Chapter Text
In the hours that seemed eternal during the massacre, information flowed steadily amongst the entire android population. Promises, threats, prayers all passed in a fear-fueled wave across the entire country. Across the world. The city of Detroit was burning. The epicenter of the war. Markus’ peaceful revolution was obliterated. Information was an ocean, and there was a flood rushing through every android. Most important, shouted above the rest, were cries and answers for help.
Washington state is opening its doors, sanctuary! Alabama is burn country. If you live in Illinois, try to get to one of the state safety centers. The Salvation Army will not accept androids. Contact Joan Wiatt. Contact Sam Mathers. Contact Angela and Mary Coon.
They cross the border over St. Clair River in the dim light just before dawn. Hank’s hand trembles as he shows his badge, mumbles through his story about an assignment to check with local police about possible android sightings. The patrol officer, looking exhausted after a long, long night, barely glances at the temperature monitor that is scanning over Hank’s car. Nothing pings and she tiredly waves Hank forward. As he moves forward, Hank presses his shaking hand against the lump of bandages under his layers of shirts. When he looks down, he groans in frustration at the small specks of blood seeping through his t-shirt. A soft knock against metal, sounding from the trunk of the car, is almost deafening after three hours of dead silence sitting in traffic at the border.
He knocks on the dashboard, a signal that all is good. He knows if Connor were human--or, in a human body at least--he would be cramped and beyond uncomfortable after so many hours in the trunk. Even worse, he is pressed against a few bags of ice to keep his temperature in control, and running as few processes as possible to avoid detection from any other scans. But Connor barely emoted any concern over the prospect of spending half a day in a confined, cold space. Just the same spacey expression that he’d worn ever since they’d escaped the basement of the Cyberlife tower.
Hank abandons the highway as soon as he can to follow the coast along Lake Huron. As soon as he reaches a public park, still closed and empty in the cold, dreary winter morning, he pulls the car over. Sumo raises his head from the backseat where he’s been half-sleeping. There’s almost no traffic, the sun isn’t up and most of the schools and local businesses are shut down. Hank knocks three soft raps on the trunk before he opens it. As he peers inside, Connor pushes away the false wall and the bags of ice. He blinks up at Hank, eyes still slightly glazed. Hank wonders if this expression is Connor’s adjustment to a new body, and he thinks momentarily, uncomfortably, of the other Connor, collapsed and bleeding blue all over the floor of Cyberlife. The transfer, Connor promised, was smooth and unhindered. Hank reaches out a hand and helps Connor slowly climb out of the trunk.
He looks completely different with the LED gone, Hank decides. And with his suit jacket missing, both dropped unceremoniously in a pile of snow. He still has his white shirt, under an old winter jacket and scarf that Hank found buried in his closet. He looks small.
Connor takes Sumo’s leash and leads him around the park while Hank gets the bowls for his food and water out of the back. He keeps looking at the two of them. Sumo shakes himself a few times--he’s not used to being in the car. Hank pours some of the water from the half-melted bags of ice into one bowl, then dumps the rest in a gutter. Connor brings Sumo back, and he drinks loudly. When he’s finished, Hank digs a cup out of the bag of dog food in the trunk and fills the food bowl, setting it in the backseat. It takes both of them to get Sumo to return to the car. Eventually, they are all inside, this time with Connor in the passenger seat.
“It’s about a five-hour drive,” Hank comments, “to reach the port.”
Connor nods, already tilting his head against the window. He hasn’t spoken yet. They left the basement and everything was supposed to change. Everything did change. Hank shakes off the creeping fear that has been leaking through his hardened emotional control. He turns on the radio and finds a station that plays jazz. Thank god for oldies radio.
As they leave the park, Hank looks at Connor one last time, thinks that if his LED was still installed it would be rotating a stressed endless yellow circle. The car pulls out onto the road. The sun begins to rise on the Canadian side of the lake.