Chapter Text
In the wake of the revolution, Connor is lost. For a while there, the high-stakes and simulated adrenaline were enough to distract him from his entire world ending. The deviant hunter, a deviant himself. Even now — even after everything — the thought alone is enough to make him uneasy.
He doesn’t regret it, of course. But he can’t help but wonder if other androids felt this directionless and guilty after breaking through their programming. Does an AX400 feel any sense of failure for no longer upkeeping a home, or do they simply feel relieved? Free?
Connor is free. That much is obvious. And if he looks too closely, he can see the signs of his deviancy that emerged long before he actually became deviant. The software instability notifications. The emotions he was feeling, even if he couldn’t identify them as feelings, much less name the type of emotion they were.
But at least in the moment, when Connor broke free of his programming, there was a sense of urgency. A realization of what had to be done next. Warn Markus. Escape Jericho. Awaken the androids trapped in CyberLife Tower. Save Hank. Escape Amanda.
It’s over now. Markus extended an invitation to return with him and the others and wait for news, convene with the government, but Connor declined. In the aftermath, he couldn’t help but notice the strange looks he was getting. The androids who recognized him, the deviant hunter. Yes, he was deviant himself now, but he was late to the game. He nearly cost them everything. As much as he managed to help, he was still the source of terror for many of them.
The second he’s alone, however, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. There is no mission waiting for him, blinking for his attention in his HUD. He can’t return to the DPD for new instructions — not when the station isn’t open, the city is evacuated, and Connor probably doesn’t even have a job there anymore.
Instead, he spends the next 16 hours, 42 minutes, and 13 seconds desperately trying to occupy himself. He explores parts of the city he’s never been to before, treating every street and building like a crime scene. He scans them, collects data samples, and reconstructs their most recent events. Most include fighting. Androids hiding and getting found. Androids running. Androids sneaking through the streets, past security check points, in an attempt to escape.
There’s an endless amount of information to collect and decipher, but it doesn’t bring the satisfaction that it usually does. In an actual investigation, Connor can put his discoveries to good use. He’s working toward a goal and finding new information can reveal the next step, bringing him closer to success.
Now, he’s just overloading himself with data input. Countless moments, stories, and situations building up in his processors, tearing his attention every which way. He’s restless, he realizes. His senseless scanning appears to be making the situation worse, not better, but he can’t help himself. Can’t stop.
What’s his purpose? What is he supposed to do now? How can anyone manage to exist like this?
But after 16 hours, 42 minutes, and 14 seconds, Connor receives a call.
>> Incoming call: Lieutenant Hank Anderson (cell)
Connor answers, his LED flashing yellow as the call connects. He’s never communicated with Hank in this way before.
“Connor?” Hank says.
“Lieutenant.”
Hank heaves a sigh. It sounds like he’s speaking directly into Connor’s audio processors. “Jesus,” he says. “You’re alive, then?”
“Of course,” he says. “The freed androids and I made it safely through the city. We met up with Markus after the FBI stood down.”
After fighting the other RK800 and saving Hank, Connor had left on his own. Hank had squeezed his arm, nodded jerkily, and mumbled something along the lines of stay safe out there.
“You in hiding with the rest of ‘em?” Hank asks, his voice gruff.
Connor looks around the street. He ended up in a plaza. CyberLife stores are dark and empty, free of androids. Graffitied demands for peace and freedom litter every available surface.
Dialogue options flicker to life in the corner of Connor’s HUD. TRUTH/LIE. The truth has always seemed to go a long way with Hank, earning his appreciation and making him like Connor better. That shouldn’t have been one of his mission priorities — catching deviants should’ve been the highest on the list — but when his priorities shifted, Connor did nothing to change it. He didn’t even report the discrepancy to Amanda. After all, he figured that he could complete both missions at the same time, though he knows now that he never could’ve succeeded against the deviants and remained Hank’s friend.
“No,” Connor admits, finally turning away from the CyberLife store. He never resided in one himself — he was built at CyberLife directly, a prototype not for sale — but the sight of it still makes him uneasy. “I’m… exploring.”
A half-truth, then. Connor might’ve selected better dialogue options if he hadn’t hesitated for so long.
“Exploring,” Hank echoes, voice deadpan.
“Yes,” Connor says. Doesn’t elaborate.
Hank sighs. “Look,” he says. “I don’t know how safe it is out there. Not everyone would’ve evacuated, and I’m sure not everyone is happy with the way things are going. You should probably get off the street.”
FIND SHELTER. Connor blinks at the prompt. He glances back toward the CyberLife store.
“I haven’t seen anyone,” Connor says, which isn’t really an answer.
Hank is silent for a moment. Then, “Okay, I’m gonna come pick you up,” he says. “Where are you?”
“I’m by the Chicken Feed truck.” He isn’t, but he knows where it is in relation to where he is, and he feels some urge to get away from this area. From the dark store that feels like it’s looming over him.
“Good, okay,” Hank says. “Be there in ten.”
The connection ends. Connor is alone once more, but now he has a directive. He turns on his heel and heads for the food truck. He miscalculated how long it would take Hank to drive there — didn’t account for the lack of traffic — so Hank is already standing there, waiting, when Connor arrives.
He stops three feet, four inches away from Hank. He looks the same as he always has, which isn’t surprising. Part of Connor thinks the whole world should seem different now that he’s deviant. He was too distracted, too overwhelmed to think about it when he saw him in the CyberLife warehouse, but now he finds it somewhat surprising that Hank is the same.
Of course, it’s not the world or Hank that’ve changed. Just Connor.
He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, which isn’t a new sensation. Perhaps countless times since he deviated, he’s felt this bubbling or outpouring or growing sense of something, so many different feelings that seem to take residence is his chest or stomach or toes, even, and Connor can’t put a name to them. He doesn’t know what they mean or what they are, just that they’re different and terribly confusing.
This one is new. His body is tense. Simultaneously, he feels like his limbs are locked in place and like he needs to shift, fidget. All of Hank’s attention is on Connor.
The feeling — not particularly good, but not horrible either — shifts into relief when Hank closes the distance between them and pulls Connor into a hug.
He’s never been hugged before. He isn’t entirely sure what to do. But it feels good. Hank’s presence, surrounding and enveloping him. Connor does what feels natural, returning the gesture. He winds his arms around Hank’s neck. Hank has a hand cupping the back of Connor’s head, and when he buries his face into Hank’s shoulder, all the discomfort and disquiet and diseverything silences.
He relaxes, finally, for the first time in 16 hours, 53 minutes, and 17 seconds.
Hank runs a hand up and down Connor’s back, firm and comforting. Connor exhales.
“You good?” Hank says. He pats Connor on the back a few times, hard, before pulling away. Connor nods.
“I feel better now,” he says. It implies that he was feeling worse before. It wasn’t actually his intention to admit this, but Hank doesn’t press him. He just nods, understanding, and jerks his head toward his car.
“C’mon,” he says. “It’s cold as shit out here.”
“Typically, excrement is warm,” Connor points out. “Also, non-extreme adverse temperatures don’t affect my performances.”
Hank rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m cold as shit,” he says, ignoring Connor’s correction of that particular analogy. “Let’s go.”
In the car, Hank blasts the heat but not the music, which is different from before. Most of their car rides throughout the length of their investigation were drowned out by Hank’s music, making conversation impossible.
That same feeling as before creeps up on Connor. Despite the lack of loud music, conversation isn’t taking place. They’re both silent, and Connor feels…
Error. Data Not Found.
The symptoms, then, if not the name. Running a functions scan reveals nothing — his biocomponents are operating fine. A little slow, since he hasn’t entered stasis in a while, but that’s not a problem. Which makes this a deviant issue, not something lacking in his software or hardware.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Doesn’t know what to say. Wants to shift, doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Wants to move to shake off this feeling.
“What’s up?” Hank says, glancing at him. Connor blinks, his mouth parting in surprise. Hank taps his own forehead, indicating Connor’s LED. Yellow. “Something must be bothering you,” he surmises.
“Yes,” Connor says slowly, frowning. “I’m… having difficulty identifying a feeling.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“The deviants — androids — we encountered. They weren’t lying about developing them,” Connor says. Another weird thought. Before, he had been wholly convinced that the deviants were just malfunctioning. That there was an error in their code, tricking them into believing they were experiencing feelings akin to that of humans’.
It’s not true, though. It isn’t some errant thought in Connor’s head, some combination of zeros and ones informing him YOU FEEL: RESTLESS. In fact, his head doesn’t seem to be the epicenter for any of his feelings. They’re scattered throughout his body, creating sensations that likely result in or are the result of the feeling. His head — or mind, rather — seems to be the last component to catch on.
“It seems I’ve experienced many emotions since…” Connor clears his throat, despite the lack of need to. He doesn’t know why. Somehow, it helps. “Since then. But I can’t make sense of them. My databanks can’t identify them. At least, not when I’m experiencing them, rather than witnessing a human experience them. I’m… confused.”
“Maybe I can help,” Hank says. He taps the indicator before turning left, even though there are no other vehicles on the road.
Connor cocks his head.
“Maybe you don’t know what the emotion is called, but you can still describe the feelings you’re experiencing. And then I’ll see if I can think of a name that matches up to it.”
“This emotion has already faded,” Connor says.
“Sure,” Hank says. “They do that, sometimes. But do you want to explain it anyway? Then you’ll know what you’re feeling, the next time it happens.”
This seems to be the most logical course of action. If Connor is going to be experiencing emotions with increasing frequency, it would be best to catalogue them as quickly and as often as possible so as to become familiar with them.
“It happened twice,” Connor says. “First when we met at the food truck, then again when we got into the car. The silence felt… oppressive. I felt the urge to shift or fidget. Your attention felt like a physical weight on my chassis.” He looks at Hank, expectant.
Hank’s mouth quirks up at the corner. Thirty degrees.
“You feelin’ a little self-conscious, Connor? Awkward?”
The title mentally clicks into place. Connor’s processors shuffle the information around, slotting the symptoms he experienced under an umbrella labeled self-conscious.
“Yes,” Connor blurts. “That.”
Hank hums. “Why were you feeling that way?”
“I thought… You mean, you can’t tell me?”
Hank laughs. “You can’t exactly explain why someone else is feeling the way they are,” he says. “That’s something you have to figure out on your own. Feelings are a response to something else, so you need to think about what made you feel that way.”
He pulls into his driveway, shifts the car in park, but doesn’t get out. He just looks at Connor, giving him his full attention.
“I’m feeling self-conscious again,” Connor informs him.
Hank suppresses a smile. “That’s all right,” he says.
Connor frowns, thinking. “It is possible this feeling emerged as a result of my recent deviancy. When we last saw each other, the situation was tense and my simulated adrenaline was high. But now that it’s resolved, I feel aware of myself in a heightened way. Additionally, my programming no longer suggests the ideal course of action for interactions, making the initial silence of our car ride feel… awkward,” he concludes. Then he smiles.
Hank chuckles. “Seems to me like you’ve got it figured out,” he says. When he gets out of the car, Connor follows. This time, he enters Hank’s home through the front door instead of the window.
Sumo barks the second the door is open, barreling down the entryway, his ears flopping with every step. He jumps at Hank, who shoves him down with verbal reprimands but rewards him with physical pets at the same time.
Connor drops to his knees. Sumo’s attention shifts to him immediately and Connor receives an arm- and face-full of Saint Bernard. Petting him this time feels different than it did before. The first time, the action was fueled mostly by curiosity, though it sparked some ignored feeling deep in Connor’s chassis. This time, the feeling roars forward in full force. Joy, Connor thinks.
He can’t help but grin, Sumo licking him all over the face as he buries his hands in the dog’s fur. His touch sensitivity increased automatically when he deviated, which is obvious now more than ever. Sumo is soft.
“I like dogs,” Connor says.
“So you’ve said.”
“I like Sumo,” Connor corrects.
“C’mon, you big oaf,” Hunk says, dragging Sumo away by the collar. “Leave the poor guy alone.”
Connor returns to his feet, idly brushing dog fur off his jacket and pants. Hank’s house is virtually the same as it was before, with just a few items having shifted around since Connor’s last visit, which makes sense. Connor assumes most human homesteads retain the same general look, with the level of clutter shifting as time passes.
Hank ventures into the kitchen with Sumo in tow. Dog food clatters into a bowl, followed by the sound of Sumo scarfing it down. When Hank returns to the living room, Connor is standing in the exact middle of it, having been scanning everything in sight.
Empty glass on the table, remnants of whiskey inside. The bottle itself is beside the glass, surprisingly full. Hank only poured a finger or two.
Dog hair on the carpet, but not on the couch. Hank doesn’t let Sumo get up there.
Books on the shelves. Some appearing to have barely been touched, others so well-read that the spines are cracked, almost obscuring the title.
“Stop being creepy,” Hank says. He shoves Connor’s chest with the side of his forearm, forcing him backward onto the couch. Hank joins him, pouring another shot of whiskey. Then he turns on the TV, selecting some old movie and sinking into the cushions a little more comfortably.
Connor pretends to watch, but he creates a list of priorities in his taskbar instead.
- Deduce how long I can stay at Hank’s house
- Discover emotions
- Pet Sumo
The task only takes 2.17 seconds. He tries to concentrate on the movie, but his processors are working too quickly for him to relax and pay attention. Like when Hank would be getting briefed on a crime scene and Connor would accidentally scan the entire room for evidence instead of listening.
That restless, overwhelming feeling has abandoned him ever since Hank called, and he thinks it is a direct result of Hank’s presence. Connor still doesn’t know what to do with himself, exactly, but nothing creeps up to make him feel like he has to be moving, scanning, doing, like it did when he was wandering the streets of Detroit.
Connor is pretty sure that the feeling will return when he leaves Hank’s, however. He doesn’t want to find and rejoin Markus, already plagued with the sense that he overstayed his welcome, but he doesn’t want to walk aimlessly through Detroit anymore, either. Plus, he really does need a safe place to pause and enter stasis in order to recharge and resume optimal performance.
Logically, Hank isn’t likely to dismiss Connor any time soon. He was the one to initiate contact and he picked Connor up to ensure his safety, worried about unaccounted for threats throughout the city. With that logic, one might assume that Hank plans to house Connor until the threat is lifted. But Connor doesn’t know whether that means the end of the evacuation, the official announcement about android rights that’s yet to come, or the presumable establishment of emergency android housing, assuming the official statement is made and androids are actually granted rights.
However, Connor is aware that it’s typically a bad practice to assume anything. He should probably ask Hank to clarify the situation. But yet again, self-consciousness rises. Connor doesn’t want to force Hank into a position where he invites Connor to stay out of obligation. He also doesn’t want to be rejected — he imagines the ensuing emotion would be uncomfortable.
His thoughts wind and spin in this manner for the duration of the movie. He’s barely aware of the time passing, his processors so actively engaged. But when the credits roll, Hank yawns and stretches. Connor wonders for the first time whether he slept after their encounter at the CyberLife warehouse or whether he was as awake and restless as Connor.
“All right,” Hank says, getting to his feet with a groan. “I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Human dietary and exercise habits can positively and negatively affect alertness and exhaustion,” Connor says. “And sleep, of course.”
Hank snorts. “Can’t imagine anyone was able to sleep during that whole… thing.”
Connor was correct. Hank has been awake far longer than is optimal.
“You gonna be okay out here?” Hank continues, gesturing to the living room. “You can sleep on the couch, watch TV, whatever you want.”
“Androids don’t sleep,” Connor says. “However, we can enter a mode of stasis to recalibrate, perform system scans and updates, and run background programs.”
Hank blinks. “Sounds like sleep,” he decides. “So, you’ll be good out here?”
Connor nods. “The couch is fine.”
“Great.” Hank nods. “Night, Connor.”
“Goodnight, Hank,” Connor says.
When Hank leaves the room, he flicks off the light. All that remains is the gentle glow of Connor’s LED, sometimes blue, sometimes yellow.