Chapter Text
In the afternoon of a fairly inconspicuous August day, Hank gets a call from none other than Elijah Kamski.
After clearing the rest of their schedules, the Andersons visit CyberLife, as invited to, and are escorted to probably the most secure location on Earth, judging by the security and infrastructure.
Two people are in the room. Elijah, of course, and... Markus.
Elijah starts off as any rich person at an important meeting would--but then, he reveals something that starts to tip the world on its side.
"Androids want families. They want toddlers, children, teenagers; they want to care and nurture their own. Yes, the YK500 is the most advanced, humanlike model, but there's one characteristic missing from them. They never grow up... until now."
Markus takes over. "What Elijah is proposing to you , specifically, is a one and only opportunity. This will never be given to anybody else, and, if you say no, the project can be developed without your input. I want to stress, though, that nothing like this will ever be repeated."
Hank and Connor share a look. "What's the project?" Hank asks, suspicious.
Elijah sighs. "Connor--you remember Amanda, yes?"
Connor blinks away the momentary feeling of shock. "Yes, I... I do. She was based off of your professor from college."
Elijah smiles bittersweetly. "Not just inspired, Connor. For all intents and purposes, she truly was... Amanda Stern."
Connor takes a moment. And then it hits him.
"Wait, you-... no," Connor can feel himself shaking. "She's dead."
"She was," Elijah counters, "or, maybe her spirit is dead, if humans truly do have one. But her personality? Her thoughts, ideas, wishes, and emotions? Connor... that's all mechanical. You're living proof."
Hank looks Elijah dead in the eyes. "And what do you want to do with him, huh? Strap him to a table and start poking and prodding around in his chassis?"
"No, no, I have his entire development history at my fingertips if I truly wanted it," Elijah answers, hands raised in surrender. "What I really want, though, is permission, mostly. From you, Hank."
"Then ask for it," Hank says.
Elijah's demeanor changes, now jarringly sensitive and open. "I'd like your permission to use the identity and personality of your son... Cole."
For a moment, the world stops.
He’s not suggesting... no, that’s not– that’s not... possible.
...is it?
Hank blanches. He doesn’t know much about Amanda, but Connor’s shown him enough memory files to give him a good idea of who she was. No wonder Connor needed a parent so badly after deviating—Amanda was a great instructor, but that demeanor isn’t suitable for guiding someone beneath you... someone who looks up to you and doesn’t want to disappoint you. Is Elijah suggesting a similar process for Cole?
Hank can feel his heart sink in on itself into a small, dense singularity, no longer an organ but now a black hole, gripping onto the walls of his ribcage in a desperate attempt to stay. It sucks the light out of himself the longer he dwells on the outcomes of this situation if he says yes.
God, he shouldn’t even consider it.
“No,” Hank blurts out, stern and unbreakable. He stares down Elijah like he’s staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. All too familiar and not nearly terrifying enough, albeit tears timidly coat his eyes.
Connor grips onto the sleeve of Hank’s coat. “Dad,” He says, voice hushed, and Hank feels something weak in him snap and splinter like a wishbone.
“Let him explain, at least.”
Hank sighs. Connor’s right. “Go on,” Hank says, gesturing to Elijah.
Elijah nods. “We need to create a model verifiably realistic enough to a human child—but, creating a 1-to-1 copy of a living child would make them feel unloved, or replaced. Neglected, essentially. So, since living children are out of the picture... departed ones are the only option. Call it unethical all you want, but if we want to verify that this new model is truly a child, we need someone to compare them to. Cole is the perfect candidate.”
Markus agrees. “This is an exception, only done for research purposes. The process of creating a digital replica of a human mind is too lengthy and time-consuming to be a practical service... that, and knowingly replacing a dead loved one with an inorganic clone for your own comfort is... beyond selfish. In your case, though, not only will Cole’s development and creation help further android science and healthcare, but he’ll finally get a second chance at the life he lost.”
Elijah continues. “Cole won’t be aware that he is an android, and if created properly, he’ll grow up into an adult alongside his peers. Connor would be his older brother, and being an android himself, he can help mitigate and manage any software or hardware issues without Cole knowing. We can simulate and recreate his memories based off of your retellings and any videos or pictures you have of him. As far as he’ll know, he’s been in a coma for the past six years.”
The silence in the room settles on Hank’s shoulders like lead.
He sighs. “How... How much are you asking for?”
Elijah looks off to the side. “Upper thousands. Over the course of a few months, spread out in weekly payments. CyberLife gets more than enough research funding to pick up the back end of a cost for a project like this.”
Connor warily looks over at his father. “Dad... are you...”
Hank closes his eyes, and the image of Cole in the backseat, coughing on his own blood, momentarily flashes onto the back of Hank’s eyelids, permanently burned into his retinas.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes.” He decides. “I’ll do it.”
Elijah clasps his hands in front of himself. “Paperwork is in the folder in front of you.”
Hank opens his eyes, and picks up the manilla folder, thick with all sorts of forms. The first one, upon opening, is an NDA.
This is... real.
Oh, god.
No. No, don’t think about it too hard. It’s for the good of the people. And even if this... new Cole isn’t the exact same, well... Hank could do for a noisier, messier, homier house anyway. He misses it.
He picks up the pen, and starts signing.
The drive home is quiet.
Connor does nothing but stare at the passing scenery, the passenger seat window reflecting his spinning yellow LED. Hank’s pretty sure that if he had one himself, it’d be red more often than not.
“Don’t think about it too hard,” he consoles, gently rubbing Connor’s shoulder. “They’re just using Cole as a jumping off point. They need someone to compare the new model to, is all.”
Connor blinks. “A new model that looks, talks, feels, and interacts exactly like Cole.”
Hank hesitates. “Yeah,” he agrees, eventually. “Just like him.”
They don’t talk much more after that, not even when they get home. Connor retires unusually early for the night, closing the garage door behind him with a tired weight behind it that can only be described as... indescribable. There’s a sense of dread in it, though, some regret. Hank eventually lets Sumo into the garage for the night to hopefully give his son some comfort, though all Sumo does is plop himself down on top of Connor, already asleep in bed by eight.
It’s the kind of tiredness that sleep can’t fix. Hank’s in bed by nine.
Hank wakes up to a loud clatter.
A muffled, whispered curse follows it. Connor, clearly, judging by the time—7:28 AM.
Hank sighs and grumbles as he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Sumo noses his way through the cracked bedroom door, a lot happier than Hank is to be awake.
“What’s he doin’ now, boy?” Hank asks, prompting Sumo to pad into the room and sit at his father’s feet. Sumo just grumbles and pushes his head into Hank’s hand.
“Happy birthday to you...”
Hank freezes.
That’s not what he thinks it is... is it?
Hank gets to his feet, slowly, and wanders into the hallway, peering around the corner to get a view of the living room. There, sat criss-crossed on the floor in front of the TV, surrounded by DvDs in Sharpie-dated cases, is Connor, engrossed in the iPhone video of Cole’s fifth birthday.
“What did you wish for?” A younger Hank says, from behind the camera.
“I want a pony in my room!” Cole answers, eliciting a loud bout of laughter from his party guests, and Connor, as well.
Hank feels his ice cold heart melt. “He was my little cowboy,” he says, still standing in the hall, making Connor jump in his seat and look behind himself, his LED briefly cycling yellow.
Connor rests a hand over his fast-beating thirium pump. “Yeah, I just... I dunno, thought I could start... stocking up on data,” he admits. “I can compartmentalize everything I see into different categories... likes, dislikes, beliefs, attitude, et cetera. I’ve been up for...” Connor blinks, checking the time in his HUD, “...a couple hours,” he says, wearily bringing up a hand to rub at his face. “You and Nell documented a lot.”
Hank shrugs. “The wife made me do it,” he says, continuing further into the living room and sitting down on the couch. “She put everything on some digital cloud-server-bullshit thing. I kept all the physical copies,” he explains, a little bit of smugness in his tone. “There should be some photo albums in the garage, too,” he adds.
“That’s what I started with,” Connor says. “I scanned them all and sorted them into... well, technically they’re all important, but some more so than others—birthdays, holidays, family reunions, just to name a few. He won’t remember anything lengthy or specific from before age 3, but the emotions he felt would stay around, so any media from his toddler years is still important,” he clarifies, his gaze back to the screen as he watches a video of Cole riding a bike with no training wheels.
Hank watches, too, nostalgic at the sight of Cole’s gap-toothed grin, partly from losing some baby teeth the year prior and partly from having them grow in a little spread out. Nell always said that Cole would need braces as soon as his adult teeth came in, but Hank couldn’t help but feel a little heartbroken at the thought of Cole losing his charming snaggle tooth smile.
The video ends, and another one starts, this one filmed vertically. Cole looks to be sitting in a camping chair a good two sizes too big for him, a metal stick in his hand complete with a marshmallow at the end, dangling dangerously close to the fire. Hank’s instinct to film in that moment was right, as Cole’s marshmallow catches on fire, and his eyes widen as big as saucers at the sight of the flaming marshmallow in his possession. He freaks out a bit, before Nell leans over into the frame and starts blowing on it, quickly putting out the flames. Cole stays blank for a moment, before giggling the sweetest laugh Hank’s ever heard. No wonder why this one was put on a DvD.
For the next hour, Hank and Connor stay in the living room, watching video after video of Cole and his goofy escapades, one viewer cataloging information, and the other, reminiscing.