fingernails pressing against his forehead until the artificial skin gave way, revealing little pinpricks of the glossy surface underneath.
"There… there was a trail of thirium…" Connor stammered. "It led here. There was an android – the killer. He threw that device at me and…" Connor looked up at Gavin, at the human leering over him, fixing him with the same disgusted expression one might spare for a cockroach. "I couldn't move." His voice was fading fast, the static becoming more pronounced, but he pressed on. "The Lieutenant came to help, but the android attacked him. He was… stabbed."
"Fuck," Gavin cursed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.
"The android took him and I shut down," Connor concluded. He looked at his hands. They were shaking so harshly that Connor would not have been able to write his own name at that point. Whether the trembling was caused from electrical interference or his own deep-seated horror, he wasn't sure.
Gavin exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits, and his fist clenched until his knuckles were as white as the chassis peeking through Connor's temple. For a moment, Connor was sure he would lash out and punch him, but instead the detective snatched a radio from his hip and drew it to his chapped lips.
"This is Reed, I found the tin can, no sign of Anderson. Apparently he was stabbed and taken by our plastic murderer," he reported. The radio blared to life with frantic questions from the other officers, which the detective ignored.
Gavin closed the distance between them, wedged a boot against Connor's shoulder, and kicked him over.
"This is your fault! If you had just done what you were fucking told like you're supposed to, this wouldn't have happened."
Connor looked up at the enraged detective, a heavy misery settling deep in his steel bones. He felt pathetic.
In a quieter, more sinister voice, Gavin nearly whispered, "If Anderson dies, his blood is on your hands."
There was a thick silence that stretched on between them. Connor slowly righted himself and stood, swaying. He warily met the detective's glare.
"You're right," he slurred, voice wretched.
Gavin's eyes widened marginally at the admission of failure, and the fight seemed to evaporate from his frame. He turned away, letting his forehead fall to his palm.
"Shit," he cursed. "Fuck!"
Without looking up, he muttered, "Go report to Fowler. Standing around here with our thumbs up our asses won't do any good."
"No!" Connor combated, his broken voice pitching in agony. "I can help find him! I can-"
"You can't do shit in the condition you're in. Look at you-" here Gavin gestured up and down Connor's wavering body with one hand, "you can barely stand. Go talk to Fowler. Get repaired or whatever. You would only slow me down."
Connor wanted to argue, but he knew the detective was right. Many of his scanners were non-functional. He was still slowly leaking thirium from his neck, and his movement control was shaky at best. He couldn't be what Hank needed him to be unless he went for repairs.
Numb, Connor looked to Detective Reed and gave a stiff nod.
"Okay. I'll be quick. Please, let me know if you find anything."
Gavin waved him away with a frustrated groan.
"Fine. Now get moving."
It was slow-going, stumbling down the fire escape to await his automated cab. As he waited, standing uselessly around in the dry air that his sensors registered as cold, seek shelter within 10 hours to avoid minor hardware damage, Connor felt like a husk – like he had been opened up and hollowed out and all that was left was this withering shell of what he used to be.
Though his vision would flicker occasionally, he could see the world around him - the grey morning chill that hung over a wakening city - but he could also see Hank on his knees, with a curved Bowie knife jutting from the crook of his shoulder. Connor could hear the faraway traffic as more and more people roused and went about their daily lives, but he could also hear Hank's pained cries as he sputtered through a mouthful of blood. "Androids are so superior to humans," Elijah Kamski had once boasted, and Connor supposed that, objectively, that was true. When humans recalled memories, they were vague and fragmented by the passage of time. A memory to a human was a nebulous, transient thing, the edges of which could soften, and even fade away entirely. Conversely, Connor's memory would never fade; every nanosecond of his strange existence was recorded in perfect clarity and preserved in permanent storage. He would never forget how Hank had lain limp across the shoulder of an android bent on revenge, the fight having literally been drained out of him in the form of dark rivulets of blood. He would never forget lying, unmoving, forced to watch as the man he loved more than any person or entity or ideal was stabbed within an inch of his life. He would never forget the unremitting jolt of pure terror at being unable to help, even though he would have done anything… he would have taken himself apart, piece by piece, if it had meant Hank would walk away unscathed. Yes, his memory was perfect, and Connor was bitter and despondent because of it.
The taxi arrived within minutes. Connor fell into the seat and interfaced with the dash (another memory surfaced, a perfect recording of his exposed hand resting atop a human one, creating a bubble of warmth in the midst of alarms and a torrent of water), and the automated car pulled away toward the precinct.
The bullpen was already abuzz with activity. Sleep had become a mere luxury as the officers' schedules blurred together in the wake of so much crime and uncertainty. However, the quiet din of chatter and movement ceased as soon as Connor limped through the sliding glass doors.
It was Chris Miller who broke the silence, rushing to Connor's side and placing a steadying hand on his shoulder to ground him.
"Connor… my God…"
"I appreciate your concern, but I need to speak with the Captain right away," Connor interrupted, gently pulling away from the officer's fretful grasp. Chris just gaped at him as he stumbled forward.
Captain Fowler stood as Connor stepped through his office before collapsing into a chair.
"Connor, what the hell happened?!"
Connor told him. He attempted to mitigate the static overlay in his voice, but was eventually forced to speak through it. He didn't skirt around any details. He didn't try to allay the blame. This was his fault, and he was going to find Hank, and by extension the murderer, at all costs.
"I see," Fowler said once Connor concluded his report. Then, "You're off the case."
Ignoring the errors born from such sudden movement, Connor leapt to his feet and planted his hands on the captain's desk, hunched forward in desperation. To his credit, Jeffrey didn't so much as flinch.
"What!?"
"You're emotionally compromised and in need of medical attention. I'll be handing the case over to Reed. Go home and get some rest. I will keep you informed."
Connor's vision began to flicker erratically. The wound at his neck leaked blue onto the glass beneath his hands. He felt frantic, unhinged.
"You can't do this!" Connor growled. The surface of Fowler's desk began to crack beneath the potent clench of his fingertips. "Detective Reed doesn't give a shit about Hank! I'm an investigative prototype, I can…"
"I've made my decision, Connor," the captain's voice was icy, but it was overlaid with something else:
Pity.
Connor's attitude shifted. He straightened himself, unsteadily. The line between man and machine began to blur. He could see the infuriating red glare of his LED's fragmented reflection in the wounded surface of the desk below.
"You can't stop me," Connor stated, his voice oddly level save for the persistent static overlay. "You can't stop me from finding him."
He saw it then - the way the captain's shoulders tightened, the minute dilation of his pupils, his increased heartrate.
Jeffrey Fowler was afraid.
Good.
The silence that followed was so thick that the atmosphere seemed to crash down around them. Connor's feet felt heavier; he felt as though he had been nailed to the floor and couldn't move even if he wanted to. Despite his determinate fear, the captain didn't falter as he stared into the manufactured, unblinking gaze of a broken machine.
"Okay," he relented at length. "You can assist Reed as his temporary partner, if you do as he says at all times, without exception, and that's only after you've been repaired in full."
The heavy atmosphere lifted, and Connor bowed his head in submission.
"Thank you, Captain. I will leave for repairs right away."
Connor turned and staggered toward the office door, when the captain's voice cut through the air once more, sharp, like an arrow to his back.
"Connor."
The RK800 halted and angled his head to show that he was listening.
"If you threaten me like that again, you're out. No exceptions. This is your first and final warning. I'm only letting you off the hook this time because your partner is missing."
Connor nodded once, said, "Understood, Captain," and left.
Connor watched the city blur by through the tinted windows of his cab. He had sent Markus a brief message that he was en route for emergency repairs. He absently wondered where Hank was, what he was thinking, how he was faring. He still hadn't run the probability of the lieutenant's survival; he didn't want to know.
Denial, his traitorous mind supplied before he could suppress the thought.
When the automated vehicle finally sidled up to the sidewalk in front of Markus' building, Connor hastily fumbled his way inside and made for the elevator.
The brushed nickel doors parted at the uppermost floor, and he was once again disappointed to find that it wasn't Markus who awaited him – it was North. She was dressed casually in a baggy grey sweater and black denim, her copper hair fixed in a loose braid, with her arms crossed and that trademark scowl set upon her lips.
Dread settled deep within Connor's psyche; he didn't think he was capable of handling the headstrong woman's snark at this time.
"You look like hell," North commented with a raised brow as Connor stepped across the threshold.
"Where's Markus?" he asked without preamble.
North prickled a bit, her head tilting in mild resentment.
"He's preparing for a meeting with the President." She sounded indignant. "I've patched him up enough times to know what I'm doing."
Connor struggled forward before collapsing into one of the chairs around the center table. He was so, so, tired. Not tired in a human sense, of course – but tired in the way that he missed the flood of power that typically coursed his joints, and he ached for the perpetual strings of information his throttled scanners usually provided. He craved that knowledge, and felt distinctly crippled in its absence.
"So, what happened?" she ventured, her voice taking on a softer tone.
"Hank was taken while attempting to apprehend a murder suspect. I need all of my processes to be in working order so I can find him."
North stilled, eyeing the RK800 with thinly veiled frustration.
"You need thirium, I can see that, but your damaged components are non-critical. Connor, I'm not going to waste precious resources just so you can chase after some human who is probably already dead. I'm sorry but… I have to preserve what I can for our people."
P̻͉r̪̱̩̲o̯̬̬̣b̼̱̩a̗͍͈̮̮̖b͍ly̜̭̹͇ a̲̙l͔͖͎̥̫̱r͍̘͙̤e͇̳a̜̹̮̲d̻͈̫̯y̥̺̟͎̻͙ ͍̭d̤͈͔̥e͚̼̰͍̹͙a̺͇̮͖d̗̭͍̙ͅ.̼̬̼̗̻͓.͍̤̳̯̜̰ͅ.̣̙̲
Connor's vision began to falter once more. His fragmented preconstructions supplied three ways in which he could dispose of the woman before him, but he dismissed them immediately with a pang of shame.
Instead, he offered his hand, an electric blue line receding to his wrist – a clear offer to interface.
North revolted and flinched away, eyeing his exposed chassis with a wary gaze.
"No," she sputtered, "No way."
"Please," Connor pleaded, his voice broken. "It's the only way you'll understand."
The woman considered his outstretched palm for a long moment, fighting some internal battle that Connor could not comprehend. She slowly drug her gaze to meet his, and the desperation in his eyes must have swayed her, because she finally lifted her own hand before clasping it around his with a guarded frown.
As soon as the connection blared to life, Connor pushed his argument forward – memories of Hank risking his life for the freedom of androids at Cyberlife Tower, Hank offering him a place to call home, Hank sustaining two stab wounds for Connor's benefit. Then he extended information from the precinct: the fact that this android killer could undo the public's cautious acceptance of their people were he not apprehended in time. His memories were flanked by his own deep-seated hysteria - the grief he continued to endure ever since the lieutenant was stolen from him.
Before he could sever the connection, Connor unwittingly received some of North's memories in return; a man straddling her slight form, pushing into an unwilling partner; her hands wrapped around a fat neck – the distinct twinge of fear as she fled from her oppressors and sought the furtive refuge of a place called "Jericho."
Connor wrenched away from North's clutch with an unnecessary gasp.
"North," he said, guileless, "I didn't know. I'm so sorry…"
"Save it," she snapped, her voice sharp. Then, gentler, she continued with, "I understand what you mean. If that guy isn't taken down, he could completely undo everything we've fought for." Here North paused, peering down at Connor through thick lashes. She looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her. "And… Hank is a good man. I see that now."
The RK800 stilled. He had never heard North refer to any human as "good." It planted a small seed of hope in the cobalt core of his synthetic heart.
"I'll go get the parts you need," she continued as she turned away. "I'll be right back."
Connor didn't know how long he sat there, waiting, dribbling blue from his collar. The air around him felt stagnant and suffocating in the heady silence, like every particle was frozen in time – his very own purgatory.
North eventually returned with a simple mesh bag filled with spare parts and sealed bags of thirium slung across her shoulder. It looked as though she had just hastily chucked in what she needed, foregoing any façade of clinical organization. She dumped the bag onto the table without ceremony and considered Connor with an appraising eye.
"So, your audio processors are obviously fucked. What else?"
"Visual component #A754h, biocomponent #6312t, and my proximity scanner – component #9402r," Connor recited helpfully.
North nodded once and set to work.
"Turn off your skin."
Connor obeyed, feeling somewhat exposed. Unconcerned with trivial conceptions of modesty, North tore open the top few buttons of his shirt and pulled a tool from her back pocket before administering some sort of sealant to the open hole in his neck, effectively patching the wound. She then thrust a bag of thirium into his palm.
"Drink this."
The RK800 ripped a corner open with his teeth and let the blue blood drain down his throat. He could feel as the solution suffused throughout his body. Strength began to thrum through his limbs once more.
Turning her attention to his audio processors, North hummed.
"You know, it's a good thing that we have an entire room full of your clones," she commented conversationally.
Connor recalled that night in a deep sublevel of Cyberlife Tower, when one of his "clones" had leveled a pistol at Hank's head. He flinched at the memory.
"They weren't awakened after the Revolution?" he questioned.
North shrugged with one shoulder, never once glancing up as her steady hands continued to work.
"We tried. When Cyberlife's servers for your special model were taken offline, they were just empty shells. Like back-ups waiting for…"
"Waiting for me to die," Connor supplied.
Connor had been cautious back then, more cautious than any obedient machine had the right to be, all because Hank had demanded it of him. He remembered clutching a chain-link fence, itching with the desire to scale it and dart after the deviants that teetered on the edge of a perilous automated highway, indifferent to his own safety as long as he could accomplish his mission. However, he was stayed by a heavy hand on his shoulder, dragging him down, insisting that it was too dangerous.
Software Instability, his HUD had reported when he grudgingly dropped to the ground, all because Hank had told him to.
Of course, in the recesses of his pre-programmed mind, Connor had understood that there were back-ups - an entire line of androids like him ready to take his place should he sustain critical damage. They were all connected to a communal server to which he could upload his memories, if need be.
The need never arose, however. Through his stubborn, human insistence, Hank had kept him alive.
As North dislodged what was essentially his left ear from his cranium, Connor considered a future without Hank. He pictured himself staring down at a headstone, purposeless and lost, before tearing the thirium pump from his chest and chucking it away to await the reprieve of nonexistence, only to return later, in a different body that was the same, a shade of who he used to be – a new iteration that would not understand the depth of his adoration for Detroit's youngest lieutenant.
An endless cycle of death and rebirth – losing a piece of himself every time.
"Destroy them," Connor blurted, surprised by the conviction in his own voice.
North finally halted her ministrations and met his frenzied gaze with a furrowed brow.
"Destroy them?" she parroted, incredulous. "Connor, those parts are…"
"I don't care," he interrupted, his fist clutching tightly around the empty bag in his hand. "I don't care," he reiterated. "If I die, I don't want to come back, not like that."
The creases around North's eyes deepened and she leaned away, as if studying him in greater detail would provide some insight into the dark truth of his demand.
"Even if I did destroy them, how would that look to our people? Even if they can never be awakened, I can't just… pile them up and set them on fire. It would seem… cruel."
"Then do so discreetly," Connor all but hissed.
Connor had to once again wonder on the existence of fate, because as North leered down at him, her eyes began to widen incrementally, and acceptance bloomed across her features.
In a quiet voice she said, "Alright."
If it had been Markus, or Simon, or Josh, they would have scoffed at his request and refused outright - citing something about moral responsibility, or presenting unwarranted concern on his behalf. But North – her past was peppered with a brand of agony and cynicism that Connor was becoming intimately acquainted with. She understood.
Relief flooded through him, the first pleasant emotion he had experienced since Hank had been ripped away. His head fell forward and he smiled.
"Thank you."
Several minutes later, a fresh audio processor was clicked into place, and as his system detected the new part and began to run cursory diagnostics, the tinny whine that had plagued Connor for hours finally receded.
"All done," North declared with a smug smirk of satisfaction.
Connor reactivated his skin and rose to his feet, grateful that he could stand without wavering. His HUD was clear as information filtered through Connor's mind – the approximate distance to the elevator, his elevation from the bottom floor, every sharp instrument within his immediate radius. Far from the stumbling mess he had been upon entering Markus' loft, Connor's motor functions were once again restored to their former splendor. The precision, the power, the full scope of who he was and what he was built to do – it all returned to him in one invigorating sweep.
Experimentally, Connor bolted across the vast room, stopping just short of one of Markus' canvases, before executing a back handspring and darting back toward North. With a devious grin, she reached for his arm mid-stride and moved to flip him onto his back, but his processors were sharper. His movements were fluid and tactical as he danced around her outstretched limb, and he attempted to draw it against her back so that she would be rendered immobilized. North was no stranger to combat, however, and she managed to wrench away before parrying the incumbent onslaught of light blows as the RK800 resorted to subdued martial arts. Connor then snaked a leg around to the bend of her knees, hooked her to the ground, and pinned her wrists to the small of her back. A laugh bubbled up from her core. Not the light, lilting giggle common to most companion models, but something coarser, more genuine.
"Show-off," she groused. "You win."
Connor immediately relinquished his hold and stepped back, thrilled to be operating at full capacity. He offered a hand to help her to her feet, which she stubbornly swatted away.
"I see how it is," North grumbled as she regained her footing. "I fix you up and you attack me."
"You were the one who started the sparring match," he countered, his voice blessedly cleared of static.
North shrugged in response.
"I had to make sure you were back in working order…and maybe a small part of me just wanted to kick your ass." Here she paused, suddenly somber. "A lot is riding on you catching this murderer, Connor."
The RK800 stiffened, the brief elation of being whole once more suddenly replaced with a single-minded focus.
"You're right. I've wasted enough time. I need to…"
"You know," North interjected, "there was one android in your line we were able to awaken."
She sounded hesitant, as if she had been sitting on the information, unsure as to whether or not she should divulge further.
"That shouldn't be possible," Connor replied, somewhat shaken.
"Well, he's an upgraded model. A lot like you, but different. An RK900."
Connor looked down and to the side, processing the revelation with a frown.
"Why wasn't I told of this before?"
North looked away and ran a hand over her opposite arm.
"Markus thought it might upset you, and there was just never really a good reason for the two of you to meet."
"I… am an advanced prototype," Connor pondered aloud. "Why would they have been trying to replace me?"
"Apparently he was going to be Cyberlife's last resort; he was supposed to take over if – when you failed your mission. We just beat them to the punch," North explained softly.
An upgraded model…
Connor wondered at his own strength, his considerable speed, his ability to dissect a situation in mere nanoseconds and respond accordingly. He had assumed that he was the most potent android that Cyberlife had ever produced - a presumption that had always been a strange point of pride. All of that processing power, the inherent combat knowledge, the ability to aim with such inhuman precision that he could fell a small army on his own – it made him weak to think that there was another entity endowed with such abilities, only to a superior degree.
He was stricken with an idea.
"I'd like to meet him," Connor said, resolute.
North nearly sputtered in response.
"What, like, right now?"
"Yes."
She glowered at him, not unlike Hank sometimes did when Connor would say something the lieutenant found particularly outrageous – eyes narrowed and lips parted in unabashed confusion.
"Okay… I'll contact him," she relented.
The elevator doors parted 8 minutes later, and out stepped the stiff, imposing android in question. He was taller, Connor noted, with broader shoulders and a wider jaw, though the facial features were otherwise nearly identical to his own. However, Connor found that the most jarring difference by far was the ice-blue stare that seemed to pierce right through him, making him feel as though snow had been dripped down his bare back.
"Connor," he acknowledged in a voice that was more like an amused drawl, "it is a sincere pleasure to meet you."
Connor squinted up at his successor before allowing his gaze to drop to his clothing – all Cyberlife issued. A black shirt clung to his sturdy frame, all the way up to his neck, contrasted by a stark white jacket that blared "RK900" in glowing script.
Belatedly realizing that he was being rude, Connor offered a hand in greeting, ignoring North's wide-eyed amazement as she gawked at the bizarre meeting taking place.
"Likewise. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
The RK900 accepted his hand, gave a single, firm shake, and moved to pull away, but Connor tightened his grip. Alarmed, the other android glanced down at their joined hands, only to find that Connor's had bled away to reveal the glossy white joints underneath.
"A lot has happened," Connor explained. "We don't have much time."
Unmoored, the RK900 accepted his predecessor's urgent request to interface.
Seconds later, once the information outlining the events from that morning had been transferred, he stepped away.
"You want my help," he stated, a fine brow quirked in intrigue.
Connor held his frigid gaze and nodded in confirmation.
"You infiltrated Cyberlife, helped to free our people, and by extension freed me," the RK900 continued. "I would be honored to help you in any way I can."
The seed of hope that had been planted earlier by North's positive appraisal of Hank's person blossomed into something more potent in Connor's chest – raw determination. Connor smiled up at what would have been his replacement – now his most valuable asset. Everything he could ever be, and everything he would never be, looked back at him with the steadfast admiration of a loyal dog.
Together, we can find Hank and dismantle the imbecile who dared to threaten our freedom.