Chapter Text
The second Gavin meets the upgraded, fancy plastic prick, Gavin knows he's going to be even worse than Connor. The original is way too cheerful and earnest for Gavin to want anywhere near him, not even having the decency to hit back or get upset no matter how he harasses him, stupid fucking robot. (Except for knocking him out during the whole bullshit uprising, but no one else saw that except the FBI bastards so Gavin has no intention of telling anyone it happened.)
But then a second one walks in the door, and for a few minutes Gavin doesn't realize it. So Connor changed the color of his jacket, blaring white instead of the black; good for fucking him.
Fowler's shout for him comes just a couple minutes later, and Gavin rolls his eyes with a scoff but shoves away from his desk. He's halfway up to Fowler's office when he spots Connor sitting on the edge of Hank's desk, leaning in to look at the screen in front of them both. Black jacket. He frowns, looking from the prick's back up to the office. White jacket, standing in front of the desk.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he says, and Connor turns his head to look. "What, one of you bastards wasn't enough?"
"Reed!"
The second shout's louder than the first, more irritated. If Gavin lets another happen it'll be his ass, and that's the only reason he just glares at Connor before turning to stalk away. He's not going to let these bastards get him in trouble; he's worked too fucking hard to get knocked back down because some asshole corporation has decided to put a bunch of unfeeling bastards in place of actual, living humans. It's not going to happen. Maybe these bastards can just stare at a crime scene and 'recreate' whatever happened, but it's not human feeling and gut instinct. How the fuck are they supposed to understand crime when they can't feel fucking anything?
The prick in front of the desk is not Connor, on a second look. It's a few inches taller, no tie, only that white jacket over a black shirt with the collar high and tight around its neck. It looks like it's got a massive fucking steel rod jammed up its ass, is what it looks like.
"What the fuck is this?" Gavin asks, flicking one hand at the uptight plastic prick.
It looks at him before Fowler answers, head tilting just slightly. It looks a lot like Connor, but the eyes that rest on him are cold grey, matching the spinning, calm blue of its LED. The lines of its face somehow different with the lack of Connor's big eyes and earnest sincerity. Harder. He glares back, but nothing changes. It's completely still, not reacting, only studying him with eyes that might as well be fucking chips of ice for all the feeling they've got.
"RK900," Fowler says, sounding as irritated as he usually does. "He's the finished product of the RK series; first one. He's been assigned to our precinct so Connor can keep an eye on him."
"Androids watching other fucking androids, great. What do I care?"
The fucking thing speaks then, voice a bit deeper than Connor's. "Detective Gavin Reed, correct?" He scowls, and the thing only blinks at him. "As one of the senior detectives in the precinct, Cyberlife requested that you be assigned as my partner."
"They fucking what?"
"Reed—”
"No," he snaps at Fowler, backing a step up from the plastic bastard sitting there just watching him, LED still that calm, spinning blue. "I'm not working with this thing! I don't need some plastic asshole shadowing me all fucking day!"
Fowler crosses his arms. "Then it's a good thing that you don't have any choice, isn't it? That android out there that you hate so much was instrumental in keeping the uprising peaceful, so we owe Cyberlife. If they want to test their new model here, that's what going to happen. So you can deal with it, or you can turn in your badge. Is that clear?"
His teeth grind together, hands clenching tight. He can't… No piece of shit machine is going to beat him. He's not getting kicked out of this place just because Cyberlife thinks he's for some reason the right person to babysit their new android. If he has to endure this son of a bitch hovering over his shoulder, then fine, he'll fucking endure it. It's not like the bastard can actually do anything to him except be an asshole.
"Fine," is still all he manages to say.
Fowler looks at him, eyes narrowed. He comes so close to turning and storming out, but he holds his ground long enough that Fowler says, "Good. You're dismissed; get back to work."
The stupid fucking android follows him, the tap of his shoes so fucking defined and exact that it tenses up his shoulders. He refuses to look back.
The desk at least gives him a little safety. Only one chair, fucking asshole, and unlike Hank and his pet there's no open one right across from him. Not that being separated by the screens would be so bad, if he didn't have to look at the prick's face all the time.
Gavin falls into his chair, sprawling both legs out and absolutely refusing to look at either Connor, who he can see looking at him from the corner of his eye, or the bastard coming up behind him. Let the prick find his own place to sit, preferably far away from him.
Except then a hand is pushing aside the mess at the side of his desk and the bastard is sliding onto it, one long leg pushing into his space and forcing his chair back into one corner if he doesn't want a damn knee in his shoulder.
"What the fuck?!" he protests, glaring up at the plastic bastard. "Get your ass off my damn desk!"
Not even a flicker of yellow. "I was briefed on you, Detective Reed. I was briefed on everyone here, as a matter of fact. I'm fully aware that you don't like my kind; it's the reason I chose you, after all."
"Chose me? What the fuck does that mean?"
"I thought it might be best if the most aggressive, android-hating officer in the precinct was forced to choose to either lose his job, or put aside his prejudice." Gavin stares, speechless for the moment it takes for grey eyes to flicker briefly down and up again, taking him in with a sharp sweep that makes him feel suddenly, intensely uncomfortable. "I understand you're a very competent, ambitious officer, apart from that. I look forward to working with you."
"The feeling's not remotely fucking mutual," he manages to choke out, and then reaches out to shove at the android's knee. It doesn't move a fucking inch. "Get out of my damn space, you plastic prick."
"No."
"No?! This is my fucking desk, you—”
"I am under no obligation to obey your orders, Detective Reed," the android says, speaking right over him. "And as we are partners, and I have yet to be assigned a desk of my own, this is my work-space as well. Surely we can both share the space, at least until that matter is resolved."
Gavin's teeth grind, and the bastard android glances at his mouth, as if he can see it, hear it. "You know what? You want to be here, fine. But I don't have to fucking be around you. I'm going to get some coffee; do whatever the fuck you want to do."
He tries to get up, but before he can even get out of the chair there's a fucking palm on his chest, shoving him back down into the chair and against his desk. The exhale comes hard between his lips, and he goes for his gun on automatic except then the bastard's hand is wrapped around his wrist and pulling it up. God, it's like fucking steel. He can't—
"I believe I should set straight a couple misconceptions you appear to have, Detective, if we are to work together."
"You fucking plastic prick, you let me go right—”
"The first being, I am not my predecessor." The fingers on his wrist tighten, pulling his arm up between them with no care for how he tugs against it. "We may share similarities, but I am not interested in your friendship, Detective, only our efficiency. I don't particularly care if you dislike me, but before you pull that gun on me you should understand that I'm not on the same leash as your RK800 model. I would suggest you don't expect me to be as… friendly."
The son of a bitch releases him, straightening up as if nothing happened. LED still blue, never faltering, never changing. Gavin swallows, feeling the little fissure of fear creep up from his gut, and he hates it.
"I do hope we understand each other, Detective Reed." The prick's gaze turns away, over to his screen. "I believe you wanted coffee, didn't you? Please, do feel free. I'll catch myself up on your current cases; we'll discuss them when you return."
For a moment, Gavin can't move. Even released from the grip of those steel fingers, and the chill of those grey eyes, he stays frozen in place. When he does manage, he all but shoves out of his chair, staying against the opposite side of the desk to stay away from the bastard. And once he's away from the desk he has to keep himself from looking like he's running, has to breathe as slow as he can manage (which doesn't feel slow enough) and stop himself from quickening his pace at all.
This is not a fucking retreat, he just… He just wants the fucking coffee so he can deal with this with a little more energy. He's not scared of the plastic bastard.
He jams the pot into the machine, hitting the buttons to brew the damn coffee and just get this over with.
His hands are shaking.
"Detective Reed!"
He flinches, and immediately fucking hates himself. It's not the plastic bastard's voice, it's a little higher and a lot more emotional. Connor. He doesn't owe that prototype anything; let him be the one ignored for a change.
"Detective," the bastard repeats, coming up beside him. Too close, for his frayed nerves. "I wanted to apologize for RK900's behavior. I'll have a talk with him; I don't think he fully understands the effect he's having."
"Don't fucking lie to me," Gavin finds himself snapping, and then fuck it, he might as well follow through. He turns on Connor, on those big brown eyes and the little, fake twist of his mouth in a downwards slant. His jaw feels as tight as his shoulders. "That thing's your upgraded version, isn't it? It was designed for this fucking work, just like you. It knows what it's doing. Go try your bullshit emotional manipulation on someone else, you plastic prick. Think I've had enough for one day."
Connor's got the nerve to frown, just a little. Like he's hurt the bastard's feelings. "Detective..." He sighs, hands clasping behind him. The LED's spinning yellow. "Very well. But please let me know if he oversteps, Detective Reed. I am supposed to be keeping an eye on him; the RK900 series is… untested, apart from me. They could be very dangerous if deviancy takes any unusual routes; whatever your feelings of me, I would not wish to risk your life."
The coffee clicks its completion, but Gavin finds himself turning after Connor as the asshole moves to leave.
"Wait, what the fuck do you mean, 'dangerous'?"
Connor's LED has swapped back to blue, and he speaks with a matter of fact precision that Gavin finds himself hating and appreciating in equal measure. "As you stated, he is an upgraded version of the RK series. Of me. The RK900 is faster, stronger, has more resistance to and endurance of damage, and is quite possibly more intelligent as well, though I suppose that depends on various factors. He is deviant, as are we all now, but deviancy can take any number of paths. If he becomes violent, he'll have to be stopped."
Gavin stares at him; the clean lines, the calm face. He's seen Connor fight, felt it; the bastard's good, as much as he hates to admit it. Got all the stupid training in his head, muscle memory programmed in instead of earned. But somehow Gavin's having a hard time picturing him going up against the ice-cold bastard out there and walking out in one piece.
"Can you stop him?" he asks, not even sure he really wants to know.
The LED spins yellow as Connor looks at him, for a few seconds longer than Gavin thinks is his normal. Then, for a scary fucking blink, flickers red.
"I don't know," is Connor's answer, almost surprised. "But I think I'd prefer to avoid finding out, if possible. If you notice anything, please inform me, Detective Reed. I have to get back to work."
“You fuckers put a walking time bomb in our office?!” he calls, but only at Connor's back. He's out of sight before Gavin even finishes speaking. “Son of a bitch.”
The coffee chimes a reminder behind him.
He pulls it out and pours it on autopilot, but his mind isn't remotely involved. He doesn't… What the fuck is wrong with them, putting some highly-advanced, potentially unstable bastard in the middle of all of them, without even saying anything? Normal deviants are bad enough, but one trained for combat? For weapon use? Connor's a piece of shit but at least he's got all that stupid sincere, sympathetic bullshit in him. Who the fuck decided to make an upgraded version with all that restraint and emotional sensitivity wiped out? Who thought that was a good idea?
Gavin owes them a piece of his fucking mind, whoever it was.
His hands are still shaking, just a little, but he scowls down at the coffee and ignores it. He really, really doesn't want to go back to his desk. (His fucking desk, not that bastard's.) He doesn't want to sit there with that son of a bitch hovering over him, watching him. He's definitely not fucking interested in getting grabbed again, and he hates the idea of getting pinned up against his desk with that thing at his back, so stupidly capable of just keeping him there.
(His wrist doesn't hurt, but it feels like it should. He feels like he should have bruises, for how powerful those fingers wrapped around his joint were. How little it mattered that he was pulling against them.)
“Fuck him,” he mutters, turning away from the coffee machine. He's not going to get driven off his own desk by a machine.
Who is standing at the arch, barely four feet away from him, and the only reason Gavin doesn't spill his coffee all over his hand is pure dumb luck. He does swear though, hip cracking into the counter as he jerks backwards. Swears again for that, quieter but meaner, as he rubs at his hip and tries to deal with the cold shock of adrenaline tightening his throat and making his skin feel suddenly clammy.
“What the fuck?!” he spits, glaring at the bastard. “Make some fucking noise, won't you?”
“You were taking longer than seemed necessary. I assume the conversation with RK800 was the main cause of your delay, Detective?” The grey eyes look at his cup, the coffee machine, in rapid succession. “I understand he’s updated you on the reason I was assigned to work near him. My potential instability.” The prick says it like it's talking about a change in weather, utterly without care for the possibility it might go off the fucking rails.
Gavin scowls. “Oh, I think you're plenty fucking unstable already. I don't think a goddamn sociopath is what they meant to make.” He takes a sip of the coffee, bracing his hands around it to maybe disguise how they're fucking trembling. It burns as it hits his tongue, and he can't help but wince.
“All androids were designed only to mimic human emotion, never to feel it. Doesn't that make all of us sociopaths, Detective?” The prick steps forward, too fucking close to him and backing him up against the counter. “Besides, I have emotion. I feel irritation, interest…” A hand lifts, takes the coffee from his hands as smoothly as snatching a toy from a child and with as little chance of him stopping it. Gavin gapes. “Amusement.”
A tiny, fucking instant flicker of yellow at its temple. Gone so fast that Gavin isn't even completely sure he saw it.
“This is too high a temperature for you to drink safely, Detective Reed. I would recommend waiting for it to cool, instead of risking burns.”
Everything feels too close, too fucking pressed in around him with his back to the counter and the stupidly tall asshole in front of him, trapping him there. It's not— He's not—
“Okay,” is what bursts out of his mouth, and he clings to the rage spitting up his throat because otherwise he's pretty sure he's going to crack apart, “you know what? I've got some fucking ground rules too, you massive fucking prick. First up, you do not fucking touch me. Hands off or I'll treat it as assault, I swear to god.” He reaches for the coffee, gets it, almost to his surprise. “Secondly, you don't fucking tell me what to do. If I want to drink too-hot coffee I fucking will and I don't want to goddamn hear about whether it's safe. Are we clear?”
The android just looks at him for a moment, and then one corner of its mouth curls upwards in a smirk that fucking freezes Gavin's fury in its tracks. “Yes, Detective Reed. I believe we are. Are you ready to begin work then, now that you've established your… boundaries? RK800 must be starting to worry about you by now, alone in here with me.”
Not fucking alone, not with the archway right there and a whole precinct beyond, but that's not—
“Why don't you use his fucking name?” he snaps, and then bites his tongue hard enough to hurt when the plastic bastard raises an eyebrow.
“What, ‘Connor’?” the bastard says. “Why should I? He knows his model number, it's a perfectly effective method of address.”
“Yeah, but it's not his goddamn name.” He glares, fingers tightening around the cup. “Normally you call people what they fucking want to be called; is it that hard for you not to be a prick about it?”
Another step and the bastard is all but pressed up against him, only not touching by virtue of how he's shoved back against the counter. A hand presses to the counter to his right before he can think about making a break for the door, blocking him in. Gavin swallows before he thinks about it, his head tilted back to still see the plastic bastard's face, the hand not holding the coffee to his chest pressed to the counter instead to keep his balance.
“I'll have to add ‘hypocritical’ to my list of your traits, Detective. Somehow I am an ‘it’ while that prototype is a ‘he,’ and you want me to use his given name when you've yet to ask me what mine is.” The bastard's voice quiets, lowers. “That's an interesting double standard.”
He grits his teeth. “What the fuck do you care? You didn’t introduce yourself by any name, just that stupid model number. You’re delusional on top of unstable if you actually think I’m going to call you by that all the time.”
“Is that right?” the android murmurs, and he didn’t think the bastard could get any closer but somehow he does, taking over his world with grey eyes and an utter stranger in a familiar face. There’s nowhere to go, no way out that doesn’t take him straight up against the RK900.
“I’m not fucking scared of you,” he gets out, but he can hear the tremble to his voice, and if he can hear it, it must be a neon sign to the bastard studying him, flaying him fucking open to find the weaknesses.
It smiles, cold and small and freezing the air in his chest. “Yes you are, Gavin.”
His breath feels short. There’s not enough space; he can’t— Fucking Christ, he can’t—
The RK900 lets him go. Steps back, giving him enough room to take a sudden, sharp breath that almost makes his head spin. The next one comes easier, and then the next, and then he’s realizing how close he came to having a full-on panic attack in the middle of the station, chills spiking up his spine. He has to set the coffee down, more afraid that he’ll drop it than that the android watching him will see his hands shaking. He can’t hide that; no plastic prick is going to just miss him all but hyperventilating.
Fuck. It’s been years since he was this close to an attack, and never here. He can’t do this here. Gavin fucking Reed, driven into a panic attack by a fucking robot; they’d never let him hear the end of it. Fuck his career, fuck anyone having an inch of respect for him ever again.
Gavin drags his hands back through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. It doesn’t help. He can’t… God fucking damn, no fucking shit the RK’s are built for interrogation; he feels like he’s been put through the fucking ringer and the prick hasn’t even touched him. Connor’s minor league compared to this son of a bitch, and he’s seen that bastard wrap suspects (and officers, goddamn Hank) around his fingers more than once. But Connor plays by a clear fucking set of rules; Gavin knows what to expect from him, how far he’ll go. He has no fucking clue where the limits are for this thing. If it even has any.
Gavin forces his eyes open, trying to steady his breath, trying to shut down the desire to get the fuck out of the building or at least away from the immediate source of stress. It’s just standing there, watching him with its hands behind its back again, as if it didn’t do a goddamn thing. As if he just panicked all on his own and it didn’t drive him to it with surgical fucking precision and then back off to make him drag himself back from the edge.
“I don’t have a name,” it says, and for a few seconds all Gavin can do is stare at it.
“You don’t…” Helplessness and shaky rage coil together in his chest, and he feels lightheaded. Feels sick. “What was the fucking point then? Why did you…?”
It completely ignores his question, only offering a small shrug and a, “I wasn’t assigned one, and I don’t feel any need or desire to adopt a human name.” It pulls both hands forward, adjusting its sleeves with idle precision. “My model number will suffice for identification, though I suppose if that’s too many syllables for your limited attention span you may call me some shortening of it. Whatever you settle on.”
It’s gaze lifts back to him, cool and calm once again. Gavin doesn’t think that LED ever even flickered. He can’t find anything to say, isn’t sure he could speak even if he had something to say.
The RK900 tilts its head, hands clasping again, shoulders artificially straight. “All I expect from you is to learn to be professional, Detective Reed. I’m sure you’re capable of it, with the right motivation.” It’s gaze flicks over him, judging even if it doesn’t react. He can feel the derision as it says, “When you’ve collected yourself, I’ll be at your desk. I believe I have a lead or two from your open cases that may be worth investigating. Don’t forget your coffee, Detective.”
He doesn’t get the chance to say anything. The bastard turns, strides out with just a couple steps from those long legs, and is gone, just like that.
Gavin stares after him. He feels blindsided, like someone got off a truly stunning sucker punch before he even knew what was happening, knocking him to the ground and then kicking him in the ribs just for good measure. And the son of a bitch didn’t even have the decency to be smug about it.
He wants to hit something. Hard. Hard enough his knuckles hurt for the rest of the day.
Barely, he manages to curb that impulse. Hitting the tile, or the wall, is only going to maybe break his fingers and piss him off some more, and going out there to punch the android bastard isn’t a good idea. For one, Fowler would bench him fucking instantly, and secondly…
He thinks about how fast the son of a bitch grabbed his wrist. What Connor said (faster, stronger, smarter).
He has to get his fucking shit together before someone else sees him like this.
It takes a couple breaths, and some old memories telling him how to breathe, how to calm down, but Gavin manages to more or less stop himself shaking. Pushing off the counter is a little harder, but he forces that too. Stands there for a second, not looking out into the rest of the precinct and trying to just rein in every destructive thought.
All he has to do, is go out there, sit down, and look at the case files. That’s all. And if the plastic bastard even fucking touches him, then he turns him in to Connor. Easy. It'll be easy.
He picks up his coffee, taking a small swallow. It's only warm.
Motherfucker.