Chapter Text
DLC #1: JUDGEMENT & JURY
Sweat-tacky fingers yank out of the left hand’s glove when the door unlocks and departs from it’s frame, crisp conditioned air whooshing loose hair over the hill of your shoulder. Tucking the leather beneath your armpit, you take to a saunter within the interrogation room. A nauseating smell of perspiration, sunscreen and tobacco wrappers tickle the underside of your nostrils when you approach Ivan, who regards you with the same dissatisfaction across his features as when you booked and processed him across the OCPD. His grime-slick white hair glitters under the vibrant bleach lights, dentures rattling under pressure.
“Sorry to keep your waiting.” Formally, of course, since the purposeful way you’d ate lunch and skimmed your casework at Connor’s busy midday desk — double then triple chewing bread and leafy greens until you were sick of the tangy flavor — would say otherwise. But this hostile truth will stay with you and your companion, and the man sat before you now would never know the wiser. “I was told you only plan on talking to me?”
“милая — you’ve broken my heart.” Ivan woes his mood pitifully, however, the smoky glint of his gaze and the way he spits a quarter-length phlegm ball at the ground next to your red high heels seems less likely that he still considered you someone to appreciate, and more like the agents of chaos he’s spent your lifetime employing. Then again, you’d almost single-handedly destroyed his business, and his life, in one afternoon. Hate at the forefront of his mind was no surprise.
“That’s what we’re here to discuss, actually.”
Pulling the metal chair from beneath the yard long tabletop dividing the two of you, a palm readjusts the wrinkled seat of your maroon pantsuit with a flourish before plopping down parallel. The other fist slaps an inch thick folder that spills print out images and documentations from the last year of your investigation across the expanse like a threat. There was no longer a need to pretend be nice — to play the part of the helpless, drug addicted little girl desperate for consolation. You were a detective, a great one, and he was the monster in a tale of several dozen horrors.
“As of right now, you’re going to be charged with twenty-three counts of illegal narcotics possession and resale, as well as fourteen counts of human trafficking, and — if I know the Orange County defense attorney like I think I do — four counts of murder in the second degree.”
Kutznetsov does little to confirm he’s heard you — mouth south like you were throwing a childish tantrum, and not relaying the many reasons why he was going to rot in a jail cell until the beat of his elder heart gave way.
So you press on.
“That was just from my time with you alone, though I’m sure the warrants out and searching your estates will find more to pin on you too.”
“We took you in like family. Our family comes first.” The tremor of Ivan’s Moscow accent dribbles as he reproaches you, leaning forwards to study every inch of your exposed body with bleary, withdrawal-stained eyes.
You know you physically appear different; before showing up to his mansion by the sea with a squadron of S.W.A.T. and task officers to arrest and confiscate, you had showered every splotch of dirt and grease from your skin, until muscles seared under the violent tap. You’d happily secured the familiar utility belt to the angle of your hips, replaced your cheap jewelry with the more sentimental items, and vested up beside your fellow deputies at dawn. Removing every trace of the woman who begged for a job at his feet so many months previous, in trashy articles of clothing and faux, demi-permanent tattoo track lines along the curve of your elbow.
Four excruciating months of undercover work, and all it took to breathe freely again was a handful of mandated therapy sessions in addition to an hour shower a day to assist the ease back into normalcy.
“That ‘family’ is turning on one another to get the better plea deal. You should know: they’re doing their best to make you look like you’re still the head of the operation. You will serve the most time.” Head tilts as you stare back, hands falling between your thighs to remove the glove you’ve left abandoned as well. Spring in California reduced your uneasy pores to droplets of dew much more rapidly than any record high of Manhattan. You feel glistened.
“Ack.” Kutznetsov chokes, waving brittle fingers beside his ears. “Not unlikely. I’ve been conducting business across the seas before you were nut in your father’s sack, girl.”
You laugh shortly at his disgusting verbiage — you were starting to think you’ve gotten used to the man’s grit by now, and take no offense. You’ve witnessed him swear a sailor’s array of statements in two different languages for an entire season.
“It is my ‘operation’.”
“Ivan.” Scolds you, spreading out the pages on pages of reports brought in to assist. You didn’t need them, technically, since you’ve lived through everything you’ve typed out so recently that you still hear the women at the mansion screaming behind your eyelids when you lay down to sleep at night. Connor’s hands are the only way you don’t wake up echoing them, and supportive vibrations spark on your bare fingertips while they scan across straight lines of information. “You can’t lie to me. You retired two years ago. Other than handling the books, I know you haven’t been in charge of the Kutznetsov’s family business in thirty-two months. Why fall on the sword for people who are already stabbing you in the back?”
“What is it you want, милая?” Lashes darken to slits as he nicknames you once again. His attempt at bringing forth your empathy was deflected — for now. “Do you wish to see an old man die with all his children behind bars? Alone in the world?”
“My job isn’t to feel sorry for you.” The words crackle through the air akin a whip. Hooking a bicep over the back of your chair, the contort of your body leers away from his general direction, excruciatingly clear in posture where your allegiances remained. “I won’t. Not after everything you’ve done. Kindness to a stranger or two doesn’t justify the countless overdoses from your distribution, the sexual assault of women you and your sons string out and hand to guests like party favors. The people who died for crossing too close to your ugly path.”
“No,” Eyes roll, deflating, as for the second time, your trial to express the magnitude of his transgressions goes unheeded. Then again, Kutznetsov was a highly intelligent individual — if he was still blind to the seriousness of his predicament, you would be astonished, “your job was to lie.”
“My job, Ivan, was initially to solve a murder from New York City committed almost two years ago already.” Taking a peek at the polish of your nail bed, knuckles clench into one squish of bones as you ponder the twists and turns your life has taken in such a short amount of time. “I am not from California — I followed a very long trail to get to where you and I are now, and with this case finally closing, I can move on with my life. I can go back to Detroit where I belong.”
“I have never been to New York.” Defends he, putting both calloused palms on the table to pick at your paperwork. You could stop him from reading such detailed recounts of his existence, but there was no way any of what you have presented could free or aid him in a court of law. He was absolutely days away from jail time.
“No,” You amend, “but Dimitri has.”
At the mention of his eldest son, tepid air jolts from his nostrils in justified agitation. Dimitri Kutznetsov had acquired and over sought Ivan’s several businesses for the last half decade, as expansive as stock trading and investments, and not limited by the salacious underworld of drugs, violence and sex related crimes the entire crest was now interrogated for. You were aware Ivan was man who followed the moral of family ties and ancestral blood, and begrudgingly left the fate of their wealth and how it was acquired to his predecessor as health declined. But Dimitri was arrogant, and was, in your opinion, almost far more ethically awful than his father.
“You knew that Dimitri began to expand nationally, and that he chose Manhattan as a testing ground for fresh helping hands, right? Worked with the impoverished, the addicts, and even law environment — paid off a few cops, let them try the merchandise?”
“Ah, Dimitri.” Ivan laments, thin flesh next to the sockets of his eyes crinkling as he smiles sad and with understanding. “Somehow I knew it would come down to him. Even if you are a cop, he did like you very much. You two would have been . . . ah, идеальный.”
“I doubt that my husband would be as inclined to agree.”
Your time working the Kutznetsov’s case was broken down internally into two categories: the months proceeding the deep cover alias that wiped your real identity from most modern, accessible databases, and the months of awful hands-on. The backstory was developed first — orphaned child, single, desperate for money and a place to call home. The character, the types of narcotics you abused and how you did them, would have to be intricate and personal, away from anyone’s eyes. Successfully peddling to the minor masses without having to intake anything was a challenge from start to finish, but your drug test upon return to work had been clean, and your conscious hallow but clear.
As it was, you’d witnessed the Kutzetnov’s do unspeakable things the times you’d been in the estate that on any other occasion you’d fist fight back on. Watched thick blood trickle from dry nostrils of the beggars who succumbed to their withdrawals as they collapse on the threaded carpet — men groping the women Dimitri employs for sex work publicly and with no remorse. Your mission had been to take names, remember everything, and when the timing was right and there was nothing left to internalize, you were to call Connor.
His initial reaction in going forwards with this explicit danger was as you expected it to be. Nervous twitches of his mouth as Captain Arnold briefed the team on where you were going, and what you’d be forced to do. A lengthy argument over a boiling pot of spaghetti in your apartment on the coastline at every possible outcome he was more than capable of calculating. Yet there had been clipped acceptance, eventually, with consistent reassurance you would bail out when necessary, and that every two days the pair of you would meet — on time, alone, at the beach, in the hours where sun crests the horizon.
He even arrested you once, to assist your unclean dossier to the fullest extent. You would be lying if you said you didn’t adore the stern dedication to your Miranda Rights. The cold bite of the handcuffs around each wrist en route to the growing-in-familiarity precinct. A apologetic kiss on the forming bruises when he keyed them back off.
“How does your husband feel, knowing where you’ve been? What you’ve seen — what you’ve done — in the last half year?”
Coming from Ivan’s mouth, the title sounds gooey and distasteful. But there wasn’t a soul on Earth that could make you feel any less melted every time you remember the sweet, silver band sat snug soundly around your left ring finger. The bean-sized gemstone is intricate, entirely unique — shards of broken glass embedded deeply into the rebuilt pieces of diamond.
Connor’s LED had to go somewhere.
He’d lost it during one of his own cases, where you think a part of you died witnessing his state. The Giovanni case sunk to the pit of your stomach like a sleeping plague as time moved on, however the reminders of his acute mortality presented themselves when thirium and synthetic flesh damage across his body. You’d been mid-shower when the door to your bathroom had swung apart, and the behemoth of a man you love had stumbled onto the floors, several limbs torn at and beaten so badly that plastic and metal split the seams to his faux flesh. His optic drive damaged, LED in two irreversible pieces.
That was one of the first times the two of you had returned to Detroit. At the time, cybernetic recovery teams at hospitals across the country were growing exponentially, but not hastily enough. So, you’d forced him into the backseat of your car and drove a couple thousands of miles back into the incredibly capable hands of the Tower on gas station coffee and a will to keep moving.
Hank had let you sleep in his couch while you waited, Sumo the best blanket you think you’ve ever had.
“You’ll have to ask him — the Lieutenant will be in shortly.” Nose wrinkles as you address Connor so formally, and with a simple inch of jealousy. Orange County had taken to his work ethic like a hummingbird to sugar, and promoted him on an upwards path somewhere in between the beginning and end of your deep cover op. The pound of paperwork you had to sign on the grounds of your inter-work relationship now that the android officially outranked you re-cramps your hand. “But that’s not what we’re here for; we’re talking about Dimitri. He was working alongside at Detective at the Manhattan precinct, yes? Andrew Gomez.”
“Andrew?” Ivan muses, bony seat of his palm scratching at his unkept beard. “You must come from shit office, to put Gomez in a position of power.”
“Not a bad department — just a dirty cop.” You battle. “And while working within your ring, he shot an officer before crawling back to Dimitri for help.”
“Who was it, who has driven you to such madness for justice? Who did Gomez slain to warrant your deception?” He inquiries, outreaching the hand at his chin as if to grab one of yours. You retract, instantaneous.
Michelle’s kindhearted face bolts in and out of your vision to the same tempo of lightning. The dingy scent of the alley overtakes your nose, the stickiness of your skin as her lifeblood crusted over it. A promise to her husband as you hold their weeping child in your arms.
“I want to remind you of where you are.” You snap, voice lowering with direction and finesse. Ivan had danced around your discussions with pretty questions and hurting expressions, and for a split second, you’d forgotten the motivation to get what you needed and get out. Now you scowl, relying on that rooted ache to carry you to the end. “I was never a part of your family. I am a police officer, a detective, who spent the last eight months — no, the last two years — working my case. I’m sorry if you were hoping that there might be an alternative to what I’ve done by involving myself in your illegal affairs, but I was sent to infiltrate, divide, and detain.”
And with a gust of oxygen from your lungs, one that feels like the first real exhale since the night Michelle died, you feel free of the pain left behind. Finally, closure.
“I have finished my mission.”
“Then my heart is truly broken.” Kutznetsov shakes his head as you gather the fallen images and paperwork spewed across the tabletop, sheathing them back appropriately into their folder. Standing sharply, the pointy click-clack! of your heels almost drowns out the double knock on the two way window. Your time here was just about over.
“Ivan, don’t go down for it all.” Is the only pleasantry you can possess. Eyes peer down at him as if your ages have reversed, intaking the way he grumbles to himself and tries to ignore your offering. “Take your share of the charges, but appropriately identify the rest of the Kutznetsov’s on their dealings, and accept what comes. If you can’t do that, you’ll die in a hole surrounded by regret.”
You turn to leave, belongings pressed to the buttons on a trail up to the secured collar of your throat —
“— wait.” Ivan’s desperation hurdles from his tone of voice. You don’t stop moving, placing your free hand against the identification scanner for release of this stuffy, depressing space. “I . . . I can give you Gomez.”
“There’s no need.” Turning your head over your shoulder, one plucked brow darts towards the ceiling. “Andrew is just down the hall.”
Gomez had cried when you’d arrested him — a sight you would most likely never be able to not recall in perfect detail. After his initial shock of seeing you stood before his green and velvet pool table, gun and badge securely gripped betwixt pale, shaking knuckles, he didn’t try to run, or fight, or beg for forgiveness. He’d let you bend him over the game in front of all the patrons in the dive bar he’d shucked into, and patiently allowed you recount his every last damn right over the handcuff’s locking tink! before escorting him off scene. The ghosted appearance across his facial features had told you all you needed to know — he knew that someday you’d find him, that his time was limited to start.
“You will regret this, милая.” Kutznetsov barks as Connor sidesteps to your right, taking the folder from your stiff hand with a featherlight grasp at the bend of your wrist. You would smile at the constantly demure handlings, but Ivan’s words carry weight like a sucker punch. The soles of your shoes scuff under tactical, promising threats.
“It is Detective Arkate, actually.” Connor corrects Kutznetsov, moving past your falter and into the emptier chamber of Interrogation II. The hard lines of your face soothe, and though you don’t turn to watch him descend on the drug lord, hearing your last name drift from his mouth is medicine to a sickened soul.
There were no truly binding inter-species marriages in the eyes of the court just yet, but Connor had asked the question anyways, with a ring designed of pieces of himself in the DNA of the gem, and an idea for a real, legal name you could both wear. English, and reminiscent of his designation: two letters and a number perfected into one word. One word that didn’t remind you of a father charged for aiding and abetting a wanted felon, who disowned you over one phone call from his prison cell. One word that severed the differences between human and android, creating versus division. One small word that felt like what a marriage should be — a lover, a future, a home. Your home.
Arkate.
“And I wouldn’t recommend threatening my wife again.”