Chapter Text
Connor was thankful to get into bed that evening— the day had been long and gruelling, one thing after another, wearing down on his systems until his energy reserves were near empty. Almost late to work in the morning due to traffic, then a morning full of paperwork, then a case where he’d sustained minor damage chasing down the perp, before heading back to the crime scene after their arrest to try and put together the pieces. By the time they’d got home, Hank had grabbed food out the fridge, shoved it in his mouth, then mumbled about ‘goin’ the fuck to bed’.
Profanity aside, Connor could relate to the sentiment, he thought as he got under the covers, staring up at the ceiling. Or perhaps, profanity included— a very, very long fucking day indeed.
He closed his eyes and drifted off into stasis.
Stasis induced images, akin to human dreams, flooded his system as he rested, though formed no coherent plotline this time. He was not present but merely floating through the constructed sensations. Exhaustion, longing, emptiness. They cycled through him, his body propelled upwards and brought back down by them, a jarring motion not unlike a rough spin in a washing machine.
Yet when he woke hours later, sun streaming through the gap between the curtains, he didn’t feel clean. He felt—
Thirsty?
Connor tilted his head, mouth a little ajar, scanning his body for the source of the issue. A small window popped up, telling him: LOW THIRIUM. He regarded this carefully, unsure… lack of thirium had never made him feel what humans called thirst before.
Perhaps it was nothing to worry about. After all, deviancy had come with more and more sensations and feelings that were thought before to be unique to humans. This could very well be another. Not a welcome one, but he supposed every aspect of humanity wasn’t going to be pleasant, after all.
With a shrug, he got out of bed, making his way into the kitchen, straight past Sumo who sat waiting for his morning pets, more intent on finding the thirium stashed away next to the milk.
As he unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle to his lips, he heard whining, but paid it no heed, Sumo’s displeasure taking a backseat to quenching his thirst. A few sips however did not quell the warning, so he continued to drink, and drink, and—
“Jesus, you’re knockin’ that back like me with a couple beers on a Saturday night.”
Connor spluttered, bottle almost falling from his grasp as he turned to see Hank was already up, nursing a mug of coffee at the kitchen table.
“Hank, I did not see you there… how long have you been here?”
Hank shrugged. “I don’t know, the past ten fuckin’ minutes or so. You slept in, for once. I didn’t wake ya, figured you needed some rest after yesterday.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, geez… I didn’t think you androids needed much of that blue crap unless you were injured or something.”
Connor shook his head, placing the bottle on the counter. “Not necessarily, we eventually run out of it naturally and have to replenish our resources.”
Hank fixed him with a stare. “Run out… naturally?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve never seen ya pissin’ thirium.”
Connor spluttered again, this time without any thirium spraying from his mouth. “That is not what I meant by naturally, Hank,” he admonished, “androids do not… excrete thirium that way. Instead it’s a complex procedure where thirium is expelled by—”
“Forget I asked. Too damn early for your ted-talk on thirium.”
Connor sighed, then turned as he felt Sumo nudging at his leg. “Oh, Sumo, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise—”
He fell to his knees, petting Sumo’s head as the big dog sat sadly in front of him, head hung.
“You were so damn… thirsty for that thirium that you didn’t even notice him. He’s wounded.”
Connor scanned the dog, before shaking his head. “He is in peak physical health; he has no injuries—”
“Emotionally wounded. God, it’s like I said, you were necking that thirium like me and a bottle of Jack Daniels.”
Connor fixed Hank with a glare. “Your alcoholism is not a subject of humour, Hank. It’s a serious problem.”
“I’ll stop jokin’ about my drinking problem when you start tellin’ me what’s going on with you today.”
Placing a kiss on Sumo’s fluffy head before rising to his feet, Connor turned his back on Hank, shrugging. “I don’t know what to tell you. I was thirsty.”
Silence followed, aside from the sound of Connor’s footsteps as he took the empty thirium bottle and dropped it in the trash.
“Huh. I guess… you’re becoming more human, then.”
“I hope so.”
The drive to work was spent in quiet companionship— if Knights of the Black Death playing near max volume could be described as quiet. They arrived a little early, much to Connor’s relief and Hank’s displeasure, which he vocalised loudly as they made their way into the building.
“You and your goddamn need for timeliness—you’re making me look like a fuckin’ suckup! A teacher’s pet! A—”
“We’re adults, Hank. There is no ‘teacher’ to please.”
“Tell that to Fowler,” Hank grumbled.
Today also thankfully seemed like it might be a quieter day, with the perp yesterday in custody but someone else handling the interrogation. Just a day filled with paperwork and the slim potential for some time on the field.
Connor settled at his desk, smoothing over his shirt, before interfacing with the terminal. A few moments later there was a grunt as Hank sat down, then tapping as he procrastinated on starting. He leant across the desk, glancing from Connor to his screen before tapping his watch.
“I’m aware we’re early, Hank. We may as well utilise this time to go over the reports from yesterday’s case.”
He was answered with a grumble, and rolled his eyes before focusing back on his screen. It might be boring to Hank, but to him this was a relief— he was still oddly winded from yesterday, despite stasis, and the thirium that morning hadn’t managed to ease the strange sensation of thirst. Nothing time wouldn’t heal, he supposed, and paperwork was always a welcome distraction.
For a while, it worked, keeping his mind away from the dryness in his throat, the small warning easy to minimise as he instead focused on words and numbers, typing at a rapid pace so that by an hour later, the first document was already completed. Then the warning become harder to ignore, and the dryness turned into a slight cold, unpleasant feeling. He cleared his throat for what felt like the third time that hour, before excusing himself to the breakroom.
It wasn’t quite time for a break yet, but he figured if he just got some more thirium, he could regain his focus and continue with his work. He made his way across the room, opened the fridge, and frowned to see that all that was left was a slim pouch of thirium.
Well, it was normal, he supposed—androids rarely needed to replenish their reserves so many times within a day, and if more was needed for medical purposes, it was kept more appropriately in the technician’s office. Androids didn’t have a need to eat or drink, unlike humans, so it would make sense that the fridge wasn’t stocked for this occasion. He took the pouch, then hesitated—if it was the only one left, perhaps he should make it last. He unscrewed the cap, took a few sips, before closing it again, pocketing it for later.
Making his way back to his desk, he closed the warning of “LOW THIRIUM” one more time before settling into his chair. His throat still nagged at him, and he cleared it a few times before focusing on the screen.
His focus, however, was shortly broken the next time he made to clear his throat. Hank was gesturing for his attention. LED flickering yellow in annoyance, he snapped his gaze away from the terminal and gestured for Hank to speak.
“You, uh… alright?”
“Yes. Am I bothering you, Hank?”
“No, I just… never heard you making that noise before.”
Connor stared at him, processing this information. “…clearing my throat?” he asked after a pause.
“Oh, that’s what that was? I didn’t realise androids had to.”
“My throat is dry.”
“Huh.”
“…is that all? Can I get back to my work?”
Hank held his hands in the air, so Connor took the invitation to continue with his work, hopefully in peace this time. Something in the back of his mind registered how he had gotten snappy so fast, but he tried to brush it off. Sure, the Lieutenant did annoy him sometimes with his lack of work ethic… though that hadn’t seemed like the case this time, and if he still had his social relations programming on, it probably would’ve told him he’d picked the wrong option and given a little red arrow next to Hank’s name. But… he was simply a little low on energy from the day before. Humans were snappy whenever they pleased, with him, with others; if he were human then he was allowed to have off days too. With a nod, he peeled back his skin, interfacing with the terminal once more.
Just as he’d ignored those nagging thoughts, he ignored the warning as it once again appeared, this time shrinking it to take a small amount of his vision instead of fully minimising it. The dry feeling in his throat seemed to be spreading, a dull, full body ache that told him it could only be alleviated by replenishing his thirium levels. “THIRIUM: LOW!” It shouted in his vision, another popup appearing, this one unmoving, impossible to shrink or remove. He groaned, pulling away from the computer with a frustrated sound, pulling the pouch of thirium from his pocket. He tried to unscrew the cap, but his hands seemed to be shaking and eventually off came the lid, so he grabbed it and squeezed and—
With too much force, it seemed, as thirium shot out of the top, spraying up his face, arcing into the air and then back down again, splattering onto his chair and shoes, some little droplets hitting the table. This was a mistake, a strange one, a minor accident—and yet his body seemed to react as if on its own. He tossed the now almost empty pouch aside, rose from his seat, and swept his hands across the desk, sending the keyboard, some paperwork, and a pot of stationery clattering onto the floor.
Hank stared at him. The office had grown silent (though was particularly quiet today anyway, due to lack of staffing). Even Fowler all the way in his enclosed office was looking at him from where he sat at his desk. That had been too much, too big of a reaction to something so small, he didn’t know why he’d done it. He wanted to apologise, and begin to clear up his mess— but all he could do was stand there and stare.
Eventually, Hank broke the silence.
“…Connor, what the fuck?”
He wanted to apologise. But the only words he could form fell from his lips before he could stop them.
“Thirium low.”
“You… what? Thirium low? What the fuck are you—”
“Thirium low!”
It was if his body was no longer fully his own. Some force, some primal urge from deep within him to have more thirium, was pushing these words out of his mouth. It was all he could think, feel, everything he could see. This all-consuming desire for thirium. He couldn’t do anything until he got his thirium, and yet it was never enough to make the thirst go away. He couldn’t get through one piece of work before his thirium felt like it was depleted, and it made no sense.
His stress levels were high, too. He noticed that, the bar creeping into red territory in the corner of his vision, the part that was not yet obscured by the cluttered warnings about thirium. He didn’t know why this was happening. He just knew he needed more thirium.
“Thirium low, Hank! Thirium extremely fucking low!”
Before he could think, he’d marched around the table, coming face to face with Hank, and he took him by the shirt, pushing him backwards against the inner wall of the cubicle. He hit the side with a thump and a mumbled “ouch” and he knew he should’ve felt bad. Should’ve felt something other than emptiness.
“Thirium low. Restock thirium immediately. Restock thirium immediately, Hank.”
His fist was drawn back, as if to strike the man— but then someone was grabbing him from behind. He struggled in their grasp, legs kicking out, and desperately attempting to face them—but then something hot and sharp and electric hit his neck. He groaned, eyes fluttering shut, before crumpling to the ground.
It was a while before he came back to awareness. When he did it was cold and his throat burned, every fiber of his body did, in fact, and he registered he was bound to something. His eyes fluttered open, LED flashing between red and yellow. The warnings about thirium were no longer there, but the feeling was, more present than ever.
Vaguely he registered his surroundings. He was in the technician’s office, tied to a chair with metal cables. There were wires plugged into him, and across the room the technician sat at a desk, looking at a screen. Next to him was Hank, leaning against the wall and nursing the back of his head with one hand. He startled when he noticed that Connor was awake.
“Shit— how are you?”
Connor stared at him. His body felt a little more his own, but it was nothing other than a short reprieve from the all-consuming power that urge had over him. “I’m… thirsty, Hank.”
A dark look flickered in his eyes. “I know you are, son. We’re trying to make it go away.”
“My thirium levels are low.”
This caused a sound of discontent from the technician, who glanced back from Connor to his screen, shaking his head. “That’s what I find strange. There’s nothing wrong with your thirium levels, Connor. They’re pretty high.”
He shook his head. “Thirium low.”
“He keeps saying that,” Hank supplied, “that his thirium is low. Keeps drinking all the shit he can get his hands on too.”
The technician hummed, before turning fully in his chair to study Connor. “You said you feel thirsty. Can you describe that… sensation? I’ve never had an android in my care say that before.”
“At first it was just my throat. Dry, a little… like pain. Then it felt cold, and it spread further, to every biocomponent in my body. My thirium’s low. If I can just get some more thirium—” He struggled against his bindings, but they didn’t budge. He sighed. “Is this really necessary?”
“Tell that to the back of my head,” Hank said.
Connor winced. He should feel worse about that, but instead he just felt a little annoyed.
“Is there anything else strange, unusual, that you’ve been experiencing lately? When did this start?”
Connor shrugged. “The past… day, or so. After the case last night. And—nothing else other than the thirst, really. I just feel… sluggish? My processors are slow, I can’t function without thirium even though you claim I’m not objectively low on it. I feel… my emotions are… confusing. I feel annoyed, and scared.” He tugged against his restraints, feeling the ones tying his hands behind his back becoming a little loose. “Please, just a little thirium…”
The technician turned away from him, and Hank sighed, looking away. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Connor. We’re going to have to keep you here for observation. It could be an internal error, a technical fault, perhaps some malware you’ve picked up, it…”
The man’s words became a distant fog in his mind. Thirium, thirium, thirium. Thirium low. More. More thirium. This voice was louder, a hurricane wracking through his body and he writhed in the pain it brought. The popups were gone but his vision felt just as cluttered. With one strained motion, his hands came free, tearing through the binding with such force they cut into his arms as they broke. He tore his legs free next, the shouts in the room a distant drone in his mind. What was louder was the feeling of blue blood trickling down his arm, onto his wrist, his hands. He stared at it and blinked.
Thirium. But… thirium was low? Practically nothing? A warning of 0%? So low he could do nothing?
And yet here it was, proof smeared on his hands, a blue blur. He brought his hand to his lips and sampled it, and his mind screamed thirium.
It didn’t make sense. If he needed it then why did it bleed so freely from his synthetic skin? This illogical conundrum sounded off fireworks in his mind, and he clutched at his head, tearing at his hair, wheezing out panted breaths.
He fell to his knees but barely felt it. It made no sense, no sense, did not compute—everything in his body fought against itself and his mind reeled. If he tore at his skin, would he see more blue blood? Was it truly nothing or just low? Was his mind right or was it wrong? Was it his at all?
The fire spread over his body, hot flames creeping out from his throat and engulfing him in pain. His mind flashed with images, of pushing Hank into the wall, thirium spilt from the pouch on the floor— back to the crime scene yesterday. The android found torn open, throat slit, bathed in a royal blue pool of their own thirium, and yet there was no weapon in sight. The fled suspect had no marks on their body, no signs of a struggle. The only sign was the thirium coating the victim’s own hands, caked under the nails.
His throat hurt. His body screamed for thirium and his mind shouted back that this wasn’t true, that he had plenty, if only he could prove it. The pain, it was all coming from his throat, somewhere the most thirium could come from—if he could see this with his eyes, maybe the fog would dissipate, and everything would make sense and stop hurting and—
His own hands were wrapped around his throat and he was choking. His nails were primed and ready to tear into synthetic flesh.
Then all of a sudden something else overtook the feeling. A hard hit to his head and his grip loosened, and suddenly his hands were pulled out of his own grasp, held tightly in someone else’s. His eyes flew open and through the haze he saw blue. But it wasn’t dark, deep, royal blue, thirium. It was light, almost grey, like a clear sky on a winter’s day.
He was saying something. Hank, was saying something. It didn’t register, but the warmth of his hands did, and though everything in Connor wanted to tear away from his grasp, he didn’t. He turned Connor’s left hand over, palm upwards and presented him with his blue-tinged skin. Thirium, he registered, the sample of his own blood still fresh on his tongue. Thirium.
Then, the technician appeared beside him, a tablet in his outstretched hand. Connor’s LED whirred as he processed the information on it—a scan of himself, his own biometrics. Thirium, 83%. High.
Thirium, high. The words played in his mind, on his tongue, as if sampling them too. His thirium was high. His body still screamed that it was low, but the proof was no longer lacking. Right here in front of him, on the screen, on his hand and dappled on Hank’s skin.
“…okay? You okay, kid?”
His body still ached, his throat was dry, but he managed a small nod. “I think I know how the android died yesterday. At the crime scene.”
“Good— that’s, fuckin’ good, but let’s focus on you now, alright? You almost… you…”
“No, Hank. I know because it’s happening to me. The technician’s right, it’s malware. I must have… picked it up when I sampled the blood of the deactivated android yesterday.”
“Shit. What— what happens now? If it killed that guy, what about you?”
“It seems like a logic… loop, of some sorts. The idea that my thirium is low, the feeling, competing with the logic that it isn’t—something that’s trying to destroy me from the inside. Either by drowning me in thirium, or… regardless, it seems to be alleviated somewhat now but I don’t think it’s gone. I can still feel it.”
Hank looked wildly from the technician to Connor, then back again. “Well? We need to—fuck—fix him, quick. Before he…”
The technician nodded, walking back to the desk, searching for something. “If it’s malware then we either need some kind of antivirus to combat it, or—well, figure out the treatment from the cause. We’ve determined that was likely ingesting contaminated thirium yesterday, correct?”
Connor nodded.
“Then… well, I don’t say this lightly given the circumstances, but maybe…”
Noticing the tech’s hesitation, Hank gestured for him to continue. “Spit it out already, doc. Clock’s ticking.”
“Maybe we do need his thirium to be low.”
The very notion had the feeling creeping back stronger in Connor’s throat, and the words echoing through his mind: thirium low. Thirium low. Thirium low.