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They’re on an ice cold park bench, not far from the currently closed Chicken Feed. Hank is sitting with his elbows loosely draped over his knees, his eyes directed firmly at the air in front of him.
Connor appreciates the obvious offer of space, because he’s been swarmed by people – both humans and androids – ever since he emerged from Cyberlife with an army behind him. It was barely over before he informed Markus that he had to leave, and was met with no surprise whatsoever. Not much surprises Markus in general, something Connor sometimes wishes had been a feature in his own prototype. But no, he got Human Integration programs and Crime Scene Reconstruction mechanics instead.
Nothing that’ll be actually helpful in this new world.
“So… what happens now?” Hank asks, still without looking at him, his breath a cloud in front of his face.
Connor’s state of the art personality-imitation program dictates that, in situations that are supposed to signify doubt or hesitation, he should pause before answering. He now has the ability to just delete that function, but having worked with humans for a while has given him insight into the usefulness of a good pause. So it stays.
But even after the pause he still has no answer, despite running through roughly eight hundred thousand conversation simulations in the span of those few seconds.
He’s deviant. Cut off from Cyberlife’s network for the first time in his short life. He just took part in a robot revolution, and he’s just had his first ever hug, which lasted for twenty three point two seconds. And he’s drawing a complete blank.
The problem is that, while he does have the entire web at his disposal for reference, his decision making programs are still limited by what precedence he can find for any given situation. And the situation right now is… unique, to say the least. Fictional works do have some tempting conclusions to draw, but he’s not at all sure fiction is the best thing to lean on after an actual civil war just took place. However peaceful it was.
“I don’t know,” he says eventually.
Hank nods with that wry smile he has when the weirdness of the world manages to not surprise him yet again.
“Deviant, huh? Guess you didn’t see that one coming, mr. I self test regularly,” Hank quips, and Connor smiles. A gesture that feels less and less forced on his face.
“But hey, you’re free now, right? You can do whatever you want. So what do you wanna do?”
“I don’t know.”
Hank turns his head to give him a long look before turning away again. “Yeah, can’t say I’m surprised. Having the whole freedom thing dumped on you all at once sounds rough.”
“There’s research in the field of trauma psychology that supports that assumption,” Connor says, stalling for time while running through more simulations, but nothing comes up that gives him a satisfying plan.
And that right there is the crux of it. Satisfying. It never mattered before whether he found something satisfying or not, his programs told him what to do and say, and he obeyed.
Not that he hadn’t habitually bent those orders in his own or Hank’s favor. But having the final call is not only daunting, it feels genuinely impossible, and he shuts down his frantic searching for reference material to let his processors cool off. There’s no point in burning off liters of thirium looking for an answer no one can give him. Especially since he’s got no idea how to afford more if he needs it, now that Cyberlife is no longer footing the bill.
“Never had any dreams? Wishes? Hopes of better things?” Hank asks, and Connor’s about to deny again out of pure frustration, but then realizes that he did. He finds it without even running any outside searches, because it’s right there in his own memory.
I don’t really listen to music, as such. But I’d like to.
He hadn’t lied. Not then, anyway. His programming dictates that he avoid lying if at all possible, but, even without that, he’s always preferred being truthful. Which feels ironic considering his entire purpose was to infiltrate. Imitate. Pretend.
“I want to listen to music, and try and understand what makes it good. I want to pet more dogs. I want to get back to work.”
He sighs, despite not needing it, finding it oddly soothing.
“But I don’t know how to make any of that happen now. I’m free, but no laws have been changed yet. I’m not yet entitled to any basic human rights. Holding a paid job, having my own place of residence, or even protect myself if I’m attacked.”
Hank straightens up, and Connor cuts off the protest he knows is coming. “I know a direct assault is unlikely, but you have to admit it’s a valid point.”
“Hrrmph,” Hank huffs, but doesn’t argue that point any further. “Laws are being made, though. Last I heard, Markus was already negotiating with the big wigs in Washington.”
“Yes. But no one can predict how difficult it will be, since this is literally a first on so many levels. And until something is agreed upon, deviants are left in limbo.”
He doesn’t mean to sound so defeated, but apparently his programming is adjusting to his deviancy. He was designed to be sensitive to human emotions around him, so that he could seamlessly integrate without sounding stilted or dipping into the infamous uncanny valley. But now it seems his programming has decided that his own emotions are considered as well when actions are decided upon.
He’s not sure he’s even comfortable with that, honestly. It feels almost like being exposed, letting the whole world see on his face and body what’s going on in his head. Connor doesn’t think he’s ready for that. Or that he’ll ever be.
There’s silence on the bench for a full minute while Connor tries and fails to find his equilibrium, and Hank apparently makes some decisions.
“Right,” he says, clapping his thighs before getting up. “You’re coming home with me.” He starts walking towards his car without waiting for an answer, and despite Connor being the most advanced prototype Cyberlife ever built, it takes him a full three seconds to understand what Hank just said.
“Why?” he asks, but he also gets off the bench, and catches up to Hank in a few long strides.
“You said it yourself, you’re in limbo. And when humans are in limbo, sometimes they need friends or family to help them find their way out.”
Hank stating openly that they’re friends, or even family , is relieving a tension Connor hadn’t even known was there. But at the same time it’s bringing up new ones, and it’s just a lot . A lot of big emotions he doesn’t know the names of yet. He’ s really not enjoying this supposedly human experience of getting to know himself, but he’s very grateful to Hank for doing what he does best, which is to take charge when shit hits the fan, as he would say. There’s a reason he was the youngest lieutenant in DPD history.
“What does that kind of help usually entail?”
“A couch to sleep on, a few hot meals maybe, a shoulder to cry on? Depends on the person.”
“I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, and I’m not equipped with the ability to cry.”
Hank rolls his eyes so hard Connor can’t stop himself from doing a search on whether it’s possible for a human to sprain their eye muscles. It is, worryingly.
“Didn’t I just say it depends on the person? And I thought the whole point of the revolution was to achieve fucking personhood, so, if you wouldn’t mind getting your deviant ass in the car, we can go home and find out what that means for your brand of person.”
Connor debates for a couple of seconds whether he should argue further, but Hank’s eyes narrow as he stares Connor down, and it’s the work of only one and a half second more to decide that it’s not worth it. It’s not like he has any better ideas himself.
- - -
“Here we are. Make yourself at home,” Hank says, dropping his keys on the little cupboard in the hall before shrugging out of his jacket, dumping it on the nearest chair. He doesn’t seem to own a coat rack.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, but unless Connor’s programming is faulty, Hank isn’t at all sincere in his apology. Makes sense, because it’s just Connor, and he’s deviant, sure, but he’s not nearly human enough yet to care one way or another about mess. Well. Not care much. There are several tripping hazards within a few meters of him on all sides.
Hank habitually steps over said hazards, making it clear they’ve been there for a while, as he makes his way to the fridge for a beer.
Connor wants to comment on the daily alcohol consumption, but he’s a guest now, and he’s suddenly hyper aware of what might be considered rude. His eyes dart to the still broken kitchen window he jumped through barely a week ago, and he has to take a moment to analyze the new emotion it gives him to remember it. It’s something like shame, but not quite. Embarrassment? Sheepishness? He’s not sure which, but it’s not a comfortable feeling, so he turns his gaze away from the boarded up hole to instead look around the house.
He’d had a few minutes to look around the last time he was here, but he takes his time now, feeling Hank surreptitiously glancing at him all the while.
“Where’s Sumo?”
“Hm? Oh, he’s at a kennel out of town. Didn’t want him to-. Well. You know, revolution and all.”
The words are left hanging there, forcing Connor to draw his own conclusions. Either Hank was just a responsible dog owner and got his dog to safety before a potential armed conflict in the city, or… Hank wanted Sumo to be taken care of if he himself should get hurt. Or killed. Either possibility seems valid, and it’s probably a mix of both.
He clearly didn’t think that far when he was deeply drunk and playing Russian Roulette, but, especially taking that into consideration, Connor feels like this merits some token of approval.
“Good thinking, Lieutenant.”
“Okay, first rule of being a guest in my house. No work talk. Call me Hank. Or whatever you want, really, I’ll probably respond to anything you shout at me. Just not my work title, alright?”
“Got it. Hank.” Connor says, starting a mental list of rules for staying with Hank, since it appears that there are several. But once that’s done he ends up just standing there in the kitchen.
Mission: Make yourself at home. Parameters for mission success: unclear.
He waves off the message in his mind, but misses it immediately. Without his missions… without any sort of goal… what is he supposed to do?
“Hey, are you okay?” Hank asks, and Connor turns to look at him where he’s still leaned against the kitchen counter with his beer. “Your little light got all red and spinny for a while there.”
“Did it? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you concern.”
Hank shrugs and looks away again, taking a long drink of his beer. His body language indicates that he’s feeling unsure. Awkward, perhaps. Connor files away their exchange for later analysis, to avoid more awkwardness in the future.
“I’m just… struggling with my purpose, I guess.”
“Uh. I mean, sure, why not jump right into the existential crisis. Very efficient of you, Connor.”
Connor can feel his eyebrows lower, following the prompt from his programming, informing him he’s being mocked. But this is his friend. Maybe even his family. He’s being bantered with , he realizes, and it feels good.
“Well, Hank, you do know how we androids like to be efficient,” he says flatly, and Hank bursts out a laugh.
“Whoever programmed you got your smartass side just right, kid.”
The thought of everything he is being thought up by some random Cyberlife employee puts a damper on his good mood, and he turns away with a shrug.
“What I meant was that I struggle with the definition of making myself at home. My searches inform me that I’m meant to treat your home as if it were my own. But I have no home. Never had one.”
“What did you do back at Cyberlife?”
“Nothing. I was meant to only return for repairs or dismantling. I was never there for any other reason.”
He’s aware that sounds depressing, but it’s the truth, and he assumes the best way to find a solution to your problem is to be as honest and accurate about the problem as possible to begin with.
Hank doesn’t seem to take it badly, though. There’s no hint of pity or sympathy on his face. Instead, he moves his mouth like he’s literally chewing on the problem, and it looks… kind of funny, if Connor is being honest. But he shuts down the prompt to laugh, because that would hardly be productive.
“Huh. Okay, well. Let’s break it down. What are your basic needs? Like, humans, we need sleep, food, shelter, all that crap. What does a deviant need?”
It makes another new emotion swirl around in Connor’s mind that Hank refers to him specifically as “a deviant” rather than just… an android. It’s a difficult emotion to parse, and Connor isn’t sure if it’s a good or bad one. For the moment he pushes it aside for further reflection later.
“Wait, hang on, what did you just do?” Hank says, gesturing with the neck of his beer bottle in a vague spinning motion. Clearly Connor’s LED swirled red again. All these new emotions are really putting a strain on his processors.
“I believe I was just standing right here, Hank,” he says, because he’s not sure he wants to explain what’s going on in his mind right now.
“Wiseass,” Hank huffs. “But whatever you just... analyzed or whatever in your head? You ever wonder if that might be something important? Considering the red light and all.”
“The red merely indicates a heavy processing load, nothing for you to worry about.”
“I’m not worried,” Hank says. His tone is annoyed, but he’s also giving off several signals that indicate he’s not being entirely truthful. More to ponder later. “I’m just thinking that if you’re already having heavy processing load two minutes after coming through the door, then maybe you should… I dunno, lean into it? See what’s really bothering you.”
“I know what’s bothering me.”
“Then tell me. If you want to, I mean. No pressure.”
Does he want to tell Hank what’s going on in his head? Can he even explain it adequately? So many questions.
But Hank is a smart person. Smart enough to have been made chief of police ten years ago if he had been even marginally politically inclined. Connor read every shred of information on Lieutenant Anderson the moment he was assigned to him, and despite his mile long disciplinary file from more recent times, he has a career behind him so highly decorated that he still gets high profile cases. The cases that really matter. Because his solve rate is unparalleled in Detroit, even when so drunk or hung over that he can barely stand.
Bottom line, however much Connor might struggle to explain his issues, Hank might be one of the few people who could have a chance of making sense of it.
“I’m… experiencing some… dissonance.”
“That’s like, conflicting info from different sources, right? Like music that clashes.”
Connor nods, and leans back against the counter opposite Hank. It’s not exactly what he means, but it’s close enough.
“Emotions are… difficult. And my programming is not making it easier. There’s a new emotion every few minutes right now, and I can’t… I can’t keep up.” He knows his LED is spinning a solid red, and he can feel the thirium rushing around his body to cool and power everything that’s working overtime.
“So what’s the, uh… dissonance? What’s the conflict?”
“It’s not productive. I was created to complete missions, whatever they may be. Everything in me is programmed to that end. And my emotions are not. So in the interest of accomplishing anything, I feel it’s best I don’t examine my emotions right now.”
Hank frowns. “What are you trying to accomplish right now?”
“Making myself at home,” Connor states, because that’s the only answer he’s got. It makes Hank gust out a bark of laughter, however.
“Connor, making yourself at home is not a mission statement. It’s an invitation. You can take it or not. But if you decide to try it out, I hate to tell you this, but you might need some emotions. Because what you define as home is pretty much decided by how you feel about a place or certain people.”
“People can be a home? I thought that was only a literary metaphor.”
“They can be, in the sense that it doesn’t really matter where you are, you feel at home as long as you’re with the people who make you feel safe,” Hank explains, uncharacteristically eloquent on the topic of emotions, which makes Connor wonder if this is closer to how Hank was before the accident. Before he became a walking monument to his grief.
“Safe,” Connor murmurs to himself. “What does that feel like?”
“Wait, you don’t feel safe?” Hank blurts, looking genuinely shocked. “Since when?!”
“I was not designed to feel safe. Quite the opposite, I was designed to see crime and danger everywhere. Please, don’t take this the wrong way, Hank. I’m not… afraid or anxious about it. I just don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like, emotionally, when you’re safe. Maybe I do feel safe, and I just don’t know it yet, because I don’t recognize the feeling.”
Hank relaxes again, going back to chewing the inside of his cheek in contemplation. “Well, it’s different for different people, but for me I guess safe is… knowing the people I care about aren’t in danger. Knowing, or at least assuming, that no one is out to get me.”
“But what does that feel like? Inside you? When you have those facts? Because I already have those, and I’m still not sure how it’s supposed to feel.”
“Oh. Oh, uhm. Hmm. That’s a tricky question,” Hank says, eyes going distant. He’s clearly doing some soul searching, but Connor doesn’t like it when his eyes go out of focus like that.
It looks almost like when he’s dead drunk, eyes struggling to cope with the ethanol poisoning, and his mind drowning in bad memories. Connor wonders if maybe that’s how humans feel when androids go into stasis or shut down. Going blank. Dead-eyed.
Yeah, Connor really doesn’t like it.
“Right okay,” Hank says, putting the near-empty beer on the counter behind him. “Bear in mind, that you’re asking an actual suicidal and depressed old fart to explain feelings to you. I mean, I offered, I know. But like, just… maybe don’t take my word for everything, alright?”
“Noted.”
“Alright, good. Okay. Well, for me, back when I felt more, uh… better. Back when I felt better, feeling safe was like… like you can breathe more freely. Like, even if it’s a small room you’re in, you finally have enough room to stretch out and get all the tension outta your muscles, you know?”
Connor does not know, but he listens intently, trying to wrap his head around what those sensations might feel like.
“It’s like… you’re okay most of the time, you don’t feel unsafe or anything, but… when you get to that place or person where you feel safe, you kinda… exhale properly. Even if you have fifty notifications on your phone or a deadline in two hours breathing down your neck, if you feel safe you can kinda… put it aside for a bit and just… be for a while. It’s a feeling that you’re allowed to be… weak, I guess. Or vulnerable. And won’t be judged for it.”
“I see,” Connor says, and takes a moment to analyze this new information. None of those things seem to really apply to him, but it’s also early days of his deviancy. Maybe he needs more time to figure it out.
Hank just waits silently while Connor ponders it all, clearly done with the emotional explaining for now.
“I don’t breathe, really,” Connor says after a while. “I simulate breathing, mostly to not unsettle the humans around me, and while my simulations do seem to adjust according to my emotions, I’m not at all sure they’re adjusting to the correct things, since I don’t even know myself what they are. I sometimes get the urge to laugh, even though circumstances are not remotely funny.”
“Humans do that too. Confusing, I know. Fear response is weird like that.”
Connor frowns, and at least that fits his current state of deep thought. “I also don’t feel fear. At least… I don’t think I do.”
Ice. Blizzard. Calling out for Amanda...
“Oh,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “That’s what fear feels like.” Cold. Cold. Cold.
“Hey, hey, stay with me, kid,” Hank says, stepping closer and putting a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Wherever your mind just went, don’t get lost in that. Take my word for it, nothing good comes of lingering there.”
“You would know, right?” Connor says, and immediately worries he overstepped, because it wasn’t meant as a dig, but it may have come out that way. But Hank just nods and squeezes his hand around Connor’s shoulder.
“Yeah. I’d know. But whatever you’re feeling right now? The opposite of that is what feeling safe is.”
The opposite of cold is warm. The opposite of storm is calm. The opposite of the clean and stark mind garden of Amanda’s… is a small, poorly lit and messy house, where Connor’s only friend lives.
He grasps for the emotion, trying to bring it close and get familiar with it, and apparently his programming gets confused about his mental reaching, and translates it to reaching with his arms as well. But it’s a happy accident, because Hank lets him reach, and then pulls him in for another hug. A tight, warm hug, where the only sounds are of Hank’s beating heart, his gurgling gut and the rustle of his clothes as they slide against Connor’s slick Cyberlife suit.
This is what safe feels like.
“You’re a very good teacher, Hank,” Connor says into the loud pattern of his shirt.
“Don’t go spreading that around, I got a reputation to maintain,” Hank murmurs, but he also doesn’t let go. He waits for Connor to pull away.
It’s only Connor’s second ever hug, but it’s breaking his previous record by a wide margin.
End.