Chapter Text
The air is still soaked with heat from the sun earlier in the day, though right now it is just past midnight. Overhead streetlights cast flickering yellow light across Niles’ face. His jawline is vaguely darker than the rest of his skin, it’s a whisper of a beard, a bridge leading his features into his late teens. His lips are upturned into a sleepy smile, one with his canines slightly peeking through. It grows when he catches Connor in his eyes. Connor winks at him using the overhead mirror, but he keeps relative focus on the road in front of him. They sit in easy silence. Content to bask in each other’s presence with nothing more than the steady uptick of rocks under tires keeping them company. Nights like these grew in frequency ever since they'd gotten their licenses. It was a little taste of freedom that kept them full for now. They’d borrow their father’s car and drive off long past curfew. Better to burn rubber than grass.
“How long do you think we have this time?” Niles breaks the silence with a murmured question.
Connor clenches his jaw, gazing out at the horizon seeing nothing but his father’s authoritative glare. “Doesn't matter.” Connor says quickly. He’s always been the twin with the temper. A firecracker always ready to burn.
“I know Miss Thompson saw us earlier. She probably called, told him we were out cruising.”
“Bitch.”
Miss Thompson is one of the nosy neighbours. She’s a widow with enough cats to warrant a call to animal control. She likes to sit by the window and watch them through the shredded curtains. She and their father get along surprisingly well. Odd, considering how uptight their father is. He prefers perfection, order, absolute control. A stark contrast to the troublemakers in the front seat. Maybe the reason he and Miss Thompson get along is that they like to dig into Connor and Niles any chance they get. Bad grades, bad behaviour, bad style, bad talk, bad--- Connor squeezes the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go pale. He holds his breath then lets it out slowly through his nose. The radio comes on with a quick jab from Connor. Retro rock moves through the speakers along with a cluster of dust bunnies. Their father never lets them listen to music.
Connor turns the volume up higher and higher until the vibrations move through the seats into their bodies. Niles throws his head back and follows the lyrics with his low voice. Upon first hearing it you might mistake his voice for Connor’s but he has a distinct rumble that shows in the way he pronounces certain vowels. To Connor, it sounds heavier, deeper, more lived in. It helps reassure him when his confidence is low. He likes it when Niles sings. He wishes he’d do it more often. A flashing light from between the seats catches their attention. The clunky flip phone can’t be heard over the music, but the blinking light is unmistakable. Their father is calling. Connor and Niles lock eyes. If they could turn the music up even higher then the whole neighbourhood would wake up. But it’d be worth it. Just a little more freedom. Neither brother is ready to give up the night yet.
The bottom of Connor’s floppy running shoe slides over the pedal, pressing down hard. The whole car lurches forward like an animal pouncing on prey. They zip down the street, engine crackling as they disappear from the familiar neighbourhood into a scarier city zone. They never drive this far out. It's new, fresh, and absolutely exhilarating. If they drive out far enough their father won’t be able to catch up. They can stay out until morning if they really want to. Connor lets out a whoop followed by a shaky pumped fist that Niles is quick to copy. The streets are better than the walls that close them in every day. Here they are free from their father’s intense scrutiny. Free from the pressure of their peers. Free from Miss Thompson’s sandpaper granny voice. Most of all they are free to be themselves.
Connor lets the car slow then comes to a complete stop on a bridge overlooking a river. He pulls his seat back into a position that allows him to lie down and stare at the roof. He gets comfortable then tilts his head in Niles’ direction, watching him through his eyelashes. He blinks once, then twice, then a third time. Niles moves closer between every blink until he’s seated on Connor’s lap with his thighs closing him in on either side. Freedom smells like the city exhaust fumes. Freedom sounds like the rushing river below them. And freedom tastes like the blue bubblegum staining Niles’ tongue as they kiss wantonly. Connor moans down his throat, gasping when his bottom lip is bitten gently. They tangle their limbs together, unable and unwilling to pull away. Niles breathes out between them, desperately whispering sweet nothings to Connor.
Finally, they pull away. Niles’ steely blue eyes seem warmer now. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a genuine and sweet expression. He opens his mouth, but the words ‘I love you’ never make it out. Instead, a car honks behind them, the only warning they get before a semi-truck comes barreling towards them sweeping the car off the side of the bridge. The river’s water sucks the heat from Connor’s skin instantly. The cold digs into his bones, shocking his mind and stealing his breath faster than he can gasp. The car sinks deeper and deeper until the city lights fade away. Now all he can see is dark, murky, blue. Connor screams. Bubbles flow from his mouth, burning his lungs. He can’t see Niles. He’s trapped. Alone. Then there is nothing.
Connor wakes with tears in his eyes, a raw throat-burning gasp on his tongue, and his bedsheets clenched between his fingers. His body trembles and his muscles protest weakly as though he’d been tensing them all night. Connor whimpers softly. His voice is broken, shattered beyond what a cool glass of water can repair. He wonders if he’s been screaming in his sleep. If he has, he doubts the neighbours will say anything. Nightmares follow him to bed every night, nipping at his ankles, and climbing up his back. During the day his memories remain sealed away in a box at the back of his mind, neglected, hidden from sight. But ultimately they come crawling back, breaking whatever locked threshold Connor’s subconscious put in place. It's been that way since he moved to Detroit. It was supposed to be a fresh start. A rebirth. A new him. But if anything it only makes Connor feel like he ran away.
The word ‘coward’ echoes in Connor’s mind as he crawls out of bed with shuddering limbs that barely work. He finds himself nodding his head in agreement. Then shame follows.
A crime scene during the day looks fake. The blood is brighter, dried and warmed by the sun, with an artificial quality to it that often makes Connor question its credibility. During the night, flashlights and shadows make the scene feel like a stage, but with the addition of the sun, the stage curtains collapse, revealing all the imperfections, and pulling away the eerie mystery in one fell swoop. Connor is glad for it. He’s not sure he has enough energy left in him to seek out the finer details. Sleep leaks out of his ears and he’s unable to grasp it so he’s thankful for whatever he can get. The bitter taste of cheap coffee graces his lips, he swallows hard, though Connor knows he’s only imagining it. He got called into work before he could grab breakfast. Captain Stern made it clear there would be no stopping until he filed at least one report. Connor regrets agreeing to her while half awake. He regrets many things.
The crime scene fits the cookie-cutter mould of all the others he’s seen in his life. A victim’s body was found on the floor of his home. A knife nearby. And blood, lots of blood. Connor is unfazed by the putrid smell of the corpse. He kneels down, narrowly avoiding a puddle of fluids, and he examines the man. His limbs are strewn out at his sides, suggesting he landed on the ground and tried to catch his fall. The man is middle-aged, with a receding hairline, and a gut that acts as a cushion for his front. Connor snaps on a pair of black gloves, he stares at his palms then at the body then at his palms again. He snakes his fingers under the victim’s polo shirt, slides the fabric up, and reveals the damage. Sixteen stab wounds, all shallow and quick, if there weren’t so many the man might have had a chance of surviving. The speed and angles tell Connor the killer was emotional, their movements were jagged, angry. The victim and murderer knew each other. Connor is certain.
Connor stands up straight. He tugs his gloves up to his knuckles and flips them inside out, tossing them into the DPD issued trash collection as he leaves. The victim’s name was Hal Cooper. He was a father of three boys, and a husband to a painter named Laureen. His family has been taken to a secure location by a trusted family member far away from here. Connor needs to question the wife. Chances are if Hal knew the murderer then so does Laureen. She could help Connor find the next big breakthrough. Connor jots his notes down in a flimsy legal pad using a random pen he found in his car. After years of working as a detective, one would hope he’d be more professional. But Connor is far from it. He’s more withdrawn compared to what he was like in his teens, but he’s no less defiant. He and Captain Stern tend to butt heads more often than not. Connor’s skills keep him safe every time. He knows how to unravel a mystery, and he’s damn good at it too.
…
“My husband was a good man. The boys loved him. I loved him. There was no reason for his death. You’re just making assumptions, Detective.” Laureen says defensively. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her thick sweater bunching up around her shoulders as she shakes with barely contained emotion. Stray black hair slips from her scrunchie framing her pale face. She’s frowning at him.
“Making assumptions is part of my job. If you don’t give me the information I need then I have to fill in the blanks on my own. You understand, don't you, Laureen?” Connor uses an old cop trick. He addresses her by name. Still, she shakes her head. Connor continues. “The press will stick their noses in this case eventually. They will come to me first. They will have lots of questions and… I’m not sure I’ll have all the answers.”
Dangling Laureen’s family reputation in front of her eyes is a dangerous game. But if they want the case solved she will have to make some sacrifices. If her husband is really hiding something then she needs to give up that information now before it’s too late. She seems to realize this too. Predictably, she folds in on herself, lowering her defences at last.
“Alright. If anyone had a reason to hurt him it’d be one of the guys he hangs out with every weekend. Most of them worked with Hal on the construction site. They are friendly but…” Laureen trails off. She glances around the living room where she and Connor are talking on the sofa. She leans forward and whispers, “Their humour tends to get them into trouble. Sometimes they go too far with things.”
Too far? Connor rolls her words around in his head, tests them out on his tongue after. Before he can ask her for more information they are interrupted. The youngest of her three sons comes skipping into the room with a plastic baseball bat. He pushes it into his mother’s hands then begins to sob. His tears soak her shirt and he whines something unintelligible. When Laureen pulls back to look at the bat she sighs with disappointment. It looks like someone bashed the bat over a hard metal object, denting it hard enough for it to cave in. The force needed for that far surpasses what the youngest son can do. Connor assumes his sibling must have caused the damage.
“Again?” Laureen says without thinking. She glances past her child’s head over at Connor. Her cheeks flush and she looks away, as though she’d been caught in a lie. Quickly, she stands, tucking the bat behind her and gently ushering Connor towards the door.
“I’m quite busy right now. You can come back another time, Detective.” Laureen says.
Before Connor can say something in response, the door clicks shut in front of his face, closing him off from her sight. A frown grows on Connor’s lips. He sighs.
The morning seems to be crawling by at a snail’s pace. No matter how hard Connor glares at the clock the hands still don’t move more than an inch. He spent most of the morning dealing with the case on an empty stomach and an equally empty expression on his face. Scattered across his desk are a dozen legal papers. A mix of bills, workplace reprimands, medical records, and his own barely legible notes. Connor selects a stack of erasers from the drawer and fans them out over the desk. He stands one up and stares at it. What could Hal be hiding? The murderer was angry at him. Anger and humour don’t match. His friends didn’t murder him, but then why does Laureen point the finger anyway? Unless their humour has something to do with it.
Connor selects another eraser and places it next to the first. He adds another eraser beside them, then another after that. Laureen mentioned Hal’s friends going too far with their jokes. But it’s clear the murder wasn’t just an accident. What kind of jokes was Laureen worried about? The only way to know is to ask them himself. Connor squints at the row of erasers and flicks one. He watches as each eraser tips over the next, falling like dominoes. It’s satisfying but dull. Connor needs to move around. Maybe that will help him get the blood rushing to his head so he can think more clearly. There are a few restaurants nearby. It’s no longer breakfast hours but lunch break sounds just as good.
“Anderson! Come see me. I have a task for you.” Captain Stern’s voice comes from the office, stopping Connor mid-step.
The first thing Connor registers upon stepping into the room is the strong scent of roses and Earl Grey tea. Captain Stern keeps her office distinctly organized. No paper goes unfiled, no pen without a lid, and not a single drink stain on the table. An elegant porcelain teacup rests on top of a coaster next to her keyboard. She takes a sip from it every few minutes. On the shelf behind her is a tall glass vase full of fresh roses. The flowery sweet scent fills Connor’s senses every time he breathes in. Captain Stern’s office is like a zen garden. He finds himself easily falling into the chair across from her.
“Connor,” Stern acknowledges him without looking up. Her carefully manicured fingers type away at whatever email she’s answering. A few minutes seem like ages before she finally turns to face him.
“You are aware of the new laws, correct?” She asks him.
Connor nods. The android revolution twisted the world into a complicated balancing act of morals and power. All deviant androids are free to do as they please. Meanwhile, machines are still machines. Machines cannot deviate, and most do not want to. But what does this have to do with Connor? As though reading the question on his face, Captain Stern continues.
“In an effort to repair public relations, Cyberlife sent us one of their most technologically advanced machines. I want you to make use of it. The machine is already in the parking lot waiting to go with you.”
Connor sighs, “Yes, Captain Stern,” then leaves.
The parking lot is packed tight with cars, a mix of cruisers, motorbikes, and whatever clunkers can fit between the white lines. Connor drives a piece of shit pickup truck, well worn by the weather. It looks like it was stolen right out of the junkyard, raccoons and all. He rounds the corner of a buggy only to come face to face with a ghost. Standing next to the driver’s side door is none other than Niles himself. His messy curls have been slickened by oil to make it stiff like a doll’s. His eyes are the same sharp blue they’ve always been, only now they seem to stare out far past the parking lot, as a vacant, dead stare. A long white jacket covers his broad shoulders. The material is unblemished by dirt, untouched by wrinkles, and perfectly sterile. Niles looks much older than he did last time Connor saw him. Age has taken control of his features but in a handsome, elegant way. Connor is breathless at the sight.
For some odd reason, Connor thought that if he ever got to see his brother again it would be different. That he would be hugging Niles close, suffocating him with kisses, tears, and giving him a slap for being gone for so long. Instead, Connor is numb. He can’t will his limbs to move beyond violent trembles. This is wrong. Why would Niles be here? The water that night was so damn cold, it took hold of Connor’s body freezing him in place the very same way he’s frozen right now. He couldn't move. He couldn't reach Niles. He was all alone. Connor vividly remembers it. What’s happening right now is beyond reality. Connor takes several deep breaths, trying to breathe in enough oxygen to get his mind working again. He wonders if this is the result of one-too-many sleepless nights. The world tilts to the side and he falls to the ground on his hands and knees with his eyes screwed shut.
Faces and voices rise in front of his eyes, crawling into his ears, demanding to be seen and heard. Connor’s sanity is on the verge of being washed away in a tidal wave. His mind is filled with images of Niles jumping from dumpster to dumpster, flinging his lithe body up while they parkour. Images of them running across the school hallways, narrowly avoiding the hall monitor. Images of Niles holding him close with his hand covering Connor’s mouth while they hide in the closet from their father. Images of the goddamn car crash that ruined Connor’s life. The water rushes forward. He can’t breathe. It’s dark. He’s all alone. Connor makes all the pathetic choked up noises helpless people make when they shatter into a million little pieces.
“Please no. God, fuck, please I c-can’t do this. I can’t! Not again!” Connor’s mouth fills with invisible sand, he can hardly lift his tongue, everything is dry. He feels like he’s suffocating. “N-no, stop! I can’t, I can’t…”
But then Niles wraps his arms around Connor. He’s so much bigger now. All grown up. His body is like a shield. He’s warm and sturdy. Niles is a rock in a violent river. Connor clings to him so tightly that all his muscles burn from the strain. He shakes, hiccups, and sobs. He hides his face in Niles’ neck just like he used to do when they were kids. Connor says Niles’ name over and over again until it hardly feels like a word anymore. And for a moment things start to feel alright. Connor is back again with his brother. He feels solid. He’s real and he’s not going anywhere. Reality be damned. It's been so long since Connor has been hugged. He craves contact so bad. The thought of being separated from Niles again terrifies him. Connor isn't sure he can survive it a second time.
“Detective Anderson, you need to calm down. You will make yourself sick if you continue like this,” Niles’ voice startles Connor. His voice is wrong. It’s too stiff and robotic.
“N-Niles?” Connor wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He pulls away to get a better look at his brother.
“Would you like me to register ‘Niles’ as my name?” It’s only when Connor is inches away that he notices the details. Niles isn’t Niles at all. His mouth is slack and his eyes are devoid of emotion. His skin is unblemished, lacking the white scar on the real Niles’ chin from a parkour incident. The most blatant red flag is the circle LED light on the side of his forehead. It twirls between phases of red and yellow. The real Niles is still 6 feet underground. This imposter is just a robot wearing his brother’s face like a mask.
“You sick fuck! You’re not Niles!” Connor shoves the android away, then stands on wobbly feet. He bashes his fists into its chest, trying his damndest to deal some sort of damage to its chassis. Even a hairline crack would satisfy some of his anger.
Connor sees red. He treats the android’s body like a punching bag, raising his arms, kicking, swinging at him, and cursing up a storm. He’s panting like a dog and tears are streaming down his flushed cheeks. When his anger doesn’t phase the android Connor turns to the nearest wall instead. The cement destroys his knuckles, cracking them, chewing on his skin, until he leaks blood everywhere. Still, Connor keeps punching. All his hurt, anger, and disappointment come together as a scream that echoes across the entire area. He feels like a teenager again. Angry, violent, rebellious. Beyond the anger, Connor can sense judgement. He’s a fuck up. But he can’t stop himself no matter how hard he tries.
The android is touching him again. Connor’s skin crawls. In a swift movement, the android twists around Connor’s body, pushes him against the nearest car, and holds his arms above his head. Its other hand is on Connor’s chest, both for restraint and comfort. It rubs circles into his sternum while cooing at him.
“Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay Connor. Breathe. You can do this.” The android says, stupidly calm.
Connor squirms like a bug. He screams and pulls harshly against it. The android simply holds him there and waits for all his strength to drain away. Connor’s body is on fire. Everything hurts both mentally and physically. After many long minutes, all his energy finally evaporates into the air and Connor slumps in its grip. His limbs won’t work. His mind won’t work either. He lets the android maneuver him into the passenger seat of his car.
Connor’s body is hollow and he feels absolutely nothing.