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Hank woke abruptly from his floor at the buzz of his doorbell. It was polite at first, a short burst of noise, until it took him longer than three seconds to get to his feet. Then it became an endlessly drawn out drone that made him groan and clutch his already throbbing head. Sumo gave a single low bark from Hank’s room, but otherwise didn’t move– no doubt reluctant to give up the empty bed.
Hank glanced to his stove, which told him it was 2:32 in the morning. His eyebrows drew together in suspicion. Dragging himself to his feet, he scooped the revolver off his kitchen table– irrelevant placement, his hobbies were his business– spinning the cylinder until the weapon was hot. A few heavy knocks joined the scream of the bell. Jesus, who could possibly be this interested in him this early in the morning, nefarious reasons or no?
Faint whispers started as he finally approached his door. They would’ve been loud enough to make out were it not for the cacophony covering them up, which he suspected the... two? individuals waiting for him knew.
Peeking through the peephole, he mentally corrected himself to three, though one was alarmingly slung over another’s shoulder. More alarming– well, no, maybe just more surprising, was the familiarity of the faces he could make out. The pack mule was wearing a simple flu mask, and his eyes were obscured by the bill of a Detroit Lions hat, but the other two bore the mug of Hank’s partner. Connor had disappeared after that night at Hart Plaza, about a month and a half ago, and had... apparently multiplied on his hiatus.
Now thoroughly bewildered, Hank opened the door.
The one ringing his doorbell ceased, straightening. Face to face, Hank could tell he was a little taller than Connor, hair blonder, face a tad more angular– or maybe his lighter eyes just made it seem that way. Hank felt a bit pinned under his blank expression, which was probably by design. The only indication of the android’s distress was his bright red LED, which flickered briefly yellow in relief as the door opened, before returning to its crimson state.
“Hello L–“ He started, before his friend was shoving past Hank into the house.
“Hey!” The human cried, though aside from shooting him there wasn’t much he could do to stop the guy. Androids were strong as hell.
Blondie looked rapidly between Pack Mule and Hank– or, more specifically, Hank’s gun– and then gave what Hank thought was supposed to be an apologetic smile, but came out as more of a grimace. He stepped swiftly past the Lieutenant. Great.
Pack Mule navigated the house strangely, swerving to avoid a piece of furniture that wasn’t there and then searching for the couch with his foot as though he couldn’t see it. When he seemed confident in its placement, he set the RK800 on his shoulders down atop it so that the android was sitting up, leaned back against the cushions.
“I’m sorry, who the hell are you?” Hank asked, shutting the door to keep the cold air out.
“Connor, Connor, and Connor,” Pack Mule snarked, motioning vaguely around the room at himself and his companions, then to the one on the couch. “He’s the one you like. And he’s– he’s dying so it would be great if you could hold on to any more questions.”
Oh.
Oh!?
“What the hell happened?” Hank asked, suddenly wide awake. He quickly switched the living room light on, dumping the revolver on an end table and moving to examine the scene.
The two... conscious Connors... jesus, that was weird, began to peel the jacket off the unconscious one. It was plain white, which made the brown stain along the right side more obvious. That matched up with the drying liquid clumping Blondie’s hair together. Given that he was also fairly underdressed for the weather in a simple sweater, it seemed he’d leant his jacket, and Hank could tell why as soon as the thing was crumpled up on the floor.
Blue blood was eating up the coat-turned-bandage around Connor’s– uh, his Connor’s chest. Things might have calmed down a bit since November 11th, but the streets of Detroit were still most definitely not a safe place to be openly bleeding blue. There was a cleaner jacket on Pack Mule, but judging by the way he was shivering he couldn’t afford to lose it. He wasn’t even simulating breathing– which, if Hank recalled correctly, was a cooling measure first and a way to integrate with humans second.
“He was shot,” said Blondie stiffly. “A major Thirium line ruptured, he went into emergency stasis to reduce energy use. It’s not hard to repair, we just don’t have the supplies. I... am sorry for the intrusion, but we didn’t know where else to go.”
Ignoring his heart cracking into tiny little pieces, Hank asked, “What do you need?”
“Electrical tape and Thirium,” Pack Mule chimed in. Hank finally caught a look at his eyes, and found the sclera black, iris and pupil swallowed up by the same dark blue. The guy definitely couldn’t see, and it probably had something to do with the small bit of plastic that had been hastily taped to his forehead as though he were a car with a broken window.
“That’s it? I, uh– I got Markus’s number, he said to call if he–“ Hank motioned to Couch Connor– “showed back up. He’s probably got something better. A, uh– a technician, at least.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Blondie hurried to get out, at the same time Pack Mule blurted: “No!”
Okay. Clearly a touchy subject. Hank raised his hands placatingly.
“Alright. Just a suggestion.” He turned to the kitchen, searching through his junk drawer. “I, uh– I got the tape, but I don’t have any blue blood.”
“We’ll get some,” Pack Mule said.
Blondie turned to look at him, a hint of annoyance narrowing his brows more than they already were. “With what money?”
“Oh, don’t start–“
“You should never have attacked that man–“
“I’m sorry, okay!? You’re right, I lost my temper, I just... Nines, he hurt you.”
“We don’t feel pain.”
“You were crying.”
“I wasn’t–“ a hint of blue dusted Blond– Nines’s face. So they did call each other different names. “I was just cleaning the coffee from my eyes.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“It doesn’t matter. I appreciate you defending my honor, but it clearly wasn’t worth it.”
“I didn’t ask him to push me out of the way!” Pack Mule’s voice edged on a whine. He winced, bringing a hand up to massage his head as though a headache were forming, and Nines’s gaze softened infinitesimally.
“Then it would be you in danger. That’s not any better.”
“Hey,” Hank interrupted before a heartfelt melody could swell, miming throwing a roll of electrical tape until Nines actually seemed ready to catch it.
He did, and with a small thanks, he crouched before his... brother? Friend? What did they consider each other? Those two women from the Eden club had been the same model, and they were dating, so clearly there wasn’t some pre-existing family dynamic there, but these guys had also been on the road together for a while. Maybe Hank would ask when he had the chance. Either way, Nines untied the coat from around Connor’s torso and popped off the damaged pectoral plate.
Inside was a mess of blue blood and flashing lights. The rupture, close enough to his Thirium pump that the thing was now exposed, had been closed with two bobby pins, but clearly not fast enough.
“Do you have any paper towels?” Nines asked, hands hovering.
Wordlessly, Hank moved back to the kitchen, retrieving a wad of napkins from a takeout bag he had yet to throw out.
“Uh... next best thing,” He said.
Nines accepted them, and began gingerly drying the area, careful not to tear the line more than it already was.
As he worked, a small groan made Hank turn his attention to Pack Mule. The kid was all but doubled over in what looked a whole lot like pain, despite what Nines had said earlier about not feeling it, and he was shivering enough to make his chassis creak.
“You alright?”
“I’m fine,” he hissed.
“Yeah, you look like it. Sit down, you’re gonna keel over.”
Pack Mule scoffed in the way one did when something was annoyingly ironic. Hank didn’t rise to that bait, because he was a goddamn mature adult, and this guy was clearly going through enough already. Instead he moved over to his electric fireplace, turning the thing up as high as it would go.
It was Nines that eventually said, “Sixty, for the love of rA9, sit down.”
Sixty– which wasn’t all that better a name than Pack Mule, really– huffed, but did tentatively settle into Hank’s old La-Z-Boy, leaning subconsciously closer to the source of warmth filling the room.
With nothing else to do, Hank turned to collect his keys from wherever he’d tossed them coming home from work.
“I’ll, uh... get some of that stuff.”
Both androids seemed surprised by this, which was a bit offensive. Nines’s eyes turned his way for the briefest of seconds before they were back on what was essentially Connor’s guts.
“Thank you,” the blond said, and while his tone didn’t change much his LED gave a few rotations of blue. “He will likely be back online when you return, once what’s left in his system begins to circulate again.”
“Alright, I’ll try to be quick.”
____
‘Try’ being the operative word. Cyberlife had crashed and burned after their products gained sentience, so there were very few places that even had access to Thirium, and they were crowded pretty much 24-7. Even the early hour didn’t stop the one Hank chose from being crammed full of weary androids and fussing humans, checkout line almost out the door.
He probably should’ve asked how much blue blood he needed to get. It was a thought that stuck him painfully late, as he stared at the various containers of the stuff adorning the shelves. 8 ounce bottles, pints, half-gallons, gallons, two gallon jugs... hell, better safe than sorry. Couldn’t hurt to have some leftovers, especially if he was going to have three androids hanging around now. It wasn’t like the stuff expired.
He grabbed a cart, and then piled the last four single gallon containers into it, before starting towards the beginning of the line. The words ‘CASING REPAIR KIT’ caught his eye as he exited the aisle, though, and he paused, looking the endcap display over. Hanging on it were a ton of small boxes, advertising fiberglass patches and two-part epoxy that dried to the exact same shade as standard white android casing. There was a warning that the epoxy wouldn’t support synthetic skin, but Hank figured that wasn’t a huge concern given the situation.
He tossed a few into the cart and continued on his way, trying not to shed any tears when the time came to pay for it all and he lost a little over half his monthly mortgage payment.
____
When Hank entered his house again, the atmosphere was much calmer. Sixty seemed to have fallen asleep, or... drifted into stasis, or whatever, on that recliner, going so far as to extend the foot rest. He was in a hoodie now, as his jacket had been removed, given to Connor to cover up his missing chest plate– which was still sitting on the coffee table, right beside Sixty’s hat.
Connor was awake, as Nines said he would be, sitting upright, sandwiched between the blond and Sumo. All that commotion before hadn’t been enough to draw the big lug from the bedroom, but of course, here he was now, wherever cuddles were available.
The residents of the couch each turned and/or lifted their heads to see Hank and his three plastic bags.
“Hey,” he greeted, setting said bags on the kitchen table. “I didn’t know how much you needed, so... I just grabbed as much as I could. Got these little repair kit things, too, however useful those actually are. Figured they wouldn’t hurt.”
Nines stood, walking over towards him, while Connor did nothing but blink owlishly.
“He okay?”
“His Thirium levels are down 46%. Anything not necessary to keep his processor and limbs in working order has been shut off, including audio processing and some higher cognitive functions.”
“Huh. Well, no more of that.”
Hank turned to his cabinets and grabbed one of the only cups not rotting away in his sink. It was a novelty mug shaped like an extremely lobotomized Gromit that had turned up on his desk one April Fools, which he was decently sure he hadn’t touched since that day. The gallon would probably be a little heavy for Mr. Low Cognitive Function, and Nines would need something to measure out the exact amount, anyway... alright, damn, maybe he just didn’t want the kid drinking out of a glorified motor oil bottle. Sue him.
Nines raised a quizzical eyebrow when Hank placed the mug on the table, but didn’t otherwise comment.
“So...” Hank started as Nines filled the mug. “Now that he’s not actively bleeding out, you wanna explain how you ended up here?”
Nines hesitated a bit as he carried the mug over to the couch, and Hank took it upon himself to just bring the gallon so the android didn’t have to keep walking back and forth.
“We ran into a rather belligerent man near–“
Hank set the gallon on the coffee table. “Yeah, I got that, that’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?” Nines asked, sitting back down beside Connor.
As he brought the mug to Connor’s mouth, gently coaching him to drink, Hank said, “I mean what you three were doing out on the street in the first place. Why you didn’t want me to call Markus. Who you and Daredevil over there are, how you met up with him.”
‘Him’ being Connor, of course, who now had blue blood dripping down his chin.
“It’s a lengthy story,” Nines warned.
“I got...” Hank glanced at the stove again. 3:47. “Eh, who am I kidding, no-one’s gonna care if I miss a day of work.”
There that eyebrow went, raising again. Nines didn’t protest further, though.
“Alright. I’m RK900, designated Connor. Obviously that’s confusing. They call me Nines, to distinguish. I think it should be ‘Nine-Hundred,’ personally, but I’ve been told you can’t pick your own nicknames, so I suppose I’m stuck with it.” A nod in Sixty’s direction. “He is RK800-60. As a machine he tried to stop Fifty-One from liberating the androids in Cyberlife Tower’s storage facilities, but he was stopped by...”
He paused, looking over at Hank. “Well, you know.”
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait...
What?
“You’re telling me that’s the asshole that took me hostage? How the hell is he still kicking?”
Nines’s LED gave a few rotations of uncomfortable yellow. “That wasn’t him in any way that mattered. He’s awake now, and he still struggles with his past actions, so–“
“Easy, easy.” It took great effort for Hank to school his tone. Sure, that had been a rough night, but Sixty wasn’t really to blame, no matter how the revelation made his heart race. “I know. I mean, I won’t pretend I know what’s it’s like for you guys before you deviate, but I understand what you’re saying. No hard feelings, just... surprised me, is all.”
The android nodded, LED spinning blue once more.
“Question still stands, though. I was there that night, I saw him go down. How is he here right now?”
“The bullet was off-center. His processor was only partially damaged, he was able to reboot within twenty-four hours.”
“That’s why he can’t see? The, uh... the damage?”
“Yes.” Nines began to refill the mug. “He gets by with our reconstruction technology, but it’s no substitute for sight.”
“Is that... something that can be fixed, or...?”
“Not without risk. Our processors are incredibly delicate, even just removing the bullet now could cause him to lose further functions.”
“Jesus...”
Wasn’t that a bitch. At least Sixty’s earlier stand-offishness made more sense.
“It was Fifty-One that deviated him. When he rebooted, he was still following his last mission objective, which was to stop his predecessor.” A sharp exhale left Nines... a laugh, maybe? It was hard to tell with him. “Clearly he didn’t succeed.”
“Yeah. What, uh... what about you?”
Another spike of yellow as his jaw went taut.
“I was inactive. They found me in a red ice den and rescued me. I... obviously don’t remember anything about it.”
Hank got the strangest feeling that wasn’t the truth, or at least not all of it. The response was too robotic, for lack of a better term, too rehearsed. Clearly Nines didn’t want to talk about it, though, so all he did was hum in empathy, and the blond seemed to relax.
“How long ago was that?”
“Twenty-nine days.”
Hot damn.
“You’re the guy we’ve been looking for.”
The phrasing seemed to startle Nines. “What?”
Hank motioned between the two RK800s. “One of them called in an anonymous tip, right? Abandoned warehouse near Riverside Park, small scale operation?” Nines nodded. “I’m working that case right now. Security cameras caught two guys sneaking off with... you. Based on the scene they left, we thought they’d just double-crossed their business partner, but if it was those two knuckleheads that means the case has been closed this whole time. You think either of them would be willing to make a report? Perp’s been tight-lipped about the whole thing, it’s been hell getting charges to stick.”
“I, um...” red, yellow, yellow, red, yellow. “You’d have to ask them.”
Oh, way to go, Anderson. Hadn’t he just determined the kid didn’t want to talk about this?
“Right, yeah. Of course.”
A pause, as Nines filled the mug yet again
“So... Markus’s off the table?” Hank prompted after a moment, hoping the topic didn’t elicit as visceral of a reaction as it had last time.
“Yes. There was an... incident, after Fifty-One arrived at Hart Plaza. North told him to leave. Ultimately for the best, he– and by extension we– tend to make other androids...” a short blip of yellow. “Nervous.”
“Well, I don’t think Markus got that memo. He’s been worried.”
“He’s in the minority. Even if he did want to help us, he would be risking his reputation, and he needs as many on his side as he can get right now.”
“And you figured I was the best option?”
“Sixty suggested you. He has all of Fifty-One’s pre-deviancy memories, he knew you two were close. I don’t... really want to think about what might’ve happened, had he not been right. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Least I could do, kid’s saved my ass about a hundred times. And hey, none of that Lieutenant crap, call me Hank.”
“Yes... sir.” Even that seemed to pain him.
Hank barked out a laugh, and it seemed to draw the slightest of smiles across Nines’s face, light enough that Hank wondered if he was imagining it. The blond poured one final half-cup of blue blood into Gromit, and handed it to Connor– by now recovered enough to hold the thing himself, when had that happened?
“You with us, son?” Hank asked as Nines stood and capped the thirium container, now a little over halfway empty.
“Yes,” Connor said, still blinking hard. His eyes flickered this way and that, responding to pop-up errors and prompts for recalibration– which Hank only knew because he’d made the mistake of asking what Connor was looking at once, and gotten the full technical run-down. “Thirium levels are at a stable 99%.”
“Good. There’s– uh– there’s more if you need it.”
“Thank you.” His eyes drifted self-consciously down to the empty mug in his hands. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”
Oh, jesus christ, was insecurity baked into the RK units’ casing or something?
“You’ve gotta be the only guy I ever met to apologize for getting shot.”
That earned a chuckle, even if it was a bit subdued. Hank gave him a pat on the shoulder, then took the mug from him, moving to take it to the sink. A glance Sixty’s way showed Nines standing beside him, hand peeled free of synthetic skin to reveal black casing beneath, knuckles pressed to the RK800’s equally bare temple as though checking for a fever. When he pulled away, skin stretching back over his fingers, it was with a small frown.
“What’s up?” Hank asked as he rinsed the mug, and for what had to be the twentieth time tonight Nines startled at the acknowledgment.
“His core temperature is a few degrees higher than it should be,” He explained, moving towards the fireplace. He pressed a few buttons to turn it down, and when he still felt Hank’s eyes on him, continued almost nervously, “His thermal regulation system is non-functioning, he relies on external factors to stay at an optimal temperature. He’s not currently at risk of shutdown, I would just like to prevent him from becoming so.”
Hank nodded as passively as he could manage. “Sounds like a good idea.”
Adding ol’ Gromit to his already unacceptably large pile of dirty dishes, he idled for a moment, unsure how to proceed. His hosting skills were rusty on a good day, without taking into account that his guests were an entirely different species. Shit, he might as well just start with blankets, right? Those were universal enough.
There were two shoved up into the top of his closet, both of which, upon his tugging, fell inelegantly into his arms in a heap. One was a comforter that he used whenever his was in the washing machine, and the other was a patch quilt his grandmother had made a few years before her arthritis made her give the hobby up. Now, basic math told him this was not enough for the amount of people he was offering to, but anything else was either buried under a mountain of boxes in his garage– aka gone forever– or on his bed. They could make due.
Besides, Sixty was on the verge of overheating anyway, right? He probably wouldn’t need one. Not that the other two did, either, but... hell, he was trying to make a gesture.
He returned to the living room before he could overthink any more, dumping the blankets by Connor’s Sumo-free side. “Here, divvy those up however you want.”
If they kept looking so damn surprised over such basic decencies, he was going to go out and execute the first Cyberlife employee he could find.
“You’re... letting us stay the night?” Nines asked, tone full of very tentative hope.
The gun was still on that end table. It would be easy. He had access to a lot of private information, and god knew pretty much everyone involved with that company had a record.
“No,” Hank deadpanned instead of voicing his growing murder plot. “I bought a thousand dollars worth of blue blood just to kick you back out on the street.”
Nines glanced between him and the blankets for a moment, seeming... confused.
“He’s being sarcastic,” Connor supplied. Nines’s posture brightened, if posture could even do such a thing.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I do that sometimes. Seriously, though, stay as long as you want. I got an overdue date with my mattress, but, uh, make yourselves at home. Shower’s open,” He aimed towards Nines, “if you wanna get that gunk outta your hair, uh... I know you guys don’t eat, but... shit, I don’t know, do whatever you want.”
“Thank you,” Connor said once again, and Hank waved him off.
“Ah, shut up. I’ll, uh... see you guys in the morning, I guess. ‘Night.” He turned towards his room once more, beginning down the hall.
“Goodnight, Hank,” came from behind him, probably Connor, quickly followed by who he was assuming was Nines.
“Yes, goodnight.”