When Hank arrived at the hotel he was greeted by a courteous, sharply-dressed man stationed at the front desk, "Good evening, sir. How can I help you this evening?"

"Uh, hi," Hank cautiously moved near the youthful man. "I'm with the Detroit Police," he exhibited his police badge. "There was a woman staying here… a, uh, Henrietta Monroe. I'll need to take a look at the room she was staying in."

"Ah yes," the man tapped on the digital display ahead of him. "She hasn't checked out yet. The room is still rented to her for another week."

"Okay," Hank assumed whatever belongings she had would have already been cleared from the room and that whoever was in charge of her would have checked out on her behalf. "Either way, I need to see her room. Part of an, uh, ongoing investigation."

"Yes, of course," the man politely nodded his head and made his way around the desk. "I'll take you there. It's on the third floor, room 307."

Hank stalked the man up through the confined stairway and onto the third floor.

"Right here," the young male waved a fob over the door's handle and pushed it open.

"Thanks," Hank replied as he took a few lumbering steps into the room.

"Anything else?" the man asked while scratching the side of his scruffy face.

Hank pivoted around and let out a shallow sigh, "I'm just gonna have a look around for a bit, thanks."

"Alright," he curiously peered over Hank's shoulder an into the vacant room. "I'll be at the front desk if you need anything else."

The door clicked shut behind Hank as he switched on the entryway lighting. The place was clean; in fact, too clean. Inhumanly clean. But that may just be how Henri preferred things for all he knew. Or maybe she just never spent that much time here. Or maybe somebody had already come to clean the place out. Guess he should have asked the front desk guy about that. Guess he still can on the way out.

Hank searched through the bathroom and the living area, but of course, there wasn't much to see. He found some clothes in the closet next to the bed; looked like Henri's stuff alright. The bed was in perfect order; unlikely anyone had used it in a while. There was no sign of the attack that took place over a month ago. No sign of the knife Connor mentioned.

"She probably hid it or disposed of it," Hank murmured to himself.

Hank decided to start a more aggressive search of her room. He looked under the sofa cushions and then the sofa itself. He searched through all the drawers in the dresser and pulled out her clothing from the closet to look on the shelves in there. Nothing so far. He lurched himself to the floor so he could get a view of underneath the bed; still nothing. Hank ungracefully got back to his feet and pulled the mattress off of its box-spring. Bingo.

It wasn't a brilliant place to hide a weapon, but Hank doubted it was something she was worried about. He did find it a bit puzzling that she kept it at all. Maybe she planned on using it herself, but who's to say? Hank was just grateful to have found it at all; although, he didn't think much would come of it. But Connor was right, they couldn't just give up now. Not after everything that's happened. Not after everything they've been through.

Whatever this thing is, Hank wanted to look it straight in the eye(if it had any, but he wouldn't know) and kill it. Revenge is never a good motive, but Hank was long past that. He was long past having the world steal away those he loved. He was long past being haunted by all those who came before him.

As Hank was hanging Henri's clothing back up, he noticed an envelope slip out from one of her jacket pockets. The envelope had the name Etta scrawled on the front of it in the exact same font as the letter she had given Hank. It must have been the other letter Henrietta's mother wrote.

"Jesus..." the last syllable of the word trailed off. Henri made it apparent that she never had an easy life. Hank had hoped that maybe if things had worked out differently, they could have had a new chance at life together. Maybe they could have been happy. Just imagine, him and her and Connor… Sounds like it would have been nice; their peculiar little family.


"Connor, what are you-" when Hank arrived home on that still icy evening, he found Connor parked on the kitchen floor with Sumo's bulky head draped over the boy's lap.

"Hank," Connor's hushed voice responded as he patted the dog's head.

"Connor..." there was despair in Hank's utterance. He could tell that Connor was trying to keep his distraught expression away from Hank's scrutiny.

"She's..." Connor was holding Henri's necklace in his open palm. "She's really gone… It didn't seem real. None of it seemed like it really happened, but I can repeat the event over and over again in my own head. I can recall every second of it; every detail. For once in my life, I wish this wasn't the case. I wish I could forget what I saw."

"I'm sorry, Connor," Hank staggered to the floor next to Connor. "I know it isn't easy. Trust me, I know it isn't easy. She didn't deserve any of this. But hell, that's what happens, doesn't it?"

Connor turned to Hank with a perplexed look, tears still forming in his eyes, "I don't understand what you mean."

"Good people, people who don't deserve it," Hank slung his left arm over Connor's shoulders. "People we love… Shit always happens. Bad shit will always happen. And the rest of us are left behind to deal with it, as much as we'd rather not."

"I'm sure I could have saved her or-"

Hank tugged at Connor's bicep with his spare hand, "Don't set yourself up for that. It wasn't your fault, Connor. And like you and me, she knew how dangerous it all was. We all know the risks of our line of work."

"But she didn't choose this, Hank." Connor twirled the tiny star between his finger-tips. "She didn't choose this line of work."

"Connor," Hank enfolded his sizable fist around Connor's hand. "She was a soldier. She knew exactly what she had gotten herself into."

"Kamski said she was waiting for an excuse," Connor tipped his sullen face in Hank's direction.

"Don't listen to anything that piece of shit has to say," Hank released his grip from Connor. "You should have stayed away from that asshole from the start. I regret ever taking him to you."

"But I don't," Connor stared back at the necklace. "I would be lying if I said he hasn't been helpful… He said something. He said it wasn't too late to save what was left of Henri."

"What's left of her?" Hank raised a brow to this.

"Her redemption? Honestly, I'm not sure," the tears faded from Connor's eyes. "Whatever it is, I must see it through."

"Is this even related to our case, Connor?" Hank noticed the serious expression form on Connor's face. "I thought you decided out priority was to find Markus."

Connor's head perked up as he gazed at Hank, "And it is, but… I have a feeling… A feeling that the two might be related."

"A feeling?" the corner of Hank's lip curled up. "It's best not to argue with your instincts."

"Yes," Connor showed Hank a faint smile. "Of course."


Connor stared at Hank who was morose in the consumption of his morning coffee. Connor realized how supportive Hank had been towards him in Henri's passing, but Hank himself must have been going through terrible emotions. Hank had already lost a child once and now… Now, for it to happen all over again.

"Hank," Connor interrupted the man's sipping. "I received the frequency that Kamski spoke of. Although it won't be useful if we can't narrow our search parameters."

"How do you suppose we do that?" Hank would have loved to share Connor's enthusiasm for anything. The boy just never tires.

"I examined the knife you found," Connor sat down across from Hank at the kitchen table. "The knife is manufactured by Opinel; only two firearms stores in Detroit carry their brand. We may be able to ascertain when the knife was purchased and whom it was purchased by."

"Alright," Hank struggled out of his seat. "Let's get on it then."

"I was actually hoping you could investigate the weapon retailers while I paid a visit to someone," Connor walked to the front door and slid his shoes on.

"Someone?" Hank's tone became sharp. "Care to tell me who this someone is?"

Connor straightened back up and fixed his tie, "His name is Jared Davis. He was Henrietta's former Captain while she was in Special Forces. Kamski seems to believe this man has information that can assist me. Although, with what, I am unsure of."

"But you have a feeling about it?" Hank gave the boy a sly grin. "And you're sure it's not a waste of time?"

"I have no idea," Connor shook his head in response. "But I have to look into it."

"Alright, alright," Hank shrugged his winter coat on. "I'll deal with the knife-"

Hank swivelled to the kitchen table as he heard is phone vibrating.

"Yeah?" he said as he answered it. "Okay… Yeah, sure." and he hung up.

"Important?" Connor creased his forehead.

"The knife will have to wait," Hank briskly shoved his phone into his coat pocket. "I gotta go down to the station to assist that fucking prick."

"Perkins," Connor nodded knowingly. "I'm sorry, Hank."

"Yeah, yeah," he looked Connor up and down. "Here," Hank turned and grabbed another jacket from his coat rack then handed it to Connor.

"You know I don't need this, Hank," Connor was puzzled by Hank's action. "I'm an android, I don't get cold."

Hank clutched at the cuff of Connor's suit jacket, "You're on suspension. You can't be walking around in a fucking jacket that has Detroit Police painted on the back."

"Oh," Connor slowly peeled his jacket off. "Of course."

"And this," Hank slapped a knitted cap on top of Connor's head.

"As I said, Hank," Connor removed the hat. "I don't get cold."

Hank narrowed his eyes, "Yeah, well just looking at you makes me cold. Put on the goddamn hat."

"Of course," Connor gave him a warm smile.


It took Connor almost two hours to arrive at Captain Davis's home in Lexington, Michigan. All he could do now is hope it was worth the trip. What if the Captain wasn't even there? What if the Captain refused to talk to Connor? As the human adage goes: he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. But there's another adage that goes: he'll burn that bridge when he comes to it. Connor will just have to find out which one it is when he gets there.

"Mr. Davis," Connor bellowed as he knocked on the door of the remote home. Davis lived a few miles from town in a well-kept cabin. "Mr. Davis?" Connor knocked again.

An older gentleman, bald and with rough five-o'clock shadow, opened up the door, "Can I help you?"

"Mr. Davis, you don't know me but-" but what? My name is Detective Connor? He couldn't say that, "-my name is Connor."

"Connor?" the old man had a grizzled, harsh voice; the kind you get from dedicating your life to smoking. "Just Connor?"

"Just Connor," he politely smiled in response.

"I get it," Davis folded his thick arms over his barrel chest. "You're an android, aren't ya?"

"Correct," Connor nodded. "But that is irrelevant to why I'm here."

Davis huffed at the cold air, "Come on in before I catch a cold."

Davis led Connor into his cosy living room where a weathered oak table sat in front of dusty sofa draped with a red, flannel blanket.

"Have a seat," Davis spoke, and despite his gruff appearance, he seemed friendly. "You want a tea or something?"

Connor creased his forehead at the man's humble offerings, "I'm an android, Mr. Davis. Androids don't eat or drink."

"I don't know," the burly man lowered himself into a rocking chair that sat opposite of Connor. "I was just trying to be nice."

"Of course," Connor smiled. "It is very kind of you to offer."

Davis let out a delayed sigh, "But we ain't here to talk about tea, are we? I mean, if we are, well I can talk about tea all goddamn day if you want. I'm a fan of Earl Grey myself. An oldie but a goodie."

"I'm not here to talk about tea," Connor tilted his head. "I'm here to ask you about Henrietta."

"Henrietta?" Davis rose from the chair as he said this. "Well, if we're gonna talk about that I'll need something to drink. And I don't mean tea."

Davis went to a tall oak cabinet, which matched the table no less, that was positioned behind the couch that Connor sat on. Davis opened up its glass cupboard doors and pulled out a bottle of red wine.

"Don't like the hard stuff myself," he said this to Connor as he studied the bottle's surface. "Twenty years. For special occasions and stuff, but you know… Those don't really exist anymore. Special occasions that is. Or well, maybe we can count this as one, I dunno."

Connor replied with a quizzical stare.

"I'm guessing you don't want any?" Davis gestured with the bottle in hand.

"I would if I could," Connor amusingly responded.

"Yeah," he snorted a bit as he wandered into the kitchen. "I bet you would. Especially considering what you're asking me about."

When Davis returned back to his rocking chair, it was with an open bottle and full wine glass.

"So," Davis took a deep inhale of the wine's aroma. "What is it you want to know about Henrietta?"

"Everything," Connor leaned forward. "I want to know everything that happened after the accident and up until now."

"I see," Davis didn't seem surprised by Connor's demand. "I'm figuring you know about her unique abilities? The fact that she's half android?"

"I'm aware."

"Why not ask her then?" Davis slurped at his wine.

"Henrietta is no longer alive," Connor hated saying the words out loud. He knew she was dead, but saying it made him feel like he was abandoning her. "And there was a lot she never told me."

"There was a lot she didn't know," Davis rubbed at his square jaw, "I was the one who signed her up for that shit. I was the one who let this happen in the first place. I had a job to do and I was pretty obsessed with getting it done. But now..."

"Now what?" to Connor, Davis seemed disturbed.

"Henrietta wasn't entirely unique," Davis put pressure on his glass, threatening to crush it in his large paws. "She just so happened to be the doc's first successful patient. I don't even know how many people were killed before, due to that sick research. I'm sure they were just as naive as me. Thinking you could save someone's life by torturing them. Just… sick."

"Who is this doctor?" one of many questions Connor had. "Dr. Polanski?"

"Dr. Polanski was the sick fuck responsible for making them, but it wasn't his idea," Davis spat the words from his mouth. "It wasn't even his research, to begin with. He just got dragged into like the rest of us. I don't know how, I don't know what that bitch held over him. But that's… His name is Jim Everett. Big, big piece of shit. Almost the biggest."

"Have there been more of these android/human hybrids since Henri?" Connor asked.

"Still, none that have been successful," Davis's face turned grief-stricken. "There was another one of my soldiers… Markov… He was worse off than Henri, but he managed to survive the explosion, too."

That grabbed Connor's attention, "Henri was certain that all of her teammates died that day."

"Well, if it matters much," Davis stared at the surface of his wine. "He didn't live for that much longer. Another one of Jim's failures."

"Are you still a part of this program, Mr. Davis?" Connor watched the beams of sunlight refracting off the living room window.

"Yeah, you could say that," Davis continued to explain. "I mean, once you're in you're never really out. That goddamn place was the end of my career, I'll say that much. I'm still on call."

"On call by whom?" Connor wasn't getting anywhere. "And for what?"

"First off, I wasn't involved until Henrietta was," Davis squinted at the incoming glare that the sunshine made on the crisp snow outside. "I was approached by some government whose-its about her and Markov. Said they could save them. I've seen enough people die, I… I wanted to save these kids. But it was more than just that. I got offered a job; a job to train soldiers of the future and not some fucking androids… No offence."

"I've heard worse," Connor replied.

"It felt like a promotion, but it wasn't," Davis kept on going. "It was a fucking twisted trap. They weren't interested in training soldiers. No… They were training monsters, killers, animals. They wanted someone to do their dirty work and all of it. And that ended up being Henrietta."

"You haven't explained who 'they' are," Connor could tell the ex-Captain had been waiting for someone to divulge all of his secrets to.

"I never knew, I don't know," Davis sipped at his drink. "They called her Khatri. She's the one in charge of it all. Who she actually is, no one knows. But what she does have, is the power of the American Government backing her up. There's no fighting the woman. Once she had you, you're trapped for life. I thought after Henrietta recovered and finished training that'd be the end of it… But no… Khatri told me to always be waiting, waiting for when she needs me again."

"Waiting for what exactly?"

"Waiting to train more of those demon soldiers, what else?" Davis finished his glass, but he ignored refilling it. Instead, the man started chugging the wine right from the bottle.

"So this Khatri, she's behind everything?" Connor was amazed by the man's drinking stamina.

"The head of the fucking beast, I tell ya," Davis smirked at his own sentiments. "She's a fucking blight on this planet."

"What does she want in all of this?" Connor had even more questions. "What does she get out of this?"

"What the fuck else?" Davis swigged the wine once more. "Power. It's always about power. She's put herself in a position where she gets what she wants whenever she wants. But she's so valuable to our fucking government, that they won't put an end to her. She's worth more alive than dead… What a fucking place to live: America."

"Why not defect?" Connor witnessed Davis take another long sip from his bottle. "Why not stand against her?"

"Are you fucking kidding?" Davis violently waved the bottle through the air. "And what? Have her fucking murder us? You run, you die; end of story. I mean, fuck… I'm not stupid, this conversation here, this isn't going to end well for me."

"What do you mean?" Connor frowned.

"I mean I'm supposed to be hush, hush about all this," Davis emptied the rest of the wine into his mouth. "And now I've told you. You better watch your fucking back, son. She's gonna come for you, too. You should just go; stay out of it."

"Captain..." Connor's sullen looked continued. "I didn't intend to put you in this position, I-"

"Don't worry," Davis slurred a bit as he cut Connor off. "I needed to say it. I needed this to be over with. Wait uh, wait here," and with that Davis meandered into his kitchen and began slamming drawers open and shut. "Ah ha!" he cheered while holding a folder above his head.

Connor rose from the couch to observe the intoxicated Captain.

"See this?" he carefully walked back to Connor. "This is everything I know. Jensen Polanski and Kelly Mihn. They might be able to help you out."

"With what?" Connor was curious as to what Davis thought his motives were.

"You have one option left, son," Davis jabbed a shaky finger at Connor's chest. "You gotta cut the head from the snake."

"What do you mean?" Connor was uncertain as to what Davis intended with his analogy.

"You gotta kill her," Davis's face dropped. "It's the only way."

"Kill her?" Connor questioned. "Kill Khatri? Why would you assume I'd even be up to such a task?"

"I don't see that you have much of a choice now," Davis shoved the folder against Connor's torso. "It's either you or her. And don't you want your revenge?"

"Revenge?" Connor held onto the documents. "Why would you think I want revenge?"

"For Henri, what else?" Davis grinned, but it was painted in sorrow. "Young, handsome android comes knocking at my door asking questions about that girl? A girl who was willing to tell you who and what she was? I tell ya this much, no man's come knocking on my door before after meeting her."

"But what does killing Khatri have to do with avenging Henri's death?"

"What doesn't it?" Davis still wobbled on his toes. "I don't know how Henri died, but I know it's Khatri's fault. It's always that bitch's fault. Henrietta… She was a young, innocent girl. She never deserved any of this. I'll say a lot of us haven't deserved that woman's wrath. Most of the people who work for her are like me… Trapped… Trapped by her cruelty."

Connor kept the files clutched beneath his arm as he made his way to the front of Davis's home.

"Please," Davis clasped Connor's shoulders; his eyes were swelling red and glazing over with tears. "Please, son. The rest of us, the rest of us couldn't do a goddamn thing. Please, do something. Do something for us. Promise me you'll do something."

There was something in Davis's words that reminded him of Hank. Please, son… Son. How could Connor refuse a desperate plead from a desperate man? Connor could sympathize; he knew what it was liked to be trapped by someone you hated.

"I promise."