Archive of Our Own

“You hearing this shit, Connor? You know what I said to him?”

Connor momentarily pauses in his work to look at the lieutenant. “That when you said you wanted to keep in touch, you didn’t actually mean it, and that you really do appreciate the friendship you once had, but would preferably like to move on?”

Hank gives him a very long look, mouth slightly open, like he doesn’t quite believe he’s hearing Connor right. “No,” he says. “What—why the hell would I tell him that? Seriously?”

Connor allows himself a small shrug before turning his attention back to the terminal. “It’s the truth.”

“Yeah, well, doesn’t mean I’ll just tell him that. Oh, hey, Nick, I know we haven’t talked in a while and you’d like to catch up, but I’d really prefer for you to stop bothering me. God.” Hank shakes his head, exasperated. “We’ve known each other since—forever. Before you were even a spark in some mad scientist’s brain.”

“You’re always so blunt.” Another finished report pings in Connor’s head, a glimmer of slight satisfaction in him at getting ahead of the curve (if he doesn’t appreciate his own android efforts, who will?) “You don’t care about what you say even to the people you do want to stay friends with.”

He can practically feel Hank throwing him yet another incredulous stare. “Fuck you, Connor.” With no real heat behind it. Connor suppresses a twitch of a smug smile. “It’s different when it’s someone you’ve known for a while, alright? It’s harder to just tell them to get lost.”

“Case in point. I assume with you only having known me for a few months, it is comparably easy to tell me to, ah...” This time, Connor can’t quite resist the upturn of his mouth. “Fuck off.” 

A stunned silence follows, and then a muttered, but intentionally loud enough prick.

(Hank’s feelings on Connor using inappropriate language is a curious topic: on one hand, the man clearly isn’t against it, one might even consider his behavior encouraging with the way he tends to bark out a startled laugh only to follow it up with a slap on the back and a proud look. On the other hand, he is startled; it is not often that Connor lets himself swear, let alone in front of other people.

It just sounds wrong, Hank had tried to explain once, I don’t think you’re supposed to know words like that, to which Connor had the option of defining his purpose as a negotiator android in a long-winded way until he drove the man to boredom, but had instead opted for a much more succinct I don’t think you’ve been making any serious effort to keep me from knowing. Hank had no more arguments after that.)

“It’s different,” Hank continues insisting, even though Connor has not tried to imply it isn’t. It very much could be. He has not sustained any relationships for long enough to determine whether it’s easier to be honest with someone you’ve known for a long time or not. “Old friends have a way of haunting you.”

Connor reclines back in his chair. “You kill them?”

He swiftly dodges a pencil flying his way. “I know you know what I meant,” Hank grumbles. “When’d you get so damn snarky?”

“I don’t think you’d like the answer to that, Hank.” 

It starts just like that. Like any other day.

Work. Banter. Stupid fun. Nothing even a little bit unusual, and then Connor catches a flicker of something out the window that makes him do an uncharacteristic double take.

It is the middle of spring in Detroit, 65 degrees Fahrenheit, and just outside the police station is a gathering snowstorm. 

Connor sits up a little straighter, forces himself to look back at his terminal. He checks the weather forecast for today; no promises of snow. He checks the history of Detroit’s climate—and pauses. There…have been several accounts of snowfall in late April. It is certainly unusual, but not impossible.

Connor pushes down the urge to take his coin and start fidgeting with it. No, not impossible, he thinks, finger tapping against the desk in a set rhythm. But there is one stubborn, volatile variable currently throwing the whole circumstance into question. 

Hank doesn’t seem to mind. 

It’s just the strangest thing. Connor knows that there are windows behind him offering a clear view of the sky, but if Hank has noticed the unlikely weather, he doesn’t mention it. He just keeps typing away at his desk, seemingly invested in his work—yet another extraordinary event. Could it be something about today in particular that is making all of these anomalies happen? 

In any case, Connor supposes he himself should return to his duties. He touches the screen, mind filling with numbers and walls of information—suspects and victims alike—but all of it just bounces against him, refusing to stick. His finger taps especially hard. Focus.

Hank suddenly twists in his seat, throws a look at the window behind him before his narrowed eyes slowly slide over back to Connor. “What’s up?” Hank asks. “Why do you keep looking over there?” 

…Has he? 

Connor feels himself stiffen. Lowers his shoulders and summons a friendly smile to his face. “I am sorry for distracting you, Lieutenant.” 

Hank really doesn’t mind, does he? Absolutely no change in his demeanor at his less than favorite weather—no subtle tension lining his shoulders, no additional effort to his breathing—not even a comment about how the roads are gonna be a nightmare. Is it—

“Oh,” Hank says abruptly. “Oh. I get it. You think you’re so fuckin’ slick, don’t you?” Connor blinks at him owlishly. “Don’t give me that. Sorry my ass, you’re trying to distract me.”

Connor folds his hands. “That wasn’t my intention,” he says, and doesn’t even have to lie. 

“Look—“ Hank raises a palm to his temple and stops. 4.2 seconds pass. “Look. Shut up,” he finally settles on. “Stop trying to get me to do fuck all just because you’re done. Not all of us are smartass supercomputers.”

A counter rises on reflex—just because he likes to mess with Hank doesn’t mean he’s always trying to do it—but Connor pushes it down, leaning back in his chair with a collected expression instead. If Hank actively wants to fulfill his work responsibilities, that’s a rare occurrence, as Connor had established earlier, and it would be wrong of him to try and sabotage that. 

(…As much as he wants to.)

So he just sits in silence, focuses his attention away from the windows and instead on the chatter permeating the bullpen.

“You sure you read that file right?”

“Ugh, how much longer do we have to be here?”

“Wait, did you hear about Chris—“

“You see that? Sitting like a fucking statue, thinking it’s so smart for getting done in nanoseconds while the rest of us have to bust our asses off—“

“He is smart. More than you, anyways.”

Connor angles his head towards the break room, offering a warm smile at Tina’s enthusiastic wave and an unimpressed glare at Gavin’s middle finger. He briefly considers coming over and exchanging a few polite words, but decides that making a scene is very much not in his best interest.

Either way—Connor turns back to his desk, stamping down the spark of irritation that he can never quite get over despite months of working at the station and being forced to hear the same disrespectful remarks enough times to get used to it—he has reached a conclusion.

Conversations about work: 3. Unrelated topics (gossip): 6. Snow: 0.

Connor frowns slightly. His LED spins a sure yellow. 

While the snow itself might not be unusual, it is, statistically speaking, rather odd for no one to mention it. Then again—Connor frowns deeper—he doesn’t know why he’s so fixated on the subject all of a sudden. It doesn’t matter. He forces his posture to relax again, unsure of when it had stiffened. It doesn’t matter. 

“Alright.” Hank gets up from his spot and stretches, keys jingling as he walks up to pat Connor’s shoulder. “Jeez, kid, don’t pop a blood vessel.” A pause. “Don’t pop a…fuck, I don’t know. Wire.” 

Connor smiles up at him, both genuinely amused and a little sheepish at the tension in his body. He refrains from mentioning that he does, in fact, possess a vascular system. “I appreciate the attempt, Lieutenant.”

Hank pats him firmly one more time, and then makes for the exit. Connor follows not far behind (but not before throwing Gavin another dirty look).

The whooshing of wind hits his audio processors the moment he steps outside. His hands raise of their own accord to rub at his arms, causing small piles of snow to fall off his sleeves. Connor’s unsure of the purpose of the action—if he wants to warm up, he can just prompt his systems to start producing more heat—but it does put him slightly at ease. Not that Connor is uneasy. He has nothing to be uneasy about.

“It’ll be a hassle to drive in this weather,” he tries for small talk as they approach the car, snow crunching under their feet, “but at least Sumo will like it.”

Hank halts, makes no move to enter the car even as he holds the door open. He levels Connor with a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

Connor mirrors his confused expression. “It’s snowing.” He holds out his hand; the snowflakes land on his skin, retaining their crystallic shape as cold meets cold. “Sumo…Sumo likes snow.”

His words are hesitant, uncertain, like it had simply slipped his mind whether or not Sumo, who Connor knows every little detail about, likes snow. Like anything is even able to slip his mind.

“Connor,” Hank says, just as unsure. Every other noise fades into the background. The wind quiets down, the streets turn eerily silent. “It’s not snowing.”

The stillness rings in Connor’s ears.

His social programming dissects Hank’s expression for any hint of a joke. Furrowed eyebrows, angled a few degrees up. Eyes slightly wider than normal. Mouth open. Conclusion: poorly-veiled concern. 

“O-oh.” Connor blinks quickly. He adjusts his tie. “I see.”

Before Hank’s brain can catch up, Connor enters the car, the whistling of wind disappearing as he slams the door shut. He checks the forecast again.

It’s not snowing.

A sharp wheeze escapes him before he can hold it back. No, no—this doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything, it’s just—it’s just a glitch. He runs a diagnostics check.

“Connor! Don’t just—“ Hank cuts himself off with a sharp sigh once he’s climbed into the car. “What’s happening? It’s snowing for you?” 

All systems fully operational. Stress levels: 28%. Condition: stable.  

“It appears to be,” Connor replies, daring himself to sound anything but carefully neutral. He runs another check. 

“What does that mean?” Hank tries to stare through him like that is more guaranteed to identify the problem than a self-diagnostic. “Is something up with your, uh, eyes?” 

Optical units undamaged. Visual system operational. Stress levels: 40%. Condition: adequate.

“Yes.” Connor stares straight ahead. He thinks of the methodical crunch, crunch, crunch under his shoes. Another. “I have a visual bug. But it’s nothing to worry about.” He smiles blankly, gaze still trained on the snow outside. Forces himself to meet Hank’s eyes. “I am dealing with the issue right now.” 

Audio system operational. Stress levels: 62%. Condition: at risk. Reduce stress levels.  

“Right,” Hank cuts through the silence, unsure, but not nearly knowledgeable enough on the subject of androids to call Connor’s bluff. The engine sputters once, twice, then starts with a low rumble. “Well, you let me know when you get it fixed, alright?”

Connor’s head barely bobs—a poor imitation of a nod. He looks out the window again, at the white expanse stretching beyond the horizon, and bites down on a remark to turn on the windshield wipers. It’s not snowing.

Connor finds himself yearning for his coin again. He makes an effort to regulate his breathing, forces his hands to stay rigid on his knees. The drive is unnerving enough as it is—Hank doesn’t even turn on any music, hands gripping the steering wheel and shoulders raised in a way that can’t feel comfortable—no point in distressing him further.  

The minutes start blending into each other, the view outside blurs with motion until Connor can’t tell apart the road from the buildings from the sky—no, that’s not right. He is unable to lose track of time by design, and his fine-tuned programming deliberately allows him to be aware of the whereabouts of objects no matter how high their speed might be.

Three minutes pass, and Connor strains his focus, watches the skyscrapers fly by, counts every single one until the number reaches double-digits and he stops caring. He pays no mind to the stress warnings flashing in the corner of his faulty, lying vision. 

Eventually, after a rather obvious inner debate, Hank sucks in a breath. 

“Is it, uh.” He glances at Connor. Connor stares ahead. “Is it still snowing?”

Outside, the array of flakes continues descending, all pulled in the same direction by the howling wind; the people on the streets walk undisturbed as the snow blankets their hair, as the entire city turns pale. 

Stress levels—

Connor forces a smile.

“No.”

The next day, Connor tries to act like nothing happened.

And it’s easy, because it’s almost like nothing did happen. Today, the sky is a blinding blue, sun up high and radiating warmth, and the air smells like bloom. When he and Hank walk to the station, the only thing under their feet is concrete, dry grass, and more concrete. His vision provides him with no more bugs—whatever was causing the issue seems to have fixed itself. 

Hank, however, keeps giving him the side-eye whenever he thinks Connor’s not looking. 

During another attempt at being sneaky, Connor catches his eye from behind the terminal and offers him a placid smile. “Is something the matter, Lieutenant?” 

Hank squints further. “No,” he says after a long moment. “You’re just awful cheery, is all.” 

“Am I not allowed to have a good day?”

A snort. “Yeah. Detroit Police, open up, we got reports of you having a good day. It’s over for ya.” For a second, it seems like Hank forgets to keep up his vigilant front, face melting into something soft. Connor smiles wider, a little more sincere. 

“No, please, I can explain,” he says, completely monotone. “I swear, it’s not what it looks like. They told me it was fine.”

Hank shifts his attention back to work, but not before exaggeratedly rolling his eyes. Now, Connor could be experiencing another visual glitch after all, because the action almost registers as fond. 

Soon enough, though, with no more bits to play out and no more joking tones to focus on, the warm feeling dissipates from his chest as yesterday springs back to mind. 

Connor can pretend all he wants. It did happen. 

The question is: how? 

That was a pretty convincing simulation. He didn’t even know he was capable of something like that, he thought all he had been installed with were visually limited pre- and reconstruction abilities. But he has full control of those—he couldn’t seem to stop the mirage yesterday, which points to it being a glitch of some kind after all. 

If it is, he still hasn’t been able to find the cause, and his diagnostics are no more intent on sharing it with him the seventh time. That means he can’t really know if it’s fixed or not. Just because the issue isn’t presenting itself at the current moment doesn’t guarantee it won’t come back. But how is he supposed to fix a problem if he can’t even detect it?

He entertains the idea of a virus for a split second before discarding it. Yes, he is deviant, and thus his programming is not as reliable as it once had been, but he is still a state-of-the-art prototype, he was still ingrained with the latest technologies and his code had been rigorously rewritten to perfection, and a hacking attempt would not go unnoticed by him. 

Especially one this…targeted. Snow, of all things.

Connor smothers the dread before it can really bloom and stares at nothing in particular as his mind works. Stumped, he taps into his search system and begins the prompt with I’m experiencing before he pauses, mulls it over, and decides on My android is experiencing distorted perception.  

Predictably, the word choice narrows it down to androids and their issues specifically. Also predictably, the information is annoyingly outdated, not to mention formulated in a way that makes Connor pull a face. If your android is experiencing malfunctions—whether visual, audio, or in general—we recommend consulting your local Cyberlife store. If we can’t fix the problem, we guarantee—

Useless.

Then what? Connor refrains from running another diagnostic on himself, knowing full well that it’s not going to yield any new information. What does he do about this?

…There is one option that he has been stubbornly avoiding. For good reason.

Even without taking into account the haunting shame that trails after him every time he’s in radius of New Jericho, Connor’s just not stupid. 

If…if this really does mean something, if the implications he’s currently trying very hard to skirt around turn out to be correct after all, he is not going to risk putting another android’s life in danger. Especially Markus’. (Again.)

Connor knows his programming is not compromised. He would be able to tell if it was, because he knows what he is and he knows for a fact that Cyberlife has long lost their hold on him. But if there is some slim chance, a non-zero possibility…well. Connor is not going to risk it, first of all. And second—he’s competent. He will deal with it on his own, like last time.

He looks around the station as he continues thinking, cycling between various expressions ranging from friendly to respectfully neutral to annoyed depending on who he meets eyes with, and—

And sees a figure weaving between the desks. No one else acknowledges her as she walks towards the exit, back turned to Connor—but he would recognize that uptight posture anywhere, those graceful, controlled steps, the snow-white veil draped over—

With a sharp intake of breath, Connor tears his eyes away. 

He knows what he is. All systems operational. He knows what he is. Connor refuses the urge to close his eyes like a naive six-year-old, and instead risks another look. He—

He can’t find her. 

Connor’s heart beats a fraction faster. The station tilts. Gyroscope undamaged. Motor systems operational. Stre—

“Hey.” Connor’s wide eyes snap to the source of the noise. Hank leans back in his chair and blinks, taken aback, like the sheer intensity of Connor’s action had actually knocked the air out of him. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Connor says instantly. The world continues to spin around him, tauntingly slow. This must be what humans experience as ‘dizziness’. He decides he hates it. Hank is still waiting for an answer, watching him too closely. Connor raises his eyebrows and inclines his head, a perfect image of open curiosity, like he can’t even fathom the reasoning for Hank’s question. “I’m just bored, Liuetenant.”

He refuses another urge to shut his eyes, this time out of sheer frustration. He’s bored. Really? Is that the best his specifically designed to lie programming could come up with? Oh, don’t mind the freakout, Lieutenant. I’m just bored. 

And so the suffocating quiet stretches on and on, the only sound being the increasingly loud heartbeat in his ears. Hank opens his mouth, no doubt to call him out. Connor tenses—

“Well,” says Hank, light and easy, a complete opposite to his heavy scrutinizing just a second ago, “if you’re done, at least help me finish this up. I’m so fucking tired of paperwork, you can’t even imagine.”

…What?

His frayed systems refuse to provide him with a proper analysis of Hank’s abrupt change in behavior. Connor fights to keep his face neutral. Faintly, he says: “Okay.”

Then it hits him. 

He realizes his mistake a full 3.2 seconds too late. A more appropriate response would’ve been an ironic jab at Hank and his work ethic, or a playfully scolding comment about how Hank can’t keep getting away with using him to slack off. Not okay. Anything but okay.

“Wow.” Hank’s tone remains just as bright, but now Connor can clearly see how he never did stop scrutinizing him. More than that, Hank has been observing him. Like Connor is a suspect close to cracking. Stupid. “No lecture? Shit, guess you really are having a good day.” 

Connor stretches his mouth into what he hopes is a convincing smile, LED a forced blue. He desperately tries to calculate a way to slither out of Hank’s trap. “I fail to imagine how you managed to do any work before I came here.”

“I didn’t,” Hank responds, gaze flickering 6 milimeters to the left. Connor subtly angles his head in such a way that Hank is forced to keep eye contact with him instead of his LED. “Connor—“

“Hank,” he returns in the same tone.

A pulled taut, passive-aggressive silence hangs over them.

“Send the work,” Connor says evenly, “before I change my mind.”

Hank’s eyebrows furrow. “Fine,” he says, curt and clearly unsatisfied, all the false cheer having leaked out of his voice. “Have fun.”

Ping. Connor accepts the files without any complaint, and exhales deeply. He’s about to submerge himself in work, but—

Before he can stop it, his eyes flick to the side. 

Nothing.

Of course there’s nothing. Nothing happened. He’s fine. 

“Connor.”

He closes his eyes. PL600 model, reported missing, 04/15/39. AP200 model, found destroyed near a park, 04/17/39. Kennedy, Chris. Still at large. Suspected of: mugging, murder—

“Did you get it fixed?”

Connor weighs the pros and cons of ignoring the question. “Yes, Hank,” he says and, to his credit, only sounds a little bit like a sulky teenager. “If you’d like, I can give you a full and detailed status report of my condition. Running diagno—“

Hank scoffs. “Spare me the technobabble.” The chair creaks as he leans in closer, lets a moment pass. “You sure it’s fine?”

Connor doesn’t know why it wouldn’t be. Nothing is wrong. It’s just as his systems tell him—he’s functional. He’s fine.

If he concentrates, tunes out the background noise of the station and listens beneath the blaring stress warnings, he can hear remnants of the wind, whistling, hushed, clear in all but origin.

But it’s nothing.

If it was something, he’d know.

“I am.”

So for the next few days, nothing bothers him.

And he’s not just saying that, not just pretending again in irrational hopes of willing it into becoming true like last time. Nothing does happen: as much as he runs his analytical processors into the ground, scans and double-checks every dark corner, overthinks every single word said to him—nothing comes up. No mirages, no stray figures, no false chill tingling at his fingertips.

Despite the calm—or, maybe, precisely because of it—Connor ironically feels severely more high-strung. Logic dictates that he should be relieved at the lack of events, soothed by it, even. He isn’t. Logic is not a concept that goes hand-in-hand with deviancy.  

If Connor had to name something to compare his current state to, he would pick a wound-up spring, his body so tight and tense that it feels like his limbs might jump out of their sockets at first presented opportunity. 

But the hypervigilance does have its upsides. If before Connor used to have a slight margin of error when it came to finding evidence, now—with his constant checking of each crack in the wall, every nook and cranny—nothing can get by him. 

And, sure, during some particularly high-stakes investigations, Connor might’ve broken a few innocent brooms and chairs that managed to surprise him. And when a suspect had tried to get the jump on him, he might’ve almost twisted their arm in the wrong direction before remembering himself. And—

There’s downsides, is what Connor’s trying to say. 

His interrogation tactic slowly shifts away from his delicate balance of sympathetic-firm to exclusively stress-inducing, applying the pressure and snapping at every transgression no matter how insignificant, the occasional threat (each one said with just too much feeling to be passed off as a bluff) managing to slip out of him whenever he gets too carried away. 

And he gets carried away…a lot, these days.

The very obvious worried glances Hank sends him after every interrogation, the ones Connor’s sure the man isn’t even bothering to hide this time, well. They don’t help. Connor has three too many close calls where he almost lashes out; each time, he manages to wrangle the anger in his throat and twist it into a gritted out I’m fine.

He knows more than anyone that his behavior has been jarring. He never means for the outbursts to happen, takes no pleasure in sowing fear and pushing and pushing to the point of—he doesn’t like it. It’s just…

He is so intensely, so painfully aware of everything lately. When he has an excuse to let himself go, to invite the overwhelming numbness in until he can’t even be fully conscious of the things he’s saying, he can’t help but accept it with open arms.

And it works. Connor’s never been more efficient—not a single suspect escapes his grasp, not a single interrogation finishes without a (panicked, broken down) confession. So nobody says anything. They start looking at him with anxious, uneasy stares that prickle at the back of his neck. Stepping out of his way. Conversations die whenever he enters the break room. But nobody says anything.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Well. Almost nobody.

Connor suppresses the rising irritation that’s become almost synonymous with talking to Hank. His shoes click against the floor as he turns around, slow and calculated. 

“I detect no problems with myself at the current moment,” Connor says. He had a rather provoking interaction with a suspect. It happens. “If you could—“

“No, you have a problem alright.” Hank jabs a finger at his chest. Connor doesn’t budge. “What was that? Do you seriously not have a single thing to say? Why are you—why are you acting like this?”

“It was an interrogation, Lieutenant.” Connor’s words are controlled, a dissonant contrast to the heated one-sided yelling match he just had on the other side of the glass. “I was just doing my job.” 

“You could’ve just probed her memory!” Hank growls. The officer standing guard at the entrance shifts awkwardly. “Or—you know—interrogated her like a normal fucking person! Since when do you torture, huh?” Hank jabs him again, the action just as fruitless as last time. “You’re fucking terrorizing these people, Connor, they might be criminals but they’re not—“

“It got results,” Connor states. At his side, his blue-stained hand twitches. You’ll never be anything more than this, the memory of the android’s words rings out. He reacted. It happens. “I didn’t hurt it, I extracted a confession—“

“You’re being an asshole! Even Reed’s stopped shittalking you, he’s scared you’re gonna bite his damn head off—“

“I am,” Connor says, steady, dangerously calm, “not an asshole.” Then, slowly, “I am—“ like explaining something to a four year old, “—focused.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Connor bristles. Suppresses. “I was just doing my job,” he says again, firmer, trying his best to hold onto the cold detachment. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m failing to see the issue.” And then he swerves for a different approach—lets go of the cold front, dials up his amiable setting. A bland smile appears. “Listen. I need you to help me understand—“

“Oh, do not pull the negotiator bullshit with me.” Connor opens his mouth to argue— “You glitch into being an unfeeling machine again? Huh? Is that what’s happening?”

Something stabs through his chest. 

Connor’s combat program instinctively takes over, painting the world in a dark hue and slowing every action down to a crawl, instantly locking in on Hank and calculating all possible ways to take him down—

Connor shuts his eyes tight, shakes his head as the iciness spreads through his veins. He’s not a—he’s not—he knows what he is—

But Hank’s not wrong. Connor’s never been so efficient—except that’s not true, is it? He has. Back when the only thing on his mind had been the mission, when nothing else had mattered—not sympathy, not his own state of being, not even the life of a partner. When the whole world could’ve collapsed and he would’ve been fine with it, as long as it meant he’d still get to pull the trigger. 

Connor is not that anymore. He has been much more work-oriented (noticeably more than usual), has been neglecting small talk and other friendly gestures, avoiding any unnecessary conversations. Maybe he’s been acting a little colder. Maybe even what some might call…ruthless. A little overboard.

Connor’s thumb runs over the still-wet thirium coating his palm. 

But he would know if he was compromised. If something was messing with his programming, he—he would know. He would be able to tell. The fact that he’s been acting this way, pushed over the edge by stress and doubt, is of his own volition.

A relatively small comfort, in the grand scheme of his cruel actions.

Still, his own. 

Connor supposes that makes him an asshole.

He opens his eyes, the world shifting back into focus, mere seconds having passed—Hank’s expression is already in the middle of changing from outraged to remorseful, the start of a hurried apology on his tongue.

You’re right, Connor intends to say, because that is the logical thing to say, because he has been acting truly unreasonable, unleashing his nerves on anything that dares to move, nerves based on nothing because nothing has been happening—

“Is that really what you’re worried about?” Connor snipes back, fiery and razor-sharp, all pretenses of cold neutrality forgotten. “Or does it sting that I’ve been succeeding in my work when you haven’t been able to do that for years?”

Once he bites out the last word, the hot anger vanishes in an instant, just like that, and an amalgamation of shame and regret pours into its place. His mouth tastes like ash. 

Hank stares at him with a look on his face that he thought he’d never have to see again—pure, unrestrained betrayal.

Connor storms out of the interrogation room before he can take another second under his friend’s (his friend, how could he have said something like that to his—) stunned, disbelieving glare. His neck itches with startled glances as he bulldozes his way to the exit—the day is far from over, the Captain’s going to want to have a word with him, but Connor’s technically done with work and even more than that he just doesn’t care—he can’t take—he—

“—Connor?”

He stumbles in the middle of the living room, ragged breaths ripping themselves out of him, warnings in his HUD flickering blue and red—

“Hey, hey.” Hank is at his side in an instant, hands on his shoulders, and Connor takes a hesitant step back, searches his face for animosity, spite or hurt and finds— “What’s wrong?”

Worry.

“I—I—“ Connor stammers. His skull feels like it’s splitting down the middle. Dizziness, his relatively small storage of definitions for feelings provides, before Connor decides that this is so much worse. “Hank,” he rasps, eyes wildly running back and forth, “what—what happened?”

“You tell me.” Hank presses a little harder on his shoulders, trying to catch his gaze. “I just got up to get some water and saw a fuckin’ lightshow and you just standing there like a ghost. Scared the crap outta me.” 

Behind the array of warnings doing their best to obscure his field of vision, Connor finally notices the entire room rapidly flashing a bright red—slower, when he focuses on it. “I’m sorry,” he says, with much more emotion than an apology for such a small thing deserves. His hands won’t stop trembling.

“Oh, whatever—“ Hank waves him off. “Are you okay? What happened? Did you have a, uh, a nightmare?” A self-conscious hiss. “Fuck, androids can’t have those, can they? I have no idea.”

Connor disregards the reflex to explain each individual nuance of android functionality and instead pulls up the memory of today. He and Hank investigated a lead, took some interviews and discovered new important information. 

But didn’t bring anyone in. 

They headed back to the station to cram in some extra work—Connor, mainly. Then home. Connor even visited the grocery store, and then made Hank a healthy dinner.

A nightmare.

Was it?

“I guess…” Connor lets out another shallow breath. He tries to recall the grocery trip, the weight of the bags in his hands or the sizzling of the pan as he cooked vegetables. It doesn’t come to him, which means nothing. His systems just need recalibration. “I-I guess I did.”

Hank holds him for another short moment, faint yellow underlining his wrinkles, before letting his arms drop to his sides with a quiet huh. “Well shit,” he mutters. “Guess you learn something new everyday. Go back to bed, Con.”

Connor nods weakly. He watches Hank trudge to the kitchen and down a glass of water before walking back to his room, patting Connor’s shoulder one last time as he passes by him. 

Connor manages one shaky step before he falls on the couch. 

A nightmare. He digs out his quarter out of a pocket, frantic and clumsy. Clink, clink, clink—he probes his memories further, delves so deep into every file that shows him things he doesn’t remember happening but that simply must have, there is simply no other explanation.

He never snapped. He never took it too far. Days of lived experience, of turning worse and solving a dozen cases—none of which are archived, none of the victims reported dead or missing and none of the suspects even having a record—days that didn’t happen. The room snaps back into a violent red. Something shrill blares in Connor’s ears. 

A nightmare. As absurd as it sounds, as long as it was and as real as it had felt, it’s—it’s still just not possible. He doesn’t even dream, what would this— 

The coin tumbles to the floor, deafening in the silence of the house. Connor’s hands twitch violently. Right.

He leans over to pick it up, resumes his contemplating and—so he doesn’t let it fall again—keeps a careful gaze on it this time. Over the knuckles, up in the air, between the fingers, flying from one hand to—

Connor freezes.

Clink, as metal meets linoleum once more.

He flexes his right hand, still quivering, suspended in the air, fingers spread wide open and ready to catch. 

Smeared blue.

He stares.

With a lot to process and even more to ignore, Connor decides to distract himself by sweeping the house. 

Don’t get him wrong—he knows that ignoring whatever is happening isn’t going to help. The last few times have made that crystal clear. But he is somewhat, sort of, out of options. 

It does seem to be a technical problem of some kind; however, there’s not much he can try and do when his systems insist on telling him they’re functioning flawlessly. Another thing—the incidents seem to be getting worse in terms of how severely they are affecting his perception, which raises the risk of endangering other androids from the 40% of some time ago—five days—a week—to a staggering 92%.

Thus, Connor is at an impasse, unable to do anything. 

Yet an RK800 model was not created with the intention to stand around and idle. Even if he is out of options, that doesn’t mean he just has to sit and wait for the next bad thing to happen.

So he cleans.

The whole time Sumo is high on his heels. Connor is very much aware of the fact that letting Sumo trot after him is counter-productive to his sweeping and renders the whole process rather inefficient; he constantly has to pause in his activity to turn around and sweep up the trail of dog hair.

But he can’t find it in himself to mind. He likes Sumo. 

So they go about the chore together. Honestly, Sumo is a big help. A few times he attempts to weave his way around Connor’s legs like a small cat, except he is the total and precise opposite of a small cat—Connor, naturally, trips, and comes close to falling several times. There is also an incident or two where Sumo tries to wrestle the broom away from him. By sheer coincidence, there are one or two instances where Connor considers chucking the broom across the house like a stick.

All of that to say, Sumo is a big help.

Connor is almost done sweeping under the couch (one arm effortlessly holding it up; if Hank was awake he’d anxiously tell him to ‘cut that shit out’ before he broke the couch or himself) when Sumo starts barking—not alarmed, but in that enthusiastic way that means he urgently requires the attention of whichever owner is present. 

(…Not that Connor has been officially declared Sumo’s owner, exactly. But it’s not like Hank needs to know.)

“What is it?” Connor asks with a smile. Despite being a state-of-the-art prototype capable of reconstructing a dozen scenarios and preconstructing a hundred more, and generally possessing the ability to solve most questions and dilemmas, Connor has never managed to figure out what exactly happens to his voice whenever he talks to Sumo. “What is it, boy?”

His over-the-top bright tone earns him another excited bark. Connor (safely) puts the couch down and moves over to the kitchen where Sumo is spinning in circles. “You wanna eat?” Connor coos, like the sophisticated android that he is. “You hungry, Sumo? Who’s hungry? Is it you?”

He keeps talking nonsense as he leans down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. This time, what Connor earns is a lick. He lets out a short laugh, hands moving down to ruffle at Sumo’s sides, shaking him a little, and then—

And then he sees it. 

When he finally decides to tear his gaze away from Sumo to determine how vitally the kitchen floor is in need of sweeping, he sees it. It’d be hard not to—a bright red speckle, lying innocuously against the grey tile.

Connor runs his visual scan as he stares. Sumo pokes his cheek with his wet nose, upset at the unwarranted pause in scritches—Connor stays frozen, scans again even once the foreign object has been successfully identified. And then again, for good measure, like it’ll give him a different result this time. 

Slowly, his fingers glaze over its velvet surface before they pinch and bring it up to his face.

A rose petal.

It is so infuriatingly insignificant. It could’ve come from anywhere—maybe flew in from the window, maybe Hank had decided to buy flowers. Or maybe his useless visual processors are just playing tricks on him again. It doesn’t have to mean anything. 

Connor forces himself to suck in a breath. It’s. Nothing.

Rose petal. Removed by scissors, as recently as 2 minutes ago.

He crushes it.

It’s real, though, isn’t it? He’s holding it. It certainly feels real—Connor knows that his perception doesn’t count for much anymore, but—Sumo saw it. Wanted him to see.

Then where did it come from? A frantic fourth scan dutifully returns to him with the exact same conclusion the last three have had: the house is remarkably empty of any flowers, roses, and it is just as impossible to determine the origin of this singular petal as it was a minute ago.

But that doesn’t make sense. It couldn’t just—appear. That’s not what happens. It says right there, somebody had to have cut it—

—but the house is also remarkably empty of any signs of an intruder’s presence, unless Connor’s been so distracted by meaningless things that he’s missed it somehow—

The thirium rushes in and overtakes his hearing, pump beating fast, faster as his stress levels continue to rise—64%, 78%, 85%—yet his stubbornly frozen body refuses to move even an inch as he—

“—even listening?”

Connor gasps, harsh and sudden, blinks rapidly at the hand held out in front of him—his hand, first two fingers shining with red—but he was—he’s—

“I swear you do that just to fuck with me.”

At a crime scene. He’s at a crime scene. With Hank. 

His pump threatens to hammer right out of his chest cavity. Connor shuts his eyes tight—he’s been through this, he’s just dreaming again, it’s nothing—opens them—

He’s still here. Why is he here?

“Hey.” Absently, under the onslaught of noise assaulting his audio processors, Connor registers the loss of the lighthearted exasperation from Hank’s tone. “What’s going on? Did the blood do something?”

Connor tries to speak, and his voice box gives out.

“Are you, er, malfunctioning?”

Malfunctioning. Yes. Of course. He must be. Connor, still just gaping uselessly like a fish at his bloodstained fingers, runs the last few minutes through his memory.

The ones that he’s spent at the crime scene, analyzing evidence. 

Connor checks the last hour. Spent at the DPD, filling out reports that Hank couldn’t be bothered with. Connor checks the last twenty minutes. In Hank’s car, listening to heavy metal. Connor checks the last ten minutes. Arrival. A brief summary of what happened. Connor checks—

“Connor!” 

The proximity alert pops up laughably late—Hank has teleported to his side, looming over him and shaking his shoulder slightly. “The hell’s going on?”

A knot pushes uncomfortably against Connor’s systems. While he is aware of his inability to throw up, there is still a brief moment where he considers heaving.

“Nothing.” His voice cracks. Instantly, a noise of displeasure—something between a frustrated groan and a whine—escapes him at the emotion holding his throat hostage. “Nothing,” Connor repeats, clearer, cooler. Stable. Stress levels: 76%. Say something reasonable now. “I think my sample analysis program bugged out, I’m afraid I will have to do it again, Lieutenant. Don’t worry, I will wait for you to turn around.” 

Hank narrows his eyes at him, alarm plain across his face, and—shit, Connor’s fallen for the same thing again, hasn’t he? It would’ve been more natural for him to not offer the courtesy of waiting until Hank turned around and to instead repeat the sampling process right in front of the man—as Connor does, in fact, under any normal circumstance, like to ‘fuck with’ Hank. 

“You sure?” Hank eyes the side of his head, words all at once dripping with disapproval, and one more belated realization crashes full-force into Connor—his LED. His worthless, traitorous LED.

He forces himself to keep the solid and unblinking eye contact, his mouth unable to decide whether it wants to twist itself into a strained grin or a scowl. “I’m fine, Hank.”

It comes out much more aggressive than intended: all teeth and zero sincerity behind it. 

Hank’s glare snaps into something sharper—he almost looks personally offended by the idea of Connor thinking he can get away with such a terrible lie. Yeah, yeah, say what you want about programming, but you’re the shittiest fuckin’ liar I know, Connor, and I interrogate idiots for a living, Hank’s words echo in his head. No, no, no, he can still salvage this—

“Your prolonged inaction tells me that you don’t mind seeing me do it again,” Connor rushes out, teeth still painfully grit, and doesn’t wait for an answer as he plunges his fingers back into the blood puddle and just as quickly sticks them into his mouth. 

“Jesus—fuck off, Connor!” Hank shouts in disgust and shoves him away. Connor staggers back, chooses to focus on the detailed analysis in front of his eyes and not on the way it gets harder to breathe because Hank’s words don’t register as a joke this time. “Fucking forgive me for asking. God.”

After that, the rest of the investigation proceeds with a harrowing energy. 

Hank keeps his distance, the air tense and quiet between them, buzzing with the weight of unspoken insults one wrong look away from ripping free. 

Connor, meanwhile, keeps his cool—retreats back into his programming and allows it to take care of work, periodically throws out new information or a speculation or two, to which Hank never bothers to chime in with his own thoughts. Grunts, sometimes, but mostly silently tries to drill a hole through Connor’s head. 

It is only after they call it a day and start heading back to the car that the thread snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

A nauseating flood of deja vu forces Connor to stop in his tracks. It’s not too late—he has his back turned to his partner, and he is only a meager 2 feet away from the vehicle. He can still just hide in the car and pretend his audio system is the one having a bug now.

“Hank,” Connor says instead, not quite friendly, but not be as harsh as before. He’s not mad at Hank. He—he doesn’t want to be mad at Hank, doesn’t want to say something awful again and watch it sink in. “Did you buy flowers recently?”

Silence. Connor wishes he could see Hank’s face, and at the same time knows that the inevitable baffled expression on it would only deepen the already colossal pit inside of him.

“Did I—what? What in the world are you ta—“

“Have you bought any flowers in the past few days?” Connor presses, and he doesn’t mean for the desperation to bleed through, but it must be evident enough for the following silence to be not just confused, but considering. 

“…No, I haven’t—Connor, what?” Hank suddenly sounds exasperated. “Is this some kinda hint to liven up the house or some shit? ‘Cause look, I’ll think about it—“

“It’s not.” Another deep, pointless breath. Connor turns around. “Hank,” he says again, slowly, carefully. The look on Hank’s face is just as equal parts concerned and bewildered as he’d expected. His insides churn. “Did I sweep the house? Earlier today. Did I sweep the house?”

Hank stares at him for an excruciatingly long moment. Studying. His gaze lingers on Connor’s LED. A composed yellow. A flicker. A flash of red Connor’s not quick enough to hide. Yellow, yellow, yellow.

“Yeah,” Hank finally rasps, low and cautious, like Connor is a frightened animal that will run away at the slightest hint of volume. “You did. Before we left for work.” 

Connor’s face falls into something just short of horrified.

He makes it to the car in a few quick strides. Hank’s shouting something after him—again—but Connor just slides into the passenger seat, the action smooth and efficient despite the uncontrollable shaking of his body and the overwhelming desire to start hyperventilating. 

Does that make it worse? It happened, it was real, and he just doesn’t remember what he did after. Doesn’t that make it so much worse than none of it happening at all?

“Connor!” Hank barks at him once he crawls into the driver’s seat, all the louder for the confined space of the car. Connor can’t stop the flinch in time. “I’m serious, tell me what the hell’s going on! Is something wrong with your memory?”

“I’m—“

“If you say you’re fine, I’ll recycle you into a fucking microwave, I swear.”

“I…” Connor pointedly looks out the window. “Yes, my memories appear to be having an error. But it’s nothing critical.” He wrings his hands as a compromise for ignoring the unbearable desire to take out his coin. “A software update should fix it. I’ll install it tonight.”

“So that’s why you’ve been glitching?” In any other circumstance, Hank would’ve sounded genuinely curious, but right now he just lands on his interrogation voice. Connor scoffs. “Your OS is outdated?”

“Yes.”

“And doing this is gonna fix everything?”

Connor angles his head towards the window again—he knows there’s no use trying to hide his LED, the red light of it starkly reflecting against the glass and more obvious than a lighthouse—but he’d still like to hide his crumbling expression from Hank. 

“Yes,” he says, straining his voice to sound steady, hopes that’ll be enough. 

“So why didn’t you download it earlier?”

Connor’s body goes impossibly more rigid.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Hank presses, yells, louder. “When are you going to get it through your plastic skull that just because you slack off in the office doesn’t mean you can be so damn careless on the job?” And louder. “You think this is nothing, it’s just a memory lapse, but what if the suspect was—“

“Hank,” Connor snaps, teeth gnashing, not even giving himself a moment to be surprised at his own outburst before his head jerks towards the other. “I am fine, I am perfectly functional, and I am more than capable of defending myself, in case you’re the one whose memory is failing.”

“Yeah, right,” Hank sneers. He sounds barely affected by the insult. Connor pretends it doesn’t make something inside him burn. “Perfectly functional, he says. And what if you’re clearly fucking not, Connor?” Hank is all up in his space now, unbearably close, but there is nowhere else for Connor to go pressed up against the car door. “What if it fails like all those other times you tried to get it fixed? You asshole, you can stick that perfectly functional right where it came from.” 

And then, before Connor can even think of a comeback, Hank’s head tilts condescendingly—and when he speaks next, his voice oozes spite. “Need me to explain that one?”

A choked, angry sound tears itself out of Connor, emotion boiling in his veins and bursting into a brutal mess of hurt. His chest feels like it’s caving in. He digs his fingers in his scalp and screws his eyes shut, the action second nature at this point.

This isn’t happening. They’re not really arguing, this is just another trick of his mind like last time, he knows. This isn’t ha—

“But, you know, it’s fine. So what if you go into your fucking fugue state during a chase? It’s fine. You’ll handle it. You’re capable.”

Connor squeezes his eyes tighter. He’s at home. He’s at home, cleaning. With Sumo. Hank is still in bed, because it’s early, and Connor is at home, cleaning, with Sumo, because he—because—

Noise rushes in his ears again, attacks his audio in a chaos of bustling blood and his erratic heartbeat and the shrieking reduce stress levels reduce stress levels warnings until the only thing he can hear is—

Why didn’t you shoot, Connor?

A familiar weight settles in his lap. Hard, cold metal, his hand instinctively curls around it like a lifeline.

“What are you doing?”

Connor’s eyes snap open—he nearly tips over on the stage, righting himself just in time. The gun rattles with his shaking hands. A crowd cheers while calming water trickles beneath the canoe as he rows—I don’t know—and rows—I-I don’t know—and rows, and steps on the ice, on the cracks, on the snowy rooftop that never happened, aim trained on one life as he holds another over the edge—

“Connor, goddamnit, snap out of it!”

What did you think I was?

—and he feels the metal scrape against his chin, harsh enough to burn, echoes of a speech haunting his ears, the roar of a crowd, a betrayed shout, and his trembling fingers curl tighter as he looks up at the white sky—eyes following a lone snowflake, strangely at peace for a fraction of a fraction of a moment as he puts the cacophony of everything he’s lived through out of his mind and—

pulls.

Connor sits on the couch, unmoving, enveloped in the vast silence of the night. 

There is no ping in his system informing him of any new updates, but he should check over his software anyway. It’s what he said he’d do. And—who knows—maybe it really is the core of his problems. It would certainly make sense. 

Connor blinks rapidly, then skims the results and runs the diagnostic again, over, and over, and over, until words like stable condition and no errors detected and no data corrupted and—

Until they stop meaning anything to him. 

Connor twirls his coin between his tremoring fingers. Cycles through the same motions and wonders when exactly did the constant repetition become such a big part of how he thinks these days.

He’s missing it. He knows he’s missing it, whatever glitch has been flying under the radar and fucking with his systems, he’s just missing it. On a whim, he triple-checks the integrity of his memory of today. All 2,372 files verified. No missing data. No corrupted—

If Connor is being honest, he is dangerously close to screaming; and he would do it, he really, really would if it weren’t for Hank sleeping a few rooms away. He tries to focus on the distant snores and match his breathing to them. It doesn’t help.

Snip.

He doesn’t know what all of this wants from him. Why it’s happening. He doesn’t know how to stop it. The coin trips over his knuckles.

Snip.

No, that’s not right, is it? He knows what it wants. Of course he knows. 

Snip.

Air stutters in his throat. Connor scans the living room. 

No living beings in radius, except for Sumo sleeping soundly in the corner.

But that doesn’t mean anything. He knows it doesn’t mean anything. Amanda isn’t physical.

Snip.

Slowly, as if in a trance, Connor places his fists over his ears. He knows it’s futile. It’s not going to do anything. Amanda isn’t real. She’s in his head. She is his head. What was he thinking? He never could’ve gotten away.

Snip.

It cuts just as clear through the muffled silence, reverberates inside Connor’s plastic skull in a mocking echo. 

“Stop,” he barely hears someone whisper. His weight suddenly feels a hundred times more unmanageable. Something falls to the floor with a thud. “No, no, no…”

This is happening. Why is this happening?

Something touches his face.

Connor screams.

He scrambles backwards in a less than dignified way, eyes wide open with pure, unfiltered terror, and—

Sumo stares back at him with big shiny eyes of his own, head tilted and ears pressed to his head, whining sadly as he watches Connor. 

“Sumo,” he breathes. 

Some of the haze lifts. 

Connor crawls awkwardly on his knees back to where he was, and wraps his arms around Sumo, his grip unwavering even though his hands haven’t stopped shaking for—for days—weeks—for a long time. “I’m okay. I am okay.”

Connor punctuates each word, says it with so much careful emphasis like that alone will make it reality. “I’m sorry,” he whispers in Sumo’s fur, “did I wake you?” A sigh, and then back to sad whining. Connor almost laughs. “Sorry.” 

He blinks sluggishly, a sudden exhaustion leeching the last of his processing power as it spreads through his body. Has it always been so hard to think? Has he…has he always been able to feel tired? He lets his gaze wander around—

—and sees the roses littering the floor, all cut at their stems with a clinical precision. A now-familiar wave of dread, like an old friend, wraps around him. It’s funny: he’s both too tired to scream again, and too scared to even consider burying his face further in Sumo’s fur and going into standby right there and then. 

It’s just so funny.

With a heavy sigh of his own, Connor pats Sumo one last time and stands up.

Click.

His mind, amidst the droning, underlying panic, helpfully supplies him with the analysis: the unmistakable sound of the safety coming off a .357 Magnum. Location of noise: right behind him. It is much more than real. 

“Don’t move.”

Connor takes his time turning around.

“I said don’t fucking move,” Hank snarls, gun waving in his hand. He looks—serious, his programming dully informs him, lags, struggles to cough up any specifics. “What’d you do to Connor?”

“Hank,” is all Connor can force himself to say. His voice is ragged, and weak, and feels like it might give out again. Hank is here. After everything, he’s still here. “Hank.”

“I’m not falling for the same shit twice, alright?” Hank, one step at a time, no sudden movements but clear tension in his posture, walks around the couch and stops directly in front of Connor, though still out of arm’s reach. Sumo lets out an alarmed woof. “What’d you do to him?”

“I’m—I’m real,” Connor whispers. He hates how his voice cracks with uncertainity. “I’m real. I’m the real Connor.” 

Sumo keeps barking up a storm, stands on his hind legs and paws at his owner’s stomach before Hank pushes him off with an irked Sumo, sit. But there must be something to the incessant distressed barks—Hank’s eyes dart between the both of them, lingering an extra moment on Connor’s face. Whatever he finds there seems to settle it.

“Fuck, Connor.” The gun lowers a safe distance—while Hank is no longer ready to fight at a moment’s notice, his body language is still cautious. “You scared me to death. What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Connor says quickly. “I’m not hurt.”

Hank squints. “Are you?”

Connor’s nod is a sudden, erratic thing. “I’m fi—“

“Don’t you dare say it,” Hank warns. He brings the gun back to eye level, though not nearly with as much precision as before—again, all Connor’s worn down programming can deduce is that he looks serious, with no further elaboration. “I’ll shoot you, I will seriously fucking shoot you, Connor.” 

Connor tenses involuntarily—he knows Hank’s not going to shoot, of course he knows, but his systems whir louder, raw and smouldering with fear. He strains them for a proper analysis.

The possibility of Hank making good on his word is a feeble 3%, on account of: a) not being drunk out of his mind; b) having the initial apprehension about Connor’s identity leave (presumably as soon as Connor had started falsely reassuring him again); c) generally thinking of Connor as a friend he enjoys having around and does not wish to murder (excluding the times Connor embarrasses him, makes fun of him or very obviously lies to him, such as now). 

So, 22%, if Connor says something stupid.

“I…” he trails off. There’s no point in keeping this up, is there? Hank is here. He might help. “I…tried. Updating. My software, but…I don’t think it’s related. I-I can’t determine the origin of the memory lapses, I might…”

Connor swallows. An action that fails to grant him any resolve.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says softly. “I don’t…know what to do.”

At some point, Hank had shifted from guarded concern to plain confusion. He gives Connor an odd look. And then, he just says: “What?”

Which makes sense. It is 2:17AM, and Hank doesn’t function well with interrupted sleep, and he’s coming off an adrenaline rush of his own, and he’s not all that good with technology, so he probably forgot what ‘software’ even has to do with anything. 

That’s okay. Connor tries again. “Earlier today, when I forgot that I’d swept the house. I figured it was a problem with my software, so I told you I’d try updating it tonight, and…” 

And I don’t know.  

Connor’s breath quivers. “And we had a fight. I’m sorry about that.” 

A beat passes. Then another. Gradually, like Connor is watching the process happen in slow motion, something shifts in Hank’s demeanor again—his furrowed eyebrows raise slightly, his mouth falls open and his eyes widen, as if he’s finally managed to piece together the motivation behind a particularly cruel case.

“Connor,” Hank says, somewhere between firm and uncertain, and Connor finally determines the emotion coloring his face—dawning horror. It makes static itch at the back of his mind— “That was four days ago.”

—and then it scratches, and the disillusioned dread pours right back home.

Of course, Connor thinks bitterly, jokingly, almost, because why did he ever let himself hope for anything else? Hank’s here, Hank’ll help—except it’s always been too late, hasn’t it? When this might not even be happening?

Four days. His memory—Connor aborts the compulsive diagnostic before it can begin. What could it possibly tell him? What other false, filler memories of him working, laughing, existing would it show? Four days.

“You didn’t fix it,” Hank murmurs, the realization gentle on his lips. Connor startles despite the quiet tone—it seems that the current moment is, unfortunately, still happening after all. “You haven’t gotten it checked out, you…you haven’t done shit, have you?” 

It’s not angry, it’s not betrayed, it’s not even loud, but Connor still winces. “I was going to,” he tries. It sounds pathetic even to himself.

Hank’s eyes fall to the floor. “You apologized,” he continues, distant. “You said the update didn’t work, so you’d try…” Hank takes a deep, shuddering breath. Connor doesn’t need his scans to notice the bubbling fury underneath. “And then you said—you got it checked out. You got it fixed. You were fine.”

A vile cold infiltrates his systems and slithers up his veins, slimy and sickening. What does it say about him, that even a false version of himself is a liar?

“Hank,” Connor starts, but—

But what could he possibly say?

“Fucking hell, Connor,” Hank finally raises his voice, finally jumps at the chance to let his anger go. “You had one job.” 

Connor inhales harshly. “I’m sorry.” Something falls to pieces deep inside him. “I’m sorry I failed.” 

“What did you think would happen?” Hank presses—a far cry from the careful gentleness of a few minutes ago—hours—a few—Connor grabs at his arms, folding in on himself. “You let yourself get distracted from what’s important, and now look at you.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Connor breaks, and he—

A piercing crack rings out under his foot—he didn’t even realize he was staggering back, let alone that Hank was closing in on him—he glances down—

A rose, snapped in half. 

When Connor looks up to lock eyes with Hank again, he—pauses. He’s met with an expression that he’s never before seen on his friend’s face—not during their first interaction, not when he’d insisted on acting like a single-minded machine, not even when he’d abandoned Hank on that roof.

Cold, collected neutrality, almost…impassive. If not for the judging squint of his eyes and subtle downturn of his tight-pressed lips, it might’ve seemed like Hank was completely disinterested in the current situation. Like scolding Connor doesn’t really matter to him, it’s just one more thing he has to deal with. Connor’s just one more thing to deal with.

But that’s not right. 

Hank’s anger runs red-hot, searing and destroying everything in its path, any and all pretenses of composure thrown out the window the moment it boils over—Hank doesn’t hide it. When he wants to yell, he yells. When he wants something to hurt, he doesn’t just twist the knife, he makes sure it burns. 

This? The disdain diligently contained behind frigid exterior, the air of superiority (Hank has never cared about that, especially during arguments—if he’s going down, he’s dragging you with him), the sheer scrutinizing, glaring Connor down like he’s an object that cannot be replaced soon enough—

It makes Connor’s blood run just as cold. 

(Hank has spited him, has dug deep into his worst wounds and gleefully added fuel to the spark of bitter anger Connor can’t always pretend he isn’t harboring, has made him feel like shouting, like quipping with the intention to hurt, like driving his own knife in deep and twisting it further than he ever thought himself capable of.

Hank has never, ever made him feel this fragile.)

“You’ve disappointed me, Connor.”

He runs. 

Connor can barely hear his shoes hitting against the pavement over the rising static in his ears, over his frantic panting. He has no idea where he’s going—can’t see where he’s going, vision blurred with annoyingly impractical liquid—all that matters is that the house gets farther, and farther, and farther. 

Whatever stubborn desire to hide what he’s been going through and keep others safe shatters, and Connor taps into his programming and lets it take the wheel, lets it steer him to the nearest Cyberlife store. He only has to dodge a few cars.

He bursts through the doors, a spike of anxiety stopping his inertia—the store is supposed to be open at such a late hour, isn’t it? Or—or shouldn’t it be? Should it? It’s night, he’s sure of it, but does that mean—oh, no, no, no—

“—are you alright?”

His head snaps to the wide-eyed android at the desk. He power-walks towards it and grips the edge, tries to hold enough of his focus as to not crack it. “Hello,” Connor says, deceptively normal. “I’d like some help, please.” 

“What—“

“RK800 model, all physical components undamaged, all systems fully operational, software up to date,” the words continue tumbling out of him, toeing the line between coherent and unnervingly desperate. “I-I need help, my memory is experiencing failures, I’m seeing things I shouldn’t—“

“You’re doing things you shouldn’t, Connor.”

Connor recoils from the desk like he’s been burnt. “Please,” he whimpers, but the android is already circling towards him, unwavering, face a mask of displeased neutrality. “Stop, stop, I—I'll come back, I promise I will, just make it—“

A hand locks around his wrist, Connor chokes on a scream and screws his eyes shut—

Except he can still see.

A life of a household android, spending the days away with chores, running errands, babysitting children. Hiding. Staying close to their family even after the Revolution, volunteering to help out fellow androids in need, holding a hundred hands, holding Connor’s hand—

He snatches it back and blinks, uncomprehending, at the android—the AP400—Riley—as their hand also retreats, artificial skin creeping back over the shiny plastic. They look just as shaken as Connor feels.

“I-I’m sorry,” they say, riddled with nerves yet earnest in their words. “I should’ve asked, but I—you weren’t listening, I didn’t know what…” They offer him the tiniest smile. “I’m sorry. I’m real.”

Connor blinks again, and again. His pump stutters, then sinks into the chasm inside him—but what he feels is not fear, or panic, or dread. It’s lighter. Tinglier. 

Of all things, Connor feels embarrassed. 

“Ah.” He blinks some more. “I’m…sorry you had to do that.”

“It’s nothing,” Riley reassures. It’s only a little undermined by the slight tremor to their voice. “It’s not how I usually do my job, but, hey, if it works…”

“Will you help me? My visual—“

“I know.” Riley gives him another smile, somewhat guilty. “It’s…”

Connor’s lips quirk up into what he hopes is a shy smile of his own, but what is most likely a pained grimace. “A lot?”

Riley, in turn, mirrors him, face pinching in the same anguished way. “Yeaaah,” they draw out, clearly still rattled, but managing a tense laugh. “I’ll have to check you over first, even if you say everything’s in good condition, but…” They nod, confidence slowly returning. “I think I can figure this out.”

Connor stands frozen still—one wrong move and everything will fall apart, will untangle itself into an elaborate mirage. He can’t let that happen. “Okay,” he says quietly, a note of hope sneaking into his voice before he can stop it. “One moment.”

He closes his eyes. I am sorry for running out. Please do not send a search party after me. I am not far. I will be back soon, approximately. Only some of it is a lie (improvement over full-on lies, he thinks).

“Okay,” Connor repeats once his eyes are open. “I’m ready.” 

Riley nods again. Falters. “Do you, uh…” They shift on their feet, a lop-sided grin splitting their face. “You need me to…hold your hand?”

Embarrassment comes back to squish Connor’s insides with a vengeance—and a bit of offense—he is not a child on their first visit to the scary doctor, he’s been held at gunpoint more times than he can count (eight), has scrambled his way out of so many life-threatening situations like this android wouldn’t believe. He does not need his hand held.

…But.

It was…grounding. Lifted some of the weight. Feeling Riley’s steady hand on his arm, knowing it was real. That they were both real.

Awkwardly, almost out of practice, Connor smiles. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

Connor comes to slowly.

As his systems boot back up, what he notices first is a feeling he thought he’d never experience again:

Quiet. 

His head is thoroughly, blissfully quiet.

No ringing, no blood cascading and no pump pulsing in his ears. The constant fear driving his mind into the ground—it’s not…gone, but it’s subsided substantially. His vision is also free of any warnings, static no longer obscuring the edges. It almost feels... 

Lighter. Like he has more space in his head now.

…Ironically, the second thing Connor notices is the abundance of missed calls pushing themselves against his attention—57, to be exact—and the even more impressive amount of unread texts, each one frantically increasing in distress and vulgarity until at some point Hank had just decided to start sending him every single insult he could come up with.  

(It makes his chest ache with fondness.)

The third and final thing Connor notices when he does a routine scan of the room is the hesitant presence of Riley. 

“Hey,” they say with a small smile. “How’re you feeling?”

Connor blinks up lazily at them, then at the ceiling. Gets up, slowly. Another brief scan of the room shows nothing out of the ordinary, even when he waits one minute, two, four. Reluctance tugs at his systems. “Operational.”

Riley, who’s been waiting patiently the whole time, rolls their eyes. “Connor, how’re you feeling?”

Connor hesitates again, suddenly interested in studying the floor tile. “Fine.” Cringes. “Better,” he amends quickly. Afraid, still is what he doesn’t say.

“That’s great.” Riley’s smile flickers. “I’ll get straight to it then. So, uh, I’m sure you’re aware of the program Cyberlife had installed in you.”

At that, Connor gives them a blank stare, eyebrows raised. Riley shifts from nervousness to sheepishness. 

“I’m trying to—okay.” They let out a puff. “You exited it, right? But that didn’t remove it from your programming, just…deactivated it. Forced it to lie dormant, in a way, with nothing more to do.” A screen pops up on their hand, several lines of code strewn across it, some of them highlighted red. “Except…”

“It reactivated.” Connor doesn’t ask why—it’s gone, it doesn’t matter. It’s never going to happen again. (A part of him doesn’t want to know, whether it was inevitable or prompted by something foolish he did.) He suppresses a shiver. Runs another diagnostic. “Then it was a software issue after all.”

Riley half-shrugs. “Sort of. But it was specifically designed to conceal itself from you, that’s why none of your scans were ever able to catch it.” The all systems operational pop-up taunts Connor. It might actually not be lying to him this time, but he glares daggers at it nevertheless. “I figured the best course of action was to actually remove it from your code for good, so…”

Connor considers that. He wishes he hadn’t left his coin at home. Fidgets with his hands. “If it was the program messing with me,” he starts, unsure, gaze dropping back to the floor, “then…how much of what I experienced was real?”

That gives Riley pause. “Connor,” the frown is obvious in their voice, “even if none of it happened physically, it still happened to you. You still experienced it. It was real.” 

Connor pulls on his finger, then gives Riley an appreciative smile and tilts his head as if to say that’s not quite what I was asking.

Riley puffs again, an unhappy noise. “I can’t tell you something like that. I think…” They purse their lips. “I think if you want to know, you’ll have to review the memories for yourself.”

Connor nods weakly. He’ll deal with that. Just…not now. Not now.

“…Other than that, your condition’s stable. Do you have anywhere to go?” 

Another text (insult) pings in Connor’s head. “Home.”

“To your friend?” The last word drips sarcasm from Riley’s mouth, so unlike their previous considerate tone. “Is that safe?”

A defensive of course almost bursts out of Connor on sheer instinct before he reminds himself of the stroll the other android had taken through his memories. “It was a misunderstanding,” he says. “It’s a lot to explain. I scared him.”

Not just by screaming in the middle of the night. Guilt pokes at his chest. How is he ever going to explain any of this to Hank?

“…If you say so,” Riley relents after a brief silence, with only slight skepticism. But then their smile returns, and it’s just as kind. “Well, Connor, if you’re not experiencing any more issues, then the last thing I can do for you today is wish you good luck.”

Connor tries to smile, too, and wavers. 

He wants to believe he has no more issues; it certainly seems that way (if his scans are to be trusted—which they’re not—and if his head is anything to go by—which it’s not), but…

His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the table he’s siting on. As his idiom storage folder supplies: he’s had the rug pulled out from under him one too many times.

“Would you mind if I….didn’t leave immediately?”

Riley grins. “Not at all. Take your time.” 

“Thank you,” Connor says, quiet, short, as sincere as his nerves can allow him to be. He pretends that he isn’t scrutinizing Riley’s every single motion as they turn around to leave the room. 

Once they’re gone, Connor replays his memory starting from when he woke up 19 minutes ago (his sense of time seems to have come back, which is a good sign, isn’t it?). It seems…benign. When he rigiously analyses their conversation, slows it down and picks apart each word, each microexpression, he finds that everything was exactly as it seemed. 

Nothing.

Nothing happened.

Even as he sits in tense silence and waits, and strains his hearing, and studies every corner, and scratches at the surface of the table, nothing happens.

And waits. And nothing happens.

Probability of still being under Cyberlife’s influence: 47%.

Connor opts for going on a walk first. 

…Well. What he does first is message Hank with a simple hello, to let him know that he hasn’t fallen in a dark ditch somewhere and been destroyed to pieces. But then he goes on a walk. 

He visits the park, watches both humans and androids alike walking about and enjoying the very early hour of 5AM. Mostly androids. Connor is sort of enjoying himself too, he thinks, if he ignores the constant stream of fresh frenzied notifications in his feed. 

As expected, people-watching does not result in a very stimulating activity. It is quite monotonous. Connor would go as far as to call it predictable, which is as safe of a characteristic as any.

There is a certain variable, though. Precisely 1 in every 3 people Connor comes across is walking their dog, and so every two minutes he has to stop himself from bothering the owners and asking to pet each new one he meets. 

(He misses Sumo.)

But Connor’s not here to gaze in wonder at the budding leaves and sadly look after every dog that passes him by. 

…Mainly. He’s mainly here to perform an analysis, and what he’s gathered so far is this: 

No one pays him any mind, besides the occasional glance of acknowledgment and—if he’s lucky—a friendly smile from an android. (Not that the rare humans are particularly hostile towards him; it’s just not a lot are willing to be friendly at barely past sunrise.) 

No snow gathers at his feet as he sits down at a bench. Even after an hour passes and the wind picks up slightly—that’s the end of it. It is pleasantly warm, and it smells like spring. Probability: 40%, 32%, 17%.

He’s…fine.

Sumo almost topples him over the second he steps inside. 

Connor can’t help it—he laughs, and hugs his dog with one arm as he grips the doorframe with another. 

“Hi, Sumo.” Connor buries his face in his fur and sighs, content. “I’m so glad to see you too.” 

Sumo barks right in his face, licking his cheeks and leaning ever harder on him. Another laugh bursts out of Connor—he can’t remember the last time he’s seen Sumo so happy, let alone so energetic.

“Connor?”

And then his chest tightens, and it has nothing to do with the crushing mass of excitement currently trying to climb him. Connor gently pushes Sumo down to the floor—not without a healthy dose of head-scratches first—and forces himself to make eye contact.

“You haven’t slept,” he says. Stupidly. 

But it is true. Hank’s voice is hoarse, tiny in its weakness, and his wrinkles look deeper than ever, carved into his face like scars. The eyebags are obvious. Connor doesn’t need his behavioral analysis to tell that Hank, among many things (relieved, worried, angry, scared), is tired. 

“Can’t fuckin’ imagine why,” Hank mocks, eyebrows raised and arms spread wide. Connor uselessly works his mouth before clamping it shut. “What’s that you’re trying to say, Connor? An apology? An explanation? Oh, god.” Theatrically, Hank slaps his forehead. “Don’t start yet if it’s an explanation, I need a drink to celebrate.” 

“Hank,” Connor finally manages to tear out of himself, raw and grating and aching with a dozen emotions he can’t identify. Hank levels him with an unimpressed stare. “Please. I…”

He stops.

Like he’s simply run out of power—nothing. 

Not a single one of the 25 elaborate scripts he had prepared in advance, not a single suggestion from his social relations or negotiator programs, nothing comes to mind.

“Let me guess,” Hank drawls, impossibly more vicious and immeasurably more tired. “Hank, please, I’m fine. Phew. Don’t know what else I’d use my detective skills for if not you.” 

The—pain, Connor finally puts a name to it—pain tightens in the spaces between his biocomponents, twisting in on itself and constricting his artificial lungs, making it harder to breathe. He thinks that if he wasn’t holding onto the doorframe, he’d sink to his knees again.

“I got it fixed,” Connor decides to say out of everything, because he’s an idiot. “I mean it.” 

“Oh, you did?” Even if he saw it coming, Hank’s sarcastic tone still pierces him like a knife. “See, I’d love to believe you and actually go drink to that, but there’s just this one little thing bothering me…” Hank makes a show of thinking about it, humming and nodding before he finally pins him with a scalding deadpan look. “You’re full of shit, Connor.”

It’s true. It’s fact. It shouldn’t hurt. His voice breaks anyways. “I know.”

“Not a single word out of your mouth has been true. A single fucking word!”

“I know,” Connor repeats through another pang.

“No, you don’t. That’s the fucking thing! You don’t even know the—“ And just as suddenly as Hank’s ire had ignited, it fizzles out. He breathes out harshly. “Fine,” he says, clipped, voice lowering to a semi-appropriate volume. “Go on. Say what you wanna say.”

Connor allows the surprise to stump him for a brief moment. “Thank—“

“Talk before I change my mind.”

Right. Hank’s anger isn’t gone; he just closed the door on it. Connor nods meekly. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Shifts on his feet, tries to formulate his thoughts—no, no, the words don’t matter, he just needs to talk.

“Hank,” Connor tries again to speak around the lump in his throat and chokes. Why is this so hard? Shame swells inside of him, swirling and swirling and—the least he owes Hank is an explanation, he can feel another outburst threatening to fly free under the pressure of the expectant silence, why is it so hard to just— “I didn’t mean—I-I didn’t, I didn’t want—“

And just as hard as it was to breathe only a second ago, it suddenly becomes infinitely harder to stop breathing. The air rushes in and out of his lungs without a second to spare, oxygen flooding his systems and making it so much tougher to think as if Connor wasn’t pathetically failing at that already.

For a short, tense moment, it seems like the only sound in the house is going to be him hyperventilating. 

“Hey,” Hank gruffs, still rough with anger but clearly trying for gentle. He steps forward. “Connor, kid, look at—“

“Stay where you are!” 

Connor doesn’t mean to shout, he doesn’t mean to do so many things—but Hank listens. He raises his hands in a placating gesture and takes the step back. 

You’re fine, Connor pleads to himself. It’s over. You’re fine. Yet no matter how much he tries to even out his breathing and calm down, his body spitefully refuses to. He grits his teeth. Stress percentages continue ticking up in his ears. You’re fi—

“Hey, hey, hey. Catch.”

Connor’s hand snatches the object out of the air before he can even register the motion. And then, when he looks down at the coin precariously balanced between his fingers, it’s baffling enough to throw the panic off almost completely. He gives Hank a quizzical look.

All he gets in response is a face of weary resignation and a vague prompting gesture. All the fight seems to have left Hank, replaced with a patience Connor knows he’s making a great effort to maintain.

Hesitantly, unsure if it’s the correct response, Connor looks back down and starts flicking the coin back and forth.

“I…” The words, while still under tangible danger of getting stuck in his throat, come a little easier. “I’m…sure you’ve figured it out already. That I’ve been experiencing a—a distorted reality, of sorts.” A controlled inhale through the nose. “Wrong memories, hearing, seeing things that had no objective basis in reality.” Exhale. Slowly.

Hank stays silent.

Connor shuts his eyes on reflex. “They weren’t bugs, they weren’t glitches, my perception was…intentionally modified.” He can feel the question buzzing in the air, but even as he pauses, Hank doesn’t ask it. “It was…”

Terrifying.

The coin methodically flies through the air. “It was much more severe and distressing than I let on.” Clink. Clink. Why’d Hank give it back? This must be vastly irritating for him. Connor shuts his eyes tighter and pauses again, holds out for a scolding, for anything, and again Hank says nothing. 

“I should’ve—listened, and checked it out earlier,” he rambles on, frantic, feeling the stress creeping back up and giving into the human instinct to fill the silence, “and I, I shouldn’t have tried to hide it from you. I was—” Lost. Scared. “Stupid, and—“

Connor hisses and catches his coin before it can fall. Senseless, he had meant to say. A much more objective descriptor and not as painfully vulnerable. 

He cracks one eye open. Hank is standing right where he was—but his shoulders are hunched, the line of tension gone, and his expression shows nothing in particular.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispers.

Hank squints at him. Unreadable. But more contemplating than accusing, he thinks. “Androids can…hallucinate?”

Before he can think better of it, Connor chuckles. Humorless. Bitter. “Just me.”

He hasn’t told Hank about any of it. Why he was a special prototype, why he had to keep regularly reporting back and self-testing. Amanda. What had almost happened—he thought it’d never be relevant again. This…this would’ve been one more thing to not speak of, Connor realizes. The shame crawls up and squeezes his throat.

“Am I pushing my luck if I ask for an explanation for that one?”

This time, Connor’s laugh is honest, if a little weak. “I thought I told you to quit the gambling habit.” The joke lands awkwardly; Hank doesn’t even smile, that disturbed look still ingrained into his features. Connor lets out an uncomfortable mm. “I-I will elaborate, just…later.” 

Hank raises an eyebrow at him.

“Please,” Connor’s voice is back to a barely audible whisper. He clutches his coin like a lifeline. “Don’t make me do it right now.”

Something twitches in Hank’s expression. For the next four minutes, they stand in silence, not nearly as suffocating now that Hank has decided not to press further. His gaze flickers between the floor and Connor’s face. 

“God,” he eventually says, just as quietly, almost a whisper. “You really went through all that? Jesus, Connor. Fuck.”

Again, he steps forward, and—

“Wait,” Connor says. Hank falters, this time with less patience and more confused exasperation. “I-I’m going to ask you something ridiculous.” 

Hank blinks at him once, twice. He looks significantly more tired. “Sure. Why not. Better than your personal questions.”

Connor almost smiles, but it quickly disappears from his face as he processes just how irrational he’s being. He—he knows, he’s supposed to know, and yet… “How do I know you’re the real Hank?”

A beat.

“Excuse me?” Hank gapes at him. “What is this, a throwback? Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Connor stresses. The sheer emotion in his voice seems to shut down any further arguments. “I—I told you, I was seeing things I shouldn’t have, and one of them…” 

Connor shakes his head, like that alone will erase the memory of Hank’s icy tone and disappointed words. 

“I need you to prove it to me,” he says. Then, smaller: “Please.”

As Hank takes several long moments to think, Connor also mulls something over—this is not even a complete parallel to their previous situation. Hank is under no threat of being killed, which is why he is able to take the necessary time to come up with a reply. It’s a far cry from the near-instant answers Connor had to spew out of his memory banks. 

“That time on the roof,” Hank finally says, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “When you chased after that deviant and left me hanging. I was so fuckin’ mad, I slapped the daylights out of you.” Then, a quick eyeroll. “Well, you didn’t care. But it felt good. Honestly, I’ve had to hold myself back from doing it again this entire week.” Hank gives him a pointed look. “Especially today.”

It is now Connor’s turn to falter. Both because he expected Hank to pick a more lighthearted memory—at least something from after they had become friends—and because recalling that moment in particular prompts another cocktail of guilt-shame-regret in him.

“I…I thought my mission was the most important thing back then,” Connor justifies weakly, somewhat at a loss for what to say. An android died because of him. Hank almost died because of him. “I was wrong. I wouldn’t do it again.”

“That shit doesn’t matter anymore, Connor.” A spark ignites in Hank’s eye. He grins, no longer a mocking imitation but the real thing. “It never has! Fuck your mission, and fuck the assholes at Cyberlife who made you do it!”

Connor blinks rapidly, mouth falling open. “Oh.” 

That’s why Hank brought it up, isn’t it?

Probability of still being under Cyberlife’s influence: 9%.

“Oh,” Connor repeats, quieter. The knot in his chest finally loosens. The air no longer burns his lungs. “Hank.” 

He pushes himself off the doorframe and stumbles—Hank steps forward to catch him—and the dam bursts.

Days of pent-up terror, violent and overwhelming and impossibly primal, the same sort of primal fear Connor had felt at the abject clarity of a bullet shredding through his skull, rupture out of him, leaving him heaving into Hank’s shoulder and clawing harshly at his back. 

Hank, in return, just rubs his, arms tightly wrapped around Connor’s shoulders. “Don’t ever pull any bullshit like that again,” he says, the scolding rendered somewhat ineffective by the way his voice threatens to crack. “I’m serious, Connor, I almost had a fucking heart attack. You think don’t send a search party is reassuring?”

“I’m sorry—“ Connor gasps. He shuts his eyes, prompts more rivulets of tears to stream down his cheeks—a feature he’s never appreciated as it was designed with the intent purpose of emotionally manipulating others, the exact way all of him was. But right now, falling apart in Hank’s arms, warm and secure, letting the weight of a thousand realities leave him, he can’t really bring himself to care. “I’m s-so sorry. I shouldn’t have—“

“Shh. I got that part when you said it the first hundred times, okay?” Hank’s hand runs through his synthetic hair, gentle and methodical. He sighs, heavy with fatigue. “You’ll be fine. I’m here.” 

Connor buries his face further. “Are you—“ disappointed, he can’t make himself ask, cold anxiety spiking in his veins— “angry at me?”

He feels the deep rumble of Hank’s laugh. “Like you wouldn’t fucking imagine.” Connor opens his mouth to let another flood of apologies through, but Hank just ruffles his hair harder. “But that can wait. I’m just glad you’re home.” 

Something nudges Connor’s arm, and he scoots back slightly to let Sumo through, wraps him up in the hug and holds on as tight as he can without hurting. Hank laughs again, says something about how Sumo can’t go a minute without Connor’s attention. He hugs them both just as tight.

Connor almost hadn’t noticed it. But as he holds on, for the first time in a long, long while, his hands are still.

Probability: 2%.

When Connor blinks out of standby later that afternoon (Hank had insisted he ‘take a nap’, and Connor had been too drained to argue the necessity of it like he usually does, which…speaks for itself), he immediately notices something amiss.

“Hank?”

He gets up from the couch and crosses the distance to the kitchen table. The vase is a surprising addition, to say the least, impossible not to notice with its clashing mess of colors. His scan informs him of the flowers (last watered 3 hours ago): Chrysanthemum indicum, Convallaria majalis, Hyacinthus orientalis, a gradient of Dianthus caryophyllus and—

—Connor’s processing trips over itself—

—a yellow rose. His LED flickers the same color. 

Connor picks up the card propped up against the vase. “Hank?” he calls out again, eyes skimming over the scratchy handwriting. Sorry I almost shot you while you had android dementia. “What is this?”

Footsteps thump against the floor. Pause. “What?” A huff. “You can read.”

Connor looks at the rose again, waits for the pit in his figurative stomach to open back up. Waits some more. Runs a thumb over one of the petals. Then, he glances behind his shoulder at Hank with a nonplussed expression. “Flowers?” 

(An apology bouquet, further analysis enlightens him, which combined with the note can only mean that the flowers are specifically for Connor, which…is a strange, but not unpleasant experience, he decides. He files it away somewhere close to the feeling of laughing over bad jokes, petting random dogs on the street, and coming home.)

“Yeah,” Hank misses nonchalant by a few yards, huffs again, and crosses his arms. “Thought I’d liven up the place, alright? Don’t fuckin’ overthink it, Con, I just thought—“ His eyes dart to somewhere outside the window. “Thought you liked flowers. That’s all.”

Connor waits for the rug to be pulled out, for his head to fill with noise once more and for his systems to unravel at the seams, for all of it to be revealed as yet another memory he’s never lived through.

Probability: 0%.

Connor turns around to face Hank fully.

He beams.

“I think I do.”