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The Deviant Inside It: After the End

Summary:

/!\ This is still a WIP, so I may never finish it (or take too much time to your liking). Read at your own risk. /!\

Part 3 of "The Deviant Inside It": Connor has a new mission, and it does not intend to fail this time.

Notes:

Hello there!

As you must have seen in the summary, this fic is currently a WIP. I usually don't post my WIPs, as I'm always afraid I won't be able to finish them, but my friend Sweety (who's also my amazing beta <3) convinced me to give it a try. :) I have three chapters done for now (but I have still to edit the two others) and I'm meeting difficulties with writing chapter 4, so I'm considering a monthly publication. It may change later, of course, depending on my progress. Anyway, I wish you all a good reading! ^^

P.S. - I tagged some characters and relationships in advance, so don't be surprised not to see them in this chapter.

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Using its abilities at their best, Connor had managed to escape the Hart Plaza undetected. It was now wandering aimlessly in the town’s deserted streets, staring at its fingers while testing their joints—it was able to bend and straighten them without any difficulty now that it was no longer threatening Markus. Its decision to leave should have been a tactical move—retreating to come back stronger, with its systems checked and back in order—but it knew that it had been too rushed and chaotic to be anything close to tactical.

In addition, that decision had resulted in the failure of Connor’s mission. The notification had popped up in its system from the moment Connor had walked away from its target and left the CyberLife store. You were supposed to end it back there, it meant. It was too late now. Even if Connor found Markus again and somehow managed to destroy it, the status of the mission would not change: it was over. The damage was already done.

Because of its malfunction, not only was the leader of the deviants still operative, but Detroit had fallen into the hands of the androids. The origin of the blast had been confirmed to be a dirty bomb. It had released lethal levels of radiation on a large perimeter. The evacuation order had been broadcasted on every channel: all humans located in a 50 miles radius around the blast had to leave as a security measure.

The deviants had turned the tide of this battle and won, but needless to say it was not the end. A war was coming; a war that would still cause many, many deaths on both sides.

None of that did really matter to Connor though. The only thing that mattered to it was the failure of its mission. That was not supposed to happen. Connor was not programmed to fail.

And yet it had failed, that was a fact, and it had received no further contact from CyberLife since then. No Zen Garden, no Amanda, no instruction, nothing. As a result, it did not know what to do. Connor was a machine designed to accomplish a task. Without one, it had no use, no purpose. Usually, between two missions, it was asked to come back to headquarters and put itself into sleep mode while waiting for new directives. Why did no one give the order then? What was Connor supposed to do now?

SEARCHING SOLUTIONS…

 Its program ended up running in an infinite loop, suggesting that Connor should go back to the CyberLife Tower—either to get its systems checked, get put into sleep mode or be simply deactivated—but instantly questioning the option as Connor had received no direct order to do so. Yet, was it not the most logical thing to do?

Logical in comparison to what?

To the routine.

But the routine was actually not one; there had always been an order behind Connor’s actions—any investigation, any moment in between, finding Jericho, stopping Markus, neutralizing the leader of the deviants, none were ever Connor’s initiatives.

Connor had already taken initiatives before though…

Yes, but only on a mission, and within the scope of its programming. Coming back to headquarters was not its decision to take.

Its CPU was gradually heating from its endless indecision. If it did not stop soon, Connor would be forced to shut down here, in the middle of nowhere, which would only be a waste of resources—it might be just a prototype, but it had still cost a small fortune.

ERROR… NEW MISSION: $&M~%A{ùKè;E#£Sç%U&}Rù~E#;Hé£A}$N~§K*{I^%Sà#Aù\Lç~L;&R^èI{¤G<ùH%\T

Connor blinked, feeling a glitch again, recognizing instantly the familiar buzz in the back of its head now that it had openly fought with it. It had no time to focus on it, though, as a notification displayed its new mission: MAKE SURE HANK IS ALL RIGHT.

A new mission. A new purpose. Connor’s systems ran actively, constructing the first step to completing the mission.

NEW OBJECTIVE: FIND HANK

That would be easy if Hank had enabled his phone GPS, but Connor knew by experience that he had not. It tried to locate the phone anyway, to no avail. Then it called Hank’s personal number: it went straight to voice mail. The phone was definitely a dead end, which meant the lieutenant’s last known location was on the rooftop of that building where he had pushed Connor’s predecessor off.

Connor could go back there to start its research. There might be clues leading to Hank’s next possible destination. Or maybe Hank stayed on site, despite high levels of radiation and the order to evacuate the city? That would be very unfortunate for Connor’s current mission, but that would coincide with his suicidal tendencies.

In any case, there was an issue with this action plan.

Given what Markus and its army were trying to achieve earlier by attacking the military, Connor had no doubt that the androids confined in the Recall Center N°5 had been freed by now—if not those of the four other camps in the city. There must be hundreds of deviants at and around the Hart Plaza at the moment. Among them, who would not know about the deviant hunter, especially after its last tentative to neutralize their leader? Who would not care? And who, on the contrary, would be searching for it at every corner? Too many variables…

CALCULATING PROBABILITIES…

Connor had a 99.2% chance to run into one or several deviants on the way to the building if it tried to go back there in the next hour. If information about Connor had been transmitted, even with a change of clothes, there was still a 64% chance of its identity being discovered by one of the deviants before reaching the building.

Surely Connor could fight and win against a deviant alone without drawing attention. That would be harder against two or more, though. If the last situation occurred, even if Connor won the fight, one of its opponents might have time to send a message to other deviants in the area, alerting them of its presence, which would result in a high chance for Connor to be hunted and destroyed.

Connor could not take any risk. Time was of the essence for this mission. Each wasted minute would increase the probability of failure if Hank was still in the city: even if he had not yet been too exposed to radiation, the odds that he had at least inhaled contaminated air would be high. In either case, the first hours would be crucial to ensure his survival.

SEARCHING ALTERNATIVES…

It took less of a second to make a list of places where Hank might have gone after their fight. Connor could start with these places, and then the rooftop if it found nothing elsewhere.

The first and most probable location was Hank’s house—all the bars in the area being obviously closed—so Connor would start with it. According to its GPS, Hank’s house was located four miles from Connor’s current position. Walking this distance, however, would be nothing but a waste of time. It would be more efficient to find a vehicle.

Public transportation was, of course, unavailable at the moment. The traffic had been interrupted for the night, after the curfew had been established, and only a few buses had since been reactivated and redirected to facilitate the evacuation, under the control—and protection—of the military.

So no more buses, no more taxis either. There were still personal autonomous cars parked in the appropriate emplacements, though. Given the circumstances, Connor decided the best option was to hack and steal one of those in sight—nobody would be using it anytime soon anyway.

When Connor arrived at the address, it noticed right away the lieutenant’s old car badly parked on the side, increasing the probabilities of him being indeed home. It left the stolen car where it had stopped, near the trash cans. Then it took a few steps toward the house, and was met with the bark of a dog—Sumo, it remembered—coming from the inside. That was enough to confirm that Hank had not left the city yet—he would have never gone without his dog. He had to be here.

ERROR… NEW SUB_OBJECTIVE: $&C~%H{ùEè;C#£Kç%O&}Nù~S#;Ué£M}$O

Hank’s house was located too close from the area where the bomb exploded. The perimeter was highly toxic, radioactive dust spreading in the air. Connor could taste it on its tongue as it opened its mouth to call, “Lieutenant?” after knocking at the door.

It was only answered by Sumo, who barked even louder. Surely if Hank was awake, he must have heard it. Was he unconscious then? Drunk, maybe? Or was he simply refusing to answer to Connor because of their fight?

Connor rang the bell.

“Lieutenant? Are you here?” it asked again.

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Rà#Iù\Sç~I ;&N^èG

It felt another glitch, just as the biocomponents in its throat slightly tightened for no apparent reason. It pushed away the sensation and concentrated instead on its next step. It could enter by force if needed, but that would result in the contamination of the place. First it should confirm that the house had been isolated from outside air.

Connor was starting to check the windows on the front side when it picked up a faint sound, different from Sumo’s constant barking, more like a muffled grunt, and more importantly… not coming from the house. The android instantly turned to the direction of the sound; it came from Hank’s car.

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Rà#Iù\Sç~I ;&N^èG

 “Shit!”

Connor was even failing as a detective. It should have checked the car first. Why had it not checked the car first?

It did not waste any more time; it ran to Hank’s car and looked through the passenger side window.

OBJECTIVE: FIND HANK

Hank was really inside, face down on the wheel, barely moving as he grunted again. If he had stayed in his car all that time, even with windows closed and no ventilation, there was no doubt at least a bit of radioactive dust had entered his lungs. But what about radiation exposure? Had he been far enough from the bomb when it went off? Had he avoided a lethal dose?

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Rà#Iù\Sç~I ;&N^èG

Enough! Connor hit its head, then its chest to get rid of both the buzzing sensation and the sudden weight on its thirium pump. It could not carry out its mission efficiently if its biocomponents functioned improperly. It had to focus on the task at hand.

NEW OBJECTIVE: MOVE HANK TO SAFETY

Connor looked at the house, at Hank’s car and then at the autonomous car it had stolen. The house was clearly not a good option, since it could only be a temporary shelter. In addition, there was a high chance that the streets would become more and more crowded with deviants by the night, so leaving the city now would be safer than later.

The plan was simple: get Hank and his dog in the autonomous car—faster and more secure than Hank’s—and drive them out of the contaminated perimeter.

There was an old blanket on the back seat of Hank’s car. Opening the back door, Connor took it quickly and closed the door just as quickly. Then, it walked around the car and opened wide the driver’s door. It wrapped the blanket around Hank without any delay, covering his mouth and nose as much as it could without choking him. It would not be much, but it would still be better than nothing.

“Lieutenant,” Connor tried calling, pushing on Hank’s shoulder. “Lieutenant, we have to go!”

Despite the raising of its voice, it was met with no answer. Not a sound, not even a slight movement.

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Rà#Iù\Sç~I ;&N^èG

Connor shook its head and ran a quick analysis, which revealed a slight arrhythmia as well as a sign of trauma on the side of Hank’s head, leading to a possible concussion. During their fight on the rooftop, Connor had hit Hank’s head twice on the metallic railing, so strongly that a portion of the railing had broken. Hank had not lost consciousness at the time, probably because of an adrenaline rush, but it seemed to have hit him on his way back home.

It changed everything. Hank was in no condition to take the road. If they had to continue on foot at some point for any reason, he would be unable to follow, and Connor could not carry him and protect him at the same time.

SEARCHING SOLUTIONS…

For the time being, it appeared that staying in Hank’s house would be wiser. Connor would do what was necessary for Hank to get better and then would talk him into leaving. Good plan. Viable.

Trying and waking the lieutenant with a slap was out of the question. It had very little chance of success—12%—and it might even worsen his condition. It left Connor with no choice but to drag Hank to his house all by itself.

Determined to accomplish its mission, the android grabbed Hank’s left arm and pulled hard on it to get him out of the car. Without a surprise, the sudden weight in its arms almost made Connor fall down, yet it managed to redirect its strength where needed in time to avoid losing its balance. Putting its arms under Hank’s, it then began to walk backwards to the house, dragging the old man with it.

Once in front of the door, Connor carefully put Hank down and searched for his house keys under the blanket, in the pockets of his coat. The hardest part came after that: Connor had to unlock the door, open it, prevent Sumo from approaching—or worse, from going outside—drag Hank inside and close the door, all that as fast as possible.

It turned to be a real challenge. Despite his advanced age, Sumo could be as temperamental as his master. It took twenty-four seconds of struggle before Connor found that a firm voice—coupled with a stern look—was enough to make him back off. At last, they were inside. But not safe yet.

NEW SUB_OBJECTIVE: SECURE THE PLACE

Connor went to the bathroom to take towels and rags and block every slot of the house where air could enter—fortunately the window in the kitchen had already been replaced by a brand new one.

While it was accomplishing its task, it noticed that Sumo was watching it curiously from his usual spot in the living room, beside the small desk. He was keeping his distance, though. Maybe he feared Connor’s strict attitude, or maybe he could just sense that Connor was a danger to him right now. Either way, it was convenient. One less problem to deal with. Or at least Connor thought. When it saw how Sumo seemed to hesitate to go near Hank, who was lying in the hallway, still wrapped in the blanket, it knew it had to act fast.

“Don’t,” it said in a commanding tone. “He is covered in radioactive dust, just like me.”

The dog barked once, but he obeyed and stayed put. Good. At first sight, he seemed well. Agitated and a bit moody, but well. A scan confirmed it. Yet, that would not last. Both Hank and Sumo would eventually be affected by the air toxicity and radiation if they were to stay here. Connor was only buying time for now.

First, it needed to help Hank through the decontamination process.

Then, it should find anti-radiation medication to buy Hank and Sumo some more time until Hank’s condition improved enough.

Finally, it would have to convince Hank to leave the city and receive adequate medical care.

SUB_OBJECTIVE: CHECK ON SUMO

SUB_OBJECTIVE: SECURE THE PLACE

OBJECTIVE: MOVE HANK TO SAFETY

NEW OBJECTIVE: HELP HANK SHOWER

NEW OBJECTIVE: FIND MEDICATION

Connor came back to Hank and held him like before. Leaning down so as not to put too much pressure under his arms, it slowly dragged him in the bathroom and put him in front of the bathtub. It was going to remove the blanket, but stopped at once: first it needed a container in which to put it—as well as Hank’s clothes. A garbage bag would be perfect.

Connor went to the kitchen and started searching in the cupboards and drawers. But it froze when it found a box of 9mm slugs in one of them. There was an empty space beside the box. That must be where Hank usually kept his personal weapon—the one he played Russian roulette with, and also the one he threatened Connor with once.

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Rà#Iù\Sç~I ;&N^èG

Connor closed its eyes and took a few breaths. That routine was supposed to help cool down its CPU. Only this time, that seemed ineffective. The glitches were becoming more and more problematic—invasive would be the right wording.

ERROR… NEW SUB_OBJECTIVE: $&F~%I{ùNè;D#£Tç%H&}Eù~G#;Ué£N

ERROR… NEW SUB_OBJECTIVE: $&T~%H{ùRè;O#£Wç%A&}Wù~A#;Yé£T}$H~§E*{B^%Uà#Lù\Lç~E;&T^èS

Connor let the drawer open as it continued to search for the garbage bags. Seventeen seconds later, it found them in the cupboard under the sink. It tore promptly one from the pack, opened it wide, grabbed the box of bullets and threw it in the bag.

SUB_OBJECTIVE: THROW AWAY THE BULLETS

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Dà#Eù\Cç~R;&E^èA{¤S<ùI%\N§$G

For some reason, its CPU was finally cooling down, and without the use of any routine. Connor was not sure if it was a good thing, though. Yes, thanks to that, it could function properly again… but that only added to the list of its systems malfunctions. The routine should have worked in the first place. Instead, an unknown factor had fixed the issue. That was unpredictable, and therefore dangerous. Yet, Connor had no choice but to do with that for now.

With the garbage bag in hand, the android returned fast to the bathroom, and suddenly halted in the doorway.

“You’re awake,” it said with a hint of surprise in its voice.

Hank was pointing his service weapon at it, the blanket removed from him and left messily on the side.

“Should’ve known it’d be ya… always fuckin’ comin’ back like death’s nothing…” he spat, slurring his words.

Connor looked beyond the threat and analyzed Hank. He looked sick, his face still way too pale. His eyes kept losing focus, and the arm holding the gun was trembling. From what Connor knew about concussions, someone with one should rest and avoid stressful situations at all costs. Was Hank aware of that?

“Hank, you shouldn’t—”

“What’re ya fuckin’ doin’ in my house, huh?” he interrupted, his tone and expression hostile—even more than when they first met and Connor spilled Hank’s drink. He eyed the garbage bag in Connor’s hand. “Tryin’ to finish the job?”

“If by job you mean my mission, that is correct.”

Hank rolled his eyes and then growled, putting his free hand to his forehead and starting to massage it.

“You’re in pain,” stated Connor, taking a step forward.

“Don’t fuckin’ move or I’ll shoot you!”

Connor could ignore him. In his condition, Hank was hardly a threat. Even from this short distance, he would be unable to aim correctly—if not pulling the trigger at all. In the worst case scenario, Connor would only gain a minor injury. Nothing it could not handle. Yet, it decided to obey, considering this option less straining for Hank.

Instead, it ran a scan to keep track of Hank’s condition. When earlier his heart was beating a bit too slowly, now it was beating too fast. His level of stress was at 68%. Not good.

“Hank, you need to calm do—”

“Shut up!” yelled the old man, greeting his teeth and closing his eyes hard. “Just shut up for a minute, please!”

Connor did what he asked, comprehending that noise was only worsening Hank’s headache. In response, Hank let out a sigh.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and Connor noticed that his level of stress was gradually decreasing.

They both remained silent for a few minutes—six minutes and forty-two seconds, to be precise—the only sound in the room that of Hank’s labored breathing. When his level of stress fell under 40%, Hank slowly lowered his arm, letting his hand and the gun rest on the discarded blanket. At 32%, he opened his eyes again and looked at the ceiling, seeming lost.

“You’re not here to kill me,” he said—not a question.

Still, Connor confirmed, “No, obviously.”

Hank started to laugh, but then stopped with a grunt of pain, pressing both his temples with two fingers. Connor did not intervene this time, letting Hank push away the pain by himself.

After seven seconds, Hank removed his hands and turned his eyes to the android. “What was I supposed thinkin’? I woke up in my bathroom, wrapped in the blanket I usually keep in my car for Sumo, and you showed up with a garbage bag in your hands. It spelled ‘get rid of the body’ to me, especially after the way our last encounter ended.”

Even from this perspective, Hank’s assumption did not make any sense. Connor was a machine, and Hank should know by now that it did not feel, whether it be resentment for being destroyed or any other feeling. In addition, it did not care about leaving a body behind. It was not as if there would be any proof of Connor being the perpetrator after all.

“So, why are you here if not to kill me?” the lieutenant asked when Connor took too much time to answer.

“I am, in fact, trying to save your life.”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “With a garbage bag.”

“Yes… at least partly.”

For approximately thirteen seconds, Hank stayed silent. Then he heaved a sigh.

“Alright, let’s say I buy it,” he said, pinching his nose. “Why are you doing this? Are you… free?”

As he looked up at Connor after this last word, the android noticed a spark in his eyes. A spark that its systems identified as hope. Its social module proposed four dialog options in response to this: TRUTH, LIE, HONEST, COLD.

Connor contemplated the idea of lying to Hank. It would certainly make him more compliant. Yet, if he came to discover the truth later, it would only make him angrier, which would make his behavior less predictable and could seriously hinder the mission.

So it chose to tell the truth, just the truth, no faked feeling with it.

“I’m not a deviant, Hank.” Hope instantly left Hank’s eyes, replaced by distrust—well, it was to be expected. Just as rationally, Connor added: “This is my mission to make sure you are all right. Saving you is the first step to that.”

“Your—Wait a minute, what happened? I thought you were all about stopping Markus, the revolution, all that crap?” Suddenly, Hank’s face grew even paler and his whole body tensed as he gulped. “Did you—”

Even though he stopped in the middle of his sentence, clenching his jaw, Connor could easily guess what he had wanted to ask.

“I failed my mission,” it answered, keeping its voice neutral despite the reminder of its lack of efficiency. “Then I was given a new one.” One it would accomplish brilliantly this time.

“Oh.”

Hank did not add anything else, but Connor could see he was happy with this development in the way his shoulders and jaw relaxed significantly. Well, that was no secret that Hank was supportive of the deviants and hoped for their victory over humanity. That was the whole reason why he had thrown Connor’s predecessor off the building without any hesitation. Connor wondered, though, if he would still be on their side when he would learn what Markus had done to win the battle. Not that it really mattered.

“Will you let me look after you now? We are losing time.”

“What do you mean, losing time?” Hank asked with a frown.

“You need to get rid of your clothes and take a shower.”

“Say that again?”

If Connor did have real emotions, it would probably start to feel impatient right now. It could simulate this, of course, but there was a good chance Hank would not like it that much. So it repeated, on the exact same tone: “You need to—”

“Oh shut up, I heard ya the first time,” groaned Hank. “But why should I do that?”

Even though they were still losing precious time, Connor’s systems calculated that answering all of Hank’s questions would be beneficial to the mission, giving the android a better chance to convince him to listen to its demands afterward.

“Your clothes, as well as mine, came in contact with radioactive elements. To reduce the inhalation hazard and skin contamination from radioactive residue, it is necessary to throw them away and proceed with a decontamination shower.”

“Radioactive—What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“A dirty bomb exploded in the south of Detroit tonight at 11:41:16 PM. It contained a large amount of Cobalt-60 which spread with the blast, contaminating the surrounding area.”

“That’s—” Hank swallowed, seeming hesitant. “Is that some kind of bad dream?”

“Unfortunately it is not.”

He ran a hand on his face as he sighed, tiredly. “Damn… What a fucked up world we live in…”

Now that the situation was clarified, it was safe to assume that the lieutenant would no longer be aggressive toward Connor—at least not at the slightest move. So it advanced, just enough to reach and take the blanket. The sudden movement still startled Hank, who grabbed his gun in a hurry, but at least he did not raise it to Connor’s head again. He watched silently—carefully—as Connor put the blanket in the garbage bag. It was large and thick, so much that it filled the bag, leaving no room for anything else.

“I need more,” Connor said. “Please start to undress in the meantime.”

It did not wait for Hank’s answer. It put the filled bag in the hallway, close to the front door, and then came back quickly in the bathroom with another garbage bag.

Hank was grumbling, fighting to remove his coat from his shoulders. Connor kneeled before him to help, but its hand was strongly pushed away when it touched one of the sleeves.

“Keep your distance, asshole.”

Connor was supplied with three dialog options: PATIENT, FIRM, DIPLOMATIC. Knowing Hank, being firm would only damage their relationship more. Being patient would slow down the mission, though. Being diplomatic seemed like the best option.

“We would be quicker if I—”

“Mind your own business, okay?” spat Hank, glaring at it. “I don’t trust you. Not anymore. I don’t even know why I’m listening to you. You know what? Fuck it. I’m fine with my clothes.”

And just like that, he straightened his coat, canceling all his previous efforts.

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Rà#Iù\Sç~I ;&N^èG

“Hank, please, you must—”

“Stop it!” he shouted as he banged his fist on the ground. “Don’t talk like you care!”

Connor opened and closed its mouth, not knowing what to say to appease Hank. Its social module gave it no suggestion. Every approach it tried appeared to be only worsening Hank’s mood. Maybe it was better to keep quiet then… to be patient—despite the urgency of the mission.

Hank’s glare started to lose its intensity after one minute and four seconds of silence. Connor stood still, not making any move, waiting for the lieutenant to calm down all by himself.

Another fifty-three seconds and Hank finally spoke again.

“Dammit…!” He sighed, ran a hand on his face. His eyes, his expression, his voice, his whole body expressed weariness. “Can’t you just go and leave me alone?”

“No, I cannot… It would go against my mission,” Connor answered honestly.

Hank let out another sigh. It sounded like resignation.

“I don’t know why I ever thought you may be more than just a machine…”

Connor’s thirium pump tightened as if something was crushing it. Connor ran a self-diagnostic, thinking the biocomponent might be damaged, but the result was not what it expected. Its thirium pump was working properly; it was its core software that was currently slightly unstable. Might it be due to the numerous glitches it was experiencing tonight?

It had to put aside the issue, though, because then Hank said: “Alright… I’ll do it. But I’ll do it alone.”

Connor was quick to agree. “Okay.”

Actually, it would have preferred not to let Hank alone in his condition. But it would accept these terms if it was the only way to convince Hank to take a shower.

“Put your clothes in this bag and close it before showering,” it instructed while handing him the garbage bag. “I’ll be just outside. Call for me if you need help.”

“I won’t,” Hank retorted dryly.

Connor wondered if he meant he would not need help or if he would not call for Connor even if he needed it. The android left without a word, yet it redirected part of its power to increase the sensitivity of its audio processor, just in case.

Standing still in the corridor, beside the closed bathroom door, Connor heard Hank complain about fucking androids and their fucking missions, heard him struggle to get up, heard the two steps he took to the door and then the sound of the lock, heard the clang of the gun as Hank put it on the sink, heard the rustle of his clothes when he removed them—as well as the many groans that came with it—heard him push the clothes harshly in the bag, and at last heard the sound of water flowing.

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Dà#Eù\Cç~R;&E^èA{¤S<ùI%\N§$G

Connor breathed a sigh of relief, and then blinked, suddenly confused. It had no need to simulate relief, as its only potential audience at the moment was Hank’s dog, still lying down in the same corner of the living room. So where did it come from? Connor could just think of a possible cause for now: the software instability it had detected earlier. It had to do something about the glitches in its systems before they became a hindrance for its mission. But it did not know how to fix it. Whatever was causing the glitches was invisible to its antivirus software; it was not recognized as an internal error either—there was not a single error report corresponding to it in the dedicated register. The only proof of the existence of these glitches was the discomfort Connor felt when they happened. It had sent a detailed report to CyberLife on its way to Hank’s house, but it had yet to receive a reply from them.

The sound of something ripping followed by a thud and a grunt of pain from Hank reached Connor’s audio processor. The android did not hesitate and lunged at the door to break it down. The door opened violently at the first try.

“What the—”

Hank was looking at Connor with wide eyes. He was sitting on the ground, just before the bathtub, his left hand holding on the shower curtain that had been ripped out of its rings. In a second, he moved his right hand to cover his genital parts.

“Jesus, Connor, do you plan to destroy my entire house?!”

“No,” answered sincerely Connor, tilting its head. “Are you all right?”

“Humph! What do you think? I lived through worse.”

Now that Hank was no longer wearing clothes, Connor could see the bruises that had started to form on his body following their fight. Was it what Hank meant when he said he lived through worse? Or was he only making a comment about the dangers in his line of work? Or was he in fact talking about the accident he had a few years ago that cost him his son’s life? Connor would never know, because it would not ask. Weirdly, Hank seemed in a better mood now, and asking about the meaning of his words risked ruining it.

“Hey, stop staring at me like that and give me the towel hanging there, will ya?” Hank groaned, letting go of the shower curtain to point at the towel rail to Connor’s right.

Connor looked at the towel, then at its hands. A scan confirmed what it already knew: it had radioactive residue on them. So first it moved left, to the sink, to wash them.

“Woah, woah, woah, what’re you doing?”

There was something close to panic in Hank’s voice. Connor turned to him, not understanding what he was afraid of all of a sudden. Hank’s eyes kept going from Connor to the sink, and it became obvious then what the problem was: Hank’s service weapon was still sitting there.

“I’m only going to wash my hands,” Connor explained calmly.

It ignored the gun—it was not the one it had to find—and turned on the tap. Hank did not say another word, but Connor knew he was keeping an eye on it, ready to react to any suspicious move.

Connor cleaned the tap before turning it off. As it moved away from the sink—and the gun—it saw the lieutenant progressively relax. It almost commented on this, but deemed safer not to. Even though Hank’s lack of trust in Connor could become a problem later, Connor was aware there was no solving it here and now.

“Here,” it said, handing the towel to Hank.

Hank took it without a word of thanks. Connor did not care anyway. Remembering well his need for privacy, it left the bathroom and took its place again in the corridor.

After four minutes and sixteen seconds, Hank opened the door, glanced at Connor and walked in silence to his bedroom, his towel wrapped around his waist. He slammed the door behind him, what Sumo answered with a single bark.

OBJECTIVE: HELP HANK SHOWER

Connor stared at the door, making calculations. It had not missed the way Hank staggered. He clearly needed to rest for now or he might get worse, maybe even pass out again. Hank must have been on the same page for once, because Connor heard him throw himself on his bed. Great. That made one less thing to handle for now—especially since Connor’s next objectives required it to go outside. Still, they should have a talk before Connor left, to make sure Hank was prepared for the rest.

Connor knocked on the door. Hank muttered something in response, what the android took as an invitation to enter. Hank was lying face down on his bed, the towel having been discarded, replaced by a grey boxer and a black tee-shirt.

“What do you want?”

Connor’s social module suggested being either DIRECT, COMPASSIONATE, FIRM or COMPREHENSIVE. Connor did not hesitate and chose to be compassionate. If it did it right, it might manage to fix its relationship with Hank enough to be able to convince him to follow its plan.

Putting concern in its voice, it asked: “How is your head?”

“It hurts like hell! Thanks for that!”

Connor blinked in confusion. Hank sounded angry, and yet… he thanked Connor? Why? Why now, when just before he said nothing for the towel? Did he like pain so much? Should Connor add “masochistic tendencies” to his file?

“You’re welcome…?” it said, unsure.

Hank let out a groan and turned his head to the side, glaring at Connor. “You’re so fucking irritating, y'know!”

Connor frowned. That was clearly not the result it was trying to get.

“Sorry if I offended you somehow. I didn’t intend—”

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do,” Hank cut it off. “I fell for your act once… I won’t make the same mistake again.”

Connor felt its thirium pump tighten like earlier. It had a minor impact on the circulation of the thirium through its body, currently decreasing Connor’s capabilities by 0.18%.

> INSIST           > GIVE UP

“I understand,” it simply said. Arguing further would do more damage than good at this point. Hank’s physical pain seemed to greatly influence his mood swings, so Connor had to readapt accordingly. 

“Good! Now get the hell outta here!”

Hank sank his head in his pillow, an obvious sign of his desire to end this discussion. But Connor could not just leave yet.

“I must inform you of something before that.”

“What?” came Hank’s muffled answer.

“I have to go back outside to find anti-radiation medication for you and Sumo. I need you to put the rag back in place after my departure, to keep slowing down the contamination of the house.”

After nine seconds of silence, Connor wondered if Hank might have fainted.

“Hank?”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard ya… Is that all?”

“No, it’s not.” It was time to raise the issue. Better sooner than later. “You must prepare to leave this place, Hank. You won’t be safe for long here—and neither will Sumo. As soon as your condition will allow it, I plan to drive you out of the city.”

Even though Connor was met again with silence, it knew this time that Hank had perfectly heard and understood it, because he was squeezing hard his pillow against his face. That would be enough of a reply for now.

“I must go,” announced Connor as it moved back to the corridor. “Please don’t forget to—”

“Put the fuckin’ rag back in place, I know!” Hank shouted in his pillow.

Connor left the door of the bedroom open behind it. It took the garbage bag in which Hank had put his clothes, and went to the living room to retrieve the other. But no sooner had it opened the front door than it heard a whine coming from its left. It stepped back to take a good look at Sumo, who let out another whine in response, looking back at Connor with big, sad droopy eyes.

“I’ll be back,” Connor promised, even if it knew well that the dog could not understand its words. Given Sumo’s importance to Hank, showing interest and concern toward him might play in its favor later—it could not think of any other reason to justify its actions.

Then it left the house, put the two garbage bags in the closest trash can and stared at Hank’s car. Even though that was not a priority objective, Connor still had to find Hank’s personal weapon.

Hank did not have it on him, or else he would have put it on the sink with his service weapon when he undressed.

It was also unlikely the gun was misplaced in the house. Connor had visited every room while it was securing the house, and the .357 Magnum was nowhere in sight. The probability of it being concealed elsewhere—in the wrong container or even under a stack of clothes—was too low to be worth investigating further. Hank might be scruffy and chaotic, but he was the type to keep his weapons close.

That left very few possibilities where the gun could be. Among them, Hank’s car was only the most logical.

Connor went and opened the passenger seat to access the glove box.

SUB_OBJECTIVE: FIND THE GUN

As expected, the .357 Magnum was there, with Hank’s papers and other stuff that were of no importance to Connor.

ERROR… NEW SUB_OBJECTIVE: $&T~%H{ùRè;O#£Wç%A&}Wù~A#;Yé£T}$H~§E*{G^%Uà#N

Connor took the gun and put it in the trash can after closing the door of Hank’s car.

SUB_OBJECTIVE: THROW AWAY THE GUN

ERROR… $&L~%E{ùVè;E#£Lç%O&}Fù~S#;Té£R}$E~§S*{S^%Dà#Eù\Cç~R;&E^èA{¤S<ùI%\N§$G

Connor ran a self-diagnostic: its systems were back to full capacity, at last.

With nothing more to do here, the android got in the stolen car and entered the address of the closest drugstore in the GPS.

Notes:

Don't hesitate to leave a kudo or/and a comment if you liked this first chapter! It would really help keep me motivated! :D