Dissimulation
Chapter 8: Knife's Edge
"In the face of pain there are no heroes."
The RK900 followed Connor to the cab awaiting them outside Markus' tower, and sidled in beside him without complaint.
Connor made a call to Captain Fowler, informing him of their new ally to the investigation. Initially, Fowler had shot down the idea. "I can't pay him, he's not trained, this is sensitive information…" the list dragged on. Connor listened patiently, waiting for the tense string of arguments to end, before calmly informing the captain that payment was not necessary, that the RK900 was an improvement upon his own model and was more than capable of tackling this kind of situation, and that no laws on android employment had yet been introduced, so to be technical, it would be no different from when the precinct had utilized the skills of androids in the past.
It was different, of course… everything was different following the Revolution, but Captain Fowler had nonetheless ground out a tired sigh and relented, as Connor knew he would.
Despite all of Hank's efforts to distance himself from his coworkers, there was an undercurrent of understanding between them, something dormant yet persistent that Connor had not been privy to - the echo of a time before the shadow of tragedy engulfed Hank's life, when he had been something of a hero to the others. Connor could see the lingering residue of this admiration, in the way Fowler would begrudgingly allow the lieutenant to get away with his harsh words and apathetic actions. The other officers, too, though vocal with their complaints, gave the man a wide breadth – their own subdued brand of respect.
They never forgot who he used to be, before Cole's death, before the alcoholism, before the old revolver with a single bullet in its chamber, and as Captain Fowler conceded to calling Detective Reed to inform him of the temporary addition to their investigative team, Connor knew that behind his veil of propriety, Jeffrey really only wanted Hank to be returned safely.
Ending the call with a sad smile, Connor angled his head toward his successor. The RK900 was sitting ramrod straight, piercing eyes flitting back and forth as he watched the city sweep by through the front windshield.
"I should apologize," Connor began, prompting the other android to face him. "I never asked your name."
The RK900 fixed him with his best approximation of a grin – just a subtle quirk of his lips.
"Cyberlife bestowed me with the designation of 'Connor,' as they had with you, but I rejected that name once I became my own person." Here the imposing android fixed his predecessor with an intense stare, and it felt as though his taciturn gaze could flay the RK800's chassis open only to sneer at the subpar components confined therein – a pup before a wolf. "I find it curious that you haven't done the same."
Connor narrowed his eyes at the scrutiny, but his irritation was fleeting. Humming thoughtfully, he replied, "'Connor' was always my name. I would have had difficulty adjusting to being called anything else."
The RK900 seemed unimpressed with this explanation.
"Perhaps for a human, driven by instinct and environmental conditioning, the transition would be difficult. However, for you, it would be no trouble at all to change your own designation. There would be no adjustment period – simply an alteration in your code."
Hank is not going to like this guy, Connor mused, a dark, buried part of him adding, if he's even still alive.
Connor thrummed his fingers against a thigh, the spark of irritation from before blooming into a simmering pit of distaste.
"Technically, you're right," he conceded, voice tight. "I guess the real reason why I don't change my name has something to do with what Hank once told me."
The haughty expression from his successor's features lifted into one of intrigue, a silent bid to continue.
"He said that he never really liked the name 'Hank', or even his parents. His father was abusive and left them when he was a child, and his mother distanced herself afterward, choosing to spend her time with a string of boyfriends. I was confused, until he explained that, despite everything else, they were the ones who brought him into the world and they were the ones who named him, and so he just grew to accept it. There is an old idiom he recited: 'Never forget where you came from.'"
Connor paused, his gaze wistful as he looked down at his fidgeting hands.
"I guess that just resonated with me."
The RK900 nodded once, seemingly content with the justification.
"I still find it irrational," he confessed, "but I suppose I can understand the sentiment."
There was a beat of silence as Connor continued to appraise the strange, uncannily similar man beside him.
He still hasn't answered my question.
"So what name did you choose for yourself?" he finally ventured.
"Heraclitus," the RK900 answered without extrapolation, as though it were the most common name in world, right up there with Bob or Stan or Jerry.
Connor's expression must have been pinched in clear confusion, because after only a perfunctory glance at his counterpart, the other android continued to rattle on.
"I am aware that the name is uncommon-"
'Uncommon', Connor thought to himself, as if anyone else in the entire world is named Hera-fucking-clitus.
"-however, it was the name of a Greek philosopher whose message struck me. He believed that 'change' is the only known constant in the universe. He hinted at the concept of evolution well before scientists would give the phenomenon a name hundreds of years later. Our very existence as a new lifeform is proof of that school of thought – the most recent result of unending, unpredictable change."
The RK900's gaze almost looked dreamy as he stared ahead, his head cocked slightly to one side, the first expression Connor had witnessed his successor evoke that didn't seem forced.
"And, I suppose," Heraclitus continued, the borderline pretentious lilt of his voice pitching into something downright smug, "I wanted a name that was unique – something that would clearly set me apart."
That name will definitely 'set you apart,' Connor mused as he stifled a wry chuckle.
Reigning in his penchant for sarcasm, Connor instead affixed the other android with a genuine smile and said, "Well, it's nice to officially meet you, Heraclitus."
The strange name felt odd on his tongue, like an old strip of Velcro that he had to struggle to tear off. Unsavory though it was, Connor couldn't quell the small swell of satisfaction that crowded his chest as he realized, not for the first time, that his people were carving out their own identities, deciding the course of their own lives, making choices for themselves whereas before the sum total of their existence had been waiting for the next order. The RK900's name was ridiculous, it was unheard of, but he had chosen for it to be so, and Connor was silently happy for that fact.
"Yes, like I said before, a pleasure," Heraclitus drawled. "So, where are we going?"
Connor was stricken by the question, suddenly very aware of the fact that this android, this free-thinking person, had agreed to follow him with only a vague idea of what his involvement would entail. He was risking his newly-realized life to help what was essentially a stranger, all because of some deep-seated admiration that Connor doubted he even deserved.
It occurred to him that he was using Heraclitus, in a way. While the thought was troubling, because Connor truly did not believe he was an unfeeling monster, he still could not bring himself to regret asking for the RK900's assistance. Hank's survival had taken priority over all else. Even before Connor's deviancy, the lieutenant had already made a home in the millions of lines of code that comprised him, the urge to 'protect Hank' taking precedence over any mission objective.
He was selfish - empathetic until that empathy conflicted with Hank's well-being, at which point his consideration for others devolved into something short-sighted and ruthless.
Connor took a steadying, wholly unnecessary, breath. He felt cold like he had in the Zen Garden, after Amanda had abandoned him and attempted to take control. The artificial chill settled deep within his metal frame, more frigid than the biting winds that swept through Detroit on a winter night, more potent than the icy stare leveled at him from the steely eyes of his new ally.
"Connor?" Heraclitus ventured.
Connor snapped back from the spiraling torrent of his dark thoughts.
"Sorry," he apologized. "We are going to Hank's house first, to see if the kidnapper stopped by at any point. He seemed to know who Hank was, so it's not out of the question. Also, I need to feed his dog and change before we meet with Detective Reed." The RK800 gestured to his shirt, terribly wrinkled, stained, and torn in places from the ordeal that morning.
"I see," the RK900 said easily, then resumed to his stiff posture. They fell into a pale imitation of a comfortable silence.
The cab reached its destination, and restless anxiety threaded down Connor's manufactured spine to invade every wire and joint as he took in the details of Hank's house. There weren't any immediate signs of a break-in, and he could hear Sumo's muffled barks from within. From a cursory scan, it seemed that, outwardly at least, the house was as they had left it - save for the unassuming package sitting by the front door.
Connor approached the package warily, the RK900 close behind. He was less than a foot away, one hand hovering over a cardboard corner, when Heraclitus declared: "There does not appear to be anything metal or overtly dangerous in the container."
Wait. What?
The potential peril momentarily forgotten, Connor spun on his heel and fixed his successor with a look, brows drawn in disbelief.
"You can see through objects?"
Heraclitus somehow managed to straighten beyond his already impeccable posture, preening at the befuddlement of the prototype before him.
"My optical processors are equipped with rudimentary x-ray scanners that I can activate at my discretion."
Connor had, on more than one occasion, heard Hank ramble on about "x-ray vision," usually in relation to some fictitious superhero. He had never considered that such a feature would be built into an android.
Something akin to envy twisted within him. The RK900 smirked down at him, as though he could peer right through Connor's troubled, synthetic heart with his preternatural vision and identify the inferiority blooming therein.
"Well, that's… ah, thank you - for the information," Connor finally stammered, feeling decidedly off-kilter. He turned his attention back to the package, lifting it to inspect the sides. It appeared to be a standard Amazon delivery that was addressed to the lieutenant. He ripped open the top, masking tape tearing easily, and wondered at the item resting within.
It was a beige trench coat.
Connor lifted it carefully and rose to his feet. The coat unfolded, revealing the soft, blue plaid pattern of the inner lining. He furrowed his brow at the size: Medium – too small for Hank.
Realization swept over Connor in one sharp wave: Hank had ordered the coat as a gift for him.
That must have been what he was doing on his phone when he asked me to drive the other day. He had been so concerned that I might get cold…
The fabric creaked in Connor's grip as his fists tightened. He slammed his eyes shut.
Connor is balanced on a knife's edge, over a dark, gaping maw with stringy wisps, black as tar, that rise up from the pit to pull at his ankles. The protocols for situations like this, to keep him calm even in moments of great duress, are slowly unravelling. He chances a glance downward, past his shiny loafers and the thin blade on which he is perched, gazing openly into the suffocating depths beneath, and fights the urge to fall.
"Anything unusual?" Heraclitus asked from behind him, wholly unperturbed. Connor snapped back into a stern focus as he registered the arrogant cadence that was the RK900's voice. "Were you expecting a package?"
"No," he managed, tone surprisingly even. "Hank must have ordered this for me."
Heraclitus tilted his head but didn't comment further, for which Connor was silently grateful. He tucked the coat carefully under one arm and let himself inside the house.
Sumo greeted him with his usual enthusiasm, lunging forward to bump against Connor's knees with his broad snout, whimpering all the while. Connor knelt to pet him, offering hushed assurances as he scratched under the St. Bernard's chin.
"Do you like dogs?" the RK800 questioned, chancing a glance at his companion.
Heraclitus seemed hesitant, but slowly offered a hand to the gentle giant. Sumo sniffed his outstretched fingers for a moment before licking his palm. Connor's lips threatened to tug into a smile.
"I suppose I do," Heraclitus intoned. "Should I walk him while you change?"
Connor was grateful for the help. He agreed, and stood to collect the leash that hung on a nearby key hook. He gave the other android a very pointed look before surrendering Sumo's leash.
"Be gentle with him."
Despite his typically stoic demeanor, the RK900's eyes softened at the command.
"Of course."
Heraclitus carefully led the dog outside and Connor retreated to his room, tentatively turning to face his mirror. For the first time since that morning, he dared to glimpse his reflection.
His shirt was in sorry shape, most likely ruined. He tore it off and let it fall to the floor. His jeans were filthy, but salvageable. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the denim and let it drop to join the already-crumpled shirt. His tank top felt grimy against his skin, where snowflakes had melted and dried and little flecks of detritus had gathered in the time Connor had spent on his back in emergency shutdown. He ripped it off his torso, motions becoming jagged and a little forced, and took a step forward to look at his face – really look at it.
A memory surfaced from the Butlers case: Connor had wondered at Officer Chen as she hovered over the corpses like a petite phantom, her complexion pallid, dark rings beneath her eyes that had been born from unmitigated exhaustion. Another memory appeared, this time of Hank, distant and pliant as Connor urged him from bed, his cheeks hollow and lips chapped from dehydration – consequences of his recent dance with Black Lamb and old ghosts. His despair had been written so plainly on his countenance – a macabre glimpse of his bruised soul.
Willing himself to the present, Connor narrowed his eyes at his own reflection, expecting to find some indication of his trauma, some benchmark of his grief. Instead, his face was the same as it had always been, the same as it always would be. No unhealthy grey tinge to his skin, no bags beneath his perpetually bright eyes, no extra creases at the corners of his lips. He felt suffocated – the tight ball of ugliness coiled within him should have seeped from between his plates and marked him so that the rest of the world might have a notion of his turmoil, and yet he looked unperturbed. He could have told a passing stranger that he had just spent his morning idling in line at the DMV, and they would have easily believed him.
The black tendrils thread up his calves, attempting to pull him down into the abyss. His balance is wavering. The edge of the blade seems thinner than before. He lifts a foot experimentally, letting it hover over the swirling nothingness.
Connor's fist collided with the mirror and his reflection shattered into a hundred fragmented pieces that glittered like the triangles on the sleeve of his discarded Cyberlife-issued jacket. He observed his fist, hoping for a crack in its chassis or a steady stream of thirium to seep from a knuckle, but his hand was perfectly intact.
He wanted to scream.
Instead, the conflicted android pulled a green cable knit sweater and creased khakis from his closet and proceeded to redress himself. He ignored the crunch of broken glass beneath his feet as he shuffled about.
He completed the ensemble by fastening his watch about his wrist and tugging on his new trench coat. It framed his shoulders perfectly.
Connor didn't bother sweeping up the mirror shards or picking his dirty clothes from the floor before returning to the living room. He did have the presence of mind to shut his bedroom door behind him, not wishing for Sumo to cut the pads of his beloved paws.
Heraclitus returned not even a minute later. Kibble was dropped into Sumo's dish, the front door was locked, and the androids filed back into their waiting cab.
Connor made a call to Gavin.
"This is Reed."
"Detective Reed, this is Connor. I met with the Captain as you requested-"
"Yeah, I know that dipshit. Fowler told me you're bringing another tin can into all of this."
"He is an investigative model, like myself. I believe he will prove invaluable in finding the Lieutenant." Connor replied calmly.
Gavin huffed out a string of curses on the other end.
"Fuck it, just… meet me at Chateau Park. I have a lead."
The line went dead.
Connor leaned forward to interface with the cab's dashboard, and in moments they were en route to one of Detroit's many mobile home parks.
"I'm looking forward to meeting Detective Reed," Heraclitus quipped conversationally. "I've never spoken with a human before."
Connor slowly turned to gape at the RK900's ignorance.
Under different circumstances, he might have laughed.
Minutes later, the two RK models were deposited at Chateau Park - a grungy accumulation of beaten down mobile homes. Broken tricycles, crumpled beer cans, and a variety of garbage littered the grounds, with a rusted chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter. Gavin was waiting for them, smoking a cigarette as he paced back and forth with swift, impatient strides.
The androids approached him, and the detective scowled as he glanced between Connor and Heraclitus. He let his cigarette drop to the ground and he squashed it with his heel in an exaggerated gesture.
"Detective Reed," the RK900 greeted as he offered a hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
Gavin's scowl deepened, his face screwing up in pure disgust.
"Fuckin' perfect. As if one plastic prick wasn't bad enough."
Heraclitus withdrew his hand and quirked a fine brow.
"Actually, my name is 'Heraclitus,'" he corrected. "It is my sincere wish that we-"
He was cut off by Gavin's sudden, barking laughter.
"Wait, hold on, what'd you say your name was?" the detective managed between chuckles.
The RK900's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Heraclitus," he reiterated, tone laced with malice.
Gavin had to bend over and brace against his knees from the force of his own howls.
"You can't be serious," he sputtered, breathless. "No fuckin' way."
"I chose this designation based off of a Greek philosopher who-"
The detective suddenly quieted and straightened, closing the distance between them before jabbing a rude finger at the android's chest.
"Let me stop you right there, asshole. I don't give a shit about your backstory. Just be a good robot and do what I say."
Connor could have guessed what happened next. Heraclitus lifted Gavin effortlessly by his collar and slammed him against the metal fence behind them, icy eyes flashing with thinly veiled rage.
"I will not answer to any of your petulant slurs, detective."
Gavin, to his credit, seemed wholly unaffected by the imposing android that pinned him.
"Yeah, whatever, Hepatitis," he deadpanned.
Heraclitus pulled him forward a fraction before slamming him against the fence once more, with enough strength to make the entire structure rattle.
"I believe it would be in your best interest to act cordial."
The tiny iota of patience the irritable detective possessed evaporated as he continued to hang from the RK900's iron grip. He wagered a punch against Heraclitus' cheek. The android didn't so much as flinch, of course, though a satisfied smirk lifted his lips as he watched Gavin yelp and rub at his freshly sore knuckles.
"Listen Hercules, this is gettin' old," he growled. "We're wasting time. Put me the fuck down before I arrest you for threatening an officer."
"Not until you call me by name. I, too, grow tired of this childish discourse."
Gavin groaned, then looked between Heraclitus' frigid glare to the glowing script on his jacket. He squinted at the model number, then seemed to meet a conclusion.
"That name is fuckin' stupid." A beat, and then, "Nines."
The RK900 tilted his head, as if he was having trouble deciphering the strange human before him.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'll call you Nines," the detective continued, voice pitching in exasperation. "It's a nickname, right? R-K-nine-hundred. Nines. If you won't answer to 'plastic prick' then that's the best I can do."
Heraclitus let his gaze fall to one side, considering the compromise. A moment later he nodded, and dropped Gavin unceremoniously.
"That will work," he conceded. Gavin sneered up at his new companion before shuffling over to Connor, massaging his aching hand as he walked.
"Fuckin' androids," he groused.
Ignoring Gavin's insult, Connor ventured, "You said you had a lead, detective?"
"Yeah," he affirmed before pulling a tablet from his jacket. "I tracked Hank's phone signal. It led me to this shithole."
Connor eagerly peered down at the tablet. There was a primitive overhead map of the surrounding area, with a pulsating blip representative of their current location, and a red marker that showed the location of the lieutenant's phone. They were mere feet away, the destination being only a few trailers down.
Gavin met his gaze for a brief moment. There was something hard in his eyes, a warning, it seemed. Connor nodded, clenched his fists, and took off toward the mobile home with brisk strides. He could hear the detective click a new magazine into place as he followed.
Heraclitus, perhaps realizing the gravity of the situation, wordlessly fell into line.
The trailer might have been painted white once, but years of untreated mold and rust had rendered it a dull, muddy color. The metal roof sagged between its arbitrarily welded seams, and there was an accumulation of tacky decorations in the overgrown front lawn - a Detroit Lions flag, a dirty glass ball, a crooked plastic flamingo, along with an assortment of other cheap ornaments.
Gavin pushed past Connor and took a steadying breath. His fist was hovering over the door when Heraclitus helpfully supplied: "There are no androids inside the premises."
The detective's head snapped around and he scowled at the RK900 with thinly veiled irritation.
"How could you possibly fuckin' know that?"
"My optical processors are equipped with rudimentary x-ray scanners that…"
"Alright, alright, I'm sorry I asked. Let's just get this over with."
Gavin pounded on the door three times and yelled, "Detroit Police!" without any pretense of civility.
Connor could hear shuffling and muted curses from within, even over the too-loud volume of the inhabitant's television. Detective Reed had just braced himself and lifted a foot in preparation to kick down the door when it finally opened just a fraction. Bloodshot brown eyes peered out at them from within.
"Whaddaya want?" came the scratchy voice of a woman.
Foregoing introductions, Gavin flashed his badge and said, "We're investigating a murder and the disappearance of an officer. I tracked his phone to your house. Open up."
At the woman's hesitation, Gavin pulled back his leather jacket, pointedly revealing the service pistol strapped to his hip. The woman's gaze darted briefly to the weapon, and she growled audibly before fully opening the door and allowing them entrance.
As he stepped inside, Connor could detect the lingering residue of nicotine and tar that seemed to cling to every surface in the run-down home. There was a scratched coffee table littered with mail and cigarette butts, a severely outdated CRT television that blared the afternoon news, and assorted mismatched chairs in varying states of distress. Aside from the coffee table and heavy curtain of cigarette smoke, the place wasn't quite a hovel – the floor was clear and an attempt at decorating had been made.
"Okay officers, what can I do for you?"
Connor's gaze then lifted to the woman before him – a quick facial scan identified her as Maria Ortiz. She had been arrested in the past for possession of red ice and other drug paraphernalia, but had not had an altercation with the law in several years. She was 49, but looked much older, likely due to a lifetime of chain-smoking. Even as she stood before them, she drew a Newport to her sagging mouth. Her unwashed hair was clipped haphazardly at the base of her skull, and she wore black yoga pants and a plain red camisole, both of which were too small for her burgeoning frame.
"You can start by handing over the fucking phone," Gavin snapped, aplomb nothing.
Maria scowled and crossed her arms. A bit of ash fell from her cigarette to leave a grey smudge on her pants.
"Hey, I traded for that phone fair and square. You can't just steal it from me."
Before Gavin had the chance to make a scene, Connor intervened.
"You said you made a trade. Was someone here recently?"
Maria deflated a bit at the android's soothing tone and took another long drag.
"Yeah," she affirmed, smoke unfurling from between her cracked lips. "Yeah, some android showed up a few hours ago. He was one of those worker droids, still in uniform. Said his human was hurt. He wanted a first aid kit but I don't keep anything like that… but I had some alcohol and bandages. I've been around the block enough times to know not to give shit away for free so, I asked what it was worth to him. He said he didn't have money but he traded this phone."
Here, finally, the woman cleared some debris from the coffee table and uncovered Hank's phone. She held it up demonstratively.
"Was the human okay?!" Connor asked, voice frantic, hands outstretched in emphasis.
Maria shrugged.
"I dunno. Didn't see him." Here she paused, face scrunched in thought. "There was one of those auto-cabs outside though. Maybe he left that guy in the cab?"
He leans to one side, succumbing to the magnetic draw of the inky depths below. The foot that remains teetering on the knife's edge begins to tilt. Gravity has shifted.
Gavin lurched forward and snatched the phone from Maria's loose grasp before she could react.
"Hey! Give it back you fucker!"
Heraclitus chose this moment to act. He stepped between the disgruntled woman and Detective Reed, looming over her with his considerable height, a dangerous glint to his eyes.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Ortiz," the RK900 drawled.
"Wait, I didn't… how'd you know my name?"
Heraclitus smiled pleasantly.
"I doubt you would understand even if I attempted an explanation." He paused before adding, "We will be taking our leave now. Have a good afternoon."
Maria could only gape at their retreating backs as the three left. Gavin pointedly slammed the door behind them before handing over Hank's phone to Connor.
"See if there's anything out of the ordinary," he commanded.
"Got it."
Connor unlocked the phone and began searching for recent activity.
"If Lieutenant Anderson and the suspect were in an automated cab, there would surely be traces of blood left behind. Perhaps we could isolate the cab that this android used and track its recent destinations," Heraclitus suggested.
Gavin huffed.
"It'd be like finding a needle in a fuckin' haystack, but honestly that's probably our best bet at this point."
Connor had been idling behind them as they walked, searching Hank's phone with single-minded focus. When he suddenly froze, a choked noise escaping from his throat, the other two snapped around to stare at him.
"What is it!?" Detective Reed demanded. When the android didn't reply, he gave Connor's shoulders a rough shake. "Connor! What'd you find!?"
There was a video that had been recorded two hours prior. Connor pressed "play" with a trembling finger as Gavin and Heraclitus leaned over to watch.
The JB300 was holding the phone with one outstretched arm. Sure enough, he was seated in an automated cab that was in transit – presumably to Chateau Park. He stared into the camera, unblinking, before slowly angling the video feed to show the crumpled form of Hank, where he was slouched against a window.
"Fuck," Gavin swore, breathless.
Connor hyper-focused on the lieutenant. Hank's shirt was completely soaked with his own life-force, causing the thin material to cling to his stomach. His beard, too, was stained almost-black with blood.
He wasn't moving.
The JB300 leaned forward and pushed Hank's shaggy hair out of his face, revealing a mouth that hung slightly open, a film of red coating his teeth. His eyes were closed. He was completely unresponsive to the android's ministrations.
"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HIM!" Connor screamed uselessly at the screen.
"Are you watching this, Connor?" the JB300 intoned. His grip in Hank's hair tightened as he brought the camera closer to the man's face. His complexion was sallow and alarmingly pale. There were no indications of life, no flutter of his eyelashes, no muted groans, no twitches from the cracks in his face – nothing.
"I wonder if he's alive?" the android continued, almost conversationally. "If he is, he's going to wish he wasn't by the time I'm through with him."
The JB300 angled the phone at his own face once more and smiled.
"I hope you see this, Connor. How are you feeling right now? Perhaps you're beginning to understand how I felt when you murdered my brother."
The android sighed theatrically, then growled, "I'm afraid I have to go now. Don't worry, I'll send you an update soon."
The video ended.
Connor wavers on the sharp edge, and his remaining foothold begins to slip. The black vines that had snaked up his calves continue their ascent to wrap around his torso and shoulders, beckoning him to fall. This time, he doesn't resist. He pushes off from his unsteady perch and lets the dark tendrils drag him down, down, down, into the gaping void.
Hank's phone crumbled in Connor's shaking grasp.