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Hank grips the steering wheel of his beat up, old rust-bucket of a sedan, the leather peeling beneath his clenched fists. He tries to keep his eyes on the road and not on the spinning gold of Connor’s LED. He tries to convince himself he’s imagining the flashes of arterial red bleeding into the indicator. Gold, gold, gold, red, gold, gold.
Normally, when they’re in the car, the android affects a slight slouch as he stares at anything and everything—at Hank, the interior of the car, the coin dancing over his knuckles, the streets of Detroit just beyond the windshield—appearing for all the world a curious, young 20-something. Normally, he tries to make small talk, unphased by Hank’s wordless grunts in response. And, normally, when Hank inevitably gets sick of his shit and turns the volume of the car’s speakers up to almost deafening levels, the android will just furrow his brow, as if trying to decipher some kind of message in the frantic beat of the drums and wailing of the guitars, before relaxing back in his seat with a small, polite smile on his artificially serene face.
Now, the android sits stiff and straight in the passenger seat, like someone has fused his spine together. He hasn’t said a word since the tower. And, his LED hasn’t stopped spinning like crazy.
“I’m okay,” the android had said, his shoulders rounded, synthetic skin painted neon blue, his dark hair dripping with it.
“I’m okay,” he’d repeated. Which was odd. No one had asked him to repeat himself and there was no reason to assume Hank hadn’t heard him the first time.
Odder still: Connor hadn’t sounded like himself. Either time he’d said it. The words weren’t pitched in that annoying, helpful tone CyberLife programmed him with. They were raw, unsteady.
He hadn’t sounded like a machine.
“I felt it die,” he’d said. “Like I was dying.”
When he’d looked at Hank, for the first time since introducing himself as the android sent by CyberLife, Connor’s big, brown eyes weren’t freakishly blank. They weren’t analyzing or assessing. If Hank hadn’t known any better, he would have called the wide-eyed, wild look on Connor’s face something close to terror.
He’d looked at Hank and, just for a second, Hank had seen only a frightened kid. Which makes sense because, as far as Hank knows, Connor is something like a week old. But, that’s also where things start to fall apart. Connor is an android. Androids don’t feel pain or fear.
Not unless they’ve gone deviant.
“I was scared,” Connor had said, trembling. Fucking trembling. Like a newborn baby deer.
They pull up to a red light and Hank chances another glance at Connor. LED still spinning. Gold. Flash of red. Gold. Body held unnaturally still. Somehow more lifeless than some of the earliest android models. And, those had been some eerie motherfuckers. All alloy-steel skeletons walking around with molded plastic faces, tottering around like Barbie dolls come to life.
“You look like shit,” Hank says.
Connor doesn’t respond. Hank knows he’s not making a report or whatever because his eyes are open. He’s not receiving directives from on high, either, because he isn’t doing that creepy, rapid twitch-blink thing.
“Hey,” Hank tries. “Connor!”
When Connor doesn’t respond, Hank smacks the synthetic meat of Connor’s thigh with the back of his hand. Not hard enough to do any damage. Just to drag his attention back out into the real world. A love tap, Hank’s ma would have said.
Connor flinches, jumping in his seat, pressing his back against the door with his hands held out, like he’s bracing for some sort of attack. He blinks back some of the same fright Hank had seen at the tower and tries to screw his face into something resembling helpful disinterest. Except, instead of familiar eager-to-please android stoicism, Connor only manages to pull off what, to Hank, looks like the face of a very small child on the verge of tears.
“Lieutenant?” Connor asks. His voice, at least, sounds closer to normal. Subdued, sure, but nothing like I’m okay or I felt it die.
“You look like shit,” Hank repeats. Because it’s easier than trying to address the obvious trauma the deviant-hunting android beside him is trying to process.
“I apologize,” Connor says, looking down at himself. His uniform is all out of whack, the white shirt beneath his jacket wrinkled, dyed a bright, neon blue.
Connor frowns and there’s that flash of red lighting up his LED again. “I will…endeavour to make myself presentable once we reach the station.”
Hank wonders if he realizes that wasn’t quite what Hank meant. The Thirium on his skin hasn’t evaporated yet. If the blood on his face and hair were human, Connor would look like a crime scene.
But, then, Connor picks at some of the Thirium staining his hands, so maybe he does know. Maybe his social integration programs or whatever just haven’t picked up on how unsettling he looks, eyes wild, drenched in blood—even if it is blue. Even if it does smell faintly of blue raspberry Jolly Ranchers.
Or, maybe that last bit is just Hank’s subconscious talking.
“You okay?” Hank asks as the light turns green. Connor hasn’t moved away from the door and Hank doesn’t have to be a top-of-the-line prototype android detective to read that kind of body language.
“I’m fine!” Connor says, much too quickly.
Red again. Red, red, red, gold.
“Look, Connor, I ain’t gonna tell anyone, alright?”
If anything, Connor seems to press himself further into the door. More red, holding steady. “I apologize, Lieutenant. I don’t seem to und—”
“Connor,” is all Hank says, looking at him from beneath bushy brows.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“It’s okay. Things’re gonna—” Hank stops. If he doesn’t believe these words himself, then how’s he going to convince some genius android?
But, looking at Connor, Hank doesn’t see the android sent by CyberLife. Not anymore. All he sees is this scared, vulnerable baby bird. And, ever since the tower, ever since realizing what the hell has been going on with Connor, Hank has been fighting the urge to stop the car, grab the shock blanket out of the trunk, and wrap this man-shaped infant up to his eyeballs in it, until all he can do is stare owlishly back at Hank through the folds of the thick fabric.
“It’ll be okay,” Hank finishes, somewhat lamely.
Connor doesn’t say anything, just sits, pressed up against the passenger door, staring at Hank. Like he’s afraid of Hank. And, Christ, why wouldn’t he be? With the way Hank has treated him up until now?
“Fuck,” Hank says, a little too loud in the confined space of the car. He doesn’t miss the spinning red of Connor’s LED or the way he tenses, like Hank is a hungry tiger and Connor is the sweet, rosy-cheeked toddler who waddled into its enclosure.
“Sorry.” Hank runs a hand through his tangled nest of hair. He wants to reach out, clap Connor on the leg or something, but he’s not convinced Connor won’t tuck and roll out of the car, moving vehicle or not. “Sorry, okay? I just—fuck—I need a drink.”
Quiet, almost too quiet to be heard over the road noise of the shitty Detroit streets rumbling beneath their feet, Connor says, “Imbibing alcohol while on duty is not advisable.”
Normally, that kind of shit would have driven Hank straight to the bottle. Now, Hank’s lips curl in a small, indulgent smile. “No, it’s probably not.”
Connor’s eyes widen, just a fraction.
It’s not until they roll to a squealing stop at the next light that Hank makes a decision. He flips his blinker—he’s an asshole, yeah, but at least he knows how to fucking drive—and exercises his right to turn right on red.
“This is not the most efficient route to the station,” Connor says. If anything, he looks as if, having been caught in the tiger’s razor-sharp claws, the tiger has decided to dangle him upside down over gaping maw and gleaming, blood-stained teeth.
Not much Hank can do about that right now, even if the sight of Connor’s fear makes Hank’s heart do something resembling the Macarena in his chest. “Not going to the station.”
“Where—” Connor cuts himself off, LED flaring red.
“We’re taking the rest of the day off,” Hank says. “I’ll text Fowler when we get to my place, tell him we’re taking a sick day. Ate something that didn’t agree with me. Puking my guts out. Not to worry, I’ll have the android sent by CyberLife back to work with me tomorrow, bright and early. How’s that sound?”
Connor’s brows furrow. “Deceptive. But...plausible?”
“Good.” Hank flashes a smile, but it does little to make Connor relax.
Christ. Not even a week old and they’ve already done a number on him, haven’t they? Hank, most of all. Assaulting a newborn—was Hank really that far gone? So blinded by his own bullshit? He wouldn’t have bullied a Roomba, so, why androids?
Hank’s ma would be so ashamed. She’d tell him to pick on someone his own size, that was given, but picking on someone programmed not to hit back? Fucking hell. Hank’s ma would have grounded him for life. Probably should have, fucking preemptively, if this was how his life was gonna turn out.
Hank endures Connor’s stare until they finally turn into Hank’s driveway and Hank kills the engine. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Connor looks like the tiger has decided, instead, to make a nice stew out of him. For tiger-Hank and all of tiger-Hank’s tiger friends.
Hank struggles to keep himself calm. Keeps his voice nice and quiet like he would with any other traumatized victim. Because that’s what he is. Jesus. “It’s okay, Connor. Just wanna get you cleaned up. Get you a nice shower, change of clothes. I got a guest room. Wait, no, that’s probably a disaster area. But, the couch is comfy enough. You can take a nap or whatever you gotta do to recharge. And, I know Sumo’ll be happy to see you.”
“Sumo,” Connor says, a small smile breaking through the terror on his normally goofy face.
“Why don’t we go in and you can see him?” Hank asks, his voice quiet, tone even. Like he’s talking the kid off a ledge. “Or, we can stay out here a while. Your call.”
“My call?”
Hank understands the confusion. Barely a week of existence and never once has anything been Connor’s call.
“Your call, kid. What do you want to do?”
Hank had been trying to be kind. He’d been trying to help. But, Connor just screws up his face in that very-small-child-about-to-cry expression and says, “I am a machine. I am not programmed to want anything.”
The urge to grab the shock blanket out of the trunk is almost unbearable. It would be so easy. The car is in park and everything.
“I’m not gonna force you to do anything, Connor. You wanna stay here, we’ll freeze our asses off, but we’ll stay here. You wanna go inside, Sumo’ll be happy to slobber all over you. You wanna head back to CyberLife, I’ll put the directions in the GPS.”
“No!” Connor’s LED flares red, red, red.
Hank gives himself a mental kick. Last place the kid probably wants to go right now is CyberLife. If Hank can see through him, there’s no way he can fool android engineers and technicians. And, if he somehow managed to act normal—normal for an RK800, anyway—can’t they just spot the change in his code or whatever?
Hank doesn’t know enough about this shit, just knows that if CyberLife finds out, it probably spells doom for Connor.
“No,” Connor says again, going for calm indifference and missing the mark by about a mile. “I— I would like to go inside, please.”
Hank flashes a smile. “That’s a good choice, Connor. Come on, it’s starting to snow again.”
Sure enough, as Hank unfolds himself from the car, little flurries of snow flutter from the heavens, landing in Hank’s hair and sticking to the wool of his coat.
When Connor climbs out of the car, he tilts his head back. He closes his eyes as snowflakes settle on the synthetic skin of his face. His LED is still gold, laced with threads of crimson, but he looks something closer to peaceful outside the confines of the car.
“If you’re not careful, you’ll freeze like that,” Hank says. His da used to say something similar to Hank when Hank was a boy. Hank himself used to tease Cole whenever he caught Cole pulling faces.
Hank waits for the usual crushing agony the thought of Cole usually brings and finds the memory painful, yeah, but also good. Bittersweet, maybe.
Huh.
Connor looks at him, expression somewhat chagrined. He opens his mouth, probably to tell Hank exactly at what temperature his biocomponents turn to ice cubes, but he closes his mouth with a snap. All at once, Connor is afraid again.
Hank swallows a sigh and lumbers up the drive, Connor following on his heels. The android waits, silent as the grave, while Hank fumbles with his keys. His LED pulses like a heartbeat, red, RED, red, RED.
Hank swings the door open, ushering the kid inside. Connor goes, walking like he’s made of wood instead of plastic, steel, and circuitry.
Sumo trots up, going straight for Connor, the traitor. The Saint Bernard sniffs at Connor’s hand and Connor looks at Hank, his eyes dark with conflict.
Hank gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile and a little go-ahead motion.
Connor drops to his knees—ouch—and buries his face in Sumo’s fur.
Sumo blinks. And then, like the dog from Peter Fucking Pan, he’s in Nana mode. He sniffs at Connor, searching for sickness or injury, sticking his snout into Connor’s face, his arms, his chest, his groin.
Connor falls back on his ass with a startled noise, his hands raised like now he doesn’t just have to worry about tiger-Hank eating him, but Sumo, as well. Sumo, unphased, sniffs at Connor’s hands before diving in to slobber all over Connor’s palms.
The beginnings of a smile creep onto Connor’s face.
Sumo takes this as his cue to press right into Connor’s space and lick the ever-loving shit out of him.
Connor sputters at first, but then, a miracle happens.
Connor falls backwards under Sumo’s wiggly weight, defenseless against the doggy onslaught. Sumo licks and licks with reckless abandon, tail wagging, butt wriggling. And, Connor?
Connor laughs.
No. Connor straight up giggles.
Hank leaves them to it for a few more minutes, divesting himself of his coat and kicking off his shoes. He shoots a text to Fowler, complete with an excessive amount of up-chucking emojis. Then, he turns, hands on his hips. “Okay, Sumo, okay. Let him up.”
Sumo sits, panting. If Hank didn’t know any better, he’d say the dog looks satisfied. Smug, maybe. Look, I made this frightened baby android laugh. What did you accomplish today?
‘Not much,’ Hank doesn’t reply. ‘Scared an android shitless. Had an epiphany. The uszh.’
Hank ruffles Sumo’s head. “Good dog.”
Sumo woofs and trots off, his job complete.
Hank extends a hand to Connor and tries not to feel hurt when Connor’s smile fades and his eyes go wary. But, Connor takes his hand and allows Hank to help him up, so progress. Maybe.
“I’d offer you something, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you eat or drink. Is food even a thing for you? Like, can you eat human food or is there some kinda android food only situation?”
Connor looks like he’s about to cry again. They’re going to have to work on his machine-face or he’s going to have the whole precinct cooing over him. Even Reed. Goddamn it, especially Reed. Fucker might be a bigger asshole than Hank when he puts his mind to it, but he has a secret soft spot for kids the size of Texas. If he could see Connor right now, he’d melt like an ooey-gooey, leather jacket-clad marshmallow.
“Energy is trafficked to an android’s biocomponents via Thirium 310, or Blue Blood,” Connor is saying. “In the instance an android is damaged, they can ingest Thirium orally to replace the lost fluid. Certain models, however—”
Connor’s brows furrow. Hank hasn’t yelled at him to speak English or hurried along his explanation like he normally would and the kid is obviously uncomfortable about it.
Goddammit, Hank. Way to go. He’s given the android sent by CyberLife a fucking complex.
“It is...an android food only situation,” Connor finishes, shoulders rounded.
Hank runs his hand through scraggly gray hair and tries to give Connor a genuine smile, though he knows it probably looks more like a grimace. “Thanks. Prob’ly shoulda known that by now, huh? We have any of that Thirium on hand?”
Connor’s LED flashes red again. He takes half a step back before catching himself and standing stiff and straight, like a soldier on parade. “No, Lieutenant.”
Hank gives himself another, more vicious, mental kick. Kid probably thinks Hank wants to know how badly he can fuck the kid up and still be able to repair him before they have to call in CyberLife. Mother of fuck.
“Probably should get some. For, like, emergencies. Keep it at the station. It need to be refrigerated? Reed’ll probably shit himself when he goes to get the creamer and there’s a buncha Blue Blood in there, instead. On second thought, as hilarious as that would be, maybe we get you your own little fridge for your desk. That way no one’ll mess with it.”
Connor blinks a few times and Hank braces himself for a new crime scene, but, instead, Connor just asks, “Why?”
It’s a good question. Why? Why would Hank care? Why would Hank care now? When just this morning Hank had called Connor a glorified toaster?
Hank chooses not to answer these questions. Not directly. “One day that Matrix shit you pulled today isn’t going to work. And, it would be...shitty. To watch you shut down if we—if I—could do something about it.”
“Oh,” Connor says, looking as if he’s about to cry again, but for real this time. He swallows, thick and wet. His eyes are overbright in the dim, yellow light of Hank’s living room. Glassy, but not like glass, but like tears.
Hank has to stop himself from going out the front door and into the snow, sans shoes and sans coat, to get the shock blanket from the trunk. Shower first, he tells himself. Some sweats from the back of Hank’s dresser. Then, Hank can wrap Connor in a cocoon of comforters from the hall closet.
“Why don’t we get cleaned up?” Hank asks, careful to phrase it as a question instead of an order.
“Okay,” Connor says, LED forever spinning gold, gold, gold, gold.
The android follows Hank as Hank collects an old T-shirt and a pair of worn sweatpants for the kid. He grabs a Detroit P. D. hoodie and a pair of thick, fuzzy socks, for good measure.
Thrusting the pile into Connor’s hands, Hank ushers him into the bathroom. “Feel free to take a shower, if that’s a thing androids can do. If not, there’s wash cloths in the closet. Towels, too. And, if you leave your uniform outside the door, I’ll make sure it gets washed. Okay?”
Hank had meant, ‘Do you understand?’
But Connor looks at the pile of clothing in his arms and back at Hank and says, “I am...okay.”
“Good,” Hank says. He clears his throat. “That’s really good, Connor.”
Hank high-tails it into the kitchen where he stands with his hands braced on the edge of the sink and just breathes for a while. He listens as the door to the bathroom closes and the spray of the shower squeaks on and tries to ignore the siren call of the whiskey sitting on the table in the dining room. Next to the loaded gun. Fuck.
Hank pushes off from the sink. The whiskey bottle goes into a cabinet in the kitchen. The gun he unloads and locks in the safe beneath his bed. He finds Connor’s uniform neatly folded just outside the bathroom door, so Hank scoops it up and takes it to the garage.
Connor’s jacket has all sorts of glowing electronic bits. Hank is a little afraid to mess with them, so he just hangs the jacket on a plastic hanger. The shirt, trousers, tie, socks, and itty bitty, black briefs—Jesus fucking Christ, CyberLife—all look machine washable, so Hank tosses them into the washer with a laundry pod and sets it all on gentle. Just in case.
By the time he’s done, the shower has gone quiet, but the door to the bathroom is still shut, the light still on. Hank fills the time by pulling every moth-ball smelling quilt and comforter from the depths of the hall closet. He shakes them to air them out a bit, then hits them with some FeBreeze until the house smells like a combination of both moth balls and fresh lilac fields, but whatever. Best he can do on short notice.
“Lieutenant?”
Hank does not jump fifty feet in the air, but it’s a near thing. His poor, abused heart pounds from somewhere in the base of his throat. “Jesus!”
“I’m sorry,” Connor says, voice very small.
Hank shakes his head and turns to see Connor standing at the edge of the living room. His damp hair sticks out in all different directions, clearly tousled with a towel, but not combed. He’s wearing the Detroit P. D. hoodie, or, swimming in it, more like. The sleeves are so long that they’ve swallowed his hands and the bottom hem hits at his upper thigh. The sweatpants are too big, as well. It’s clear where the fabric bunches at his ankles that Connor tried to cuff them, to no avail. Peeking from beneath the sweatpants are Connor’s sock-covered toes.
“Looking good, Connor.”
Connor looks down at himself, as if he’s not quite sure if he’d agree.
“You look comfy,” Hank amends.
“It is...different. From my uniform.”
“Good different? Or bad different?”
Connor’s eyes go a little wide, like Hank is giving him a pop quiz, but all of the multiple choice answers are an incomprehensible jumble of letters and symbols. “I—?”
“Why don’t you think on it while I shower ‘n change? Sometimes opinions are like coffee—you gotta let ‘em percolate.”
Hank doesn’t wait for Connor to answer. He grabs his own change of clothes and ducks into the bathroom. He turns the shower to scalding and, as he waits for the water to heat, he just sort of stares at himself in the mirror.
He doesn’t recognize himself.
He doesn’t look like a decorated officer. Doesn’t look like a police academy Valedictorian. Doesn’t look like the youngest Lieutenant in Detroit history.
He looks like a man who has given up. On himself. On the world, at large. But, most of all, he just looks like a mean, ol’ nasty drunk. The kind of man who takes his misplaced anger out on sweet baby infant androids who have never done anything wrong in their short, week-long lives.
He stares at his reflection until the mirror fogs, regret churning in his gut. He shakes his head—one crisis at a time, thank you—and strips.
When he emerges from the bathroom, skin scrubbed pink, wearing his own pair of clean-ish sweats and bargain bin T-shirt, Connor is standing exactly where Hank left him.
“Aw, Connor. I shoulda said you could make yourself at home. Sorry. It’s been—doesn’t matter. But, uh, go ahead an’ sit down. If you want. Or you can stand. Just...do whatever you gotta do to make yourself comfortable, alright?”
Connor opens his mouth and closes it several times before finally settling on, “I don’t understand.”
“Hm?”
Connor’s LED flares red. “I don’t understand. Why?”
Here it comes. The Talk.
Hank forces himself not to cross his arms. To appear as non-threatening as possible. “Why, what?”
“Your behavior—” Connor cuts himself off, eyeing Hank warily. “Why? Why are you being so nice to me?”
Hank crosses the living room and lets himself sink into the couch cushions with a groan. He rubs his face, pulling at his skin. “Shit, kid.”
“You keep calling me that.” Connor’s tone is a cross between demanding and petulant.
Hank sighs. He pats the cushion beside him. “C’mere.”
Connor doesn’t move.
“Please, Connor? I’ll answer any questions you got, alright? Just, please. Come sit.”
Connor pads across the wooden floor, his footsteps as silent as a predator. Hard to believe that’s what CyberLife programmed him to be, not when Hank wants to thrust a lollipop into his hands, ruffle his hair, and tell him everything’s gonna be alright.
Graceful as a dancer, the android lowers himself to sit beside Hank, his hands pressed together in his lap.
For a long time, they just sit in silence. Hank’s no good at the touchy-feely stuff. Never has been. It takes a while for him to formulate the words and even longer to get them out sounding even semi-coherent.
“I want to apologize,” Hank says, looking anywhere but at Connor. “For the way I’ve treated you. It’s been...hard. The past few years. I know that doesn’t excuse anything I’ve said or done. But. I was lost there. For a while. Drownin’ in my own hurt. And, I’m sorry.”
When Hank manages a glance at Connor, the android’s LED is still gold, but the frightened edges of his expression have softened somewhat. Connor tilts his head. There’s sadness swimming in those big, brown eyes.
“You lost your son,” Connor says.
Hank closes his eyes. “Cole, yeah.”
“There was an accident. It was an android who performed the operation. You hate androids because we couldn’t save your son.”
Hank opens his eyes, forces himself to meet Connor’s empathetic gaze. “Blame a lot of things for Cole’s death. Mostly, myself. It just got to be easier, pretending it was androids. But, I don’t, Connor. Hate androids. I don’t hate you, neither. Don’t expect you to believe that after everything, but it’s true. You got saddled with the biggest fuck-up in Detroit, and I didn’t make things easy for you, not one bit, but you’ve been the best damn partner I’ve had in...years.”
Connor rears back as if Hank has just struck him. His hands fidget in his lap. He scans the room, as if cataloging every exit.
“You don’t gotta say nothin’. Just wanted to let you know I’m sorry and that I’m gonna do better, treat you more like a person now that—” Hank shakes his head. “Well, your secret’s safe with me.”
“What secret?” Connor asks. His eyes have gone a little wild.
“Connor, c’mon. It’s okay.”
Connor clenches his hands in his lap. “What secret, Hank?”
Hank frowns. “That you’re—y’know.”
“I am a machine.”
“Connor—”
Connor springs to his feet. His hands are fisted in his hair. “I am a machine.”
Hank stands too, but he hesitates, unwilling to do any more damage than he already has. “Connor.”
Connor shakes his head, again and again, tugging at the dark strands of his hair. “I am a machine. I am a machine. I am a machine.”
Hank vaguely remembers Connor saying something about deviants and stress levels. Something about deviants self-destructing when they get too stressed out? So, before the kid can overheat or blue screen or whatever, Hank steps into Connor’s space and pulls him into his chest, wrapping his arms around him.
“What—?”
Hank doesn’t answer. Just holds Connor tighter to him, carding his fingers through Connor’s synthetic hair like Hank used to do for Cole whenever Cole had one of his nightmares.
For a few endless seconds, Connor resists. Then, like a condemned high rise after the detonation of strategically placed charges, Connor collapses, going boneless in Hank’s arms, his face pressed into Hank’s shoulder.
It’s all Hank can do to hold them both upright when Connor starts to shake.
“Hey, it’s alright. It’s okay,” Hank says, his heart breaking for the kid. “You’re okay.”
“I—I always com-complete my miss-mission.”
Nevermind breaking. Hank’s heart fucking shatters in his chest. “Hey. Hey. Don’ you worry about that, alright? It’s gonna be okay.”
Connor tries to burrow closer, nearly knocking them both off balance. “H-Hank, please. I always complete my—my—”
“Mission.” Hank starts to sway, rocking them back and forth. “I know, Connor. I know.”
“I can’t, Hank. I can’t. I can’t.”
“Know that, too, kiddo. But, we’ll figure it out, okay? You ‘n me. I’ll do whatever I gotta do to keep you safe, alright? I promise. Even if we gotta book it to fuckin’ Canada.”
Connor gives a hiccuping sort of laugh and clings to Hank.
Hank holds him, still swaying back and forth, back and forth, humming an old lullaby, until Connor’s shaking subsides and the android steps out of the embrace. His face is wet with tears.
Hank hadn’t known Connor could cry. Some models can. It’s impossible to escape advertisements for girlfriend replacement models, especially for a lonely, old man perusing certain websites in the dead of night. Android girlfriends who can do anything from sucking dick to arguing about the dishes in the sink—perfect for makeup sex, according to the popups. Or, even creepier, the child models. Hungry, tired, happy, sad, until mommy and daddy get tired of playing parent and turn it all off with just the press of a button. But, Connor?
Was it a deviancy thing? Or did CyberLife program him with the ability to cry? And, for what purpose? Hank doesn’t want to think about it. He has a feeling he won’t like the answer.
Using the hem of his sleeve, Hank mops up the worst of Connor’s tears. He tries to avoid the steady gold of Connor’s LED as he finger-combs Connor’s hair into some semblance of order. “Feelin’ any better?”
Connor sniffles. “I don’t...know.”
“S’okay. Been kind of a shitty day, huh? Here.” Hank finally gives into the urge, but instead of a shock blanket, he grabs the faded Finding Nemo comforter he’s had since he was a child from the pile and wraps Connor in it like it’s the worlds’ lumpiest cloak.
Connor peers from beneath his blanket hood. “Hank?”
“Might be different for androids, but when humans have a bad day, there’s not much better than a blanket cocoon. C’mon.” Hank steers Connor to sit on the couch and wraps the android in a second and third blanket until Connor looks just short of bulletproof.
“Now,” Hank continues, settling onto the couch with his own blanket, “this next part’s important. Are ya ready?”
Connor nods.
“Good. What do ya feel like watching?”
Connor’s brows furrow. “Television?”
Hank gives a solemn nod. “Binge-watching is an essential part of the blanket cocoon experience.”
Connor blinks and the television switches on. He blinks some more and the television, old-as-balls and not equipped with new-fangled android connectivity shit, flickers until suddenly Rami Malek’s deep voice fills the living room. “Hello, friend.”
Hank raises an eyebrow—Mr. Robot, really?—but Connor’s lip just curls in something like a self-satisfied smirk.
It’s a good choice, so Hank settles into the cushions to watch Rami Malek and Christian Slater do their save-the-world hacker thing. He remembers being glued to his seat the first time he’d seen the show and he’s just as entranced this time around, so much so that he doesn’t notice Connor nodding off at his side until Connor’s face is suddenly mashed into Hank’s shoulder.
“Con—?”
The kid’s eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning pale, synthetic skin, and he breathes soft, slow android breaths. The ring of light at his temple is finally, finally a bright CyberLife blue.
Hank’s never seen Connor sleep. Probably would have thought it looked creepy before today. But, now, he’s just kinda struck by how peaceful Connor looks. Like, cuddled up to the tiger he was convinced would gobble him up just an hour ago, his only care in the world is how much of Mr. Robot he’ll have missed when he wakes up.
What would it take for Connor to feel that kind of peace in the light of day? Out in the real world instead of hidden here with Hank?
Tomorrow, Hank will talk to Connor. About the tower, about deviancy. About Markus and his revolution. About Jericho and fighting the good fight.
But, tonight, Hank just puts his arm around Connor, pulls him in close, and lets the kid sleep.