You awoke at 06:30am as usual, opening your eyes to the ceiling of one of the DPD Central Station's storage rooms. Captain Fowler had given you the only key-card to the long since forgotten room.
Gilbert's instructions were to bring you to live with his distant relatives in Detroit, but upon bringing you there, the elderly couple had responded... poorly to your attire. Fowler blamed himself for the incident, admitting that he should've told you to remove your CyberLife branded blazer before meeting them, considering the ongoing situation regarding cases of the company's deviant androids. In his error, he apologized by letting you stay at the station. No one said much of it, save for a few passing comments of "another tin can" wandering the building.
Their assumption wasn't an issue, so you didn't bother correcting them.
The week you moved in, you had rearranged the storage room as much as necessary, that is to say, very little. You moved and stacked just enough crates to make room for a simple cot in the corner, your suitcase stowed away underneath. After visiting the CyberLife building, they'd supplied you with more of the same uniform, which you folded neatly on top of one of the shorter, longer crates beside your cot. They were a bit surprised to see you, but greeted you warmly. You didn't feel as comfortable.
You exchanged your black t-shirt and grey sweatpants- you owned five sets of this outfit- for your uniform, taking time to fix your hair. Your hand drifted to your collar. The captain never got back to you about the brooch, and you never missed it any less. You needed it back.
It was now 7 o'clock. You exited your room and made your way to the kitchen area. A handful of officers would be coming here in two to three minutes. You heard them talking among themselves as they entered the station. You turned around, a cup of coffee in hand. On the table beside you were seven other cups with initials on them. You'd noted how the seven early officers preferred theirs, and left a sticky note on in the inside of a cabinet for yourself, listing how much sugar or cream per cup. Since you didn't actually work at the station, it was something to keep you busy during your time there, and you appreciated fillers like this.
The group thanked you, some kindly and others a bit coldly. Two of them even greeted you first with a "good morning." You didn't care much for their opinion of you, but internally confessed that the day did go smoother when you were generally liked.
Still holding a cup, you walked to the captain's office, knocking gently on the door and pushing it open when he nodded and waved you inside. "Good morning, Captain."
"Good morning," he sighed, eyes not leaving the monitor. "Before you ask, no. I don't have any orders for you." Glancing up, he eyed the coffee in your hand, a JF written on it. "I'll take that, though."
Handing it to him, you asked anyway: "Captain, are you sure there isn't anything I can assist with?"
Another sigh. He pointed to one of the empty desks outside, "That terminal is unassigned. I'll send you recordings of witness and suspect interrogation sessions. Just... go ahead and transcribe them."
"Would I be making a difference in the workload around here?" You questioned, skeptical of what seemed to just be busy work.
"Not immediately." Fowler looked up at your deflated expression, taking a deep breath before continuing softly, "A typed transcription wouldn't just be for redundancy. Say if someone on the Red Ice Task Force needed to review a session for a name, date, place- whatever- it'd be easier to search a document 'stead of hours of audio. That make sense?"
You nodded.
"Thanks. I'm sure they'll thank you, too."
You'd started from the most recent sessions, figuring they would be the most urgent since they dealt with the majority of red ice and deviant cases. Rolling your shoulders and straightening in your chair, you pulled up the next recording. It was one from yesterday: November 6th, 2038. 12:35am. A deviant who'd killed his owner.
The first few minutes of footage were of one Lieutenant Hank Anderson questioning the deviant to no avail. You looked up from the screen and around the office, but you didn't see him. He must not have arrived at the station yet. Pressing play again, you watched the deviant sit alone for a minute. Then, another android stepped in. You recognized him. You'd glanced over him when you swept the room for Hank. He was dressed almost identically to you in a CyberLife provided uniform. The only differences were his tie and lettering on his blazer. Yours didn't have a serial number nor "ANDROID" printed across the back, and where his read 'RK800,' yours read 'VE001.'
You watched as the android, Connor as the captain referred to him, took a seat in front of the deviant. You typed away in a separate window, pausing once in a while when you had to catch up to a sentence. Writing only improved your coordination so much.
RK800: "If you don't talk, they're going to tear you apart and analyze you piece by piece. They're going to destroy you, do you understand?"
. . .
RK800: "Okay then... Don't talk. Why do I care, after all? I mean, I'm not the one accused of murder, right?"
You paused the video. Something about his words and body language stirred something in you. Looking up once more, you see him still sitting in a chair beside Lieutenant Anderson's desk, idly flipping a quarter while he waited for his partner. Envy.
Furrowing your brow at the conclusion, you brought your hand to your collar reflexively. I... envy. I envy Connor. Why?
Shrugging off the thought, you resumed transcribing the recording. Once in a while, you'd pause to look at Connor, who was curiously examining the lieutenant's desk. His ability to adapt and change his demeanor to suit a situation was admirable.
I want to be admirable.
You looked down at your hands, flexing them through the black gloves before pressing play once more.
RK800: "Why did you write 'I am alive' on the wall?"
HK400: "He used to tell me I was nothing... That I was just a piece of plastic... I had to write it, to tell him he was wrong..."
. . .
RK800: "When did you start feeling emotion?"
HK400: "Before, he used to beat me and I never said anything... But one day I realized it wasn't... fair... I felt anger... hatred... and then I knew what I had to do.
Feeling emotion. A deviant android can feel. You twisted the material of your gloves around your fingers, stretching and pulling at the fabric, black threads exposed at the seams.
Does a human have the capacity to deviate from its biological programming?
You looked to him again, but the chair was empty. Confused, you turned and saw him standing in front of your desk to your left. He was staring intently at the electric blue triangle sewn onto your blazer. The LED on his temple was yellow.
MODEL VE001 -
err0bject_notFound
Manufacture date: /unknown/
Property of: Gilbert Bougainvillea
Connor was puzzled by his analysis. The ID coded into the symbol certainly belonged to it; its face matched the image. Yet, its data profile seemed incomplete. Maybe even corrupted. "Are you another prototype?" he inquired.
"A... prototype?" It cocked its head. Odd.
"Yes. An experimental model." Connor noted the lack of an LED at its temple. "What is your purpose?"
It blinked, then stood. Its right hand moved to an awkward half-salute before dropping. The VE001 bowed slightly, stating what must have been its registered name. "I am to transcribe recordings of interrogation sessions for future reference until further notice from Captain Fowler."
Military habits. It must have been reassigned. Connor found this more odd. Should an android be repurposed, it should be reset. It obviously wasn't. He opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped himself, noticing Lieutenant Hank Anderson in his peripheral. "Please, stay right here," Connor told it before following Hank into the captain's office.
