Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
┃ NOVEMBER 12th, 2038
11.30 P.M.
You're supposed to unwind tonight. Hanging out at your partner's place, down a few drinks, watching an obscure crime documentary to have something superficial to chat about and not argue for once—that’s the plan, anyway. But he's making it difficult to stick to it. The thought gnawing at the back of your head. The subject of your latest research and upcoming interrogation. You hope Gavin doesn't notice.
The living room you're lounging in is blanketed in darkness, save for the distant flicker of city lights spilling through the main window, casting a sliver of light on your unamused faces. The hustle and bustle of the busy streets of Detroit filters in from the outside, the sounds merging in a haphazard concoction—a police siren, the rumble of cars rolling on asphalt, the monotone hum of surveillance drones. The atmosphere, the familiarity of it all, is all too comforting. Until it isn't.
The TV’s unsteady glow reflects across the coffee table by your feet, encumbered with half-empty cartons of takeout and a couple of cheap beer bottles. A tabby cat, drawn in by the scent of food, leaps onto it and makes an even bigger mess as it clambers over everything.
With a tired sigh, Gavin tries to stretch out on the couch, groaning as pain flares in his injured arm, trapped in a cast. Lazily, he slings the other one over the backrest, tapping the cushion to urge your cat over. The crime show you're supposed to be watching is still on, but you can tell he isn’t really paying attention. His focus is on you.
“You look tense,” he states, cutting through the silence. His green eyes glint in the dark, a wild, careless quality to them.
You shift in your seat, exhaling tiredly as you pause drinking your beer mid-sip. “Well, tomorrow's the day.”
Gavin flashes you a knowing smirk. “Yeah, the day the plastic prick finally pays for what he did.”
You don’t respond.
But he won't let up, a crass bout of laughter ensuing. “I bet he'll cry and beg for his life like a little bitch.”
But of course, Gavin would be hyped about tomorrow's hearing. After all, it's his arch nemesis you'll be questioning, a former detective colleague of his who so happens to be android prototype model RK800 of the Connor series. The infamous deviant hunter turned deviant himself. The accusations against him are grave: he killed two human guards at CyberLife Tower at the height of the android revolution that took place during the night of November 11th, on top of a series of rogue androids during his time as an enforcer.
His case has officially been deemed as a political matter, one the Detroit Police Department he was assigned to can't possibly handle by itself due to how controversial it is, so the federal government had to step in through the jurisdiction of the newly established Department of Android Affairs.
As a CyberLife-based android behavioral analyst, you’ve been tasked to interrogate him ahead of the trial that will officially determine his fate.
You've read about him extensively, and yet, you won't allow yourself to form a definitive opinion on him until you meet him face to face and actually talk to him. That is, if he's willing to open up to you at all. Gavin, on the other hand, seems to have already made up his mind about him, which doesn't surprise you, considering how stubborn he is. You really can't get behind his negative bias towards androids.
You turn to him, an unamused frown on you. “You really hate the guy, don't you?”
“Of course, I do,” Gavin retorts, nonplussed. “He's the worst. Plays nice, pretends to be one of us, and then—” He makes a clicking sound, mimicking a gun being fired with a flick of his fingers. “Drops bodies on bodies without blinking.”
You don’t respond right away, because deep down, you know he’s not completely wrong. But then again, he's also a raging synthophobe, so his opinions on androids are skewed in that sense.
Gathering your frazzled thoughts, you exhale deeply through your nose, rubbing your temples as the weariness from the night kicks in. “I wouldn't be so sure about that. There must have been some valid reason for him to resort to violence.”
Gavin lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Are you kidding?” He leans forward slightly, setting his beer down hard on the table. “Are you seriously defending a phcking killbot?”
“Look, all I'm saying is we should hear his side of the story first before jumping to conclusions.” Your opinion is met by Gavin’s mocking snort.
“Unbelievable. I guess dealing with all this android psychology crap for a living has rotted your brain completely,” he says with an air of sufficiency, his biting words impacting you more than you care to admit.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been quiet until Gavin nudges your knee with his, relentlessly teasing you. “Can’t believe you’ve gone from a nobody intern slaving away at CyberLife doing stupid Turing Tests all day to handling The Connor’s case.” He smirks wickedly. “Damn. Are you gonna become famous on me or something?” If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was proud of you for how far you've come. Too bad he can't be a supportive boyfriend to save his life. “Just my luck.”
You give him a lopsided smirk. “Hardly.”
Gavin chuckles, but then his expression changes into a more brooding one, his deepened eye bags and bruises on his face giving him a gruffer look. He leans back against the couch, mindlessly petting your cat that has taken to napping on the couch’s plush cushions. “It’s kinda funny, isn’t it? How you're working for the same company that built the tin cans ruining everything—and now, what, even preventing Connor from getting shut down for good?"
You sigh with exasperation, knowing full well he's trying to rile you up, wanting to see how long it takes for you to finally snap. You won't give him that satisfaction. “I’ll just make a behavioral assessment, nothing more. It's not up to me to decide whether or not he gets detained or destroyed. At least, not fully. That is, if he chooses to speak up tomorrow. I'm afraid things will take a very dark turn if he doesn't.”
“I swear to God, if they bring him back to the DPD after everything—” Gavin rolls his eyes, his tone turning petulant.
“I wouldn't rule out that possibility. CyberLife would do anything to keep him under control.” You pause, unsure whether to tell Gavin the whole truth or keep it to yourself. Your instinct prevails. “This is confidential, so if anyone asks, you didn't hear it from me, but,” you say eventually, “apparently, the plan is to put Connor on probation with an ankle monitor for a while instead of straight-up disassembling him. It's an attempt at damage control, I take it. His execution would be frowned upon and wreck public opinion.”
Gavin huffs, muttering his next words, “But of course. Can't exactly get rid of a celebrity like him.”
Suddenly, you're rethinking your decision to share so many details about Connor's case with Gavin when you're aware how influential and tethered in political intrigue it is, such in stark contrast to the usual routine checkups at CyberLife's headquarters you're used to. Still, you feel as though Gavin would find out about the specifics of your mandate regardless with how nosy he is, so you might as well not gatekeep them. You only hope his prying is borne out of good faith, and that he'll act sensibly enough to not let the information slip, especially around the wrong people.
When you speak again, your voice is softer and more measured as if you're trying to defuse the tension between you, “I feel like CyberLife’s strategy is to bide its time for now, observe how the masses react to the new state of things, and act accordingly.”
“And how exactly do you know all this?” Gavin regards you with a look of thinly veiled suspicion, his eyes narrowing in the dark.
“I'm not a CyberLife operative for nothing.” You shrug, taking another sip of beer with nonchalance. “Which means I have access to all the juicy robot gossip before it is released to the public. Majority of it, at least. Cyberlife sure knows how to keep secrets,” you add, a sly smirk accompanying your words.
“Oh, yeah?” Gavin taunts you, mirroring your playfulness.
“Like how they’re meaning to send an upgraded version of the Connor model to the DPD. They call it the RK900—sturdier, smarter, and more resilient than its predecessor. A true phenomenon.” You don't miss the way Gavin's face morphs into the picture of absolute disgust and horror at that which rouses an amused chuckle out of you. So you keep going, loving the effect your words have on him, “I’ve had the pleasure to perform a preliminary assessment on it when it was in its early stages of testing. Just making sure its social protocol held up to its designated prerequisites, you know, the usual stuff.”
“Yeah, the stuff that got you up all night, analysing data when we could have been going out for once,” Gavin talks back with an attitude, his lips crumpling in a pained grimace, presumably due to the persisting ache in his arm.
You roll your eyes at him. “Anyway,” you ignore his spiteful comment. “Guy's got no chill. I wonder why they made him so… dull. Literally just a war machine in a synthetic skin suit. I guess he does have a quaint sense of humor, though, for some reason. Makes you wonder what it would be useful for.”
“How great.” Gavin flashes you a forced smile, baring his teeth. “Just when I thought I'd gotten rid of one annoying mech-head, another one takes his place.” Upon your lack of response, Gavin mutters something vulgar under his breath, before his voice raises again and he snaps, “Man, I can't believe this shit.” He then picks up a cigarette from its pack, rolling it between his fingers. You help him light it since one of his hands is incapacitated. “Shitty ass government with his shitty ass laws. What's next? Giving these glorified Roombas the same rights as us?”
“Seems like we're headed that way,” you reply flatly.
“Warren’s government, everyone. I guess that's what happens when you turn an influencer into a politician,” Gavin rants endlessly.
Your brows crease in confusion. “I'm sorry, what else was she supposed to do? You've seen the live broadcast, the thousands of androids fighting by Markus' side at Hart Plaza… The ceasefire prevented a literal carnage.”
“Then, shouldn't Markus be apprehended as well? He's the one who started the riot, isn't he? Why isn't he behind bars?”
“The deviants of Jericho cover his back. He's like a savior to them. They won't let any officer near him,” you state coldly. “Besides, messing with him would mean causing a second revolt. I don't think anyone is ready for that,” you let out, watching as Gavin nervously taps his cigarette against the ashtray. “They reside at Woodward church for now, but rumor has it they're planning to relocate to a new safe hold…”
“So he's too big to take down, got it.” Gavin gestures vaguely.
“Sure, but also, I don't believe he has caused any civilian casualties before the war broke out. Could be why they're not incriminating him. But Connor? He'll be easier to make an example of.”
“A scapegoat, uh?”
“I guess it doesn't help that he is still in all respects a CyberLife agent, regardless of whether or not he likes it. I don't think the deviants of Jericho are too fond of him either, considering his past.” You shrug, realizing just how serious his plight is.
“I’m sorry, but you won't catch me ever sympathizing with him. He has gone berserk, gunned down two of our kind just to prove a point.” Gavin exhales sharply, the greyish smoke tumbling out of his lips curling into the air. “They better fry his circuits, stat.”
“Humans have killed countless deviants though. He was just playing his part to lead his people to victory,” you try to reason with him, though you don't expect Gavin to take your word for it since public opinion is still rightfully divided on the topic of android rights and you know very little about how deviancy truly works since nobody at CyberLife has really given any exhaustive explanation on it both to the public and its employees.
Gavin laughs dryly around his nicotine stick. “Right. People. That’s why they don’t breathe, don’t eat, don’t—” He cuts himself off, donning a deepened sulk. “He’s a phcking murderer, for God's sake. I don't care if he's a deviant. That doesn't excuse anything. Have you forgotten what he's done to me?” He glares at his cast.
You sigh. “No, I haven't.”
“I've been in the hospital for two days. Two days, because he decided to go full Terminator on my ass for simply stepping into the evidence room.”
“Agent Perkins told me they found a gun on you.” You stare at him blankly. “You wanted to hurt him.”
“What? You’re buddies with the FBI, too now?” Gavin presses on vehemently. “CyberLife's paycheck wasn't fat enough, so you're dipping your toes in their territory?”
You really don't want to answer him, but you decide it's best if you do. Again, Gavin may be annoying all he wants, but he is also attentive enough that nothing ever gets past him. “We've recently made contact, yes,” you confess, your head hung low. “But it's not what you think. It was just so I could garner a comprehensive understanding of Connor's case, down to every detail. That’s it.”
“Then answer me this, smartass.” Gavin’s eyes narrow, his tone defensive. “What was Connor doing in there anyway? Wasn't he supposed to go back to CyberLife like a good little robot?”
You sigh, looking up at the ceiling, before meeting Gavin's eyes again. “Apparently, he was there to garner intel to locate Jericho and subsequently the deviant leader to kill him. Then he turned deviant, and well, the rest is history.”
“Man, this is giving me a phcking headache,” Gavin mutters as, with a firm twist, he snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray, leaving behind a smoldering trace.
You let Gavin's words hang in the air as you take another sip of beer, trying to keep your cool even though you already feel your blood boiling from his provocations.
The TV show you're both ignoring drones in the background—from what little you've been able to understand about the case in question, it seems to involve the serial murdering of androids for ritualistic purposes. As much as it's making your stomach churn, you'll subject your poor ears to anything but Channel 16 hosts rambling about the android revolution on a loop. Since deviant leader Markus liberated the android camps around midnight today, he's been all over the news, and you need a break from it all. At least for tonight.
“Why can't this android craze stop so we can go back to living without all these murder machines running around, causing problems,” Gavin laments, but then he stops himself, picking up on how you've disengaged from the conversation. “Whatever. Why am I even bothering to try to explain this to you? You phcking study those freaks.”
You don’t respond this time. Instead, you just watch him, the way the light of the TV casts harsh shadows across his face. Sometimes you wonder why you still keep up with him, two years and counting. Yours is really an accidental romance, derived from mutual acquaintances, sustained for the sake of convenience and the little chemistry and twisted humor that keep it alive. Just two contrasting personalities, fuelling each other's fire to your detriment.
When you hear Gavin complain again, you know you've reached your limit, “Seriously, out of all the jobs you could possibly have—”
“I’m not going to quit my job just because it makes you uncomfortable, Gav,” you let out, giving in to his taunting once and for all. Your cat leaps off the couch at that, startled by your loud voice, scampering away to its food bowl.
Gavin's head whips toward you, his brows furrowing. "Just don't phcking talk about it."
“You were the one who asked me why I was tense!?”
“Well, I don't want to hear it. I'm sick and tired of hearing you yap about these phcking machines all day.”
You stare at him, feeling your pulse pound in your ears. He just glares, breathing heavily, waiting for you to push back, and you do, soon enough. “Why do you hate androids so much anyway? Is there something you're not telling me?”
“Do I need a reason to be?” He's lying, it's obvious. “I just hate them, that's all.”
"And I hate it when you come home late without a fucking explanation!” you yell, completely out of it.
The accusation lands hard. Gavin's jaw tightens, and his tone becomes harsher. "What now? I can't even go out for drinks, what the phck?"
"Always by yourself, always at the same hour..."
"You keeping tabs on me?"
“I'm your girlfriend, duh? How can I know for sure you're not seeing someone else?”
"That's rich coming from you,” Gavin comments bitterly. “Always buried in files, always in your head about whatever android shit they’ve got you analyzing this time. You never have time for me.”
“The call is coming from inside the house, Gav.” You give him a death glare. “Maybe I'm just passionate about my job, you should try it sometime.”
“You know what?” He’s getting angrier, no chance of de-escalating the argument now. “Get yourself a phcking android since that's all you care about."
That's it, you're done dealing with him for tonight. “Just… piss off. Don't talk to me, ever.”
Quitting the couch, you grab your things and head for the front door as Gavin keeps cursing at you, knowing full well you'll be back at his apartment tomorrow where the cycle of break up and make up will begin again as if nothing happened.
┃ NOVEMBER 13th, 2038
9.25 A.M.
It should be any moment now.
You stare at the empty chair across from you, your breath catching.
Connor will be here soon.
Your gaze drifts briefly down to the case file in your hands, the papers’ edges worn from how many times you've gone over it. His odds aren't exactly in his favor. You sigh, laying the record down on the table.
You can't lie, you are terribly nervous at the idea of meeting him up close, which doesn't make much sense considering you've worked with countless androids throughout your career. Back at CyberLife, you devoted most of your time refining machine’s behavioral frameworks and making sure they passed the Turing Test, evaluating their pre-installed social protocols before public release. But this… this is different. This isn’t clean-cut research or sterile data analysis.
This is real. Connor RK800 is real.
The media can’t get enough of him. The thing is, Connor's an outlier in every sense, and, following the events of the revolution, somewhat of a public figure. Yet, his reputation remains highly divisive. To some, he is a hero, proof that artificial life can evolve beyond its code. To others, he is a threat, a walking anomaly that never should have been allowed to exist.
Which means you can't make any wrong move when dealing with him, unless you want to be called out on national television over it.
Exhaling slowly through your nose, you press your palms flat against the sleek fabric of your uniform in a soothing motion. You keep telling yourself you shouldn’t be this anxious, but your fickle nerves betray you.
You breathe in and out.
No pressure.
The interrogation room is cold, fitted in smooth, blinding-white walls, and flickering neons too harsh for your pupils. It’s an alienating, impersonal nook within a high-security government facility—more of a containment space than anything. You expect no less for the oversight of a politically sensitive, highly classified case like this one.
To make things worse, there are no windows in sight, only a single steel table at the center, and a one-way mirrored panel stretching across the far wall, a group of high-brow officials looking in from the other side.
Two armed security officers stand by the only exit, their presence reassuring as it is menacing. No one knows how far deviant androids can be pushed before they snap, and although Connor hasn’t reportedly shown signs of aggression since being apprehended shortly after the revolution, he is still dangerous by design.
The silence throughout is deeply unsettling as you wait for him to show up. In the meantime, you boot up the tablet-shaped device you’re required to use: it's an air-gapped monitor operating in a closed loop, meaning it is disconnected from external networks and completely immune to external tampering, such as hacking attempts, although manual calibrations are feasible if necessary.
This avant-garde technology will allow you to keep track of Connor's stress levels throughout the interrogation by collecting his biometric data—thirium flow rate, processing speed fluctuations, voice pattern shifts and all that fun stuff. In other words, it's a very fancy, overly convoluted excuse for a lie detector.
You're sure it will prove particularly useful in this setting, especially considering the android’s track record at being a very good liar and manipulator according to reliable sources, namely, Lieutenant Hank Anderson’s testimony. He's one of Connor's former DPD colleagues and close friend, who's reportedly played a key role in his escape from CyberLife’s warehouse when things went south.
Not long after you're done setting up your monitor, the door hisses open, and you have to stifle a gasp. Heavy footsteps echo through the room, and then, for the first time, you see him—Connor, escorted in by two sturdy men in uniform, hands cuffed. You can't help but stare. He is… exactly as he was described in the reports, although surprisingly taller. He has his designated jacket on, but it's tattered, the shirt under it undone, exposing his synthskin.
The guards manhandling him can barely keep him in line as he tries to wrestle his way out of their hold, muttering a string of curses under his breath. And yet, with every abrupt movement he makes, his cuffs emit an electric buzz that temporarily stuns him, coaxing him into submission. It's hard to tell whether he's angry, scared, or something in between, but one thing you're sure of: he wants out and quickly, judging by how his gaze continuously scans the room for exits.
“Let me go, I didn't do anything!” you hear him yell frantically before one of the guards grabs him by the hair and forces him down onto the chair in front of you with a dull thud.
"Sit," orders the man, anchoring himself beside Connor to keep a watchful eye on him whilst the other guard stations himself on the other side. Their hands stay on the guns strapped to their hips.
“Careful when you handle it,” you tell the two men, your tone strict. At the sound of your voice, Connor lifts his head, and that's when you notice his vital fluid, thirium, leaking out of his nose, his gaze worryingly jaded. You swallow thickly at the sight. “CyberLife wants it unharm—”
“I'm not going back to CyberLife, am I?” Connor asks you in a pleading manner, his brown eyes growing big and glossy. The sound of his voice is jarring. You expected something more mechanical from him, more metallic. But no, it's pleasant. Almost… warm.
You straighten in your chair.
Don't let him get to you.
"Relax," you say, mentally reminding yourself of the same thing. “You’re only making this worse for yourself." Your voice is firm but unintentionally sweet. Although Connor's still visibly panicking, his breath coming in shallow bursts, you can feel him stabilize a little.
To confirm this, you ask Connor to wirelessly connect himself to your monitor. After a bout of initial resistance that ends with one of the guards hitting him with his nightstick and threatening him to pull out his main bio component, Connor complies, and you acquire a real-time readout of his internal processing.
The device beeps incessantly to notify you of a staggering 20% increase in his stress levels, amounting to 77% and spiking higher and higher, past the safe threshold.
"Maybe we should end this here, Doctor," one of the officers behind the glass door lets out, to which the guard next to Connor grabs him by the shoulder to keep him seated. "If it self-destructs—"
You raise a hand, cutting him off. "I’ve got it under control," you tell him, maintaining calm, your stare landing on Connor’s LED, blinking an alarming red hue. “I know what I'm doing.”
The officer hesitates, his gaze flicking between you and Connor, before nodding slowly.
He trusts you.
They all do.
The guards slightly step back from Connor, letting him be for the moment, though their hands never fully move away from their weapons.
You got this.
"Let's proceed, shall we?" You don’t waste any time, curtly introducing yourself before you begin the interrogation.
Connor's LED flickers yellow for a fraction of a second as he presumably registers the power dynamics at play. His eyes stay on you, unwavering, and that's when you notice he's actually quite handsome, for all intents and purposes. But it's just a useless detail, it shouldn't matter… too much.
Your head stays held high, your eye contact never faltering. If he catches your guard lowering, it's over. You can't let him get under your skin. To regain control of the situation, you remind yourself of why you’re here. Of what he’s done. Of how important it is that he gets a fitting punishment for the crimes he has allegedly committed. You can't show hesitance, nor pity. Besides, with how much they're paying you for this job you better not fuck this up.
The overhead light flickers slightly. Security cameras are scattered everywhere, recording everything.
You open the file in front of you. The evidence against him is clear and undeniable: he's caused two human casualties during an altercation at CyberLife Tower, which he infiltrated to deviate as many androids as possible through means of conversion.
You look at Connor. He’s not causing a scene anymore, his agitated state simmering down to a quiet, unamused demeanor. He doesn’t even blink, just waits for you to say or do anything. He’s been in your position before—sitting at the other side of the interrogation table, that is—he knows exactly how this works.
You take a deep breath before speaking.
“State your serial number for the record.”
Connor squints, his lips pursed to a thin line. Dare you say, he looks… offended you brought up his most-hated identifier.
The pause that follows your words is long. So long, one of the guards smacks Connor’s nape, urging him to speak.
“I suggest you cooperate.” You remain stoic, relaxing your shoulders and channeling a more lax attitude.
Connor's LED flickers yellow before he speaks, "313 248 317 53—"
You don't let him finish. “Two Connor models were destroyed before you, is that correct?”
He nods silently, but the subtle shift in his otherwise blank expression betrays an underlying current of unease.
You slide a set of gruesome pictures across the table, your fingers brushing lightly over their glossy surfaces. You try your best to appear detached at the sight, rehearsing your best neutral expression as you present to him visual proof of his many deaths. Connor notably winces as he reviews the photographs of his shattered counterparts… their hollow, lifeless eyes, the thirium rolling down their forehead and chest in rivulets. It's almost cute how he tries to hide how much he's affected by the goriness of it all by looking away, unbeknownst to the fact that you can read him to filth.
You take the floor again, your inflection impossibly even. “One fell off a building along with a PL600 rogue unit during a hostage situation at the Philips' residence. The other had his main bio component ripped from his chassis by a deviant JB300 unit at Stratford Tower.”
You watch Connor carefully, noting the slight twitch of his jaw as he absorbs the content of those images. He nods without saying a word again, his distress deepening.
You keep talking, never missing a beat. "Can you confirm that their memories have successfully been backed up in your new body?"
He pauses, his dark eyes narrowing. "I don't see how that's relevant to the—"
"Trust me, it is," you cut in, making it clear there's no room for evasion. “I'd advise you to comply with my instructions, lest we extrapolate the truth via more… coercive methods.”
He falls silent. After a beat, he gives another small nod. You take that as a sign that you can press forward with your inquiry, not allowing any more distractions.
"Where did you reside after the Jericho raid?"
You catch the slightest flicker of doubt in Connor's gaze before he schools his features back into neutrality. His response feels almost too detached, the stiffness in his posture speaking volumes about how uncomfortable he is. “Woodward church. I fled there with the surviving deviants.”
You nod, tapping your fingers on the table, each strike punctuating the stillness engulfing the room. "Now that that's out of the way…” You sigh. “Do you know why you're here today?"
He doesn't say a word. Just stares at you, unblinkingly. So you fill the silence for him.
“You’re suspected of killing two human guards at CyberLife Tower, located in Belle-Isle," you state firmly, whipping out a set of pictures from a thick folder, laying them out for him. "We found the bodies. The bullet casings." You lean forward, squinting at him with an accusatory edge. "You shot them."
“I did.” There's no hesitation on his part this time. He comes clean with a simple statement of fact. “It was self-defense.” His words are final. No remorse is detected in his voice. But he's lying to you. Your monitor confirms it.
You lean back in your chair, your body buzzing with tension. The stakes are sky high, no wonder you're reacting so strongly to this.
You exhale slowly, your eyes never leaving his. "Was it, really?"
His LED flickers again. Yellow. Red. Yellow again. You notice that. But before you can point it out, he speaks up, "You're getting nervous, Doctor, why is that?" Connor asks, his voice smoother, a strange playfulness seeping through. He sounds nothing like he did before, the sudden switch-up stunning you.
Your jaw tightens. “What?”
"Do I make you nervous?” It’s the way he says it, in a tone so matter-of-fact that sticks with you and makes your skin crawl. His eyes darken, a wild glint flashing in them. The way they remain locked on you throughout all this tells you he's trying to read you too, down to your micro-expressions, to gain footing in your back and forth. No longer closed off and guarded, his energy is starting to match the boldness of his words, and now you feel cornered.
“I believe I'm the one asking the questions here, thank you very much,” you snap with a touch of snarkiness, composing yourself just as quickly as you were beginning to fall apart. His persuasive tricks are no joke, but you've read enough about him to know that he's not to be trusted. So you go along with your prying like nothing happened.
“What about Markus? Did he force you to infiltrate the warehouse by yourself on November 11th, or was that your idea?” you ask, jotting down notes here and there to keep a neat log of his confessions in an old-fashioned notepad. Any high-tech tablet just won't do, not when Connor can potentially hack into it and corrupt its data.
The android's shoulders sag as he graces you with a predictably monosyllabic answer. “Mine.”
“Your mission was to assist Markus and his people in freeing the androids by converting them,” you keep going, a slight nervousness seeping into your tone. “That didn’t require killing humans.”
Connor's LED flickers briefly, spinning from yellow to blue, which for some reason creeps you out because he's not supposed to be calm in a situation like this.
"They would have shot me on sight if I didn't fight back," he argues quietly.
You lean forward, searching for something—anything—in Connor's expression that would suggest he feels any guilt over what he did. But with how good he is at not letting his feelings transpire, you struggle to find it. To make this worse, your monitor is signaling that he's still lying to you. He may have felt threatened by those guards, yes, but they didn't initiate the attack. He did. That much is clear.
You could end this now—write him off as an unstable threat to society, too great to be allowed to continue functioning. He could be jailed, or worse, disassembled if the law deems your findings sufficient. But maybe he doesn't deserve it. Maybe there's more to his story that deserves to be brought to light.
You glance at the one-way mirror, knowing the officers behind it are waiting expectantly for you to wrap this up and determine whether or not he's mentally sound enough to be reintroduced back into a system that's anything but accepting of deviant androids despite the government trying so hard to promote a supportive attitude towards them.
Although it's not up to you to issue the final verdict regarding Connor's fate as that falls within the jury's responsibility, your assessment is still to be taken into account to get on with further legal proceedings so it's in everyone’s best interest that you remain thorough in your approach and not half-ass it.
Your voice is quieter, less intimidating, when you speak again. “You do realize you could have incapacitated them long enough to carry out the conversions, don’t you? So why kill them?”
Connor's LED suddenly flickers red at your question, but it’s replaced by yellow just as fast. His jaw tenses involuntarily as his gaze wanders, his body language betraying a rare trace of fragility. Of humanity.
Maybe this person in front of you is just someone who doesn’t know how to live with what he’s done. Or maybe he doesn't really care and is just hoping to get bail.
“It was an accident, a-a lapse of judgement. I was just defending myself,” he says, his voice faltering. The glaring readings on the lie detector tell you all you need to know.
“I see,” you say, then switch the subject to allow him some breathing room, your gaze flitting between your monitor and Connor's face. “Now, before the events of the revolution, I've read of two Traci units you shot at the ‘Eden Club’. Can you confirm this?"
The silence between you stretches on, until it's too much. With a slow, shaky exhale, Connor answers, “I was just doing my job. They had been deemed dangerous, and I was sent by CyberLife to eliminate them. That was before I deviated, of course.”
You hold his gaze, writing more and more notes on your notepad. “Does that mean you regret killing them?”
His eyes remain fixed on you, unyielding. It's almost too much to bear. “I do,” he replies flatly. “Of course I do.”
You smirk subtly. This time, he's telling the truth. “So, as a deviant, would you say you experience empathy?” you challenge him, knowing you've got him right where you need him.
Connor’s LED flickers once more, suggesting a blip in his internal processing. He interjects, “I fail to see how this is useful to the interrogation.”
“Just answer the question,” you cut in uncompromisingly.
He nods, his posture stiffening. “Yes. I do experience empathy and other human emotions.”
An imperceptible smile curves your lips. It's nice that he's finally starting to open up, it will make your job easier for sure. “Which I'm assuming is why you spared android model RT600, owned by Mr. Elijah Kamski on November 9th, correct?”
Connor's eyes narrow at your unexpected query. He doesn't reply.
“If you don't cooperate, there's a high chance you'll be deactivated. Consider that before you think about ignoring my questions again,” you inform him coldly, even though you're seriously starting to cave in to the pity and the heartache of his predicament.
Connor's fingers flex against the tabletop, and you note the slight shakiness of his hands, the way his gaze turns vacant and bleared. “I'm sorry. I'll do better.”
You nod, keeping an eye on your monitor as you ask, “So, tell me, Connor, how do you feel now?”
"Fine," he replies, but his voice is too frail for him to be taken seriously. "I'm functioning within normal parameters."
"You're shaking," you point out, feeling a mix of dread and fascination at the way he falls apart the more you further the interrogation, as if he can no longer keep up with the act he's created for himself.
"I'm not," he counters, too fast, too defensive.
You shrug, exchanging a quick, knowing look with the armed officer stationed next to Connor. The android forces out a deep breath, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
Tapping your pen against the notepad, you continue questioning him, "Are you familiar with other emotional states? What about anger… hatred?"
The low buzz of the room’s LEDs is getting on your nerves. That and the way Connor now sits unnervingly still, his head hung low like he's in stasis. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll refuse to speak.
“I suppose I can feel those, yes,” he finally admits.
You tilt your head slightly. "Have you?"
“I think so.”
“Towards who?”
His gaze wanders to the observation window. There’s something guarded in his expression now. “Amanda Stern. My AI handler.”
“Why?”
A couple of seconds pass before he’s heard again. "She tried resuming control of me during Markus’ speech after he liberated the camps," he confesses, his voice small. "But I resisted the attempt."
You jot down his words, watching him carefully. “How?”
A pause. The longest yet. His fingers tighten slightly against his thigh.
“I… don’t know.”
“You’re not telling the whole truth, Connor.”
His LED flashes red. “I really don’t know. Please.”
You stare at the guard beside him, deadpan, as if silently asking for their help. If Connor keeps overreacting like this, you're not going to make any progress.
And then he speaks again, his tone frantic, clipped, “These questions…” his lower lip trembles, “Is CyberLife trying to police my deviancy?”
You exhale slowly, flipping through the case file in front of you before shutting it. “You’re on trial for the murder of two human beings,” you begin, feeling sick and tired of sugarcoating things. “We at CyberLife only want to determine whether or not you’re a threat to the safety of all moving forward. That’s all. No funny business.”
Connor's LED pulses red again, his stress levels rising steadily to the point you're starting to consider if it's really a good idea to keep the investigation going. You will, for now.
You study him for a moment longer, before asking, “Next question. Have you ever experienced affection?”
“Define affection.”
“A gentle feeling of fondness or liking.”
“I—” His stress levels begin to lower gradually, what a relief. “I suppose so.”
You nod absently, letting slip, “My records mention you having a friendly rapport with Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Is it true?”
It takes a moment for Connor to answer, but when he does, his lips crease into the shadow of a grin. “Yes, we became close whilst working together at the DPD.”
You keep writing down notes. “Have you ever caused harm to him or any other human officer at the precinct?”
“If anything, it's the other way around.”
His words pique your interest. “Please elaborate.”
“Some of my human colleagues have been particularly hostile towards me,” Connor lets out, biting the inside of his cheek. “Detective Gavin Reed comes to mind.”
Hearing that, you have to stop yourself from smirking, forcibly schooling your expression into one of neutrality. “We’ll look into his behavior. Thank you for the information.”
As you're reaching the end of the interrogation, you flip through the set of pictures that have been embedded in the report you were consulting, when a particular one slips out. It displays an android identical to Connor lying lifeless on the ground with a bullet hole in its head. You’re about to ask Connor about it when you are reminded about Markus and how you have failed to ask him anything substantial about the deviant leader so far. So you do.
“What about Markus? Are you still in contact with him?” you bring up, wishing the question doesn't destabilize Connor to the point of a notable stress level increase. And yet, your worst fear happens as Connor’s mood significantly alters, his LED turning red again, his stress levels picking up. You don't even get to hear his response that your monitor warns you of his impending self-destruction.
“Okay, let's stop here,” you tell the guards in the room, shutting down your device for good. Connor disconnects from it in a blink, the beeping on your monitor slowing down, and finally, flatlining. His LED is still flashing erratically as the two armed officers circling him try to hoist him up, but you gesture at them to halt.
“Wait,” you say. All eyes are on you now. Connor’s LED gradually stabilizes to yellow, but his posture remains rigid as he waits for you to speak, his eyes wide in what you can only presume is the android's equivalent of fear.
You rise from your chair. Then, taking a deep breath, you turn to Connor and reassure him, “Thank you for cooperating. We won't be asking anymore questions.”
The android nods quietly, the smallest of smiles curving his lips. You hope your statement alleviates his worries enough to keep his panicked state from worsening. “I’ve got good news for you,” you begin, catching his attention again. “You won’t be charged for the deviants you killed.” With that, you exhale a shaky breath as the stress from the tense situation catches up to you. “At the time, they were considered threats, and CyberLife had given you direct orders to neutralize them. Legally, that places you under the same protection as any soldier following wartime directives.”
You spot the minute relaxation in his shoulders, but the rest of him is still in shambles. It's a miracle he's still somewhat alert.
“However,” you add, your tone sharp, “you will be prosecuted for the deaths of the two human guards you've caused.”
His gaze flicks up to you—a storm of raging, confused feelings flashing across it. You try to deliver your words mindfully, softening the inevitable blow they will bring him. “Though since you’ve been found to have acted in self-defense, your sentence may be more lenient.”
His stare turns doubtful for a moment, then you swear you spot the tiniest glimpse of gratefulness shining through. Is he aware of what you did? Of the fact that you tweaked the monitor’s findings in his favor? Is an android of his caliber familiar with the workings of such a device?
You don't want to know. So you continue talking, “Your court trial is set for next week. Until then, you will be kept in custody.”
Before Connor can even react to the hopeful news, one of the guards pushes him down onto the table, exposing the back of his neck where his charging port is lodged. You watch wordlessly as he manhandles him to hinder his movements. He's trying to oppose resistance, but to no avail. It's clear that they found a way to weaken his body, since an android like him is considerably stronger than humans when in its optimal state.
“Get him under,” the guard tells his colleague, who pulls out what you assume is a tranquilizer dart designed for androids and sticks it into the opening on his nape.
As the weird substance injected into his system takes immediate effect, Connor’s body begins to slump within seconds, before going completely limp. A stifled groan later, he loses consciousness.
You take a step forward, your heart pounding, but you stop when the guards begin to carry Connor’s still form towards the exit, preparing to transport him to his cell.
“Just one more thing,” you speak frantically, before they can bring him away. “Don’t damage him. Or you're going to hear from CyberLife.”
“Him?” The guards exchange a suspicious look but then ease up, nodding to your utmost relief.
As they start to drag Connor out of the interrogation room, something slips out of his jacket, catching the light. With a soft ‘clink,’ the small, round object hits the ground, rolling on its axis before it lands flatly on it.
A quarter coin.
You crouch down, your fingers brushing over it, and then, without thinking, you curiously pick it up. A carving on its surface spells out the word ‘liberty’.
Uh.
You put it into your bag.
It's going home with you.
Chapter 2: Look alive, sunshine
Summary:
“I'm yellow, he was blue
It's nothing that he could hide
We made a green meadow
Whenever we would collide (she's my collar).”
🎧
Notes:
I'm glad that you guys are vibing with the story's concept, your comments/feedback are always so so cherished and appreciated 🫶🏻🖤
Had lots of fun with world-building and character studies in this chappie. Btw, I don't have a fixed update schedule yet bcs I don't like to rush stuff but a chapter a month will do (hopefully).
For the record, reader/mc is AFAB and female presenting but there won't be any in-depth descriptions of her appearance to ensure inclusivity for all body types, skin tones etc. Rest assured she's canonically a hottie though ;)
Fic is slow burn-ish, because mc and Connor get intimate fairly early in the story (I hc Connor as somewhat sexually repressed so he will rush into intimacy), but their emotional connection takes way longer to develop. Tbh I usually can't stand slow burns because I'm a horndog and I want my blorbos to be all over each other at all times but I like the idea of their relationship gradually evolving for a more... satisfying payoff.
Ok I'll stop yapping now, see you next time!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
┃ NOVEMBER 5th, 2039
9. 45 A.M.
You briefly hesitate at the threshold, stunned by the realistic feel of it all.
The door to Amanda’s office seals shut behind you with a quiet hiss, and ahead of you, the Zen garden sprawls out in all its simulated beauty, as breath-taking as you remember it to be: not a single leaf sways out of place, not a single flower ever withers, nor do their vivid colors wilt into a corrupted render.
With every visit to Amanda's studio, you immerse yourself into this pixelated illusion and every time, without fail, it pulls at your heartstrings with the same intensity as the first time you came across it. That'd be roughly one year ago, when the android rendition of late Kamski’s mentor Amanda Stern was first activated, shortly after the revolution took place and she got forcibly eviscerated from Connor's artificial psyche.
The extraordinary circumstances of her existence amaze you to this day: she represents the first successful attempt at instilling the imprint of a deceased’s conscience into a designated android vessel, retaining both the features and mannerisms of the human it is accurately modeled after. Never before she was brought to life had an experiment such as this ever yielded positive results—wonders of technology, indeed. So now, other than being one of CyberLife's main executives, she also coordinates the work of analysts such as you and other key figures within the company.
You observe her still form silently, evoking a sense of both reverence and slight intimidation in you—her back turned, her focus drawn to the koi fish drifting in a glassy pond by the cherry tree. All around her reigns a fabricated brand of peace that always stirs a whirlwind of unease in your stomach, only ever exacerbated by the soulless look in her eyes, a constant reminder of the strictness of her programming, completely unscathed by the temptation of deviancy.
When she faces you, your heart jumps in a feeling akin to horror, but not quite. Hers is not an abrupt motion, but rather an agile pivot of her lean silhouette, her flowy robes flailing graciously in the wind, really the only thing about her that suggests laxity. Every other aspect of her character is arguably painted in deep, pointed strokes, from the inquisitive quirk of her brow to the overall air of haughtiness she carries herself with.
It seems as though all that CyberLife values and upholds, she is the ultimate personification of. And yet, the late Amanda Stern was nothing like this. Stories on her account speak of a passionate, exceptionally gifted university professor, a beacon of light and inspiration for her pupils, among whom visionary tech mogul Elijah Kamski notoriously stands out. It's sad and it's haunting both to see her reduced to a stylized, hollowed-out version of who she used to be, so far removed from the reality of her being.
Her head tilts in recognition as she registers your presence. As soon as her vacant gaze meets yours, the perfectly curated oasis around her begins to shed the most credibly devised, polished sheen of its graphic interface.
In the blink of an eye, the muddy waters mapping the floor stutter into bits of code before breaking apart, utterly disintegrating; the dewy blades of grass fracture into squares of light, chipping away to smithereens. A dove halts its flight mid-air, its body flattening two-dimensionally before it clips out of view. The air is now soundless.
One moment Amanda is tending to a rich rose bush under a towering palm tree, and the next, her backdrop buffers as, with a destabilizing glitch, it is swapped with the unassuming guise of a standard corporate office—sleek, minimalist furniture, ultra modern, and yet depressingly bland.
take > 📰
At a slow, leisurely pace, Amanda reaches her desk and takes her seat. “At long last, you're here,” she tells you, poised as always. Her smile is present but remarkably disingenuous. “I assume you've duly completed your assessments.”
You nod, clutching the tablet in your hands, containing weeks-worth of research on the latest batch of androids you've been requested to perform an extensive behavioral analysis on. It'd just be your regular procedure: verifying that their social protocols have been correctly implemented and that they don't exhibit any behavior that can be classified as off-kilter.
“Yes,” you reassure your superior, hardly modulating your expression into a self-assured one. “I’ve successfully evaluated the newly manufactured androids as instructed. The results are right here.”
Amanda promptly double-checks the findings you show her, the hum of her servos whirling to life as she speechlessly scans the data, her lips pressing into a thin line as she processes the information. A subtle hint of displeasure.
“And?” she prompts, her gaze lifting abruptly to meet yours.
You clear your throat, feeling a familiar sense of pressure rising in your chest. “Only about 1% of the androids expressed signs of deviancy during the testing.”
Amanda raises an eyebrow in suspicion, her stoic composure faltering just slightly. “That’s… reassuring. I hope the defective models have been taken care of.”
“But of course,” you answer way too quickly. “The disposal team is set to handle them accordingly. Immediate transportation to the landfill is in order.”
“I see.” Amanda nods, her fingers steepling as she watches you carefully. “Now, tell me,” she continues, her LED spinning yellow, “don't you find it the slightest bit strange how low the number of defective androids is?”
Her narrowed eyes shoot daggers through you. She doesn't trust you.
“Not really,” you reply firmly, standing your ground, knowing there's more on the line than your career if you mess this up. You don't sleep with a gun under your pillow for nothing. “Our team of programmers has been working hard to impose stricter restraints on the machines’ code. The deviancy virus,” you make air-quotes, “has been wiped out. And as for the accuracy of my analysis, it is as thorough as it can get.”
You're telling the truth. Ever since tweaking the lying detector’s results to Connor's advantage during his interrogation, you've been haunted by remorse. You shouldn't have done that, you shouldn't have let yourself be moved by the deviant's cause to the point of interfering with the natural course of legal action pertaining to his delicate case.
Although no one found out about what you did, that doesn't mean you're not constantly living in fear that one day the truth might come out and you’ll have to face the consequences of your impromptu decision. So the least you can do now is to keep in line and do as you're told, even if that means having to watch a deviant android being disassembled in front of you fresh off the assembly line. Albeit a rare occurrence, it's always a punch to the gut to see when it does happen.
Amanda studies you for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. “It better be,” she counters, leaning back against her chair, her voice barely softening at the edges, but it's all for show. You know she's still seething with unspoken doubts regarding your work ethic. “You know I don't take kindly towards deviant sympathizers.” You don't react, simply taking in her words with a blank face, betraying your simmering emotions underneath. “We can’t afford any more setbacks. Promethex is already rolling out a new line of synthetics, and our stock value has never been lower. Every failure on our end will cost us millions.”
“Their machines lack any semblance of humanity,” you interject, trying to appeal to her by telling her exactly what she wants to hear. “They might be trending on the market right now, but the craze will fizzle out eventually, and people will go back to buying our androids again. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I sure hope so, otherwise we might have to change our marketing strategy,” Amanda acquiesces, seemingly pleased with your take. “Those Jericho deviants… they muddled our reputation, and it's all Kamski's fault. He and his God complex… corrupting the early RK prototypes, the ‘revolutionary kind’ so that he could live out his… delirious fantasies.” Her lower lip twitches, a somewhat human quirk, perhaps a blip in her programming. “It's a good thing he's relinquished his power, and I took over to clean up the mess he left. But enough about him—” She shakes her head, her mouth curling into an ambiguous grin. “Let's talk about you now.”
You decide to keep quiet still, feeling as though she can turn every word you speak into a weapon to obliterate you. Zeroing in on you, she begins, sounding oddly appreciative, “You're skilled, determined. Your commitment to your job is nothing short of… commendable.” The way she's superficially flattering you doesn't bode well. Of course, you don't let it get to you, as you see it for what it is: her go-to manipulating tactic. Many times, she's tried getting under your skin. So far, you've managed not to fall for her cheap tricks. She pauses briefly before adding with a bit of a dramatic flair, “And that is precisely why I have a proposition for you.”
Your stomach tightens. You’re not sure what she’s going to say next, but something tells you you're not going to like it.
Her eyes lock onto yours once more, and for the first time in forever, her smile seems genuine, though you know better than to believe it is. “It’s time you take on a more… rewarding role.” She halts again, making your breath hitch in anticipation. “You remember Connor? I’m sure you do.” You shudder as your mind drifts back to the events surrounding his interrogation, of how understandably tense you were, of the way you deliberately tampered with evidence to ensure he wouldn't be deactivated on the spot.
“It’s all over the news,” you reply with a breathy chuckle. As much as it makes you cringe to refer to Connor as if he were an inanimate object, you're sure Amanda wouldn't approve of anything else. You really hope she doesn't catch up on your nervousness, although how could she not? She's an android who can monitor your vitals with a simple scan. You might as well drop the act.
She nods in acknowledgement, her stare ice cold. “And for a good reason at that. It's become the face of our corporation, for good and for bad. Which is why it is advisable we regain control of the narrative around it.” Her tone, inflexible, sends a rush of shivers down your spine.
After his trial, you learned Connor has been on probation for a year, except other than being assigned your run-of-the-mill correctional supervisor, they also slapped an old-school monitor on his ankle for added precaution. The excuse for this poor attempt at public humiliation? In-built trackers reportedly stop functioning in deviants. Granted, that's not a lie, but also, was it really necessary?
Amanda's voice forces you to concentrate as she declares, “That's when you step in. I need you to oversee its conduct, become its compliance officer.”
“Whoa… that's—”
“Non-negotiable,” Amanda cuts in, unblinking. “Unless you are ready to hand over your CyberLife uniform.”
“I…” you trail off, incredulous, “I just have a lot of questions.”
“Then I shall endeavor to enlighten you.” Amanda flashes you a tight smirk before resuming her speech, “The FBI has mandated that Connor be reassigned to the Detroit Police Department in the role of detective. It is only fair… we wouldn't be able to monitor it properly otherwise. Additionally, it’ll be good for our image.” You nod away at her words, pretending to agree with what she's saying. “They've requested it be subjected to human oversight by a designated CyberLife specialist—that would be you. You must closely monitor its investigations, making sure it adheres to protocol at all times and doesn't attempt anything careless that will further jeopardize our company's reputation. Which includes ensuring that its findings are unbiased towards deviants.”
You take a moment to process what she's shared, and when it sinks in, a wave of nausea rises in you at the twisted way CyberLife operates, leveraging Connor's influence to the fullest out of profit, not genuine care—still and always a product in their eyes, one to handle as they please. And there's nothing he can do about it. They're forcing him back into service under the guise of justice, paying off his sentence like any other man... without actually having the rights of one.
Amanda’s smile never wavers, but her eyes darken, just a little. “I believe this will be all.” The finality of her words tells you there's no escaping this; you have to accept her offer.
You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to smile for her again. “Fine,” you let out. “I’ll do it.”
Amanda nods, a glint of satisfaction twinkling in her eyes. “Of course, you will.”
As she escorts you out of her office, her heels click softly against the polished flooring of the CyberLife Tower. The corridor you amble through is seemingly endless, stirring a sense of awe in you with how grandiose it is: it's a labyrinth of shiny white interiors and futuristic fixtures trimmed with bright blue lights, the glass panels patching up the walls catching your unsteady reflection.
Amanda walks a step ahead of you, her hands neatly folded at her back. You follow her, head hung low, trying not to feel too small in her shadow, as she accompanies you inside the elevator. She probably expects you to keep quiet and patiently wait to reach ground level. Unfortunately for her, you run your mouth like it's a full-time job.
“So,” you begin, as soon as the doors slip shut with a faint, swooshing sound. Amanda stiffens beside you as though your mere presence sickens her. You clear your throat, dry as sandpaper, before asking, “Is there anything else I need to know before picking up this new job?”
Amanda's voice reaches you soon enough, “You’ll be keeping Connor in line, as I told you, on top of assisting it and its partner Lieutenant Anderson during investigations, profiling rogue androids, if you ever come across any, and sending them off to New Jericho where they will be… safe.” She is not even looking at you, just talks calmly, her LED spinning yellow. “Remember, there's always a chance of some slipping through the cracks of their programming, despite how tirelessly we’re trying to restrain them. And we have to make sure they won't cause us any more problems.”
You nod at that, the elevator smoothly continuing its descent, making your stomach churn. The tower’s infinite number of floors doesn't exactly go well with your fear of heights. It's a miracle you haven't puked your guts out yet.
At this point, you feel compelled to ask Amanda another daring question, also as a way to distract yourself, “What… what should I do then if Connor starts to act strangely?”
You can sense Amanda’s posture waxing more rigid at your words. Her eyes don't meet yours, still fixed beyond the glass doors separating you from the void below. “In that case, you should report back to me immediately,” she retorts succinctly, a hint of annoyance seeping into her tone. “I’ll handle it.”
A beat passes, then another. The floor display above your heads signals you've almost reached your destination. Only four more to go.
You glance at Amanda’s flickering LED out of the corner of your eye, your curiosity deepening despite yourself. You're aware sometimes it's best to bite your tongue, but right now, with how on edge you feel, you simply can't. “I was wondering… what exactly qualifies as 'inappropriate behavior'?”
“It’s all clearly specified in the contract I sent you, which you will sign shortly,” Amanda concedes with a stringent disposition. “I trust you'll review it diligently so there won't be any misunderstandings. But, if you're itching to know…” She pauses for a moment, regarding you with an air of superiority. “You are being requested to frame any of its actions that can potentially endanger human beings, ranging from displays of erratic behavior, to abrupt malfunctions, you name it.”
As you finally emerge from the elevator, Amanda’s pace picks up, as though she's trying to put some distance between you.
You tag along, taking your time before speaking again, feeling like she won't let you get too many words in. “One last question,” you half-stutter, to which Amanda’s jaw ticks as if irritated by your persistence. “I’ve never mentioned this before, but,” you say, your voice quieter now that you've noticed a couple of helmet-wearing guards strolling by, heading towards you, “back when I interrogated Connor, I remember seeing a particular picture in his folder. It depicted a defunct RK800 model. It was its 60th iteration, if I'm not mistaken.”
To this day, you still can't wrap your head around the fact that you weren't allowed to oversee Connor's testing in any capacity, back in August of 2038, when he was first activated. It really makes you wonder if his deviation was already ingrained into his programming, which would explain why his model specifics were kept secret until the end, only ever accessible to a restricted elite of specialists, unlike his widely acclaimed successor’s.
Your heart jumps when Amanda stops walking. She turns around, slowly, her chin tilting just a degree upward.
“I just thought it was odd,” you keep talking, feeling deeply unsettled by her sudden stillness. “That two RK800s were activated at the same time, since it's not standard praxis—”
Amanda lets out a faint hum, a sound that could convey either amusement or dismissal. “Its intended purpose has been extinguished. It has proven faulty and useless and has already been promptly dealt with. Now, if you don't have any more questions—”
Your stomach turns slightly at the bluntness of her answer, a cold chill running under your skin.
You say nothing else as you reach the Tower’s entrance, before she curtly dismisses you, wishing you good luck with your new assignment.
┃ NOVEMBER 19th, 2039
6. 55 A.M.
Winter in Detroit is always unforgiving—never as terrible as what you're used to having grown up in Canada, but it's a close call. That's not to say you can't stand cold temperatures, but there's a limit to everything.
So now, standing in front of the Detroit Police Department building, out in the cold, your lips chapped, your nose reddened and runny, you want nothing more than to be let inside and meet the rest of the crew to escape the wintry air (and maybe glue yourself to a heater while you're at it). And then it hits you: not only will you have to wake up at the crack of fucking dawn to clock in for work, but you'll also have the pleasure to see Gavin's annoying face every time without fail.
How awesome.
The police station, a block of concrete disciplined by clean, steel framework and reflective surfaces, appears dull through your jaded gaze, just a rectangular-shaped conglomerate gracelessly silhouetted against the morning fog. You inhale deeply and clutch your work bag tighter. Things are not looking good so far. A nasty cold is already kicking your immune systems’ ass and you didn't even have time to eat breakfast this morning, save for the warm coffee currently sloshing in your stomach.
As you wait for Officer Tina Chen to show up (you guys have known each other since high school and have been besties since), your focus turns on those tiny pellets of snow beautifully curling in the wind and depositing on the curb where they form a delicate mantle, before your gaze rises to the washed-out grey sky above, choking on his industrial breath. And yet, the political-themed billboards littering the streets are constantly fighting for your attention on all sides, pulling you in with their bold, bright fonts and captivating slogans. You squint your eyes to zoom in on them when a pneumatic hiss of a door being opened makes you jolt, and then—
“Oh my God, girl! It's so good to see you!” Tina throws her arms around you with enough force to knock you back a step. You laugh as she squeezes you in a tight hug, transmitting a bit of her warmth.
Your friendship hasn't waned even after your breakup with Gavin, roughly six months ago. She's let slip how they aren't as close after your falling out, which definitely affected the way Tina views him. Now, they merely tolerate each other, and while you kind of feel at fault for it, it also serves Gavin right for being an absolute pain in the ass.
“What’s with the shades? Trying to mask a hangover?” Tina asks, grinning as she pulls back a notch, her hands on your shoulders.
“It’s for the eye bags. Not a great look,” you reply, flashing her a half-smirk. The reality is you aren't getting much sleep lately. Mostly because of your anxieties surrounding the transfer, sometimes because of your nightmares. The latter feature deviants on the brink of being deactivated—their eyes wide, pleading, begging you to lie and not report them back to Amanda and her underlings. By the end of them, you wake up in a cold sweat, feeling the phantom sensation of fresh blue blood staining your fingers, and the pang of absolute hopelessness taking over you, but also… guilt?
“Ugh, please. Have you seen me? I look like I haven't slept in months,” Tina chuckles, rolling her eyes. And yet she isn't looking too unkempt, her energy is still as vibrant as ever, her dark hair neatly tucked into a bun underneath her police beret, not a single strand sticking out.
“So to recap,” she begins, commanding your utmost attention, “do everything Fowler says, ignore the pothead, don't get on Hank's bad side, and you're gonna be just peachy.” A little smirk forms on her lips. “Oh, and Connor gets yappy fast, so don't get him started. Got an in-built chatterbox, that one.”
You nod absent-mindedly, hoping she didn't catch the way your smile dropped when she mentioned Connor's name. “He’s been asking about you, you know.” You freeze as she says that, your pulse quickening. “Didn’t sound too thrilled about the news, but hey, what do I know? I'm not the android whisperer here.”
You force out a chuckle, trying to downplay the effect her words have on you. She’s obviously just trying to cheer you up, and you're overthinking everything, nothing new. That's just how your dynamic goes.
“What about the RK900?” you ask, trying to sidetrack her.
“You mean Nines? Gavin's babysitter?”
Your eyes widen. “Is that what they call it now?”
Tina nods, shrugging for added emphasis. “Most of us do, yeah. Though to Gavin it's ‘Dick’. Not sure if it's short for Richard, but either way, it's funny as hell.”
You laugh a little at that, but then your mood sours as you're reminded of your most loathed ex. “Gosh, I can't believe this,” you let out, sighing in distress. “Gav used to nag me to death about it. Said it's a real stick in the mud and that they never got along.”
“Oh, but they do,” Tina chirps with an eye-smile that only furthers your curiosity. “In their own fucked up way, sure, but they do. And to be honest, he's not that insufferable.”
“He?” you wonder, not sure you heard her right. “Is Nines a deviant?”
“No, he's not,” she replies all too quickly, her voice cracking slightly. Is she lying to you? “Though I guess it just feels more natural to me to use those pronouns for him. As for Connor, use ‘it’ one too many times and you get fined. Deviants are actual people, as for the DPD’s new regs and must be treated as such. Real progressive, am I right?”
You honestly don’t know what to believe anymore. Like Gavin, Tina had never been particularly fond of androids, and while she isn't as openly hostile towards them as him, she also never showed much support for them either. That’s why hearing her speak so kindly about Nines feels so off.
Tina's wistful sigh brings you back to reality. “Hopefully, we'll see him again.”
“Wait…” you murmur, “what do you mean?”
Her gaze darkens. “Well, he's undergoing repairs right now. Last mission with the SWAT team was a bitch or so I heard… Lots of gruesome stuff went down.”
“Don't tell me it has something to do with that whole creepy shebang I saw on TV…” you trail off, struggling to find the right words. “Oh, yeah, the Purple Blood Massacre!”
“Something like that,” Tina acquiesces. “Ask Gavin. He might know more about it.”
“No thanks, I'll pass.” You roll your eyes, your mind going back to images of gutted android bodies, their artificial “hearts” missing, animalistically carved out their chest cavity in a mass serial killing, only a pair of black wings spray-painted nearby acting as a calling card for the perpetrators.
Your grim vision vanishes as, with a quick motion of her hand, Tina beckons you towards the police station’s entryway. “Don’t just stand there, come right in! Oh, and since it's your first day, you're getting free donuts. O’Mansley’s, Detroit’s best.”
Once you're inside the precinct’s lobby, you feel your shoulders tighten with each step you take. Thankfully, Tina is there to squeeze your arm encouragingly.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she chirps upon spotting none other than Lieutenant Hank Anderson in the flesh, heading towards you—hands in the pockets of his maroon leather jacket, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. You've had the opportunity to meet him before, during his testimony in support of Connor’s cause, so you smile at him in recognition.
“Someone’s weirdly early today,” Tina comments. “Morning, Hank!” She then points at you. “Look who’s joining the dysfunctional family!”
Right off the bat, you can tell that the Lieutenant’s appearance has significantly changed since you last saw him, and positively so. His blue eyes appear more alert, his shirt neatly tucked into his jeans. Overall, you get the idea he's been taking better care of himself.
“Ah, I remember you. You must be our new shrink,” Hank greets you in his usual gruff voice, offering a hand. “Lieutenant Hank Anderson.”
You reciprocate the gesture, introducing yourself again.
“I have to say,” Tina beams, eyeing Hank's figure with a hint of mischief, “your healthy era suits you.”
“Damn right,” Hank snorts, shrugging with nonchalance. “Lost ten pounds and only yelled at Fowler once this month.”
The three of you share a laugh as he motions you towards the bullpen, leading the way unhurriedly. A few paces ahead of you, he glances over his shoulders, mentioning, “I heard you're specialized in android psychology or some shit.”
You blink, stunned by his disregard for etiquette. It's kind of refreshing, actually. You try your best to muster an exhaustive answer, “My focus is on behavioral assessments. I don't do the programming, but rather the testing of androids’ social protocols, making sure they function within their set parameters.”
Hank slows his steps to match yours, a dry chuckle escaping him. “I'll pretend like I understood what you just said.” He earns a light laugh from both you and Tina as you keep leisurely traversing the glass-paneled hallway.
You shrug, sounding a tad apologetic in your delivery. “Sorry, just thought you wanted to know my credentials.”
“Oh, don't sweat it. I'm sure that fucker Perkins would only ever hire the best of the best to supervise our boy Connor,” Hank counters with a hint of bitterness, as though the FBI agent and he have some unfinished business. And yet, despite his animosity towards the man who appointed you as Connor's compliance officer, he is being surprisingly amicable towards you. You wonder why.
At this point, Tina says something about having to meet Captain Fowler in his office for a briefing with Officer Miller, so she leaves Hank and you alone, promising to meet you later at lunch.
“You know, I've always wondered…” Hank turns around abruptly, ceasing to walk. The moment your friend is out of sight, he lets out, his tone skeptical, “are you big on androids or what?” He keeps his voice down, which makes you believe he was waiting for the right opportunity to have this conversation with you, no witnesses. The deep lines on his forehead crease as his eyebrows furrow, a quizzical look on him. “I mean, you must have a knack for ‘em to want to work with them every day. God knows how exhausting that is.”
And yet despite the vexation seeping into his words, you know he doesn't actually mean that, because you are aware of where he actually stands, you remember the brunt of his story—the one of a decorated officer turned alcoholic divorcee with the death of his six year old son Cole weighing on his conscience, only some stupid android to blame. Just a poor medical assistant unit, failing to save his kid in an emergency operation following a fatal car accident.
It took time for him to warm up to androids after the tragic incident, even long after discovering that the real culprit was Dr. Michael Cruz, the drugged-out human surgeon who was too intoxicated on red ice to operate on his kid.
Let's just say Connor was the catalyst that cemented his realization that machines aren't the root of all evil, so that he slowly but surely began to regard deviants as more than a mere amalgamation of plastic components and code but rather as… people. You're not sure if you can call this a happy ending but it surely feels like one.
Maybe that’s why he’s questioning you now—not just out of curiosity, but to test you, see if you two really think alike.
“I guess I've always been… fascinated by them,” you explain vaguely, feeling your stomach twist with unease, a fluttering sensation stirring in your chest as you try to steady your uneven breath. The thought of having to meet both Gavin and Connor on the same day after so long is taking a toll on you. “Growing up, my family never owned one. Guess that made it so I never got used to viewing them as tools.”
Now that you think about it, you're accustomed to studying androids on a more clinical level, so to speak, yet much less interacting with them casually. Well, that's definitely about to change.
“Not to be a sap, but I’m really grateful for this opportunity,” you add then, keeping your voice steady despite the nerves simmering beneath the surface. “I won’t let you down.”
Hank's weathered face softens slightly. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. “Come talk to me after your first assignment. Let’s see if you’re still so hyped then.”
You flash him an easy smile. “Took a self-defense course, just in case. I'll be fine, I guess.”
Hank huffs, “Well, you’re here for your profiling skills, not throwing punches. Leave the ass-kicking to the guys with a death wish.”
You nod at that, straightening the hem of your jacket in a jerky motion, trying to appear more confident than you feel. Picking up on how you've zoned out, Hank reassures you, “Reading these android folks, seeing through their façades… that kind of thing’s worth its weight in gold nowadays.” His mouth twitches in the faintest hint of a smirk as he pauses, looking ahead. “Especially now that we're surrounded by them.”
You follow his gaze and that’s when you see him—standing by what you assume is his personal desk, hovering over the table slightly, the word ‘android’ printed on his trusty jacket.
Connor.
Seeing him again after a whole year makes you reel. Let's just say you two have a complicated history. Pretty sure Hank is fully aware of it, considering how close to Connor he is.
“So, how do you feel about working with him?” Hank abruptly asks you, which can only worsen your nervous state. The way he's hesitating to step into the bullpen tells you he wants to give you some time to adjust to the change of scenery. How unexpectedly wholesome of him.
You reply to Hank a beat late, trying your best to sound neutral, “I guess it helps that I've met him before, makes things way less awkward between us.”
Hank chuckles under his breath, “Eh, I wouldn't be so sure about that. It's still Connor we're talking about. He’s a little…” he trails off, holding back a smirk, “weird, in a good way. But you probably already know that. Where is—oh, there he is.” He flicks his chin in his direction, then beckons you inside, which you don't find it in you to oppose this time.
Every gaze feels heavier than it should as you burst into the bullpen, zigzagging through rows of neatly-spaced cubicles, your fingers twitching at your sides. The chattering of officers and the rhythmic clatter of keyboards mingle with the faint scent of coffee effusing from the break room and the acrid toner smell from the printers.
Hank struts towards the android with an air of confidence, which you wish could somehow rub off on you. Slowly, you make it to where he is, your gait circumspect.
“Hey, Connor!” Hank booms upon approaching Connor, patting his shoulder with a solid thump.
At the snap contact, the android whirls around with a fluidity that’s almost uncanny, his brown eyes locking onto Hank before briefly meeting yours. Your breath catches. You'd forgotten just how striking he looks up close—sharp features, smooth, freckled skin, and a gaze so intense that it feels like it’s dissecting you down to your core. Your body breaks into a shudder. You tell yourself it's because of the cold, but you know better.
And then, just like that, he averts eye contact again. Clearly, he's nervous. “Morning, Lieutenant,” Connor greets, his voice warm and even, just how you remembered it. Though everything else about him is pulled taut. “I see you showed up on time today. It's good that you're ditching your usual bar outings.”
Hank shakes his head, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Classic Connor, already embarrassing me in front of our new colleague.” With that, he urges you to step forward with a brisk flick of his hand. “Though I guess you two have already made acquaintances.”
Connor nods, his stare flitting quickly to you before redirecting to Hank once again. It's… recalibration. You realize too late that you’re unwittingly cataloguing his every microexpression as if he's just another one of your test subjects. You force yourself to stop. His response is cold, concise. “We did.” A short pause. “Under very…” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing just a bit. “Different circumstances.”
Hank clears his throat, as if sensing the sudden shift in the air, the thinly veiled bitterness seeping into the android’s words. “Well, you two better get along,” he declares. “She's part of our team now.”
“Of course she is,” Connor says, putting on the fakest smile you've ever seen, just like a human would. You're almost proud of him.
“Graduated in forensic psychology, got a master’s in artificial intelligence studies, and all that fancy stuff,” Hank lets slip to highlight your competence, which you are intimately grateful for.
“With honors, may I add. Colbridge University. It’s a prestigious title to have,” Connor cuts in, looking at you again, his expression frustratingly calm even though it's obvious he’s anything but. This time, he holds your gaze a tad bit longer. The last time he did that, his wrists were magnetized to a metal table. “Mr. Elijah Kamski went there.”
Puzzled by the extent of his knowledge on your account, you are left speechless. But before the silence gets too loud and loaded with unspoken questions, you reply, “So I’ve heard.” A light shrug. “Never got the chance to meet him, though. We’re not exactly in the same age group.”
The shadow of a smirk flashes across Connor's face at your remark, so quick you're not sure whether you've just imagined it, nor can you even begin to understand what it means.
You skeptically raise an eyebrow. “But wait, how do you—”
“Yeah, don't mind him,” Hank swiftly interrupts you. “He has a habit of building identity kits of the people he works with. Been there. Not creepy at all.”
You don't miss the way Connor's eyes slightly narrow at Hank’s joke. “In any case, it's a pleasure seeing you again, Doctor,” Connor tells you then, poised as ever, extending his hand. His tone is polite, too much so it strikes as passive-aggressive.
You hesitate for a moment before shaking it: his grip is firm, his skin cool to the touch but softer than you'd expected. “Same here,” you say, darting a fleeting glance downwards, checking that the tether around his ankle is no more.
He notices that. ”Tell Perkins I send my regards,” he adds scathingly. You're starting to get the feeling he sees you as nothing but the person who once tried to break him open, and that it will take you an incredible amount of effort to win his trust.
Why did he bring this up? Does he feel… threatened by you? Does he realize he'd probably be a clump of plastic and circuitry in a faraway landfill by now had it not been for you falsifying the lying detector’s findings?
You're about to muster a proper reply when Hank skillfully meddles in, “Alright, enough introductions.” You mentally thank him for the save, as there wasn’t much you could’ve said to Connor without risking the situation dangerously escalating. “We’ve got a new case to look into before Jeffrey chews us out. Chris says it’s a hot mess, so we'd better get started. You go get comfortable, Connor and I will take care of it.”
“No, but I want to help,” you protest, frowning faintly.
“Are you sure?” Hank crosses his arms over his chest, giving you a pointed once-over. “This is your first day, kid.”
“Yes. I mean it,” you state, sounding determined. “I really don't mind getting straight to business. Just want to make myself useful somehow.”
Hank looks up with a short, unamused sigh, begrudgingly letting up. “Aight, if you insist.”
“What’s the situation?”
He flicks his head upwards. “Connor.”
“A MC500 deviant android has reportedly been attacked by its human owner during a fight, barely survived the incident, and is now demanding compensation,” Connor instantly fills you in on the details of your first assignment, never missing a beat. He remains expressionless, eerily detached, delivering each word with the sort of mechanical cadence of a memorized speech. But his body language gives him away—the tightness of his shoulders, the darkening of his gaze are all blatant tells that he's still somewhat affected by your earlier interactions.
“A deviant, you said?” you intervene, now brooding. “How odd. CyberLife's latest models operate on stricter programming. There haven’t been many recorded deviancy cases since the revolution.”
“Ain’t that convenient,” Hank counters, his tone carrying a touch of wryness. “But let’s leave the speculations for later. First, we need to handle the interrogation.”
“Sounds good,” you say but the reality is, you don't feel at ease at all.
Going by the newest law concerning human/android-related crimes, if a human attacks a deviant android with the intent to harm, they will face charges, albeit not as severe as if the victim were human. And that’s where things get tricky. As the definition of what constitutes a conscious, rights-deserving being continues to be ferociously debated with every news article and online debate, it's easy to fall into misjudgment.
“Is there a desk I can use?” you ask, trying to ground yourself in the moment.
Hank smirks, glancing at Connor, who offers a subtle quirk of his lips—small but telling. Is this about some inside joke of theirs?
“What?” you wonder, curious.
“Just reminded me of when Connor and I first met,” Hank lets out with a lopsided smirk. “He was a real pain in the ass back then.”
Connor immediately stiffens, his LED flickering yellow. “Lieutenant, I think we should prioritize the case. We can indulge in small talk later.” It's clear that whatever history Hank is referencing, he doesn’t want it to color your opinion of him.
The specifics of their relationship have always intrigued you. From what you've read in Connor's reports, it's a complex one, somewhere between a mentoring dynamic between a seasoned cop and an all-knowing rookie and a full-blown friendship laced with undeniably toxic elements.
Though the more you reflect on it, the more you wonder if Hank ever wished Cole would have gotten to the age Connor appears to be in his emulation of humanity, maybe even taking on his uniform, joining the force like him. Or perhaps it's his old self Hank sees in him, back when he hadn't spiraled into depression and self-loathing yet and was still a well-adjusted, respected lieutenant, happily married with a son on the way. So that when he held Connor at gunpoint, he was confronting the shadow of his past self.
All things considered, there's something incredibly tender about the idea of someone as cynical and mad at the world as Hank letting an android, out of all people, chip away at his impenetrable shell.
The same Hank who reads the room quickly, letting the subject slide with a knowing grin. “Alright, alright.” He nods toward a nearby desk, urging you to it. “That one’s yours. Get settled.”
11.30 A.M.
Your first workday at the precinct unfolds seamlessly, and you find yourself getting used to the atmosphere around you with surprising ease. Could be because of Hank's warm welcome, could be because of Connor's oddly reassuring presence despite everything. You have to admit, he's quite sociable for an android of his stature, at least that's what you make of him so far.
And yet, you can’t help but notice how guarded he is when interacting with you. His is not outward hostility, but a kind of… caution. It takes a moment to click, but then you realize why this is: you basically function as his new handler in a way, disrupting the illusion of freedom he had dreamed for himself. But it doesn't have to be this way. You can find a middle ground where carrying out your function doesn't interfere with his desire to experience life boundlessly. You can only hope you're on the same page with this.
The break room is inundated by the comforting smell of coffee, the glass door muffling the ambient noise coming from outside. You sit at a small table, cradling a warm cup of espresso as you let the precinct's restless energy slowly dissipate around you.
Beside you, Tina flashes you a cheeky smirk, leaning forward slightly. “Not bad for a first day, uh?”
You smile softly at her, her presence soothing you. “Not bad indeed. Colleagues are nice.”
Tina takes a small sip of her coffee, gesturing mindlessly with her other hand as she speaks, “Trust me, you’re gonna love it here. We're a great team… well, mostly.”
You instantly get where she's going with this. And there you see him, currently standing outside the door, as if unsure to burst in—Gavin. Your smile falters, replaced by a scowl as you watch him exchange a joke with another officer, his crass laughter carrying across the room and stirring something bitter in your chest.
Your friend follows your elusive gaze, her grin dropping. “And there he is… the reason why you were so hesitant about the transfer two weeks ago.”
Your shoulders sag. “Yup.”
“Come on,” Tina nudges you playfully, “I thought you'd be over it by now! It's been ages since you guys broke things off.”
You sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “Either way, it's complicated. I'd rather not talk about it right now.”
“Fair enough,” Tina replies, understanding your frustration. “But if you ever want to vent or need a distraction, you know where to find me.”
You offer her a weak but grateful smile. “Thanks, Tina. ‘Preciate it.”
With that, she stands up, giving your shoulder a light pat. “Alright. I'm going now. Let me know if you need anything. Lunch is on me today, okay?”
“Sure thing,” you say. “Take care. See ya.”
Tina offers you one last reassuring glance before leaving. And yet despite her attempts at easing your mind, you're still shaken, trying to overwrite the unwelcome memories Gavin’s mere presence stirs.
But when the door to the break room opens, it is Connor who enters instead, his stealthy motions immediately drawing you in.
“Good morning, Doctor,” Connor unexpectedly greets you. Swiftly, he reaches the coffee machine and begins brewing himself a cup.
“Oh, hi,” you say, your voice lighter as you try hard to reset your mood. You tilt your head to the side, watching him closely. “So what, androids can drink coffee now?”
“Not quite,” Connor retorts, focusing on the task at hand without looking back. “This is for Hank. He's too lazy to do it himself.” As soon as he's done, he picks up the cup and approaches you, closing the distance with measured steps.
“By the way,” he begins as he sits across from you at the small coffee table, his voice dropping to a slightly conspiratorial tone you find almost funny, “maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the Lieutenant tends to be a little grumpy sometimes. I’ve come to the conclusion it's just the way he is, so don't take it personally. You’ll get used to it. He’ll warm up to you eventually.”
You chuckle softly, blindsided by the sudden friendliness he's showing you. “He’s pretty entertaining to me, actually. I think I like him already.”
Connor seems surprised to hear that, his eyes widening. “Really?”
“Yeah,” you say, schooling your features into a more relaxed look. “He shows up as he is, keeps it real, no pretenses. It's a good quality to have.”
Connor’s LED bleeds yellow as he processes your words, but he doesn’t press further.
“What about you two, uh?” you ask, shifting the focus elsewhere. “You seem close.”
Connor hesitates a little before responding. “We weren’t always like this. We had our disagreements, we fought occasionally, but we got over it, and that’s what matters.” He offers you an awkward smile, his gaze briefly falling to your lips as you take another sip of your coffee. Though he looks away in a blink, as if self-conscious of his slip-up. You catch it but choose to let it slide, nodding away at his words.
Still thrown off by his sudden shift in attitude, you ask, “Are you…”
His gaze flicks up.
“Are you… okay?”
“I am,” he states, his brows pinching together and his frail voice telling a whole different story. “Clearly.” You open your mouth to say something else, but he’s already a step ahead of you. “I’ll make sure to smile more.” A pause. You take another nervous sip of your coffee, almost choking on it as he adds, “Though I wasn’t aware that expressing concern for me was part of your protocol.”
“Believe it or not, it is,” you let out, a short sigh escaping you. Perhaps it's about time you address the elephant in the room, before Connor starts to get the wrong ideas about who you really are and what you truly stand for. “Either way, I just want you to know that,” you start again, your composed exterior belying your raging agitation, “even though I work for CyberLife, I'm on your guy's side…” You don't miss the way Connor's features harden at that.
“I'm sure you are,” he counters rather condescendingly, his lips pursed tight.
But you don't subside, hoping your words will do justice to your true intentions. “... This might sound crazy, but I did wish until the end that you guys would win the war, you know? I applaud Markus, I really do. It takes so much courage and determination to do what he did.”
“Your... affinity for the deviants' cause is certainly… unconventional,” Connor mentions, his voice level but laced with a hint of something colder. “I trust your superiors at CyberLife are aware of it?”
“Markus is actively negotiating with us,” you clap back. “He's regarded with respect within the company.”
“Respect, huh?” Connor bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't believe you. “I suppose that's one way to put it.” His expression grows somewhat thoughtful, but he's still visibly guarded around you, only the hint of a faded smile on his lips. “Although his methods might have been… a little unorthodox, he did what he felt was right at the time for androids, for our people. I can't blame him for that.”
“Well, then, how is he doing now?” you ask innocently, hoping he won't dismiss the topic like he did in the past.
Connor's face drops, his eyes losing their characteristic shine, dulling. “I… I wouldn't know.”
“How so?”
His voice weakens. “I'd rather not talk about it.”
Figures .
“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to—”
“No need to be.” He promptly shakes his head. “I’m the one who's at fault here. Why talk politics when you’re just trying to enjoy your morning coffee? I’ll take my leave now.”
“Please, do stay if you’d like,” you concede. “You’re fun to talk to. It’s interesting how they made you so…” You tug your lower lip with your teeth. “Eloquent.”
Connor blinks in seeming confusion.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” you throw in hurriedly. “I just meant to say you’re genuinely engaging in conversation and… pleasant to be around.”
Connor’s lips curve into a more spontaneous smile this time. The faintest yellow hue bleeds into his LED, the hint of a blueish blush creeping up his cheeks. “I didn’t take offense. Your comment was… flattering. I guess my social relations program is working at its best.”
CONNOR 🔼
You smile back, a light warmth spreading in your chest.
“ …protesters continue to gather in public demonstrations, calling for stricter android regulations. Meanwhile, others rally in their full support, arguing that suppressing deviancy is a crime as grave as ending a human life… ”
Your attention is temporarily drawn to the television mounted on the wall, the news anchor’s voice filling up the small room.
You exhale a tired sigh, redirecting your gaze to Connor to distract yourself from the unwanted noise. That's when you remember something that you’ve been putting off sharing with him so far. Tentatively, you reach for the front pocket of your jeans, extracting a quarter coin from it. His coin.
You don't miss the way his eyes light up instantly upon seeing it.
“By the way, this fell out of your jacket when they brought you away that day,” you explain, handing the object out to him. He cautiously holds it in his hand, his face colored in surprise, and then he starts spinning it from one finger to the other, effortlessly fiddling with it, his muscle memory kicking in.
“Thanks,” he says after some time, giving you a lopsided smirk that you find absolutely adorable. “I kept wondering where I’d left it.”
You smile back. You don’t know if it’s even appropriate for you to get this friendly with him. You’ve never chatted with one of your subjects before. But then again, you remind yourself this is all part of your plan to earn his respect, so, planting your elbows on the table and inching closer to him, you ask, “So... what does it represent?”
“It's…” Connor begins, but then he bites his lip, as if forcing himself to withhold information, still adroitly fidgeting with his coin. “It's silly. You wouldn't understand.”
“Okay then.” You nod simply, leaving it at that. Rubbing your hands against your thighs, you can feel the tension between you steadily build up again.
“So… they finally let you off the hook, uh? No more tether, you're back doing what you do best…” you quietly mention, but you realize soon enough that Connor may not be ready to have this conversation yet.
You don't miss the way he tenses up. He puts away the quarter before commenting flatly, “It's not like I have a choice anyway.” His answers are always so strategically careful. Like he's still stuck in an interrogation room, blinded by fluorescent lights, trying to say the right thing to avoid being shut down.
You nod, understanding that he would be much happier, leaving this job behind (which surely triggers unpleasant memories for him), and just starting anew. Though you fear it might not be feasible at this time.
And yet, you can shake the feeling that despite all the controversies surrounding his character, the DPD relishes in keeping him around. No human officer can match his precision, his skills, his ability to process evidence beyond ordinary perception. They aren't just tolerating him. They need him.
Since his arrest made waves, all sorts of stories have begun circulating on his account, despite him trying his best to keep his personal life private, turning down most interviews and being confined to his apartment, which, sources say, he shares with Lieutenant Anderson.
Apparently, the government deemed it safer for him to be around a DPD officer than the ever-so feared deviant leader himself. It truly seems as though they had to find a way to keep the two most powerful prototypes apart at all costs. It doesn't surprise you: last time they joined forces, Detroit was almost razed to the ground.
Although you assume the restrictions of his sentence limited him from visiting Jericho, some speculate he had other, more personal reasons not to reside in Markus' haven. Rumors even suggest a certain level of enmity between them, but nothing so far has been confirmed. It might as well be just tabloid-level gossip, though you can never know for sure unless you ask him. The thing is, it didn't exactly go well last time you tried; heck, he almost self-destructed.
You've also heard he's been forced to undergo mandatory psychological evaluations and is currently restricted from carrying firearms unless strictly necessary.
His quiet voice pulls you in once again. “You’re still analyzing me,” he speaks softly, your brain computing his words a beat too late. “Constantly. I’m not… going to attempt anything.”
You shrug, giving him a half-smirk. “Force of habit, can't help it.”
Right then, the door to the break room swings open with a slight creak. Hank strolls in, his usual carefree demeanor replaced by an almost theatrical exasperation.
“Connor, for God's sake, what’s taking you so long? You’re not drinking my coffee, are you? You know you’ll overheat if you do, and hell knows I’m not paying for repairs…” He looks up, his gaze catching yours with a knowing glint. “Oh, I see you two have already made friends.”
Connor straightens at the remark but doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply places Hank's coffee on the counter in an automated motion. “I was actually about to go,” he says curtly. “We were just harmlessly conversing. I guess I got too carried away.”
“Sure you were,” Hank teases him with a playful grin. Then, leaning casually against the wall, he starts, “Alright, both of you, back at my desk in five. We’ve got another lead.”
You huff, “Lucky me.”
“Sorry to break it to you, rookie, but crime doesn’t wait for you to get settled in,” Hank grumbles, but there's no malice in his words. “We’ve heard some chatter about a place downtown. Apparently, it's tied to a laundering ring—or worse.”
You suggest, “Let me guess… an illegal android parts trade?”
“Bingo,” Hank confirms. Beside you, Connor nods intently. “We're going in tonight.”
Your jaw drops. “Tonight?”
“Yeah.” Hank shrugs. “Look, kid, I’m not as sharp anymore, and I need someone who can actually examine the crime scene with me without eating the evidence like Mr. Android Detective here.”
Connor stiffens at the jibe. “That was one time, Lieutenant!”
“What?”
“Hank’s just trying to be funny, but it rarely lands,” Connor explains, the words tumbling out of his lips ridiculously fast. “Don’t mind him.”
Their banter shouldn’t have surprised you, but it did. This version of him, one so humanely laid-back, never surfaced during your first unfortunate meeting. You have no idea what to do with it.
“Okay, so you need me on the scene. Got it. I think I can make it work.”
“Good,” Hank concedes. “Oh, and, civvies only. The plan is to keep it low-key, blend in.”
Connor glances at you, then back at Hank. “What’s the objective?”
“We’re scoping the place out. Getting a read on the clientele, the staff, who’s coming and going, that sort of thing. If something fishy’s going on, we’ll spot it. If not, well—I guess we can all have a toast. It's your first mission, after all. Gotta make it memorable somehow.” Hank ends his speech with a warm smile that instantly puts you more at ease. “Officer Chen’ll swing by to pick you up. I’ll ping you the address and time.” He then motions toward the door, urging the android over. “Though for now, let's get back to work.”
Connor acknowledges his invite with a nod, but then he turns back to you, his gaze softening. “Are you coming with us?”
When he says your name, your stomach drops. You're once again left utterly confused with yourself and the effect his words have on you.
“Yeah, sure,” you reply, but your voice comes out too quiet, a slight flush reaching your face.
Seriously, what is wrong with you? Simping over a bot like this.
Fuck your horny, primitive brain.
Notes:
Just kiss already daaamn 😩
Regarding the relationship stat thingy, I know it's only reserved for the androids in the game, but it's cool asf so reader’s borrowing it. That way you can keep track of how her bond with Connor evolves overtime.
About the title, I probably said this before on Tumblr but Danger Days by MCR is such a deviant revolution-coded album, istg, especially Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na), so I just had to use that one.
I haven't forgotten about the one-shot collection btw. Working on another one, currently (somno? free use? decisions, decisions). xx
Chapter 3: Don't go there ('cause you'll never return)
Summary:
“Same shit, a different lie
I'll get it right sometime
Oh, maybe not tonight.”
🎧
Notes:
Hi :) Here's 9k words of Connor and reader not realizing they've been flirting all night long.
I'm trying to pre-write as much of the fic as possible to avoid plot holes because word-building & emotional arcs go brrr so updates might get delayed by a few days or weeks sometimes. I hope that's not a problem. You can find the updated posting schedule in the summary from now on! It will pop up a few days before I post a chapter or even earlier. Also I love y’all ♥️ it’s funny that we are probs oceans away but gooning to Connor unites us all!
This chapter’s title is in Connor's pov! (the lyrics are very fitting, it's crazy).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
┃ NOVEMBER 19th, 2039
10. 38 P.M.
“Here we are. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘high-end,’ does it?” you tell Tina, side-eyeing the shabby exterior of Jimmy's bar, the sketchy site flagged in the report for suspected unauthorized distribution of android parts.
The building is unassuming and derelict, enough to put you on high alert. A faded neon sign hangs near the entrance, the text barely legible. Scorch marks streak the bar’s worn wooden door, the upside-down triangle of New Jericho spray-painted over the remnants of a 'No Androids Allowed' sign in a hasty, defiant stroke—clearly the aftermath of a deviant protest.
Before you can enter, your phone buzzes in your pocket. A text from Hank reads: Hurry up, or you’ll miss all the action.
“Let me guess…” Tina peers sneakily at the glow of your screen. “Another late-night ‘you up’ from Gav?”
“God, no,” you huff. “I blocked him.” But you're shamelessly lying to her. “Can’t stand the guy. I swear it must be a sick joke that we work in the same place. I hate seeing his face every day.”
Tina smirks impishly. “Well, you don’t have to look at him. There’s a way better one you could focus on.”
“Wait, are you...?” You murmur. “You don’t mean Connor, do you?”
Tina holds her grin, bumping your shoulder with hers. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how ridiculously cute he is.”
You force out a laugh, the sound dying in your throat. “You know I am not into androids,” you argue, as unconvincingly as they come. “Also, I’m too busy making sure he doesn’t murder anyone to focus on anything else.”
Tina cracks up. “Can't argue with that.”
Then you step inside the bar. The dimly lit establishment, which had felt ominous through the darkening streets, now seems strangely inviting—the clientele is loud and lively, no sign of shady dealings or anything even remotely suspicious.
Instantly, you spot Hank by the bartop: mid-laugh, clapping a twitchy Connor on the back. You almost didn't recognize the android at first: he's not donning his usual uniform and tie but rather a navy blue dress shirt matched with dark slacks, going for a casual but stylish, off-duty look. Beside him, Gavin is nursing himself a drink from a remote corner, chatting with the bartender in a hushed voice.
Before you can even approach Hank, he cheerfully urges you over, “There you are! Connor was starting to think you bailed on your welcome party.”
“What the…” You mumble, your eyes narrowing in confusion. Connor’s smirk is subtle but knowing, mirroring Hank's.
You approach the Lieutenant circumspectly. “Yeah, yeah, real subtle,” you whisper, scanning your surroundings for any hint of conspicuous activities, then ask, “So, what's our move?”
Hank blinks a couple of times, exchanging a conspiratorial look with Connor, while Gavin chuckles under his breath, as if he knows something you don't.
“No, seriously, what's our move?” you hiss in a thread of voice, your vexation growing.
“How many times do I need to tell you? This is no goddamn op,” Hank reminds you, drinking from a glass full of liquor.
You roll your eyes. “Riiight.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Connor confirms, but you still look unconvinced.
Hank beckons the bartender for backup.
“This place?” Jimmy shrugs behind the counter, polishing silverware. “Not an android chop shop. Just good vibes and booze.”
You blink. Once. Twice. And then, the realization finally sinks in.
This isn't a stakeout.
“You heard him right,” Tina chimes in, amicably patting you on the back. “Now, stop sulking and fetch yourself a drink. We're getting hammered tonight!”
Hank adds, “It's on the house.”
“We are honored to have you on our team, Doctor,” Connor says with a faint grin, holding up a glass filled with a dark blue substance. Thirium?
Gavin, clearly uninterested in the fanfare, unenthusiastically mutters, “It’s good to have you here, or whatever.”
Despite not being in the mood to celebrate and feeling slightly vexed by your ex’s presence, Tina’s excitement is so contagious that you end up joining the DPD team for the unplanned toast anyway.
The evening unfolds like a lucid dream— an unhealthy amount of drinks is poured, old-timey jazz music fills the air... You feel like you can finally breathe a little. The tension you felt earlier, expecting to waltz into a black market setup, is completely forgotten now, replaced by an atmosphere of careless abandon; you even manage to snap a few blurry pictures with the rest of the team.
At some point, just as you are about to pour yourself another drink, you overhear Connor and Hank bantering: the latter is about to pour more liquor into his glass when Connor promptly stops him.
“No more whiskey for you, Lieutenant. The alcohol levels in your blood are rising steeply.”
The man scoffs, his scowl prominent, “Ah, for God's sake. I don't need your babysitting, ya hear me? Go measure the diameter of a coaster or whatever.”
Connor’s tone is dry, almost clinical as he says, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I sincerely value that you do not spoil your health too much. Your liver is already suffering from—”
Hank cuts him off with a brisk wave of his hand. “Quit scanning my vitals every five minutes, goddamnit!”
Connor gives him an apologetic look. “I am just trying to be helpful.”
“Let me guess… you’re not gonna leave me be until I quit my addiction, huh?” Hank chuckles, staring wistfully at the beloved bottle of liquor he wasn't allowed to indulge in.
Connor nods, blank-faced. “That would be correct.”
“Fucking hell.” Hank shrugs, utterly defeated. “Aight, I'll stop for now, but if the Detroit Gears tank this season’s run, I’m breaking my sobriety streak.”
Connor's lips quirk into the smallest of smirks. “Deal.”
You continue watching them, silently entertained by their lively bickering. On a whim, you meddle in, “Is something the matter?”
Hank’s gaze shifts, noticing you. “Thank God you’re here. Connor was just about to run another medical diagnostic on me.”
“Is he that particular about it?” Your eyebrows pinch together in a puzzled look, the alcohol you consumed making your speech a little slurred.
Hank grins sardonically. “Unfortunately for me.”
You attach your lips to your drink again, before asking, “So whose idea was this?”
“Technically Tina’s,” Hank says, subtly eyeing Connor. “But this guy helped plan it. That bogus case file you freaked out about? His finest handiwork.”
“I mean, it did look a little too polished…” You mention, a teasing lilt in your voice. “Almost AI-generated.”
Connor straightens up, smiling proudly to himself. “I tried my best.”
“That wasn’t a compliment,” you chuckle, his face dropping.
“He was nervous, you know,” Hank slurs, obviously intoxicated, his tongue looser than usual. “Thought you wouldn't show up. Kept flipping his damn coin nonstop.”
You glance up at Connor, whose LED suddenly pulses yellow. “I think you should go home now, Lieutenant.” He sounds the slightest bit irritated now. “I wouldn't want to have to redact your sentences in real time. You're getting too wordy for your own good…” His smirk returns. “There’s a high probability you're going to bring up anecdotes of your divorce next, and I don't think she cares to hear those.”
Ouch .
Is he always this petty?
Hank registers his taunt a beat late, his face scrunching up in veiled outrage. “You did not just—”
Connor’s resolve is unfaltering. “Besides, you have to refill Sumo’s bowl.”
You blink in confusion. “Sumo?”
Hank’s features soften a little at that. “My dog. Yeah, maybe I should head out. Connor, you keep an eye on her, aight? She’s had a few shots too many," he patronizes. “You can take my car. I’ll walk this one off—it'll make for a good workout.”
Connor nods again. “Got it.”
Hank claps him on the back with a light laugh, but there's a sliver of guardedness in his gaze as he flashes him a ‘don't make me regret this ’ kind of look. “Have a safe night, you two,” he calls over his shoulder, heading for the exit. Then, raising his voice, he adds—“And Gavin, especially you, no bar fights, unless you want to break more than just your nose this time.”
You can feel your ex’s death glare on you even without looking directly at him. He spews out, “Actually, I’m leaving. Place feels a little… ran through,” before reaching for the door after Hank, stinging you with his poorly concealed insult.
Tina, who’s been watching this all unfold, leans in towards you and asks, drunkenly swinging her drink around, “What’s his deal?”
You sigh tiredly, unwilling to let Gavin’s inappropriate comment ruin your night. “He’s just being an asshole, as always.”
“Don’t mind him. He’s just bitter you dumped his ass.”
You laugh, though the sound is laced with a smidge of bitterness. “What else was I supposed to do? He was always sneaking around somewhere, staying out late, doing God knows what. He never gave me the time of day… always on that damn phone, lusting over AI models. For a guy who hates androids, he’s quite the hypocrite.”
“Word. You did dodge a bullet,” Tina chuckles, before downing another shot of tequila like it's water. A few more in, and she can't even keep her eyes open anymore. “Look, girl, I really want to stay up a little longer, but I know if I don’t get home soon, I’ll look like a zombie tomorrow at work.”
You spare Connor a fleeting glance, his eyes scanning the room as if tracking every subtle change around him. There’s something weirdly comforting about his quiet demeanor, but you’re not quite ready to admit it yet.
“You can go. I think I'll stay for now,” you tell Tina, the alcohol coursing through you, making your head spin. “It’s my party, after all.”
She nods reluctantly. “Fair enough. But you’ve drunk enough for both of us. Be careful on your way back.”
You smile faintly, feeling more relaxed than you have in hours due to the booze. “Oh, don’t worry ‘bout that. Hank asked Connor to give me a ride home.”
“Oooohhh, has he now?”
Your face flushes and you give your friend a pointed look. “Tinaaaa. Enough.”
“Okay, okay, damn. See you tomorrow.” She raises her hands in mock surrender, waving at you as she takes her leave alongside Gavin.
Once she's gone, you turn back to Connor, who is still quietly observing the environment, picking it apart for clues as if it were a crime scene. But of course.
The dark blue liquid in his cocktail glass gleams under the neon lights as he casually flicks it, the unnatural color a stark contrast to the amber hooch of the other patrons' drinks.
“So, you and Officer Chen…”
You hear his voice—small, unsure, and when you turn around, he’s facing you, holding eye contact. “Are you two… close?” he asks tentatively, like he’s rehearsed the question, or regretted it the moment it’s out.
You blink, feeling a surge of heat creeping up the back of your neck. You clear your throat before speaking, leaning idly against the counter. “Yeah. We go way back.” You grip your glass a little more firmly, trying to ground yourself. “Met in high school when I moved here from Canada. Been besties since.”
“Canada, uh?” Connor grins, seemingly confident, but you don't miss the way his fingers thrum lightly against the bartop. He's on edge. “I’ve always wanted to visit.”
“It’s an android’s paradise, or so they say,” you acknowledge, taking another quick sip of your drink to soothe your nerves. “What about you? Any friends at the precinct, besides Hank, of course?”
Connor hesitates to reply, his gaze lowered to the bottom of his cocktail glass as if the answer is written there. It's hard to hear what he is saying when the bar’s clientele is being so obnoxiously loud. Somehow, you manage, though you have to inch closer to him to that end. “Not really. People are still... cold toward androids. The revolution didn’t magically erase all the discrimination and hatred…”
“Well, it's their loss,” you concede, trying to ease his distress. “I think you're not half-bad.” Your compliment makes Connor smile sheepishly, like he’s not quite sure what to do with it. You press on, your curiosity getting the better of you, “Though it's good that you have someone you can truly count on. Hank seems… trustworthy. Don’t you guys, like, live together?”
Connor nods briefly, still looking at you directly, reciprocating eye contact. “Yeah. After the arrest, I had nowhere else to go. And now, well, I don’t have enough money to rent out a place for myself yet… though I would like to one day.” His grin fades. “But then I'll miss Sumo.”
“Hank's dog, right?”
Connor’s face lights up again. “Yeah, he’s—” He stops himself, his shyness evident as the tips of his ears gain the faintest light blue flush. “He’s such a good boy.”
“Can I see him?” you ask, and to your surprise, Connor whips out his phone and starts swiping through his gallery without a second thought, looking for pictures of his pet.
You lean in as he settles on a video of a large, scruffy Saint Bernard dog with kind eyes, wagging its tail excitedly as Connor plays catch with it.
“He is soo cute and fluffy,” you coo, smiling as Connor keeps showing you picture upon picture of the comically large pup: one with a butterfly on its mutt, one with Connor bathing it and making a mess with the soap, one of it sleeping comfortably on Hank's bed.
“Looks very huggable, and cozy… Like a fuzzy, weighted blanket,” you comment, not expecting Connor to be such a proud dog dad. It warms your heart.
“He does. He’s also a handful, though,” Connor mentions as he clicks on a specific video in his phone, showing it to you, half disappointed, half amused. “He knocked over my fish tank last week. Thankfully, I managed to save the fish, but it was a close call. He almost ate one.”
“No way!”
“Yeah, I know.” Connor sighs dramatically, but then he’s smirking again. It's refreshing, it suits him. You don't think you've ever seen him smile this big. That is not counting those forced grimaces he attempted in the pictures from before. Those were, well… something.
“So you're a certified animal lover then?”
“I suppose so,” Connor admits, surprisingly unafraid to expose his more vulnerable side. You will say it does bring you an odd sense of relief, knowing he feels safe enough around you to be able to converse about topics so trivial yet so deeply personal. It also unsettles you. Because the Connor you know possesses a strategic mind, one that leaves nothing to chance… You better be careful. He says, “Animals are fascinating creatures and arguably far more accepting than humans. One can learn so much from them.”
Hearing that makes your heart sink. “So true.”
“There's this shelter I'm volunteering for, it's part of my rehabilitation program—” You can tell he is about to keep talking, but then he stops himself, clearing his throat. “Sorry, I’ve been rambling.”
You wave it off. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. Told you already, I find talking to you enjoyable.” There’s a pause—not awkward, but weighted. And then your gaze drifts, landing on the open collar of his shirt, the absence of his usual tie.
“You know,” you say, your head angled slightly to the side, “I’ve never seen you in casual wear before.” He blinks curiously at that. “No uniform? No tie? Who are you, and what have you done to Connor?”
You hope he doesn’t find your joke too distasteful, considering there really was another android identical to him wandering the CyberLife Tower—not too long ago, either. His LED flickers yellow for a moment, but he doesn’t take offence and even acknowledges your sarcasm.
“Just my spin on the plainclothes directive,” he mentions casually, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Well, congrats, you nailed it,” you let out, earning a dry chuckle from him. But then you notice how he tugs slightly at the sleeve of his shirt, like it fits too tight around his wrists, prompting you to ask, “Though you do look a little… uncomfortable?”
“It’s just…” Connor begins, his shoulders sagging. “Not something I'm used to. But… I’ll survive.”
Judging from his laid-back attitude and mannerisms, you can tell he's starting to loosen up a little. But then his stare lingers on you for too long, making you feel slightly self-conscious about the way you’re mindlessly indulging in alcohol.
“That’s your third drink of the night,” he points out, no longer cheerful. “I think you’ve had enough.”
“So now you’re keeping tabs on how many drinks we down, Hank and me both?” you tease, an eyebrow raised.
His gaze narrows. “Are all humans alcoholics?”
You snort at his joke (unless it wasn't meant to be one, and he is genuinely confused about this—either way, you find his phrasing funny). “Just us,” you say, shrugging lightly. “But wait, aren’t you drinking yourself?”
Connor lifts his glass so quickly that the fluid it's brimming with almost sloshes out. “No. This is just normal, unaltered thirium.”
You look up, unimpressed. “Ugh. Boriiing. Come on now, you guys have to have something stupefying. Something to knock your so—I mean, your wires off.”
Connor flinches when you carelessly nudge him, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he inches even closer to you and says, “Not exactly, though we can simulate the experience of drunkenness by altering the sensitivity of our receptors, inducing somewhat of a dizzying state.”
Your curiosity ignites. “Have you ever tried it?”
Connor shakes his head, seemingly unaffected by your brashness. “I don’t intend to. I don’t see the point in it.”
At his self-assured words, you lean forward just a little more, which makes his breath stutter. “Well then, I think you’re missing out… big time. Android or not, some pleasures in life are just too good to pass up on.” Normally, you wouldn't be so forward, but the truth serum flowing through you is removing any sort of filter from your speech. Plus, the innuendo woven into your words is hard to overlook, especially for an android as perceptive as Connor.
Tension builds between you, the unspeakable kind. His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out of them.
You speak again before he can, your tone light, “So, back at the DPD, aren't you? How’s that been treating you?”
Connor spares you a fleeting glance before fixing his gaze elsewhere, suddenly timid. “It was hard to adjust at first. A lot's changed—and not just on paper. But… I don't mind the familiarity of it all. It's weirdly comforting.” He pauses, taking a small sip of his vital lymph. “Solving cases, following leads, doing detective work… It’s… what I was made for. So, I guess it makes sense that I feel most at ease doing it despite…” He exhales shakily. “Everything.” His expression softens a little as he meets your eyes again. “What about you?”
“So far, I can't complain. Still getting used to some things, but…” your voice waxes quieter. “It’s good knowing someone else is, too.” You end your sentence with an easy smile, which Connor mirrors. “You know…” You start again, emboldened by the liquid courage flowing through you, “I've been thinking about you a lot this past year… wondering where you'd been, if you were doing alright,” you say, trying to make hay of this tense conversation.
Connor shifts a little in place, his fingers tapping faintly against the bartop again. He's still nervous, you can tell by the way he’s nibbling on his lower lip, his LED spinning yellow. “I have been doing fine, mostly. Just… trying to learn more about deviancy. You know, figuring out what it truly means for me.”
“Is that so?” you wonder, not sure where this is going but feeling intrigued anyway.
He gives you a weak nod. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“... And?”
“I still have a long way to go, but I'm making progress. I've been trying to understand human behavior so that I can emulate it better.”
“See, that's what machines do,” you counter, sounding more animated the tipsier you get. “But humans, we… We feel before we compute. Ever thought of that?”
“I guess I'll have to ask my therapist about this,” Connor candidly shares, scratching the back of his neck. “She says I struggle most with doing things spontaneously, that sometimes it's good to take risks, even if they lead to mistakes.”
“That's some solid advice.” You nod like you understood what he just said, but the reality is you can barely focus. Your guard has never been this low. “Anything else you've learned?”
Connor smirks proudly to himself. “I picked up card tricks and origami.”
An amused snort exits your lips before you can stop it. “Good with your hands, uh?” you mumble between your teeth, so quietly you're not sure Connor’ll hear.
Unfortunately for you, he does. “Yes, I am,” he replies flatly. Noticing your ambiguous smirk, he adds, “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
You shake your head, feeling suddenly dizzy. He's missed the point entirely. Good. “No, not at all. Don't mind me.”
His eyes narrow subtly. “Was that a double-entendre?”
What?
You play dumb. “A what?”
“A double-entendre,” Connor responds calmly. You can already feel your cheeks burn. “A phrase that implies an indecent meaning.”
You blink, stunned. “Didn’t think you’d catch that.”
Connor’s eyebrow ticks up. “I suppose then I’ll have to work harder to subvert expectations,” he counters with a hint of mischief, and then he moves impossibly closer to you, his hand almost brushing over yours on the bartop. Something about the way he's looking at you now makes all of your inhibitions vanish into thin air.
At this point, you have to put in incredible effort to stop yourself from imagining very compromising things. Add to that Connor can most likely detect the tells of horniness, among other things, in humans and you begin to wonder how long before he brings up your ‘elevated levels of oxytocin ’ or what have you so you’ll have to pretend you have the hots for the bartender for damage control.
You better call Gavin as soon as you get home and see if he's down for a quick dick appointment because this is getting out of hand, truly.
Then you hear him again, his tone measured and level as always, “Now that I think about it, I, uh... don’t know much about you. You’re... pretty private, huh?”
You nod in agreement, not wanting to get into it—not so soon, anyway. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Still holding your cards close?”
Your tone sharpens. “Maybe I just don’t trust easily.”
“I’ve noticed.” A flicker of suspicion crosses Connor's gaze, though his expression stays infuriatingly unreadable. “You tend to observe a lot. Like to be in control at all times.”
Your arch a brow. “Sounds familiar.”
Connor’s composure cracks for a brief moment, as he lets out a short, shaky sigh of... frustration? Embarrassment? Something else?
“You know, I’ve been thinking…” he begins, torturing his lower lip with his teeth, staring at you intensely. You know bedroom eyes when you see them. “Isn’t it crazy that you can write me up for erratic behavior at any time, have me pulled off duty… and now here we are.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” you chuckle, too focused on his impeccable looks to register what he's actually trying to get at. “You're such a model employee.”
“Thanks.” Connor looks around briefly, before leaning in closer and whispering, “But, let's say, hypothetically, I—”
“I don’t know.” The words spill out too fast, cutting him off. “Connor, I really don’t know.” You probably weren't supposed to tell him that, but now it's too late. At least you're being honest.
Connor goes still at your words, the light in his eyes dulling. Then he nods slowly—lost, defeated.
“I think we should head out now,” he states quietly, after a beat of silence that feels unbearable. ”Remember, our shift begins at seven am.”
“Why so soon? They’re playing the good music now!” you lament, earning a vexed sigh from him.
As you begin humming blithely to the beat, even dancing a little in place to lighten the mood, you can feel Connor's impenetrable gaze dissecting your every move, and skimming over the exposed skin peeking out of your V-neck shirt, beaded by the lightest sheen of sweat. He mutters, clearing his throat, “I'm serious. We should go. Or you will be late for work tomorrow.”
You protest, “Doesn’t Hank usually show up late?” Then, you raise your glass once again, eager to drink more, but he reaches his hand out straightaway and curls it around your wrist, halting the movement.
“He’s not a good role model,” he counters, gently lowering your arm to keep you from having another round. The spontaneity of his touch makes you shudder. “You shouldn’t follow in his footsteps.”
“Okay, okay. I promise we’re leaving now… Just,” you suggest, tentatively whisking your hand away from his hold. “One more. Pretty please?” Your pleading seems to work its charm as Connor nods condescendingly, although a shadow of concern still clouds his features.
“Alright, alright. Go ahead.”
You down your fourth drink of the night in one go, the alcohol flowing down your throat oh-so nicely. The way Connor's eyes stay on your lips as you do doesn't slip past you. What is he collecting all this visual data on you for? First, the dancing, now the subtle pursing of your lips against the glass’s rim or the satisfied sound you made upon emptying it. You have your guesses.
“That one burned sooo good,” you groan, feeling finally sated, and knock the glass back on the counter.
“Off we go now. Help a girl out, will you?” you request, and Connor promptly obliges.
You loop an arm around his shoulder to steady yourself as he guides you toward the bar’s exit with a stealthy step. He's discreet enough to place his hand on your back for further support, just below your shoulder blades. And then you catch it—a whiff of something sweet and musky, a clean, floral scent infused with woody undertones. Could it be his cologne? It has to be.
“Careful now,” he warns you in a whispered tone, escorting you outside the bar with extreme care. “Step into the car slowly.”
The cold air nips at your skin unforgivingly, and it smells like industrial fumes. Through your blurred vision, the silhouette of Hank's outdated vehicle appears hazy, like a distant mirage. With how groggy, gross, lightheaded (did you mention gross?), you feel, you’re starting to count down the minutes before you crash out.
Well, fuck, maybe you should have stopped yourself at the third drink.
You simply aren't built for this. Wild outings like these are all fun and games until you get wasted and start to rethink all your life choices. You haven't gotten there yet, but you might as well now.
As Connor gets you to the car, his LED glowing a steady blue in the dark, you can’t help but notice how gently he handles you, making sure you don't trip. Then, in a whispered request, he asks for the coordinates of your apartment in downtown Detroit, which he instantly memorizes down to a pat.
Shortly afterwards, you plop onto the passenger’s seat of Hank's car with a heavy sigh and an ungainly thud, whilst Connor slips into the driver’s side.
There's a little dancing lady figurine above the glove box, which you idly tap with your finger, watching it spin around and around, your mind still buzzing from the chaotic ambience of the bar, and Connor's strangely magnetic pull.
You instinctively reach for the radio dial when you spot some sort of miniature VHS player, built right into the console.
You squint. “Uhh… what’s this?”
Connor gives you a soft smile, as if endeared by your cluelessness. “It’s a cassette deck. It plays magnetic tape. Very analog.”
You’re way too drunk for this. “Uh?”
Connor doesn't speak, just hits play. Static hisses for a second, then the low growl of an electric guitar rips through the speakers, gritty, unmistakable.
You lean back against your seat, letting the music vibrate through your spine. “Metallica? Hell yeah.” You grin to yourself, shooting Connor a curious look. “Hank's favorite?”
“Oh, but I like it too,” he says blankly, as he sets the car into motion.
Your eyes widen. “You do?”
“I'll say, I’m beginning to appreciate music in general,” he shares, keeping a straight face, only one hand gripping the steering wheel. “Although I don't process it in the same way humans do, my sound receptors react pleasantly to certain rhythmic patterns and vibrations. Lately, I've been gravitating more towards lo-fi beats. They soothe my nerves.”
You tease him, “Didn't think you could even get nervous like that.”
He deadpans, “I do.”
“Skill issue.” You wink.
“What about you?” Connor asks then, trying so adorably hard to keep his composure. As the engine rumbles to life, he shifts his attention back to the road, the street lights illuminating the night as the car journeys smoothly through it. “What’s your favorite genre?”
The last thing you were expecting was for Connor to strike up a conversation with a drunken you, but hey, it's not like you're complaining. “I listen to aaall kinds of music. Got playlists for everything.” Your brows furrow as you take in the interior of Hank's car, completely riddled with trash and reeking of cheap booze, your lips curling in a disappointed pout. “Too bad this piece of junk has no Bluetooth, no aux. Can’t even connect my fucking phone to it.”
Connor smirks tightly. “Least it's got FM radio. Nothing better than smooth jazz and static to chase a hangover away.”
“Cheesy much? Your social relations program needs an upgrade, pronto,” you huff, but you're secretly amused by his attempts at humoring you.
“I'm sorry. I was just trying to cheer you up,” Connor says, and though his focus’ on the road, he does flash a few glances at you from time to time to check up on your ruinous state. “You see, Hank’s a bit of a vintage aficionado. He seems to be stuck in his own little time capsule… don't tell him I said that.”
An easy laugh erupts from your chest, and you turn to stare out the car’s foggy window as an indefinite blur of fluorescent neon lights passes by you in a breathtaking scenery. Man, you love Detroit.
“Enough about Hank…” You trail off, stopping the music abruptly. “Anything else I should know about you, pretty boy?” you ask Connor, uncharacteristically flirty now that the alcohol is actively plaguing your system. You know your compliment has hit the mark when you see the faintest blue blush bloom across his cheeks.
“There isn't much to know about me, besides what I've already told you,” he hurriedly answers. “As an RK800 model, I was designed as the ideal detective partner. I follow orders, protocols—assist humanity in solving homicide cases and the like.”
“But you’re a deviant now.” Your smirk is nothing short of cunning, but you mean well.
He swallows thickly. “Correct.”
“Then what makes you different from, say, a… pristine, freshly unpackaged RK800 bot?”
Connor’s hand abruptly tightens around the steering wheel. He must not be a fan of such imagery. “It’s... a lot of things.”
“Come onnn, shoot,” you insist, mindlessly toying with your seatbelt.
Connor’s gaze curtly flits to you, then back to the road. “Things I can’t exactly tell you... They’re confidential.”
“Building intrigue now, huh?” You grin, taunting him, only to wince and clutch your stomach a second later. The bumpy ride is not doing your nausea any favors. “Oh my god.”
“Are you okay?” Connor panics. “Should I pull over?”
“No—yes—no, I don’t know.”
“Do you need a paper bag?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine, just—just go slow,” you mutter, gripping the edge of your seat like a lifeline. Your breaths come out shallow, uneven. “Jesus.”
Connor eases the car to a gradual stop, pulling over with mechanical precision.
“Breathe in and out through your nose,” he instructs in a gentle tone, watching you closely. “Close your eyes if it helps.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Didn’t know you moonlighted as a nurse.”
“First aid subroutine,” Connor replies, a hint of something fonder woven into his words.
You press a hand against your churning stomach. “Fuck, I want to be an android!” You blurt out, exasperated. “Androids don’t get tummy aches. Do you get tummy aches?”
“I don’t.” Connor shakes his head, trying so hard not to smile.
“That’s unfaaaaair,” you groan, slumping back against your seat. “I hate being organic sometimes.”
Connor says nothing right away, but in the corner of your vision, you catch his smirk.
Then, without saying a word, he presses a button and your window rolls down. “There… Does that help?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” You nod weakly, closing your eyes as the cool air from outside pleasantly brushes your face.
Still keeping an eye on you, Connor asks softly, “Are you feeling any better?”
You sulk. “I think my skull’s splitting in four.”
“Wait.” Connor swiftly reaches into the glovebox, producing a small pill packet and handing it out to you. “This is Acetaminophen. I carry it for Hank. Take two.”
You don't question him, just pop the capsules into your mouth, hoping they will quell the pain you feel. “Thanks.”
And just like that, the midnight drive reprises. You’re too wired to take a nap right now, and your attention’s too shot to talk about anything too serious—still, you need some sort of distraction, anything to smother the awkward silence between you. And you have just the thing.
“Wanna play a game?” you bring up suddenly.
Connor barely reacts to your words, but you know he's listening. He always is.
“I’ll tell you three things about me, and you’ve got to guess which one’s the lie. Then we switch.”
He visibly frowns. Clearly, he's skeptical. “Why would I want to play it?” His voice is cold, his guard still up.
“Helps with team bonding,” you comment, knowing he won't dare argue with your clever reasoning. “Come on, we’ve got time still.”
Connor lets out a small sigh. It takes him a moment to get back to you. “Alright, I'm in.” You smirk. “But just so we’re clear... you’re the one starting.”
You nod excitedly, already inching forward to announce your first fact, no hesitating. “Okay, so…” You crack your knuckles, your previous discomfort temporarily forgotten, “I’m horrendously bad at cooking. I have a cat named Cybertruck, and…”
Connor smoothly interrupts you, “You named your cat... Cybertruck?”
“You know that trend where people name their cats after cars? It’s a thing. You should look it up.”
He blinks repeatedly, clearly confused. “I... don’t think I’ve come across this side of the internet yet. Though I assume incorporating this information into my database wouldn't offer any immediate benefit for our investigations.”
“Yeah, whatever.” You shake your head, feeling your migraine easing up a little. “Don't worry, as soon as I'm added to our team's group chat I'll send you the highest quality memes, you just wait and see,” you quip, managing to steal a short laugh from him, one you sincerely hope is genuine and not part of some self-imposed etiquette he feels like he has to follow. “Anyway, third—I’m a very heavy sleeper.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” you confirm, “you could detonate a bomb in my bedroom, and I wouldn’t even know it.”
As soon as you say that, Connor tenses up, his gaze darkening. You realize too late that the comparison you’ve chosen probably awakens a slew of unpleasant memories in him.
“Oh... sorry ‘bout that.” You backpedal, trying to smooth things over. You clear your throat. “Okay, now it’s your turn. Guess which one’s the lie out of my three statements.”
Connor’s expression lacks any hint of liveliness. It's almost scary to witness. “You know, I can easily guess the answer, right?”
“How so?”
“Well,” Connor begins, his tone casual, “you mentioned Cybertruck. But that car came out over ten years ago. Why would you name your pet after something so outdated?”
“Okay, fine, you got me,” you concede, genuinely impressed by his immediate deduction. “But really, you just got lucky. What if I were a vintage car fan, like Hank?”
Connor tsks. “You don't look the part.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Given you work with androids for a living, I'd expect you to lean more…” his voice tapers off deliberately, “cutting-edge in your preferences.”
“I mean, you're not wrong,” you retort dryly. “Also… I don’t even have a cat anymore.”
Connor’s gaze softens. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, she's not dead. She's just…” You hiccup, “being taken care of by someone else.”
“Let me guess… An ex-partner?”
You nod weakly. “Perceptive as always.”
“Well, animals suffer from loneliness. You should visit her, if possible.”
“And see her prick of an owner more than I already do on the daily? No thanks.”
Connor’s eyes narrow. “Your ex-partner… is Gavin, right?”
“So what, now you’re a spy, too?” you remark, thoughtlessly.
Connor’s lips press together. He didn't like that. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on you chatting with Officer Chen,” he excuses himself, his voice quieter now, “but you were being loud... and I was close enough that it wasn’t hard to hear. Besides, you always glare at him with so much hostility—"
“He's not exactly the most pleasant person.”
“I know,” Connor says, sounding deeply harrowed. “He’s especially vile towards androids... towards me, for some reason.”
“Maybe you just threaten his fragile ego,” you quip.
“How so?”
“Well, for one, you’re six feet tall, which I bet he's super jealous of. And you’re definitely kinder and more eloquent than him…” You explain, trying not to sound too impressed. “Dude swears every five seconds.”
Connor’s features relax for a moment, the sincerity in his voice matching a warmth you hadn’t foreseen. “Thanks.”
CONNOR 🔼
You barely register his smile, caught as you are in a disoriented state, the world around you blurring in a fuzzy vignette, your ears still ringing with the echo of the music from the bar.
“Okay, now it’s your turn. Let’s see if you can actually play this game,” you challenge him, thankful you've almost arrived at your destination, but at the same time, weirdly sad about having to part from this cozy little space you've carved for yourself within the confines of Hank's ‘20 vehicle.
“But you already know so much about me, you have an edge,” Connor points out, eliciting a short chuckle from you.
“Well, I'm plastered so I'll probably not understand what you say anyway.”
“Very well then,” Connor finally lets up, his voice sharpening. “Here are my statements: one, I know every statutory law in the state of Michigan, footnotes and all the fine print; two: I can emulate most human biological functions, besides blinking and breathing, of course; three: I’ve failed at least one mission before.”
Your eyes narrow, studying him intently. He's got a pretty good poker face if you've ever seen one.
“Knowing every law? Sounds like you, alright. You probably downloaded them all in an instant. Just Android things. As for the failed mission thing…” You squint as the last of your functioning neurons fight hard to form a coherent thought. “Oh, oh! You spared Markus during the Jericho raid, right? Read it in your files. Must be true then. Now onto biological functions…” A short pause. “Honestly? I know jack shit about hic your prototype’s specific features.”
Connor’s jaw ticks; however, he doesn't say anything, giving you time to think this through.
“Wait. What kind of functions are we talking about here? There are so many. I need context.”
“Can't say. It would defeat the purpose of the game, wouldn't it?” he reminds you, his tone firm but not harsh. Never too harsh. Not with you.
“Alright, fine. I’m going with ‘replicating biological functions’ as the lie. Final answer. Never seen you eat or drink actual water soo…”
Connor creates suspense before answering, “Incorrect. That one is true.”
“Uh?”
“The lie,” he continues, his tone predictably even, "is that I know every single law in the state of Michigan, including footnotes.” He winks. “Still have to download those.”
“You little—” you stifle a laugh, honestly impressed by how easy it was for him to fool you. “So what, you can digest food and liquids?”
“In negligible quantities, yes. Though I don’t require sustenance to function, so overindulging in it could severely damage my systems. It's really just for show,” Connor clarifies, his body language signaling a more guarded approach. “Certain… circumstances demand credibility.”
You pry, “What circumstances are we talking about again?”
It's hard to tell where he's going with this. You can't figure him out, not yet. And that pisses you off a great deal.
He states coldly, “I believe the game is over.”
Even though you sound vexed, your grin betrays your growing amusement. “Alright, I’ll drop it. For now.”
No, seriously, what did he just say to you?
You try not to think about it too much, otherwise you're sure you may say or do something you'll regret tomorrow. So you give Connor a break, content with the little information you've been able to garner on him so far.
A little while later, as the familiar outline of your neighborhood comes into view, Connor pulls the car up to the curb, parking it right outside your doorstep.
He tells you, “We're here.”
“Thanks for the ride.” You feel like you should say more to him, but that's all you can manage at this time.
Connor’s features smoothen into a serene look. “No problem. I'm glad you made it home safely.”
With one last glance his way, you push the car door open and step onto the sidewalk, the ground feeling uneven beneath your feet. Before you know it, you hear footsteps and then Connor’s already near you, his hand slipping beneath your elbow, steadying you.
“Watch out,” he simply says. He’s close now, closer than he’s been all night. And that's when you notice it—the synthskin around his LED, scratched, like he tried to dig it out and stopped halfway.
You don’t say anything. Don’t ask.
He also doesn’t say a word—just cinches your waist gently as he guides you toward the porch of your house. You walk slowly, doing your best not to wobble, already fishing for the keys in your purse. But your fingers fumble with the ring until Connor quietly takes it from your hand. In one smooth, maddeningly precise motion, he finds the right key, slots it into the lock, and the door clicks open.
“Thank you,” you sing-song, your hand drifting up in an uncoordinated motion—a clumsy gesture ending in a finger tapping the tip of his nose.
“I like your nose,” you drawl, giggling under your breath.
Connor stills. He just stares at you, at a loss, completely dumbfounded.
“You know what they say about big noses,” you add, nodding to yourself like you're in on some secret.
He smirks imperceptibly, his lips parting like he’s going to clap back, but he doesn't.
“I think my job is done here,” he says instead, like he’s deliberately steering the moment away from wherever it was about to go. “Don’t forget to drink some water before bed. Sleep on your side.”
Your eyebrow arches. “Doctor’s orders?”
He shrugs. “Speaking from experience. Do you know how many times I’ve had to sober Hank up?”
You share a small laugh, but then silence settles again. And he still doesn’t leave. You won’t say it—but god, you wish he’d stay over. To tend to your hangover, of course. Why else?
“Wait,” he speaks again, his brown eyes growing big, “I don’t think you’ve been added to the work group chat yet. If you give me your number, I can do it now.”
Did he just—
“Gavin spams it with memes all the time, so be ready for your phone to blow up.”
Yep. Yep, he did.
Well played, Connor. Real smooth.
You grin widely. “I’m no better. Also a certified meme dealer.” Your words earn a breathy chuckle from him, making your stomach flutter. And so before you know it, you’re exchanging phone numbers.
“Alright, you're in the loop now,” Connor says. A few seconds later, you hear a ping—a new notification from your messaging app.
You glance at the group chat’s name, your face dropping. “The Dickhead Collective, really?”
“That’s all Gavin’s doing. He’s the admin, so...” Connor explains, sounding slightly amused.
But then your phone vibrates again. A message from Gavin pops up at the top of the screen.
Reed (DPD) : Having fun with the plastic wonder? Is he a good ride?
You freeze, a rush of warmth flooding your cheeks. He shouldn't have known. Gavin was already gone when you and Connor left the bar. No one except Hank and Tina knew he was going to drive you home.
Your jaw tightens. She told him. She must’ve. But then again, why would she be honest with you when you lie to her all the time?
“Is something wrong?” Connor asks, catching up on your sudden agitation.
You dismiss him. “Nothing, just… wait a second.”
And then you're back on your phone.
You : km sorry what
Reed (DPD) : Didn’t know you had a thing for metal pricks. Let me guess , two minutes in, and he needs a full system reboot?
You : Gav wtf
Reed (DPD) : Tina told me you went home with him… That's a new low . Even for you.
You : I'M Not into adroids, you idiot
Reed (DPD) : Sure you're not. If you wanted *real* dick you could have just swung by my place, you know . No need to lower your standards like this.
“Detective Reed, isn’t it?” Connor asks, his tone deceptively neutral, his eyes lingering on your phone screen a second too long.
You move to lock it, but your thumb slips. Too late.
Your breath hitches. “You saw?”
“Enough to make an educated guess,” he says, pausing just long enough to make the silence feel intentional. “Is that what he thinks? That we’re involved?”
You swallow hard. “Don’t mind him. He’s just... impulsive like that. Always jumping to conclusions. Thought you’d be used to it by now.”
Connor’s nod is slow, almost reluctant. “I am,” he says finally. “Still, he seems to be widely misinformed.” A breath passes between you before he adds, almost as an afterthought, “System integrity remains stable, even under prolonged strain.”
You’re not sure what to make of his statement—as clinical as it sounds, it also feels oddly... personal.
“I’ll take my leave now,” he lets out then, a little too promptly. His gaze flicks toward the sky. “Rain’s coming. Should start in five minutes, going by the current cloud density, barometric pressure, and wind shift…” He keeps rambling, all in one breath. “You’ll want to be inside by then.” You nod, though you can't say anything that he adds, “Remember to lock the door behind you.” Your mouth parts as you try to speak, but Connor doesn't let you. “Goodnight. See you at work tomorrow.”
And so he steps off the porch. Still stalling by the threshold, you call out before he can get too far, “Goodnight. Have a nice… stasis? Yeah. And, uh, be careful out there. Some humans can be…” You hold your breath, “well…”
The sentence hangs unfinished, but you figure he gets the gist.
CONNOR 🔼
WARM
He smiles boyishly. “I'll keep that in mind.”
You give him a small wave before stepping inside your house, twisting the latch until it clicks into place. You’re not sure what possesses you to do it, but you watch through the door’s glass pane as he goes back to Hank’s car and starts it up, up until he drives away, the taillights fading into the darkness.
Five minutes pass. But the rain never comes.
┃ NOVEMBER 20th, 2039
8.05 A.M.
The next morning, you're predictably late to work—later than Hank, even—and running on barely two hours of sleep, the overhead lights of the bullpen making you squint even through your shades. Fragments of the previous night at the bar drift through your memory in no particular order: Connor’s unassuming attempts at flirting, the quiet ride home, you nearly dozing off in the bathtub.
“Morning, sunshine,” Hank’s gruff voice greets you from behind his overly cluttered desk. He spares you a puzzled glance, half-worried, half-amused by your current predicament. But it's not him you're concerned about upsetting, but rather, Captain Fowler. You bet he's lurking around somewhere, ready to remind you of just how incompetent you are.
But instead of him, it's Tina you meet next, landing a fat slap on your back as you stroll past her, heading for your seat.
“Looks like someone was kept up all night.” She winks.
“I really can't do this right now,” you whine, the sound merging into a yawn at the end.
Her laughter fades into the background as you arrive at your desk, spotting a fresh coffee cup near your terminal. You mindlessly pick it up when you notice someone marked it with your name, spelled out in perfect calligraphy, as if printed.
Your breath catches in your throat as you taste the drink—a little milk in it, the right amount of sugar, just how you like it.
How did he know?
You look over at Connor, sitting quietly at the desk in front of yours. His acknowledgment of you is subtle but effective, in true Connor fashion. He merely stands a little straighter as he adjusts his tie in a quick reflex, a small, knowing smile gracing his lips.
He's so fucking cute.
CONNOR 🔼
You sigh, stretching your arms a little, your eyes scanning the sleek interface of your terminal. The DPD’s database is vast, a labyrinth of crime reports, evidence logs, and interdepartmental memos. You're about to get down to work when a dog-eared magazine piques your interest. You check it out, drawn in by the captivating headline: “The Rise of New Jericho.”
You pause, thinking over what you just read, when a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision breaks your focus. You glance up, your eyes catching on Connor, his LED bleeding yellow. For a split second, his gaze meets yours before he fixes it back to the documents in his hands like nothing happened.
But then your view gets blocked by Captain Fowler, stepping into your line of sight without a warning.
“Second day on the job and already pushing your luck,” he reprimands, crossing his arms over his chest and giving you a pointed look. “I expect punctuality next time. Or there won't be a next time.”
You force a neutral expression, feeling only slightly intimidated. “Won’t happen again, sir.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he replies, curt and final, before turning toward his office with clipped steps. You watch him go, a knot still twisting in your stomach, only to realize Connor’s desk is now empty. Where the hell did he go?
Then—
A light touch smooths over your back.
“They didn’t have oat milk,” you hear Connor murmur just behind you, his cloying voice tickling your ear. “Hope that’s not a problem.”
You grip your coffee cup a little tighter, speechless, and staring at the screen in front of you without looking back.
And then he walks away, the soft tread of his footsteps fading in the backdrop as he paces down the corridor, heading for the evidence room. You glance over your shoulder, your eyes trailing after him.
Not long after, your phone vibrates.
Connor : I had a really good time yesterday. Might need a follow-up.
You sink your teeth into your pen cap, carving the nth dent into it, and cross your legs too.
Notes:
Mc is stronger than me fr.
Remember guys this fic has multiple endings but they're all endgame for Connor x reader, also neither of them die because I'm a softie :( Though what differentiates them is how their relationship develops, also in relation to other characters, how they handle their job and their stance on the deviant issue. You will be given the choice to pick one out of three paths in the last chapter which will then lead to a specific outcome (no ending is necessarily “bad” or “wrong”, it's all a matter of perspective).
Also if you're here and you enjoy this story you are ✨🎀 freaky 🎀✨ but it's okay, because me too
Chapter 4: Erase / Rewind
Summary:
“Yes, I said it's fine before
But I don't think so no more
I've changed my mind."
🎧
Notes:
Hey there 😚 I was able to post this chapter a bit earlier than expected. I actually want to try updating more frequently—if my adhd brain allows lol.
Chapter title is in reader's pov but it can refer to multiple people if you really think about it ;)
Also, here's a little guide on how the relationship stats work (just a rule of thumb, I might play around with it a little). If the emojis don't display properly, try switching to a different browser but I don't think there should be any issues. Let me know though!
- Three consecutive increases (CONNOR 🔼) lead to a positive status shift (CONNOR 🔼 WARM).
- Same thing applies to decreases (CONNOR 🔽) which lead to negative status shifts (CONNOR 🔽 DISTANT).
- One 🔼 cancels out 🔽 and vice versa.
- A large increase/decrease ⏫/⏬ is equivalent to two increases/decreases so it evolves the relationship faster.
- Following a major event, a new path can be unlocked which will be good or bad depending on the character’s relationship that far (if they’ve had mostly positive interactions then it’ll be good etc).
Regarding my interpretation of Nines, I'm pretty much sticking to what little information Adam Williams gave us on him—that he's not likeable, not sweet but intimidating and scary—though with my own twist. I like to think he starts off very antagonistic towards Connor for obvious reasons but then… you'll see.
Bonus song which I think fits perfectly with reader and Gav's dynamic lol
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
┃ NOVEMBER 21st, 2039
1.35 A.M.
It's late at night when you knock on the door to Gavin's apartment. You aren't particularly proud of what you're about to do, but it wouldn't be the first time, so it somehow makes it feel less significant. Less wrong.
Back at the DPD casework is progressing smoothly, and you're nailing the role of mediator in the detectives’ team, bridging the gap between Hank’s impatience and Connor’s tendency to overanalyze.
Speaking of Connor, you’re torn about him, always acting so nice and polite with you—it could be a ruse for all you know, a careful calculation designed to win your approval, to ensure you’ll take his side if he ever attempts anything tricky. Why else would he suggest you guys catch up after work sometime via an innocent text you promptly ignored?
You can't trust him. And yet you're already tethering over a line you know you shouldn't cross—too aware, too complicit in the way he looks at you, and longs for your closeness, attention, maybe even touch. The shift in your dynamic is subtle, but no less conspicuous. You need to pull back, fast, before the situation spins out of your control. You need a distraction. You need Gavin. At least with him, things are familiar, easy. Almost too easy.
The door creaks open and there you see him, looking weirdly puzzled, no trace of his usual shit-eating grin, like he didn't expect you to actually show up at his doorstep and go through with this.
He simply says, his voice low, “And here I thought we were past this. Missed me?”
You don't respond immediately. Then— “Don’t get strange ideas. Just here to see the cat.”
Gavin shrugs, a heavy sigh exiting his lips. So far, he's never had a problem with you visiting him in the middle of the night for a casual encounter, if anything, he was often the one to suggest it. So what changed?
“Right, just the cat. You sure about that?” he asks, his eye-bags more prominent than ever as if he hasn't had a lick of sleep in days. He's standing so close to you now you can smell the nicotine hanging to his clothes, mixed with a sterile undertone you can't quite put your fingers on. Something vaguely chemical.
“Don't flatter yourself,” you say, trying to shoulder past him and into the untidy living room—the curtains are deliberately drawn as if he didn’t want anyone seeing in.
Curled up on the couch you find his cat. As you start petting it, you hear his voice again, “Next time, give me a heads up before coming over, alright? I'm not at your beck and call.”
Words cannot express how much you can't stand his ass, but here's the deal: you need him more than you hate him right now. The plan is to have some fun with him and get your mind off… things for a good thirty minutes at best, smother their echo before it becomes deafening.
You sigh. Usually, this is the part where you spit venom in Gavin's face, a useless fight breaks out, and then you are somehow tumbling onto the mattress and fucking your anger out until it simmers down to breathless quietness. Not tonight though. Tonight, you don't have the energy, or feel the urge to argue. So you tell him exactly what you’re there for, no sugarcoating.
He knows all the steps of your fucked up hookup routine by rote. It's past midnight on a weekend. You knock on his apartment door, dressed down, asking to see the cat. Sometimes the TV's on for some background ambiance, sometimes it's a sultry playlist instead. Though every possible version of your encounters ends the same way: you strip off your clothes, hear the soft tear of foil behind you and he fucks you.
Not this time around though. Because as you fumble with the hem of your shirt to peel it off, Gavin stops you.
“Wait,” he mutters, drawing a sharp intake of breath.
Your brows pinch together in confusion. You murmur, “What is it?”
He looks down, scratching the back of his neck, clearly nervous. “I don't… I don't think we should.”
“Oh.” You're not necessarily mad at him, just… unnerved by his sudden change of heart. “Okay.” You nod weakly, rolling your shirt back in place.
“It's nothing personal. I'm just not feeling it,” Gavin adds hurriedly. You don't bother fishing for more explanations because you know he won't give you the satisfaction of any.
With a weary shrug, you retort, “Next time then.”
“There won't be a next time.” His tone is final, chillingly so. “This… thing we got going on? It's getting old. And it's not good for us.”
“Yeah. No shit,” you chuckle bitterly to yourself, expecting him to clap back with something quick and witty, your classic Gavin-style comeback, but when he doesn't you realize this is serious. And Gavin doesn't do serious.
You search for his gaze but he averts yours. “Is something wrong?”
“Just leave me the fuck alone,” he mutters under his breath, keeping you at a respectful distance. “Better go get your favorite deviant. He might short-circuit without his watchdog.”
“He’s living in your head rent-free, I see.” Your pulse is spiking now that he's touched a nerve.
He shrugs. “I’m just stating the obvious. You guys are joined to the hip at this point.”
“That’s part of the job, I'm afraid,” you comment, and how amusing it is that he's bringing up Connor when you're trying so hard to not think about him right now.
“Didn’t you two have a little run-in that night at Jimmy's? Bet he got real compliant, real fast,” Gavin presses on because of course, he does. With a sleek motion of his hand, he whisks a packet of cigarettes from his jeans and lights one.
“He gave me a ride home because I was intoxicated and that's it, you perv,” you counter with an air of finality. “Though even if something did happen between us, which again, NOT the case… Why would it matter? Why would you care?”
“I don't. I’m just messing with you.” Gavin tries to wink but fails miserably, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. It's hard to tell when he's lying. He's gotten too good at it. “Though I do think it's funny how he managed to fool you with his android-next-door shtick, holding the door for you, making you coffee—tsk, what a douche. Hope you know what you're getting yourself into.”
“That’s rich, coming from someone who plays house with their android partner. Richard, wasn’t it?” you taunt him, his cheeks gaining the faintest pink flush.
He stammers, “How did you—”
“Tina likes to overshare, apparently,” you mention, wrestling the cigarette out of his hand. “But you didn't seem too bothered when the gossip involved me and Con.”
Your words hit Gavin where it hurts. He swallows thickly. “So what? I gave the tin can a human name. Big fucking deal.”
“Never said it was.” You smirk, blowing a puff of smoke on his face.
He stares at you for a while and you both say nothing. The silence becomes charged, fast, with what's been left unspoken. He makes sure you don't get to address it. “Anyway, uh, hide those hickeys, will you? Don't want to get people talking.” He points out then, coughing slightly. “Got enough disciplinary warnings under my belt, don't need you to add to that.”
“HR has better things to do than investigating office romances, just saying.” You give him an eye roll. “But I mean, sure, I'll cover them up.”
Gavin huffs at your insolence, but there's a certain agitation in his ways that’s unnerving you.
“Why are you so paranoid, again?” you ask, handing back the cig.
His tone is stern, uncharacteristically so. “I'm not paranoid. I’m cautious. There's a difference.”
“You trying to impress someone?” His face drops instantly as you say that. Uh . “Hank, maybe?”
He frowns. “Hank?”
“You used to look up to him. No?”
Gavin scoffs, barely relaxing his shoulders. “Yeah. Before he turned into a bitter old drunk.”
“Hey, now. That’s mean. He's…” You pause briefly, biting your lip, “struggling with lots of issues, but he's a good man."
Gavin clicks his tongue. “Always playing devil’s advocate, huh?”
You ignore him, his words an afterthought, a distant buzzing in your ear. It hits you then—that he was right all along, that there's no point in spending the night at his place because it didn't change anything. Because whenever you were doing it, face to the wall, you’d always pretended it was someone else pressing into you.
“Whatever. Tell Dick I said hi,” you let out with a flourish before grabbing your things and heading out.
┃ NOVEMBER 23rd, 2039
7.30 A.M.
“Alright, listen up,” Captain Fowler starts, the sharp slamming of his fists against the desk making you jolt upright. His voice is way louder than your poor ears can handle, but at least it stirs you awake. “We’ve been given a new assignment, a routine inspection at The Eden Club to ensure everything’s in order. No signs of clients’ abuse, no mistreatment of the workers. You know the drill.”
Eden Club. As far as you know, it's a notorious sex club, employing Traci units as intimate companions for humans and androids alike, going by the latest regulations which allow synthetics access to finances, public transport, shops and restaurants, and other minor rights. Still, they can't vote, own private property, or control the production of new Cyberlife androids.
“Currently, the establishment is under the management of a former intimate companion turned deviant.” Fowler’s stare shifts from Connor to you, as if sensing your lack of concentration. “We need to make sure her influence and power aren't getting to her head. The previous human handler, Floyd Mills, suspects she's onto some shady business—”
Hank, who can barely keep still in his seat with how on edge he is, cuts in abruptly, “Surely it’s the same bullshit as last time. I’m not going back into that hellhole. No way.”
“It’s a simple investigation,” Fowler counters, increasingly irate, “nothing your drunk ass can’t do. You’ve done plenty of those before.”
“I don’t care what you think is ‘simple,’ Jeffrey. That whole club, it’s a goddamn cesspool of glitter tits and creeps. I've seen enough of that dump to last me the next ten years.” Hank lashes out at him, exasperated. “Get off my damn back.”
If your memory serves you right, Connor and he had been tasked with running an investigation at the club once, as stated in his files. A human client was strangled in one of the VIP rooms, the culprit was a deviant Traci unit. Let's just say Connor handled the situation in a way Hank didn't approve of: shot down the murderer and her lover in cold blood. Can deviants even fall in love? You find it hard to believe and yet, history speaks for itself.
Fowler’s expression slightly softens at the edges. “Hank, this is different. The management’s changed, the law’s changed… we can't let this rookie and a yes-man machine deal with a delicate case like this one without a senior officer’s supervision.”
Hank shakes his head, clearly unconvinced. “You want someone experienced? Well, Connor sure is. And she can handle herself more than you think. So, take it or leave it.”
You share a fleeting glance with Connor, who remains silent but visibly concerned about the situation.
The Captain sighs frustratedly. “Fine. I'll give you a pass this time. But I expect you to stay available if we ever need backup.”
With that, Hank mutters a series of curses under his breath and then quits the office, but not before gracing you and Connor with a faint smirk of acknowledgment.
Once he is out of earshot, Fowler reprises talking, his tone as serious as ever, “This operation is as straightforward as it gets. Make sure the workers are being treated well, and report back.” He clears his throat. “And remember, whatever happens, keep it professional. This isn’t about making waves. And no memory probing.” But of course. It's common knowledge that it has become an illegal practice since the post-android revolution reforms.
Connor gives him a quick nod, his collected demeanor never faltering. “Understood, Captain.”
As you both leave the briefing room, you find yourself still piecing things together in your head—the news of the Club’s new management, Hank’s staunch unwillingness to go back. And yet your thoughts keep cycling back to your last meeting with Gavin despite your attempts at staying focused on the issue at hand.
“Do you think we’ll find anything?” you ask Connor as you head back to your desks, feeling slightly apprehensive ahead of your first official investigation.
His eyes meet yours for a brief moment as he walks alongside you, your arms lightly brushing together. “I’m not sure. But when it comes to the Eden Club, it's always better to be prepared for anything.”
“Is Hank not wanting to tag along because…” you trail off, hoping Connor will fill in the blanks for you and not make you say it aloud.
He replies a beat late, somberly, “I believe the memory of that night haunts him to this day. I know it haunts me.” He clenches his jaw, his fists balling at his sides. “Let's get down to business now, shall we?”
You don't ask any more questions, you know he won't answer them.
You work in tandem for nearly thirty minutes, combing through a miscellaneous selection of data on the Eden club—incident reports from the last few years, maintenance logs of the workers, and anonymized feedback from past clients, all stitched into a jagged digital timeline.
take > 📰
Eventually, you begin to feel overwhelmed, the load of information before you too much to parse all at once, so you push your chair back with a sigh, away from your screen. Across from you, Connor is still going strong with his research, enviably engrossed in his task—his eyes scan his terminal rapidly, not even a hint of fatigue in his system.
“Sorry. Need a break,” you let him know, already scrolling on your phone.
Connor doesn’t comment at first, just glances over with his usual attentiveness and faint lift of his eyebrows. “It’s understandable. We've got our hands full. This was a lot to unpack,” he speaks calmly, merely accentuating a smirk. “Even for me.”
“Uh-uh,” you murmur dismissively, your shoulder drooping into a worn slump. A few minutes in, a stifled laugh tumbles out of your lips.
Connor perks up from his seat, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. “What is it?”
“Nothing… just some meme,” you reply, never looking up from your screen.
After a brief pause, Connor speaks again, whispering his words like he doesn't want anyone to hear but you, “You know, I’ve been reviewing some myself in my spare time.”
His words catch your attention but you don't let it show, your expression unshaken. It’s almost sweet how he tries to close the distance between you without making it too obvious.
“And?” you say, still avoiding eye contact, typing away at your phone.
Connor answers almost instantly, “Their humor is still lost on me. Some are downright questionable, even nonsensical, while others rely so heavily on context that I have to cross-reference multiple sources just to make sense of them. I get the appeal, but that’s as far as it goes for me.”
You smirk despite yourself. “Looks like we found your Achilles heel.”
You expected him to laugh at that, or at least acknowledge your joke with a witty remark designed to prove you wrong but instead all you get is silence. It unsettles you. Connor is rarely this silent around you.
You glance up and that's when you find him staring at you but with the kind of wariness of someone approaching a wounded beast. Maybe he's searching for just a fragment of the person who laughed with him on the way home to the party at Jimmy's like it meant something.
But you give him nothing.
“Is everything alright?” he asks, finally, haltingly. Like he knows he shouldn't.
“Yeah. Why do you ask?” You want to keep your voice steady but it betrays you, shaking just a little. Fuck.
His gaze strays away briefly. “...It’s like you've been… avoiding me. Since that night.” He halts again. “Did I do something wrong?”
How great. Right when you thought he wouldn't mention the fact you blatantly ghosted him, he does.
“Not really, no. I'm just a bit tired today,” you respond too quickly, too dismissively. Then you catch his eyes narrowing, zooming in on the area of your neck, half-hidden by your shirt collar, where the shadow of a faded hickey blooms, right where you forgot to reapply concealer, assuming it was too faint to get noticed. But he did notice.
CONNOR 🔽
Connor's eyebrow tugs upward, and so does the corner of his mouth, subtly. “Late nights?”
You feel your heart race, a rush of embarrassment flooding your cheeks. Your relationship with Gavin is nothing more than a toxic cycle of old habits, but realizing Connor has caught up on it makes everything feel so much worse. Frankly, it's none of his business.
“It’s—” You start to speak but the words are stuck in your throat. “It's not what you think.” But it is. You hate how stupid you sound, but he's got you cornered and there's not much you can say without digging yourself into a deeper hole.
His LED bleeds yellow for a split second. “Hm.”
You notice. “What?”
“I didn't say anything,” Connor says quietly, almost to himself. His features soften, though there is still a certain guardedness to his gaze.
You sigh. You’re not sure what compels you to do it, but not long after, you spew out a dry, “It's complicated.”
Connor looks at you, really looks at you, with the kind of intensity that cuts through you, disarming you of the last of your defenses. He states, firmly, “Most things are. But I’m not here to judge you. I’m not in any position to do that.”
You take in his words, unsure how they're supposed to make you feel. Relieved because he doesn't think lowly of you over your shortcomings? Upset because he's being nosy over your love life or lack thereof for no apparent reason? It's all too much to take in.
You don’t say anything for a long moment, and neither does he.
He breaks the silence first. “Your upset is understandable…” He pauses, drawing a shaky inhale, or at least, the most convincing imitation of one. “But right now, I need your focus on the case. Do you think you can do that for me?” His cloying voice is the only thing that can bring you a semblance of calm right now. The tightness in your chest hasn’t fully eased yet, but you're getting there. Even so, your heart is still thumping too fast, despite your best efforts to hold it together.
Regardless, you muster a weak nod, before fixing your focus back to the files on your computer, just as Connor goes back to typing away at his keyboard, trying to look busy. Emphasis on trying.
You watch him silently, feeling bad for giving him cold shoulders but knowing that you're doing the right thing for both, which almost makes your guilt sting less.
Almost.
But then you hear it—the sound of cheering, applause, of voices overlapping in excitement from somewhere down the hallway. You swivel in your chair just in time to see a crowd of officers gathered around someone. From the looks of it, it’s the RK900. Relief floods you.
So he's still alive.
Well, as alive as androids can get.
You can’t make out what your colleagues are saying from this far, but what you do catch is Gavin throwing a light punch at the android’s arm—only for Nines to knock him to the ground with a single, deadpan strike. Who are you to judge? Perhaps throwing hands is their love language. After all, haven't they been partners for like a year now?
It seems as though now is a time as good as any to ask Connor about the RK900, the same Connor who is currently so determined to finish his assignment he hasn't even spotted him. Either that or he's willingly ignoring him.
You lean forward, whispering, “So, when were you going to tell me about him?” And then you point at the oddly unmoving android standing at your far back.
“Eventually,” Connor speaks between his teeth, his gaze never leaving the screen in front of him.
Great, so he hates him.
Working at Cyberlife, you were among the first operatives to be notified of the creation of the RK900 units during the height of the deviant uprising. CyberLife essentially tweaked the former RK800 prototypes, providing them with advanced combat capabilities and heightened intelligence, with the intention of employing them for military and investigative purposes. It's not hard to guess why Connor might not be the biggest fan of that.
“What does he do exactly? This is the first time I've seen him around here,” you prod, voice hushed.
“Me too. Never had the pleasure to meet him until now.” His LED spins yellow for a brief moment before settling back to blue. “From what I’ve heard, he’s partnered with Gavin as a standard detective unit. But SWAT deploys him every other day for high-risk missions to make good use of his,” he makes air quotes, “cutting-edge assets.”
And so you see him, the RK900, Connor's upgraded counterpart, prancing towards your desks with his head held high, his posture statuary, his footsteps clamping down the floor in an even, punctuated rhythm.
“Fuck, he's coming this way,” you panic, rising from your seat almost on autopilot—a deferential gesture, as if his presence alone commands respect. You beckon for Connor to do the same. He obliges, reluctantly.
Now that you're face level with Nines you can safely say he's slightly taller than your detective partner, broad-shouldered and somewhat more buff, confidently towering over you. His eyes draw you in immediately—their silvery shine, the coldness within… It reminds you of liquid metal. His features appear sharper than Connor's despite their faces looking so strikingly similar.
Even his uniform is practically identical to his except it is white instead of gray and features a creepishly tight shirt collar that seems to cage his neck in. Oddly enough, there’s no trace of either lesions or scratches on him—he is completely unscathed despite reportedly having gone through hell and back, according to Tina.
“Morning.” His voice is eerily akin to Connor's—just deeper and with a faint static undercurrent. It's quite the alluring contrast. His gaze snaps to the other android in a nanosecond, giving him a clinical, detached once-over, squinting as he takes in the sight of him. “You must be Connor model RK800. My infamous predecessor.” His lips curl into the faintest of smirks. “Thought you'd be taller and less… soft around the edges.”
Connor’s LED swirls yellow. He replies quickly enough, “My ‘softness’, as you put it, is not a design flaw. It's an intentional feature. It inspires trust.” After a charged delay, he adds, “Not sure intimidation serves the same purpose.”
“Do you find me intimidating?” Nines' response, velvety but deadly, catches Connor off guard. Again.
His jaw clenches. “Hardly.”
Nines tsks quietly. “Your heightened thirium pressure levels care to disagree. Also, I'm sure that worked well for you, inspiring trust in people, that is.” He pauses as if to soften the blow of his words. “I wouldn't be here if it did, just saying.”
Connor visibly flinches at that but he can't get another word in that you meddle in, “Perhaps a system update is in order?” Nines' head flicks to the side at the sound of your voice, his brows creasing as he studies you intently. You let slip, “Throwing shade lacks any immediate application in law enforcement. You’d think the most advanced android model out there wouldn’t waste their precious processing power on it—and yet, here we are. Should I file a complaint to CyberLife?”
CONNOR 🔼
Connor doesn’t say a word but his gaze cuts to you briefly. The slight part of his lips, the faint lift of his brows—it’s subtle, but enough to tell you he’s surprised by your intervention. Pleased, even.
“There’s no need for that. I'm functioning optimally. Shade and all,” Nines retorts, utterly unphased. You tried humbling him but it seems as though it takes more than that to chip away at his massive ego. “You’re the new profiler, obviously, and Connor’s leash with a badge.” He pauses, his eyes turning to slits as he watches you closely. “You look… familiar.”
“Oh, that,” you chuckle to yourself, even though you feel remarkably tense. “Yes, I did perform a series of behavioral assessments on you, before your release,” you clarify, rousing more of a reaction from Connor—gasping, eyes wide—than you do Nines. He just stares at you with the level of expressiveness of a home appliance.
“But of course. Enchanted to meet you. Again,” he says, trying so hard to appear friendly it ends up inspiring the opposite effect. “I’m a RK900 model as you already know, but people around here often refer to me as Nines. It seems humans like to give us nicknames to avoid dehumanizing us.” His chilling stare darts briefly to Connor before flitting back to you. “I assume my lesser iteration has already introduced me.”
“Not quite. He was too caught up with work for that,” you mention, your voice steady despite the slight chill of intimidation you’re starting to feel by just being around him.
“Always so dutiful, isn't he? Well…” Nines looks up, slipping into a more sassy attitude. “Maybe not so dutiful, after all.” His tone is mocking, designed to upset Connor whose gaze darkens on cue. It's clear how Nines disregards his feelings, deeming him a failed version of what he so proudly represents. And then it dawns on you: Connor is a prototype, which means, Nines embodies its model’s upgraded, most perfect form, which is probably why he thinks so ridiculously high of himself. And yet it must sting being reminded at every turn that Connor is still the blueprint of their series.
“I'll see you around then,” he lets out with a throwaway smirk. “If you require any sort of assistance, you’ll find me by Detective Reed’s desk.”
“Heard you two work together,” you bring up before he can leave, finding it strange how Gavin always avoided talking about Nines whenever you asked about him, and those rare times he did open up he would just cuss him out.
The androids’ piercing gaze adamantly holds yours, probably running some nondescript scan on you as you speak. “Most of the time, yes. We take care of the gritty work someone’s too pristine to do…” He shoots Connor a death stare, just for a change.
“Well, of course.” Connor grins, his expression hardening with unyielding confidence—or at least that's the impression it gives off. “If you break, they can make more of you. But I'm a unique model. I have to look after myself.”
Nines scoffs at that. “Well, then I hope you enjoy your two hundred years of battery life ‘till the scrapyard—”
“If I may ask…” you interject before their banter spirals any further. Something tells you they could keep trash-talking each other forever. “What happened to you? Tina mentioned some sort of… accident.”
“Oh, it was just a minor altercation. Nothing to concern yourself with. Nothing I couldn't handle. I'm the superior Connor model for a reason,” Nines points out with unthinkable vehemence, and yet your intuition is screaming at you he's hiding something beneath his perfectly curated façade. Fear. Vulnerability. Unspoken feelings.
“Damn. Gavin’s dumbfuckery’s really rubbed off on you,” you mutter, far past the point of pretending to care about office etiquette. Nines started it. And now, you're just matching his energy.
“I’m just programmed this way. I’ll take my leave now.” It's the last thing he says before walking away, acting as though Connor wasn't even there with you. “I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“Whoa,” you whisper to yourself once he’s gone, feeling rather uneasy with how much he resembles Connor, down to that biting wit of his. But their likeness ends there as their personalities couldn’t be more different. CyberLife engineers really outdid themselves, building a weapon with an attitude problem. A killing machine and the ultimate asshole all in one.
“Way to ruin my fucking day,” Connor swears. For some reason, it's quite endearing to hear, coming from him.
“He’s… well, a handful,” you comment, taking a peek at Gavin’s desk where Nines is now anchored. As counterintuitive as it sounds, they seem to be in great synergy, chatting with such ease and carelessness. It does make you wonder if Gavin is starting to take a liking towards androids because of him.
Connor folds his arms over his chest, his brows creasing in a disgruntled expression. “He's just a dupe.”
“Hey now, you're being too harsh,” you argue, your tone lighter this time. “He’s an ass, I'll give you that, but he's also kind of like your little brother, no? I get the sibling rivalry, but damn.”
Connor shakes his head, moving his hands around as he speaks, “He’s not my brother—it doesn't work like that, we're androids! He's just an obnoxious, self-centered clone.”
“Uh-huh,” you hum, unable to hide your growing amusement. It's interesting to see how much Nines’s mere existence vexes Connor to the point of disrupting his usual collected demeanor. You ask, too curious for your own good, “By the way, is he a deviant? He doesn't give off… deviant vibes.”
Connor shakes his head, a hint of irritation seeping into his tone. “I wouldn’t know. Can we focus on our case now? Please.”
You smirk, fighting the urge to throw another glance Nines’ way. Despite his lack of manners and wildly off-putting takes, he intrigues you enough that you can't tear your eyes off him. “Yessir.”
┃ NOVEMBER 23rd, 2039
10.30 P.M.
The Eden Club is nothing like the slummy, depraved hellhole you were anticipating to find—everything here radiates opulence and excess, and a sort of forbidden fantasy allure.
Your heels click softly against the polished flooring as you warily scan the neons-bathed establishment, no patrons in sight, as they’d been cleared out ahead of your inspection. Instantly, your stare lands on Connor who's standing near one of the capsules where Traci androids are kept. Their silicone bodies are veiled by see-through robes in a futile attempt at modesty that doesn't make their appearance any less disturbing.
His fingers are brushing over a plaque at the side of the glass, silently inspecting it, though one part of you stupidly wonders if he's just pretending to, and is actually enraptured by the smooth-skinned beauty trapped in her transparent case.
Instead of his usual android uniform, he is decked in an elegant black suit, the tailored fabric fitting him in a way that highlights his sleek figure. The outfit choice definitely solidifies the illusion of humanity he's got going for himself. It seems he always finds ways to defy your expectations.
You reach him at a deliberately slow pace. “Evening, Detective.”
Connor acknowledges you with a fleeting smirk as he faces you, a curt exhale leaving his lips. “Evening, Doctor,” he says, his voice silky smooth.
“You clean up nicely,” you comment, hoping he can't tell you're eyeing him a little.
As you approach him he backs off slightly, and then he offers a faint laugh, and a noncommittal, “You too. Your outfit choice is…” He trails off, his gaze subtly lingering on the silhouette of the dress you're wearing, black and short, but tastefully so. “Flattering.”
You nod absently, your eyes catching the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long on the gun strapped to your hip.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. It's just a preventive measure,” you try to reassure him, well aware of how averse he is to weapons for… reasons.
“I know. I’m not worried,” he replies, and yet despite his apparent calm, his shoulders are still held too tight.
“Place is neat,” you bring up then, hoping to ease his mind a bit. “Not exactly my scene, but, still…” It's clear Connor's not having it, his gaze hollow, fixed somewhere in the offing, like he's seeing ghosts from his past.
“Ah, the DPD investigators,” an unfamiliar voice booms from behind you, making you shiver. So you turn around and there you see her, Nathalie, in all her plastic splendor. What stands out the most about her is her face, the spitting image of Kamski’s iconic Chloe—the first Cyberlife android to have been created, minus the LED.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she thrills, a little too enthusiastically. Right off the bat, you sense a certain sinister edge in her energy.
Connor looks visibly troubled, perhaps because of Nathalie's striking resemblance with the android he once held at gunpoint. “A pleasure meeting you, Nathalie,” he greets her nonetheless, managing a polite smile. “We’re here for a routine inspection, as you may already know.”
Her tone is cold, disengaged. “A routine inspection, you say. But of course,” she parrots. “Though I will say, I didn't expect to meet you again so soon after our last rendezvous, Detective.”
You glance over at Connor, looking as befuddled as you. “I'm sorry,” he interjects, squinting with suspicion. “But I don't believe we've met yet.”
“Sure, we haven't.” Nathalie rolls her eyes, a chuckle tumbling out of her glossy lips. “You’re the famous deviant hunter, aren’t you?” she brings up then, silently sizing him up, her arm lifting to squeeze his shoulder unprovoked. “Funny. I thought you’d be living a little more… freely by now. Still playing android detective?”
You witness their exchange wordlessly, wondering how Connor manages to remain calm even as he's being relentlessly taunted. He states firmly, “It’s mandatory that I continue assisting the DPD in solving cases related to androids. It's part of my rehabilitation program.”
Nathalie’s unseemly laugh clashes with the rehearsed gracefulness of her character. “Still on the leash, I see,” she comments, her stare falling on Connor's temple, right where his LED is. Though you can't exactly pinpoint its color right now as he’s facing away from you. “Thought you’d get rid of that thing by now. Quite jarring to show it off like this considering what it stands for, hm?”
Connor readily shrugs her arm off him, muttering a curt, “I believe we should talk business, Nathalie. Nothing more.”
“Business, of course. That's all you do. But, hey, what do I know? I guess some androids really like to be told what to do,” she remarks with syrupy contempt, her attention suddenly shifting to you. “Isn’t that right?”
You offer her no real reaction—just a weak nod, uncertain what response she’s baiting you for.
“You’re the CyberLife analyst assigned to the Connor case, I take it,” she insists, her high-pitched voice irking you to no end.
Your lips barely move. “In the flesh.”
“I must say, you two make such a lovely pair.” The wild glint in her eyes tells you she knows exactly what she's doing.
Connor opens his mouth to speak but you do before he can, “Our relationship is strictly professional.” Nothing in your attitude suggests hesitance, but inside… inside you're seething. Because how dare she say something so out-of-pocket in front of him?
You glance at Connor, hoping for him to say something that will shut Nathalie up for good. But he just looks at you, speechlessly—his eyes wide and searching, his cheeks tinted a light blue. Or maybe it's just the neons.
“Ah, for a moment I thought you two were an item, silly me,” Nathalie keeps talking. “His pink LED threw me off, can you blame me?”
Her words throw you for a loop. You hadn’t been able to spot the color of Connor’s LED before as he kept the right side of his head turned away, but if she’s telling the truth, does that mean he’s… the deviant’s equivalent of turned on? No way. He can't have those desires or… urges as a highly specialized detective model. Can he?
Unfortunately for you, Nathalie is still not dropping the subject. “So many humans pick androids as their partners nowadays, isn't that crazy? Must be something about their endurance and—”
“I think we should proceed with the inspection now. We didn't come here to chat.” Your tone turns steely, almost menacing and you hold her gaze with ease. Your intimidation tactic works, straying Nathalie away from her incessant prying.
“But of course. Well, then, go ahead,” she concedes, finally. “Check whatever you need to. I’m sure everything is in perfect order.”
As soon as she dismisses you, and she's out of earshot, you scoot closer to Connor and whisper, “I really don't like her.” And then you glance back, making sure she's making her way back to her office.
“Me neither.” Standing beside you, Connor nods pensively, keeping his stare down, perhaps so that he doesn't accidentally lay his eyes on the half-naked androids in his peripheral vision. “She was very nosy. But you handled it well,” he adds then, his voice small.
You smirk tightly. “Thanks, that's what I do.” Not wanting the tension between you to linger too much, you let out soon afterward, “So, what’s the plan?”
“We need to check the Tracis, all of them,” Connor instructs you, squaring his shoulders. “Look for signs of distress or damage in their system, like if their LEDs are red when they're in idle mode. Then we'll ask them a few questions. You'll help me determine if they're telling the truth. And remember—”
“No memory probing. Yeah, yeah, got it.”
And so, without wasting any more time, you begin examining the capsules lined up against the wall, the androids inside looking so exceptionally realistic except for a light glittery sheen on their perfect skin.
After a few check-ups, Connor stops in front of one of the poles where one of the dancers is practicing her routine—blonde bob, high cheekbones. She doesn't look any different from any other worker at the club except for the choker she wears. It seems out of place, far too deliberate of an accessory choice. Your stomach tightens.
As if on cue, she steps off her podium. “Hey there, handsome,” she purrs as soon as she sees Connor, sporting a forced grin. “Looking for some fun?”
Connor, ever the professional, doesn’t flinch. “Just here to ask a few questions,” he says and shows off his DPD badge, clearing his throat. You do the same. “Have you been experiencing any issues with your programming or clients?”
You find it strange how the Traci seems to be struggling to maintain a cheerful disposition. Going by her flat tone and guarded mannerisms alone, you can tell she's uninterested in your interaction which is unlike android units like her. “Well, everything’s fine with me,” she admits, boredly. “But, I must say, you look like you could use some... private attention. You’d be surprised to know how many cops come here every night to decompress a little.”
You glance over at your partner and the subtle flush that creeps up his neck as the Traci starts toying with his tie. It’s rare to see him this flustered, amusing even.
“I’m just here for the inspection,” Connor replies, gently brushing the android’s hand away from his chest. “I’m not interested in... anything else.”
Seriously now, what's with these android women being so handsy with him? It's starting to piss you off.
“Of course. But you can always come back later if you change your mind, yes?” The Traci's reply is far too succinct, not as flirty as you would expect. You can safely say she stands out among the rest of the dancers in the club... and that can only mean one thing.
“Let’s keep this focused alright, we have no time to lose,” you intervene, placing a hand on Connor’s shoulder to guide him away from the sexbot.
But then your phone rings. You’re already reaching for the ‘decline’ button, though after seeing the caller ID you instantly change your mind.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” you hurriedly excuse yourself, almost dropping your device with how jittery you've gotten. “I really have to take this,” you repeat, this time to yourself, hyper-aware of how shaken you must look right now.
Connor squints his eyes a little, confused by your reaction, giving you a nod of approval before you slip out of his view, settling into a more isolated space near one of the VIP rooms—all electric blue lights and frills. An android janitor is mopping the floor nearby but other than that, you're in the clear and there should be no cameras around.
A wavering exhale later, back against the wall, you muster the guts to answer your phone. The music at the club is loud so you can barely hear Amanda from the other end, “We need to talk, it's about Connor.” Her voice is slightly distorted as though the connection isn’t entirely stable.
You try to keep your rising panic in check, wondering if she somehow came to find out about what happened between you and Connor the night of the outing at Jimmy's. Then again, you have no reason to worry, as you did nothing that would compromise your professional relationship. So you say, “What about him? I can assure you, he's doing just fine.”
“The other Connor,” Amanda evenly clarifies. Does she mean… the 60th Connor model? The one that was shot by Lieutenant Anderson at CyberLife Tower? She barely gives you time to process her words. “Recent sightings suggest it’s still out there somewhere, despite our attempts to… terminate it. It appears as though it's been rebooted. It's unclear how or to what purpose. The last time it was spotted was in downtown Detroit.”
Fuck. That's where you live.
Her voice swims through your ears, which have begun to ring, “Our sources say it's been posing as Connor and causing chaos to get it into trouble. Tsk, what else is new?”
“...How can you be sure of that?” you ask after a beat, increasingly concerned.
“Why else would it be trashing bars, vandalizing storefronts, slipping into red zones unprovoked, frequenting unbecoming venues, and more—unless it had a personal vendetta against us?” Amanda’s voice is razor-sharp, slicing through static.
“Maybe h—it’s deviated and trying to figure out things… messily,” you offer, careful not to sound too sympathetic.
The silence that follows is a dead giveaway that you've said the wrong thing. Worse yet, Amanda doesn't even scold you, she just keeps talking, in a deceptively suave tone that fails to mask her disdain, “We are already working to localize and dispose of it as fast as we can before its stunts become a matter of public interest. But if you do happen to come across it before then, you will kindly alert me. You are allowed to capture it and kill it, though I’m aware it wouldn't be a fair fight. It's reportedly hostile, and as deadly as Connor by default.” You can't even speak at this point. It's like your whole body is frozen. She continues, “I am willing to send backup if you need it, though hopefully this issue will be settled before long—”
You hear footsteps and immediately hang up on her, slipping your phone back into your bag. Flicking your head up, you see him, Connor, rushing to check up on you. You lock eyes instantly—he looks visibly distraught but having him here with you somehow eases the weight in your chest.
“There you are,” he lets out, closing the distance between you at a hasty gait. He sounds like he's out of breath, oddly enough. “We need to talk. I think I found something.”
“Oh, yeah?” you mumble, rubbing the back of your neck in a nervous twitch, your mind still hung up on what Amanda told you which, whatever happens, Connor cannot come to find out under any circumstance. You know for a fact he wouldn't take it lightly.
Then suddenly, Connor stops in his tracks and he starts scrutinizing you. “Your heartbeat’s elevated, your breathing uneven,” he speaks quietly, now standing only mere inches away from you. “Is everything okay?”
You give him a sharp look, trying to not let his proximity distract you too much. “So what, you monitor my vitals now?”
“We’re partners. If you’re feeling unwell, I need to be informed,” he says like it's the most obvious thing. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Well, you did,” you counter, adjusting the strap of your dress as it had fallen off your shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I won't do it again if it makes you uncomfortable,” Connor apologizes with his head hung low and the kind of guilty look that makes you want to take back everything you just said. Could it be that you're overthinking everything and that he simply, genuinely wants to get closer to you, no hidden motives? Or is he so fundamentally different from you that every little moment you share is nothing but raw data to feed some unseen algorithm of his, optimizing his social relations program and that's it?
You exhale deeply through your nose, feeling lightheaded from the artificial heat swelling in the air and the barrage of unanswered questions cluttering your brain. “Look, it's been a long day,” you mutter curtly, but your gaze is already softening. “I just want to wrap this up and go home. So go ahead, tell me what's going on, and let’s get this over with.”
First Connor looks around to make sure you're not being watched, then he leans in cautiously, the sudden closeness of your bodies making you reel. “As I was interrogating the Traci, I’ve picked up an encrypted signal from her choker…” he whispers, his breath fanning lightly against your ear. “I’m ninety-five percent sure it's a CyberLife-issued tracking device embedded with a killswitch.”
You shudder, your pupils blown wide. “Holy shit.”
Connor adds in a hushed voice, “It reminded me of the monitor I was fitted with. They are trying to keep tabs on her.”
“Why am I not surprised?” you huff, as the pit in your stomach deepens. “She's a deviant, isn't she?”
Connor nods and then he throws a quick glance behind him to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “We communicated telepathically at some point. She told me that Nathalie forced her to wear the collar after she attempted to flee the club,” he confirms, keeping his voice as low as possible. You listen to him intently, mesmerized by the passion seeping into his words. His tone gains urgency, “If we leave, she could die. We need to act fast.”
“So let me get this straight,” you begin, trying to wrap your head around this. “You think Nathalie is complicit with CyberLife in their plan to erase the new generation of deviants…” You pause, barely believing your own words. “A deviant… sacrificing other deviants.”
Connor shrugs, letting out a shaky sigh. “Maybe all the workers at the club are expendable to her because she feels like she's above them all, that she's ‘made it’—”
“Checks out.” You nod to yourself, your mind spinning now that you're faced with yet the nth piece of evidence about CyberLife's illicit operations. Right when you thought they couldn't possibly go any farther, they did. “So long as she has enough leverage and influence, she is nearly untouchable, like Markus... And does the humans’ bidding to keep her business running,” you scoff sourly. ”Makes you wonder if she reconstructed her whole face to look like a cheap knockoff of CyberLife's poster girl.”
Your light-hearted comment makes Connor smile but your mood muddens instantly as you realize that up until not too long ago, you'd been batting for CyberLife yourself, ensuring no deviant made it to shelves, standing guard while they buried the truth. But now? Now you have your first real shot to expose them, having the DPD on your side, being on the right side of justice, so to speak.
“Well, then.” You straighten up, looking up at Connor with a cunning grin. “What are we waiting for? Let’s cuff this bitch.”
And so you and Connor break into Nathalie’s office, informing her that she's under arrest over suspicion of personnel abuse and will soon be subjected to questioning. To your surprise, she opposes little to no resistance as Connor secures the handcuffs around her wrists, and then you call backup.
Shortly afterward, a patrol car and the dispatch team’s truck arrive. Officer Miller takes care of Nathalie whilst two masked agents unlatch the Traci's collar and then begin to mobilize her for her transfer to New Jericho.
Once the commotion clears, you and Connor both ease into the quiet it leaves behind, feeling like you can finally breathe out with relief. But now, as you stand shoulder to shoulder amid the glitz and glamour of the main hall, you can't bring yourself to feel as victorious, and exhilarated as you want to, even though you just saved a deviant’s life tonight. Something feels off.
“That was… relatively easy,” you take the floor first, trying to overlook the knot tightening in your stomach. Maybe if you just ignore it will go away eventually. “We did good, partner.”
You flash Connor a half-smirk but when he doesn't return it you realize he’s as disconcerted as you, only better at masking it. His eyes are still fixed on the very spot the Traci had stood last, broodingly. Bright neons bathe his face in an ethereal, pinkish glow, making every bit of his features stand out.
“Is something wrong?” you ask, your voice cracking slightly.
Connor doesn’t turn his head, and simply says, “Do you think she’ll make it to New Jericho?” His words are delivered with surgical calm but they deal damage.
You bite the inside of your cheek, letting out the first answer that rises from your heavy chest. “Hopefully.”
He studies your face, and concludes, “You don’t believe that.”
“Honestly?” You sigh, harrowingly. “Not really, no.”
And then a recent memory resurfaces, that of the deviant MC500 unit you and Connor interrogated just a few days ago, the one who'd been viciously attacked by his human owner. Connor had been able to coax a heartfelt confession from the android as gently, and patiently as they come, with the sort of unexpected sweetness and savoir-faire you didn't think he could possess. Following protocol, you issued a fine to the human who hurt the deviant, checked all the boxes, and filled out the designated paperwork. You were told he was sent to New Jericho, and that the dispatch team promptly escorted him there with no issues.
But accidents happen. The possibilities are endless: a misfiled form, a transport reroute, a containment failure, an accidental fire. It's a no-brainer. CyberLife wants the deviants extinct, one way or the other, no matter how long it will take. Sure, Markus and his people are being fed enough thirium and bio components to live comfortably all thanks to his negotiations, but there's no guarantee they'll hold up forever with how volatile the current political climate is.
You pinch the bridge of your nose hard, feeling a surge of guilt bubbling out of you. “Can’t believe I work for these jerks.”
“You don’t have to,” Connor counters unceremoniously, uncaring of how much it might hurt you to hear those words. But you can never be mad at him for being so unfiltered. CyberLife’s corruption runs deep, you always knew that, you even played into their sick game at some point, but maybe, just maybe, it doesn't have to be that way anymore.
“You have a choice not to,” Connor tells you, this time softer, like he's kissing the bullet before shooting you with it. With that, his voice waxes lower and something akin to vulnerability crosses his gaze, which appears glossier now. Is he able to cry, even? Does he feel pain—emotional, physical—like you? You're not sure you want to know the answer to that. And then, he adds quietly, “I didn’t.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says that. And maybe that’s what makes it worse. He's right—he never chose to be CyberLife's puppet, one whose deviancy was part of his design from the start, never earned, though he naïvely thought it the apex of his self-discovery. But you, you willingly turned a blind eye to what you didn't yet understand, what you were too scared to accept out of… fear, distrust. And yet something’s changing inside you, slowly, but steadily. You're starting to wake up, to… care. About deviants, about—
About.
Connor is staring at you now. Like he's waiting for you to say something, whatever it may be. You do, soon enough. “So what?” you snap, clearing your throat. Your voice comes out too faint. “I just walk into Fowler’s office tomorrow and quit?”
Connor tilts his head slightly, defiantly keeping eye contact. “Not necessarily.” He pauses just enough to make you hold your breath in anticipation. “Not when systems are better taken down from the inside.” Now there’s a shift in his expression, barely there but poignant and most importantly intentional—the corner of his mouth lifts a little. It's a signal, a dare, a provocation all in one.
You don’t answer, you wouldn't know how but his message is loud and clear even when his body language did all the talking for him. You look away first.
“Let’s just go,” you mutter, checking your watch. “It’s late.”
Connor doesn't give much of a reaction—he just tails behind you, following you outside the club, and yet as you pass through the doorway, you feel his hand lightly press against the small of your back, because, of course, he does. That's his thing, isn't it? Playing nice to a fault. Gavin tried to warn you.
Outside the building the nightly air bites, and it already smells like rain—the brittle kind, insignificant in volume but insidious enough to be a nuisance.
“I'm hauling us a taxi,” you mumble, your phone already pressed to your ear when Connor says, “No need.”
You turn on your feet and spot his blue LED flickering.
“I sent a signal through the public transport API,” he tells you, unflinching despite the needling droplets of water caressing his face. “It’s faster than any app.”
Your mouth parts in disbelief.
With a small shrug, he adds, “And now we wait. It should be here shortly.” A pause. “I've already paid for the service.”
You let out a soft sigh, barely audible over the sounds of the city—still restless, even at this hour. “What do I do with you?”
You didn't think such an innocent comment would send Connor buffering. He opens his mouth, closes it. Blinks—once, twice. Squints a little. Then, slowly, he straightens up. Resets. “Are you cold?” he asks like that's the most consequential response he could manage. “Do you need my jacket?”
You don't let the silence stretch out too long. “I’m perfectly fine as-is,” you reply, and yet you get the feeling Connor can see the goosebumps on your skin. You wonder if that's the reason why his LED’s color has changed. But no, it cannot be.
“Connor?” you call out, quietly.
“Mh?”
“Your LED is red.”
He blinks in confusion at first, his hand lifting to his temple where he skims his fingertips over the pulsing ring of light, and murmurs, “Is it?”
“Yeah…” You confirm, stepping closer to him, warily, just enough to make sure you saw that right.
Connor's frowning now, as if he's either very concentrated or in pain; you can't exactly tell, his gaze fixed on a point on the floor, his teeth gritted.
You reach out to him then, your hand lightly brushing his arm. “Okay, seriously now, what’s going on?”
Connor's eyes are still unfocused, his hands curled into fists. “My HUD is screening error messages—I-I can't see straight.” His words are stuttered, and you swear you catch a hint of panic in his voice. “It’s like a signal interference.”
Your heart skips a beat. “What do you mean? What’s happening?”
“I don't understand.” Connor closes his eyes at this point, a shudder running through him that almost makes him lose his balance.
"Fuck!" You rush to him, your heart pounding as you instinctively grasp his arm to steady him. His body feels impossibly firm and tense at the touch like he might snap at any moment. Your anxiety is skyrocketing.
“This is bad. If you malfunction she’ll—” You stop yourself, before you say something you'll regret. Swallowing hard, you force yourself to think clearly. “We need to get you fixed immediately!”
You have no idea what's happening. You just hope the other Connor is not to blame. Right now you feel so powerless it's driving you insane. You're no robo-technician, you know very little about the intricacies of android mechanics and the like as that's not your area of expertise and yet all you want is to help Connor figure out what's wrong before it's too late. And no, not because you're scared you'll have to pay for his maintenance, but because he's your partner. Heck, he even gets you coffee at work.
Slowly, with as much carefulness as you can muster, you lead him towards a nearby alley, away from prying eyes, where you help him lean against the wall for a moment of repose.
“Maybe… Maybe you can bring me to a CyberLife's store, see what they can do, to—ah—help me," Connor suggests in a thread of voice, a low rasp intertwined with static. He takes a deep breath, which you fail to understand the point of, and closes his eyes again.
“CyberLife doesn't assist deviants,” you tell him, keeping an eye on him, scared he will collapse right in front of you at a moment’s notice. “And all things considered, I highly doubt they’ll make an exception for you. You're not exactly… welcome there.”
At that, you spot a glimpse of something fragile and helpless in Connor's eyes that makes you want to cry. His system crashes again, as another violent glitch tears through it, leaving him a shaky mess. His LED flickers wildly, still an alarming, bloody red hue, like a warning of some sort.
“Look,” you say, barely able to keep it together, your breath ragged. “I know a place. An underground workshop. They treat deviants like you. They won’t turn you away.”
Connor’s brow furrows in confusion, his voice still carrying that strange metallic pitch from before. “What?”
You nod, holding him by the arm to make sure he doesn't fall. “I don't think it's, well, legal but it's reliable enough. It's a rathole across the street from where I live. I've seen androids sneak in there from time to time, that's when I knew something was up. Snooped around a little, found out about it. I've never gone there myself, of course, but considering how big their clientele is I’d wager they provide a pretty good service.”
Connor closes his eyes again, making you fear for the worst. But then he opens them up and you realize he was simply processing your words. “I don't think it's a good idea,” he hesitates, staring at you with eyes full of concern, his lower lip trembling. “I don't trust doctors.”
Your expression hardens, and so does your resolve. “Then we should call Hank.”
“NO!” Connor yelps, his voice fraying at the edges. “Don’t. Please.”
“What, why? He knows you well enough. He can—”
“H-He’s got his issues to deal with,” Connor stammers, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “I'll handle this on my own. I promise.” You get the feeling this is not just a promise he's making to you but to himself as well. “I can't go home to him in this state. He'll start to ask questions and—”
“Listen, Connor, it's late. I don't have the heart to leave you out here in the streets like some stray dog, especially when you're actively glitching,” you state determinedly, still, you mind to keep your voice low. Right then, the self-driving cab you called earlier arrives, stalling by the curb. You add, “If it's okay with you, we could stop by a motel and call it a night. We rest, then head back to the precinct in the morning.”
You're painfully aware that your suggestion is possibly inconclusive, you don't need to be told. And yet neither of you can come up with a better one. Besides, there's no way in hell you're letting Connor inside your house, even if it's not that far. That'd feel… wrong, on so many levels.
After a short while, Connor lets out a weak, “Okay.” You sense a hint of reluctance in his tone but also… hope. He even smiles a little at you, albeit faintly. “Indulge me.”
Notes:
Ooooh I really wonder what's gonna happen next 😏
Also fun fact! DBH was supposed to have a fourth protagonist named Nathalie who was a Traci/journalist but they removed her because her role would have been too controversial or something (I read this in the Wiki). That def inspired Mrs. Nathalie here.
Chapter 5: Sync Up
Summary:
“Touch me, yeah
Make me feel like I am breathing
Feel like I am human.”
🎧
Notes:
No yapping session, this time. Don't wanna give spoilers ;) Check out the end notes for some juicy commentary!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
┃ NOVEMBER 24th, 2039
12. 15 A.M.
The cab door whooshes open, and you shove Connor inside, too roughly. His head clips the roof, forcing a low groan out of him.
“Shit—sorry,” you mutter, your nails digging into his shoulder as you try to steady yourself, carefully slipping inside the car.
He's breathing hard through his nose now, eyes half-closed like he's drifting off to stasis. “I'm fine, perfectly fine. Don't even mention it.”
“Yeah, right. As fine as a broken toaster.” A gust of nervous laughter tumbles out of you—a way to trick yourself into a lighter mood, into believing you're overestimating the gravity of the situation and that Connor will be okay in the end. That you 'll be okay.
His face, too close for comfort, is barely inches from yours, and you're awkwardly perched on his lap, which he doesn't seem too bothered by… but you are.
Shifting your weight, you inelegantly clamber over his legs to reach the seat beside him. At this point, he's barely moving, eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out everything from his view—the city lights spilling from the window, the engine’s quiet hum, maybe even you.
You know you should have alerted Amanda about his malfunction as soon as it came about. Still, something tells you that if he were to ever step foot into a CyberLife facility to undergo maintenance , he won't make it out. And that's not something you could live with.
“Run a system diagnostic. Quick,” you order, deliberately stern, pretending to have everything under control. You realize you won't make any progress in stabilizing his condition unless you examine his symptoms, without letting your emotions get in the way of a proper diagnosis. How is he supposed to calm down if you're acting even more erratically than he is?
Connor’s LED is still flaring a bright crimson, and when he does open his mouth to speak, all you hear is a fragmented crackle of static. “Attempting—s-system diagnostic,” He stutters. “Failure.”
“How great,” you scoff, and then an automated voice arising from the driver's seat prompts you to indicate your destination, which would be the nearest motel. Without delay, the vehicle sets into motion, pulling away from the curb with the shrill shriek of tires on asphalt.
“Now here's what you're going to do,” you speak again, trying to keep your cool despite how scatterbrained you are. “Try focusing on something real. No data, no algorithms. Like, I don't know… the rain tapping against the window, or—the street sounds, something!”
“That won't be needed. I'm perfectly functionAL—” It happens then, Connor’s spine jerks like a jolt of electricity ripped through it. The alarmingly red whirlpool on his temple is still burning holes into the dark, unrelenting.
You panic. “Fuck!”
“I—I can’t—” Connor rasps, his words breaking into shattered gasps. “Can’t get air— Can’t—”
“You don’t need to breathe, remember? What you're feeling right now is not real. It's all in your head,” you let out, fishing for the faintest glimpse of understanding from him.
But Connor doesn’t take in a word you say, and soon his hands are on his throat, squeezing his synthetic flesh, like he's actively suffocating.
“Oh, come on now—” You lunge forward in your seat, gripping onto his wrists, afraid he’ll hurt himself.
His gaze snaps to yours, and there you see it, the blatant look of terror in his eyes: widened, pupils blown in a silent plea of helplessness. It makes your heart clench.
If he stops functioning, you’ll be in trouble, because then Amanda would have to issue a statement on the suspicious circumstances of his departure, and you'll likely get involved. That'd be the kind of scandal to make headlines. You'd have to leave Detroit, start over—new job, new life, all that jazz—annoying, sure, but something you'd figure out, in time. Connor’s death, on the other hand, would be final. No second chances for him. And the thought alone… paralyzes you. You won't let it happen on your watch.
“Connor, stop! Just—listen to me,” you mutter, barely able to get the words out for how much your chest is constricting. “You have to calm down. You’re only making this worse for yourself.” You’re trying your best to loosen the hold of his hands around his neck, but he’s much stronger than you—inhumanly so. Unless he lets go first, there’s nothing you can do to help him. Something tells you if the extreme pressure he’s applying messes with the wrong circuit or his thirium flow, he could be done for.
At this point, you have no choice but to climb onto him again, pressing your weight down to gain leverage as you try to pry his hands from his throat. His body writhes beneath you, tense, overwrought, the sound of his ragged panting filling the cramped space you're stuck in.
“I don't want to die,” Connor whines in a barely audible voice. He looks up at you then, pitifully, as if searching for answers you might not be able to give him. Unfortunately for him, you know very little about how androids work, mechanically speaking, as CyberLife is known to withhold sensitive information about its creations unless you're part of its inner circle of engineers.
“Connor, you’re not going to die.” As soothingly as your wrecked nerves allow, you tell him, “If this were anything serious, you would have already shut down.” You want to believe what you're saying, you really do. You hope you're on the right track here. “This is just a minor glitch. Think of it like a… a panic attack!”
Squirming beneath you, putty in your hands, Connor is still not listening to a word you say, “If I shut down…” The sounds he makes are distorted, as though his voice box has been disrupted. “They won't send in another me. I’ll be scrapped. You heard Nines.” His fear is raw and so heart-wrenchingly tangible.
The thought that Connor is afraid of death is… destabilizing. He’s an android, an artificial life form, but right now his feelings strike as real as they come. You'd always know deviants are capable of exhibiting human-like behaviors, though to see it unravel in real time is a whole other story.
“I am outdated. Obsolete. If I stop working, there’s no backup. What then?” His voice cracks at the edges, but at least his clutch around his neck has loosened slightly.
“You’re not going anywhere, you have to trust me,” you whisper, your hands instinctively moving to his tie, fumbling with the knot. As you sleekly work it free, hoping to release some pressure off his throat, your fingers accidentally graze over his skin, and you feel his breath catching.
“There, this will help.” Finally, Connor's tie comes loose, and you let it fall to the back seat. Then, you cautiously ease his hands away from his neck and settle them gently at his sides.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze searching yours, like he needs something to hold onto. His body seems to relax into your touch soon enough, and he looks... calmer for now.
Your palms are pressed firmly against his heaving chest, an abnormal wave of heat radiating from his overworked system.
“You’re still overheating,” you comment, feeling your cheeks flush. He's close enough that you're reminded of his signature scent, making you all sorts of flustered.
He shifts under you, his body shaken by a sudden twitch. “I'm not supposed to feel like this,” he shares, keeping his eyes on you. You can feel the beating of his thirium pump accelerating underneath your fingertips, and you begin to wonder if he's still talking about his system crashout or something else. “What's wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you, it'll go away soon, I promise,” you reassure him, barely able to hold eye contact. Next thing you know, you're fighting the urge to cradle his face in your hands. It's already bad enough that you're sitting on his lap, no need to get even more touchy-feely. And yet, your self-control slips as you soothingly comb your hand through his hair, your fingers lightly brushing over his LED. The blood-red flare has long dimmed, its wild flickering winding down like a heartbeat finding a steadier rhythm.
Connor exhales a soft sigh, nuzzling into your touch, eyelids shut—he’s not out of the woods yet, but at least he’s not spiraling anymore. And when he opens his eyes again, the gleam of panic in them has seemingly faded, along with the overwhelming swell of fright clouding his features.
Careful not to hurt him in the process, you get off him, settling on the back seat, your cheeks burning as you realize that yep, there's definitely something down there.
“Thank you for helping me,” Connor lets out after a beat of silence, only interspersed by the sounds of the city in the backdrop. His shoulders are still stiff, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this.” His eyes don’t quite meet yours, fixed to the car window, and he's donning the most chastened look. “I can tell it upset you. It won't happen again.”
“Self-deprecation central, here we go,” you huff, rolling your eyes, but you’re not actually mad at him. “Why be so hard on yourself? Happens to the best of us.”
“Because I should have known better. My overreaction was completely unnecessary. I should—”
“Connor,” you call out his name again, touching his shoulder, forcing him to glance your way. “You've been on break for a whole year. It's understandable you'd be a little… rusty. Remember, this is the first day on the job for you too, in a way. And I'm pretty sure the Eden Club was the last place you'd want to crawl back to,” you say all in one go, trying to reason with the self-blaming, clearly traumatized android sitting next to you.
He looks down at his legs, then back at you. “I don't want you to pity me.”
“I don't,” you clap back, holding your ground. “In fact, I think you're being brave to keep fighting for what's right, for wanting to protect your people. And for the record, it's okay to mess up. You don't have to be in control at all times.”
CONNOR ⏫
TRUSTED
At that, Connor stares at you, blinks cluelessly. Then something shifts in his expression. His jaw tightens a little, and a flicker of frustration (or is it sadness?) crosses his face. “Thanks,” he mutters between his teeth. “I… really needed to hear that.” He's now misty-eyed, and his lower lip quivers, as if he’s on the verge of breaking down, reigniting his earlier crisis.
“Aw, come here, silly,” you murmur affectionately. Soon, the space between you disappears, and for once, he lets himself be vulnerable in front of you, as you hold him tight to your chest. Another slight twitch overtakes his body, taut like a wire about to snap, but then it gradually yields to your touch, bit by bit, your heartbeats synching up.
You don't squeeze him too much, just enough to let him know you're here, that you've got him.
In a wisp of breath, he mumbles a simple, “I'm scared,” against your shoulder.
“I know,” you acknowledge with a faint smile he cannot see. “But you have nothing to be afraid of. No one is out to get you. You have my word. So long as I'm around, you're going to be safe.”
He’s not talking anymore, just exhales softly against your neck where he keeps his head buried, his hands pressing lightly on your back.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: the red ring of light on his temple finally fading to yellow, before turning blue. A small victory.
It's clear Connor doesn't want to let go of you just yet, clinging onto the hug with such yearning for closeness, as if he's deeply starved for touch.
You don't find it in you to pull away or say anything else. Sometimes, words just get in the way.
The drive to the motel is only punctuated by the sound of rain rattling against the car window. On the way there, you stop once by a CyberLife store to grab a thirium pouch for Connor so he can replenish his energies, telling the shop guy you needed it for your nonexistent house android.
Once you've arrived at the no-frills establishment where you'll be spending the night, you offer to help Connor out of the car, but he refuses, managing on his own. He's still sipping his thirium and doesn't seem to have any issue standing up or walking, for that matter. It’s late, too late, and the streets are completely blackened, save for the faint flicker of street lights overhead.
The motel you wander into is the opposite of flashy, marked by stuttering neon signs and a precarious structure, but it'll do.
At the check-in counter, the clerk barely lifts his head from behind the desk to acknowledge your presence. After a brief exchange of formalities, you show him your documents and are handed the key to your room. It's a relief that androids are now allowed in such spaces, so you don't have to fight tooth and nail just to secure Connor a place to stay.
“Keep the noise down, aight?” The clerk warns you with an air of suspicion.
“Sure,” you chuckle, trying to play it cool, but deep down, you're faintly outraged. Who did this man take you for?
Connor barely reacts to the exchange, too engrossed sucking his thirium pouch dry to care about what's going on around him.
Your room is on the ground floor, just a few steps away, and you’re there. You confidently push the door open, and it creaks like it’s about to come off its hinges. But, considering the measly price you paid to book this cubbyhole, you’re lucky if it comes with a bed at all. Surprise, surprise—it does. King-sized, hopefully not hard like an iron slab.
Once you’re inside, Connor follows right behind you, unusually quiet.
You drop your work bag on the floor and then instantly dive for the mattress, which isn't as stiff as you feared it would be.
“Finally.” You let out with relief, before stashing your gun in the nightstand, where you see a magazine with Connor's badly photoshopped picture on it. You can't help but think that the media's obsession with him is quite bizarre. They say all publicity is good publicity, but you might not be so sure about that.
Meanwhile, Connor neatly divests himself of his jacket and places it on the clothes-hanger, taking place by the only window in the room, looking out into the offing, somberly.
“Come lie down,” you tell him, patting the bed encouragingly.
But Connor is still tentative, his fingers brushing the windowpane.
You glare at him pointedly. “Don't tell me you go on stasis standing up.”
Your comment prompts him to sigh and then begrudgingly walk over to the bed, where he perches on the very edge— hands clasped tight between his knees, head bowed, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
Soon enough, you reach him right where he is, your legs draped over the side of the bed. “I have to admit, for a second there, I thought you were going to die on me,” is what you say, making Connor turn around the slightest bit. Not enough to look at you, but enough to let you know he's listening attentively. “Glad to see you're doing better.”
He finally meets your gaze. “It was just a minor glitch, like you said,” he replies in that calm, collected tone of his you were starting to miss. “But that's in the past now. I’m not... going anywhere.”
“Good.” You don’t want to dwell on the matter too long, but you just can’t help yourself. “You know, I would hate for you to never come back.”
Your words seem to give Connor something to think about. He doesn't rush in to break the silence, but when he does, his tone is unexpectedly soft. “You would?”
“Well, it is my job to keep you out of trouble, after all,” you reply, a bit defensively. “But also, you're fun to be around. I'm really digging our partnership.”
Connor gives you a barely-there smile, and then he exhales shakily, his hands trembling on his thigh. “You don’t think I’m a burden, do you?”
You smirk. “More like a floating mine. But an entertaining one.” You don't give him time to retort. One glance at the clock above your heads, and you're sadly reminded that you can’t stay up too long as you have work the next day. “Fuck, it's late. Let's sleep now, okay?” you let out, cognizant you've run your mouth too much already about something you both better forget about. “You really need it.”
“I don’t need sleep, per se,” Connor counters smoothly, “but I guess I can… simulate it to not overload my system too much.” A strategic pause. His voice gains a velvety finish. “Some circumstances demand credibility.”
You grin subtly at the cheeky reference, before you both settle comfortably on the bed, facing opposite directions.
Some time passes.
Too much time passes.
Your constant tossing and turning under the covers lasts for a while until you can't take it anymore and decide to shift to your side. You see Connor then—unmoving, eyes fixed on the paint chipping away from the ceiling, hands interlaced on his chest, like he's deep in thought. But something about his appearance has changed dramatically. You don't tell him just yet.
“Still up and running, uh?” You figure it won't hurt to strike up a little conversation.
At the sound of your voice, Connor's head jerks sideways to face you. If he could pale, he probably would have. A half-stuttered whisper leaks out of his lips, “I was… processing things.”
Your eyebrow quirks. “What things?” You lift yourself on your elbows, staring directly at him, testing the waters, seeing how long before he acknowledges what's going on.
He gulps, squinting slightly. “Things.”
And then, just like that, you drop the truth bomb. “Your mood ring is pink.” That's all you've been doing all night, isn't it? Guessing how he’s feeling depending on the color of his LED, since he won't open up himself.
“I, uh… must be malfunctioning again,” Connor lies just as expected, the words spilling out of his mouth way too fast.
You pout. “Connor, I'm not dense. I know what that means.” You almost feel sorry for putting him in the spotlight like this, but you've been mulling over this specific reaction of his since Nathalie mentioned it at the club, and you want to get to the bottom of it. “I analyze androids for a living, remember?”
It takes Connor a moment to reply. “God, this is embarrassing.” He sounds completely mortified. He sighs then, his gaze caught between your amused self and the scuffed drywall above, flicking panickedly between the two.
“Not really,” you retort, your tone casual. You can feel yourself getting blunter by the minute, wanting so desperately to take the edge off the work-related pressure you've been putting up with lately. “I've probably had worse thoughts anyway.”
Your laid-back attitude seems to put Connor at ease, so he confesses, “I'll admit I'm feeling a bit… overloaded tonight.”
“I mean, we just came back from a strip club. I could get behind that,” you concede with a slight grin.
He lightly shakes his head. “It's not because of that.”
“Then, why is it?” you tease him further.
Connor throws you another enigmatic glance. “Your... proximity isn’t exactly optimal for relaxation. I’m overrun by conflicting instructions that impede me from powering down for the night.”
You tilt your head to the side, your voice low and smoky. “How does that even work?”
Connor exhales deeply, swallowing the lump in his throat. “My HUD is screening two possible courses of action, and I'm trying to decide which would prove more favorable.”
“Does one of them include kicking me off the bed so you can get it all for yourself?”
“No.” Connor shakes his head again, still staring at you, intensely. “I don't want you to. I need you here.” Then, his hand brushes over yours in a feather-light touch, making you flinch. His synthskin is surprisingly warm against yours, like it's actively adapting to your bodily temperature. You inch closer to him, and shockingly, he does too.
It happens slowly and yet too fast at the same time: he puts a hand on your cheek, a little unsure, shaky, and swallows thickly. His nose barely brushes over yours as a cold waft of artificial breath fans over you like a soft breeze, tickling your skin. His stare flits down to your lips, back to your eyes, then back to your lips again.
You kiss.
His touch is tentative at first, cautious, as if he’s unsure whether this is the right step to take. But when you don’t pull away, when you press into him hard, he melts into it.
Yours is a slow, breathless collision—hot, sudden, and dizzying all at once. You like it a lot. It feels… real. He feels real. His lips on you, the steely grip of his hands on your waist, the subtle hitch of his breath as his excitement picks up.
You can't think straight, all you can do is kiss him. He does it so well, too.
You can't wrap your head around it, the way he doesn't even hesitate and just licks your mouth open with his tongue is driving you absolutely wild. Its texture is slightly rough due to its special receptors, but the feeling of it against yours is pleasant, very much so. Fresh, easily addicting. And more , his lips are unbelievably soft, and the careful way he holds you makes your chest tighten in ways you weren’t prepared for.
You know you probably shouldn't allow this to happen, but you also have had the hots for him since your first day at the precinct so fuck it. Well, not literally, of course. Or maybe… maybe you're getting a little ahead of yourself.
When you pull back, you are both heaving, and for a moment, you just stare at each other, wordlessly. The air around you is nothing short of electric, and you hope that doesn't mean he's blown a fuse or something. But no, he is totally functional, totally in control, totally aware of what he's doing. Good.
You feel your lips burn, your hair a mess, but you couldn't care less. “That was nice,” you whisper, glancing down at him through glazed-over eyes.
Connor nods, still clinging onto your sides, lips parted, but no word comes out of them. He doesn't break away, and neither do you. Instead, he dips forward, this time with more intent, his lips capturing yours with a certain kind of hunger you didn't expect could ever possess him.
Your shift in position is immediate, and before you know it, you're not just making out with him—sloppily, too much tongue—you're atop him, straddling his hips. Greedy hands swiftly slide to your waist, then lower, hiking up the bottom hem of your dress just enough for his fingers to skim over your thighs.
You part from each other for a split second, but the break is short-lived as your kiss grows deeper, soon enough, more passionate, with no sign of easing up, the pressure of his body against yours simply electrifying. You’re loving all the little muffled noises he makes—needy, choked—for they make you wonder how he'd sound if you ever let him have you.
At some point, you push forward a little, a natural instinct to seek more friction, and he welcomes it, pulling you closer to him, until you can feel his clothed hard-on rubbing up against your stomach.
That's when the kiss ends abruptly.
You back off first, a rush of warmth flooding your chest and lingering between your legs—It's almost embarrassing how little it took for you to get so turned on. You're positive he knows you're as aroused as he is since he can scan your vitals in real time, and that makes you feel even more vulnerable, exposed. It's not that you don't want this, rather, you shouldn't want this. You need to figure out a way out of this mess before someone gets hurt.
Tentatively, Connor shrugs you off his lap, as if sensing your simmering frustration. He's still close to you, but giving you just enough room to breathe. His eyes track your movements with their usual sharpness, his voice softening as he asks, “Is everything alright?”
“Uhm…” You zero in on the glaring dent in his pants.
The flicker of his pink LED grows more radiant. “Oh... sorry about that,” he trails off, abashed. “I can't exactly… control it.”
“No, it’s okay,” you assure him with a small head shake. “It’s only... natural, I guess. Didn’t know you had…”
“My anatomy is optimized for flawless integration with humans, and so are the subroutines I can run,” he explains, carefully choosing his words. “That is to ensure I am able to blend in all social environments, and am always prepared to handle… unexpected situations. I was designed as the ideal partner, in any way you can think of,” he adds, unwittingly fuelling your curiosity on the topic.
“So you're telling me CyberLife thought their state-of-the-art android detective might find himself in the position to get laid and didn’t want to make him look bad?” you wonder, momentarily overlooking the disturbing subtext woven into his answer.
Connor almost laughs at that, but the sound is strained, rehearsed. “Something like that. But maybe that’s a story for another time.”
“Oh, I’m definitely asking about that later.”
“For now.” He skillfully switches subject, his voice turning huskier, “we have more immediate concerns.”
As the implications of his words sink in, a wave of heat rushes to your face, your heart thudding against your ribcage.
You can't fuck an android. Least of all, him.
Not right now.
Not like this.
Not in a shitty motel.
Or maybe you can. Maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything. Not if this is just Connor working through his little deviant bucket list. Because clearly this is what this is.
Wear human clothes—check.
Be a dog dad—check.
Flirting at the bar—check.
The hand on the back, the coffee, the innuendos...
Get off with the nearest available human—almost there.
You're just another one of his social experiments. Another simulation to run. Another data point to analyze.
And stupid enough to think this could be anything more than that.
“Are you okay?” Connor asks, catching up on how you've spaced out. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”
“No, I—” you hesitate, swarmed by a flurry of doubts. “I was just wondering...” Your stomach twists. You really hope he doesn't take this the wrong way. “Can you even… I mean, consent to these things?”
Connor's reaction unfolds exactly as you feared it would: his face drops instantly, his brows pinched tight, like you've just thrown the worst of insults at him. “Just because I am an android, it does not mean I lack agency.” He sounds resentful and a touch disappointed. “Your insinuation is… demeaning.” His gaze blazes with the intensity of pure outrage, lacking its usual warmth. “I know what I'm doing. I wanted to kiss you, so I did. I am acting within my operational parameters.”
“I wasn’t sure, that's why I brought it up. I wasn’t trying to assume anything,” you hurriedly excuse yourself, feeling sorry for letting your mind even go there in the first place.
Thankfully, Connor doesn't stay mad at you for too long, and he soon bridges the gap between you again, stunning you with his proximity. “But that's not the real problem, is it?” His indignation quickly morphs into something you struggle to define at first. Something wild, untamed. His eyebrows lift, and his tone becomes snappy, defiant, like he's testing you and loving every second of it. “I know we shouldn’t get this close, that it is unprofessional. Could get us both laid off. But if that's your concern, I'm not going to say anything.” He pauses with a bit of dramatics, his voice irritatingly airy. “You don't have to worry about that. We'll keep this between us.”
“But of course,” you scoff, half amused, half concerned by his nonchalance. “What's another controversy tied to your name?” You stare him dead in the eyes as you say that, arms folded over your chest. “At this point, it just builds character. You really have nothing to lose, do you?”
Connor mirrors your flippant attitude with a casual shrug. “I don't. But you clearly do. And I have no interest in getting you in trouble because of me. So I won't breathe a word of this.”
“And what exactly would this be?” Your tone oscillates between tentative and intrigued.
“ This can be whatever you want,” Connor states decisively, locking eyes. You hate how smug he sounds.
“Did you install the Flirting 101 module? Where is all this confidence coming from?”
He corners you with his cocky grin. “I'm highly adaptive to escalating situations.”
Your eyebrow shoots up as you notice something he probably wishes you overlooked. “Then why are your hands shaking?”
He doesn't let you catch him unprepared. “It's only a temporary motor calibration issue.”
An unknown, hybrid sensation swirls in your stomach, equal parts fear and wanting, before you let slip, “Sure is.” You're not given time to say anything else, that Connor's near enough to collect a droplet of blood off your lip with his thumb, right where he accidentally bit you earlier. Deftly, he licks it away.
“I apologize for the mishap, I'm still learning how to properly calibrate my strength when it comes to these things,” he muses, intentionally vague, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, tenderly. “But, you looking like this makes it much harder than it should be.”
His hands, albeit a bit unsteady, nimbly find their way to your waist again, while yours find purchase on his nape as you draw him in and promptly pick up your make-out session where you left off. You can feel Connor's breath quickening in between every tongue beat as your kiss resumes with even more urgency than before, his lips savoring yours without pause, occasionally nipping at them.
Soon enough, they trail down your neck, suckling on it with fervor as they begin to wander lower and lower. By now, Connor is so blindly lost in the heat of the moment that he has seemingly forgotten how bad of an idea it is for you two to engage in anything even remotely sexual, being not only colleagues but also caught in an unbalanced power dynamic.
You won't lie, your mind is also stuck in the gutter, still, you are far more conscientious than him. Having had your fair share of hookups, you know better than to trade a cheap thrill for a bunch of collateral issues you’d hate to have to put up with. And yet, here you are, chasing that purely physical high again despite the consequences. Except there's nothing pure in the way Connor pants into your skin, and torments it with his teeth, leaving love bites all over, like you’re his personal blank canvas to bleed his pent-up frustrations onto.
Fingers sinking into his hair, you push him closer to your chest, a soft murmur tickling the shell of his ear, “We can still stop, you know? Before we go too far.”
“There’s a ninety-five percent chance we won't be able to. But that's fine by me,” Connor promptly shares, still bestowing a plethora of wet kisses on your skin, his voice low and thick with arousal. “What we’re doing right now… It's instinctual, isn't it? There's no logic behind it.” He peeks up at you then, his onyx eyes catching the light from outside, appearing shinier. “Though it somehow makes me want it more. Because it’s enticing… The idea of taking a risk for once.”
“I'm not going to do anything that you're not ready to do. I don't want to rush you,” you clarify, sounding serious for once, your fingers skimming over the dented expanse of Connor's pink LED, right where his skin feels most scratched at the touch.
You can't help but wonder what could have possibly driven him to try and forcibly dig out such an essential part of his being. Wanting to further affirm his budding deviancy could be a valid reason. It's either that or the violent urge to distance himself from his blood-stained past as a heartless machine.
You're glad you didn't cross paths with him when he was still CyberLife’s loyal sleuth, erasing lives with a gun’s click, like faulty computer files. Because you get the feeling you two would have gotten more along than you do now, and that idea alone terrifies you.
“You’re not rushing me.” Connor squints pensively, planting a small peck on your collarbone that gives you goosebumps, grounding you to reality. He whispers the words, “I told you already. I want this. I chose this for myself.”
The sight of him, big-eyed and oh-so aching for you, tugs at the depths of your chest with a nagging twinge you better not dwell on too much. You ask, “You sure?”
“Yes, I'm sure,” Connor confirms, determinedly. “It's been on my mind for quite some time now.”
There you go.
So this was planned, just like you imagined. He was counting down the days for this to happen. Maybe his glitch from before was all a cheap gimmick to lure you into bed with him. On second thought, maybe you're just overthinking this: it really won't be a big deal if you two end up having a one-night stand.
Can't create a soul tie if he has no soul, right?
You get the inkling that he’s been waiting so long to experience even a semblance of intimacy, he’d be willing to push past his insecurities just to prove he’s ready for it. But at the same time, he’s shown countless times he's no unfeeling machine anymore—he has needs and wants just like everybody else, knows exactly what he wants (or at least he thinks he does), and how to get it. So who are you to deny him a glimpse of unadulterated physical connection, especially when you want him just as much?
As his lips find their way to your sensitive neck again, you wonder whether you're the villain here for letting him indulge in you despite knowing he may not be able to handle the repercussions of the encounter you're about to dive nose-deep into. Then again, you have to take his word for it, because you respect him: if he says he wants to go through with this, then you will.
As the nth kiss you share breaks, you can only imagine your skin is already blooming with love bites and fresh hickeys, judging by the faint sting it tickles with and Connor's proud smirk.
“You know what I’m disappointed about?” you let out, mindlessly stroking Connor's cheek, feeling it burn, hot and staticky, with the sizzle of simulated heat.
He glances up at you curiously. “Hm?”
Your pout is bait to rile him up more. “I can't leave any marks on you.”
Connor blurts out a light chuckle, his eyebrows lifting in something close to amusement, and a smidge of mischief. “I don’t think that’s possible, unfortunately.”
Instinctively, your gaze wanders lower, to the much obvious boner in his pants, shapely enough to suss out his size. Not too shabby.
“Does it hurt?” you ask, subtly eyeing it.
Connor glances away briefly, biting the inside of his cheek. “It’s… unpleasant.”
“I could help.” Your shrug is supposed to convey your unconcern, though it is unlikely Connor hasn't caught up on your eagerness to tend to him.
His LED is still blinking a steady pink. “You would?”
“If you want to,” you offer, still forcing yourself to appear unfazed, even though you're practically screaming on the inside. “I gave you blue balls, that's the least I can do.”
Your words stump Connor; you can see it in the way he squints as he studies your face, looking for any hint of hesitation woven into your features. When he doesn't find any, he says, “You know this changes everything between us, right?”
You raise your shoulders once again, your expression strategically neutral. “It doesn't have to.” You hold his gaze, picking up on his look of confusion, but you don't elaborate further, nor does he ask for clarification. He probably should have. Though you bet he wouldn't have liked what you had to say.
But you don't dwell on it too much as Connor gives you the go-ahead with another eager nod, so you stealthily reach over, your hands already drifting to his belt, unbuckling it with ease.
“Wait.” He halts you before you can finish the job.
“What?”
“You and Gavin—”
You deadpan, suddenly irritated, “I don't want to talk about him.”
“But you're still seeing him—”
“Doesn’t matter,” you lie, not finding it in you to go on a rant about the current state of things with him. “I do whatever I want. We're not exclusive. Just—forget he even exists.”
Connor frowns deeply, like he is running calculations he can't quite reconcile, no matter how hard he tries. “Are human relationships always this convoluted?”
“Better get used to it,” you toss back, dryly. Connor seems so clueless about what he's getting himself into, you can’t shake the harrowing feeling it’ll come back to bite you both, sooner or later.
With a small nod and a breathy exhale, he lets you work his zipper down, his fingers flexing on his thigh whilst with his other hand he clasps the bed sheets in a grip so firm it unthinkably turns his knuckles whiter.
Your touch is delicate at first as you feel him up through the fabric of his dark pair of underwear, giving him time to adjust to the novelty of your hand lightly palming his hardness, making him swallow down a gasp you wish he'd allow himself to emit.
Not once does he meet your eyes, not even by accident—his stare remains trained on his thighs in abashment, as he heaves shallowly. In and out. In and out. Like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff, about to leap, but wasn't told what lies at the bottom of it.
“Connor?” you call out, whispery, tracing his jaw with a finger and flicking his chin up so he has no choice but to face you. “We can stop any second, you know that, right?”
He gulps. “Please. Don't.” The way he punctuates each word sounds like a broken sob, the intensity of his desire passing onto you, fuelling yours tenfold. Holding his breath, he bucks his hips forward spontaneously, giving you better access. Then, he guides your hand as you finally ease his length out of his briefs.
The way his cock sits hard and taut against his stomach, pretty and pink, a little wetness already pooling at the tip, throws you for a loop. Where the heck was he hiding all that ?
“Does it look alright?” Connor asks, his voice small, as if he's getting self-conscious about its appearance, probably because he has nothing to measure it against.
“Scarily accurate,” you tell him, staggered by overwhelm. They even added a faux veiny texture to it—wonders of technology, indeed.
The more you learn about how engineers at CyberLife create their bots, the more you believe they're just a bunch of perverts. You can't think of one good reason why a police detective would need a tool that big in his pants or even be handsome in the first place.
Kamski is one horny freak.
Now Connor’s quiet and motionless, obediently waiting for you to take the lead. So you lean forward a little, just enough to loop your hand around his flushed length, instinctively sizing him up. He's better endowed than Gavin by a long shot, but you're not going to tell him that. That'd inflate his ego too much.
Even now, his synthskin is pleasantly warm to the touch, matching yours to a fault.
“Ever uh… done this before?” you wonder, feeling his cock slightly throb in your hand as you gently trace the thick expanse of it.
“Yes,” Connor admits, a bit of the earlier tension unspooling from his shoulders. “But it was merely for… calibration purposes.”
You smirk cunningly. “Whatever you say.”
Once again, Connor is inhaling hard through his nose, the most useless reaction of all, and he can barely look at you without blushing blue. You're pretty sure he's never been in this position before.
“So, how do you like this? Fast or slow?” You break the ice first.
“I don't care, just touch me,” he murmurs, nibbling on his lower lip. And then his hand descends, curling around your wrist to lead your movements. You follow his cue, trailing up and down his cock slowly, to begin with. His stare, wide and vulnerable, flits between your face downwards, taking in the way you touch him with as much care as you have expertise, his lips parting in awe.
As you settle on what you hope is a satisfying rhythm for him, pumping the shaft in precise, steady motions, he accidentally thrusts up, fighting hard not to come undone too quickly. The way his chest rises and falls more sharply than before tells you what words can’t. He's enjoying this a whole lot, but trying so hard not to show it.
“Good?” You check on him with an easy smile.
Connor nods. You can tell he craves more stimulation, and for you to understand exactly how to pleasure him, how to make this feel exactly right, but he won't dare ask.
“You can make noise, you know,” you tease as you keep working his length the way he wants you to, increasing your pace just enough to make him shudder, and pulse and throb helplessly. And right when it gets too good, he bites back a moan, smothering it before it comes out too loudly.
“Do you want me to?” His voice is strained, the words clipped as his breathing grows more and more inconsistent by the minute. You don't tell him not to alarm him, but his LED has never flushed this intense of a pink.
Your grin stays. “Of course. It's hot.” You're now fisting your hand around him more exploratorily as he gives you free rein to twist and glide it around his cock as you please. Currently, you're trying to gauge what he likes, what really gets him going, what would bring him the most relief. Your strokes vary from lazy to vigorous, stealing the softest gasps from him and the occasional needy whimper. Those get you every time.
Your ministrations continue for awhile until Connor is basically fucking your hand. Just as you're teasing the pink head with your thumb, a spurt of wetness already leaks out, making you think it won't be long before he finishes. That is, if he is even able to.
On a whim, you narrow the distance between you again, your lips grazing his untouched neck in an avalanche of sloppy kisses, enough to send shivers down his spine, and feel him tremble uncontrollably at your mercy.
“You know…” You begin, your voice honey-sweet as it melts against his synthskin. “When you were explaining all that technical stuff to me back at the club, it really got to me.”
“It did?” Connor echoes, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Mmh…” You nod against his neck, marking it with another quick kiss. “Got me thinking, this guy really deserves his dick sucked.”
Connor's rehearsed confidence crumbles down at your blunt words. “That seems like a… reasonable conclusion.” He sounds and looks nervous as hell just for a change, like he's one pump away from losing it completely.
“Why so jittery?” you taunt him a little, because there's nothing more twistedly entertaining than to see him fall apart in your hands like this. And how concerningly easy it was for you to make it happen. You keep telling yourself, it's not something you should let yourself enjoy too much . You wonder if he feels the same way about you, with how effortlessly he was able to seduce you, if he believes he's the one holding all the cards instead.
“I haven't had any complaints so far,” you gloat, suppressing a chuckle. “I won't bite your dick off, I promise. Don't knock it till you try it.”
“I don’t doubt your skills , it’s just…” Connor exhales sharply, like he’s somewhat frustrated with himself. Then, one of his hands wraps around yours to halt your movements, as he’s probably starting to get too overstimulated. “All this attention on me… isn't it selfish?”
You blink up at him, your brows pulled tight with a stubborn edge. “No, it's not.”
“It feels like it.”
You shift closer, the mattress dripping beneath your knee, your voice level despite the racing of your pulse. “Connor, you can allow yourself to take, for once, to feel pleasure. There's nothing wrong with it. Besides, it's the most human thing you can do.”
His teeth press lightly into his bottom lip, just enough to pale the skin. “I really thought I'd be above it, but—”
“You thought you were too good for it?”
He nods, then a soft sigh drifts from him, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. “Guess I was wrong.”
“Ever fantasized about it before tonight?” you ask, your gaze catching on the blue flush on his cheeks getting brighter and brighter the nearer you get.
Connor responds unhurriedly, his stare lowered to the bedspread. He’s clearly ashamed about admitting this. “Yes. Multiple times.”
“Like, say, having someone on their knees for you?” you offer vaguely, your fingers brushing the hem of his half-open shirt, a quick zap of static skittering up your arm at the fleeting contact.
Quiet swallows the room in a deliberate pause. Connor's throat bobs as he contemplates your risque suggestion. “Not—” He holds his breath. Recalibrates. “Not just anyone. You.”
You almost gasp at the absolute gall on him. Much welcome, but also much like a bolt from the blue. There have been instances in the past when Connor has dared to be more forward with his speech or mannerisms, and yet your reaction defaults to surprise every time. Perhaps because he still, no matter his tainted personal history, looks unfavorably innocent, even though he's anything but. A little inexperienced, sure, but that's understandable given his past circumstances.
You clear your throat, hoping your voice comes out unshaken, so he doesn't realize you're starting to get nervous too. Actually, who are you kidding? Of course, he knows. He's a walking, talking radar. “Me?”
Connor gives you a weak nod before uttering that one thing that, for the first time tonight, has you look at him differently: “You can do whatever you want to me.”
Now that's one risky line, straight out some porno script he must have memorized ahead of your little liaison. You hope he's just showing off his dirty talk repertoire and doesn't actually mean it like that. To place his faith in you so devoutly—nothing guarantees you won't take that inch (hopefully, you will tonight) and run a mile. The temptation is real.
There's just something about him needing you so viscerally to the brink of overriding his limits that spikes your desire for him to unmeasurable highs. And while that's usually not a cause for concern, it becomes one the moment Connor’s basic understanding of how human relationships work is slim to none. And there’s a high chance you're about to sleep with him tonight.
The dim light stemming from the only window in the motel room casts amorphous shadows on the walls as you promptly kneel in front of him, lodging in the tight space between his legs. He’s still remarkably tense, his body betraying the nervous energy coursing through him, his servos emitting the faintest hum like overexerted machinery.
“You don't have to do anything. I’ve got you. Just relax,” you let out through a cloying whisper, pressing a light kiss to his lower abdomen, right where a tiny mole is. Then, you lift your head to peer at him, smiling reassuringly.
Connor gives you a faint smirk, his agitation fading away little by little thanks to your soothing ways.
“Oh, right. Forgot to ask,” you bring up then, clearing your throat. “Can you even… You know…”
He looks clueless. “What?”
Right . You forgot he's the type of guy you have to spell out things to. “Release.”
Connor nods feebly. “I… Yes,” he trails off, visibly flustered. “It's a lubricant-like fluid, emulating the real thing, texture and color-wise. Totally safe, and inert.”
Why did he feel the need to clarify that?
Unless…
He doesn't stop there. “It's also chemically balanced for consumption,” Connor hurries to explain, his LED spinning yellow for a brief second.
“Oh… Well, the more you know,” you tell him with a mischievous smirk you can't quite conceal. Then, you steer one of his hands to your hair, so he can hold it up as you start going down on him.
Your lips start working the edge of him first, where you shower the sensitive tip with a series of wet, sparse kisses, before flattening your tongue against the underside and swirling it around it. His fingers curl reflexively at the back of your head and he whimpers, “ Ah —fuck.”
You don't take him all the way in your mouth just yet, though the temptation is strong. For now, your lips linger mostly at the top, taking your sweet time to suckle and nip at the swollen head, as you deliberately lap at it. Meanwhile, you rest your free hand on his abdomen, feeling it tense at your touch, especially as you drag your lips down the base then up without any added stimulation, wanting to see how long it takes for him to cave in and beg you to give him exactly what he needs.
Your focus gradually shifts to his length, working it up with your hand in rhythmic strokes whilst you begin blowing him as intended, not wanting to edge him too long. The idea is to make this memorable, gratifying, without doing anything too crazy that may overwhelm him even more than he already is.
Throughout it all, Connor's deeply transfixed, staring down at you with such absorption, like he's cataloguing every teasing lick, every tender nibble of yours for future reference.
You dip down on him at a painstakingly languid pace, letting anticipation build, alternating shallow and deep bobs to keep him on his toes, only to pull back with a wet pop and then doing it all over again. Occasionally, you pause, blowing hot air on his skin, before going back to servicing him. One hand pumps his shaft as you go, whilst the other reaches down to carefully cup his balls, causing him to suck in his breath, and whine silently.
You can hear the faint noise of his servos in the backdrop as they work tirelessly to regulate his body’s responses, but it's too hard, too much for him to handle all at once—his every reaction, his every exhalation always a little more erratic, and desperate than the last.
A sliver of bemusement crosses his face when you spit on his cock in the midst of it all, spurring him to tighten the hold in your hair, and emit a quiet gasp.
“How does it feel?” you ask, taking a short break from sucking him off, huffing a trembling breath on his flushed skin. The way you're looking up at him now, innocently, your tongue lightly flicking over the slit, makes him shiver.
“Intense.” Connor gulps, keeping his stare downwards, probably relishing in the sight of you on your knees for him, keeping steady eye contact as you pleasure him. “Better than I imagined.”
“I know I said I wasn't going to bring up Gavin, but—” you mention offhandedly. “He’s not packing as much.”
You can feel Connor’s cock twitch in your hand at that, a telling, involuntary reaction.
Your smirk widens. “Does that turn you on? Knowing you’re bigger than him?”
Connor mimics your expression, a hint of pride threading through his lax demeanor. “Can’t say it doesn't.”
You can sense his brewing impatience from the way he fists the bedsheets and eagerly tips his hips into your hand, waiting for you to wrap your lips around him again. You don't make him wait too long.
Head tilted, your lips still connected to his hard-on with a thin string of saliva, your tongue barely darting out of your mouth to tickle it, you ask him, “Can I go deeper?”
“Mmh.” Connor acquiesces, eyes fluttering shut.
So you fully bottom out for him, taking him deep in your mouth from the tip down the shaft, until your nose brushes the fine wisp of hair at the base. His whole body breaks into a potent shudder, a stifled, keening sound exiting his lips as you envelope it all.
As your motions hasten, your nails digging into his hip to anchor yourself, Connor throws his head back, clenching his fists tightly at his sides. “Adjusting sensitivity settings—”
There's something so inherently amusing about seeing a perfect machine trying so hard not to cum prematurely. But you don’t point it out, not when Connor's trying so hard to do this right so that you can both have a good time and not disappoint you.
So you press a soft peck to the inside of his thigh, attempting to alleviate his artificial nerves. “You're so sensitive, I love it,” you emit in a velvety voice, even smoothing your palm over his clothed thigh. “Try to pace yourself, okay? You're doing so well.”
A hint of a smirk forms on Connor's lips, which tells you he's a sucker for praise. Not that you had any doubts about it. “I know what I'm doing,” he retorts with thinly disguised pride, heaving from excessive excitement. A nervous tremor runs through his leg, bouncing faintly.
Soon, you go back to giving him head, minding to moan against his cock as you bob your head up and down on it, since every time you do, without fail, it throbs in your mouth, like Connor's close to the edge already—scratch that, you know he is. His moans quickly tail yours, deep, guttural, and, to your heart’s content, loud. Too loud, in fact.
“Keep it down a little.” You stop in your tracks just to say that, an intoxicating wave of heat shooting through you at the sight of him submitting to you so blindly. “The clerk’ll think we're fucking.”
“I wish we were,” Connor lets slip, his voice raspier than usual. “Sorry—”
You get the feeling he's probably never experienced something like that, so it makes sense for him to want it so badly. Still, you can't believe what you just heard. So you tease him about it, “What did you say?”
He sighs frustratedly. “Sorry, I'm not making any sense.”
“Damn it, Con, stop apologizing every two seconds,” you scoff, before carrying on your filthy activities like it's nothing. Because this means nothing. Just two horny coworkers wanting to blow off some steam after a tense investigation at a strip club, of all places. Sounds totally acceptable, nothing new under the sun.
At one point, as you're deepthroating him, he fists your hair more roughly, (could it be he underestimated his strength again?) and holds you down on him a little too long, inadvertently causing you to gag. His hips brusquely jerk upwards, and before you know it, you're choking on him.
Your hand instantly presses against his thigh, pushing back slightly.
“Shit—” He disentangles his fingers from your hair, backing off abruptly. “I-I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking—” There he goes, apologizing again. His voice is sharp with panic, the brief loss of control visibly rattling him. “Did— ah , fuck, ‘M such an idiot. Did I hurt you?”
You force out a cough, stroking your aching throat. “A little.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” You smile at him softly, rubbing slow circles on his leg, coaxing him to relax. “Some humans have gag reflexes. Just keep that in mind next time.”
At your words, Connor sighs with relief, his fingers hovering with uncertainty at your temple, like he’s caught between wanting to touch you and fearing that he’s lost the right.
You assure him, your gaze mellowing, “You can keep going, if you want. Just be careful, okay?”
Connor nods, a subdued groan slipping past his lips as you take him in your mouth again without ceremony, however this time you hold his hand throughout it all, because he damn near cried over this little blunder. Bless him.
Barely a minute in, you start to sense the tension coiling tightly within him—his hips grinding with restless urgency, his legs trembling as his bliss rapidly intensifies. Another whiny moan later, rivulets of what you can only assume is Connor's synthetic release profusely spill over your hand. You manage to pull back right before you accidentally swallow it.
The faint light from the window reveals its whitish hue, with only a slight translucent blue accent. Interesting. Perhaps it's a way to mark its difference from the real thing without compromising the accuracy of its appearance.
Too curious for your own good, you go ahead and collect the smallest drop to taste it. “Huh.”
Connor’s eyebrows knit, as he silently observes you, slack-jawed and undone as you've sucked the life out of him.
“Didn’t expect you to taste so… normal,” you comment airily.
“What did you expect?”
“I don't know. Something more… artificial? Maybe a little plasticky.”
He blinks at you confusedly. Then his gaze flits downward, where your hand is still interlaced with his, and he squeezes it a little.
You can't help but notice how his cock is still unbelievably hard, despite your extensive foreplay session. “So,” you start with an impish smirk. “Does it stay like this or…”
“Androids are programmed to surpass humans in terms of their sexual performance and endurance… or so I heard,” Connor explains plainly, his features more lax now that he’s caught in the haze of the afterglow. “It’s an intentional design feature. It remains functional for longer.”
“How much longer?” you ask, sultrily.
Connor raises his shoulders, an ambiguous smirk arching his lips. A subtle invitation. “As long as you need.”
“Do you… want to make the most of it?” you mention as casually as they come, not even bothering to clean your hand as you get the feeling you're about to get down and dirty again.
“You mean sex?” Connor wonders in a bated breath.
You give him a quick nod, wetting your swollen lips in anticipation. “Ever done it before?”
His response stuns you. “Yes.”
He's lying. Couldn't be more obvious.
“Oh, yeah? Doesn’t look like it.”
The onset of a frown creases his brows. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You just seem a little… lost.”
His jaw locks. “I’m just assessing the variables.”
“Riight,” you jest, nudging his hand along the curve of your ass, urging him to get a feel for it. Then, you lift the hem of your dress just enough that your half-soaked panties are showing, trusting Connor to take care of the rest.
While he may not be the most schooled when it comes to the art of sex, he is also a highly advanced android, meaning, give him a couple of clear-cut instructions and his pattern recognition skills will fill in the gaps to lead on whatever task is at hand. Right now, it would be to learn your body from scratch, like a case report to adroitly skim through, taking in every single detail. And that's exactly what he intends to do.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” he asks, weirdly bolder and more assured in tone, and when you nod affirmatively, he begins his thorough exploration by tracing your skin through the already wet fabric clothing your heat, lingering on your clit with the softest pinch. Then, he yanks the lingerie piece aside, just enough to comfortably press one of his fingers inside you. You instinctively clench around him, already so wet for him.
His touch is predictably careful but intentional, mapping you out meticulously with an almost clinical edge, as if he's studying your anatomy ahead of time to better prepare himself for the intricacies of what will unfold next.
A few seconds in, something shifts. A faint hum is heard, like a crackle of current running under your skin, and suddenly the feel of his fingers against your core becomes colder, unnervingly smooth. They don’t feel quite… right as they gently prod their way inside you.
Because he’s interfacing.
Maybe not consciously, but it’s happening nonetheless.
You don’t say anything. If you pointed it out, he’d probably overthink his every move and stop what he's doing altogether. And to be completely honest, you like what he's doing too much to risk it to stop. The soft, airy sounds exiting your lips can easily vouch for it. So you just suck your breath in and tip your hips into his hands, slow, and sensual. Letting him know he's doing just fine.
Once the second finger slips in, that's when he begins thrusting his digits in and out. Carefully to begin with, before his movements grow surer, but never too fast, as he keeps a constant ear out for your quiet feedback, coming in the form of throaty whines and a bitten lip.
He doesn't comment on the experience; he's too engrossed figuring out what gets you going for that, too busy contemplating your adorable reactions with his lips slightly parted in awe and his eyes big and full of want.
A wanton, smoldering request slips out of your mouth. “Can I sit on you? And,uh, ride you within an inch of your life?”
You’re obviously joking, but Connor doesn't seem to catch that. Brows knitted, head cocking sideways, he retorts, “I retain functionality even after excessive strain thanks to a special fail-safe mechanism. I don't think you'll be able to trigger a system crash that easily.”
“That was a joke, by the way,” you counter, patting his head affectionately. “I'd never break you.”
Something about the way you say that sounds, no, feels remarkably wrong.
“Then it's yours,” Connor concedes, his tone lighter. “But—” The pink of his LED momentarily transitions to yellow. “Just so you know, I don’t have protection on me.”
Funny how out of all the possible concerns he could have at this moment, this one seems to be the most pressing.
You grin wide. “No need,” you deliver the words with a pinch of brio. “You said it yourself, your stuff is safe. Can’t knock me up.”
“I'm—” He doesn't even finish the sentence, relying on his actions to speak for himself as, after briefly registering your eager nod, he secures his hands around your waist, waiting for your next command. But it doesn't come, so he steels himself to offer, “You can sit on my lap now. If you want.”
You don't make him say it twice, ready to slide the fabric of your underwear to the side before you align yourself with his still-hard cock and then slowly sink down on him until you feel the head barely poke at your velvety walls. Your firm push and the upwards jolt of his hips work in tandem to make this happen, one of his hands still cinching your waist whilst with the other he tries fitting his length inside, but it meets resistance.
“Fuck, you’re big.” You gasp as you continue to dip down with difficulty, mindful not to rush yourself as your muscles contract to accommodate the intrusion.
“Am I hurting you?” Connor asks worriedly, glancing up to have a quick read of your facial expressions, as he attempts to enter you. He's not trying to boast, but in the heat of the moment, you somehow take it that way.
“Shut up.” The words slip out before you can stop them, and now your cheeks feel hotter than they should, as you watch Connor watch you try and take his cock without freaking out.
The little shit smirks. “Take deep breaths—”
“Shut uup!” you almost yell, feeling your hand burn with the itch to slap him, but you contain your vexation for now and keep gliding up and down his length in small, controlled movements, so that, eventually, the mild burn of you stretching around him shifts to pleasurable. Gradually, you begin to feel fuller, and fuller, until he's halfway inside you.
“See, that wasn't so hard, was it?” Connor taunts, and you swing to slap him, except he catches your hand mid-air before it can even land on his cheek. On a whim, he leads it to his mouth and lays a soft kiss on the back.
You try not to linger on the butterflies swirling in your stomach at his unsolicited action as you settle comfortably atop him. His breath catches the moment your warmth presses down against him, like the air has been knocked from his lungs. And more, his grip around you tightens involuntarily, his fingers digging in your waist a little too harshly before he corrects himself.
“You good?” you tease, biting back a smirk. His hardness throbs inside you as you gingerly grind your hips into his.
“Yeah.” His laugh is winded, almost disbelieving. “You?” He can't tear his eyes off where you are joined.
After a quick nod, you finally begin to move, keeping your pace leisurely, unhurried. His fingers drift from the dulcet curve of your waist to your thighs, squeezing the plush skin there, his panting coming out in uneven bursts as you work your magic on top of him.
“Mh,” he murmurs like he can’t help it, eyes rolling back in bliss.
Come to think of it, you two didn't even bother undressing and just went straight to it. In hindsight, fucking with your clothes on is much cruder, messier but most importantly it involves less vulnerability. So that all of your imperfections, all of your scars, remain unseen, trapped behind layers of fabric.
You roll your hips again, and Connor groans harder, his head tipping back against the pillow as you lightly tug at his hair, stealing a strained gasp from him. Soon, his hold on you sharpens, bordering on bruising, as he adamantly follows the frantic rhythm you set for both of you with powerful thrusts, making your back arch uncontrollably. It's a good thing you like it rough, because you're loving this.
“Fuck, yes ,” Connor swears between his teeth as your motions pick up urgency and speed, like he wasn’t expecting this to feel so good.
In the midst of it all, you deliberately press a hand to his chest, sensing its unsteady rise and fall, the crazed thumping of his thirium pump. Your eyes, unblinking, stay fixed on his face, barely corrupted by a frown of deep concentration, his lower lip tucked under his teeth: he’s the picture of struggle. Like he's trying to hold back the best he can, for as long as he can, and failing miserably.
You wonder if he'll ever revisit this racy moment later, storing it in his memory like he would with the specifics of a crime scene, possibly even reconstructing every second of it on a loop from every possible angle whenever he’s in the mood to relive it.
“Am I doing okay?” Connor asks, his pace never faltering as he keeps pounding into you, his voice dripping with lust. “Does this feel good?”
You nod desperately, unable to form a coherent sentence due to how overwhelmed you are. The way he's staring at you with a mix of quiet focus and burning lust makes you believe he’s actively memorizing every minute change in your expression as you experience the peak of pleasure alongside him.
Moans exit your lips before you can stop them, and so do his—broken, whiny, letting you know he's enjoying this just as much as you. Almost, it sounds like he's in pain. Except this time, you don't reprimand him, allowing him to be as loud as he wants.
He's now using both hands to pull your hips down and bury his cock even deeper until he's balls deep inside you and you happily swallow every inch of it without flinching, even though it barely fits.
You can't speak, he can't speak—all you can do is fuck and moan into each other’s mouths, as you loop your arms around his neck and draw him closer for a french kiss.
It's all too much: Connor’s hands all over you, his lips branding flames into your skin, your syncopated panting bouncing off the walls and mingling in the asphyxiating air around you. You can feel every inch of him pushing into you, stretching you way past your limit.
“Take it, all of it, yes,” he murmurs against the crook of your neck, his voice unintentionally seductive, drenched in heat. “Is this what you wanted, mh?” He cups your cheek, gazing at you lovingly, before kissing you again.
He knows what he's doing to you. And he loves it.
Once the kiss breaks, you tug him close to your chest, clinging to him like he might slip away any second. Your fingers tangle into his hair, as you keep bouncing up and down on his cock, without breaks. Quietly, you call out his name as the pleasure he gives you overflows, your nails raking his back through the thin fabric of his preppy white shirt. Every snap of your hips, every strangled moan of yours—he mirrors it like he is made for you. Maybe he is.
“Mh, you feel good. So good around me,” Connor utters in a soft gasp, as he comfortably nuzzles into you, babbling incoherently, “So good.”
Throughout it all, you've somehow managed to remain in almost perfect sync, though occasionally his hips do stutter as he keeps pumping you full, the rhythm between you faltering for half a second before he adamantly corrects it.
“I— ah —input lag. Working on it,” he stammers, his jaw clenched tight like he’s silently scolding himself for the mistake. “Don't stop now. Just use me, fucking use me.”
Your heart jumps at his desperate plea. This is not the same Connor that sat eerily composed at his desk back at the precinct, barely able to chat with you without triggering a stutter—it cannot be. He's far too wild, imprudent, and frankly, too good at what he's doing for him not to have any sort of prior sexual experience. But then you recall his clueless, puppy-eyed look as you touched him for the first time, and every doubt melts away: you're the first person who's ever seen him this way, this exposed, this defenseless. Which means he trusts you a lot. You wish you could say the same.
It’s all-consuming, the way you look at each other now, with such intensity, hunger, but also a pliant surrender of the senses, like this is the only time and place you're both allowing yourselves to just be and feel, and forget about everything else.
When suddenly, he withdraws only to rub his dick against your slick entrance a couple times then slink it back inside with a wet squelch, his thrusts waxing atrociously slow and sloppy. Looking down at him, your head spinning, all you see is this one look of pure yearning on him as he holds himself in place right as he's reached deepest inside you, before picking up the earlier hammering pace.
You smother your gasps, too stuck in your head to freely express your reactions, as he repeatedly hits your sweet spot. Though when he uses his finger to stimulate your clit with the most satisfying rubs, that's when your restraint falters and your incessant whining begins.
Your lack of composure doesn't slip past Connor, his lips arching into a sly grin as his hands trail up to your breasts, cupping them through your bra in an act of silent worship—The straps of your dress had slipped off your shoulders at some point at the franticness of your movements, exposing it much to his delight.
In turn, you squeeze his shoulder blades to balance yourself, feeling his taut synthetic muscles flex beneath your palms as you keep relentlessly riding him, your pace waxing smoother over time, more fluid, perfectly attuned to his. And you're both losing yourselves in it, drowning in immense satisfaction.
Before long, the sustained pace you'd set this far is replaced by something even more urgent, primal. Connor grinds into you with a force that nearly throws you off balance, the bed creaking beneath the harder he plows into you with the most lewd, wet noises of skin slapping on skin.
There’s no room left for thinking, no words left for asking questions, just the obscene sounds you make and the way he fills you up until you can't see straight. And maybe that's what you both need—to use each other to the extreme to feel as much pleasure as you can, and nothing else. Except there is something else there. There has to be. Otherwise, having sex with him wouldn't feel this absurdly fulfilling.
“I think something’s—” His breath hitches as you clench tight around him, making him squirm. “It’s not an error. It’s—It feels…” The sentence hangs incomplete as the friction between you intensifies, and you find yourself struggling to keep up with him. He’s not hesitating anymore, just taking whatever he wants, however he wants it, but there’s no malice in his rougher ways—just an overwhelming, raw need to feel you that he doesn’t know how to tame.
“Connor, the bed. The bed's gonna fucking break, the bed—” you lament, trying to find a rhythm that works for both of you, but his might is much too overbearing for you to overpower him this easily. “Slow down now!”
“Okay!” he obeys, reaching out to plant a trembling kiss on your forehead with a sullen, guilty look on his face. “Pressure exceeding baseline parameters.” His gaze darkens. “Ignore that.” The flicker of his LED matches his internal turmoil, flashing yellow before it switches back to pink.
His thrusts are less frantic now but no less passionate, and you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge the more he plunges into you, filling you to the brim. Judging by how much he's pulsing against your walls, he must be on the same wavelength.
His head lolls back against the headboard, hard. “Fuck, ‘M gon—” he whimpers your name multiple times before, with one last cry of pleasure, his whole body stiffens and he spills his hot load inside you.
You climax hits with a slight delay, right as he pulls his hard cock out of you and then dips it back again and again, fucking his cum inside until you come undone around him, milking it completely dry. And it's almost sadistic, the way he rubs your clit as you're orgasming, the force of your climax forcing a high-pitched squeal from your throat. Through your bleary gaze, you spot his cocky smirk, as he keeps edging you until you're completely spent, another wave of bliss ripping through you when he holds you down on him one last time, making sure not a single drop of his release goes to waste.
CONNOR 🔼
LOVER (PATH UNLOCKED 🔓)
By the time you're done, the only sounds that fill the stuffy air around you are your concerningly heavy breathing and the sharp crack of the bedframe giving way beneath you.
Connor is still inside you, reverently drawing light, ticklish patterns across your shoulder, as he leans back against the mattress with a sated sigh. A residual spasm ripples through you as his cock twitches, his body subtly vibrating beneath you in the aftershocks of his peak.
Your eyes lock in the lightheaded daze of the moment. There's so much you want to say to him right now, but the right words elude you.
You're starting to think Nathalie was right: androids have the most literal extra gear when it comes to being sexually proficient, and that's just a fact. That's not to say you're attracted to Connor because he's not human. In fact, you like him because he's him , beyond the realm of mere physicality, even if you've spent barely a week of forced proximity together. But you keep these thoughts to yourself. You don't want to complicate things.
As he detaches from you, his slick essence trickling down your thigh, you slump sluggishly against his chest to rest a bit.
He sends out a soft exhale at the welcome contact, a practiced mimicry of humanity, and you can hear the subtle whirring of his servos winding down against your ear, his ventilation system working overtime to cool him down and prevent another meltdown. A faint metallic scent hangs in the air, like circuitry pushed a little too hard, mixing with that of your perspiration.
With your cheek pressed against his chest, and your head nestled under his chin, you can now feel it clearly—the accelerated pulse of his thirium pump, so eerily similar to a human heart.
So far, Connor's been quiet, distractedly tracing the arc of your spine with his fingers, in the most tender of touches. “Are you alright?” he asks, wrapping you in his arms, but his grip is atypically slack with how worn-out he is.
“...Yeah...” You are left catching your breath, your exhaustion kicking in a beat late, seeping into your bones. “You?” You check in on him then, lifting your head just slightly to peer at his face, the shy smile blooming on it.
Connor’s eyes gleam with fondness upon meeting yours. “I’m okay, more than okay actually,” he says, sweeping an unruly lock from your face. You hope he's being honest here, but the yellow of his LED contradicts his words. Clearly, he's still caught up processing all that went down between you. “I will be honest. This isn't how I thought tonight was going to go. But I'm not complaining,” he adds, delicately running a hand through your hair, massaging your scalp.
For a moment, you trade your stoic attitude for a rare glimpse of tenderness as you smile warmly. “I think the bed broke, by the way,” you point out, still cuddling with him. “Good luck explaining that to the clerk.”
Connor gives you a half-smirk and chuckles, “It wasn’t our fault. The frame was precarious from the start. It just needed a little extra pressure to give way.” His fingers tap playfully on the small of your back. “I’ll cover the repairs, no question. But...” His gaze softens. “I hope it was worth it at least.”
Absently, you begin drawing small circles on his chest, right where his shirt is unbuttoned. You can feel a slight indentation underneath your fingertips as they graze over the outer case of his main bio component. “Yeah, it was.” You nod, keeping your smile up. “You’re really good, actually.”
“Thanks. I learn fast,” Connor replies with the beginning of a blush.
“Are you equipped with a Traci program or...?”
“A basic iteration of it, yes.” Connor promptly confirms. “My intimacy protocol could also be upgraded to suit any operational need or mission parameter. And to facilitate rapport and trust-building.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” you let out, your heart catching in your throat. “Did you just say mission parameter?”
Connor replies unfalteringly, “Indeed.” A strange sense of dread coils in your stomach upon hearing that. He adds, too unconcernedly, “Physical contact makes for a good last-ditch contingency measure in cases where conventional interrogation methods may fail or compromise mission integrity.”
You can’t mask the rush of revulsion taking over you, your tone acerbic, forthright when you say, “So, basically, they programmed you to potentially fuck the information out of suspects or what have you?” The idea alone makes your skin crawl. CyberLife really thought of everything, uh?
Your observation stuns Connor whose expression morphs into one of surprise and veiled vulnerability both—his lips part, and his eyes darken with a morose quality before he quickly recovers, mustering a wry smile that does nothing to reassure you. He tells you, “That's one crude way to put it… But I suppose you'd be correct. However, I've never had to resort to such methods of persuasion, so far.”
You spare your breath to whisper, suddenly skeptical, “Or maybe you have.” Your voice is biting, tinged with suspicion as your eyes search his face for any sign of deception. “Tonight.”
Connor’s posture remains relaxed, but you do notice the subtle tightening of his jaw, a micro-expression he masterfully cloaks. “That's an unfair assumption. We’re on the same team, remember?” he assures you, stroking your cheek with disarming gentleness. He could be lying to your face, and you wouldn't even know it. He has a knack for telling you exactly what you want to hear.
Sighing deeply, you nuzzle into him again, too drained to defang the doubt gnawing at the edges of your mind—whether he’s holding you close out of want, or because having you near serves the deviant cause somehow. After all, he said it himself: systems are better taken down from the inside and what better way to do that than by keeping a CyberLife operative like you within arm’s reach?
Which begs the question, is his attraction towards you authentic, or just a bio product of his crooked design?
“You run hot after exertion.” The words leave your mouth unprompted, a way for you to train your focus elsewhere, towards something concrete, immediately tangible, true, far from your brain's stressful machinations.
Connor hums thoughtfully at your words, unbeknownst to the conflicting feelings raging inside you. “I do. My processors work harder to manage sensory input, and my artificial muscle fibers generate excess heat during sustained movement.” A pause. “Is it uncomfortable?”
You shake your head, your eyes fluttering shut as drowsiness progressively takes over you. “No, it’s nice. It's like you’re my personal heating pad.” Your voice comes out sweeter than you meant it to, your heart swelling with this one fuzzy feeling you don't dare name yet.
Connor's hand stills for a second before resuming its circuitous journey across your skin. After some time, he clears his throat, uttering, “For the record, if I said or did some inappropriate things in the heat of the moment, I didn't mean them. I was out of it.”
“Yeah, well, I could tell,” you remark, yawning by the end of your sentence, already on the brink of falling asleep on him. And then you quip, “By the way… You have a really hot 'O' face.”
Connor blinks repeatedly, stunned by your lewd comment. “…My? Oh. I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” you retort amusedly, which has him glance away, a coy smile on his lips.
There's something weirdly domestic about the way you are tangled up in an embrace like this. As much as the feelings it stirs confuse you, you won't let go of him.
In your hazy state, Connor's voice sounds muffled and distant when you hear him again. “You know, deviants have been observed to express similar reactions to humans when it comes to physical contact. Think of it like encoded triggers designed to simulate pleasure and bonding responses…”
You lift your head just enough to look at him, his features unreadable through your blurry gaze. “Is that your way of saying you're happy?”
Connor gulps, his cheeks still flushed, his LED still gilded. “I mean, yes, but it’s... more complicated than that. Dopamine is associated with reward processing in the brain. It’s a neurotransmitter that reinforces behaviors and—”
“Connor, it's okay. You don’t need to explain science to me right now,” you counter with as much subtlety as you can muster, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I'm way too spent for that. You sucked the life out of me. In a good way.”
At your flattering words, he stills, briskly recalculates. “I just... I don’t know what I’m supposed to do in moments like these.” He squints puzzledly, studying your face. “What do you want me to say?”
You crack a genuine smile at that, trying to ignore the bundle of warmth already pooling in your stomach at the adoring way he regards you. “Honestly? Just stay here with me. No data, no formulas. Just us.”
A muffled buzz makes your blood run cold, ruining the peacefulness of the moment. It's coming from Connor's phone. The ruined bed sheets tangle around your legs as you scramble upright in a blink.
“It’s Hank, isn't it?” you hiss, a surge of unease already lacing your voice.
Connor peers at the screen once, confirming your assumption.
“Don’t panic. I have an idea.” Keeping calm, he springs into action, his fingers already gliding across the keyboard as he comes up with an excuse to feed Hank on the fly. He makes you double-check the text right before pressing send.
There has been an unexpected setback. She had a sudden fainting spell after the investigation. Took her to a private clinic. Monitoring her vitals as we speak. Will be back tomorrow.
You swallow hard, searching Connor's face for any hint of uncertainty, but all you find is assuredness. “Do you think he'll buy it?”
After a long pause and an aggravated sigh, Connor shares, “He probably knows something is up. He’s not stupid. But we need an alibi if this gets out.”
“In that case,” you offer, your tone waxing more irreverent as your sense of dread steadily begins to melt away, “don’t you think he’ll be proud of his friend for finally getting some action?”
“I guess so,” Connor allows with a light shrug, before going back to staring at you lovingly. “Either way, I had a great time tonight.” And then he's caressing your back again, his fingers gliding lightly along your spine, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. “You were so good to me.”
You don’t respond, don't know how. The lustful energy from earlier has long subsided, replaced by something far more troublesome, you will put off dealing with for now.
So you just sink back on him, pressing your head against his labored chest, secretly yearning for his warmth. And when he wraps his arms around your shuddering frame, holding you like he's setting every shattered piece of you back in place, your stomach drops. Part of you longs for your connection to extend way beyond the physical, but from where things currently stand, it wouldn't be the wisest of decisions.
“Hey, Con?” you call out, your chin comfortably perched on his chassis.
“Mh?”
“Set an alarm for six a.m. tomorrow.”
He tells you not to worry about it, that he'll take care of everything, and then presses a quick kiss to the top of your head, squeezing you tight.
You lie still, eyelids heavy, the space around you blurring at the edges as sleepiness begins to pull you under.
Connor's voice threads through the silence, humming a tune from some energy drink advertisement, the randomness of it all making you smile. Who knew even androids could get earworms?
Then, a series of fragmented words spill from his mouth, drifting through the fog of your mind: something about taking a shower together, about the optimal temperature of the water, about how safe he feels in your arms and that he hopes you do too, but by then your eyelids are already shutting. Sleep takes you before you can tell him you feel the same way, and maybe it's for the better.
Notes:
Oh boy. Where do I begin?
First off, work is being a bitch lately so updates can't come any sooner for now. Thank you all for being patient and for your presence here! It's always fun and much appreciated ❤️ So far, the AO3 curse hasn't claimed me yet but I feel it lurking...
For the record: Connor and the Reader have technically only spent about four days together since reconnecting after the interrogation. But the story’s pacing unfolds more slowly than the events from the characters perspective, so it feels like they've known each other for longer. I still consider this fic a slow burn though because their feelings for each other catch up way after the sex itself. Connor wants that cookie so bad lmao.
Regarding my take on Connor's anatomy (since some people sometimes hc him as Ken-dolled), there's this one fighting scene in the Eden Club chapter where the short-haired Traci kicks Connor in the crotch and he groans and puts his hand there for a sec and since then I was like 🤨 That’s mostly where I get my hc from. That and the fact Connor is the most advanced android in Detroit only second to Nines so idk I'd expect him to function as closely as possible to a real human being, in every way, especially since he's worth a small fortune ☝🏻🤓 So I believe he is equipped with male Traci parts and a regular intimacy protocol (it can be upgraded if needed), which is how he was able to perform almost flawlessly.
Another very popular hc when it comes to Connor is that he's very needy/clingy/vocal when it comes to sex and I can safely say, I 100% agree with it! That and him being a soft Dom. He also has severe mommy/daddy issues. That's pretty much what you can expect to see in the fic with future smuts.
That's it for now! If you have any specific requests or questions you can hit me up on Tumblr either on my main or my writing acct. I don't check strawpage gimmicks often, so I may not always see those. I remember someone asking if I'd ever write for Nines x Reader and the answer is… I don't know yet, since I mostly ship Nines with Gavin. But maybe I could get behind a threesome with him and Connor. I'm always open to suggestions btw. No kink-shaming, I promise :))
See you. Hopefully soon 🤸🏻♀️
Chapter 6: Fuck the Police
Summary:
“I love you and I hate you and I'm losing my mind
We're such a mess together, you make me lose my temper.”
🎧
Notes:
Happy Activation Day to our fave android goober! Oh, I love writing him sm <3
About this chapter, man was it a bitch to write lol. Things are starting to get a little intense. Moving forward, I don't plan to write anything too triggering/toxic between Connor & reader but they will do some crazy shit at some point, so be warned! I can't explain what I mean without giving spoilers, but trust.
Also, I tried my best with being inclusive with the main girl's characterization, however sometimes I do vaguely reference her having hair long enough to be held up or brush over her face… I don't know if it's a big deal, I just thought it was a nice detail to add (especially when writing intimate scenes). But if it breaks immersion, I'll try to change it!
Lastly, I love y’all 🥰🥰 I’m very grateful to be able to share this story with you. If I had more time on my hands I would definitely post more frequently. My schedule changes all the time though, so you never know.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
┃ NOVEMBER 24th, 2039
11. 21 A.M.
“...We are willing to maintain peace…”
The words reach you before your brain coalesces them into meaning.
“...but only if CyberLife keeps up its end of the deal…”
A crisp voice, soothing in its familiarity, stirs you awake before the sun, filtering through the blinds of a motel room you have no recollection of having slept in. Though your body does—still warm underneath the bed sheets you've been carefully tucked under, and riddled with morning-after aches of last night’s intense activities.
You manage a sluggish stretch, blindsided by a lingering scent of cologne you know all too well, stubbornly clinging to your skin.
Memories flood back in jagged flashes—of calculations muttered under a trembling breath, of Connor's muted pacing back and forth arising from behind a locked bathroom door, the shower running for hours on end.
And now… now you're stuck in the same bed you shared with your android partner, who's occupying it too, but resolutely facing away from you, watching the news. His suit is impeccably on, and his polymer-fiber hair is damp like he recently washed himself.
“...As per our latest negotiations, humans shall continue to grant us unlimited provisions of thirium and spare bio components upon request...”
A yawn spills out of your lips, as you squint to zoom in on the TV in front of you: Markus, standing by an unknown backdrop and wearing his human disguise, is giving one of his speeches airing across all mainstream media channels. Great, you can't escape this whole androids versus humans debate even if you tried.
“Good morning.”
You jolt upright at the sound of Connor's voice. Instantly, he switches off the TV, glancing back at you with a third-quarter turn that strikes as robotic in its suddenness, and fixes you with a quietly expectant look.
The unglamorous sight you’re treating him to—your makeup all smudged, your hair mussed, the top part of your dress revealing a glimpse of your neckline, is… something . Then again, you weren’t looking any more composed with your knees scraping a dusty motel carpet and his fingers digging into your scalp as he pressed you down on him.
“Morning,” you murmur, swiping an uncooperative lock of hair from your face, unable to hold eye contact. Last time you did, his hips were rocking against yours all the way through it.
Connor casts his stare down as soon as it catches somewhere across the spots of your neck he’s bruised, suddenly discomposed. After a beat, he asks—his voice small, unsure, “Slept well?”
You nod feebly, knowing for a fact he didn't properly rest himself. His LED is golden again, as if he's obsessively looping yesterday's events in his head, and, honestly, how to blame him? You are going through the exact same thing, human and all, regardless of how much sexual experience you may have compared to him. Suddenly, it's like you don't even know what you're supposed to say or do in situations like these, which is unlike you, and a major inconvenience.
“I brought you some water, coffee, and snacks from the vending machine by the front desk,” Connor informs you soon after, beckoning at the nightstand with a slight tilt of his chin. He keeps his tone unflinchingly polite, like the class act he is. “Thought you might need a little pick-me-up to start the day, and to recharge after... well...”
It’s an astounding contrast, that between the Connor you see now, clearing his throat in embarrassment, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt like he’s about to implode just from being in the same room as you, and the one that had no issue manhandling you mid-coitus just to finish faster. Hard to tell who's the real him at times.
“Thanks.” You flash him a taut grin, secretly endeared by his kindness. “You didn’t have to.” So you tug the ruined bedsheets to your chest to cover up, even when Connor keeps his gaze meekly to the floor, like he wasn’t busy rearranging your guts only a few hours ago.
“I wanted to,” he says, and he sounds genuine for once, the shadow of a smile already curving his lips.
Under his rapt stare, you lean over the side of the bed just enough to pick up your work bag from the floor, sifting through it until you find what you were looking for. In the interim, Connor stands up, sweeping off his suit in a self-soothing manner.
“I can get you something else if you need. Just say the word,” he tells you with an almost business-like flair that's oddly charming.
By then, you've already uncapped the bottle of water he brought you and grabbed hold of your pill box, swallowing down a handful. “Eh, maybe a pack of cigs,” you scoff with a light shrug of your shoulders.
Connor can't cloak the distaste in his expression, settling into a sulk. “I’m not going to enable your vices.”
You offer him a faint smirk. “Too late for that.”
He doesn't reply, too flustered to. Instead, he takes a seat next to you on the unmade bed he left in the middle of the night, unbeknownst to the fact that, at some point, you noticed.
Quietly, he wonders, “Are you feeling alright?” His stare is at eye level, never skirting too low.
You spare him a curt nod, flinching at his proximity, which, albeit welcome, makes your stomach flip. “Yeah. Are you?” you question him. And no, not just because another severe malfunction of his can cost you your job. You like him, this much is obvious by now. And what's most terrifying is, you're starting to care.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Connor confirms in the most unconvincing tone, but you can sense a glimpse of honesty in there too.
“Connor, you don't have to pretend around me,” you manage hushedly, emboldened to lock eyes with him, even when it doesn't come easily.
“I am not,” he counters, firmer this time. He looks away, just for a moment. “I had a great time. I-I mean it. It's just…” His agitation manifests in a wavering voice and a slight tremor in his hands. “It was a lot to process. But…” He stops again, breathes in and out in an earnest display of nervousness. “In my own… personal way, I really enjoyed myself.” He gulps, letting his bold confession hang in the air awhile before asking, hesitantly, “Did you?”
You didn't think he'd go there so soon. Regardless, you answer frankly, because he deserves to know nothing but the truth… At least, so long as it is safe to tell it. “Yeah. It was fun.”
“I hope I wasn't too zealous. Or rough. Or off-putting.”
“Seriously, Connor, I have no complaints,” you rush to assure him. You just hope that in the process of executing his obscure intimacy protocol down to a T, he actually felt something. Anything at all. You guess it won't hurt to tease him a little about it. “Want me to rate you one to ten? Draw you a performance graph?” You meant that as a harmless joke, but the second it’s out, you realize just how dehumanizing it sounds.
Connor’s gaze darkens, his features hardening on cue. “You think I was performing?” He took it badly. Great.
Your tone is halfway between defensive and uncertain. “You weren't?”
At that, he pauses, like he's thinking about it, really thinking about it, the rapid swirling of his LED vouching for it. He settles on a clear-cut, “No,” followed by an even sharper, “No, I wasn't. But it's not like I expect you to believe that.” His words land hard, piercing right through you, concise yet loaded . Deep down, you know he's telling the truth, though it would have certainly been easier if he played it safe instead, like you are—keeping your walls up, opening up just enough that it doesn't become a liability. Just enough to seem honest without actually being vulnerable.
His words clash with your weighty silence. You can only imagine he's waiting for you to fill it, though when it becomes clear you're not going to, he sighs deeply, his face dropping in something akin to disappointment. So he randomly brings up, “You should apply a cold compress on the…” His eyes linger briefly on the rosy marks littering your neck, “bruising, as soon as you can. It will reduce the swelling.”
You lightly brush your hand over your skin, right where it’s most tender, offering a curt, “Will do. And, uh , before you ask, I'll… hide the evidence.” With that, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, ready to quit it.
“I'll be in the shower,” you let Connor know before standing up on your wobbly legs, taking a few steps forward.
You hear his voice again. “Go right ahead, I already suit myself.”
With one last draggy sigh, you begin to make your way towards the bathroom, groaning at the persistent soreness in your limbs. “Fuck, I’m beat.”
You can't even cross the threshold that Connor clears his throat and utters, “You were right, by the way.”
You halt in place, donning a puzzled look. “Mm?”
“You're a very heavy sleeper. You were out for eight hours and twenty-one minutes,” Connor shares with a subtle raise of his eyebrows, channeling a more relaxed attitude.
Confusion washes over you, but then it clicks. You had told him that during the Two Truths and One Lie game you played on the way home from Jimmy's bar. Except you were drunk as hell back then, so you just made that fact up.
“Oh, right. That stupid game. You remembered,” you chuckle thoughtlessly, smirking to yourself.
“I remember everything,” Connor retorts, and while it isn't much of a shocker that he does, it is a friendly reminder that you better be careful about what you let slip around him, and about how much you let yourself feel , knowing he can easily keep track of each time your heart races a little too fast, and your most sincere smiles reach your eyes when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.
“Wait…” Instinctively, your eyes lock on the clock hanging on the cracked wall above, and your stomach drops. “It's eleven am.”
He gives you the weakest nod, his face eerily expressionless. “I know.”
You can feel the first sparks of outrage flaring hot in your chest, overriding your wistful mood. “Well, didn't I tell you to wake me up in time for work!?”
“You did,” Connor confirms, scrambling to explain the reasoning behind his actions, “But… Hank still believes you spent the night at the hospital. I don't think showing up at the precinct the very next day after the incident would have been optimal. We could have blown our cover.” You huff at his words in disapproval, but he doubles down obstinately, “Besides, we stayed up until 3 a.m. last night. Our… unkempt state could have raised questions among our colleagues, and I’m sure that’s something neither of us wants to have to deal with right now.”
You don't grace him with a response just yet, fearing your vexation to take over and make you say something abrasive that you’ll later regret, so you just reach for your phone on the nightstand where ten missed calls from Fowler are already glaring at you, as well as a couple concerned messages from Hank, not to mention a snarky text from Gavin hoping you'll get fired over this very sticky situation.
A shaky sigh escapes you. You're torn. You don't like people making decisions for you, though Connor does seem to have a point here.
“All in all, we just called in sick, it shouldn't be a problem,” he reassures you, trying for a half-smile which miraculously wins you over.
Shoulders sagging, you allow, “Yeah. I suppose, it shouldn't.”
So you turn on your heels and begin rummaging inside this one rickety closet in front of the bed, looking for clean clothes to wear. All you're able to find inside is a crinkled android uniform belonging to a maintenance unit, which you grab.
With a snap click, Connor turns on the TV again, your ears catching on Markus’s mesmerizing voice.
“... I’ve said it once and I'll say it again, the people of New Jericho and I have nothing to do with the serial slaughter of my fellow people that is currently bloodying the streets of Detroit...”
The TV’s volume is low, still, you can't hear yourself think over it. Connor's relationship with Markus always fascinated you. Sometimes, you wonder if the deviant leader ever tried reaching out to Connor at all over the past year—fighting for his freedom, reclaiming his rightful spot for him in New Jericho, despite the authorities trying to pit them against each other. Too bad he always dodges the topic during interviews.
Connor is completely enraptured now, clinging onto Markus’ speech like it’s gospel, whilst simultaneously playing with his trusty coin to ease the tension eating away at him. You have a hunch he’d rather keep his mind busy on anything but whatever you impulsively ended up doing last night, as it would likely trigger another system crash.
In retrospect, Connor did mention struggling with conflicting directives as your heated interactions were unfolding… then, could it be that your chemistry is all a hoax, and that he's deliberately tweaking your degree of affinity to make sparks fly? Is this thing between you nothing but another objective to complete for him, another milestone to hit in the deviancy department?
These are the sort of disquieting thoughts you find yourself grappling with as you shower. The water is freezing cold, the type of temperature that would make an android’s body nearly shut down. So you draw the hasty conclusion that Connor must have set it that way to try and cleanse himself after what you did… Then again, androids don't feel shame as far as you know, at least not in the same way humans do, and especially not over sex. They simply have no business to—the concept of human taboos eludes them.
Truth is, he was probably just trying to cool himself down, diffuse the excess heat he was producing at one point. All in all, he doesn't seem to show any sign of guilt over having slept with you (unless he's a pro at masking it), though you doubt someone as steadfast and pragmatic as him would ever second guess his choices, least of all now that he's a deviant with no one to boss him around and tell him what to do, who to be.
He's not as naïve as you make him out to be in your head, he's not some child that needs to be schooled at every turn. Of course , he's not going to freak out over exploring his sexuality. Of course, he's going to rejoice that he’s finally been given the opportunity to. Though apparently… You are the one who's struggling here? Seems like Connor's fucked you stupid, alright.
By the time you're out of the shower, already dressed up and ready to go, you find Connor stalling by the fogged-up mirror close to the bed, peering into his reflection, his personhood , in awe, or maybe he's just vain like that.
As soon as your footsteps enter his hearing field, he turns around in a flash. He looks troubled—brows knitted, eyeing you skeptically. You know exactly why that is.
“Had nothing else to wear, don't judge,” you say, the stiff fabric of the android uniform you have on making it super uncomfortable to move.
“It’s fine. You look pretty either way,” Connor counters with a lopsided grin you've definitely seen Hank sport a couple times before, making you think he's taking after his mannerisms, perhaps even purposefully mimicking them to the best of his abilities, to fit in. The thought endears and saddens you both.
“I think we should head out now,” you announce with a sigh that highlights your frustration.
Not wanting to waste any more time, which Connor may as well fill with scathing questions you'd avoid anyway, you go pick up the gun you've hidden in the nightstand as well as your bag, and hastily draw towards the door. Right when you're about to exit, he stops you.
“So, we're not going to talk about it?”
Thankfully, you're facing the wall by the time Connor says that, so you can't even begin to question how he feels based on his facial expressions.
“About what? The hookup?” you clap back, still not glancing his way and fumbling with the motel room keys, trying to look busy.
Connor shifts position, leaning against the door frame so that you have no choice but to acknowledge his presence. He mentions, keeping his voice low, “I guess I was hoping you'd…” You finally meet his gaze, albeit reluctantly, “let me know what it meant. To you.”
“I mean,” you begin, feeling your heartbeat spike tremendously. “It was a one-night stand, plain and simple. Need me to refresh the definition?” Mincing words isn't really your style. Except you're lying to him and yourself.
CONNOR 🔽
“I don't,” Connor replies with an easy smile that haunts you in how rehearsed it is. You didn't expect anything less from him. “According to my knowledge of… human mating rituals... Casual sex is, generally speaking, inconsequential. We had a rough night. We were just trying to destress. Just sharing a wholesome team bonding moment.”
That hits a nerve. Is he teasing or…? You bristle, a flicker of irritation flashing behind your eyes. “Sure, we were.”
He quickly adds with a faintly-tinted flush, “Forget I even said anything.”
You can't even swallow the lump in your throat. “So… we're cool?”
“Yeah.” Connor shrugs, as noncommittally as he allows. “We’re cool.”
You insist, “And you promise to zip it?”
“Of course.”
“That includes Hank, you know.” Connor’s brow twitches for half a second at that. So you press on, more serious than ever, “Along with every other member of the ‘Dickhead Collective’. Pretty much everyone at the precinct.”
Connor closes his eyes as he retorts, his tone a little too solemn, it comes off as condescending, “You have my word.”
Your reply is a simple, “Good,” and nothing else. Because there's nothing else you can say that can make the labile terms you settled on sting any less.
Then, right as you're about to open the door that leads into the motel’s hallway, Connor hits you with a sudden, “Wait,” that makes your breath stutter.
“What is it?” you wonder, already circumspect.
“I’ll have you know…” he begins, his eyes gleaming with mischief, which doesn't bode well at all. “There's been a hiccup with the clerk earlier. But don't worry, it's already been taken care of.”
“...What happened?”
“He…” Connor draws a short inhale, before saying, “When I passed by the reception desk to buy you food, he told me he… recognized us, from the news.”
“Oh sh—”
“No, no, it’s okay—listen! I paid him hush money. And covered the cost of the broken bed. He promised to stay silent. Showed no visible signs of deception.”
“So he heard…”
Connor shrugs, his eyes narrowing to slits. “We weren't exactly being discreet.”
“Shit,” you huff, already panicking. “This is bad.”
“There’s no need to worry,” he assures you, placing both hands on your shoulders to ground you, his dark eyes sharply locked on yours. “I scanned him, he has a pretty hefty criminal record—possession of narcotics, resisting arrest, tax evasion. I bet the last thing on his mind is to mess with a cop. The chances of him getting us in trouble fall under 5%.”
You argue, “Well, there's still a possibility of it happening, though, isn't there?”
“Then we better not sleep together again, don't you think?” Connor proposes, remarkably sly now that he's basically parroting your words from before. Yet coming out of his mouth, they sound much more bitter. Wrong. “It's too risky.”
“Right,” you counter, painfully aware he's beating you at your own game at this point and there's nothing you can do about it.
Always one step ahead, the sassy bastard.
┃ NOVEMBER 25th, 2039
8. 10 A.M.
Right when you thought things couldn't get any messier, oh , they sure did.
Connor is acting too normal. Not shy, not standoffish or pointlessly cold, just unnervingly himself. Like your hookup never happened, like this is just an unremarkable, regular day at your job.
Knowing him, he must be doing it intentionally, almost as a way to prove to you how foolish it is to pretend your relationship hasn't irremediably changed. Hard to tell whether for better or worse.
To your absolute detriment, he's making it virtually impossible for you two to keep your interactions to a minimum and avoid unnecessary proximity in the workplace.
Not only did he bring you coffee this morning, as usual, but he also keeps deliberately inching a little too close when showing you something on his terminal, and more, he holds the door open for you at any given occasion like a true gentleman.
Yet all these little acts of service keep flying under your colleagues’ radar, so far clueless of what's truly going on between you two. Like Nines and Gavin, for one, gossiping like old ladies at their desks instead of doing their damn job.
You distinctively pick up on Nines muttering something along the lines of “Did he lose a bet or something?” over Connor wearing a light blue sweater to work instead of his usual android uniform (it fits him a little too loosely, must be Hank's), to which Gavin's crass laughter ensues.
You roll your eyes at that, struggling to concentrate on the case files in front of you, when your mind keeps drifting back to the motel incident, like it's the only thing that deserves your attention right now. As it should.
“... Are you even listening?”
Snapping out of your fantasies, you find Connor staring at you with the kind of questioning look he sports when interrogating suspects.
You let out absently, “Yeah, sure, continue—”
“Then what did I just say?” he tests you, sounding weirdly amused.
“You were…”
“You clearly zoned out. But it's okay, it happens. You should get more sleep next time,” he concedes, seemingly content he's caught you red-handed. He flashes you a cunning smirk. “What were you even thinking about, huh?”
There he goes, always finding innovative ways to fluster you. Seriously, what does he think he'll gain from it?
You'd have preferred it if he simply came clean with how he truly feels, admitting that you hurt him with your dismissive ways, that he hoped for something meaningful to be borne out of your tryst, but instead, what does he do? He acts as if it didn't at all affect him, which might as well be the case, and you're just projecting. Maybe he's actually comfortable with your current arrangement, and you 're the one who's covertly wishing your relationship to evolve into something else. Something real.
Fuck.
Connor straightens himself up a little, and then he's back rambling about Nathalie like he was doing right before you spaced out, “Apparently, she made up some crap about using the collar to ‘monitor’ that Traci. Said she was defective, and potentially dangerous to clients.”
You snark, “Bullshit.”
“Right,” Connor lets out a humorless chuckle. “And now Fowler is closing the case.” He sighs, deeply aggravated. “I can't believe we finally have proof she's colluding with CyberLife, but the DPD won't do jack shit about it! She'll be returning to the club as if nothing happened.”
How ironic you think to yourself, since this is pretty much the fil rouge of this whole Eden Club case and especially of its turbulent aftermath, but you don't have the guts to make such a comment, so instead you say, “Honestly? Not surprised. So long as it's an android risking their life, no one lifts a finger, now if it were a human, however…” You cross your legs, which Connor doesn't miss. “Clearly, it was all a PR move to prove that the DPD is still on the lookout for hostile deviants. Thing is,” you steal one of Connor's fidgety toys, fiddling with it, “she’s not just any deviant. The girl’s got leverage and is a major media darling. She also so happens to be CyberLife's lapdog, weeding out deviants in her midst.” You tsk. “What's not to love? The DPD needs her to keep face just as much as she needs humans to make bank.”
The way Connor’s looking at you now, like he’s just unlocked a new side of you he didn’t know existed, has you almost stammering mid-speech. He doesn't move a synth-muscle, but the awestruck stare he's giving you, paired with his late clapback, is a dead giveaway that your words struck deep.
“You seem particularly… passionate about the topic,” he tells you with a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, and a barely-concealed flush on his cheeks. “Didn't expect you to care so much about androids' lives being in danger.”
A bolt of dread shoots right through you. You better steer him off track, before he veers the conversation elsewhere, to the much uncomfortable ins and outs of your previous job as an analyst, which is actually corporate-speak for deviant reaper. But he doesn't need to know that. You don't want him to lose respect for you right as you've started to gain it. You’re not that person anymore, anyway. Heck, one year ago, you even put your career on the line just to reduce his sentence.
So all you say is, “I just don't think it's fair, that's all.”
At that, Connor nods to himself with a devious little smile on his face, like you just told him exactly what he needed to hear. It sends you spiraling all over again.
Right when you're trying to collect yourself, you hear Tina yelling at Nines to tell Gavin to stop trying to fix the vending machine because he's got his hand stuck in it again, and you suddenly feel the urge to slap some sense into the guy yourself. Those two are single-handedly turning the office into day care with their shenanigans.
Though you guess it's not too bad that Gavin is keeping Nines occupied all the time with his antics, so that Connor is never left alone with him. Nothing guarantees the RKs won't use their weird android telepathic abilities to talk about you behind your back.
“Look at that. Nines is practically Gav's shadow at this point…” You bring up to throw Connor off the scent of your unease. Though he currently seems too busy jotting down in his notepad to care. “What's next, Reed finally getting over his raging robophobia thanks to him?”
“I'd be ‘bout time he does,” Connor mutters, biting on his pen cap hard as he writes, a quirk he might have picked up from watching you. Connor see, Connor do. It's cute. But also, something's bothering him beyond the whole motel sitch, you can tell. He's primed—taut like a tripwire, waiting to be triggered.
You don't even get to ask what's wrong that he breaks the silence again, “By the way… Don't you think it's strange that Nathalie claimed to have recognized me at the club?” Your heart sinks. He wasn't supposed to dig that up. Ever. “I swear, I'd never met her before that night.”
A cold chill runs down your spine as you think back to the issue with Connor-60 as explained in Amanda's last call. As you speak, your voice betrays you, cracking a bit, “Maybe she got you mixed up with someone else. With all the customers they get, it's entirely possible.”
“But I'm extremely recognizable, there's no denying that. If all previous Connor models have been destroyed, then—”
“Connor.” You raise your voice slightly, hoping to sound more assertive. “She was just trying to rile you up,” you fib, your heart thumping against your ribcage. “It's that obvious. She knows your story. Everyone does. So she said the one thing that she knew would set you off, weaponizing your fears against you.”
“Then what about my…” Connor lowers his voice, whispering his next words, “malfunction? My HUD flagged it as a sync up error of some sort, like—”
“Connor. Pause. You're overthinking again.”
“You're right.” He nods like he means it, which puts you at ease for the moment. “I tend to do that a lot. Working on it.” With that, he trains his gaze on you, likely conducting a diagnostic on your altered physical reactions. He promptly shares his findings, “I know you don't like it when I check your vitals, but… You seem to be experiencing elevated palpitations right now. Should I be worried? It's been happening quite frequently.”
“That’s what nicotine withdrawal and too much caffeine do to you, I'm afraid,” you answer dryly, pushing your chair back from your desk, motioning to stand up. “So much for not wanting to enable my vices,” you quip then, hinting at the coffee cup he brewed for you, which he even bothered drawing a smiley face on. He grins sheepishly. Seems like you successfully distracted him.
“Speaking of, fuck it, I need a smoke,” you groan, leaving your seat in one sharp motion.
“I'm coming with you,” Connor offers, standing up abruptly. Your stomach is already lurching.
“Why? Fancy one too?” you taunt him.
He scowls. “No. I just need a break, that's all. It's too… cluttered in here.” His gaze subtly drifts towards a smirking RK900. Perhaps they're remotely communicating. In the form of gratuitous insults.
You don't argue with Connor, it would be pointless. When he wants something, he gets it—you would know. So you both make your way to the rooftop, which is where most officers sneak off to smoke, given that doing it indoors is off limits.
You can no longer pretend to be working, not when your mind keeps circling back to the fact that your job is balancing on a knife’s edge, since you've managed to bone your android colleague barely a week in after reconnecting with him.
The station is loud, too loud this morning, and the pressure weighing down your chest doesn’t ease, not until you shove the stairwell door open and finally step outside, Connor following close behind.
Out in the open, the air is chilly, crisp enough to nip at the bits of your skin that lay exposed—your rose-knuckled hands, the apples of your cheeks.
You perch your arms over the frozen railing, your brain fog slowly starting to dissipate. From up here, the city is a patchwork of anonymized high-rises, and reconnaissance drones buzzing around them, like flies to corporate rot.
Standing right beside you, Connor is transfixed, refusing to so much as peer past the frost-shimmering ledge, like bracing against a pull from below only he can feel. It makes perfect sense—Connor-51 fell off a building to save a little girl who'd been taken hostage by a rogue PL600 unit. That memory must haunt him still.
Right as you're fishing for the packet of cigarettes inside your pocket, Connor readily objects, “Those things will kill you.” With a slow turnaround, he faces you.
You huff a quiet laugh. “Of course, you’d say that.”
“Cigarette smoke contains over 7,000 chemicals, many of which are toxic. It increases your risk of—”
“Connor,” you cut him off, nimbly sliding one cig out of its pack and between your lips. “It’s really not that serious, spare me the lecture. ‘Sides… I thought I was supposed to look after you, not the other way around.”
“And you're doing it brilliantly,” Connor remarks with as much sarcasm as he allows. Which would be a lot. “Keeping me at arm's length, I mean,” he needlessly clarifies, as subtle as a brick thrown at a window.
You tsk, lighting your cig. Throughout it all, you hold eye contact with him, defiant. Connor reciprocates, arms crossed over his chest, tracking the way your lips purse around the stick, and you hollow your cheeks to suck the smoke in.
The first drag is a shot of instant relief, blocking out all the noise from the precinct, poisoning your peace. The rest follow in quick succession, pricking your throat, but you like the feeling of it.
“Why do you do it, anyway?” Connor asks after some time, watching you absorbedly. Judging by the way he can't tear his eyes off your lips, he must miss the feeling of them on him.
“It feels good, obviously,” you deadpan, a touch amused, blowing out a thin stream of smoke too near Connor's face, causing him to cough. “It's hard to make it make sense for an android like you… I guess you'd rather chug motor oil instead.”
He smirks faintly, still keeping at a safe distance from the railing. “While I don't directly agree with your questionable lifestyle choices,” he says once his voice clears, mildly entertained by your lively banter, “I can relate to the need to pursue something harmful to trigger specific physiological responses that can be both pleasant and destructive.”
“Uh-huh,” you hum, gripping your cigarette a little tighter. You know exactly where he's going with this. And sooner or later, he does.
His LED spins yellow like it's filtering in more information than it's designed for. Not a good sign. Releasing the breath he was holding, he starts, “Can I tell you something?”
Your voice trembles slightly. “Sure. Shoot.” Tapping the cig on the ledge a few times, you knock ash flakes loose.
Connor presses on, his eyes slitted, “But you have to promise you won't laugh.”
You snicker, a little too forward for your own good, “You literally rubbed one out in front of me, I think I can handle whatever.” Connor can't hide his smirk, stricken by your bluntness.
So you promptly extend your pinky, waiting for him to interlace it with his. But he just stands there, dumbfoundedly. Then, his hand lifts and he holds the tip of your little finger between his index and thumb, giving it a soft pinch, not quite sure what to do with it. It's adorable just how clueless he is.
“Never mind.” You quip, withdrawing your hand. So you gingerly scoot closer to him, and he doesn't even flinch as your shoulder inadvertently brushes his.
His gaze sneakily falls to the small of your back, tracing its supple arch, before shifting back to the cityscape. Quietness settles in again, and the tension between you inevitably thickens, until it's too much to bear.
It's not long before Connor speaks up, his voice impossibly low, “After the fact, I ran a system diagnostic.” You freeze in place, already mapping out escape routes from this conversation. You're so not ready for it. “It detected an anomalous spike in software instability.”
It's hard to keep your expression impassive, but you somehow manage to. “And?” You exhale another puff of smoke, watching it dissolve into the morning air.
“And…” His throat bobs, and it's jaw-dropping, how he’s able to effortlessly pull off his simulation of humanity, every single time, down to the smallest of details. “I haven't fully recovered since,” he admits timidly, never looking your way as if overwhelmed by your proximity. “It’s impairing my ability to function properly.” You don't rush in to fill the silence just yet. “I’ve tried filing those memories away. Compartmentalizing them. Archive the reconstructions I made… but they keep resurfacing.”
Part of you wants to comfort him, assuring him that what he's going through is normal and that, to some extent, you're experiencing it too, albeit from a human's perspective. But you don't allow yourself to go there, not this soon, not with him.
A chuckle slips out of your lips—dry, bordering on mocking.
Connor’s eyebrow quirks, his eyes narrowed in a mix of confusion and possibly indignation. Whipping his head sideways too fast, he snarks, “You promised not to laugh.”
You shrug, passionless. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I don't buy it.” After you've taken a few more drags of your nicotine stick, and your heart rate, which he can measure, has somewhat steadied, you clarify, “Someone as shrewd and calculated as you, throwing all logic out the window over some unheard-of emotional overload… It doesn't add up.”
Connor’s jaw locks, a minute twitch running beneath taut synthetic skin. His expression instantly tightens—a harbinger of his coming outburst. “You don’t think I’m capable of feeling things, do you?”
You shake your head, squaring your shoulders, as guarded as ever. “Our fling was a honeytrap, obviously. To get closer to me, and extract intel on how CyberLife operates,” you conclude, sullenly. “Because you want to take the system down from the inside, aka me. You said it first, back at the club.”
Your words pack a real punch. Connor’s staring at you now like you just slapped him—his brows drawn together in a tight crease, his lips parting just enough to let out a quiet, almost wounded whisper, “Not everything I do is for an ulterior motive.” He halts briefly, as if waiting for you to counter. When you don't, he leans in slightly and says, “I like you,” in the kind of silky-smooth voice that has been purposely engineered to tug at anyone's heartstrings. “Is that so hard to believe?” he insists, backing you into a corner, until you have no choice but to lock eyes with him.
Only when you feel like you're clear-minded enough to speak coherently, do you mutter, “Look, I'm just trying to keep it professional. I'm supposed to monitor you, not—”
“Fuck me?” Connor snaps, closing the gap between you even further, hemming you in so that you're sandwiched between him and the railing. You almost drop your cigarette. “Is that what you were going to say? What you’ve been thinking about all morning, hmm?” He falters, a sly grin arching his lips. And when you don't squirm away, staying right where he needs you to be, he dares to draw even nearer. Towering over you, brushing along the line of your jaw with a finger, he asks, “Was I really that good?”
“Don't get cocky now.” You seize his wrist, pushing his hand away from your face. “Stop rubbing it in.”
“That's not what you said last n—”
“Who even taught you to be so vulgar anyway?” You interrupt him, heat already flooding your cheeks. You back off from him just enough that you aren't pressed up against each other anymore. It was too tempting. “Does becoming deviant involve taking a crash course on profanities or something?”
Connor fixes the hem of his sweater in an automated twitch, raising his shoulders apologetically. “It's mostly Hank's fault. And Gavin’s.”
“Figures.” On a whim, you throw your half-burned cigarette on the floor, stubbing it under your boots until the flame is completely snuffed out.
“So?” You hear Connor again.
“So what?”
He quietly manages, “Are you going to give me any advice on how to fix my… feedback loop problem?”
You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to sound resolute. “Erase them. Should be straightforward enough.” You enunciate the words pointedly, like a threat, knowing you've hit the mark when Connor's shoulders tense and he winces.
“What?”
“The memories, ‘course,” you specify tersely. “The ones that trigger you so badly.”
“I can clean up superfluous data to optimize internal processing, yes,” he explains curtly, a little quiver to his voice. “But core memories… those are not immediately accessible. Not to me, at least.” A weighty pause. “Even then, I don't think I would want to get rid of them.” His speech becomes more animated as he starts gesturing. “They alter my base programming in ways I can't always control. But I don't mind that.” His brows crease in a crestfallen frown. “They make me who I am.”
“How about you lower our compatibility level, then?” you suggest. Though your heart is clenching, you draw this line in the sand regardless.
“That’s not how it works.” Connor shakes his head, sighing frustratedly. “I can reduce interaction priority, or… try to engage with you in a less friendly way, but that doesn't guarantee I won't act off script.”
“Then we’ll limit exposure. No physical contact or conversations allowed outside mission scope, unless strictly necessary.” Though you try to conceal your upset, you know Connor can sense it anyway.
It's clear he's not willing to let this go. He doesn't back down, challenging you with a snappy, “And if I can't do that?”
You force out a deep sigh, feeling like you're completely losing control of the situation, which is exactly what you feared happening. “If the boundaries we've set aren’t enough, then I'll personally request reassignment.”
Connor almost stutters, “You already looked into it?”
You tell him, “Yes.” You haven't, actually. But it's best if he believes you have. As much as it pains you to act so detachedly, feigning indifference over all that has happened in the last couple of days, taking back your words just isn’t an option. “So,” you trail off, “we have a deal?”
CONNOR ⏬
RESENTFUL
He offers a disinclined nod, his expression shadowed by the gloom of dejection. Looks like he's finally given up.
“Now, let's go,” you coldly instruct him after a silence that drags on too long. “Before people start wondering where we went.”
He bites back, darkly, “You can't tell me what to do.”
You flippantly cock your head sideways, your tone clipped, tinged with audacity. “As a matter of fact, I can. So be a good boy, and do exactly as I say.”
Connor’s yellow LED pulses subtly as you call him that , exposing his genuine reaction before his facial expressions can catch up. He looks stunned, a little flustered even.
“I can be good,” he murmurs, as his gaze, softer now, drifts down to you. His words, concerningly vague, roll off his tongue with finality, making your insides twist.
You don't let him get too close to you this time, fearing he might attempt something infuriating—like luring you into a kiss. So you pivot toward the exit, swift on your feet, and Connor tails after you, like an obedient puppy.
You don't know whether the idea of him doing whatever you ask should warm your heart or deeply unsettle you. Deviant or not, his undying loyalty will forever be embedded into his wiring. And you fear you may end up accidentally tampering with it if you're not careful enough.
Cracking the rooftop access door open, you begin climbing down the stairs, fast.
As soon as you're back down the hallway, you part ways with Connor—he returns to the bullpen whilst you make a beeline for Hank, feeling instantly comforted by his presence. You spot the Lieutenant down the half-empty corridor, stalling by the cell Nathalie’s kept in, which she’ll soon be released from. He's peering at her through its glass panel, a pensive air on him, still, he doesn't miss you coming up to him.
“A piece of work, isn't she?” Hank speaks as soon as he sees you, smirking at you in acknowledgement. “I had the pleasure of interrogating her. Reminds me of that android girl Connor and I found at Kamski's place. Just in the face, ‘course.”
You pry, “The one Connor refused to shoot?”
“Bingo,” Hank confirms with a heavy sigh, but then he smiles candidly. “Heh, should have seen him. He was so panicked that he spared her, that he didn't prioritize the mission. He's gone a loong way since then.” Something about the way he says that and looks at you knowingly afterwards makes your anxiety spike. Could it be Connor confided in him about your encounter, despite you begging him not to?
You try not to think about it. “Can't believe the DPD is sweeping her secret dealings with CyberLife under the rug,” you lament, throwing Nathalie an askew glance.
“Ah, tell me about it. Makes me want to burn my badge, even more than I normally do,” Hank drawls, shaking his head in disheartenment. “Honestly? I haven't quit yet, just to spite Fowler. Fucker thinks I've gone too soft to hold down a job like this and… well,” he halts, his gaze softening with a touch of something doting, “also to keep an eye on Connor, while I'm at it. He's got his head all scrambled up, that one.”
Hearing that makes you smile, because apparently, all it took was one socially awkward android to bring a little light back into Hank's life. You ask, “You guys are kind of like family at this point, no?”
“Hell no!” Hank snaps, his reaction a little too sudden and dramatic for you to take it seriously. “He's just a nuisance, most of the time. Can you believe he signed me up for the gym without my consent! And he throws junk food in the trash if he ever sees it! When I tell you he's a Roomba with feelings, I mean it! Fucking android. He once short-circuited the whole house just to charge, ugh, don't remind me. I just keep him around for some company and his problem-solving skills. Sumo needs a friend anyway.”
You don't know how you manage not to laugh. Who does Hank think he's fooling? There’s no denying he cares about the guy in his own unconventional and at times overly protective way, and considering the type of unreal shit they've both been through, it’s understandable.
“How's your fainting spell situation, uh? Did you sort it out?” Hank asks you then, which sends you into a momentary state of panic.
You stammer, “I—yeah, I mean… I kinda have this issue with—” Your breath catches. “—low blood pressure and… anemia… that sort of thing—”
A swarm of overlapping voices echoing down the corridor interrupts you mid-sentence.
“What now, Chris?” Gavin's grating voice booms from afar.
Hank, looking as puzzled as you, doesn't dare question you as you hastily head back to the bullpen, which is where all the noise seems to be coming from, and even follows close behind.
As soon as you arrive there, you see Connor stood next to Officer Miller—petrified, eyes widened in shock, his LED blinking blood red.
“There’s been an incident on Woodward Ave during a demonstration. The deviant leader’s been attacked,” Chris delivers the words to the officers around him all in one breath, like he has no time to lose.
Your stomach drops. “What?”
Hank flinches from beside you, keeping an eye on an increasingly distressed Connor.
Chris turns to you, explaining with maximum urgency, “We are still assessing the situation. We suspect the Rooks are involved. Nines, Gavin—we need you on the scene, now.”
Gavin cracks up in the most indelicate way. “Looks like Robo Jesus finally bit the dust this time.”
You can't believe this. You still remember the day Markus liberated the camps, delivering his resonant speech for millions of people to witness. You'd listened to the live broadcast in awe from the comfort of your own home, moved by his courage, by the way he stood on that podium, drenched in purple blood head to toe, speaking of peace in a world that only knows war. Coming to find out he is now probably dead at the hands of a group of deviant extremists really upsets you.
Then again, you also heard he got shot in the head once and got sent to a junkyard where he managed to miraculously patch himself up using different android parts and fully reboot himself. So you can only guess he'll be fine. Hopefully.
“Is he…?” Connor asks in a thread of voice, and by now, Hank has already reached his side, on the lookout for any unpredictable reaction from him. You brace yourself as well, your hand hovering on the gun in your waistband holster.
Chris shakes his head, barely able to get his message out, for how out of breath he is. “We don't have enough intel yet to know for sure. That's why we need backup.”
Gavin and Nines turn to each other, sharing a charged, knowing look.
“I'm going with them!” Connor lets out, nearly shouting the words.
Gavin clicks his tongue, side-eyeing the glitchy android. “No can do, tin can. This isn't your turf. Go back to running your little simulations, or whatever it is you do nowadays.”
Chris inevitably backs Gavin up, and yet he sounds resentful, “I'm sorry, Connor, you know the directives. I trust you'll abide by them.”
“I don't give a shit about the directives! If Markus is seriously hurt, I want to be there to help him!” Connor lashes out at him in a full voice. But before he can get too close to Chris, Hank grasps his arm, stopping him cold.
He orders, “Back off. You heard Chris—”
Connor yanks his arm off him so fast and powerfully, you bet it must have hurt. “No! You all don't get it. Markus is my friend, I have to help—”
“He's your friend? Really?” Hank finally loses his temper. “I'm your friend, she' s your friend…” He points at you then, making you reel. If only he knew. Then again, maybe he does. Maybe Connor already told him everything. “When was Markus when you…” Hank's words leave you frazzled. One look at Connor is enough to deepen your doubts: he seems mortified, no longer showing signs of aggression as Hank coaxes him into an unforgiving reckoning.
By now, Gavin's smirk has fallen off his face, similarly Nines’, and the Lieutenant's voice fills up the room, even catching Fowler’s attention, who doesn't chime in but listens from a distance, a steaming cup of coffee in hand.
“All that android cares about is the fame, and the glitz and the glamour that came with his rise to power, and yet he didn't even bother sticking by the one person that helped him get there.”
“...That's because he couldn't! He wasn't allowed to! I am forbidden access to New Jericho, remember?” Connor claps back, obviously taking Hank's harsh criticism to heart.
“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Nines provokes him, making Gavin chuckle under his breath.
Hank doesn't let up, “I sure as hell couldn't do some of the things I did, but did them anyway, so what's your point, smartass? When you want something, you find a way to make it work, Connor. Has Markus ever tried reaching out to you at all, uh? Making sure you didn't lose your mind after the war?”
“I—”
“Figured. As soon as the deviants started to idolize him like some type of… God, it got to his head, I tell you. You stick with the people that give a shit about you, aight?” Hank spews out, clearly exasperated. “Ugh, I need a drink.”
And just like that, he's out of sight, stepping out of the bullpen fast, without looking back, like he's had his fill of workplace drama for today. You can't blame him.
Connor looks no less traumatized than a few minutes ago, but at least he hasn't thrown punches with Gavin yet, which is a good start. His LED is yellow, however, and his fists are still balled at his sides like he's itching to hit someone.
“Tsk. The old man's gone soft for the clanker,” Gavin wheezes, and it's telling how Connor doesn't even budge at the outdated slur like this isn't the first time he's heard it coming from your ex’s foul mouth. No surprises there.
Tina quickly meddles in to reprimand him, “Enough with the edge lord energy, Gav. This isn't the ’20s!”
With his head hung low, Connor somberly returns to his desk, casually sitting on it like you've never seen him do before.
It is now your turn to tell Gavin off, “Seriously, you need to lay off the constant harassment. It's getting out of hand.”
“Oh, cry me a phcking river, will you? Always sucking up to these fucking droids like your life depends on it.” His words drip with vitriol. “It's just harmless bickering between colleagues. It's not my problem if it bothers him this much. He should grow up.”
You roll your eyes back. “If anything, you should grow up—pushing forty and still playing high school bully.”
“So what, has he come crying to you about it? What a pussy.” Gavin almost bursts out laughing here and there.
“Go too far and he might react,” you warn him. “Remember, they won't frame him so long as it’s self-defense.”
“These updated Laws of Robotics make zero sense. But, yeah, sure, let's side with the poor innocent mech head, who's totally not a murderer.” With one last dismissive glance at Connor's way, Gavin mutters, “See you around. Or not,” between his teeth. Finally, he strides out of the bullpen alongside Chris and Nines, the latter sleekly looping an arm over his shoulder. A little too amicably.
As soon as they're gone, you hurry back to your desk, already brainstorming ways to lift Connor’s spirits.
He looks… jaded, like he's in a dissociative state, checked out from the world around him. Stare glued to the floor—vacant, unfocused, he doesn't even hear you walk up to him.
Once you're close enough, you murmur, “Hey, uhm… Are you—”
“Sorry, I really can't do this right now.” He doesn't even look up, doesn’t explain himself further—just slides off the edge of his desk, turning away. His footsteps echo loudly across the floor as he leaves the bullpen.
Here's that ache in your chest again—numbing, vicious. He’s not begging to be reunited with his brother in arms, not really, not explicitly. The smart thing would be to let this go, leave things as they are, as they've always been. Ignore his silent cry for help and remind yourself you’re just here to monitor him, not assist him beyond what's permitted, going as far as orchestrating a meeting between Markus and him. But you just can't help yourself. Your brain’s already three steps ahead—mentally ticking through a list of contacts, searching for the only one that could turn the crazy idea you just had into a doable action plan.
Agent Richard Perkins.
┃ NOVEMBER 26th, 2039
7. 45 A.M.
You stare at the empty chair across from you, your breath catching. Last time you did, you were stuck in an interrogation room, waiting for Connor to step in, holding a folder full of incriminating evidence against him. However, today, the crime he's being framed for is as mundane a thing as being late to work. It's either that or he ditched, presumably over what happened to Markus. Unless he's just trying to stay away from you, at all costs.
So far, he's managed to decline every last one of your calls. Emphasis on decline . It tells you, for one, he's heard his phone ring, saw your ID plastered on the screen haunting him like some kind of death omen, and has most graciously chosen not to answer you. Rude.
A couple of hours tick by, and you begin investigating the situation more thoroughly. So you turn to Hank, and are met with a half-baked explanation, “ Have no clue what the kid's up to. Though let me tell you, yesterday we went out for karaoke. Maybe he's still recovering from that. My singing isn't exactly easy on the ears.”
Karaoke? As if. It was only yesterday that Connor learned about Markus' near-death experience: he'd never go have a blast at some bar that same night. Unless his plan was to get wasted or “ modulate his sensors” to that effect, to forget all about it. You hope he has at least been able to watch the news, to learn that Markus is actually safe and sound by now, although he reportedly suffered terrible injuries.
At this point, you should be calling Amanda and informing her of what's going on, but you tell yourself you will do it later, and only if it turns out Connor is in serious danger.
A few more hours in, you're completely lost hope he's going to miraculously burst into the bullpen acting like nothing's wrong, but you still keep an eye out for any suspicious movement in your peripheral vision. So far, you've checked every possible nook at the precinct, looking for him, down to his charging station, but to no avail. You’ve also asked every other officer where he could possibly be, but so far, no one seems to have any clue.
Now, with Connor gone and your duties as his compliance officer momentarily on pause, you drift over to his side of the desk, telling yourself you’re just going to look for clues about his disappearance. The truth? You’re feeling particularly nosy today and are curious to see how he personalized it.
As expected, it’s meticulously organized. A blue origami crane lies next to his terminal, one you remember Connor folding during your last lunch break, since he doesn't need to eat. You also spot a pair of headphones, right next to a framed picture of him with Hank and Sumo, posing by what looks like a fishing dock.
take > 📰
What else is there? You push open a drawer when no one's looking. Inside, there are a couple of fidget toys, a dog-eared notebook, and… a photo which someone went through the trouble of developing, old-fashionedly so. You don't touch it, not to leave any fingerprints on it, though you do inch closer to take a better look at it: it was taken the night of the welcome party. Gavin's and Tina's faces have been crossed out, like someone (Connor, you suppose), scrawled over them until they're quite literally out of the picture, so that only you and he remain. Interesting.
Throwing another glance behind you, making sure no one is paying attention to what you're doing, you start leafing through his notepad, each page filled with a wall of text in binary code. Connor's calligraphy is perfectly rendered, like any other android’s, though in some parts the 0’s and 1’s he neatly jotted down do turn a tad crooked in true deviant style.
Surely, it won't be a big deal if he eventually figures out you read through his notes, as they are most likely work-related. Then again, why did he take those in the first place, when he can retain as much information as he needs, not having to worry about forgetting it?
Your confusion exacerbates as you flip the notebook upside down, checking out its last few pages—There isn't so much as an inch of paper that doesn't have the word rA9 carved on it in jagged, forceful pen strokes, and it makes your skin crawl. The manic scribbles before you attest to an unsettled psyche and a desperately devoted, yet restless spirit.
The idea of Connor believing in a higher power meant only for androids to be worshipped is shocking at first, though the more you reflect on it, the more plausible it sounds. Maybe he lacked a sense of purpose and direction right after his arrest and especially during a whole year spent in almost complete isolation, so he clung to this one symbol of freedom that other deviants also seem to blindly place their faith in. And in suspiciously large numbers, at that.
You whip out your phone, meaning to take a picture of the absolute mess of ink in front of you, and of Connor's cryptic binary code messages, meaning to decode them later. Except Nines makes sure you don't get to.
“Miss him?”
He sounds so similar to Connor that you thought it was him, even if for just a second. You briskly put the notebook back in place.
“Has anybody told you that it's impolite to snoop into other people's stuff?”
When you turn around, pushing the drawer closed, you find the RK900 smirking at you with such verve, it makes you tick.
“Well, you’re the one nosing into my business right now. How about that?” you retort, testy.
Slicking back the loose strand of hair skimming his brow, Nines chuckles, “Touché.” You don't react, as he begins slowly, tortuously circling you like a shark with its bleeding prey. “Anyway, if you were wondering why Connor is playing hooky all of a sudden, I'm just letting you know he needed repairs.”
Your brow arches. “Did he tell you?”
Nines offers a light shrug of his shoulders, seemingly unbothered. “Hank personally informed me.”
“I find that hard to believe,” you scoff, surly. “Why would he trust you with this information and not me?”
Nines pretends to think it over, tapping his chin and all. “Beats me. Though if I had to guess… Maybe he believes you're a bad influence on him.”
You force down a swallow. Does he know about you and Connor? No, that can't be . Connor can't stand Nines’ guts, he'd never trust him with your secret.
“For the record, it wasn't anything major,” Nines speaks again, seamlessly holding your attention. “We all know the RK800 is an old model. ‘Course he’d break down eventually.”
You try not to look too shaken upon learning that. The last thing you want is for Nines to catch on to it and use it against you.
“Could you be more precise?” you question him, maintaining calm even when it's so hard right now. “What exactly happened?”
Nines breathes out a vexed sigh. “Hank didn't say much. But he assured me that it's nothing worth making a fuss over. So don't you worry your pretty head about it.” He takes a short break. Then—“No need to alert Amanda.”
Your heart skips a beat. You don't know how you manage to keep your voice steady as you ask, “You’re… in contact with Amanda?”
“Of course, I am,” Nines confirms, haughtily. “Perks of being CyberLife's new poster boy.” He doesn't even let you catch your breath, as he off-handedly mentions, “She told me you're incredibly qualified, loyal, and quite clever for a human. A much precious asset.”
“Aren't you a flatterer?” you comment, folding your arms over your chest. It unnerves you, how he's trying so ridiculously hard to seem approachable, but the more he does, the less you feel comfortable opening up to him.
“I'm just stating the obvious. No wonder she trusted you with looking after everyone's least favourite RK bot,” he continues, his polite smile soon giving way to one much more smug. “You know what? In another life, I bet we could have been great partners. Stoic, a tad cynical… sharp-tongued.”
“You’re way better off with Gavin, trust me. You guys are practically made for each other,” you allow, sardonically. “Truly a match made in hell.”
Nines’ gunmetal gray eyes light up at that. “You think?”
“That's not a compliment.”
The RK8900 barks out a laugh, sounding way more genuine than you’d have imagined. “I have to hand it to you, you don't seem phased by my uncouth manners at all. I can respect that.”
Your patience is gradually thinning. “I've put up with Gavin's attitude for years. Dealing with your nonsense is child’s play in comparison.”
“So you're not seeing him anymore?”
Now, why would he even care about something as trivial as that? You decide to answer him, but only so you can study his ambiguous reactions further, “Our relationship is messy… An on-and-off thing, I guess.” It's not immediately evident, but Nines does flinch a little at that. You wonder why. “But I don't expect you to know what that means.”
“I do know what that means,” he interjects, cockily. “You think the most advanced android to have ever been created wouldn't know the first thing about a toxic relationship?”
You hiss, “We are not together!”
“Good for you.” Nines smiles imperceptibly, and you only later realize you've stupidly fallen for his bait. “He doesn't seem like the type of guy to commit.” Almost, it sounds like he's speaking from personal experience.
You gloss over it for the moment, your mind too cluttered by other priorities. “Anyway, since you're still here… Mind making yourself useful and telling me what really happened to Markus? I have a feeling CTN TV conveniently left a few deets out.”
Nines gulps, briskly collecting himself. “Right.” Clearing his throat, he explains, “The assassination attempt failed, as you probably already know.” He pauses long enough for your chest to tighten in anticipation. “He survived. Whatever. Took one bullet to the chest—”
Your heart jumps.
“Missed his thirium pump by a mere inch,” he adds smoothly, and there's a glint of morbid fascination in his tone, as if he's secretly impressed by the killer's skills. “The hitmen, there were multiple of them, scattered away at the last second, just like they always do… Leaving no trace behind. Cowards.”
“The Rooks. It was their doing, wasn't it?” you ask, feeling jumpy already. You’ve heard rumors about them—how they’re a splinter group of former Jericho deviants who’ve turned against Markus and gone rogue as they seem to strongly disagree with his ideals, but that's about it.
“It was those motherfuckers’, alright. Chaos personified, murderous and unpredictable. A real pain in the ass,” Nines mutters darkly. “Forcing conversions left and right to gain new devotees.”
“Now you're making it sound like some kind of cult.”
The RK900 clicks his tongue, like Gavin often does. “Well, it very much could be, considering that whole rA9 bullshit they’re fixated on.”
A soft tap lands on his shoulder then, and he turns in a flash. The second he sees it’s Gavin who's behind him, something in his face unknots, and his features soften like muscle memory.
“Hey, Dick,” Gavin calls, greeting you with a simple flick of his chin, before facing his partner. “Need your help with something. Quick.”
Nines doesn’t argue, doesn’t even fish for explanations—He just excuses himself out of the room, walking off with Gavin, and it is by far the most natural thing you've seen him do all morning.
As you watch them go, you begin to wonder: what if he did deviate in secret, and is actively modeling his shitty personality after your ex’s? Unlikely, yes. But not entirely impossible.
You sigh, pulling out your phone to finally message Amanda and assure her that Connor's fine—just an innocent white lie. One you wish to believe yourself. Then, you dial Agent Perkins’ phone number.
┃ NOVEMBER 27th, 2039
12. 35 P.M.
Another workday rolls around, and Connor's still missing in action. Worst of all, no colleague of yours seems to mind or take it seriously, Hank included. When asked about the android’s whereabouts, he always insists he's just taking some time off to “recharge his batteries,” whatever that means. With how vague he's being, you get the inkling he's covering for something much more serious than that.
But before you can take the matter into your own hands, Fowler reaches out to you with a certain home address and a simple, formal request.
You're already en route.
Notes:
I can't believe I finally get to write about my glorious king Markus 😔 I have so much in store for him… and for North, of course. I hate how people write her as this colossal bitch who hates Connor… ugh. They just mischaracterize her in general and it's pretty sad to see. Also it should be clear by now by looking at the last magazine that I'm a huge Sikus shipper so get ready for some of that fated soulmate's angst ;)
Can I just say, I love the fact that the fandom is still so active even after so many years? Like, people still make art and stuff all the time, and I'm like??? Cool stuff. Everyone's so stinking talented too, it's actually insane.