Dissimulation
Chapter Nine: All Roads Lead Back to Jericho
"We do not merely destroy our enemies; we change them."
A sharp squall of wind howled through Chateau Park, scattering the sea of dried leaves and garbage at the trio's feet. Gavin gaped wordlessly at the crushed remains of the phone still clutched in Connor's fist. Heraclitus was peering at him from the corner of one azure eye, as if he somehow knew that a fundamental piece of his counterpart had just shattered.
A painfully familiar voice cut through the darkness in Connor's mind:
"Emotions always screw everything up."
Connor found that rage was a peculiar sensation. In the movies Hank had shown him, rage was depicted as this passionate, almost frantic loss of control, wherein the character would scream and yell and either blow something up or mow down everything in their immediate radius with a torrent of bullets. Their actions were always desperate, inelegant. Sometimes their shrieks of fury were accompanied with tears.
This was not the brand of rage that currently consumed him, however.
Connor's fist went lax. Hank's phone, damaged beyond repair, fell to the ground with a muted thump.
There were no tears, no impassioned cries, no violent outbursts. It felt as though every other emotion had been erased from his comprehension. He wasn't numb – he was acutely aware of the dropping temperature as icy gusts sliced through him, his processors sharp as he took note of Gavin's steadily rising heartrate, and every system was functioning at peak capacity. However, the swirling torrent of grief and anxiety had ebbed. Connor felt that he could see clearly for the first time in his strange existence – every other transient thought snuffed out and replaced by a clear, white focus.
He would find the android that took Hank, and dismember him.
Mission parameters accepted
There was no other objective, no phantom pain clenching at his chest. The RK800 turned to the detective and said, "Let's go to the automated cab service station. I'll drive."
His voice was even, perfectly collected.
Gavin's heartrate continued to climb.
"…Sure. But I think I better drive. Why don't you just take it easy in the backseat?"
Detective Reed's voice had softened, the typically serrated edge to his tone having dissolved into something malleable, bordering on submissive. Under any other circumstance, this might have given Connor pause, but he was resolute in his newly-realized purpose.
I don't need your pity and I don't care if you're afraid.
The RK800 blinked once before turning away and briskly striding toward Gavin's police cruiser.
"I'll drive," Connor repeated. It was a statement that brooked no argument, and for once, the detective quietly relented and slid into the passenger seat. Heraclitus took his place in the back, and in a few smooth motions, Connor had activated the emergency lights and siren and thrown the car into gear. It only took mere moments for them to be streaking toward the nearest highway at a speed that almost surely gave Detective Reed whiplash.
Ignoring Gavin's obvious fear and the dangerous manner in which Connor was driving, Heraclitus intoned, "While I have never visited a taxi hub, it is my understanding that the system is entirely automated. I doubt there would be any human operators present that could assist us."
"That's fine," Connor replied – stiff, robotic. "I can interface with the control panel and take whatever information I need."
He said this even as he veered to the shoulder to pass a string of cars that had not been quick enough to pull out of his way.
Gavin was hovering in his seat, clutching at the door and console on either side of him until his knuckles turned white.
"You're gonna get us fuckin' killed," he sputtered.
The RK800 ignored him.
"Is it not illegal to freely take information without a search warrant?" Heraclitus questioned.
Connor didn't respond to this, either, as he streaked through an intersection without regard for the red traffic light, forcing the incumbent streams of vehicles to come to an abrupt halt to avoid a collision.
"This is fuckin' insane," Gavin chanted. "We're gonna die if you don't slow down!"
Conversely, Heraclitus seemed unperturbed as he fell into silence, his LED cycling yellow.
What Gavin could not have possibly understood was the fact that, despite the seemingly reckless, jerky path Connor took while weaving between lanes of traffic, he was in complete control. He pushed his processors to the brink of his capabilities, calculated the speeds and likely paths of every vehicle in their perimeter, and directed the cruiser accordingly.
Had it been Hank in that passenger seat, flustered and cursing, Connor would have slowed and obeyed traditional traffic laws, perhaps baiting him into a round of friendly banter to pass the time as they neared their destination at a snail's pace.
As it stood, however, Connor could not bring himself to extend the illusion of human comfort to Detective Gavin Reed.
He can either keep up at my pace or get out of my way.
Connor pulled into the hub minutes later, slamming the breaks so hard at the building's entrance that Gavin's body strained against his seatbelt, head snapping forward from the force. He continued to swear and gather his bearings as Connor put the cruiser in park and jumped from the driver's seat, neglecting to shut the door behind him. He strode into the building without pausing to wait for his companions, and surveyed his surroundings.
Heraclitus' assumption had been correct: there was a waiting area bathed in orange light where a few civilians idled about, and a terminal where you could report errors and submit complaints, but there were no operators – neither human nor android. A few cabs were parked to one side in a vacant maintenance bay, while others were perched in a line on charging pads. A steady stream of the automated taxis would pull up and roll away, picking up individuals or dropping them off.
Connor's sweeping gaze settled on a room behind a locked door with a striped electric sign that read: "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY"
This made sense, Connor supposed; while operators were seldom on-site, there would need to be a way to override and take manual control of the system in a crisis situation. Connor was halfway to the door when Gavin called after him.
"Hey, dipshit! Hold on a second. Let me make some phone calls. I'm no boy scout but I'm not trying to lose my badge, either."
Connor didn't slow his pace.
The detective was quick, however – surprisingly fast for a human, and he intercepted the android's path, clutching his shoulder tightly enough that his latent self-preservation protocols registered a potential threat.
"Let me just remind you of what the Captain said: you listen to me, or you're off the force, for good. I gave you an order. So just hang back."
I don't have time for this.
Connor's vision bled to grey. The clamor of the cab lobby faded into silence as the form of Gavin Reed was seemingly suspended in time. Digital skeletons – simple recreations of his own form - materialized around the detective, and the RK800 computed three possible avenues of intervention:
The first option was to grasp Gavin's outstretched arm to use as leverage in order to flip him onto his back. This would only slow the man down, but would give Connor a window of opportunity to reach the control room uninhibited.
The second option was to thrust a flat palm against the delicate pressure point at the base of Gavin's neck, knocking him unconscious for a few minutes at least, allowing a long enough stretch of time for Connor to collect the information he needed.
The third option was to take the service pistol from Gavin's hip and plant a bullet in his skull, ensuring that the problematic human would not be a liability moving forward.
Before he could make his decision, Connor was jarred to the present by a heavy, ivory hand seizing his forearm. Heraclitus had interceded with a swift interface to halt his scan, and his preconstructions dissolved before him as his systematic conception of time resumed. He had to wonder at the scope of the RK900's abilities, as this interruption bordered on clairvoyance.
How could he have possibly detected a scan that couldn't have lasted more than a few picoseconds?
"Gentlemen, if I may," Heraclitus began, "time is of the essence, yet I understand that you must follow a certain protocol as officers of the law. However, I am no such officer." Here the android released his hold on Connor's arm before turning to Gavin and gently prompting the uneasy man to lower his own hand. "Detective Reed, might I suggest you and Connor investigate the lobby? Surely you can't be held responsible for what I, a free agent, do while unsupervised."
Gavin narrowed his eyes. His discomfort with the situation was practically palpable, but eventually he conceded with, "What is it with you freaks and breaking the law, anyway?" With a beleaguered sigh, he steered Connor in the opposite direction and murmured theatrically, "Nines, we're gonna take a look around. Let us know if you find anything."
Heraclitus smiled as they turned their backs.
"Of course."
After they had veered away and taken a few steps in the direction of the lobby, Connor wrenched his shoulder from the hand that was steering him and shot Gavin a pointed look. The detective sneered right back, his lip curling upward toward his scarred nose.
"Listen tin can," he spat. "I know you think you're all high and mighty – better than humans, or whatever, but I know what I'm fuckin' doing here. Do you think Fowler would've kept me around if I wasn't good at my job?"
Connor glanced away for a moment before quipping, "Well, he certainly doesn't keep you around for your personality."
"Prick."
The RK800 could see Gavin's fists clench in anger, but the man reigned in the tenuous thread of his self-control and steadied himself with a sharp exhale.
"So, that android fucker said you killed his brother?" the detective ventured.
"In a way. He was one of several JB300 models that worked at Stratford Tower when the Lieutenant and I were sent to investigate following Markus' televised speech. His 'brother' was the deviant who helped Markus get clearance. When I found him, he attacked me and went after the other officers. He was armed with a semi-automatic rifle… the others would have been killed if I didn't stop him."
Gavin issued a low whistle.
"Damn. So all of this is just because you kept some freak from gunning down a bunch of people?"
Connor shot an impatient glance over his shoulder. Heraclitus had somehow managed to discreetly open the control room door without forcing it down. Thankfully, no one seemed to be aware of the intrusion. The other civilians were still puttering around the lobby, either staring at their phones or engaging in empty prattle.
He hoped the RK900 wouldn't be much longer.
"Yes," Connor finally replied, indulging the detective's question. "The killer doesn't see it that way but… essentially that's the case."
Gavin thrust his hands into his pockets and took to staring out the large glass panes that lined the small building, eyes flicking back and forth as he watched cabs pull up and drive away in an endless cycle.
"I guess the phrase 'blood is thicker than water' applies to androids too," he muttered.
Connor squinted at him, then. There was something distant and unreadable on his features, something that the inquisitive prototype could not quite discern.
He was drawn from his reverie when he heard measured footsteps approach them from behind. Connor spun around to face his successor expectantly.
"What'd you find?"
"There were eight automated taxis that were sent to Chateau Park between 3AM and noon," Heraclitus recited in a low voice. "I have ordered all of them to return to the hub once they drop off any current customers. I have internalized their plate numbers-" here the RK900 offered a glossy white hand, and Connor accepted the interface. In moments, he knew which cabs to look out for, and without preamble he tore away from his companions and rushed outside, eyeing the steady stream of incumbent vehicles with a sharp focus.
Heraclitus joined him not long thereafter, while Gavin hung back to lean against the window, a cigarette drawn to his lips.
Connor was grateful when the RK900 didn't attempt to engage in pointless conversation while they waited. He simply stood at Connor's side, tall and immutable, like a silent sentry.
Approximately five minutes later the first potential cab pulled up. Connor rushed to the passenger side door and wrenched it open before scanning the interior. There was nothing of note; No blood, no evidence of foul play. With a growl, Connor slammed the door shut a bit more forcefully than necessary and returned to Heraclitus' side.
"Any luck?" Gavin called from behind before dropping his cigarette butt and joining them.
"What do you think?" Connor snapped.
"Well fuck me for asking."
This process continued for nearly half an hour as taxis pulled up, were evaluated, and sent away. Connor was becoming anxious and took to pacing back and forth while his counterpart stood at attention. Even Gavin seemed to be growing restless, as he began shuffling his feet, occasionally stepping to the curb to peer around the corner to watch for incoming cabs at a distance.
"We got another one coming," the detective called over his shoulder.
This was the fifth potential taxi, and the car had barely rolled to a halt before Connor was examining the backseat. He didn't need to activate his scanners to see the dark stains spattered against the upholstery. There was evidence of a hasty clean-up, but Connor knew blood when he saw it.
"Well?" Gavin prompted as he shoved his head over Connor's shoulder to peer inside.
The blood was mostly dry, but there was one spot on the floorboard, right at the seam of where the door met the metal frame, that glittered with moisture. With a shaking hand, Connor swiped two fingers against the small pool and brought them to his tongue.
Analyzing sample
Analysis complete
Subject: Lt. Hank Anderson
Ignoring Gavin's bewildered cry of "what the fuck," Connor jumped inside and interfaced with the dashboard.
"It's this one," he sputtered even as he scanned the vehicle's GPS data.
Thousands of strings of information flickered across his vision as he isolated the chain of routes that had begun that morning with Chateau Park. When Connor finally found the information he needed, he pulled away with a deep frown.
"After he left the trailer park he went to… Jericho," Connor explained, voice trailing off in disbelief.
Before the detective or Heraclitus had time to react, Connor had jumped from the cab and was running to Gavin's cruiser.
"Come on!" he yelled.
Gavin thankfully didn't argue when the frantic android, once again, slipped into the driver's seat.
"I don't believe it…" Connor muttered as he pulled onto the highway and began weaving between lanes of traffic, sirens blaring out a steady wail as he navigated. "He was right under my nose this entire time."
"It does make sense," Heraclitus drawled from the backseat. "Chateau Park is almost exactly halfway between the slums where the murders took place and New Jericho. It would have been the logical place to stop for first aid supplies without risking exposure at a hospital."
Connor gripped the wheel tighter as he pushed the accelerator down by another inch. Gavin was once again hovering in his seat, eyes wide with terror as they sped past bewildered streams of commuters, the other drivers scrambling to clear a path, but this time he didn't complain.
Maybe Gavin could taste it, too, Connor mused – they were so close now, so close to finding Hank.
As they neared Jericho's perimeter, the detective finally found his voice.
"I wonder why the prick would even bother to patch Anderson up right after he tried to kill him."
Connor had wondered this as well.
It was only a minute later when Connor received an encrypted message – a video file embedded within. The rage that had fueled him to that point gave way to pure dread as he suddenly jerked the wheel, parking the cruiser crookedly against the nearest curb.
"The fuck is your problem!?" Gavin demanded.
"Heraclitus," Connor croaked. "Take the wheel."
The RK900 obeyed without question as they hastily switched places.
Once he was in the backseat, Connor continued with, "Detective, I need your tablet."
"What the fuck for? What's going on?"
"Give me the fucking tablet!"
Seemingly shaken by the broken quality of Connor's voice, the detective obliged and pulled the device from under his jacket. The RK800 snatched it away and with a quick interface loaded the video he had just received.
Gavin turned around in his seat, crawled halfway over the center console, and watched from above as the JB300's face came into view. The camera was steady this time, seemingly affixed to a tripod. The android didn't speak at first, but after a few moments of adjusting the camera's position, he stepped away and to the side, revealing the lieutenant gagged and bound to a chair. His shirt had been torn off, and Connor's brow knit together in heartache at the hastily patched wounds that marred Hank's pallid skin. Wads of what looked to be flimsy tissue paper peeked out from tightly wound strips of gauze that wrapped about his torso and diagonally across his neck. Despite the clumsy dressings, there were still blooms of red that bled through the makeshift bandages. Hank's hands and ankles were swollen from cords affixed firmly enough to cut off circulation, and his mouth hung open from a bandana pulled to the back of his throat and tied at the base of his skull.
His eyes were still closed. He was still unresponsive.
"Goddamn it," Gavin hissed.
"Hello, Connor," the killer said with an infuriating smile. "How has your day been so far? I must say, your partner here isn't very good company. He hasn't said a word since we left."
The corner of the tablet cracked beneath Connor's thumb, prompting Detective Reed to launch himself over the console, collapse in the backseat, and wrench the device away from the android's faltering grasp. He then held it up unsteadily between them.
"I think I can get a reaction out of him, though," the JB300 continued. He pulled the same Bowie knife from before from his belt and stalked a slow circle around the lieutenant, eyes dark and predatory. He eventually stopped behind the battered man and pulled his head back by a fistful of silver hair. Without preamble, he smirked right into the camera and reached forward to lazily draw the blade across Hank's chest.
The cut was shallow, but it elicited a muted whimper from the lieutenant.
Connor had never felt more conflicted in his life. Hank was badly injured and at the mercy of a known killer, but that beautiful, horrible, wretched noise that seeped out from around his gag offered the smallest ember of hope:
He's alive.
"Pathetic," the JB300 spat as he cut another line parallel to the first one, a bit deeper this time, but still largely superficial. Hank's back arched slightly off the chair and he tried to articulate something through his gag, but his attempted words wound up being nothing more than a muffled, incoherent garble.
Connor tore his attention from the video to chance a glance outside. They were almost to their destination.
"Which building?" Heraclitus questioned.
Looking back down to the tablet, Connor forced himself to look past Hank's tortured form and analyze the details of the room in which he was trapped. There were no windows in sight, but he recognized the unmistakably tacky beige stucco of the walls as belonging to a makeshift housing complex on the northern end of Jericho.
"Building C," Connor supplied. "I don't know which floor."
The RK900 nodded at him from the rear view mirror
The android killer's cruel laughter drew Connor's wary gaze back down, only to watch as the bandana was removed from Hank's mouth. He sputtered and coughed, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his lips.
"What was that, old man?" the JB300 goaded.
"Fucking… asshole…"
The JB300 narrowed his eyes and straightened, one hand outstretched in exasperation.
"That's really eloquent of you, lieutenant. What if those are your last words, hm? Maybe they'll engrave that onto your headstone."
Hank sputtered out a hoarse laugh which earned him a harsh slap across the cheek.
Unwilling to watch any further abuse, Connor abruptly thrust the tablet at Gavin and whispered, "Enough."
It was unprofessional and unwise; there were surely other clues that could be gleaned from the recording, and Connor knew that Gavin was thinking the same, but the detective mercifully ended the video and took to massaging his temples with the calloused pads of his fingers.
"This is unreal," Gavin muttered into his hand. "What a fuckin' lunatic."
He paused and let his hand fall back to his lap.
"Anderson's a tough motherfucker," he said at length.
Connor silently agreed with the sentiment, although he wished the headstrong lieutenant wouldn't prod his murderous captor. Still, the fact that he had enough energy to articulate an insult provided the smallest of comforts.
Heraclitus finally pulled up to Building C and the three of them quickly exited the cruiser. The repurposed apartment complex was thirteen stories of decaying red brick and in need of several repairs, but nonetheless served as a temporary living quarters for hundreds of fugitive androids.
"I imagine the suspect would have caused quite a scene if he attempted to haul an injured human up multiple flights of stairs," the RK900 speculated aloud. "It is more likely that they're on one of the lower levels."
Connor was considering the herculean task of going door-to-door interrogating the occupants when Gavin suddenly stilled, eyes wide with some revelation.
"Nines," he began, "this place is androids-only, right? Can you use that super-soldier x-ray vision shit to see if there are any humans around?"
Heraclitus held open the door and smiled down at Gavin as he passed.
"I can. I will most likely only be able to scan one room at a time, but there is no need to go around banging on doors."
Relief flooded through Connor. Asking for the RK900's help had been a good decision, after all. He distantly wondered where they'd be now without the advanced android's capabilities.
Detective Reed nodded determinedly, pulled the service pistol from his hip, and nested it in one palm as he walked.
"Good," he said. "Plastics still don't have property rights, so when we find the fucker, I'm just going to bust down the door and take him by surprise. No knocking, no yelling 'detroit police' or any of that bullshit. Just boom, in and out," here he paused to gesture down to his gun. "You two stay behind me in case he's armed with anything more than a knife."
"Got it," Heraclitus and Connor said in unison.
"Fuck that's creepy," Gavin grumbled. "Whatever. Let's move."
They stalked around the first floor, pausing in front of each door for Heraclitus to conduct his scans. The corridors were dingy and dimly lit, with multiple brown water stains on the molding ceiling tiles. Ugly orange-and-white paisley linoleum curled away from the corners, and Connor couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the inhabitants. They had to exist in this hovel while he got to live in Hank's cozy house.
There were a few straggling androids that passed them in the halls, usually stopping to glare at Gavin and his firearm, but a stern look from Heraclitus was all it took to send them on their way.
Once they had swept the first floor without incident, they ambled up the stairwell to try their luck on the second floor.
When Heraclitus suddenly locked up in front of the fifth room down, LED cycling yellow, Connor knew.
Gavin turned to the RK900, a question in his hard eyes, and the android nodded back at him in affirmation.
This is it.
The detective quietly flicked the safety off on his pistol, wedged a boot against the door, and in an impressive show of strength, knocked it open with one heavy kick.
The "apartment" was just a single room, and small. There was the tripod, with a camera perched atop it, and in front of the camera…
Connor had insisted Gavin end the most recent video before it was finished. He belatedly realized that he had made the wrong choice, because maybe previewing the scene before him on a tablet would have prepared him for the brutal reality.
There were so many cuts, all shallow, but Hank's skin was more red than flesh-colored from the thin streams of blood that seeped from seemingly every inch of his torso. The left side of his face was worse – swollen and speckled with ugly yellow and purple bruises, a clear result of blunt trauma.
Connor didn't scan the limp form of the lieutenant. He couldn't. He didn't think he could cope with the very real possibility of Hank's death. Something in the back of his mind whispered: Schrödinger's Cat.
While he remained rooted in place, Gavin pushed past him and leveled his pistol at the figure that loomed in one far corner.
"ON YOUR FUCKIN' KNEES!" he bellowed.
"I'm impressed," the JB300 intoned, voice thick. "I did not expect you to find me so quickly. I must have sent that video, what, twenty minutes ago?"
Detective Reed pressed a finger against the trigger in warning.
"I won't ask a second time, dipshit."
Heraclitus had moved to stand at Gavin's side, drawn to his full height, the energy of his destructive potential seeming to emanate from his form in nearly tangible waves.
Connor had mused on the differences between humans and androids on more than one occasion. He lamented the fact that he could not properly taste or enjoy food; he could only analyze the components of a substance, and running such analyses neither induced a feeling of pleasure nor pain. On the other hand, there were marked benefits to being an android, one of which being the fact that he could track and process multiple events in the span of a second.
He was grateful for this ability as the scene erupted into action, and several things happened at once:
In one swift motion, faster than Gavin could track, the JB300 lunged forward, snatched his knife from where it rested on a nearby table, and darted toward the detective. Heraclitus snapped forward with uncanny speed as he intercepted the attack and twisted the murderous android to his knees. Gavin cursed and stepped around to fumble with handcuffs, but the JB300 was faster, and with his free arm he flicked an electrical inhibitor onto Heraclitus' exposed hand. The effect was immediate. The RK900 was rendered useless as he seized up, electricity dancing across his skin. In the next instant, the suspect had taken advantage of this small window of opportunity to spin around and slice at Detective Reed. Gavin was quick to dodge, agile even for a human, but the point of the blade still managed to cut through his right shoulder, eliciting a cry of "fuck!" His service pistol clattered to the ground as he clutched at the wound, but despite his best efforts, it wasn't long before blood was blossoming into the fabric of his jacket.
Red, red, red.
Mission parameters:
Locate the android that took Hank
̜̼̮̭ͅD̤͎̺i͍͚͕͍͖͎̻s͉̳̺̹m̻͕͉e͖̯̟̟̩̮m̘̥̤͙b̗̗̝e͔̗̫͚͍̲̳r̘̖̗̬ ͅt̤̟͍͚̤̖̲h̳̼̜̳̬e̙ ͔̺̻a͇̼n̦͓̦͈͇d̳r̝͙̬͓̙o̩̝̯i̩̱d̹̜̹͕ ̹t͔̘͖̦̳h̻̪̰̝̙͖a̰ͅt̰͙͙̰̗̳͚ ͍̰͓to̗̻̻o̮̼̰͍̠k͕͈͚̳ ̳͓̙͙͇H͍͈̤͍̟a̱͈͖nk̝͕̪̳̥
Connor leaped into action, intercepted the JB300's dagger-wielding arm before it could descend on Gavin once more, and shoved the android against the nearest wall with enough strength to crack the plaster behind them.
"Are you upset, Connor?" the murderer sneered.
The RK800 wedged an elbow against the murderer's neck to pin him in place, before digging his fingers into a shoulder. He manually rerouted power to his right arm as his fingernails tore through the black fabric of the worker uniform, deep enough to cause the android's artificial skin to bleed away, and then deeper still, until the chassis underneath began to crack.
For the first time throughout the entire ordeal, Connor found with sick pleasure that his target was petrified.
"What are you doing? Wait-"
The echo of the fracturing polymer was a beautiful symphony to Connor's audio processors as he ripped the JB300's arm from his shoulder and tossed it to the floor like a piece of suspect was sputtering incoherently now, but Connor had long since blocked any other input. He replayed the sound of that cracking chassis on infinite loop in his mind as he pressed his elbow further into the other's throat, and raised his free hand to the android's jaw.
His fingers clenched once more. He could feel the suggestion of pressure on his back but he ignored it. All that existed in this moment was himself, and his target. Everything else in his periphery had bled to white. Every other sound was throttled and reworked into the intensely satisfying crrrrick of the JB300's splintering form. He pulled and pulled until the jaw in his grasp became unhinged and hung uselessly from the murderer's skull, his tongue bobbing about, eyes frantic, limbs lashing out in a primal, and futile, bid for survival.
Connor didn't care. He didn't care he didn't care he didn't…
A solid force knocked him sideways. Jarred back to reality, Connor peered up at Gavin in a daze. He was still favoring his injured shoulder, but the pain etched across his features did not stem from a flesh wound.
"We need him alive," the detective rasped. He knelt before the twitching suspect and cuffed his wrists. "Paramedics and backup are on the way," he continued. "Help Hank, I'll take care of Nines."
Connor looked to his counterpart, still frozen, LED flashing red. Behind him, Hank was slumped and motionless, unmoored by the uproar that had just exploded around him.
With a numb nod, Connor plucked the knife from the floor with a small frown of distaste and approached the lieutenant. He cut Hank's binds carefully - the ones on his ankles first, then the ones about his wrists. He would have fallen forward without the RK800's intervention, but the shaken android was quick to support the man's weight. Hands trembling, Connor gently pulled him from the chair and lowered him to the ground so that he was stretched out on his back. When Connor drew away, his palms were slick with blood.
Gavin must have torn the inhibitor from Heraclitus' hand because he was suddenly looming over Connor's shoulder.
"His heartrate is alarmingly low," the RK900 murmered in a voice wrecked with static.
His heart is still beating…
Detective Reed stared at Hank's prone form for a long moment before his face twisted in raw anger and he spun on his heel, stalked over to the quivering frame of the JB300, and delivered a swift kick to the android's side.
"You fucking bastard!"
Unable to speak properly, the android only made a strange, electronic noise that seemed to emanate from deep within him. Gavin scowled and returned to the others.
"I'll have Chris haul this plastic prick to the precinct. Nines, you should probably go get fixed up, right?"
Heraclitus angled his head at the unorthodox officer.
"Shouldn't you get 'fixed up' as well, detective?"
Gavin scoffed.
"Nah, this is nothin.'" Gavin paused before lightly nudging one of Connor's legs with his boot. "You want a ride to the hospital?"
The android gave a faint nod, refusing to tear his gaze away from Hank. It was then that he registered the wail of sirens from the street below.
Connor felt detached as he heard the sudden invasion of officers and paramedics approaching - a cacophonous cloud of people that rushed through the door, all clamoring over one another. Ben Collins was at the forefront of the panicked throng, and when his gaze dropped to Hank, he began sputtering, "Oh God, Hank…" over and over, like a chant. The lieutenant was carefully fitted with an oxygen mask, moved to a gurney and rushed outside. Distantly Connor could hear Officer Chen's wavering voice as she fretted over Gavin's shoulder, and his subsequently nonchalant request that she stitch him up later in her apartment. Chris Miller looked furious; he was shifting between both feet, talking animatedly on the phone to… someone. Fowler, most likely, Connor supposed.
And there he was in the middle of it all, still on his knees, staring blankly down at the stained floor where Hank had lain motionless only moments before.
A heavy hand – one too much like his own – pulled him to his feet by a forearm.
"I'm going for essential repairs, then I will meet you at the hospital," Heraclitus managed in his broken voice.
Connor could only nod.
People filed in and out. Some of them tried to question him, others tried to comfort him, but it was only after Officer Miller had dragged the JB300 out that Connor snapped to attention. Gavin had once again nudged his leg to inform him that it was time to leave. He followed the detective to the cruiser noticing that, at some point, someone had applied a crude tourniquet to Gavin's shoulder to stop the bleeding. Connor knew that despite this, he should probably offer to drive, but he didn't think he could manage. Something within him had disconnected – some fundamental part of his programming had just unraveled, and it was because of this that Connor found himself to be intensely relieved when Detective Reed remained blessedly silent as he drove.
They pulled into Ascension St. John Hospital fifteen minutes later. Connor followed wordlessly at Gavin's heels, reverting to automatic processes, walking like the machine he used to be. They bounced between a couple of receptionists before they were herded into a small, sterile waiting room. Ben was already there, hunched over, his forehead buried in his palms. Gavin collapsed into the chair beside him with an exaggerated groan, and Connor claimed the next seat over.
None of them spoke. He figured none of them knew of anything to say. But as he sat in the clinical, bleached-white tiled room, a space that was too clean, too bare to be indicative of life, the events of the day seemed to engulf him. The emotions he had shoved deep within the recesses of his fractured mind in order to maintain a precise focus bubbled to the surface all at once.
Hank had been beaten, tortured, and it was all because Connor was such a fuck-up.
It's my fault. Hank could die and it's my fault. I did this. I…
In the throes of the ensuing breakdown, Connor's eyes were wide, his teeth grit, his nails digging into his scalp until small threads of blue streaked down his forehead as he hunched over in the waiting room. He thought back to all of the moments he had chastised Hank for making unhealthy food choices, or for seeking relief at the bottom of a fifth, or for disregarding his own safety in lieu of the occasional game of Russian Roulette.
"Your health is important, Lieutenant. You shouldn't drink so much, Lieutenant. Why do you do this to yourself, Lieutenant?" It had been easy to make those judgements back when he lacked any personal source of grief to draw from. Now that he understood his partner's pain, Connor only wished his body was capable of absorbing ethanol – anything to numb him from his current mental anguish.
I am a hypocrite.