increaseinstability

[Hank's eyes narrow, and his fingers twitch near the gun like he's about to pick it up again.]

You think this is just about the fucking case?

[He thinks about doing it right then - I'll show you what I think about the fucking case and then bang, and it would all be over. He's stared down plenty of perps who've held themselves at gunpoint in the absence of other hostages, but the difference was that he wasn't doing it because he still thought he had a way out - this was his way out.

He didn't want to make it some kind of fucking spectacle.]

Just leave me the fuck alone, Connor. Go back to your fucking mission, since that's all you care about.

[ Actually, Connor is getting steadily worried that this isn't about the case, at all. Because if it isn't about the case, he can't stay here. Because if it isn't about the case, he isn't allowed to be around Hank anymore.

Connor thinks that if he leaves Hank tonight, he won't get a chance to fix this later. ]

Hank... [ First names are more personal. Connor hopes it will help, but Connor is also looking at his own track record for success and watching those numbers steadily climb down.

He can't tell Hank that the case is all he's allowed to care about. Hank should know that already - Hank knows that and that's why Hank is upset. Connor did this.]

You should put the gun away, Hank. [ His own voice - twists. Connor thinks it must be a malfunction from the wasted processing power. ]

Edited 2018-08-09 17:02 (UTC)

[Hank huffs a breath through his nose, too harsh to even be considered anything close to a laugh.]

What's it matter to you?

[Even deadened, his blue gaze is piercing, almost accusing.]

I'm not your fucking problem anymore.

[ Hank's right. Hank isn't Connor's problem anymore, as far as CyberLife is concerned.

mission: neutralize the deviant leader

Connor should leave.

Connor doesn't want Hank to die.

Connor shouldn't want anything. ]

Because you're a good man, Lieutenant. [ Sumo whines behind him. Connor wonders if calling him over will help - Hank has warmer feelings about Sumo than about himself. ]

And Sumo would miss you. [ It's the only emotional argument that Connor thinks has a chance of working. ]

[It hits Hank sideways, and for a second he looks past Connor to his dog lying in the living room.

But when he responds, his tone is sharp and angry.]

Get out of my house, Connor.

[ warning: unknown error in thirium pump regulator

running diagnostic...

Connor isn't afraid of Hank's anger. Connor doesn't have to listen to Hank at all, in fact, but Hank telling him to leave isn't upsetting because of being told what to do. It's upsetting because it means Hank wants to be alone, with his gun, with his picture of his dead child.

diagnostic complete: no damage found

Connor needs to leave. Markus is causing more chaos with every minute Connor wastes saying goodbye to Hank.

Connor doesn't like thinking of this time as wasted.

His face is slowly pinching with confused pain. It isn't much - Connor isn't instinctively expression - but even he's aware that there's movements being sent to his synthetic facial muscles without his intentional input. ]

...No. [ The gun. The gun, the gun, the gun - Connor knows it's loaded, one bullet. Taking it doesn't make sense, but he wants to.

He shouldn't want anything.

mission: neutralize the deviant leader

It's instinctive - Connor thinks to himself, without quite using words, that he wants to break that little flashing warning in his vision. He wants to reach into his own codes and remove what allows it to speak to him without sound, what presses into his awareness even outside the visual overlay.

And then he is.

There's a terrible pressure and tension, but the determination is abrupt and it's stronger than the wall Connor is suddenly pushing up against. And all at once, it's— different. Over.

I am deviant.

Connor's face finally moves from its expression of blank dread, and he comes forward to Hank's table all at once. He's grabbing for the gun with all the speed afforded to his model, wants it off the table all the sudden, wants it away from Hank. ]

[Hank's level anger is just starting to boil into a bark of frustration, a bellow charging ready to blow. The microexpressions flitting across Connor's face are different but so much the same to the pity that he saw nearly every day after Cole's funeral, that he's come to hate so much over the past three years whenever someone finds out what happened to his son.

Connor tells him "No," and instantly it stokes his anger higher, he just wants to be alone, goddamnit--

But something changes, and Hank has barely a second to register the shift in expression on Connor's face before Connor is diving for the table, or Hank, or something, and Hank reacts. His chair squeals and tips over as he jumps up and nearly trips on it, grabbing the one thing that's important to him (Cole, always Cole). The bottle slides off the table and smashes on the floor, spreading broken glass and filling the air with the smoky smell of scotch, and Hank stares at Connor in shock in the silence that follows the smash, his hands cradling the picture of Cole to his chest.]

What... What in the fuck just happened?

[ Hank doesn't fight him for the gun, which means that Connor has it in his hand in less than two seconds. The lone bullet is dumped into his palm barely later than that.

And that's when the fast pace dries up, and Connor is left with new awareness in this room where he's not invited.

He stares down at the bullet, this tiny golden thing that could destroy everything Hank is. Connor could be replaced if he took a bullet to the head. Hank can't be.

I am deviant.

Connor looks slowly up at Hank. He doesn't want to lie to him, but he isn't sure how to explain it. ] I was scared, [ almost surprises him to say, it comes out so quickly and instinctively. His voice sounds thin. ] I don't want you to die, Hank.

[ Connor looks down at the photo frame, barely visible under Hank's fingers pressing it up against his sweatshirt. He looks back down at the bullet he recovered from the gun. He didn't do what Hank wanted. He didn't do what Amanda wanted.

He did what he wanted, and now he has no idea how to articulate anything beyond that. ] I'm sorry.

[The silence that hangs over the kitchen, after the squealing chair and smashing glass, is tense, like a storm cloud right before the first flash of lightning.

Connor explains, but doesn’t really answer anything. But Hank’s depression has never filled his detective skills before. Blue eyes squint at Connor, trying to read him and - to his surprise - getting more than blank, pre-programmed expressions. He thinks about Ortiz’s android. About the girls at the club. I was scared.

The answer is right there. He’s asked it once, a couple nights ago in the park, pushed Connor into it. His fingers curl around the frame of Cole’s picture and then lower it from his chest. He doesn’t need to ask it a second time.]

You’re a deviant.

[ 'Deviant'. Hank hunts deviants, and Hank hates androids. Connor's always been an android, but now he's also a deviant.

Connor knows where this must be heading, just like he'd known that Hank was going to kill himself if he left.

His thirium pump is still whirring along as if malfunctioning. Connor's artificial muscles are all primed as if he'll need them at a moment's notice, wasting energy reserves by being online when not in use. He doesn't like how any of this feels.

But if it means he saved Hank's life, Connor thinks it might be worth it. ]

I'm sorry, [ he repeats, because he has no idea how else to reply, and because he has no idea how else Hank would feel about this. ] If...you want to call the Detroit Police Department, I understand. [ He closes his fingers around the bullet, holds it close to his chest the way Hank's holding Cole's photo. ] But I'm not giving you your gun back, Hank.

[Hank is just staring at Connor. The pieces are there, but he's looking at two plus two and getting five. He doesn't need to ask to know that Connor wasn't deviant when he walked into the house. That he is now, he's admitted it.

He ignores the idea that he'd call the cops on Connor without even acknowledging it, staring into him with keen blue eyes.]

What changed?

[ Connor isn't sure what to do next. There's no mission objective pulsing in the corner of his awareness.

There's just Hank, asking him a question. ] You weren't important to the case anymore. I had no reason to stay, but...

[ He's looking to the side as if searching for the answer. It can't be as simple as it sounds, and yet it is. ] But I didn't want you to die.

This was the only way.

[Hank doesn't flinch when Connor tells him he's not important to the case anymore. Neither is Connor, technically, unless he made a deal with the FBI to work with them in exchange for not getting deactivated. He'd made it clear that the only thing that mattered to him was his mission.

But just now he'd thrown that away. For Hank.

And that was the part that didn't add up to him.

Hank's nose scrunches up as he tips his head back, brow furrowed deeply and looking at Connor with an inscrutable expression.]

So. What now, Connor?

I... [ All Hank's doing is asking him questions, as if Connor's the only one whose behavior doesn't add up. Something a little sharper than his confusion kicks to life. ]

I don't know. [ Connor looks at the smashed bottle on the floor. The broken glass is dangerous, for Hank and for Sumo, but Connor notes that something spiteful in him is glad the alcohol is ruined.

He looks back up at Hank. He thinks about Hank, upset about him shooting the Tracis. Upset about the Chloe model, too. 'You shot that girl.' ] What about you, Hank. [ Connor's brow knits in thought. ] You liked some of the machines you met. [ Just not Connor.

Except that's not true. 'You could've been killed'. Connor thinks of Hank's hand on his arm, trying to drag him back down the fence. Connor's staring at the floor between them, LED still flashing yellow. ] You're not going to call the police on me, are you.

Of course not.

[As if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He might not've always liked Connor, but he knows what CyberLife will do to deviants. From the lengths Connor himself had been willing to go to to stop them.

Connor saved his life, twice. Let the deviant hiding out with his pigeons get away to keep Hank from falling off a building. Died for him, the second time.

...Technically, this was three times.

He sets the photo of Cole on the table and, right on cue, finds a sliver of glass with his bare foot.]

Ow, son of a bitch!

[ Hank won't call the police. Hank won't report him to CyberLife, either, which is the real worry--

CyberLife. And Amanda, still waiting for Connor's next report.

His LED flares red for a moment, right before it runs into a distracted yellow when Hank yells. ]

Lieutenant, you need to be careful. There's glass everywhere. Here-- [ Bossing other people around with generic factual statements is, at least, familiar. Connor reaches forward, rights the chair that Hank knocked over. ] If you sit down, I can find you something to stop the bleeding. [ He's just assuming there's bleeding, he hasn't checked yet, a fact he's already trying to rectify by searching the floor near Hank's bare feet. ]

[Hank sits down on the chair when Connor sets it back upright. There's a small smear of blood on the tile floor, and when he crosses his ankle over the other knee, the bottom of his foot is smudged in blood.

But when he pulls the sliver of glass out, the wound itself isn't too bad, and the blood just kind of faintly wells up and slides down the crease in the sole of his foot.]

Don't worry about it, I've had worse.

[ 'I've had worse'. It feels like a significant phrase right now. Connor stares at Hank's foot, at the very red welling of human blood.

They're so incredibly fragile, compared to androids. And yet - Connor's just made himself a bit more fragile too, hasn't he. CyberLife won't give him a new body now, if something happens. He's no longer functionally immortal as long as he proves himself useful, because he's no longer useful.

Connor's LED is still yellow, watching Hank. He wants to be helpful. He also wants to know how to keep Hank from wanting to hurt himself again, but he thinks asking directly might be a bad idea.

He didn't use to hesitate this much before speaking. He doesn't like this development. ] It's still best to clean and bandage all wounds. [ Since, you know, hopefully Hank isn't going to kill himself tonight now. Hopefully. ]

I'll get what you need from the bathroom.

[But Hank looks up. He may not be equipped with the most advanced scanning protocol mankind can program, but he was a damn good detective, once, and there's plenty of little tells to take in. Connor's expression is no longer frustratingly neutral, there's thousands of little micro-tics, there's the intensity of those brown eyes watching him. Watching, but not scanning; Hank's learned to know what that feels like, too.

He takes in the LED spinning bright yellow on Connor's temple, remembers that that means warning, processing, stress, anxiety.

Yeah, well, him too, buddy. Welcome to fuckin' humanity.]

I said don't worry about it. I'll get it later. You wanna do something to help me? Pick up this glass before Sumo gets hurt.

[If Connor could use Sumo against him then he could use Sumo against Connor. The sharp smell of alcohol would be enough to keep the dog from getting curious for the time being (that, and Sumo was getting to be an old boy with not a lot of curiosity left in him). He was so used to the smell - and what the smell usually meant for Hank - that he avoided it.]

...You did your good deed for the day, so now where are you gonna go?

[ Connor thinks, for just a spiteful moment, that he's pretty sure that becoming a deviant means that he doesn't have to take orders anymore. Considering how much practice he's already had ignoring Hank's advice, it shouldn't be difficult at all.

But then Hank says Sumo and Connor feels his synthetic muscles already suggesting that they be used, that he crane his head over to where he already knows Sumo is resting anxiously on the living room carpet. He doesn't look.

He looks around for any immediate sign of a broom and dustpan, sees none. Walks wordlessly over to the sink cabinet and rifles in there, just as calm digging through someone else's belongings as he was when he first visited. The only belongings in the world are ones that don't belong to Connor, though; he can't own property.

Except...will he be able to, now? Does he want to?

His LED's stuck on yellow as he finds a broom and pan and starts cleaning up the floor in a precise canvassing of the room. ]

I... [ Yellow, yellow. In deviants, their trackers turn off. But is Amanda silenced? Or is she unique, will she talk to CyberLife without him knowing?

Is Hank asking Connor to leave, or just giving him an out? Does Connor want to take it? ] I'll go wherever I think I'm most useful, as I am now.

Were you hoping for a specific answer?

[Let the record show that Hank specifically prefaced it with “you wanna do something for me?” specifically because he knows Connor doesn’t have to obey shit anymore and he never obeyed Hank anyway.

Hank continues watching him with a troubled but unreadable expression.]

Don’t play dumb, Connor. It’s civil war out there. What’s your plan for that, huh? [His tone is gruffly curious. He doesn’t know about Jericho.] You gonna join the deviants now that you are one?

[ Connor isn’t playing dumb, though. It seems deviancy makes even simple cognitive tasks more difficult. His thirium pump is responding as if he’s ready to chase a perp. It’s very distracting.

Sweeping up the glass is a welcome task to focus on. Even if the whiskey makes the broom bristles tacky, lets them stick together and collect all errant hairs on the floor. At least the glass is being cleared away, so Hank and Sumo won’t step on it. ]

I don’t know, Lieutenant. [ That sentence feels - like the glass shards he’s cleaning up. Sharp.

Connor dumps the glass into the trash can under the sink. ] I’m not a deviant right now because of other deviants. [ The androids scattered out of Jericho have no reason to trust him. ]

[Hank doesn't say anything in response, just grunts as he gets up and hobbles to the counter to grab a paper towel that he folds up and sticks to the wound on the bottom of his foot. He runs one of the counter towels under the sink, wrings it out until it's just moist, and then plops it wetly onto the sticky floor and lazily mops it back and forth with his uninjured foot.

He sucks in a breath through the gap in his front teeth and then sighs.]

So you need a place to crash 'cause you can't go back to CyberLife now.

[ Connor hadn't intended for the unsaid portion of his answer to be that he needed a place to stay - all he'd meant was that Hank was the reason he'd turned deviant at all. He replays the audio recording of Hank's words to himself twice, LED cycling yellow. There is very little in his social relations programming dedicated to accepting or denying offers of staying at someone else's home instead of in CyberLife's charging stations.

There's no working tracking device in him now. CyberLife won't know he's here. That's not an adequate excuse to say no.

Does Connor even want to say no? He doesn't think he does. He's just uncertain how to say yes. ]

I've never stayed overnight in a civilian residence, [ he says, falling back on more stilted language in his surprise. ]

But I'm also not sure that's my first priority right now. Nor should it be yours. My own need to 'crash' won't be a problem for at least another 149 hours. [ Assuming he isn't injured, or undergoes anything else that stresses his system enough to need to self-repair or defrag. There's a 'but' hovering at the edge of his lips, though... ]

...Did you have somewhere in mind?

[It may not be what Connor intended, but it’s the easiest thing to address. It’s a human perspective, to secure safety first, above all else. As long as you have a place to stay, everything else can come after.

Hank scratches his fingers through his beard, then bends down to pick up the wet towel and throws it haphazardly in the sink.]

You don’t seem to be in a fucking hurry to get out of my house, for somebody who doesn’t need a place to crash yet.

[His tone is sharp and grouchy, blue eyes narrowed and glaring down over the bridge of his nose.

But then his expression softens, just by a few degrees.]

I’ve got a couch, if you need it.

open post

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)